"Why, the water coming down, will strike upon the outer end of your mole, and be turned in towards the shore, and then will go round, and will come into the stream again. There, you can see it is beginning to run so already."

So the boys looked above the mole, and they saw the little bubbles that were floating in the water, sailing round and round slowly, in a small circle, between the upper side of the mole and the shore.

"When you get it built away out," said Madam Rachel, "there will be quite a whirlpool; you might call it the Maelstrom. There, you see, Caleb can have a little harbour up there on the shore, and one of you can go out to the end of the mole, and put a little ship into the water, and the eddy will carry it round to him. Then he can take out the cargo, and put in a new one, and then set the ship in the water, and the current will carry it back again, round on the other side of the whirlpool."

The boys were very much delighted at this prospect, and they determined to build out the mole very far, so as to have "a great sweep," as Dwight called it, in the eddy. Caleb went out upon the part of the mole which was finished, and put in a piece of wood, and watched it with great delight as it slowly sailed round.




Chapter IV.

A Discussion.


While Caleb stood upon the mole, he began to whip the water; and, in doing so, he spattered David and Dwight a little.

Dwight said, "Take care, Caleb -- don't spatter us;" and he went up to him, and was going gently to take hold of his whip, to take it away. "Let me have the whip," said he.

"No," said Caleb, holding it firmly, "I want it."

"Let go of it, Dwight," said Madam Rachel.

"Why, mother, he ought to let me have it, for I went and got it for him. He would not have had it at all without me."

"You must not take it by violence," said his mother, "if you have ever so good a right to it. But did you get it for him?"

"Yes, mother; and he told a lie about it."

"O, Dwight," said his mother, "you ought not to say so. I can't think Caleb would tell a lie."

"He did, mother; he said he was sure he hung it up, when, after all, he dropped it in the water; and we agreed to leave it to you if that was not telling a lie."

"Did you know, Caleb, when you said you hung it up, that you had really left it in the water?"

"No, grandmother," said Caleb, very earnestly; "I really thought I had hung it up."

"Then it was not telling a lie, Dwight. A lie is told with an intention to deceive. To make it a lie it is necessary that the person who says a thing, must know distinctly at the time that he says it, that it is not true; and he must say it with the particular intention to deceive. Now, Caleb did not do this."

"Well, mother," said Dwight, "I am sure you have told us a good many times that we must never say any thing unless we are sure it is true."

"So I have. I admit that Caleb did wrong in saying so positively that he had hung his whip up, when he did not know certainly that he had. But this does not prove that it was telling a lie. You know there are a great many other faults besides telling lies; and this is one of them."

"What do you call it, mother?" said David.

"I don't know," said she, hesitating. "It is a very common fault, -- asserting a thing positively, when you do not know whether it is true or not. But if you think it is true, even if you have no proper grounds for thinking so, and are entirely mistaken, it is not telling a lie."

"In fact," she continued, "I once knew a case where one boy was justly punished for falsehood when what he said was true; and another was rewarded for his truth, when what he said was false."

"Why, mother?" said Dwight and David together, with great surprise.

"Yes," said Madam Rachel; "the case was this. They were farmers' boys, and they wanted to go into the barn, and play upon the hay. Their father told them they might go, but charged them to be careful to shut the door after them in going in, so as not to let the colt get out. So the boys ran off to the barn in high glee, and were so eager to get upon the hay, that they forgot altogether to shut the door. When they came down they found the door open, and to their great alarm, the colt was nowhere to be seen. Josy, one of the boys, said, 'Let us shut the door now, and not tell father that we let the colt out, and he will think somebody else did it.'

"'No,' said James, the other, 'let us tell the truth.'

"So about an hour afterwards, Josy went into the house, and his father said, 'Josy, did you let the colt out?'

"'No, sir,' said Josy.

"Not long after he met James.

"'James,' said he, 'you had a fine time upon the hay, I suppose. I hope you did not let the colt out.'

"James hung his head, and said, 'Why, yes, sir, we did. We forgot to shut the door, and so he got away.'

"Now, which of these boys, do you suppose, was guilty of telling a lie?"

"Why, Josy, certainly," said David, Dwight, and Caleb, all together.

"Yes, and yet the colt had not got away."

"Hadn't he?" said Dwight.

"No, he was safely coiled up in a corner upon some hay, out of sight; and there the farmer found him safe and sound, when he went in to look. But did that make any difference in Josy's guilt, do you think?"

"No, mother," said Dwight. David, at the same time shook his head, shewing that he entertained the same opinion.

"I think it did not," continued Madam Rachel, "and the farmer thought so too; for he very properly punished Josy, and rewarded James."

Dwight seemed to assent to this rather reluctantly, as if he was almost sorry that Caleb had not been proved guilty of telling a lie.

"Well, mother," he said presently, with a more lively tone, "at any rate he disobeyed you; for you told him not to go near the brook where the bank was high; and he did, or else he never would have fallen in."

"But I could not help it," said Caleb, "the cow frightened me so."

"Yes, you could help it," said Dwight; "for the cow did not come up and push you; you walked back yourself, of your own accord."

Madam Rachel observed that Caleb appeared more pale and languid than usual; and this new charge which Dwight brought against him, made him more sad and melancholy still.

Madam Rachel accordingly then said she would not talk any more about it then, for she must go in, and she asked Caleb whether he would rather go in with her, or remain out there with the boys. He said he would rather go in. So he took hold of Madam Rachel's hand, and walked along by her side. David said he would bring his rocking-chair for him, when he and Dwight should come in.




Chapter V.

The Story Of Blind Samuel.


Madam Rachel went into the house, and sat down in her large rocking-chair, by a window, in a back parlour that looked out upon a little garden, and began to sew. Caleb played around a little while, rather languidly, and at last came up to his grandmother, and leaning upon her lap, asked her if she would not take him up, and rock him a little. She could not help pitying him, he looked so feeble and sad; and she accordingly laid down her work, and lifted him up, -- he was not heavy.

"Well Caleb, you have not asked me to take you up, and tell you a story so, for a long time. This is the way I used to do when you were quite a little boy; only then you used to kneel in my lap, and lay your head upon my shoulder, so that my mouth was close to your ear. But you are too big now."

Caleb smiled a little, for he was glad to find that he was growing big; but it was rather a faint and sad smile.

"But I don't grow any stronger, grandmother," said he. "I wish I was well and strong, like the other boys."

"You don't know what would be best for you, my little Caleb. God leads you along in his own way through life, and you must go patiently and pleasantly on, just where he thinks best. You are like blind Samuel, going through the woods with his father."

"How was that, grandmother?" said he, sitting up, and turning round to look at her.

"You sit still," said she, gently laying him back again, "and I will tell you."

"Samuel was a blind boy. He had been away, and was now going home with his father. His father led him, and he walked along by his side. Presently, they came to a large brook, and, before they got near it, they heard it roaring. His father said, 'Samuel, I think there is a freshet.' 'I think so too,' said Samuel, 'for I hear the water roaring.' When they came in sight of the stream, his father said, 'Yes, Samuel, there has been a great freshet, and the bridge is carried away.' 'And what shall we do now?' said Samuel. 'Why we must go round by the path through the woods.' 'That will be bad for me,' said Samuel 'But I will lead you,' said his father, 'all the way; just trust every thing to me.' 'Yes, father,' said Samuel, 'I will.'

"So his father took a string out of his pocket, and gave one end of it to Samuel. 'There, Samuel,' said he, 'take hold of that, and that will guide you; and walk directly after me.'"

"How long was the string?" said Caleb.

"O not very long," replied Madam Rachel; "so as just to let him walk a step or two behind."

"After he had walked on a short distance, he said, 'Father, I wish you would let me take hold of your hand.' 'But you said,' replied his father, 'that you would trust every thing to me.' 'So I will, father,' said Samuel; 'but I do wish you would let me take hold of your hand, instead of this string.' 'Very well,' said his father, 'you may try your way.'

"So Samuel came and took hold of his father's hand, and tried to walk along by his father's side. But the path was narrow; there was not more than room for one, and though his father walked as far on one side as possible, yet Samuel had not room enough. The branches scratched his face, and he stumbled continually upon roots and stones. At length he said, 'Father, you know best. I will take hold of the string, and walk behind.'

"So, after that, he was patient and submissive, and followed his father wherever he led. After a time his father saw a serpent in the road directly before them. So he turned aside, to go round by a compass in the woods."

"A compass?" said Caleb.

"Yes," said his grandmother; "that is a round-about way. But it was very rough and stony. Presently, Samuel stopped and said, 'Father, it seems to me it is pretty stony; haven't we got out of the path?'

"'Yes,' said his father; 'but you promised to be patient and submissive, and trust every thing to me.'

"'Well,' said Samuel, 'you know best, and I will follow.'

"So he walked on again. When they had got by, his father told him that the reason why he had gone out of the road was, that there was a serpent there. And so, when God leads us in a difficult way, Caleb, that we don't understand at the time, we often see the reason of it afterwards."

Caleb did not answer, and Madam Rachel went on with her story.

"By and by, his father came within the sound of the brook again, and stopped a minute or two, and then he told Samuel that he should have to leave him a short time, and that he might sit down upon a log, and wait until he came back. 'But, father,' said Samuel, 'I don't want to be left alone here in the woods, in the dark.' 'It is not dark,' said his father. 'It is all dark to me,' said Samuel. 'I know it is,' said his father, 'and I am very sorry; but you promised to leave every thing to me, and be obedient and submissive.' 'So I will, father; you know best, and I will do just as you say.' So Samuel sat down upon the log, and his father went away. He was a little terrified by the solitude, and the darkness, and the roaring of the water; but he trusted to his father, and was still.

"By and by, he heard a noise as of something heavy falling into the water. He was frightened, for he thought it was his father. But it was not his father. What do you think it was, Caleb?"

Caleb did not answer. Madam Rachel looked down to see why he did not speak, and as she moved him a little, so as to see his face, his head rolled over to one side; and, in short, Madam Rachel found that he was fast asleep.

"Poor little fellow!" said she; and she rose carefully, and carried him to the bed, and laid him down. He opened his eyes a moment, when his cheek came in contact with the cool pillow, but turned his face over immediately, shut his eyes again, and was soon in a sound sleep.




Chapter VI.

Engineering.


When Caleb awoke it was almost evening. The rays of the setting sun were shining in at the window. Caleb opened his eyes, and, after lying still a few moments, began to sing. He thought it was morning, and that it was time for him to get up. Presently, however, he observed that the sun was shining in at the wrong window for morning: then he noticed that he was not undressed; and, finally, he thought it must be night; but he could not think how he came to be asleep there at that time.

Caleb went out into the parlour. David and Dwight were just putting the chairs around the tea table. At tea time, the boys talked a good deal about the mole, and they asked Mary Anna if she would help them rig some vessels to sail in the Maelstrom.

"Sail in the Maelstrom!" said Mary Anna; "whoever heard of sailing in the Maelstrom? That is a great whirlpool, which swallows up ships; they never sail in it. You had better call it the Gulf Stream."

"Well," said Dwight, "we will; and will you help us rig some vessels?"

"Yes," said Mary Anna, "when you get the mole done."

Mary Anna was a beautiful girl, about seventeen years old, with a mild and gentle expression of countenance, and very pleasant tone of voice. She helped the children in all their plays, and they were always pleased when she was with them. She had great stores of pasteboard and coloured papers, to make boxes, and portfolios, and little pocket-books, and wallets of; and she had a paint-box, and pencils, and drawing-books, and portfolios of pictures and drawing lessons.

She rigged the boys' vessels, and covered their balls, and made them beautiful flags and banners out of her pieces of coloured silk. She advised them to have a flag-staff out at the end of the mole, as they generally have on all fortifications and national works. She told them she would make them a handsome flag for the purpose.

After tea she went down with them to see the works. She seemed to like the mole very much. The whirlpool was moving very regularly, and she advised them to build the mole out pretty far.

"Yes," said Dwight; "and we are going to have a piece across up and down the stream, at the end of it, so as to make a T of it."

"I think you had better make a Y of it," said Mary Anna.

"A Y!" said Dwight, "how?"

"Why instead of having the end piece go straight across the end of the mole, let the two parts of it branch out into the stream, one upwards and the other down."

"What good will that do?" said David.

"Why, if you make it straight like a T, the current will run directly along the outer edge of it, and so your vessels will not stay there. But if you have it Y-shaped, there will be a little sort of harbour in the crotch, where your vessels can lie quietly, while the current flows along by, out beyond the forks."

"That will be excellent," said Dwight, clapping his hands.

"And besides," said she, "the upper part of the Y will run out obliquely into the stream, and so turn more of the current into your eddy, and make the whirlpool larger."

"Well, and we will make it so," said David; "and then it will be an excellent mole."

"Yes," said Mary Anna, "there will be all sorts of water around it; -- a whirlpool above, a little harbour in the crotch, a current in front, and still water below. It will be as good a place for sailing boats as I ever saw."

But the twilight was coming on, and they all soon returned to the house.

Madam Rachel had a little double-bedroom, as it was called, where she slept. It was called a double-bedroom, because it consisted, in fact, of two small rooms, with a large arched opening between them, without any door. In one room was the bed, which moved in and out on little trucks, for Caleb. In the other room was a table in the middle, with books and papers upon it. There was a window in one side, and opposite the arched opening which led to the bedroom was a small sofa.

Now, it was Madam Rachel's custom every evening, before the children went to bed, to take them into her bedroom, and hear them read a few verses of the Bible; and then she would explain the verses, and talk with them a little about what had occurred during the day, and give them good advice and good instruction. At such times the children usually sat upon the sofa, on one side of the table, and Madam Rachel took her seat on the other side of the table, in the chair, so as to face them. The children generally liked this very much; and yet she very seldom told them any stories at these times. It was almost all reasonings and explanations; and yet the children liked it very much.




Chapter VII.

The Sofa.


The boys took their places on the sofa, and afterwards laid their books upon the table. After that Madam Rachel began to talk about the occurrences of the day, as follows: -- 

"There are two or three things, boys, that I have been keeping to talk with you about this evening. One is the question you asked, Dwight, about Caleb's disobeying me, when he fell into the water."

"Yes, mother," said Dwight, looking up at once, very eagerly; "you told him never to go near the bank; and yet he went, and so he fell in."

"But I could not help it," said Caleb.

"Why, yes, mother, he certainly could help it; for he walked there himself of his own accord."

"Very well; that is the question for us to consider; but, first, we must all be in a proper state of mind to consider it, or else it will do us no good. Now, Dwight, I am going to ask you a question, and I want to have you answer it honestly: -- Which way do you wish to have this question, about Caleb's disobedience, decided?"

"Why, -- I don't know," said Dwight.

"Suppose I should come to the conclusion that Caleb did right, and should prove it by arguments, should you feel a little glad, or a little sorry?"

Dwight hung his head, and seemed somewhat confused, but said, doubtfully, that he did not know.

"Now, I think, myself," said his mother, "that you have a secret wish to have it appear that Caleb is guilty of disobedience. You said he disobeyed, at first, from unkind feelings, which you seemed to feel towards him at the moment; and now, I suppose, you wish to adhere to it, so as to get the victory. Now, honestly, isn't it so?"

Dwight did not answer at first. He looked somewhat ashamed. Presently, however, he concluded, that it was best to be frank and honest; so he looked up and acknowledged that it was so.

"Yes," said his mother; "and while you are under the influence of such a prejudice, it would do no good for us to discuss the subject, for you would not be convinced; so you had better give it up."

Madam Rachel saw, while she was speaking, that Dwight did not look sullen and dissatisfied, but good-natured and pleasant; and so she knew that he had concluded to listen, candidly, to what she had to say.

"I think that Caleb was not to blame at all," said Madam Rachel, "for two reasons. One is, that he was probably overwhelmed with terror. To be sure, as you say, the cow did not push him. He walked himself, -- yet still he was impelled as strongly as if he had been pushed, though in a different manner."

"Then there is another reason why Caleb is innocent of any disobedience. When I told him that he must not go to the high banks, I did not mean that he never must go, in any case whatever."

"I thought you said he never must," said David.

"I presume I did say so, and I made no exceptions; but still some exceptions are always implied in such a case. In all commands, however positive they may be, there is always some exception implied."

"Why, mother?" said Dwight with surprise.

"It is so," said his mother. "Suppose, for instance, that I were to tell you to sit down by the parlour fire, and study a lesson, and not to get out of your chair on any account. And suppose that, after I had gone and left you, the fire should fall down, and some coals roll out upon the floor, would it not be your duty to get up, and brush them back?"

"Why, yes," said Dwight.

"So in all cases, very extreme and extraordinary occurrences, that could not, by possibility, have been considered, make exceptions. And Caleb, thinking, as he did, that he was in great danger from the cow, if he had thought of my command at all, he would have done perfectly right to have considered so extraordinary a case an exception, and so have retreated towards the brook, notwithstanding my commands. And now that question is settled."

Here little Caleb, who had been sitting up very straight, and looking eagerly at his grandmother and at the other boys, during the progress of the conversation, drew a long breath, and leaned back against the sofa, as if he felt a good deal relieved.

"And now, Dwight, there is one thing I have seen in you to-day, which gave me a great deal of pleasure, and another which gave me pain."

"What, mother," said Dwight.

"Why, after I talked with you at noon, about teasing Caleb, you began to treat him very kindly. That gave me a great deal of pleasure. I saw that your heart was somewhat changed in regard to Caleb; for you seemed to take pleasure in making him happy, while before you took delight in making him miserable."

Dwight looked gratified and pleased while his mother was saying these things.

"But then, in the course of the afternoon," she continued, "the old malignant heart seemed to come back again. When I came down to see the mole, I found you in such a state of mind as to take pleasure in Caleb's suffering. You wanted to prove that he had told a lie, and looked disappointed when I shewed you that he had not. Then you wanted to prove he had disobeyed me, when, after all, you knew very well that he had not."

"O, mother," said Dwight.

"Yes, Dwight, I am very sorry to have to say so; but you undoubtedly had no real belief that Caleb had done wrong. Suppose I had told you I was going to punish him for disobeying me in retreating to the brook, should you have thought that it would have been right?"

"Why, no, mother," said Dwight.

"You would have been shocked at such an idea. And now don't you see that all your attempts to prove that he had done wrong, was only the effect of the ill-will you felt towards him at the time. It was malice triumphing over your judgment and your sense of right and wrong. I told you, you know, that your resolutions would not reach the case."

"Well, mother, I am determined," said Dwight, very deliberatively and positively, "that I never will tease or trouble Caleb any more."

"The evil is not so much in teasing and troubling Caleb, as in having a heart capable of taking any pleasure in it. That is the great difficulty."

"Well, mother, I am determined I never will feel any pleasure in his trouble again."

"I am afraid that won't depend altogether upon the determination you make. For instance, when you went to Caleb to-day, and kindly tried to persuade him to go down, and offered to carry his rocking-chair for him, your heart was then in a state of love towards him. Do you think you could then, by determination, have changed it from love to hate, and begun to take pleasure in teasing him?"

Dwight remembered how kindly and pleasantly he had felt towards Caleb at that time, and he thought that it would have been impossible for him then to have found any pleasure in tormenting him; and so he said, "No, mother, I could not."

"And so, when you are angry with a person, and your heart is in a state of ill-will and malice towards him, does it seem to you that you can merely by a determination change it all at once, and begin to be filled with love, so as to feel pleasure in his happiness?"

Dwight was silent at first; he presently answered, faintly, that he could not.

"And if you cannot change your heart by your mere determination at the time, you certainly cannot by making one general determination, now beforehand, for all time to come."

Dwight saw his helpless condition, and sighed. After a pause, he said,

"Mother, it seems to me you are discouraging me from trying to be a better boy."

"No, Dwight; but I don't want you to depend on false hopes that must only end in your disappointment. Your determination will help in not indulging the bad feelings; but I want to have your heart changed so that you could not possibly have such feelings. I hope mine is. I once shewed the same spirit that you do; but now I don't think it would be possible for me to take any pleasure in teasing Caleb, or you, or David.

"I hope," added Madam Rachel, "that God will give you a benevolent and tender heart, so that there shall be no tendency in you to do wrong. He will change yours, if you pray to him to do it. In fact, I hope, and sometimes I almost believe, that he has begun. I do not think you would have gone to Caleb to-day so pleasantly, and acknowledged your fault, as you did by your actions, and felt so totally different from what you had done, if God had not wrought some change in you. I have very often talked with children about such faults, as plainly and kindly as I did with you, and it produced no effect. When they went away, I found, by their looks and actions afterwards, that their hearts were not changed at all. And so, Dwight," said she, "I have not been saying this to discourage you, but to make you feel that you need a greater change than you can accomplish, and so to lead you to God that you may throw yourself upon him, and ask him, not merely to help you in your determinations not to act out your bad feelings, but to change the very nature of them, or rather, to carry on the change, which I hope he has begun."

Dwight remembered, while his mother was talking, how full his heart had been of kindness and love to Caleb, while he was helping him that afternoon, and he perceived clearly that he had not produced that state of mind by any of his own determinations that he would feel so before he actually did. He remembered how happy he had been at that time, and how discontented and miserable after he had been troubling Caleb; and he had a feeling of strong desire that God would change his heart, and make him altogether and always benevolent and kind.

Now, it happened that Caleb had not understood this conversation very well, and he began to be weary and uneasy. Besides just about this time he began to recollect something about his grandmother's beginning a story for him, when she took him up in her lap, after he came in from the mole. So, when he noticed that there was a pause in the conversation, he said,

"Grandmother, you promised to tell me a story about blind Samuel."

"So I did," said his grandmother smiling, "and I began it; but before I got through you got fast asleep."

David and Dwight laughed, and so in fact did Caleb; and Madam Rachel then said that if he would tell David and Dwight the story as far as she had gone, she would finish it.

"Well," said Caleb, "I will. Once there was a blind boy, and his name was Samuel; and, you see, he was going through the woods, and his father was with him. And his father walked along, and he walked along, and it was stony, and he said he would do just what his father said, because his father knew best, -- and -- and so he took hold of the string again."

"What string?" said Dwight.

"Why, it was his father's string," said Caleb, eagerly, looking up into Dwight's face.

"What did he have a string for?" said David.

"Why to lead him along by," said Caleb.

"Yes -- but why did not he take hold of his father's hand?" asked Dwight.

"Why, -- why, -- there was a snake in the road, I believe, -- wasn't there, grandmother?"

His grandmother smiled, -- for Caleb had evidently got bewildered, in his drowsiness, so that he had not a very distinct recollection of the story. She, therefore, began again, and told the whole. When she got to the place where she left off before, that is, to the place Samuel heard a splash in the water, Dwight started up, and asked, eagerly,

"What was it?"

"A stone, I suppose," said David, coolly.

"No," said Madam Rachel, "it was only the end of the stem of a small tree, which Samuel's father was trying to fix across the brook, so that he could lead his blind boy over. It was lying upon the ground, and he took it and raised it upon its end, near the edge of the bank, on one side, and then let it fall over, in hopes that the other end would fall upon the opposite bank. But it did not happen to fall straight across, and so the end fell into the water, and this was the noise that Samuel heard.

"He drew the stick back again, and then contrived to raise it on its end once more; and this time he was more successful. It fell across, and so extended from bank to bank. In a few minutes he succeeded in getting another by its side, and then he came back to Samuel.

"'Samuel,' said he, 'I have built a bridge.'

"'A bridge!' said Samuel.

"'Yes,' said he, 'a sort of a bridge; and now I am going to try to lead you over.'

"'But, father, I am afraid.'

"'You said you would trust yourself entirely to me, and go wherever I should say.'

"'Well, father,' said Samuel, 'I will. You know best, after all.'

"So Samuel took hold of his father's hand, and, with slow, and very careful steps, he got over the roaring torrent, and then they soon came out into a broad smooth road, and so got safely home."

"Now, Caleb," continued Madam Rachel, after she had finished her story, "do you remember what I meant to teach you by this story?"

"Yes, Grandmother; you said that I was like blind Samuel, and that God knew what was best for me, and that I must let him lead me wherever he pleases."

"Yes; and what was it that you said that reminded me to tell you the story?"

"I said that I wished that I was well and strong, like the other boys."

"Yes," said his grandmother, "I do not think you said it in a fretful or impatient spirit; but I thought that this story of Samuel would help to keep you patient and contented."

"Yes, grandmother, it does," said Caleb.




Chapter VIII.

The Cart Ride.


A week after this, Caleb had his whip to mend. He had broken off the lash, by whipping in sticks and little pieces of drift-wood to the mole. David and Dwight worked a little every day upon the mole, and had carried it out pretty far into the stream, and had almost finished the lower branches of the Y. So, one morning, after the boys had gone to school, and Caleb had had his reading lesson, he sat down upon the steps of the door, behind the house, and began to tie on his lash with a piece of twine which Mary Anna had given him.

Behind the house where Caleb's grandmother lived, there was a lane which led to the pasture. At the head of the lane, where you entered it from the yard, were a pair of bars. While Caleb was mending his whip, he accidentally looked up, and noticed that the bars were down.

"There, Mr. Raymond," said Caleb, talking to himself, as he went on winding his twine round and round the whip-handle; "for once in your life, you have been careless. You have left your bars down. Now we shall have the cattle all let out, unless I go and stop the mischief."

Caleb thought he would go and put the bars up again, as soon as he had tied the ends of his twine; but before he got quite ready, he heard a noise, as of something coming in the lane. He could not see down the lane far, from the place where he sat, for the barn was in the way. But he wondered what could be coming, and he looked towards the bars, and sat waiting for it to appear.

In a moment, the head and horns of a great ox came into view, and, immediately after, the body of the ox himself, walking slowly along towards the bars.

"There now," said Caleb, "there comes Lion, and he'll get away." So he jumped up, and ran towards the ox a few steps, brandishing his whip, and shouting out to drive him back. Old Lion, however, seemed to pay no attention, but came steadily forward, stepping carefully over the ends of the bars, and then, advancing a little way into the yard, began quietly to feed upon the grass. Before Caleb got over his surprise at the entire indifference which old Lion seemed to feel towards him and his whip, he heard the bars rattling again, and looking there, he saw Star, Lion's mate, following on.

"O dear me," said Caleb, "what shall I do? All our oxen are getting away. I'll run and call Raymond."

So he began to shout out "RAYMOND," as loud as he could call; and immediately afterwards, he heard Raymond's voice answering just down the lane and, looking that way, he saw him coming over the bars himself, as if he had been following the oxen along up the lane.

"Raymond, Raymond," he cried out, "come quiet; all your oxen are getting away."

"O, no," said Raymond, quietly, as he was putting up the bars after the oxen, "they cannot get away -- I have fastened the outer gate."

Then Caleb looked around and observed that the outer gate was fastened, so that they could not get out of the yard.

"O, very well," said he. "I did not know you were driving them up;" and so he quietly returned to his seat, and went on playing with his whip. Raymond, in the mean time, proceeded to yoke up the cattle.

"Raymond," said Caleb, at length, "where are you going with the cattle?"

"Out into the woods," said Raymond.

"What are you going to do in the woods?" said Caleb.

"I am going to make a piece of fence."

"May I go with you?"

"I don't think you can help me much about the fence," said Raymond.

"I can pull bushes along," said Caleb.

Raymond made no reply, but began to drive the oxen towards a cart that was standing in a corner of the yard, and, after a few minutes, Caleb renewed his request.

"Raymond, I wish you would let me go with you."

"Well -- it is just as your grandmother says," replied Raymond.

So Caleb ran to ask his grandmother; and she came to the window, and enquired of Raymond how long he expected to be gone. He said it would take him more than half a day to make the piece of fence, and he was going to take his dinner with him. This was an objection to Caleb's going; but yet his grandmother concluded on the whole to consent. So they put up some bread and butter, and some apples, with Raymond's dinner, for Caleb. These things were all put in paper parcels, and the parcels put into a bag, which was thrown into the bottom of the cart.

Then Caleb wanted to take his hatchet.

His grandmother thought it would not be safe.

"I'll be very careful," said he: "and if I don't have my hatchet, how can I help to make the fence?"

Raymond smiled, and Madam Rachel seemed at a loss to know what to say.

"It won't do, -- will it Raymond?" said she.

"He might cut himself," said Raymond.

"But there is a small key-hole saw in the barn, that I filed up the other day. Perhaps he might have that, to saw the bushes down with."

"Can you saw, Caleb?" said his grandmother.

"Not very well," said Caleb, looking somewhat disappointed; "the saw sticks so."

"I can set it pretty rank," said Raymond, speaking to Madam Rachel at the window, "and then, I think, he can make it run smooth."

Madam Rachel did not understand what Raymond meant by setting it rank, and so she said,

"How will that help it, Raymond?"

"Why, then it will cut a wide kerf," said Raymond, "and so the back will follow in easily."

She did not understand from this much better than she did before; but, as she had great confidence in Raymond, she concluded to let him manage in his own way. She accordingly told him that he might fix the saw, and take Caleb with him.

So Raymond went out into the barn, and took down the saw from a nail. The teeth looked bright and sharp.

"Why, Raymond, how sharp it looks. And the teeth are of different shape from what they were before."

"Yes," said Raymond, "I have made a cutting saw of it."

"A cutting saw?" said Caleb. "Can you cut with a saw? I thought they always sawed with a saw."

"I mean, cut across the grain," said Raymond, smiling. "When a saw is filed so as to saw along the board, then it is called a splitting saw; but when it is to saw across the board, then I call it a cutting saw."

Caleb looked carefully at the teeth, so as to see how the teeth of a cutting saw were shaped. And while he looked on, he observed that Raymond had a little instrument in his hand, and he took hold of the first tooth of the saw with it, and bent it over a little to one side, and then he took hold of the next one, and bent it over to the other side; and so he went on, bending them alternately to the right and left, until he passed along from one end of the saw to the other.

"There," said he, "that is set pretty rank."

"What do you mean by that?" said Caleb, as he followed Raymond out of the barn.

"Why, the teeth are set off, a good way, each side, and it will cut a good wide kerf; and so your saw will run easy."

By this time they had reached the cart. Raymond took hold of Caleb under the arms, and jumped him up into the cart behind, and then handed him his saw. Then he put in an axe and an iron bar for himself, and one or two spare chains; and then he went to open the great gate. Just at this moment, Mary Anna appeared at the window, and said,

"Caleb, are you going into the woods?"

"Yes," said Caleb.

"Then, if you see any good, smooth birch bark, won't you bring me home some!"

"I will," said Caleb; and then Raymond opened the gate, and started the oxen on. Caleb stood up in front, holding on by a stake, and wondering all the while what Raymond could mean by a kerf.

One would think that he might have known by the connection in which Raymond used it, -- for he said that he had bent the teeth out so as to make the saw cut a good wide kerf, and so he might have supposed that the kerf was the cut in the wood which a saw makes in going in. The reason why boys find it so difficult to saw, is because the teeth do not generally spread very much, and so the kerf is narrow. Still, the back of the saw would run in it well enough, without sticking, if they were to saw perfectly straight. But they generally make the saw twist or wind a little, and then the back of the saw rubs upon one side or the other; and sticks. Now, Raymond's plan was to make the teeth set off, each side, so far as to make the kerf very wide, and then he thought that Caleb would be able to make it go, especially as the saw was very narrow.

Raymond got into the cart, and took his seat upon a board which passed across from side to side, and they rode along.

They reached, at length, a place where there was a small cart path leading off from the main road into the woods. Raymond turned off into this path; but it was so narrow that both he and Caleb had sometimes to lean away to one side or the other to avoid the bushes. At length he stopped and unfastened the oxen from the tongue. When all was right he started the oxen on before him, Caleb trotting on behind with his saw in his hand.

Presently they struck off from the cart path directly into the woods, and in a few minutes came to the place where the fence was to be made.




Chapter IX.

The Fire.


Raymond let the cattle browse about, while he went to work, cutting down some small, but yet pretty tall and bushy trees. He then brought up the team, and hooked a long chain into the ring which hung down from the middle of the yoke, upon the under side. The end of the chain trailed upon the ground, as the oxen came along, and Caleb was very much interested to see how they would trample along, any where, among the rocks, roots, mire, logs, bushes, stumps, and, in fact, over and through almost any thing, chewing their cud all the time, patient and unconcerned. When they were brought up near to one of the trees that had been cut down, Raymond would hook the chain around the butt end of it, and then, at his command, they would drag it out of its place in the line of the fence. After looking on for some time, Caleb began to think that he would go to work; and he went to a little tree, with a stem about as big round as his arm, and began to saw away upon it. He found that the saw would run very well indeed; and in a short time, he got the tree off, and then undertook to drag it to the fence.

Raymond was always a very silent man; he seldom spoke, unless to answer a question; and while Caleb had been watching him, when he first began to work, instead of talking with Caleb, as Caleb would have desired, he was all the time singing,

"Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Si, Do."

The truth was, that Raymond had just begun to go to a singing school, and he was taking this opportunity to rise and fall the notes, as he called it. When Caleb asked him any question about his work, he would just answer it in a few words, and then, a minute after, begin again with his 'Do, Re, Mi,' and all the rest.

Caleb became tired of this singing; and when, at length, his tree got wedged fast, so that he could not move it any farther, he sat down discouraged upon a log, and looked anxiously towards Raymond, as if he wished that he would come and help him.

Raymond had just hooked his chain to another tree, and taking up his goad stick, called out,

"Ha', Star! ha', Lion!" and then as his oxen started on, he followed them with his -- 

"Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Si, Do."

"Dear me!" said Caleb, with a deep sigh.

"Do, Si, La, Sol, Fa, Mi, Re, Do," sang Raymond, coming down the scale.

Caleb got up, and walked along towards Raymond a little way, and called out,

"Raymond?"

"What?" said Raymond.

"When do you think you shall be done singing that tune?"

Raymond smiled, and asked "Why?"

"Why," said Caleb, in rather a timid voice, "I don't think it is a very pretty tune."

"Don't you?" said Raymond. "Well, I don't admire it much myself."

"Then what do you sing it so much, for, Raymond?"

"O, that's my lesson," said Raymond, "but how does your saw do, Caleb?"

"Very well; only I can't get my tree along."

"Where do you want to get it?"

"O, out to the fence," said Caleb.

"You had better not try to make a fence. You had better build a fire."

"But I have not got any fire to light it with?"

"Yes," said Raymond, "I brought a tinder-box, because I thought you would want a fire; and I forgot to give it to you."

So Raymond pointed to a place among some rocks off at a little distance before him, near the line in which he was coming along with his fence, and advised Caleb to make a fire there. Caleb liked this plan very much. He said he would play "camp out," and so build a camp, and have a fire before the camp. Raymond told him that so soon as he should get his pile of sticks ready, he would come and strike fire for him.

Caleb went to the place and began to work. He cut down bushes, and placed them up against the rocks, in such a manner as to make a little hut which he should get into. He then collected a pile of sticks in front of it. First, he picked up all the dry sticks he could find near, and then he sawed off branches from the old dead trees which were lying around in the forest.

In an hour, with Raymond's help in lighting his fire, Caleb had a very good camp. His hut was quite a comfortable one, with a blazing fire near it, and three large apples roasting before the fire. By and by, Caleb saw Raymond coming towards him, with the bag over his arm. He opened it, and took out one parcel after another, and then laying the mouth of the bag down upon the ground, he took hold of the bottom of it, and raised it in the air; while Caleb watched to see what was coming out. It proved to be potatoes; and Raymond told Caleb he might roast them in his fire.

"Cover them up well with hot ashes and coals, Caleb, and then build a fire upon the top."

So Caleb dug out the bottom of his fire with a pole; -- for the fire had pretty much burnt down to ashes; -- and he put the potatoes in. There were five of them. Raymond helped him to cover them up, and then he put more sticks upon the top. When that was done, and just as he was going back to his work, Raymond said, "See there, Caleb; -- there is a fine chimney for you to burn out."

Caleb looked where Raymond pointed, and saw a very tall and large hollow tree, or rather trunk of a tree, -- for the top had long since decayed and dropped away. There it stood, desolate, with a great hole in the side near the bottom, and the bark hanging loosely about it all the way up to the top. The boys always liked to find such hollow trees in the woods, to build fires in; they called it "burning out a chimney."

"Now," said Raymond, "all you have got to do is to go to work while your potatoes are roasting, and fill up that old hollow tree at the bottom with sticks and brush, and old pieces of bark. Pack them in close; then, when I come to dinner, I will help you to light it."

Raymond then went back to the fence, and Caleb began his work as Raymond had directed. He got all the dried branches that he could find, and carried them to the foot of the tree. Others he sawed; and he packed all the pieces in the hollow of the tree as closely as he could.

By this time Caleb saw Raymond coming along towards the camp, and he went there to meet him. They raked open the fire, and took out the potatoes. Raymond turned a stone upon its edge, towards the fire, so as to keep them warm. He also cut some square pieces of birch bark from a neighbouring tree, for plates, and gave one to Caleb, and took one himself, and then they both sat down upon a smooth log which Raymond drew up to the fire, and took their birch bark plates in their lap.

Raymond took a little paper of salt out of his pocket, and poured the salt out upon another square piece of birch bark, which he placed upon a stone between himself and Caleb, so that both could reach it.

"What shall I do for a spoon?" said Caleb.

"O, you don't need a spoon," said Raymond; and he took up a potatoe himself, broke it in two, sprinkled some salt upon it, and began to eat it as a boy would eat an apple.

"O, I can't eat my potatoes so," said Caleb.

"Why not," said Raymond, putting a little more salt upon his own potatoe.

"It is too hot," said Caleb.

"Then you must wait until it cools."

"But I want a spoon very much," said Caleb.

"Well," said Raymond, "I will make you one."

So Raymond took out his knife and cut off a piece from a dry pine branch, which lay near him. He split this so as to get a flat piece out of it, which he fashioned into a rude sort of spoon, that answered Caleb's purpose very well. But before Caleb had much more than begun his dinner, Raymond had finished his, and, rising, said that he must go back to his work.

"But, first, I will set your chimney a-fire," said he.

"No," said Caleb, "I want you to let me kindle it."

"You can't."

"Yes, I can," said Caleb; "I can get some birch bark."

"Very well; only if I go away to my work now, you must not come and trouble me to come back again, because you can't get the fire a-going."

"No," said Caleb, "I won't."

So Raymond went back to his work, and Caleb finished his dinner.

At length, however, his potatoes and bread and butter were all gone, and his apple cores he had pretty thoroughly scraped with his wooden spoon, and thrown into the fire. So he got up from his seat, and prepared to light his chimney. He took his plate for a slow match. It was pretty large and stiff, and he thought it would burn long enough for him to carry it from the fire to his chimney. He accordingly took hold of it by one corner, and held the other corner into the flame, which was curling up from a brand by the side of his fire.

But before the birch bark took fire, the flame of the brand went out, and then Caleb looked around for another. The fire had, however, burnt nearly down, so as to leave a great bed of embers, with the brands all around it, the burnt ends pointing inwards, Caleb pushed some of these into the fire, and soon made a blaze again, and then once more attempted to set the corner of his plate on fire.

He succeeded. The corner began to blaze and curl, and Caleb rose and moved along carefully, lest the wind should blow it out. This precaution was, however, scarcely necessary, for the little wind that his motion occasioned, only fanned the flame the more, and the part which was on fire curled round upon that which was not, and thus formed a round and solid mass, which burned fiercely.

Caleb walked along, the bark blazing higher and higher, and curling in upon itself more and more, until, at length, he began to be afraid it would reach his fingers before he could get to his chimney. He walked faster and faster, and presently began to run. This fanned the fire the more, until, just as he came within a few steps of his chimney, the curling bark reached his fingers, and he tripped over a great root at the very instant when he was dropping the piece of bark from his hands. He came down upon all-fours, and the bark which was now a compact roll, rolled down a little slope, crackling and blazing by the way.

Caleb got up and looked at the blazing mass a minute or two, in despair; but finding that it kept on burning, his eye suddenly brightened, and he said aloud,

"I'll poke it up."

So he looked around for a stick. He readily found one, and began to push the blazing roll up the acclivity; but as fast as he pushed it up, it rolled down again, and all his efforts were consequently vain.

"O dear me!" said Caleb, at length throwing down his stick, "what shall I do?"

In the meantime the roll continued blazing, and Caleb, looking at it steadily, observed that it was hollow.

"Ah," said he, "I'll stick him."

So he took up his stick again, and tried to thrust the end of the stick into the roll. After one or two ineffectual attempts, he succeeded, though by this time the bark was pretty well burnt through, and was all ready to fall to pieces. He, however, succeeded in raising it into the air, upon the end of his pole; but before he got it to the hollow tree, it dropped off again in several blazing fragments, which continued to burn a moment upon the ground, and then went out entirely.

Caleb then went to Raymond, and told him that he could not make his fire burn.

"O you must not come to me, youngster; you promised not to trouble me with it," said Raymond, as he hooked the chain around the butt-end of another tree.

"But I thought I could make it burn."

"Well, what's the matter with it? But stand back, for I am going to start this tree along."

"Why the bark all curls up and burns my hand," said Caleb, retreating at the same time out of the way of the top of Raymond's tree.

The oxen started along, dragging the tree, and Caleb followed, trying to get an opportunity to speak once more to Raymond. Raymond, however, went calling aloud to his oxen, and directing them here and there with his "Gee, Star," and his "Ha, Lion," and his "Wo up, Whoa".

At length, however, he had the tree in its place, and seeing Caleb standing at a little distance patiently, he asked him again,

"What do you say is the matter with your fire, Caleb?"

"Why, the birch bark curls up and burns me: I wish you would come and set it a-fire."

"No," said Raymond, walking along by the side of his oxen; "I must not leave my work to help you play; but I will tell you three ways to carry the fire, and you can manage it in one or the other of them."

So saying, he took out his knife, and cut down a small, slender maple, which was growing near him, and trimmed off the top and the few little branches which were growing near the top. It made a slender pole about five feet long, with smooth but freckled bark, from end to end. He then made a little split in one end.

"There, Caleb," said he, "take that, and stick a piece of birch bark in the split end; then you can carry it, and let it curl as much as it pleases. Or, if that fails, put a large piece of birch bark directly upon the fire. Then, as soon as it begins to burn, it will begin to curl, and then you must put the end of the stick down to it, in such a manner that the bark will curl over and grasp it, and then you can take it up and carry the roll upon the end of your pole."

"Very well," said Caleb, "there are two ways."

"There are two ways," repeated Raymond.

"Now, if both these fail, you must put on a good many fresh sticks upon the fire, with one end of each of them out. Then, as soon as the ends which are in the fire have got burnt through, take up two of them by the ends that were out of the fire and lay them down at the foot of the hollow tree, close to the wood you have got together there. Then come back and get two more brands, and lay them down in the same way, and be careful to have the burnt ends all together. So you must keep going back and forth, until you find that the brands are beginning to burn up freely in the new place."

Caleb took the maple pole and went back to his fire. He tore the salt-cellar in two, and this made two very good small strips of bark. He pulled open the split end of his pole, and carefully inserted one of them, and then, holding it over a little flame which was rising from a burning brand, he set it on fire. The bark was soon in a blaze, and it writhed and curled as if it were struggling to get away; but it only clung to the end of the pole more closely; and Caleb, much pleased at the success of his experiment, waved it in the air, and shouted to Raymond to look and see.

He then walked slowly along, stopping every moment to wave his great flambeau, and shout; and so, when at last he reached the hollow tree, the bark was nearly burnt out, and the fragments were beginning to fall off from the end of the pole. He then thrust it hastily under the heap of fuel, which had been collected in the tree; but it was too late. It flickered and smoked a minute or two, and finally went out altogether.

"I don't care," said Caleb to himself, "for I have got the other half of the salt-cellar;" and he went back for that. It happened unluckily, however, this time, that, in pulling open the cleft which Raymond had made in his maple pole, he pulled too hard, and split one side off. Here was at once an end to all attempts to communicate fire to his chimney by this method. So, after refitting the split part of his stick to its place, once or twice, and finding that the idea of uniting it again was entirely out of the question, he threw the broken piece away, and said to himself that he must try Raymond's second plan.

He accordingly took the other large piece of bark, which was the one which Raymond had used for his plate, and laid it upon the fire. As soon as it began to curl, he laid the end of the stick close to it, on the side towards which it seemed to be bending, -- and in such a way that it curled over upon it, and soon clasped it tight, as Raymond had predicted that it would do. He then raised it in the air, and set out to run with it, so that it should not burn out before he reached the place. But he ought not to have run. It would have been far safer and better to have walked along carefully and slowly; for as he ran on, jumping over logs and stones, and scrambling up and down the hummocks, the top of the pole, with the blazing roll of bark, was jerked violently about in the air, until, at length, as he was wheeling around a tree, he accidentally held the top of the pole so far that it wheeled round through the air very swiftly, and threw the birch bark off by the centrifugal force: and away it went, rolling along upon the ground.

The centrifugal force is that which makes any thing fly off when it is whirled round and round.

Caleb did not understand this very well, but he was surprised to see his roll flying off in that manner. He immediately took two sticks, and tried to take up the roll with them, as one would with a pair of tongs; but he could not hold it with them.

"Well, then," said he, "I must try the third way."

So he began to gather sticks, and put the ends of them upon the fire. When they began to burn, he took up one; but as soon as he got it off the fire, it began to go out, and he said that he knew that way to kindle a fire never would do. In fact, he began to get out of patience. He threw down the stick, and went off again after Raymond.

"Raymond," said he, "I cannot make my fire burn; and I wish you would come and kindle it for me."

"Have you tried the ways I told you about?"

"Yes," said Caleb.

"Have you tried all of them faithfully?"

"All but the last," said Caleb, "and I know that won't do."

"You must try them all, faithfully, or else I can't come." So saying, Raymond went on with his work.

Caleb went back a good deal out of humour with himself, and saying that he wished Raymond was not so cross. He took up two of the sticks, which were now pretty well on fire, and carried them along, swinging them by the way, to make fiery rings and serpents in the air. When he reached the chimney, he threw them down carelessly, and stood watching them, to see if they were going to burn. Instead, however, of setting the other wood on fire, they only grew dimmer and dimmer themselves; and he said to himself, "I knew they would not burn." Then he sat down upon a log, in a sad state of fretfulness and dissatisfaction.

However, after waiting a few minutes, longer, he went back to the fire, determined to bring all the brands there were, and put them down, though he knew, he said, that they would not burn. He was going to do it, so that then he could go and tell Raymond that he had tried all his plans, and that now he must come, and light the fire himself.

So he walked along, back and forth bringing the brands, and laying them down together near the foot of the heap of fuel in the tree. But before he had brought them all, he found that they began to brighten up a little, and at length they broke out into a little flame. He stood and watched it a few minutes. It blazed up higher and higher. He then put on some more wood which was near. The flame crept up between these sticks, and soon began to snap and crackle among the brush in the tree. Caleb stepped back, and watched the flame a moment as it flashed up higher and higher, and then clapped his hands, jumped up on a log, and shouted out,

"Raymond, it's a-burning, its a-burning."




Chapter X.

The Captive.


When Raymond heard Caleb's voice calling to him so loudly, he paused a moment from his work, and seeing that the fire had actually taken, in earnest, he told Caleb that he must go back a little way, for by-and-bye the tree would fall. So Caleb went back to some distance, and asked Raymond if that was far enough. Raymond said it was, and Raymond then sat down upon a log, with his maple pole in his hand, to watch the progress of the fire.

A dense smoke soon began to pour out of the top of the chimney. The fire roared up through the hollow, and it caught outside too, under the bark, and soon enveloped the whole tree in smoke, sparks, and flame. Large pieces of the blazing bark detached themselves, from time to time, from the side of the tree, and came down, crackling and sparkling to the ground; and the opening below where Caleb had crammed in his fuel, soon glowed like the mouth of a furnace.

Near the top of the tree was an old branch, or rather the stump of an old branch, decayed and blackened, reaching out a little way, like an arm. This was soon enveloped in smoke; and, as Caleb was watching it, as it appeared and disappeared in the wreaths, he thought he saw something move. He looked again, intently. It was a squirrel, -- half suffocated in the smoke, and struggling to hold on. Caleb immediately called out to Raymond as loud as he could call,

"Raymond, Raymond, come here, quick: here is a poor squirrel burning up."

Raymond dropped his axe, and ran, -- bounding over the logs, and hummocks; but before he reached the place, the squirrel, unable to hold on any longer, and half stifled with the smoke and scorching heat, dropped from his hold to the ground. Raymond came up at the moment, and seized him; he brought him to where Caleb was sitting, -- Caleb himself eagerly coming forward to see.

"Is it dead?" said Caleb.

"Pretty much," said Raymond. The squirrel lay gasping helplessly in Raymond's hands. "Here, put him in my cap," said Caleb; "that will make a good bed for him, and perhaps he will come to life again."

Raymond examined him pretty carefully, and he did not seem to be burnt. He said he thought he must have been suffocated by breathing the smoke and hot air. Raymond then went back to his work, and Caleb sat upon the log, watching alternately the squirrel and the burning tree.

In a few minutes a great flame flashed out at the top of the tree: and finally, after about half an hour, the whole trunk, being all in a blaze, from top to bottom, began slowly to bend and bend over.

"Raymond," shouted Caleb, -- "Raymond, look; -- it is going to fall!"

The tall trunk moved at first slowly, but soon more and more rapidly, and finally came down to the ground with a crash.

The crash startled the little squirrel, so that he almost regained his feet; and Caleb was afraid that he was going to run away. But he laid over again upon his side, and was soon quiet again as before.

Not long after this, Raymond finished his work, and prepared to go home. He proposed to Caleb that they should leave the squirrel there, upon the log; but Caleb was very desirous to carry him home, because, he said, he could tame him, and give him to Mary Anna. So Raymond asked how they should contrive to carry him. Caleb wanted to carry him home in his cap; but Raymond said that he would take cold by riding home bare-headed. "However," said Raymond, "Perhaps I can contrive something." So he went after another piece of birch bark from the tree, about six inches wide, and two feet long, and rolled it over, bringing the two ends together, so as to make a sort of round box, -- only it was without top or bottom. To keep it in shape he tied a string round it.

"But how are you going to keep him in?" asked Caleb.

Raymond said nothing, but he took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, and spread it out upon the ground, and put his birch bark box upon it. He then laid the squirrel gently in upon the handkerchief, which thus served for a bottom. Next he drew the corners of the handkerchief up over the top, and tied the opposite pairs of ends together. Thus the handkerchief served for top, bottom, and handle.

They soon reached the place where they had left the cart; they got into it and rode on. Caleb held the squirrel in his lap, and of course, as there was nothing but the thin handkerchief for a bottom to the box, Caleb felt the weight of the squirrel, pressing soft and warm upon his knees. The squirrel lay very still until they got very near home, and then Caleb began to feel a creeping sensation, as if he was beginning to move. Caleb was highly delighted to perceive these signs of returning life; he held his knees perfectly still, that he might not disturb him, crying out, however, to Raymond,

"He's moving, Raymond; he's moving, he's moving."




Chapter XI.

Mary Anna.


Caleb and Raymond reached home about the middle of the afternoon: and while Raymond went into the yard to leave the cart and turn out the cattle, Caleb pressed eagerly into the house, to shew his prize. Mary Anna, or Marianne, as they generally called her, came to meet him to see what he had got in his hand.

"Is that my birch bark?" said she.

"There! I forgot your birch bark," said Caleb. -- "But I have got something here a great deal better." And so saying he put his handkerchief down, and began very eagerly to untie the knots.

When he had got two of the ends untied, and was at work upon the other two, out leaped the squirrel, and ran across the room. Mary Anna, startled by the sudden appearance of the animal, ran off to the door, and Caleb called out in great distress, "O dear! O dear! What shall I do? He'll get away. Shut the door, Mary Anna, -- shut the door, quick! call Raymond; call Raymond."

Mary Anna, at first, retreated outside of the door, and stood there a moment, peeping in. Finding, however, that the squirrel remained very quiet in a corner of the room, she returned softly, and went round, and shut all the doors and windows, and then Caleb went and called Raymond.

The squirrel had by no means yet got over his accident, and he allowed himself to be easily retaken and secured. Raymond contrived to fasten him into a box, so as to keep him safe, until next morning; and by that time they thought, if he should then seem likely to get well, they could determine what it was best to do with him.

While Caleb was coming home, there had been a strange mixture of delight and uneasiness in his feelings. The delight was occasioned by the possession of the squirrel. That was obvious enough. The uneasiness he did not think about very distinctly, and did not notice what the cause of it was. Boys very often feel a sort of uneasiness of mind, -- they do not know exactly how or why, -- and they have this feeling mingling sometimes strangely with their very enjoyment, in their hours of gaiety and glee. Now the real reason of this unquiet state of mind, in Caleb's case, was that his conscience had been disturbed by his feelings of vexation and impatience, towards Raymond, for not leaving his work, to come and kindle his fire. He had not yielded to these feelings. He had restrained them, and had stood still, and spoken respectfully to Raymond, all the time. In fact, he was hardly aware that he had done any thing wrong, at all. But still, for a moment, selfish passions had had possession of his heart, and whenever they get possession, even if they are kept in subjection, so as not to lead to any bad actions or words, and even if they are soon driven away by new thoughts, as Caleb's were, by the sight of his blazing fire, -- still, they always leave more or less of misery behind.

So Caleb, as he was going home, had his heart filled with delight at the thoughts of the squirrel resting warmly in his lap; and he was also a prey, in some degree, to a gnawing uneasiness, which he could not understand, but which was really caused by a sting which sin had left there.

And yet Caleb came home with an idea that he had been a very good boy. So, after they had got tired of looking at the squirrel, and Mary Anna had taken her seat at her work by the window, with her little work-table before her, Caleb came up to her, and kneeling upon her cricket, and putting his arms in her lap, he said,

"Well, Aunt Marianne, I have been a good boy all day to-day, and so I want you to make me a picture-book, this evening."

Marianne had a way of making picture-books that pleased children very much. The way was this: she used to save all the old, worn-out picture books, and loose pictures, she could find, and put them carefully in one of her drawers, up stairs. Then she would make a small blank book, of white paper, and sew it through the back. Then she would cut out pictures enough from her old stores to fill the book, leaving the colours blank, because they were to be covered with some pretty-coloured paper, for a title. Then she would paste the pictures in. And here, when Mary Anna first began to make such books, an unexpected difficulty arose. For, when paper is wet, it swells; and then, when it dries again, though it shrinks a little, and does not shrink back quite into its original dimensions, -- that is, quite to the length and breadth that it had at first. Now, when Mary Anna pasted her pictures in the pages of the book, that part of the leaf which was under the picture was wet by the paste, and so it swelled, while the other part remained dry. And when the picture came to dry, it did not shrink quite back again. It remained swelled a little; and this caused the page to look warped or puckered, so that the leaves did not lie smooth together.

At length she found out a way to remedy this difficulty entirely; and this was, to wet the whole of the leaf, as well as that part that the picture was pasted to, and that made it all swell alike. The way she managed the operation was this:

After sewing the book, she would cut out a piece of morocco paper, or blue paper, or gilt paper, and sometimes a piece of morocco itself, just the size of the book when open, for the cover. Then, after spreading out a large newspaper upon the table, so as to keep the table clean, she would lay down the cover with the handsome side down, and then spread the paste over the other side, very carefully, with a brush which she made from the end of a quill. Then she would put the back edge of the book down upon this cover, and lay it over, first on one side, and then on the other, and pat it down well with a towel; and that would make the cover stick to the outside leaves of the book, and cover up and hide the great stitches in the back, by which the leaves had been sewed together. Then she would take the book before her, and begin at the beginning. First, she would lay down the cover and put upon it a piece of tin, made to fill papers with, to keep it down smooth. Then she would lay the next leaf down upon the tin. The leaf was to have the title-page upon it, and so there were to be no pictures pasted to it. She would, therefore, lay this down upon the tin, and then, with one of her large paint brushes, dipped in the water, she would wet it all over, patting it afterwards with a towel, to take up all the superfluous water. Then she would take up the tin, and put the title-leaf down upon the cover, and put the tin over it to keep it down smooth. The next leaf would be for pictures, and, after pasting pictures upon it, on both sides, she would lay it down upon the tin, and with her brush she would wet all those parts which had not been pasted. Then patting it with a dry towel, or soft cloth, to dry it as much as possible, she would put it under the tin. In this way she would go on regularly, through the book, pasting pictures upon all the pages, and wetting with her brush all those parts of the paper which had not been wet by the paste, and putting the tin over the leaves as fast as she finished them, to keep them all smooth. Then, when she had got through, she would put the whole away between two boards, to dry; the weight of the paper board being sufficient to keep the leaves all smooth. The next morning when she came to look at her book, she generally found it nearly dry; and then she would put some heavy weight upon the upper board, to press it harder. When it was perfectly dry, she took out the book, and pared off the edges, all around, with a sharp knife and a rule. Then she would get her paint-box, and colour all the pictures beautifully, and make borders about them, in bright colours, and print a handsome title-page with her pen, and write the name of the boy in it whom she meant to give it to.

So Caleb, when he came and told Mary Anna, what a good boy he had been, meant to have her make such a book as this.

"But sometimes boys are mistaken in thinking they have been good boys. I should want to ask Raymond."

"He would say so, I know," said Caleb; "for I certainly did not trouble him at all, all the day."

"Suppose you run and ask him."

"Well," said Caleb; and away he ran.

"But stop," said Mary Anna; "you must not ask him by a leading question."

"What is that?" said Caleb.

"Don't you know?" said Mary Anna.

"No," said Caleb.

"O, that is very important for boys to know; for they very often ask leading questions, when they ought not to. Now, if you go and say, 'Raymond, haven't I been a good boy to-day?' that way of asking the question shews that you want him to say, 'Yes, you have.' It is called a leading question, because it leads Raymond to answer in a particular way. Now, if I should go and ask him thus, 'Has Caleb been a good boy to-day?' with the emphasis on has, it would be a leading question the other way. It would sound as if I wanted him to say you had not been a good boy."

"How must I ask him, then?" said Caleb.

"Why you can say, 'Raymond, Aunt Marianne wants to know what sort of a boy I have been to-day,' that way of putting the question would not lead him one way or the other."

"Why, he might know," said Caleb, "that I should want him to say I have been good."

"Yes, but not from the form of the question. The question would not lead him."

While Mary Anna was saying this, Caleb was standing with his hand upon the latch of the door, ready to go; and when she had finished what she was saying, he started off to find Raymond.

As he passed across the yard, he heard the sound of voices before the house. It was Dwight and David coming home from school. In a minute they appeared in view, by the great elm. Dwight had a long slender pole in his hands, which he was waving in the air, and David had a small piece of wood, and a knife. He sat down under the elm, and began to shave the wood with the knife.

Caleb ran to tell them about his squirrel; but before he got there, Dwight, seeing him, began to wave his pole in the air, and shout, and then said, "See what a noble flag-staff we have got."

"Is that your flag-staff?" said Caleb.

"Yes. John Davis gave it to us. He got it out of his father's shop. We are going to set it up out at the end of our mole."

"Yes," said David, "and I am going to make a truck on the top, to haul up the flag by. Marianne is going to make us a flag."

"A truck?" said Caleb, enquiringly.

"Yes," said David, "a little wheel to put a string over to hoist it by."

Caleb looked upon the pole, and upon David's work, for a minute in silence, and then said,

"I have got something better than a flag-staff."

"What?" asked Dwight.

"A squirrel."

"A squirrel!" said David in surprise.

"Yes," said Caleb, "a grey squirrel."

"Where is he?" said David, looking up eagerly, from his work.

"In the back-room," said Caleb. "Raymond put him in a box. -- Come, and I will shew him to you."

Down went Dwight's pole, in a moment; David, too, shut his knife, and put it in his pocket, and off they went to see the squirrel.

The little nut-cracker was frightened at seeing so many eyes peeping in upon him from every crevice and opening in his box. He looked much brighter and better than he did when he was put into the box, and Caleb thought he would get entirely well.

"O, I wish I had him," said Dwight.

"I am going to keep him in a cage," said Caleb.

"I wish he was mine," said Dwight. "Why can't you give him to me, Caleb?"

"O, no," said Caleb, "I want to keep him."

"You don't know how to take care of him," said Dwight. "Come, you give him to me, and I will give you my flag-staff."

"No," said Caleb, "I don't want any flag-staff. I want to keep the squirrel."

"See, see," said David, "he is creeping along."

"O," said Dwight, "I wish he was mine."

"There, he is curling up in the corner."

"Would you give him to me for my top?" said Dwight, very eagerly.

"He's going to eat that kernel of corn," said David.

"I should think you might give him to me," said Dwight, pettishly, "for that top; the top is worth a great deal the most."

After a few minutes, Dwight finding that there was no prospect of inducing Caleb to sell him the squirrel, desisted from his attempts; and then, after a moment's pause, he said,

"I don't think it is your squirrel, after all, Caleb."

"Whose is it then?"

"Raymond's. He saved it. The poor thing would have been burnt up, if he had not run and caught it up."

"No, he wouldn't," said Caleb, "I was just going to get him myself."

Dwight, having decided in his own mind that the squirrel was Raymond's, ran off to find Raymond, with the design of asking him to give the squirrel to him. But Raymond said the squirrel was Caleb's.

"But you caught him," said Dwight.

"Yes, but I caught him for Caleb, not for myself."

"And you fixed the box to bring him home in," said Dwight.

"I know it, but I only did it to please Caleb. The squirrel is his altogether."

So Dwight had to return disappointed.

When Caleb came in, Mary Anna was putting up her work, and arranging her things neatly in her drawer.

"Well, Caleb," said she, "and what did Raymond say?"

"O, he said it was mine," replied Caleb.

"What was yours?" said Mary Anna.

"The squirrel."

"The squirrel!" repeated Mary Anna; "you went to ask him what sort of a boy you had been."

"O!" said Caleb -- "there! -- I forgot all about that. I'll run and ask him now."

"No, -- stop," said Mary Anna; "it is time for supper now; and besides, I will take your word for it; you are a pretty honest boy. You say you was a pleasant boy all day."

"Yes," said Caleb, "I was." He had forgotten his feelings of ill-humour, when Raymond would not come and light his fire.

"And you think I ought to make you a picture book for a reward."

"Yes," said Caleb, "I wish you would."

"But I cannot tell how pleasant in mind you have been all day, unless I know what you have had to try you."

"To try me?" asked Caleb.

"Yes, I want to know what troubles, or difficulties, or disappointments you had to bear, and did bear patiently and pleasantly."

Caleb looked a little perplexed.

"You know, Caleb," she continued, "there is no merit in being pleasant unless things go wrong."

"Isn't there?" said Caleb.

"Why, no," said Mary Anna, as she shut up her work-table drawer, "is there?"

"Why no," said Caleb, smiling; for he could not help smiling, while yet he was a little disappointed at finding all his fancied goodness melted away.

"Now, did you have a good time in the woods to-day?"

"Yes," said Caleb.

"Did Raymond take good care of you?"

"Yes," said he.

"And did you have a good dinner?"

"Yes; and a noble great fire," said Caleb.

"You little rogue, then!" said Mary Anna, laughing, and stabbing at his sides with her finger; "here you have been having a beautiful time in the woods, amusing yourself all day, and had every thing to please you; and now you come to me to pay you for not having been impatient and fretful! You little rogue!"

Caleb turned, and ran laughing away, Mary Anna after him, and pointing at him with her finger. Caleb made his escape into the front entry, and hid behind the door. Mary Anna pretended to have lost sight of him, and not to know where he was; and she went about, saying,

"Where is that little rogue? He came to get away one of my picture-books for nothing. He wanted to be paid for bearing happiness patiently. The rogue! I'll pinch him if I can only find him."

So saying, Mary Anna went and sat down to supper, and soon after Caleb came and took his seat too; Mary Anna roguishly shaking her finger at him all the time. He had to hold his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

Perhaps some of the readers of this book may smile at Caleb's idea of his merit in having been a pleasant boy all day, when he felt vexed and unsubmissive in the only case which brought him any trial; but it is so with almost all children, and some grown persons too. A great deal of the goodness upon which we all pride ourselves, is only the quiescence of bad propensities in the absence of temptation and trial.




Chapter XII.

The Walk.


Outside of the window in Madam Rachel's bedroom, where the children used to sit and talk with her just before going to bed, there was a little platform, with a plain roof over it, supported by small square posts, altogether forming a sort of portico. Below this window there were two doors, opening from the middle out each way, so that when the window was raised, and the doors were opened, a person could walk in and out. There were seats in the portico, and there was a wild grape-vine growing upon a plain trellis, on each side. In front of the portico was one of the broad walks of the garden, for on this side the garden extended up to the house. At least there was no fence between, though there was a small plot of green grass next to the house; and next to that came the trees and flowers.

One pleasant evening Dwight and Caleb were playing on this grass, waiting for Madam Rachel to come and call them in to the sofa. It was about eight o'clock, but it was not dark. The western sky still looked bright; for though the sun had gone down, so that it could no longer shine upon the trees and houses, it still shone upon the clouds and atmosphere above, and made them look bright.

Presently Madam Rachel came, and stood at the window.

"Where's David?" said she.

"Out in the garden," said Dwight, "and mother," he continued, "I wish you would walk in the garden to-night."

At first, Madam Rachel said she thought she could not very well that evening, for she had a difficult text to talk about; but the boys promised to walk along quietly, and to be very sober and attentive; and so she went and put on her garden bonnet, and came out.

The garden was not large, it extended back to some high rocky precipices, where the boys used sometimes to climb up for play.

"I am afraid," said Madam Rachel, as she sauntered along the walk, the children around her, "that you will not like the verse that I am going to talk with you about this evening, very well, when you first hear it."

"What is it mother?" said Dwight.

"'And you hath he quickened, who were dead in trespasses and sins.'"

"What does quickened mean?" asked David.

"Made alive, or brought to life. Quick means alive, sometimes; as for instance, the quick and the dead, means the living and the dead. And so we say, 'cut to the quick,' that is, cut to the living flesh, where it can feel."

"Once I read in a fable," said David, "of a horse being stung to the quick."

"What, by a hornet?" said Dwight.

"No," said David, "by something the ass said."

"O, yes," said Madam Rachel, "that means it hurt his feelings. If a bee should sting any body so that the sting should only go into the skin, it would not hurt much; but if it should go in deep, so as to give great pain, we should say it stung to the quick, that is, to the part which has life and feeling. So I suppose that something that the ass said, hurt the horse's feelings."

"What was it, David, that the ass said?" asked Dwight.

"Why -- he said, I believe that the horse was proud, or something like that."

"No matter about that fable now," said their mother; "you understand the meaning of the verse. It was written to good men; it says that God gave them life and feeling, when they were dead in trespasses and sins. But I must first tell you what dead means."

"O, we know what 'dead' means, well enough," said Dwight.

"Perhaps not exactly what it means here," said Madam Rachel.

"Dead means here insensible."

"But I don't know what insensible means," said Caleb.

"I will explain it to you," said she. "Once there were two boys who quarreled in the recess at school; and the teacher decided that for their punishment they should be publicly reproved before all the scholars. So, after school, they were required to stand up in their places, and listen to the reprimand. While they were standing, and the teacher was telling them that they had done very wrong, -- had indulged bad passions, and displeased God, and destroyed their own happiness, and brought disgrace upon the school, -- one of them stood up with a bold and careless air, while the teacher was speaking, and afterwards when he took his seat, looked round to the other scholars, and laughed. The other boy hung his head, and looked very much ashamed; and as the teacher had finished what he was saying, he sunk into his seat, put his head down upon his desk before him, and burst into tears. Now, the first one was insensible, or as it is called in this text, dead to all sense of shame. The other was alive to it. You understand now?"

"Yes, mother," said the boys.

The party walked on for a short time in silence, admiring the splendid and beautiful scenery which was presented to view, in the setting sun, and the calm tranquility which reigned around.

Suddenly Caleb, seeing a beautiful lily growing in a border, as they were walking by, stopped to gather it. Madam Rachel was afraid that he was not attending to what she was saying.

"Now, Caleb," said she, "that's a very pretty lily; but suppose you should go and hold it before Seizem. Do you suppose he would care any thing about it?"

Seizem was a great dog that belonged to Madam Rachel.

"No, grandmother," said Caleb, "I don't think he would."

"And suppose you were to go and pat him on his head, and tell him he was a good dog, would he care any thing about that?"

"Yes," said Dwight; "he would jump, and wag his tail, and almost laugh."

"Then you see, boys, that Seizem is 'quick' and alive to praise; but to beauty of colour, and form he is insensible, and as it were, dead. The beauty makes no impression upon him at all, he is stupid and lifeless, so far as that is concerned.

"Now, what is meant by men being dead in trespasses and sins is, that they are thus insensible to God's goodness, and their duty to love and obey him. Suppose, now, I was to go out into the street, and find some boys talking harshly and roughly to one another, as boys often do in their plays; and suppose they were boys that I knew, so that it was proper for me to give them advice; now, if I were to go and tell them that it was the law of God that they should be kind to one another, and that they ought to be so, and thus obey and please him, what effect do you think it would have?"

"They would not mind it very much," said David.

"I expect that they would though," said Dwight.

"I don't think that they would mind it much myself. Each one wants to have his own way, and to seek his own pleasures, and they do not see the excellence of obeying and pleasing God at all. It seems to me a very excellent thing for boys to try to please God, but I know very well that most boys care no more about it than Seizem would for your lily, Caleb. In respect to God they are insensible and dead; dead in trespasses and sins, and the only hope for them is, that God will quicken them; that is, give them life and feeling; and then, if I say just the same things to them, they will listen seriously and attentively, and will really desire to please God. As it is now with almost all boys, they are so insensible and dead to all sense of regard to God, that when we want to influence them to do their duty, we must appeal to some other motive; something that they have more sensibility to.

"For example, you remember the other day when you went a strawberrying with Mary Anna."

"Yes," said Dwight.

"Now, I recollect that I thought there was great danger that you might be troublesome to Mary Anna, or to some others of the party; and I wanted to say something to you before you went, to make you a good boy. The highest and best motive would have been for me to say, 'Now, Dwight, remember and do what is right to-day. The trees and fields, and pleasant sunshine; the flowers and the strawberries, your own health and strength, and joyous feelings, all come from God; the whole scene that you are going to enjoy to-day, he has contrived for you, and now he will watch over you all the time, and be pleased if he sees you careful and conscientious in doing right all day. Now, be a good boy, for the sake of pleasing him.' Suppose I had said that to you, do you think it would have made you a good boy?"

Dwight held down his head, and said, hesitatingly, that he did not think it would.

"That motive would have been piety. If a boy takes pains to do what is right, and avoid what is wrong, because he is grateful to God, and wishes to please him, it is piety. But I was afraid that would not have much influence with you, and so I tried to think of some other motive. I thought of filial affection next."

"What is that?" said Caleb.

"Filial affection is a boy's love for his father or mother," replied Madam Rachel. "I said to myself, How will it do to appeal to Dwight's filial affection, to-day? I can say to him, 'Now, Dwight, be a good boy to-day, to please me. I shall be very happy to-night if Mary Anna comes home and says that you have been kind, and gentle and yielding all day.' But then, on reflection, I thought that that motive would not be powerful enough. I knew you had at least some desire to please me, but I had some doubt whether it would be enough to carry you through all the temptations of the whole day. Do you recollect what I did say to you, Dwight?"

"Yes, mother," replied Dwight, "you told me just before I went away, that if I was a good, pleasant boy, Mary Anna would want to take me again some day."

"Yes, and what principle in your heart was that appealing to?"

Dwight did not answer. David said, "Selfishness."

"Yes," said his mother; "or rather not selfishness, but self-love. Selfishness means not only a desire for our own happiness, but injustice towards others. It would have been wrong for me to have appealed to Dwight's selfishness, as that would have been encouraging a bad passion; but it was right for me to appeal to his self-love, that is, to shew him how his own future enjoyment would depend upon his being a good boy that day.

"Now, Dwight, do you think that what I said had any influence over you that day?"

"Yes, mother," said Dwight, "I think it did. I thought of it a good many times."

"Would it have had as much influence if I had asked you to be a good boy only to please me?"

Dwight acknowledged that he did not think it would.

"Do you think it would have had as much influence if I had asked you to do right to please God?"

"No, mother," said Dwight.

"Do you think that would have had any influence at all?"

Dwight seemed at a loss, and said he didn't know.

"Do you think it would?" said Caleb.

"Why, yes," said Madam Rachel, though she spoke in rather a doubtful tone. "I rather think it would have had some influence -- not much, but some. He would not have thought of it very often, but still, I rather think, at least I hope, that Dwight has some desire to please God, and that it now and then influences him a little. But in boys generally, I don't think that such a motive would have any influence at all."

"Not any at all?" said David.

"Why, you can judge for yourself. Do you suppose that the boys at school, and those that you meet in the street, are influenced in their conduct every day, by any desire to please God?"

"Why, nobody tells them," said Dwight.

"O, yes, they have been told over and over again, at church, and in the Sabbath school, till they are tired of hearing it."

The boys were silent, and the whole party walked along very slowly, for several steps; and then David said that he thought that though the boys were pretty bad, he did not think they were quite so bad as they would be, if they did not hear any thing about God. He said it seemed to him that it had some influence upon them.

"O, yes," said Madam Rachel, "I have no doubt that what is said to them about their duty to God has a very important influence over them in various ways. Religious instruction produces a great many good effects upon the conduct of boys and men, even where it does not awaken any genuine love for God, and honest desire to please him. That is a peculiar feeling. I will tell you."

So saying, Madam Rachel paused, and seemed a moment to be lost in thought. The whole party had by this time gone almost the whole round of the walk, and were now slowly sauntering towards the house and as Madam Rachel said those last words, they were just passing along by the side of the rocky declivity at the back of the garden. Madam Rachel looked upon the rocks, and saw a beautiful little blue-bell growing there in a crevice, and hanging over at the top.

"What a beautiful blue-bell there is!" said she.

"Where?" said the boys, looking around.

"There," said she, "just by the side of the little fir-tree. How Mary Anna would admire it."

"I'll climb up and get it for her," said Dwight. "I'll have it in a minute."

He dropped his mother's hand, and began scrambling up the rocks. They were jagged and irregular fragments, with bushes and trees among them, and Dwight, who was a very expert climber, soon had the blue-bell in his hand, and was coming down delighted with his prize. He brought the leaves of the plant with it, and it was in fact an elegant little flower.

"Now, Dwight," said Madam Rachel, as they walked along again, Dwight holding his flower very carefully in his hand, "notice this feeling you have towards Mary Anna, which led you to get the flower. It was not fear of her, -- it was not hope of getting any reward from her, I suppose."

"No, indeed, mother," said Dwight.

"It was simply a desire to give her pleasure. When you go in, you will take a pleasure yourself in going to her, and gratifying her with the present. Now, do you suppose that the boys generally have any such feeling as that towards God?"

"No, mother," said David, "I don't think they have."

"Nor do I. They are dead to all such feelings. They take no pleasure in pleasing God. They don't like to think of him, and I don't see that they shew any signs of having any love for him at all."

They walked along, after this, silently. Dwight saw how destitute of love to God his heart had been, and still was; and yet he could not help thinking that he did sometimes feel a little grateful to God for all his kindness and care; and at least some faint desires to please him.

It was nearly dark when they arrived at the house; and Dwight asked his mother to let him run and give Mary Anna her blue-bell. She was very much pleased with it indeed. She arranged it and the leaves that Dwight had brought with it, so as to give the whole group a graceful form, and put it in water, saying she meant to rise early the next morning to paint it. Dwight determined that he would get up too and see her do it.




Chapter XIII.

The Junk.


A few days after this, when David and Dwight were at work one evening upon their mole, and Caleb was playing near, sometimes helping a little and sometimes looking on, Mary Anna came down to see them. They had nearly finished the stone-work and were trying to contrive some way to fasten up their flag-staff at the end.

"We can't drive the flag-staff down into our mole," said Dwight, looking up with an anxious and perplexed expression to Mary Anna, "for it is all stony."

"Couldn't you drive it down into the bottom of the brook, and then build your mole up all around it?" said Mary Anna.

"No," said Dwight, "the bottom of the brook is stony too."

"It looks sandy," said Mary Anna, looking down through the water to the bottom of the brook.

"No, it is very hard and stony under the sand, and we cannot drive any thing down at all."

"Well," said Mary Anna, "go on with your work, and I will sit down upon the bank and consider what you can do."

After some time, Mary Anna proposed that the boys should go up to the wood-pile and get a short log of wood, which had one end sawed off square, and roll it down to the mole. Then that they should dig out a little hole in the bottom of the brook with a hoe, so deep that when they put in the log, the upper end would be a little above the surface of the mole. Then she said they might put in the log, with the sawed end uppermost, and while one boy held it steady, the other might throw in stones and sand all around it till it was secure in its place. Then they could build the mole a little beyond it; and thus there would be a solid wooden block, firmly fixed in the end of the mole.

"But how shall we fasten our flag-staff to it?" said David.

"Why you must get an augur, and bore a hole down in the middle of it, and make the end of your flag-staff round so that it will just fit in."

The boys thought this an excellent plan, and went off after the log. While they were gone, Mary Anna asked Caleb if he had fed his squirrel that evening, and Caleb said he had not.

"Hadn't you better go now and feed him before it is too dark?"

"Why, no," said Caleb, "I don't want to go now; besides, I am going to let Dwight feed him to-night. I promised Dwight that I would let him feed him sometimes."

The truth was that Caleb wanted to stay and see the boys fix their log. He had had his squirrel now several days, and had lost his interest in him, as boys generally do in any new play-thing, after they have had it a few days. He was really, under this show of generosity and faithful performance of his promise, only gratifying his own selfish desires, but he did not see it himself. The heart is not only selfish and sinful, but it is deceitful; it even deceives itself.

So, presently, when Caleb saw David and Dwight rolling the log down from the house, he ran off to meet them, and said,

"Dwight you may feed my squirrel to-night, and I will help David roll down the log."

Dwight looked up with an air of indifference, and said he did not want to feed the squirrel that night.

Caleb was quite surprised at the answer; and he walked along by the side of Dwight and David towards the mole, as they rolled the log along, scarcely knowing what to do. He did not want to leave the poor squirrel without his supper; and, on the other hand, he did not want to go away from the mole. Mary Anna saw his perplexity, and she understood the reason of it.

Now, it happened that Mary Anna had been forming a very curious plan about the squirrel, from the very day when he was brought home; though she had not said any thing to the boys about it. To carry her plan into execution, it was necessary that the squirrel should be hers; and she resolved from the beginning, that as soon as a convenient opportunity should offer, she would try to buy him. She determined, therefore, to wait quietly until she saw some signs of Caleb's being tired of his squirrel, and then she determined to buy him.

She did not suppose that Caleb would have got tired of the care of his squirrel quite so soon as this; but when she found that he had, she thought that the time had arrived for her to attempt to make the purchase. So when Caleb came back to the mole, she said,

"Caleb, I have a great mind to go and feed your squirrel for you, if you want to stay here and help the boys to make the mole. In fact, I should like to buy him of you, if you would like to sell him."

"Well," said Caleb, "what will you give me for him?"

"Let me see -- what can I make you." And Mary Anna tried to think what she could make Caleb that he would like as well as the squirrel. She proposed first a new picture-book, and then a flag, and next her monthly rose; and, finally, she said she would make him something or other, and let him see it, and then he could tell whether he would give his squirrel for it or not.

"I shall, I know," said Caleb, "for I can see him just as well if he is yours as I can if he is mine."

"But perhaps I shall let him go," said Mary Anna.

"O no," said Caleb, "you must not let him go."

"If I buy him of you," replied Mary Anna, "he will be mine entirely, and I must do whatever I please with him."

"O, but I shall make you promise not to let him go," said Caleb, "or else I shall not want to sell him to you."

"Very well," said Mary Anna; "though you can tell better when you see what I am going to make you."

Mary Anna then went up to the house, and fed the squirrel, and as it began to grow dark pretty soon after that, the boys themselves soon came up. She asked David if he would make her a mast, and also a small block of wood for a step.

"A step!" said David; "a step for what?"

"A step for the mast," said Mary Anna.

"What is a step for a mast?"

"It is a block, with a hole in it for the lower end of the mast to fit into," said Mary Anna.

"Do they call it a step?" said David.

"Yes," said Mary Anna; "I read about it in a book where I learned about rigging. Any little block will do."

David's curiosity was very much excited, and he begged Mary Anna to tell him what she was going to make.

"Well," said Mary Anna, "if you will keep the secret."

"Yes," said David, "I will."

"A Chinese junk!" said Mary Anna.

"A Chinese junk!" said David, with surprise and delight.

"Yes, now run along to mother."

So David went, and Mary Anna began to think of her work. She happened to have recollected that there was in the garret an old bread-tray, of japanned ware, which had been worn out and thrown aside, and was now good for nothing; and yet it was whole, and Mary Anna thought it would make a good boat. As, however, it was not shaped like a boat, she thought she would call it a Chinese junk, which is a clumsy kind of vessel, built by the Chinese. Accordingly after the boys had gone to bed, she got all her materials together; the old bread-tray for the hull of the junk, some fine twine for the rigging, David's mast and step, and a piece of birch bark, which she thought would represent very well the mats of which the Chinese make their sails. She carried all those things to her room, so as to have them all ready for her to go to work upon the vessel very early the next morning.

And early the next morning she did get to work. On the whole, the craft, when finished, if it was not built exactly after the model of a real Chinese junk, would sail about as well, and was as gay. She got it all done before breakfast, and carried it down, and hid it under some bushes near the mole.

Then, after breakfast, she took the boys all down, and told Caleb that she was ready to make him an offer for his squirrel. She then went to the bushes, and taking out the junk, she went to the mole, and carrying it out to the end, she gently set it down into the water. The boys looked on in great delight, as the junk wheeled slowly around in the great circles of the whirlpool.

Caleb hesitated a good deal before he finally decided to give Mary Anna his squirrel, and he tried to stipulate with her, that is, make her agree, that she would not let him go; but Mary Anna would not make any such agreement. She said that if she had the little fellow at all, she must have him for her own, without any condition whatever; and Caleb, at length, finding the elegance of the Chinese junk irresistible, decided to make the trade.

And now for Marianna's plan. She liked to see the squirrel very much; she admired his graceful movements, his beautiful grey colour, and his bushy tail, curled over his back, like a plume. But then she did not like to have him a prisoner. She knew that he must love a life of freedom, -- rambling among the trees, climbing up to the topmost branches, and leaping from limb to limb; and it was painful to her to think of his being shut up in a cage. And yet she did not like to let him go, for then she knew that in all probability he would run off to the woods, and she would see him no more.

It happened that one limb of the great elm before the house was hollow for a considerable distance up from the trunk of the tree, and there was a hole leading into this hollow limb at the crotch, where the limb grew out from the tree. She thought that this would make a fine house for the squirrel, if he could only be induced to think so himself, and live there. It occurred to her that she might put him in, and fasten up the hole with wires for a time, like a cage; and she thought that if she kept him shut up there, and fed him there with plenty of nuts and corn, for a week or two, he would gradually forget his old home in the woods, and get wonted to his new one.

After thinking of several ways of fastening up the mouth of the hole, she concluded finally on the following plan. She got some small nails, and drove them in pretty near together on each side of the hole, and then she took a long piece of fine wire, and passed it across from one to the other, in such a manner as to cover the mouth of the hole with a sort of net-work of wire. She then got Raymond to put the squirrel in through a place which she left open for that purpose, and then she closed this place up like the rest, with wires. The squirrel ran up into the limb, and disappeared.

When the boys came and saw the ingenious cage which Mary Anna had contrived, they thought it was an excellent plan; and they asked her if she was not afraid that when she opened the cage door, he would run off into the woods again. She said she was very much afraid that he would, but that still there was a possibility that he might stay; and if he should, she should often see him from her window, running about the tree, and she should take so much more pleasure in that than in seeing him shut up in a cage, that she thought she should prefer to take the risk. She made the boys promise not to go to the hole, for fear they might frighten him, and she said she meant to feed him herself every day, with nuts and corn, and try to get him tame before she took away the wires.

The children felt a good deal of curiosity to see whether the squirrel would stay in the tree or run away, when Mary Anna should open his cage door; and after a few days, they were eager to have her try the experiment. But she said, no. She wished to let him have full time to become well accustomed to his new home.

Mary Anna generally went early in the morning to feed the squirrel, -- before the boys were up. Then she fed him again after they had gone to school, and also just before they came home at night. She knew that if she fed him when they were at home, they would want to go with her; and it would frighten the squirrel to see so many strange faces, -- even if the boys should try to be as still as possible.

One morning, Mary Anna and the boys were down near the mole, and were talking about the squirrel. David and Dwight were sailing their boats, and Mary Anna was sitting with Caleb upon a bench which David had made for his mother, close to the shore. Caleb's junk was upon the ground by his side. Caleb asked Mary Anna when she was going to let her squirrel out.

"O, I don't know," said she, "perhaps in a week more."

"A week!" said Dwight, pushing his boat off from the shore, "I wouldn't wait so long as that."

"Why, when I first had him, you wanted to have me keep him in a cage all the time."

"I know it," said Dwight; "but now I want to see whether he will run away."

"I would not try yet," said David -- "but you'd better have a name for him, Marianne."

"I have got a name for him," said she.

"What is it?" said Dwight, eagerly.

"Mungo."

"Mungo!" repeated Dwight; "I don't think that is a very good name. What made you think of that name?"

"O, I heard of a traveller once, named Mungo. The whole of his name was Mungo Park; but I thought Mungo was enough for my squirrel."

"He has not been much of a traveller," said Dwight.

"O, yes," replied Mary Anna, "I think it probable he has travelled about the woods a great deal."

"Did Mungo Park travel in the woods?"

"Yes, in Africa. I think Mungo knows his name too," said Mary Anna.

"Do you," said Dwight. "Why?"

"Why, whenever I go to feed him," said Mary Anna, "I call Mungo! Mungo! and drop my nuts and corn down through the wires into the hole. And now he begins to come down when he hears my voice, and the little rogue catches up a nut and runs off with it."

"Does he?" said Caleb. "O, I wish you would let him out. I don't believe he would run away."

"Not just yet," said Mary Anna.

"But if you don't let him out pretty soon, I shall be gone," said Caleb; "for I am going to Boston, you know, next week."

"So you are," said Mary Anna; "I forgot that."

Caleb's father and mother were coming up from Boston that week, and they had written something about taking Caleb back with them, when they returned. Caleb was much pleased with this idea. He liked living in the country better than living in Boston; but still, he was very much pleased at the thought of seeing his father and mother, and his little sister, at home. He also liked riding, and was very glad of the opportunity to ride several days in the carryall, upon the front seat with his father. He expected that his father would let him have the whip and reins pretty often to drive.

"It is not certain, however," continued Mary Anna, "that you will go to Boston this summer. Mother said that perhaps you would not go until the fall, and then perhaps she would go with you, and bring you back to stay here through the winter."

"But I don't want to stay here in the winter," said Caleb.

"Why not?" said Mary Anna.

"O, it is so cold and snowy; -- and we can't play any."

"That's a great mistake," said Dwight; "we have fine times in the winter."

"Why, what can you do?"

"O, a great many things; last winter we dug out a house in a great snow-drift under the rocks, and played in it a good deal."

"But it must be very cold in a snow-house," said Caleb.

"O, we had a fire."

"A fire?" said Caleb.

"Certainly," said Dwight, "We put some large stones for the fire-place, and let the smoke go out at the top."

"But then it would melt your house down."

"It did melt it a little around the sides, and so made it grow larger: but it did not melt it down. We had some good boards for seats, and we could stay there in the cold days."

"Yes," said Mary Anna, "I remember I went in one cold, windy day, and I found you boys all snugly stowed in your snow-house, warm and comfortable, by a good blazing fire."

"Once we made some candy in our snow-house," said David.

"Did you?" said Caleb.

"Yes," said David; "Mary Anna proposed the plan, and got mother to give us the molasses in a little kettle, and we put it upon three stones in our snow-house, and we boiled it all one Wednesday afternoon, and when it was done, we poured it out upon the snow. It was capital candy."

"I should like to see a snow-house," said Caleb, "very much."

"Then should not you like to stay here next winter? And then we can make one," said David.

"Perhaps I could make one in Boston," said Caleb.

"Ho!" said Dwight, with a tone of contempt, "you couldn't make a snow-house."

"But there are enough other boys in Boston to help me," said Caleb.

"There is not any good place," said Mary Anna, in a mild and pleasant tone. "There is only a very small yard, and that is full of wood piles."

"I can make it on the common," said Caleb. "The common is large enough I can tell you."

Here Dwight suddenly called out in a tone of great eagerness and delight, to look off to a little bush near them, to which he pointed with his finger.

"See! see! there is a squirrel! -- a large grey squirrel!"

"Where?" said Caleb, "where? I don't see him."

"Hush!" said Mary Anna, in a low tone: "All keep perfectly still. I'll shew him to you, Caleb. There, creeping along the branch."

"I see him," said David. "Let us catch him, and put him in with Mungo."

"I'm afraid it is Mungo," said Mary Anna.

"Mungo!" said Dwight, with surprise.

"Yes," said Mary Anna, "it looks like him. I am afraid he has got out of some hole, and is going away. Sit still, and we will see what he will do."

"O, no," said Dwight, "I will go and catch him."

"No, by no means," said Mary Anna, holding Dwight back, "let us see what he will do."

It was Mungo. He had gnawed himself a hole, and escaped from his prison.

He did not, however, seem disposed to go away very fast. He came down from the bush, and crept along upon the ground towards the brook, and then finding that he could not get across very well, he ran about the grass a little while, and then went back by degrees to the tree. He climbed up to the great branch, playing a minute or two about the grating over the hole, and then ran along out to the end of the branch, the children watching him all the time, and walking slowly along up towards the tree.

"I'll go and get him some corn," said Mary Anna, "and see if he will not come down for it to his hole, when I call him. You stand here perfectly still, till I come back."

So she went in and got a nut instead of corn, and put it down by the hole, calling "Mungo!" "Mungo!" as usual. The squirrel came creeping down the branch, and Mary Anna left the nut upon the grating, and went away. He crept down cautiously, seized the nut, stuffed it into his cheek, and ran off to one of the topmost branches; and there standing upon his hind legs, and holding his nut in his forepaws, he began gnawing the shell, watching the children all the time.

The next morning, Mary Anna tore off the netting, and the squirrel lived in the tree a long while. Caleb, however, saw but little more of him at this time, for he went to Boston the next week with his father. What befell him there may perhaps be described in another book, to be called "CALEB IN TOWN."

<eob>

The Boy Aviators' Treasure Quest

Or

The Golden Galleon

By

Captain Wilbur Lawton



Chapter I.

The Eagle And The Buzzard.


"Hurrah!"

The shout went upward in a swelling volume of sound as a thousand voices took up the cry.

"Say, those boys can fly!"

"I should say so."

"Did you see that swoop!"

"Did I? I thought they were goners sure."

"They handle that sky-clipper like a bicycle."

These admiring exclamations came in a perfect hailstorm as the big biplane air-craft, which had called them forth, swept earthward, bearing her two young occupants downward in a long graceful glide, and landing them at the door of their red aerodrome with the precision of an automobile being driven up to its owner's front steps.

The drone of the engine ceased and little spurts of dust shot up from the landing wheels as the young aviator at the helm of the beautiful craft applied his brakes, threw out the spark and cut off the engine. The plane ran about one hundred feet on its wheels and then came to a standstill.

"Hurrah for the Golden Eagle!" shouted a voice. The enthusiasm was echoed all over the crowded field. From the long rows of autos, parked at the edge of the field and crowded with applauding men and women, came the "honk! honk!" of horns in a deafening clamor.

Smilingly making their way through the enthusiasts who swept down on them, Frank and Harry Chester, the Boy Aviators, who had just concluded a tuning up flight for the Hempstead Plains Cup -- the contest for which was to take place in a week's time -- entered the shed and, making their way to a screened-off room in the corner, shed their leather coats and woolen caps and removed the grime from their hands and faces. Their mechanics, in the meantime, had shoved the Eagle into the shed and closed the doors on the horde of the inquisitive.

The boys' flight had taken place above the aviation grounds of the Aeronautic Society, situated at Mineola, on Long Island, a few miles outside New York city. For several days they, and several others who had announced their intention of competing for the coveted Hempstead Plains Cup, had been making flights that had attracted vast crowds from the metropolis and filled the papers with air-ship news. The city was aviation mad.

The wide sweep of green flats was dotted at the end where the town encroached upon it with the sheds in which were housed the different aerial craft that were to take part in the great contest. Some of them had tents snuggled closely up to them in which the machinists, and others employed on them, made their temporary homes. Some were elaborate structures of galvanized iron, carefully fireproofed and covered with notices warning against smoking; others, again, were plain, hastily erected wooden structures. The Boy Aviators' shed was one of the latter, for they had returned from their adventures in Africa only a short time before this story opens.

In that far-off country, as told in "The Boy Aviators in Africa; or, an Aerial Ivory Trail," they had outwitted a wicked old man named Luther Barr, who tried to steal from them the ivory that they had recovered from the grip of an Arab slave-dealer. In Luther Barr's yacht, which they had acquired in a surprising manner, they had brought the ivory back to America and saved Mr. Beasley, the father of their chum, Lathrop Beasley, from financial ruin. After a short rest, they had announced that they would contest for the Hempstead Plains Cup. There was an interval of impatient waiting and then the freight steamer, which carried the Golden Eagle II from Africa, arrived safely and the work of setting the biplane up for the great contest had been at once begun.

The boys' first craft, The Golden Eagle, had been destroyed in a tropical storm in which they were blown to sea, as described in Volume One of this series: "The Boy Aviators in Nicaragua; or, Leagued With The Insurgents." The Golden Eagle II was the same craft in which, besides their African adventures, they had accomplished the dangerous mission for the Government, with the details of which our readers became conversant in "The Boy Aviators on Secret Service; or, Working with Wireless."

Their hasty toilet completed, the boys donned street clothes of neat fit and pattern and hastened to an automobile, halted at the roadside, in which their father and mother were seated. The two lads, as they leaned against the side of the car and chatted, made a pleasant picture of vigorous, adventurous youth. The eldest, Frank, was a little over sixteen, Harry, the younger boy, was about two years his junior. Both lads had crisp, curly hair and frank, blue eyes. Their faces were tanned to a dark tinge by their African trip.

Mrs. Chester looked eagerly about her at the shifting, colorful scene. There was certainly plenty to be seen and every minute held its own bit of interest. As they watched, another 'plane soared into view, black as a crow against the evening sky; it showed first as a mere speck, rapidly grew larger, and dropped to earth like a tired bird, while the crowd applauded once more.

"Whose 'plane is that?" asked Mr. Chester, as the machine was trundled into its shed -- a pretentious affair built of corrugated iron and painted dark blue.

"Why, that's a mystery," laughed Frank, "but it's a dandy flyer. In fact it's about the only rival we really fear."

"What do you mean by 'a mystery,' Frank?" asked his mother.

"Well, mother, nobody knows who owns it. Its black-covered planes have earned it the name of The Buzzard and it can glide like one too, but as to its owner we are all in ignorance, though we should like to know."

"Whoever he may be he has made a lot of money," chimed in Harry. "Several enthusiasts who have watched the Buzzard fly have placed orders for similar machines."

"How much does such a craft cost?" asked his father.

"Oh, ones patterned after the Buzzard sell for $25,000," was the reply; "and if that machine wins this race, of course, it will give the mysterious manufacturer a tremendous prestige. But I think at that," he broke off with a merry smile, "that the Golden Eagle II is going to prove more than the Buzzard's match."

"Did you go over the whole course this afternoon?" asked his father.

"Yes, and the Eagle handled like a race-horse," replied Frank; "if she makes a like performance on the day of the race I think we have the cup as good as won."

"Don't be too sure, my boy," warned his father. "There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip -- or rather the aeroplane, you know."

"That's so, father," replied the lad, somewhat abashed, "it doesn't do to be overconfident. There's only one thing I don't like about the course."

"What is that?"

"Why, the 'take off' at the Harrowbrook Club links."

"What do you mean by 'take off'?" inquired his mother.

"I mean the space in which an aeroplane makes its preliminary run, as you might call it, before it takes the air," rejoined the boy. "You see the rules of the race are that we fly from here to the Harrowbrook Club -- a distance of twenty miles, alight there and refill our gasolene tanks, drink a cup of coffee in the club-house and then rise up once more and fly back."

"You mean that you are afraid that there will be difficulty in starting back from the Club grounds?" asked his father.

"Yes, father. You see, while we did it all right this afternoon, on the day of the race there will be a lot of 'planes all on the ground at the same time, and it's going to make it more difficult. However, I daresay we shall be able to manage it all right."

"Oh, Frank, do be careful," cautioned his mother.

"Of course I will, mother," the lad reassured her. "If I thought there was any serious risk I would not cause you anxiety by competing."

After a little more talk the elder Chesters drove off, as the boys had decided to sleep in their aerodrome that night, on the two camp cots they had provided for such emergencies. They intended to get an early start in the morning, on another practice sail, as at that hour there was usually little wind.

As they strolled across the grounds which were now rapidly being deserted, as all the aeroplanes were housed for the night, they encountered Armand Malvoise, the French driver of the mysterious Buzzard. He was a heavy-set, blue-chinned man with eyebrows that met in a black band, lending his face a perpetual scowl.

"You made a fine flight this evening," cried Harry cheerfully.

"You think so?" replied the Frenchman. "I shall make a better one on the day of the race. I mean to win that cup."

"Well, give us at least a look-in," laughed Frank good-naturedly.

"Bah, you are boys. I am a seasoned aviator. I have flown at Rheims and Vienna and in the south. It is absurd for you to compete with me."

"Personally I should like to see an American carry off the trophy, but if the best flyer wins I shall be quite satisfied," was Frank's quiet reply.

"You will see the colors of La Belle France floating over my aerodrome after the race," was the rejoinder.

"We shall see," was Frank's quiet answer, as the Frenchman strode off toward the village, where he usually remained gossiping in the hotel and complacently receiving the adulations of his admirers till late at night.

"Ach, he is as goot-natured as a caged lion, dot feller!" came a sudden exclamation behind the boys.

They turned about and faced old August Schmidt, the German aviator, who had started his career as a builder and operator of dirigibles, but was entered in the Hempstead Cup race as the flyer of a monoplane of his own design; and which, on account of its peculiar appearance, the crowds had already nicknamed the Grasshopper. As if in furtherance of this idea the German had painted his queer craft a bright green.

"Vell, you boys have a good chance for der cup got," the old man went on, between puffs at an enormous pipe with a china bowl that formed his inseparable companion when he was not in the air.

"Do you think so?" asked Frank.

"Ches, I do. Der Grasshopper is a goot leedle monoplane, but I am afraid dat some of der principles I have worked oud in her iss all wrong. Some day I break mein neck by der outside I am afraid much."

"Why you've done some good flying in the Grasshopper," consoled Harry.

"Ches, she is a goot leedle ship, bud she vont vin dees race, I dink. By der vay, boys, I have been meaning to warn you aboud dot Frenchman."

"How do you mean -- 'warn us'?" asked Frank.

"Vell he means to win dis race. I know dot he has bet a lot of money on himself. Den also the manufacturers of der Buzzard will make a lot of money already if der Buzzard wins der cup. If she does not -- abend, dey lose. Yah, der is a lot to vin and much to lose for der Buzzard, and dot Frenchman vill do anything to make sure of vinning."

"Well, I guess we can take care of ourselves," laughed Frank, as he and his brother bade the queer old man good-night and entered their shed. It was filled with the appetizing odor of frying steak. On the top of the blue flame stove in a screened-off corner, Le Blanc, one of their mechanics, was cooking the simple meal with the loving care of a ten-thousand-dollar chef.

"Smells good!" remarked Harry sniffing. "Where's Sanborn?"

Sanborn was the other machinist and had been taken on in the place of their faithful old Schultz, who had fallen heir to a large sum of money in Germany, and gone home to spend his days in a cottage on the outskirts of Berlin.

"He has gone down to the village," replied Le Blanc, vigorously shaking the pan of sizzling potatoes.

"He seems to spend a lot of time down there lately," remarked Frank.

"I'd rather see him about the aerodome," put in Harry; "we don't want everybody to know all the details of our trials."

"That's so," assented his brother, "I'll speak to him about it when he comes in to-night."

The two lads fell to with keen appetites on their supper, which was served on tin plates and washed down with coffee out of tin mugs. Not a very aristocratic service, but the boys rather liked roughing it than otherwise, and you may be sure that the "dinner set" off which they ate did not engross a fraction of their attention. The meal disposed of, Le Blanc and the boys fixed up the folding camp cots and spread their blankets. There was still no sign of Sanborn. Frank was still struggling to keep awake in order to read the man a sharp lecture when he returned when drowsiness overcame him and he dropped off to sleep.

It was an hour later, and not far from midnight, when two dark figures crossed the deserted aviation field and threaded their way among the various aerodromes. They paused in front of the one in which the boys were asleep. Had the lads been onlookers they would have seen that one of the men was Sanborn, the new machinist, and the other was Malvoise, the driver of the sable Buzzard.

"You won't lose your nerve?" said the Frenchman.

"Not me. I'm sore at those kids, anyhow," was the reply. "The eldest one undertakes to call me down for going out at night all the time."

"Well, you have a good chance to get back at him and make some money at the same time," was the other's rejoinder.

"You are sure the money will be forthcoming?"

"Well, I should say! Old man Barr, who bought the patent of the Buzzard dirt cheap from her inventor, has a pile of it. He's going to manufacture the Buzzards to make money out of 'em and he'll stop at nothing to gain the prestige of winning this Hempstead Plains Cup."

"I've heard of old Barr before. He's a regular skinflint, but I suppose, if you say it will be all right about the money, I'll have to take your word for it. I need some coin too badly to stick at anything."

"That's the way to talk. By the way, talking of the inventor of the Buzzard, I saw a piece in the paper about him to-night."

"What was it?"

"Why it seems that the poor beggar applied for shelter at the Municipal lodging-house in New York and told them a long tale of Barr having robbed him of his invention. They sized him up as being just another of those inventor bugs and so sent him to the booby hatch in Bellevue."

"A good place for him," was the rejoinder, "these inventors are all crazy."

"Well, Luther Barr's found a way to make this particular crank pay," was the reply.

"That's so. Well, good-night. Oh, say what was the name of the man who planned the Buzzard?"

"Oh, Eben something -- let's see -- Eben -- it began with a J. I've got it -- Eben Joyce, that's it -- Eben Joyce."

"Queer name that -- Eben Joyce," was Sanborn's comment. "Well, good-night."

"Good-night. You won't fail us."

"Not I," responded the machinist, as he slipped into the aerodrome and was soon wrapped in slumber as profound as if the thought of committing a treacherous act had never entered his mind.



Chapter II.

Billy's Strange Tale.


The next morning, as soon as the alarm clock rang out its summons at four-thirty, the boys were up and stirring, dashing the sleep out of their eyes with plenty of cold water. Le Blanc and Sanborn soon joined them, the latter heavy-eyed and sleepy-looking from the late hours of the night before. He was smoking a cigarette.

"Look here, Sanborn, I don't want to be too strict, but you know there's too much gasolene around here for it to be safe to smoke in the shed," said Frank, with some irritation, as he spied him.

Sanborn threw the cigarette away with an ill-tempered exclamation.

"Gee! It's a wonder you don't start a Sunday-school in here," he said.

"Well, I don't think it would do you any harm to attend one for a while," answered Frank, "and by the way, can't you make it possible to come in a little earlier? You are a valuable man to us and you can't do your best work if you are sitting up till all hours at the village hotel."

"You ain't got no complaint about my work, have you?" was the surly rejoinder.

"No, I think that you are a very capable mechanic but I hate to see you wasting your time and opportunities this way," replied Frank. The boy was in some doubt as to the wisdom or the utility of calling Sanborn's attention to the latter's bad habits, but having embarked on his admonition he was not going to quit just because the man was surly.

"When are you going to go up?" asked Sanborn, changing the subject abruptly.

"Right after breakfast," was the boy's reply, as he looked out of the big sliding doors and surveyed the cloudless sky. "There doesn't seem to be a breath of wind and it's ideal weather for a good long flight."

But if the boys were up early they were not the only ones astir. Gladwin, who was an experimenter and who, although he had only been up a few times, meant to compete in the big race, was already busy outside his aerodrome, lovingly adjusting the engine of his queer-looking monoplane which had already been wheeled out. Malvoise, his hands in his pockets and a red sash about his waist, was also studying the sky. As Frank gazed about in the crisp morning air a dozen other aviators opened up their sheds and the day-life of the aviation camp began.

After breakfast had been despatched the boys at once went to work on their engine, a hundred horse-powered, eight-cylindered machine which was capable of driving their twin-screwed craft through the air at a rate of sixty miles an hour. One of the cylinders needed a new gasket and they were engaged on the task of fitting it when a sudden hail outside the shed made them look up inquiringly. A short, fat youth with a pair of spectacles bestriding his round good-natured face stood in the doorway. The boys recognized him instantly.

"Why, hullo, Billy Barnes!" they cried, "come on in."

"Hullo, Frank, hullo, Harry," grinned the newcomer, frantically shaking hands. "I'm an early caller, but I slept at the village hotel last night and the beds there are as hard as a miser's heart. So I decided to get out early and take a chance on finding you fellows up and about."

After the first hearty greetings between the boys and the young reporter -- with whom the readers of the other volumes in this series have already formed an acquaintanceship -- the boys started asking questions.

"What are you doing here anyhow?" demanded Frank.

"Yes, you mysterious scribe, tell us what you are after -- a scoop or a story of how it feels to ride in an aeroplane?"

"Well," laughed Billy in response, "I've had so many flights in the Golden Eagles -- both one and two -- that I really believe I've had too much experience to write a story about it from the novice's standpoint. No, the fact is that I am down here on a story -- a good one too."

"You can't keep away from the newspaper field, can you?" laughed Frank.

"No, that's a fact," agreed Billy ruefully; "I've tried to, but it's no good."

"Well, you ought to be 'a man of independent fortune' now, as the papers say," cried Harry.

"You mean with the percentage I got of the recovered ivory?"

The others nodded.

"I always felt I didn't really deserve that money," urged Billy. "You fellows did most of the work in Africa, I just trailed along."

"Oh, get out, Billy Barnes!" cried Frank. "You did as much as any of us in overreaching old Barr."

"Go ahead and tell us about this story of yours," demanded Harry.

"Well, it sounds like a weird dream and perhaps you fellows will laugh at me for taking it seriously, but a few days ago an old fellow in a tattered blue suit called at the Planet offices and said he wanted to see the city editor. Of course nobody ever does see the city editor, so I was sent out to ascertain what the visitor wanted. I saw at once he had been a seafaring man. He told me his name was Bill Hendricks, known better as Bluewater Bill. He beat about the bush a good while before he would tell me what he was after, and finally he unfolded the wildest tale about buried treasure you ever heard -- that is, I don't mean buried treasure -- floating would be a better word to describe it. He told me that he had been one of the crew of a sailing vessel that had drifted, after being dismasted in a storm, into the Sargasso Sea."

"You might tell us where the Sargasso Sea is," struck in Harry. "I never heard of it."

"Why, it's a vast expanse of floating seaweed brought together by circling ocean currents," explained Billy. "There are hundreds of miles of seaweed in it and from the name of the weed it gets its title of Sargasso. It is in the north Atlantic, just about off the Gulf of Mexico roughly speaking, though many hundred miles from land. It is shifting all the time though, I understand, and a ship that once gets into it never gets out. The weed just holds her in its grip till she rots. Bluewater Bill told me that, after his ship drifted into it, he counted ten steamers and four sailing vessels drifting idly about on the brown expanse that spread like a desert on all sides. But the most remarkable of all, according to his story, was a high-pooped, castle-bowed affair with three masts that the tattered sails still hung to. According to him she was a real, sure-enough galleon. One of the old treasure vessels that used to ply the Spanish Main."

"Oh, I say, Billy, you don't believe such a yarn as that, do you?" burst out Frank and Harry, both at once.

"Well, I don't know," replied Billy, "the fellow seemed serious enough and I am half inclined to believe he was telling the truth. He wanted to get somebody to finance an expedition to go down there and prove that he was not falsifying, and give him a small share of the treasure he is sure the vessel is laden with, in return for his information."

"In other words he is seeking a backer for an enterprise that looks ridiculous on the face of it," commented Frank.

"I'm not so certain of that," went on Billy. "Look here," and with the air of a conjurer producing a card from the empty air, he dived into his pocket and then, after a moment's fumbling, held out a round gold coin for the boys' inspection.

"A Spanish pistole!" exclaimed Frank, as his eyes fell on the dull yellow metal of the golden coin.

"That's right," said Billy. "I took it to a coin-dealer and had him give it a name. Of course the paper laughed at the story, so I'm after it now on my own hook. I got a leave of absence to dig it up. Bluewater Bill lives in Mineola and I'm going to see him later to-day and get more details from him. The more I think it over the more I think it's worth looking into."

The boys, whose opinion of the old sailor's story had been much altered by Billy's production of the indisputable evidence of the gold coin, agreed with him that it was indeed worth investigating further.

"But you haven't told us half the story, Billy," objected Frank. "How did Bluewater Bill escape? What became of the other men on the ship? How did he get aboard the galleon and get the coin? Oh, and heaps of other hows? and whys?" he broke off, laughing at Billy's serious face.

"I haven't got time to tell you all that now, and besides I am not clear on many of those points myself," replied Billy. "Suppose, if you are not doing anything this evening, you come round with me to Bluewater Bill's home and talk to him about it yourselves."

"Say, are you trying to lure us into any fresh adventures?" said Frank with mock seriousness. "Didn't we have enough of them in Africa?"

"I don't see how we could get at the galleon, supposing there is one there, even if we did go after it," chimed in Harry, whose active mind had already jumped ahead of the boys' conversation.

"Why not?" demanded Billy.

"Why, you chump, if ships get in there and can't get out, how are we going to sail in there -- get the treasure -- always supposing there is any -- and then return to civilization?"

"Do you mean to say that your gigantic brain can't grasp that?" demanded the reporter.

"No, my brilliant literary friend, it cannot -- can yours?"

"It can."

"Well, let us have it."

"Well, in the first place," began Billy, "if -- I only say if -- the galleon is there and -- if -- please remark I say 'if' once more -- if we should decide to go after the treasure -- if (useful word that) we did do so, we wouldn't have to sail INTO the Sargasso Sea at all."

"No?"

"No. We could sail OVER it."

"By George! that's so, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," concluded the young reporter; and he artfully added, "it would be a great chance to demonstrate Frank's pet theory that an aeroplane that can float on the water on pontoons would be as easy to construct as one that will fly in the air."

"What if a storm came up?"

"It is always calm in the Sargasso Sea, so Bluewater Bill told me. The great mass of tangled weed prevents the waves breaking while the severest storm may be raging all about. Nothing more alarming than a gentle swell ever disturbs its repose."

Frank, the mechanical-minded, already had fished out an envelope, and on its back was scribbling the rough outlines of the aluminum pontoons, he had frequently made a mental resolve to attach to the aeroplane, so as to render it safe on the water as well as over the land. He had no intention then of embarking on the enterprise that Billy had outlined -- at least he didn't think he had -- but any suggestion of aeroplane improvement always interested the boy keenly and set his inventive mind at work.

While the three boys had been discussing Bluewater Bill's strange tale there had been a fourth auditor whose presence, had they known it, would have caused them to talk in lowered voices. Sanborn, the mechanic, from behind the canvas screen where he was supposed to have been eating his breakfast, had been listening greedily to every word the young reporter said. His eyes fairly burned in his head as he listened and a half-formed resolve entered his mind.

There might be other persons who would be interested in learning of the treasure ship which Sanborn's greedy mind already had regarded as a reality.

"Guess I'll take a run down to Bluewater Bill's myself to-night," he said to himself as he prepared to go to work on the aeroplane, at which Le Blanc had been busy tinkering during the boys' talk.

"Well, Frank," said Billy at length, "what do you think of it?"

"I'll reserve decision till we see Bluewater Bill to-night," quietly rejoined the other, rising from the box on which he had been sitting and slipping into his leather coat.



Chapter III.

A Trial Flight.


When the boys wheeled the Golden Eagle II out of its shed, the green plains which stretched in an apparently limitless level on all sides were flooded with bright sunshine. They had delayed longer than they had intended to in making their start and already most of the other prospective contestants had concluded testing their engines or giving a final look over to brace wires and turn-buckles. A sparse sprinkling of spectators from the village was already on the grounds, early as was the hour.

The Golden Eagle's fuel and lubricating tanks were quickly filled, and every bit of metal about her shone and glistened in the sunlight, making a score of bright points of light. Her great planes, with their covering of yellow vulcanized silk, were in marked contrast to the inky hue of the Buzzard's surfaces, whose driver, Malvoise, was just settling into his seat, his inevitable cigarette still in his mouth. The Buzzard was even larger than the Golden Eagle, but her lifting capacity was a good deal less, as she was not so well designed. Malvoise, however, was a reckless driver, and had already had several narrow escapes from upsets.

The other air men bustled about and from their engines came an occasional gatling-gun-like rattle and roar, as they tried their motors out. In the air was the raw smell of gasolene and the odor of trampled grass. Clouds of blue smoke arose from where the proprietor of a small biplane had drenched his cylinders with too much oil. Occasionally an auto or a motor cycle chugged up, and the early comers watched with intense interest the flying men preparing for their trial flights.

Frank and Harry paid little attention to the others as they drew on their gloves, and carefully inspected their propellers. A man had been almost killed on the grounds a few days before, when a propeller blade had torn loose under the terrific strain of its 1200 revolutions a minute, and the boys were not anxious for anything like that to happen to their machine.

At last, everything seemed to be in order and the Chester boys scrambled into their chassis. The Golden Eagle had been stripped of all the appliances she usually carried as a passenger craft. Her searchlight and wireless were missing. Her transom seats were gone. Several braces had been taken out also, as the removal of her passenger accommodations had rendered the strain on her framework much less.

"I'd hardly know her," remarked Billy, watching the boys, as they took their places on two small seats with slender steel arm rests. Harry's seat was by the engine and Frank sat at the steering wheel, which manipulated the dipping and diving rudders as well as the rearward steering surface. One of his feet was on the brake -- an automatic contrivance that cut off the spark. The other reposed on the foot pump which was used in case anything went wrong with the force-feed lubrication.

"All right," said Frank, twisting the valve that sent the gasolene flowing to the carburetor and adjusting the switch.

Billy could stand it no longer. He had been watching with anxious eyes the preparations and apparently the boys were going to fly without him.

"Say, Frank," he began hesitatingly, "I don't suppose you could -- "

Frank turned and saw the wistful look in the young reporter's eyes.

"Take you up?" he said, with a laugh at Billy's downcast appearance.

Billy nodded.

"Well, there's not much room for passengers the way she is fixed at present," laughed Harry catching Frank's mirth, "but if you want to squeeze in by me here, you can. Here, Le Blanc, bring out that spare seat."

A few seconds later the delighted reporter was sitting on a small aluminum seat fitted with clamps to screw to the framework, and handles to grasp hold of tightly when the craft was in mid-air.

"Let her go," cried Frank, as soon as the delighted Billy had taken his place.

Sanford and Le Blanc, one at each of the propellers, gave them a few twists, and after about the third silent revolution there came the startling roar of the exhaust that told the boys that all the cylinders were getting down to work. Blue flames and smoke belched out of the vents and the mechanics sprang back, as the propellers whirled round at a pace that made them seem blurred shadows.

"Hang on till I get up speed," shouted Frank to the two mechanics, who, with several volunteer helpers, seized hold of the rear framework and held the struggling aeroplane back with all their might. Her frame shook as if it was being swept by some mighty convulsion. The racket was terrific, ear-splitting. The wind from the propellers blew hats in every direction and streamed out the hair of the men holding the aeroplane back, as if they had been poking their faces into an electric fan.

Faster and faster the propellers revolved, as Frank increased the power of his mixture and advanced the spark. At last, when the men holding the craft were shouting that they couldn't hang on much longer, Frank dropped his hand, the signal that the craft was to be released.

Like a scared jack-rabbit, the big-winged craft shot forward over the uneven ground at race-horse speed. Several boys on bicycles, who started after the air-ship, were speedily distanced.

After a short run, Frank jerked forward his control wheel, and the Golden Eagle, amid a cheer that was of course inaudible to the boys above the uproar of the engine, shot upward into the blue.

A few seconds later there was another roar of applause as the black Buzzard darted forward, and was soon soaring upward in pursuit of the speedy Golden Eagle. Old Schmidt in his monoplane was the next off -- the crowd howling with mirth as the queer green contrivance scuttled over the ground in a series of spasmodic hops, just like its grasshopper namesake. Then came Gladwin, the novice, and a half dozen others. Presently the air above the plains was full of ambitious air craft, but with the exception of old Schmidt, who rose to a height of about a hundred feet and contented himself with circling about the grounds, none of them made any but the shortest of flights.

The attention of the crowd, therefore, naturally centered on the two rivals -- as they were universally conceded to be -- the Golden Eagle and the Buzzard. There was no difficulty in telling the craft apart, as they circled about high above the now crowded grounds. The spirit of emulation seemed to have seized on Malvoise. He followed the boys closely, and every feat they performed he attempted to imitate.

Frank at first contented himself with practicing swoops and glides, but after a while, tiring of this, he headed his craft due east and the Golden Eagle was soon a diminishing speck against the sky. The crowd watched till the big 'plane became a pin point and then vanished altogether. The Buzzard was off after them in a flash and the crowd cheered her just as impartially as they had the boys, as the graceful, black flyer stopped her soaring and headed off in the direction in which the Golden Eagle had rapidly vanished.

Before she had gone a mile, though, it was apparent to the watchers that something was wrong. A cloud of black smoke enveloped her engine and she wobbled badly. A rush across the field began. Suddenly the black aeroplane made a dash downward at a speed that seemed as if her driver had lost control of her altogether.

"He'll be dashed to death," cried the crowd, as they saw the craft shoot downward.

Indeed it seemed so.

But Malvoise was too experienced an aviator to be caught napping. As soon as his engine began to miss fire and to smoke, he had set his guiding planes at a sharp angle and dropped in the manner described.

Had the Buzzard not been fitted with air-cushion buffers on her landing wheels and steel springs on the skids that supported her stern, a serious accident must have inevitably occurred. But, as it was, the Frenchman only received a severe jarring and was scowling over his engine when the crowd rushed down on him.

As the crowd of curious onlookers swept down on the disabled aeroplane and her furious driver, a loud "honk-honk" was heard and a big touring car came dashing across the plain. The people scattered right and left as soon as it was apparent that the car's destination was the stranded Buzzard.

Beside its driver, the car had only a single occupant, an old man it seemed by the tuft of gray hair that was projected from his chin, and which was all that could be seen of his face. The rest of his features were covered by a motoring mask with large glass eye-holes that made him look not unlike a goggle-eyed frog.

"Come here, Malvoise," croaked the newcomer, in a voice strangely like that of the creature he remotely resembled.

The Frenchman instantly left his engine and hurried to the side of the automobile. The two conversed in low tones, though it was easy to see that the old man was in a violent rage.

"I tell you the Buzzard must win," he concluded, after storming at Malvoise for an accident that had really been no fault of his. "I've put up a $50,000 plant for the manufacture of aeroplanes of her type and I've got to have that cup in order to sell them."

"I told you, Mr. Barr," rejoined the Frenchman, "that I had found a man who would do what we want. I told you that over the 'phone last night, you recollect."

"Oh, yes, I recollect," croaked the old man impatiently, "but he doesn't seem to have done much. You are sure we have no other dangerous rivals?"

"Quite," was the reply. "Old Schmidt's monoplane is the only other one that comes near us and we can easily outdistance her."

"Good! that only leaves the Golden Eagle to contest for the cup with us."

"Yes, and she is never going to get it," grinned the Frenchman.

"She must not," said the old man, earnestly, "I owe those boys a grudge for the way they robbed me of my ivory. I never found the other tusks they said they had left behind either. I believe that ill-favored black rascal, Sikaso, got them."

"You leave it to me," was the rejoinder of the Frenchman, to whom the latter part of this speech had been incomprehensible of course, "the Buzzard will win the cup, never fear."

At this moment, the heavy-set figure of Sanborn was seen shouldering its way through the crowd.

"Why here's our man now," whispered Malvoise to old Barr. "This is the mechanic of the Chester boys of whom I spoke to you."

Old Barr greeted Sanborn graciously, but he seemed somewhat surprised when the mechanic, after some talk, suddenly said:

"I have something important to tell you, Mr. Barr."

"What is it?" demanded the magnate, not without impatience.

"I cannot tell you here, somebody might overhear us. I'll take a ride with you in your car."

"But it won't do for the Chester boys to see us together."

"They won't be back for some time. They are off on a long flight. I can tell you my proposition and be back at the aerodrome by the time they return."

"Very well, I will hear what you have to say."

As the car moved slowly off, the chauffeur steering it carefully among the scattered crowd, the two occupants of the tonneau were engaged in a conversation that must have been deeply interesting, judging from old Barr's gestures and exclamations. If one could have penetrated behind his mask they would have seen his thin lips curled in a delighted smile and his eyes glisten with cupidity at the proposition Sanborn was craftily unfolding.



Chapter IV.

Eben Joyce Appears.


Hardly had the automobile containing the old man and the machinist vanished down the road in a cloud of dust before a shout from the crowd proclaimed that the Golden Eagle was once more in sight. At first a mere speck against the blue, she rapidly assumed shape and was soon circling above the heads of the onlookers, her engine droning steadily, as if she had been some gigantic beetle.

"I say, Frank, this is glorious. How much better she flies than when she was laden down with her cabin and fittings."

Billy shouted this comment at the top of his voice, so as to be heard by the others above the roar of the engine.

Far below them -- spread out like the figures on a carpet -- they could see the plain; with its big crowd massed in one corner and dozens of tiny figures scuttling about so as to get a better view of the air-craft by getting right underneath it.

"Watch, I'm going to give them a scare."

It was Frank who spoke, and, as he did so, he shoved forward his control-wheel post till the front elevating planes were dropped at an acute angle. There was a sharp snap as he opened the circuit and the roar of the propellers came to a sudden stop.

"Good Lord, Frank, what are you going to do?" gasped Billy, to whom floating in the air with the engine cut out was a new and somewhat terrifying sensation.

"Glide," was the reply.

"Hold on tight now!"

Suddenly the great craft began to descend in a quick dropping rush that sent the air tingling against Billy's cheeks as though they had been plunging through a hailstorm. There was a mighty buzzing in his ears, and every stay and wire on the big craft sang its own song, as the wind rushed through them as if the Golden Eagle had been converted into a monster Aeolian harp.

Down and down they dropped.

A sudden fear shot into Billy's mind.

What if Frank couldn't start the engine again?

They would be dashed to death to a certainty.

And now it seemed that instead of the aeroplane gliding down on the earth that the earth was rushing upward with terrific velocity to meet them.

Just as Billy was about to shout aloud in actual terror at the disaster that seemed unavoidable, there was a sharp "click" as Frank closed the circuit with his emergency foot pedal and the engine began to revolve once more.

Her two propellers shoving her ahead with a mighty push, the big aeroplane began to shoot upwards again in a long swinging arc. She had dropped to within twenty feet of the ground.

It was a hair-raising feat and the crowd that had scattered in terror, as the monster craft bore down on them, quickly reassembled and sent up a cheer.

There was an even heavier scowl than his habitual frown on the face of Malvoise as, having completed his repairs on the engine that had caused him to make such an abrupt descent, he prepared to go up once more.

"Sacre!" he muttered, "those pigs of American boys would certainly get the cup if it wasn't for my foresight in providing against such an emergency."

The crowd scampered across the field to the Frenchman's side as it was seen he was about to take the air again, and a dozen volunteers laid on to the rear frames of his craft and held her back while he started the engine. The Frenchman took his seat with deliberation and adjusted his gloves with care. It was easy to see that he fairly reveled in the admiration he excited.

Just as the Frenchman was about to start his engine, preparatory to giving the word to let go, there was a shout from the crowd and cries of:

"Let him through."

"No, keep him out."

"Who is he, anyhow?"

"Aw, he's an old man; let him get through."

"He's crazy."

"No, he isn't."

"I am not crazy," came in a shrill, cracked voice, "unless it is with my wrongs."

Malvoise looked up quickly.

He saw an old man with long, flowing gray hair and clothes of the shabbiest making his way toward him. Close behind followed a young woman of unusual beauty, who seemed to be endeavoring to stop the aged man from going further. But he was not to be restrained. In a few strides he was at the side of the Buzzard, and gazing with piercing eyes into the French aviator's face.

"Well, what do you want, old man?" asked Malvoise sharply.

"I want the world to know that the Buzzard is my invention, my design, the child of my brain from her top-plane to her landing wheels;" shrilled the old man, who seemed beside himself with excitement.

"Father, do be calm, I beg of you," entreated the young woman.

"Calm, child! how can I be calm when I realize that I have been robbed of the work of years by the craftiness of this old man, Barr?"

"Hush!" exclaimed the Frenchman, as the old man voiced the name of his employer, "don't talk so loud. I know who you are now. You are Eben Joyce, the inventor."

"Yes, I am," replied the old man in a lower voice, for he too saw that the more curious members of the crowd were pressing so close to them that every word of their conversation must have been audible. "I am indeed Eben Joyce, the unfortunate inventor from whom Luther Barr by trickery secured my working drawings and specifications for the Buzzard. For a paltry five hundred I sold them all to him on the understanding that I was to have a share in the business. There will be millions in it -- millions in it for him, but not a cent for me; for the agreement that I foolishly signed contains a clause that resigns all my interest in the Buzzards. Fool that I was, in my lack of knowledge of business trickery, I did not realize what the cunningly-worded sentence meant till it was too late. The five hundred went to pay my debts, and my daughter and I now face starvation."

"Well, that's none of my business," was the brutal reply. "I simply am here to drive the Buzzards, not to talk about them."

"What!" stammered the old man, "will you have no pity on us nor even direct where we may find Luther Barr if he is on the grounds?"

"I can't waste any time on you, I tell you," cried the Frenchman, his eye scanning the sky, where the Golden Eagle was maneuvering in circles and swoops.

"Moreover," went on Malvoise, "I should not advise you to mention Barr's name as the manufacturer of the Buzzards. He has a business deal on in which it is important he should not be known as an aeroplane speculator. If he learns that you are giving his secrets away, he will make it hot for you, I can tell you. You were sent to Bellevue yesterday, were you not?"

"I was -- yes," pitifully cried the old man, "but I was at once released, and it was with money given me by one of the doctors who heard my story and pitied me that I came down here to-day to find Luther Barr and see whether -- although in law he owes me nothing -- whether I could not persuade him to at least give me something to keep the wolf from the door till I have perfected my new automatic balancing device for air-craft."

As he spoke, the old man's eyes kindled with pride at the achievement he hoped to accomplish. He shook off the touch of his daughter's hand on his ragged coat-sleeve. In his kindling enthusiasm he seemed to have forgotten his cares and anxieties.

"Oh, sir," he went on eagerly, "it would take very little money now before the invention is ready and if Mr. Barr could find it in his heart to help me I would gladly share the proceeds with him. It is the most needed improvement of the age for air-craft and -- "

"Oh, you are like all crazy inventors," brutally blurted out Malvoise, "every idea that enters your cracked brain you think is the greatest improvement of the age, as you say. What good would your inventions be anyway without money to back them up -- they'd only be junk for the scrap pile."

The old man's eyes filled with tears as the Frenchman began his rough speech, but the look in them changed rapidly to one of amazed anger as the aviator continued. Drawing himself up to his full height the old man seemed about to launch a terrific denunciation at the other when his daughter once more intervened.

"Come, father," she said gently, "we shall gain nothing by remaining here. You have been robbed of your invention and it is evident that Mr. Barr means to adhere closely to what he and his like call business methods. Come, let us get back to the city and -- "

Her words were cut short by a shout from Malvoise. He started up his engine suddenly and before the old man could step back out of the way, the helpers, taken by surprise, let go of the rear structure to which they had been clinging.

"Out of my way!" yelled Malvoise, as like some huge juggernaut the black aeroplane bore down on old Eben Joyce. But the warning came too late.

A horrified cry of:

"He's killed!" went up from the crowd, as the end of one of the planes struck the old man and knocked him on to the grass with crashing force.

His daughter shrieked aloud as she saw the accident and rushed to her father's side as the Buzzard swept on.

Old Mr. Joyce lay very still. There was a deep gash in his head where the aeroplane had struck him.

In the midst of the excitement there fell over the crowd a dark shadow. Everybody looked up to see what had caused it, and there, right above them, was the Golden Eagle. Frank had seen the crowd and driven the aeroplane above it to see what was the matter.

The next minute the great aeroplane glided groundward and landed within a few feet of the crowd. The press made way as the Eagle's occupants hastened to the side of the wounded man.

"Here, Harry, here, Billy, carry him to our shed and lay him on one of the cots," commanded Frank. "I'll tell Le Blanc to get on his motor cycle and hurry back with a doctor."

The boys picked the unconscious man up and carried him to the Golden Eagle's shed. His pitiful emaciation made their task an easy one. The unfortunate old man was reduced almost to a skeleton.

"Oh, thank you so much, sir," exclaimed Eben Joyce's daughter, clasping her hands gratefully, you -- you don't think that he is badly hurt, do you?"

"Why, he has a nasty cut," replied Frank, who had hastily examined it, "but I think it is only a flesh wound. He'll pull through, never fear. You are a relative of his, miss?"

"I am his daughter," exclaimed the girl.

At this moment, Malvoise, who had checked the Buzzard and dismounted, hastened up. His face was livid and his hands shook as though with palsy.

"It was an accident -- it was all an accident," he cried. "I didn't mean to. Is -- is he dead?"

"He is not, -- and he is not likely to die," sternly replied Frank, looking full into the Frenchman's cringing face, "do you know who he is?"

"Do I know who he is?" repeated the Frenchman slowly, "why, no, monsieur, I never saw him before in my life."



Chapter V.

A Strange Story.


It was not long before, under the friendly administrations of the boys, Old Eben Joyce opened his eyes on a cot in their aerodrome and gave a long sigh. It was several minutes, however, before he realized what had happened.

"How can I thank you -- ?" he concluded, after he had informed the boys of his name and profession.

"Hush," said Frank, "you must not exhaust yourself by talking now," and the aged inventor remained silent therefore, till Le Blanc returned with a doctor from Mineola.

The physician, after a brief examination, pronounced that the wound in the old man's head was not at all serious, but recommended his removal to the hospital notwithstanding.

"It is nothing more than a flesh wound," he said, "but at the hospital he can get better treatment than at home."

And so it was arranged that for the present old Eben Joyce was to go to the hospital, -- being driven thither in Dr. Telfair's rig, -- and that his daughter would return to New York and make her home with relatives till such time as her father had recovered. These arrangements made, and the inventor's daughter having being driven to the train, it was time to think of accompanying Billy Barnes to Bluewater Bill's cottage, on the outskirts of the little town.

Just as the lads were about to take their departure, leaving Le Blanc in charge of the aeroplane, Sanborn made his way into the tent shed. He had heard from loungers about the grounds of the plight of aged Eben Joyce as he returned from his ride in Luther Barr's car. He was somewhat perturbed as he entered the shed for fear that he would have to face the inventor, fresh as he was from an interview with the man that had practically robbed the aerial genius of his life-work. But Eben Joyce and his daughter had both left and he had no more of an ordeal to undergo than Frank's searching glance.

Knowing as he did what he had been talking to old Luther Barr about, Sanborn's eyes dropped as he met Frank's gaze.

"I -- I have been to the village for a little tobacco," he stammered, "I hope you have not needed me. I did not think you would be back so soon."

"You had better help Le Blanc bring in the Golden Eagle," rejoined Frank shortly. He felt no wish to enter into an argument with the man whom he had already made up his mind to discharge at the first opportunity.

The two mechanics therefore were soon at work, wheeling in the aeroplane, as the boys trudged off down the road to the village. Half-way there they were startled to hear the loud "honk-honk" of a rapidly approaching auto behind them and to be hailed in an imperious voice that shouted:

"Get off the road!"

The boys had no choice but to step nimbly aside as the car whizzed by in a cloud of dust, but quick as had been its passing, Frank and Harry gave a simultaneous sharp exclamation as they both recognized the face of its occupant. Luther Barr, once clear of the grounds, had removed his uncomfortably warm autoing mask and the two lads, as the car vanished in a cloud of yellow dust, both cried out his name in sharp astonishment.

"Whatever can he be doing here?" exclaimed Billy.

"I don't know; but you can depend on it he is up to no good," was Frank's reply.

"The old fox, -- I wonder if he recognized us?" cried Harry.

"If his eyes are as keen as they used to be, he did, without a question," rejoined Frank.

The boy was right. Old Barr had recognized them, and knew them all the more readily indeed for the reason that at that very moment his mind was bent on frustrating a plan that Sanborn had informed him the boys had in mind, and which they were on their way to culminate.

"I'll bet, if he knew what we are on our way to talk over, he'd give a few dollars to be present at the conversation," remarked Billy.

"You may well say that," laughed Frank, "anything that there seems to be a dollar in, is old Luther Barr's highest ideal."

By this time they had passed through the village and, after walking about half a mile down a country road, they emerged on a green, park-like meadow, at the further side of which stood a neat cottage. Portions of a whale's huge bones dotted either side of the path as ornaments, and in front of the cottage stood a flagpole from which fluttered the Stars and Stripes. The cottage was painted white and was as neat and ship-shape as the quarterdeck of a man-of-war.

As they walked up the path the door opened and a grizzled face, set in a perfect forest of white whiskers, protruded itself with a smile of welcome.

"Hello, boys -- welcome to my cuddy," cried Blue-water Bill's hearty voice. "I've a fine dish of lobscouse, a raisin pie and some cider from Farmer Goggins's press all ready for you. Come in -- come in."

He ushered them into a small sitting-room, furnished with all sorts of sea curiosities, and, after explaining several of the curios to the boys, he announced, following an interval of visiting in the kitchen, from whence proceeded an appetizing odor, that the meal was ready. The boys were nothing loath to fall to on the sea banquet the old salt spread before them, and so busy were they despatching the sailor's cooking, that it was not till after they concluded the meal and Bluewater Bill had his old brier pipe going that they came down to the discussion of what each of the boys had uppermost in his mind -- namely, the history of Bluewater Bill's discovery of the lost treasure galleon of the Sargasso Sea.

As for Bluewater Bill he was delighted to spin his yarn to such sympathetic listeners and told it with so much embroidery and discursive oratory that to repeat it in his words would be tedious. We shall therefore condense it as follows:

Bluewater Bill had been mate on the Bath, Me., barque, Eleanor Jones. They were bound for South America with a cargo of chemicals and assorted canned stuffs. From the first day out misfortune assailed the vessel. She encountered heavy weather and, during a towering climax of the storm, part of her deck load of American lumber fetched away and carried with it three of her crew of ten men. Shortly after that the cook's big copper boiler ripped loose and fell on him, scalding him so badly that when the ship finally emerged from her storm-battering he died and was buried at sea.

The captain of the craft, however, was what Bluewater Bill termed "a masterful man." Despite the urgent entreaties of his depleted crew to put into some port and refit, he kept on, with favoring breezes, and soon entered what are called the "doldrums" in which fierce hurricanes alternate with periods of dead flat calm in which a ship will float on a rippleless sea "as idle as a painted craft upon a painted ocean." The Eleanor Jones drifted about in one of these flat, hopeless calms till the pitch boiled in her seams and the sails seemed dried to tinder.

After a week of this, without the slightest warning, one of the sudden storms, that are common to the region in which she was navigating, came up.

"Caught aback," as they were, with all canvas set in the hope of catching what breeze might come to disturb the flat calm, the Eleanor Jones' main and fore masts were ripped out of her as if by a giant's hand. The crew managed to cut the wreckage away before it had pounded a hole in her side, and with what canvas they could set on the mizzen the captain attempted to drive her before the wind. But naturally enough the ship had no steerage-way and simply revolved in the huge seas.

Every time a comber caught her broadside, the water swept over her decks in tons of overwhelming fluid. As they fought desperately to retain footing, under the constant assaults of the waves, there came a sudden cry of:

"Heaven help us!"

More from instinct than anything else Bluewater Bill cast himself flat on his face, clinging to a ring-bolt in the deck. Dazed and almost senseless, he felt the mighty onslaught of the wave, which, strong as was his grip, plucked him from his hold and sent him tumbling and half drowned into the lee scuppers. Fortunately he managed to get a firm grip on the mizzen shrouds and clung there till the wave had passed. As he staggered to his feet he gazed about him on the seemingly doomed ship.

He was alone.

Every soul on board but himself had been swept from the deck by that mighty mass of water.

For two days the storm tossed the ship about like a plaything. Her lone voyager had no means of knowing whither he was being driven. He ate at times mechanically and scarcely emerged on deck at all. The fear of sharing the fate of his comrades possessed him and he remained in the cabin, not knowing from one minute to the next whether the succeeding instant would not prove his last. At last, however, the storm blew itself out and Bluewater Bill ventured on deck.

What a sight met his gaze!

At first he thought he was dreaming.

All about him for miles -- as far as he could see in fact -- stretched a gently-heaving, brown expanse. It looked like a vast prairie. From it rose the sharp, pungent odor peculiar to seaweed and the old mariner had no difficulty in recognizing the stunning fact that he was adrift in the Sargasso Sea of which he had heard so many ominous tales.

The realization was a shocking one. It meant, as he knew, that he was to all intents and purposes a doomed man. Despairingly he gazed about him and almost uttered a shout as at a distance of not more than a mile or two he made out the outlines of a queer-looking three-masted ship. Here at least was company. Obtaining the glasses, which the ill-fated skipper had left in his cabin, the mate of the Eleanor Jones scanned the neighbor vessel eagerly. She was as motionless under the cloudless blue dome of the sky as the ship on which he stood.

But she seemed to have men on board of her.

At least there were figures leaning against her rail.

The castaway lost no time in lowering the one boat that had not been smashed and sliding down the "falls" into her. Then he sculled, not without difficulty, through tangled weed to the side of the strange vessel. But a strange sight met his eyes as he drew nearer. His neighbor in the vast entangling expanse was a high-sided craft with great ports, of which one or two had fallen away, revealing the grinning muzzles of great guns. Her sails hung in torn fragments from her square yards, and on her lofty poop the gilding had faded from three big battle-lanterns and the carved scroll work surrounded her name, El Buena Ventura. (The Fortunate Venture.)

But the men leaning over the side?

Alas for poor Bluewater Bill's hopes of human companionship.

It was many long years since they had been men, and it was a dozen or more grinning skeletons in time-tattered garments that gazed over the galleon's faded side at the lone castaway in his cockle-shell. How they had died, the sailor, even after he had clambered on board, could make no guess; but there they stood, a ghastly row of dead sailors, held upright, as they had died, between the big gun-carriages of the lost galleon's deck carronades.

Whatever Bluewater Bill's failings might have been, he was no faint heart, and despite the shock of the gruesome discovery he continued his investigation of the silent ship. Apparently some attempt had been made when first the Buena Ventura was caught in the deadly embrace of the Sargasso to convey her treasure to the boats, for, at the head of the main companion-way, Bluewater Bill found a chest of antique pattern, the lid of which he ripped open without much opposition from the moldering lock.

He staggered back at the sight that greeted him as the lid fell open. Within the chest were gold pieces, jeweled candlesticks and other costly articles. A score of other chests examined by the castaway, in what had evidently been the officers' cabin, yielded like discoveries.

The galleon was a veritable treasure ship.

The castaway was examining a marine candlestick that fairly blazed with its setting of precious stones when he dropped it with a crash.

A hoarse cry from outside the cabin had caused his scalp to tighten and his heart to start pounding like a trip-hammer.



Chapter VI.

The Golden Galleon.


With his seaman's knife drawn ready for action -- the badly-scared sailor rushed out on to the deck prepared to sell his existence dearly. To his amazement the deck was empty of all life, however.

Suddenly the hoarse cry sounded again, and this time he located its source correctly. Seated on the crumbling maintop of the ship was a huge, evil-looking bird of the kind called "Gallinazos" in South America. The carrion creature eyed the newcomer with a red malevolent eye and again gave voice to its harsh croak -- the sound that had so startled him at its first utterance.

"Ah, you old death bird, so you think you are going to get me, do you?" shouted the indignant castaway, as the bird looked at him with unpleasant anticipation.

"Well, you're not. Not if I have to shoot you."

With a heavy flop of its wings the carrion bird soared slowly away toward the west as the sailor fairly shouted his defiance.

"Ah, my fine fellow," cried Bill to himself, "you have given me renewed hope. I know that birds of your feather are good strong flyers, but you've got to light somewhere. I judge from the fact that you came visiting here that I can't be more than two hundred miles from land -- maybe not so much."

The thought was a cheering one and as the sailor, having filled his pockets with doubloons and other coins, and given the dead men a sea-burial by consigning them to the deep, sculled slowly back to the Eleanor Jones, his mind was busy with plans of escape.

Now it chanced that among the cargo carried by the barque was a small launch intended for the use of a plantation owner in South America. Bill recollected it with peculiar vividness on account of the peculiar shape of its propeller, which he could see through the crate that surrounded it when it was hoisted on board. He had asked the manufacturer's representative, who had superintended the loading of the motorboat at Bath, why the wheel was shaped in such a queer way. He recollected the answer now with joy, for he had conceived a daring plan.

"Why, Mr. Mate," the manufacturer's representative had replied to his query, "that's what we call a weedless wheel. That is, it is specially designed for service in South American rivers of shallow draught where an ordinary propeller would soon get entangled in the weeds and water plants and stop. We guarantee this wheel to go through any tangle, just as an eel would."

"To go through any tangle."

The words sang in Bill's brain.

Why couldn't he get out of the Sargasso seaweed tangle in the little sixteen-foot craft?

"At least, it is better than waiting here for a horrible death," he reasoned to himself.

After a hasty meal in the lonely galley, Bluewater Bill set to work to uncrate the little launch. Fortunately for his purpose the Eleanor Jones had been fitted, in common with many modern sailing vessels, with a "donkey engine" for trimming the heavy sails and hoisting cargo, which was operated by a gasolene engine. Several cans of gasolene formed part of the engine's equipment. This solved the problem of fuel and for the rest -- though Bill had never run a launch -- the manufacturer's directions seemed explicit enough. These directions Bill discovered stored away in a locker of the tiny craft. He spent the rest of the day reading them carefully and going over every part of the engine till he had familiarized himself with the function of each.

After a good night's rest, the next day he set about laying in a stock of provisions and filling several kegs with water from the ship's tanks. This done, and the little vessel's gasolene receptacle filled and her lubricating devices furnished from the supply intended for oiling the "donkey engine" of the Jones, Bill was ready to start. Ready, that is, except for the fact that as yet he had not considered how he was going to get the launch over the side.

For a time this seemed an insurmountable problem, but Bill had all the ingenuity of a sailor. With a small "jack" he tilted first one end of the launch and then the other and passed slings under it. Then he rigged a block and tackle to the mizzen-mast, and heaved on it till he had dragged the launch along the deck on rollers, made by sawing a spare spar into lengths, and hoisted it up on the poop deck. Then, detaching his tackle from the mast, he swung the boom overside with his tackle attached to its outer end. The end of the tackle was once more made fast to the slings supporting the launch and Bill attached another rope to her which was then belayed around the mast, in order to prevent the little craft swinging out to the end of the boom as soon as he raised her a few feet from the deck. This done, he hauled away on his tackle till the tiny motor-boat swung free. Then he made fast his tackle on a belaying-pin and gently paid out the restraining rope he had fastened round the mast till the launch swung at the end of the boom suspended twenty feet in the air. It was then an easy task to lower her with the block and tackle till she floated on the water.

Bill swarmed out on the boom and cut loose the tackles, and soon had the launch snuggled alongside the Eleanor Jones. He then proceeded to stock her with food and water he had made ready, and in addition strapped round his waist the captain's revolver which he had found in the cabin. These preparations concluded he was ready to cast off. His eye had taken in, during the brief period he had been in the Sargasso, that while it appeared to be at a casual glance simply a wide expanse of weed, in reality there were "water-lanes" in it which were clear of the entanglement. Bill resolved to follow these passages wherever practicable.

"The longest way round may be the shortest way out," he told himself.

He soon had the small three-horse engine going, following to the letter the instructions set forth in the book of directions he had found.

It was with a light heart that he steered his tiny craft from the side of the imprisoned Eleanor Jones,

"Good-bye, old ship," he exclaimed, as he headed his craft toward the west -- the direction in which the gallinazo had flown and in which he judged land must lie.

To his delight the patent wheel worked perfectly. Occasionally, it is true, Bill was compelled to stop the engine and, leaning over the stern, clear it of the few weeds that clung to it with a boat-hook he had brought for the purpose, but otherwise it answered every claim of its makers, that it could not be checked by even the densest tangle.

As the sun set and darkness closed in, Bill noticed, to his gratification, that the weed seemed to be thinning out and that the water-lanes grew more and more frequent.

He made a hasty meal off the provisions he had brought with him and, after a long period spent in trying to keep his eyes open, he was fain to lie down on the bottom of the launch and, with the engine shutoff, drift through the blackness till daylight. He awoke with a start. The launch was tossing about wildly and an occasional shower of spray flew over her side.

She had cleared the Sargasso and was in the open sea at last.

Bill started up the engine as soon as he got the sleep out of his eyes, and tossing the spume from her bow the little craft fairly leaped through the tumbling waters. But Bill soon saw that if she was to handle in such a sea he would have to reduce speed or risk getting swamped. He therefore throttled down the engine and rigged a tarpaulin over the bow to keep out the wave crests, part of which came tumbling aboard.

"If it freshens I don't stand much of a chance to get out alive," mused the sailor, as he sat in the stern of his cockle-shell, with only a frail bottom of half-inch planking between him and the floor of the sea.

The launch in fact, while a staunch little craft, was better adapted for lake or river navigation than as a sea-goer.

"However, I might as well keep on as stay still," mused the philosophical Bill, baling out the water that now came tumbling aboard in far too great quantities to render the situation a pleasant one. So the day passed and it was not till the next morning, after an exhausting night of constant terror that the launch was about to sink, that Bill saw the smoke of a distant steamer as he rose on a wave crest.

Would her officers see him?

That was the question that agitated his mind as he waved frantically while she drew nearer and he saw that she was one of the crack liners of the Central American Trading Company. As she raced through the water a great "Bone" of white spray was sent out from each side of her keen cutwater. A volume of thick black smoke rolled from her yellow funnels. She would have made a fine sight to any one less in fear of his life than Bluewater Bill.

Till she was within half-a-mile of him it seemed the big craft was going to pass him by, but suddenly, to his joy, Bill saw her change her course and bear down for him. As she drew nearer, rolling mightily in the high sea, a man on the bridge hailed him in stentorian tones through a megaphone.

"Ahoy! what lunatic are you?"

"Bluewater Bill of the Eleanor Jones of Bath, -- castaway," yelled back the drifter in the launch, who had by this time shut off his engine.

"We'll stand by and lower a boat," was the next hail and soon Bill was on his way aboard the Yucatan -- for that was the vessel's name -- and the tiny launch, which had been the means of saving his life and almost of his losing it, was tossing far astern.

But Bill, perilous as his position was until he was actually in the Yucatan's lifeboat, had not lost his presence of mind. He realized in a flash that a castway with a pocket full of gold would be an object of suspicion and he had his own reasons for not wanting to tell how he had obtained it, so, before the ship's boat reached the launch the old mariner emptied his pockets of their golden freight and sent the coins tumbling into the sea. He retained only the one piece that he had loaned to Billy Barnes as an evidence of his good faith.

"And now, boys," concluded the old mariner, "what do you think of my story?"

"Why, it's the most marvelous thing I ever heard of!" exclaimed Frank.

"But do you think it is TRUE? You believe me?"

"We certainly do," chorused both the boys, much impressed by the old salt's narration.

"Well, the only problem is to get to the galleon," resumed Bill.

"That would be easy in the Golden Eagle," was Frank's quiet rejoinder. "She could be fitted with aluminum pontoons, and, with a propeller device installed, we could start her upward from the water as easily as from the land."

"By the Lord High Admiral's slippers! -- do you think you could, lads?" exclaimed the old mariner in great excitement.

"I am certain of it," was the quiet rejoinder.

"Boys, there's enough gold there to make us all millionaires."

"Hardly enough for that, I should think," smiled Frank, "but at least it is worth trying for. What do you say, boys, shall we make a dash for the golden galleon?"

"Will we? Why, Frank, if you'll lead the way we'll follow all right," cried Billy, wild with excitement at the notion.

Hastily the eager group sketched out the rough details of the expedition and it was agreed that the boys should start on their treasure quest immediately after the cup race -- provided they could obtain their father's permission.

"Hurray for the treasure of the Sargasso!" shouted Billy, throwing up his hat and catching it again and almost upsetting the lamp in his enthusiasm.

But his excitement received a sudden check.

A man was racing by the house on a galloping horse and as he tore along he shouted the alarming cry of:

"Fire! fire! fire!"



Chapter VII.

A Fire Alarm By Aeroplane.


They all raced out of the house and soon saw that the fire was some distance off. The glare of the flames spread redly on the sky and illuminated the low hanging clouds till they glowed like red-hot coals. It was evidently a fierce blaze.

"It's Farmer Goggins's place!" announced Bluewater Bill as he noted the direction of the glow.

"That's just beyond the aviation grounds," cried Harry. "I know, because old Schmidt fell into a field, with a bull in it there, one afternoon and his Green Grasshopper was nearly broken up."

"Come on, boys; I'll get out my little mare and we'll drive over there," shouted Bill.

In a few minutes the horse was hitched to Bill's old carryall and, the boys piling in, they drove rapidly off. As they passed through the gate in Bill's neat fence, the carriage lamp they carried suddenly flashed on a dark figure that the next minute was obliterated in the darkness.

"Hello, somebody skulking around here," shouted Bill, drawing up his horse almost on her haunches.

"Hey there, come out and show yourself!"

There was no answer.

"I'll make it hot for you, my hearty, if I find you," shouted Bill. He leaped out of the rig and after entering the house returned with a revolver.

"Go on, boys, you drive to the fire and then send the buggy back by a boy. I'm going to find who that fellow was."

"Somehow, even in the second I saw him, he seemed a familiar figure to me," exclaimed Harry.

"Who could it have been?" wondered Frank.

"Oh, some no-good hobo," replied Bill. "If I catch him, I'll teach him to come snooping around folks' houses this Way."

"I hope he didn't overhear our conversation about the galleon," suddenly exclaimed Frank, who had been struck by a sudden apprehension that perhaps this was no ordinary loafer or burglar, but some man who had got wind of Bill's discovery and meant to turn his find to advantage.

"By jumping rat-tailed land-sharks, I never thought of that," exclaimed Bill. "Why, any one that knew our secret could sell it for a large sum."

"That's so," agreed the boys; "but perhaps it was only a tramp and we are scaring ourselves unnecessarily."

"I hope so, I'm sure," rejoined the old sailor, "but now, boys, you drive on. You may manage to be of help at the fire."

"Won't you come, Bill?" asked Frank.

"No, thank you, lad, I'll stay here and guard my shanty. That feller may hev been after some of my dried shark or stuffed land-crabs. I wouldn't put it by him to steal that picture of the schooner, Boston Girl, in a heavy blow off Hatteras. That's a real work of art, boys."

As the boys drove off they heard the old man grunting and grumbling and poking about among the bushes in search for the intruder.

"I don't envy that fellow whoever he is, if Bill catches him," remarked Frank, as he urged the old sailor's little horse along.

"Nor I," laughed Billy; "but depend upon it he is a long way off by this time."

As they drew near the aviation grounds, the boys saw that the fire was indeed a serious one.

Everything in the vicinity was lit up as bright as day by the glow, and they passed scores of men, women and children from the village, all hastening along the road to the scene of the conflagration.

Farmer Goggins's place was a large one, and as they reached the orchard which surrounded the house the boys saw that a big barn at the rear of the dwelling-house was in flames and that two smaller structures had already gone. Men and boys were leading out horses and driving cows from adjoining sheds.

"The whole place is going!" the boys heard a man say as they drove up.

And indeed it looked so.

The flames, fanned by a brisk breeze, were roaring through the ancient timbers, devouring them eagerly. Farmer Goggins and his family, wringing their hands despairingly, gazed at the scene.

"Where is the fire brigade?" shouted some one.

"They started out but they've broken down on the road," came back the reply. "They won't get here before the entire farm is destroyed."

"What's that?" cried Farmer Goggins, near whom the speaker had been standing. "The fire department's broken down. Then I am a ruined man. The barns that are burned I used for hay and though my loss is heavy I can stand it, but if the fire spreads it will burn down my dairy plant and destroy my home."

"Is there no other fire department near?" asked Frank.

"No, none nearer than Westbury," was the reply.

"Why don't you telephone for them?"

"We have tried to but, as luck would have it, there is something the matter with the wire and we cannot raise the Westbury exchange at all."

"If only the Westbury department could be notified they might still get here in time to save the house," cried another onlooker, "they've got an automobile fire-engine that just eats up the road."

"That's so, but how are you going to get them. It's fifteen miles away and a horse couldn't do it in less than an hour and a quarter."

"How about an auto?"

"Even if they was one handy, the roads are too bad, except for a high-powered car."

"I have it," shouted Frank suddenly. "I'll get the engines and try to hurry them here in time to save the house at least."

"How's that, young feller?" asked Farmer Goggins, who had stepped up. "Say that again."

"I said I'll get the engines for you and in jig time too," cried the boy.

"Don't see how."

"Well I do; watch me."

Leaving the horse in charge of a lad and calling on the others to "come on," Frank, with his brother and Billy, raced toward the Golden Eagle's shed.

Most of the crowd followed them.

"He's one of them flying kids," shouted a man.

"He's never goin' ter fly ter Westbury ter-night. It's as black as yer hat."

"Looks like he's going ter try," was the answer as the boys trundled the Golden Eagle out of her stable.

And this was indeed the lad's intention.

It was the work of a minute to test the gasolene tank and rapidly see that the engine was in running order.

"How can we tell when we strike Westbury?" asked Frank, as he and his brother clambered into the machine. Billy Barnes, it had been settled, was to wait at the aerodrome in order to save weight.

"Why, there's two red lights at the railroad crossing there and the village is just beyond," cried Farmer Goggins; "but, boys, don't risk your necks on my account."

"Oh, we are not risking our necks," laughed Frank reassuringly; "but, tell me, is there a good meadow or a bit of flat land there to light on?"

"The whole ground just beyond the red lights at the crossing is as flat as the back of your hand and unfenced," was the reassuring reply, "it is used for a circus and show ground. It will make a good place for you to light."

"All right," cried Frank, "that's all I wanted to know. Now then, Harry, are you ready?"

"All right here," answered the boy.

"Then let her go."

The propeller roared and as the craft sped forward, with a warning shout from Frank that scattered the crowd like chaff, the lad threw on the searchlight which had been rapidly adjusted as the plane was wheeled out.

A dazzling shaft of white light cut the darkness ahead of the Golden Eagle, as on her wings, tinted crimson by the glare of the fire, she rose into the night.

Frank headed her for the direction in which he knew Westbury lay, and gradually increased the speed till the craft, her great single eye shining like some strange star, was skimming above the sleeping countryside.

Far behind them, the cheer that had greeted the boys' rising died out and the glow, too, faded as they dashed along.

It seemed almost no time at all before beneath them they heard the roar of a train, and as it dashed by far below the two red lights of the crossing were sighted.

"Now for taking a chance," laughed Frank, as he set the descending blades and the Golden Eagle glided downward. It was "taking a chance," indeed, and the slightest mishap might have resulted in a catastrophe.

However, Farmer Goggins's directions turned out to be quite correct and the aeroplane landed perfectly in a big field, as smooth as a board, only a few minutes after she had left the scene of the fire.

As she struck the ground there was a wild yell from down by the railroad tracks and the boys saw the old switchman on watch there dart out of his tiny hut and dash down the road shrieking:

"Robbers! Murder! Ghosts!" at the top of his voice.

"Hi, there! come back," shouted Frank, "we won't hurt you."

At the sound of a human voice the old man checked his mad career and tremblingly approached.

"Gee! you 'most scared me to death," he said, as the boys stepped forward into the glare cast by the searchlight and stood revealed as two human boys and no spirits of the air, such as the old man had imagined they were, when they first alighted.

"Say, who are ye, anyway, and what are ye doing round here in that sky-buggy?"

"We have come to summon help from the Westbury fire department," said Frank, "can you direct us to the headquarters?"

"Sure, right up the street about six blocks."

"Good. Is there any one on watch?"

"Sure, some of the boys sleep there every night."

"Is it a good engine?"

"None better. She's an automobile engine. Goes sky-hooting 'long like a joy-rider. Just got her two weeks ago. Cost ten thousand dollars."

Leaving the garrulous old man to examine the Golden Eagle with timorous interest, the two boys ran at top speed down the street till they reached a building surmounted by a high tower and with a small red light burning over the door.

Frank seized the rope that dangled at one side of the portal and, rightly surmising that it was placed there to summon the firemen on duty, gave it a tug. The clamor that followed was startling. The rope was connected with a big bell in the tower, and as its clamor rang out several heads were poked out of an upper window.

"What's the matter?" cried a voice.

"Big fire -- Goggins's farm -- Mineola fire department bust up -- hurry," cried Frank all in a breath.

"All right, we'll be on the job in ten minutes," cried the voice, and in a short time the big doors of the fire-house were flung open and lights switched on.

The Westbury fire-engine was the cause of just pride to its operators. It was a new type auto-engine and capable of making a speed of fifty miles an hour. While several men and boys, aroused by the clamor of the big bell, summoned the men who were sleeping away from the fire-house, the others got the engine going. Soon puffing and chugging like some fiery-eyed monster, the racing fire-fighter was ready to start.

"You know the road?" asked Frank.

"As well as I do my own face," was the merry reply of the chief.

"Suppose you fellers will follow in your buggy," yelled the chief as the auto-engine started on its dash.

"We didn't come in a buggy," shouted back Frank.

"Auto then?"

"No."

"S'pose you flew," sarcastically cried the man on the engine.

"That's what."

"Gee-whiz," was all that was audible of the amazed fireman's reply as the big engine whizzed off.

Frank's assertion called for some explanation to the crowd of bystanders, and after he had given an account of their trip most of the crowd that had got out of bed at the summons of the fire-bell accompanied them to the meadow where the old watchman was still eyeing the Golden Eagle with suspicion. So closely did the curious crowd press about that it was some time before the boys were once more aboard their craft and in the air.

Fifteen minutes later they were receiving the congratulations and thanks of the crowd and Farmer Goggins, for, thanks to the timely summons of the air-ship, the auto fire-engine had made the run in time to save the most valuable of the buildings.



Chapter VIII.

Nearly Out Of The Race.


The day of the big race in which the various air-craft had been entered dawned fair and cloudless. There was not a breath of wind and the conditions seemed propitious for making ideal flights.

The big crowds that early thronged the grounds thought so too. They strolled about, poking their heads into various sheds and making conditions almost unbearable for the various flying-men who were busily preparing their machines within.

A band had been engaged and was blaring away at popular tunes. All the aerodromes were draped with flags, and bunting of all kinds made the grounds gay indeed.

But the gayety did not extend inside the boys' aerodrome where, in fact, dismay reigned.

To explain its cause we must go back a little and recount some happenings of the preceding night.

While the boys and Le Blanc had been sound asleep, the figure of Sanborn had upraised itself from his cot and quietly sneaked over to the aeroplane. Softly he worked with a wrench and screw-driver for some time, and then with an exclamation of:

"That will fix you," he had softly tiptoed out of the tent carrying the detached main guiding lever of the ship. He rapidly traversed the deserted aviation grounds and flung the important part of the air-craft's mechanism into a clump of bushes. Thus did Sanborn carry out his promise to Malvoise and Luther Barr to cripple the Golden Eagle.

"There, that's done," he said, with an evil sneer, "and now I'll make myself scarce. I came too near to being caught by that whiskered old Apache, Bluewater Bill, the other night, to make it healthy for me round here when it is discovered that the lever is gone. However, I managed to overhear all the details of the treasure galleon and if old man Barr doesn't make the knowledge worth my while he's not so greedy after gold as I thought he was."

Thus musing, Sanford walked rapidly off in the direction of the village.

When the boys awoke on the eventful day, naturally their first thoughts were of the machine in which they hoped so ardently to win the aviation trophy. Their dismay may be better imagined than put into words when they discovered their loss.

"It puts us out of the race," was Harry's despairing cry.

"We can never replace it by two o'clock, the time set for the start," was Frank's despairing exclamation.

Suddenly they realized that Sanborn also was missing. Like a flash Frank realized that it must have been their mechanic who had done the damage. It would have been impossible for any one to enter the shed from the outside without leaving traces, as the lock was on the interior of the door.

Le Blanc raged round the shed like a wild man. It would have fared ill with Sanborn had he fallen into the hands of the Frenchman just then. Le Blanc regarded the Golden Eagle like his own child and his rage would have been comic from the antics it made him perform if the situation had not been so serious.

What was to be done?

Frank tried device after device in his anxiety to provide a substitute lever, but they all proved too frail. It was impossible to get a duplicate at such short notice, as the levers were especially made for the Golden Eagle.

"Well, boys, it looks as if we will have to disqualify," finally pronounced Frank, after his fifth endeavor at a substitute lever had broken off short when a strain was placed on it.

"I wish I could get hold of that fellow for just five minutes," groaned Harry.

"I was foolish not to discharge him when I made up my mind to do so," rejoined Frank. "I felt all along that the fellow was a scoundrel."

Bluewater Bill had entered the shed while the boys were discussing the situation and Le Blanc was tearing his hair. He was soon made acquainted with what had happened.

"Say," he said finally after due consideration, "that was a pretty heavy lever, wasn't it, boys?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Then he didn't carry it very fur. This fellow Sandboy, I mean."

"I don't suppose so," rejoined Frank.

"In that case he must have hidden it somewhere."

"That's true, but that doesn't put us any nearer to finding it."

"Have you tried?"

"No."

"Well, then, here's what you do. Announce your loss on the grounds by posting a notice and offering a reward. Maybe someone will show up who has found it."

"That's a pretty slim chance," despairingly said Frank.

"Worth trying. I had a pretty slim chance when I was in that launch. It's slim chances that win out lots of times."

"Well, perhaps, as you say, it is worth trying. Anyhow I'll write out a notice and post it on the outside of the shed."

Frank rapidly wrote out a description of the missing aeroplane lever and soon it was tacked up on the door of the shed. An eager crowd surrounded it at once and soon a score of men and boys were searching over the grounds in the hope of being able to claim the reward.

As the time wore on and there seemed to be no chance of their contesting in the race, the boys grew more and more angry at the thought of Sanborn's treachery.

"We ought to have him locked up if we can get hold of him," was Harry's indignant exclamation.

"That's just the trouble, that little 'if,'" put in Billy Barnes. "I'll bet he's a long way off by this time. What motive can he have had in removing the lever?"

"Somebody must have put him up to the job, that's certain to my mind," said Frank.

"I think so, too," agreed Harry, "I have it," he cried suddenly. "I'll bet that fellow Malvoise is in this some way. He'd do anything to see us lose."

"I wish we could prove it on him," sighed Frank.

At this point a gray head stuck itself into the shed and the boys, as they recognized its possessor, shouted:

"Come in, Mr. Joyce."

A rapidly healing scar was all that remained of the injury that had sent the old man to the hospital. He had found work on the grounds and was fast recovering his health.

"Well, I suppose you boys are going to win the cup," he said, smilingly, as he came in. "I had a letter from my daughter to-day in which she asked to be remembered to you and to convey to you her best wishes for your success."

"Thank you," politely answered Frank, "but I am afraid we are out of the race."

He hastily explained the loss of the lever and the old man shook his head sympathizingly. He examined the aeroplane carefully but was unable to suggest a substitute for the missing lever.

"If you had been able to race, I had some advice for you," he said. "As I told you when you visited me at the hospital, I am the inventor of the Buzzard and the plans and patents were wrongfully obtained from me by a trick. I know the Buzzard's strong points but I also know her weak ones. When going at full speed she cannot steer round into the wind which is, I hear, one of your aeroplane's good features. Now, if you had gone into the race to-day, with the direction in which the wind is blowing, you could have outgeneraled Malvoise by forcing him to make such a maneuver. I would give anything to see the man who robbed me of my designs robbed, in his turn, of the cup."

The old man clenched his fists as he spoke and his eyes shone.

"If only we had the lever we might still defeat his attempt to put us out of the race, for I am now certain that Sanborn was bribed by him to deprive us of it," exclaimed Frank.

At this moment a sound was heard that brought them all to their feet. It was a shout from the crowd which grew nearer every minute. As the boys ran to the door to see what could be the matter, and if the uproar had been induced by an accident to one of their competitors, they saw a sight that made their eyes dance.

A small boy was laboriously dragging toward the shed the missing lever while the crowd pressed about him enthusiastically.

"Hurray!" shouted the boys. "We'll be in the race after all."

The small boy soon told of his discovery of the lever in a clump of bushes into which he had crawled in search of a missing ball he had been playing with. He did not know what it was he had found, till one of the crowd who had read the "Lost" notice, recollected it and told the lad to take his find to the Golden Eagle shed. There certainly was one happy soul in Mineola that day as the little fellow pranced off with the easiest money he had ever earned.

But happier still were our young heroes, as they rapidly adjusted the lever and fitted their craft for the race, the starting moment for which was now only a brief time away.

"You have never told us who that man was, Mr. Joyce," reminded Frank.

"No, I have not," replied the old inventor, his excitement rising, "but I will tell you now. It was Luther Barr, the -- "

He got no further.

"Luther Barr," amazedly echoed the boys, "has he gone into the aeroplane business?"

"He has, with the fruits of my industry," exclaimed Mr. Joyce. "Do you know him? I imagine from your expressions that you do?"

"Do we know him?" repeated Billy. "I should say we do."

Frank soon appeased old Mr. Joyce's curiosity and told him of their experiences in Africa with Luther Barr pitted against them.

"If Luther Barr intends making money out of duplicates of the Buzzard, that explains a whole lot of things," cried Harry, as Frank concluded.

"That's right," cried Frank. "I shouldn't wonder if he's at the bottom of this whole business. I only wish we had the evidence against him."

"Don't I too?" rejoined Harry; "but he covers up his tracks too cleverly."



Chapter IX.

The Grasshopper's Mishap.


The grounds by noon were fairly alive with crowds of curious men, women and children, and every train brought more. They swarmed about the aerodromes and almost drove the mechanics and aviators crazy with the ridiculous questions they asked.

"Oh, mister, what's that flapper for?" inquired a woman with a green dress and a red parasol of old Schmidt, the owner of the eccentric Green Grasshopper, indicating that machine's propeller.

"That's to keep the flies off, madam," gravely rejoined Billy Barnes, who happened to be standing by, assisting Schmidt to adjust his planes.

In the boys' aerodrome they were hard at work putting the finishing touches on the Golden Eagle and adjusting the lever.

"I wish I knew where that fellow was. I would certainly have him arrested and locked where he would be out of further mischief, for the time being anyway," angrily exclaimed Frank, as they worked.

At last all was ready and the sudden call of a bugle caused the folks who had brought lunches with them to hastily quit their meals in the shade of the trees that bordered the road and hurry out on to the field. They swarmed in such numbers that the judges of the course found it impossible to keep them back of the rows of red flags, that had been planted as a boundary mark, and therefore restraining ropes were stretched on stakes that had been hastily driven into the ground. This kept the throngs back effectually and gave the aviators clear space for their starting maneuvers.

"Ta-ra-ta -- Ta-ra-ta-tara -- ta!"

The bugle rang out once more.

It was the signal for the competitors to make their appearance.

From every shed on the grounds there issued strange birdlike air-craft of different designs -- in fact only a few of the machines were practicable at all. The others were destined for the scrap-heap. Their owners, however, all fairly beamed with pride, as their various masterpieces were trundled forth and took the places assigned them by the judges of the Aero Club.

The Golden Eagle, of course, received a burst of applause, for the Boy Aviators were by this time quite well known. The Buzzard, too, as her inkhued shape loomed up, came in for a buzz of admiration. Malvoise, in a leathern jacket of black, with black leggings, gauntlets and goggles, instantly set to work on a final inspection, looking like some species of sable imp as he dodged in and out among the intricate wires.

As for Frank, he contented himself with sending the Golden Eagle engine up and down the speed scale from 100 to 1500 revolutions a minute. All her cylinders worked perfectly and the steady drone, rising in intensity as her young owner speeded the mechanism up, showed that the motor of the big craft meant to get down to work without a skip or a break.

Inasmuch as most of the other contestants were testing their engines at the same time the uproar was deafening. The sweep of the propellers created back draughts that swept off the spectators' hats and gave the men who were holding on to the struggling machines all they could do to keep them from getting away. They were like so many restive race-horses breathing blue flames and spouting smoke.

Suddenly there was a loud shout, half of derision, half of fear, from the onlookers.

"He's off!" yelled the crowd.

The boys gazed round to ascertain what could have caused the sudden outcry.

To their amazement they saw the Green Grasshopper leaping and bounding across the field -- scudding along like a scared kangaroo.

On his little seat clung old Schmidt, frantically endeavoring to manipulate his stopping levers and to cut out his engine. But something was wrong and he only scudded along faster than ever, for all his frantic efforts.

What had happened soon became apparent. The men engaged to hold back the Grasshopper while her engine was being tested had clung on well enough till old Schmidt insisted on getting on board his queer craft and speeding the engine to the limit. Then as the propeller reached its maximum velocity the terrific strain caused the holding-back grips to part and the machine had instantly darted away. The crowd, shouting and halloing at Schmidt, broke all bounds and dashed off over the field after the bounding Grasshopper, but it sped along far in advance like a wild thing with eager hounds in pursuit.

About half a mile to the right of the aviation grounds was a small farm occupied by a dealer in hogs. Straight for this little estate the Grasshopper headed, driven as it seemed by some perverse instinct. Schmidt, seeing evidently that he couldn't steer his craft, tried to avoid a collision as he neared the outbuildings by manipulating his elevating planes.

The move was successful, or at least was so for a brief space of time. The Grasshopper rose with convulsive leap, like that of a bucking bronco. She shot into the air to a height of about twenty feet and then suddenly, without the slightest warning, she gave a crazy swoop down and caught in some trees, landing her unfortunate navigator full and fair into a sty occupied by an old sow and her numerous progeny.

Such a chorus of squeals from the pigs and roars of fear and pain from Schmidt went up that the crowd, among whom were the boys, feared at first that several persons had been hurt instead of the luckless aviator. All at once, as they neared the pen, the figure of Schmidt appeared covered with mud and dirt -- a sorry sight indeed.

He attempted to scramble over the fence surrounding the pen and had just reached the top rail when the old sow, in whom fear at the sudden appearance of the Grasshopper's owner had given way to wrath at his invasion, suddenly charged at him. She caught him, just as he was striving to maintain his balance, and the unlucky inventor for the second time that day was hurled to the ground.

The Luckless Aviator and the Pig.

"Are you hurt?" yelled the crowd.

"Am I hurt -- aber I am dead, I dink!" shouted back the badly rumpled Schmidt. "Ach himmel! der Grasshopper is a pig-pen-hopper, ain't it?"

He hastened over to where the Grasshopper, her engine still going and her propeller still beating the air, lay like a dismal wreck in the trees on the other side of the pig-pen.

"Donner und blitzen, you Grasshobber, you my neck brek yet, I dink," roared Schmidt, gazing at the disaster. "Vos iss los mit you, any vay, you bad Grasshobber. Himmel! dot propeller almost takes my nose off. Aber nicht, I am a dunderhead. I forget to turn der switch; dot's vy I can't stob der Grasshobber ven she hobs avay."

Rapidly muttering these remarks in an undertone the old man finally turned off the switch and the engine, with a grunt and a sigh, came to a standstill.

"Vell, I am oud of der race," announced philosophical Schmidt, as the propeller came to a stop. "Aber maybe dot's chust as vell. If I ged into der race maybe I be by der cemetery already to-morrow."

As he was consoling himself with this thought a rough-looking man in overalls hastened up. He carried a shotgun.

"Get off my turnip land," he shouted to the crowd, "or I'll fill some one full of birdshot."

The crowd scattered, and old Schmidt among them; but the man with the shotgun was on him in two jumps.

"See here, you bumble-bee," he bellowed; "you and I have got an account to settle before you get away from me. What do you mean by coming flopping on to my farm and breaking my pig-pen?"

"Aber, I didn't come, der Grasshobber bring me -- " expostulated Schmidt, "I vould much rather have been somevere else. I don't like pork except mit sauerkraut."

"Well, you've scared my prize sow out of a year's growth, smashed two rails of my pig-pen and brought a lot of folks, who ought to be at home instead of fooling around a lot of crazy flyers, traipsing all over my young turnips. Now, the question is-how much do you owe me?"

"How much do I owe you?" spluttered the German. "Ach, ve are quits, I dink. I spoil your pig-pen, but your pig-pen spoil my suit and your sow scare me oud of TWO years' growth."

"Now, don't get funny. Fork over fifty dollars or you go to the constable."

Old Schmidt's face was a study. Finally, however, he produced a fat wallet, and peeling off two twenty-dollar bills and a ten, he handed them over with a sigh.

"Ach, you leedle Grasshobber, fifty dollars for your trip, and then you don't fly excepd in mit der hogs," he exclaimed, shaking his fist at the inanimate wreck of his craft.

A loud report of a gun brought the crowd's attention from this scene, which they had watched from a respectful distance, back to the aviation grounds.

It was the warning gun.

In ten minutes the big race would start.



Chapter X.

The Aero Race.


"Bang!"

As the echoes of the starting gun sounded, and women screamed at the loud report, a dozen air-craft shot forward like horses leaping from the barrier at a race-track.

Off over the ground they scudded -- faster -- faster -- faster.

From their wheels arose clouds of dust and a trail of gasolene-tainted blue smoke spread behind them, like the tail of a comet. After a run of about five hundred feet a shout arose from the crowd as the Buzzard left the ground and suddenly shot upward. The next minute she was followed closely by the Golden Eagle.

A thrill of excitement swept through the throng as the two aeroplanes almost simultaneously rose.

Another air-craft, and then another, closely followed by a third, took off after the first two. It was a magnificent spectacle and the roar of the crowd showed their appreciation of the marvel of witnessing five aeroplanes in the air at once.

Of the other starters two came to grief with engine troubles and yet two others crashed together in collision. A third, a queer freak craft with flopping wings instead of a propeller, piled on top of them and they were soon tangled in an inextricable mass of wires, torn canvas, twisted braces, levers and angry aviators. This accident left the field -- or rather the air -- clear for the other five contestants.

Almost in a line the quintette swept along, heading straight as homing pigeons for the Harrowbrook Country Club, where a big delegation of enthusiasts awaited to watch the contestants alight, drink the prescribed cup of coffee, take on gasolene and start back.

"Steady as she goes, old boy," said Frank, as Harry excitedly cried to him to put on more power, "we are doing very nicely."

"But look at the Buzzard" cried the younger boy, "she's ahead of us!"

It was true their chief rival -- on a lower course than the Golden Eagle -- had indeed forged about half a mile to the fore. From time to time the boys could see the black figure of her operator turn about and gaze back to gauge the distance he was ahead.

The roar of the crowd had died out several minutes before and the only sound to be heard now, as the Golden Eagle swept along at a height of five hundred feet or more, was the drone of the engines of their own and the other contestants' craft.

Of the other starters, Gladwin was the nearest to the boys. He was driving ahead at a forty-mile clip about fifty feet below them and a little to the west. Owing to the construction of his machine, the wind was sweeping him more and more off his course as he rose, and the boys saw they had little to fear from him. The others were in a bunch, a quarter of a mile to the rear, and, even as they glanced back, the boys saw one of the aviators dive downward and land. Evidently something had gone wrong with his engine.

The wind was freshening and this, while good for the boys, evidently meant trouble for the Buzzard; for the black craft, swiftly as she was going, was now giving occasional giddy careens. Malvoise apparently had a hard time to keep her on an even keel.

The ground below them, a vast level plain, was dotted all over its flat surface with automobiles, men and women on horseback, and boys and men on motorcycles, but fast as the people following the aeroplanes drove their various means of progression, the sky clippers flew along even faster.

The Golden Eagle was capable of making seventy miles an hour and, as her engine warmed up and Frank speeded up the spark and found a favorable air current, she gradually picked up speed till she found her full capacity.

Through powerful binoculars Harry scrutinized the landscape ahead. It didn't take him long to make out the low white buildings, with their red roofs that marked the half-way point of the race -- namely, the Harrowbrook Club. So swiftly were they going that it seemed as if the buildings rushed at them instead of their dashing toward the buildings.

Ten minutes later the Buzzard, amid a perfect scream of frenzied welcome, dropped on to the wide sweep of green lawn in front of the club-house, followed almost in the same breath by the Golden Eagle. Rapidly the other four craft left in the race descended also.

The coffee tables and the gasolene cans were placed on the club-house veranda, about five hundred yards from where the machines had alighted. As they scrambled from their seats, the aviators made a rush for the spot. Frank and Harry had the only 'plane in the race occupied by two; but of course they could not both go to the veranda. Frank, therefore, dashed off, leaving Harry standing by the Golden Eagle. He was kept busy explaining its points to the admiring throng. To save all the time possible the engine had not been cut out, but was merely disconnected from the propellers and throttled down. A brief examination showed that it was almost as cool as when they had started on the race.

And now Frank was back with the gasolene, his mouth scorched with the almost boiling coffee he had hastily poured into it. Malvoise had been scalded worse than the boy aviator, but he had manfully choked down the hot fluid and arrived at the side of the Buzzard at practically the same moment as Frank.

Hurriedly the cap of the fuel tank was unscrewed and the contents of the gasolene can poured in. Amid a murmur of excitement, the boys climbed back into their seats. At the same instant Malvoise prepared to start. There was not a second between them in the making of this action, but the watches of the timers at the Harrowbrook showed the Frenchman to be a minute ahead of the Boy Aviators.

With a quick movement Frank threw his engine first into neutral, then medium, and then up to third speed.

"Let go," he shouted with a sweep of his hand to the volunteers holding back the big 'plane, and the next instant they were off once more and on the home stretch.

Simultaneously a rush of wings sounded close beside them and the black aeroplane swept by them, seemingly gathering velocity at every revolution of its engine.

"That's a great machine," exclaimed Frank admiringly.

"But ours is a better one," expostulated Harry.

"That's to be seen, Harry," rejoined his brother, "he's a minute ahead of us now, you know."

"I hope he breaks down," exclaimed the younger lad.

"No, if we beat him, we want to do it fairly and squarely," replied Frank. "I think we have a better machine, and the only way to prove it is to beat the Buzzard at its best."

No more words were exchanged as the two machines tore onward back toward the starting-point.

The others had lost so much time getting into the air at the Harrowbrook grounds that they were practically out of the race. The contest lay between the Buzzard and the Golden Eagle.

Suddenly, as they were racing high above a road that showed far below them like a bit of white ribbon. Harry uttered an exclamation and pointed downward.

Directly beneath them an automobile was moving along, and as Frank gazed downward for a fraction of a second he saw a man, seated in the tonneau, place a glittering object to his shoulder.

"Zi-i-i-p!"

Something that sounded like a big bee sang by the boys' ears.

"A bullet!" cried Harry.

"They are shooting at us!" exclaimed Frank.

"I know that automobile," suddenly cried Harry, "it's Luther Barr's."

"So it is."

"And," shouted Harry, bringing his glasses to bear on the car, "the man with the rifle is that sneak Sanborn."

Before Frank could reply another bullet sang by them.

This one ripped a hole in the upper plane, but fortunately a hole of such size did not affect the machine.

"They are trying to hit the engine," cried Harry the next minute as a third bullet whistled unpleasantly near.

"Or more likely the fuel tank," corrected Frank.

"The cowards," cried the indignant Harry.

Whatever the intentions of the men in the auto had been, however, they came to nothing, for a sudden turn in the road compelled them to turn off almost at right angles from the course taken by the air-craft. As a last farewell bullet whizzed harmlessly by, Harry, through the glasses, saw a familiar figure spring upright in the tonneau and shake his fist upward in impotent rage.

It was Luther Barr.

His features swam in the field of the glasses as clear as if he had been standing ten feet away. His lean, mean face was convulsed and gray with rage. He seemed to be furiously berating Sanborn, whose rifle, Harry now observed, was equipped with a silencer. With this appliance bullets can be fired from an ordinary rifle without even as much sound as an air-gun. It is a murderous device.

But now the boys' attention was imperatively centered on the rival aeroplane. The wind had suddenly become gusty and the Buzzard was behaving in a most eccentric manner. To the boys several times it looked as if Malvoise had lost entire control of her.

The tents and aeroplane sheds of Mineola were now plainly in view, and the boys could see the black mass of the crowd as it raced out to meet them.

"It will be bad for a landing if they don't keep them back," exclaimed Frank, as he saw this. "Someone will get hurt."

Suddenly, as a sharper puff than usual came, the Buzzard gave a lurch that Malvoise in vain tried to counteract by using his ailerons. These balancing devices are almost automatic in their control, and usually can be depended on to control an airship to keep an even keel, but this time not even Malvoise's skill could save the Buzzard.

Down she sped, straight as a plummet, for fully fifty feet.

Desperately her driver strove with levers and guiding wheel. But his efforts were of no more avail than if he had idly surrendered to disaster.

Like a stricken bird the Buzzard dropped downward. All her occupant could do was to check the awful speed of her fall by spreading his ailerons to their fullest extent.

Luckily for Malvoise a clump of willows, about a shallow pond, were directly below him in his fall and the Buzzard crashed into these, throwing him out into the soft pond mud in which he received a ducking, but no great harm.

It was the end of the great race.

A few minutes later the Golden Eagle swept to the ground almost at the very door of her aerodrome, and Billy Barnes, Le Blanc, old Eben Joyce and Bluewater Bill rushed excitedly forward to greet the young aviators. Madly the excited crowd pressed about them, among them many reporters from New York and Philadelphia papers, who had been sent to report the details of the great race.

It was an hour or more before a wagon arrived with the remains of the Buzzard, and Malvoise followed, mud-covered and angry clear through. He cast a malevolent scowl at the boys as he passed their aerodrome, in front of which the crowd still lingered, unable to gaze enough at the victorious Golden Eagle and her young drivers.

While Frank and Harry were still trying to tear themselves away, a blue-garbed messenger boy pushed his way through the crowd and extended a yellow envelope.

"Message for you," he grinned, "Mr. Chester." Frank took the envelope in wonderment. He had no idea whom it could be from. The look of astonishment on his face froze into one of amazement as he perused the contents of the message, which read:

You have beaten me once more. Next time you will not be so fortunate. I'll drive you cubs off the earth yet.

Luther Barr.

"Well, what do you know about that?" exclaimed the slangy Billy Barnes, as he in his turn conned the remarkable document from the old man, who seemed destined to be checked at every point by the boys.



Chapter XI.

Lost In The Fog.


It is a week after the race and the Hempstead Plains cup proudly reposes in a place of state in the Chester boys' home. On the morning in question the boys and their chums are getting ready for a test of Frank's pontoons, which, as our readers know, he had already begun to figure on as soon as Bluewater Bill had unfolded his strange tale of the Golden Galleon of the Sargasso.

In a quiet bay on the north shore of Long Island the tests were to be made, and a launch had been engaged for the occasion. At the commencement of this chapter our readers are to imagine the boys on a train speeding toward Lone Cove, where they plan to embark. In the baggage car are the "pontoons," which in reality are two cylinders of aluminum, about twenty feet in length by three in diameter and capable of sustaining a weight of almost a ton. To the bottom of each, Frank had riveted a thin "keel" of manganese bronze with a heavy fin of lead affixed to it. This was to give stability in the rough waters they ran a chance of encountering on the outskirts of the Sargasso.

A space of about two feet at each end of the pontoons had been partitioned off, so as to form four tanks in which water and gasolene could be stored. Caps screwed over vent-holes provided opportunity to insert a small pump when it was necessary to draw on the emergency supplies or water ballast thus carried.

Lone Cove, a small sand-bordered inlet off the Sound, was reached after a run of about two hours and the tanks -- boxed in long wooden cases so as to avoid the scrutiny of any villagers who might prove too curious -- were transferred to a wagon and carried to the small wharf where the Ocean Spray, the launch the boys had chartered for their experiments, lay at anchor.

Her owner, an old beachman, at once turned the craft over to the party and expressed a lot of curiosity, which was not gratified, as the boys knocked the cases off the "pontoons" and then floated them. With the boards from the cases, a sort of platform was then constructed between the floating tanks and lashed to them with stout wire. The wonderment of the old waterman was in no wise decreased when he saw the boys then fall feverishly to work and load the dinghy, attached to the launch, with large stones. When they had her piled to the water line, they pulled out to where they had anchored the tanks with their bridge-like platform, and commenced to place the rocks on board till Frank estimated that there was as much weight reposing on the pontoons as they would be called upon to bear when the Golden Eagle was super-imposed on them.

As Frank had figured, the tanks were immersed for about a third of their depth under the weight, and when the burden of the boys and Bluewater Bill was added, they sank till about half their circumference was above and half below the water. The whole contrivance was then taken in tow of the Ocean Spray, in order to ascertain just how she would behave under the speed at which it was hoped the propellers of the Golden Eagle would drive her when the contrivance was affixed to her bed plates.

It was a perfect day, and as the boys emerged from the mouth of the inlet and the blue expanse of the Sound spread before them, they fairly shouted with delight at the sparkling water and invigorating air.

"How long are you going to stay out?" asked Bluewater Bill, as the Ocean Spray plunged bravely forward and the sharp-nosed pontoons, to the boys' delight, clove the water behind without making any noticeable resistance.

"The Golden Eagle will drive over any seaweed that ever floated on these," shouted Billy excitedly as he gazed back.

"How long are we going to stay out?" repeated Frank, in reply to Bluewater Bill's question. "Oh, not more than an hour or so, but it's such a glorious day I'd like to keep on going for a while."

"So would we," chorused the others.

"Wall," was the old-sailor's rejoinder, "I don't want to be a spoil-sport, boys, but do you see that haze yonder?"

Frank nodded.

Over on the Connecticut shore, which lay a low, blue line on the opposite horizon, a sort of haze, floating like a silken scarf, was indeed quite observable when attention was called to it.

"What is it?" asked Frank.

"It looks to me like fog," said Bluewater Bill, slowly, "but it may be nothing. Anyhow we've got time for a cruise afore it comes up, I reckon."

"Oh, lots of time," rejoined Frank confidently, as he gave the wheel a twist and sent the little Ocean Spray, a twenty-five foot craft, dancing clear into the sparkling seas that came tumbling along. As her sharp bow encountered them, the speedy little craft tossed the water in glittering cascades back over her foredeck. The pleasantly stinging spray blew in a moist cloud back in the young voyagers' faces.

"Say, Frank," exclaimed Billy, suddenly, "let me take a cruise on those pontoons, will you? I've read about rafts ever since I was knee-high to a bicycle pump, but I never rode on one."

"All right, Billy," laughed Frank, and after the queer craft astern had been drawn up by the tow-line the young reporter jumped aboard.

"Let out lots of rope," he cried, as the stone-laden contrivance bobbed about on the waves, "this is bully. A regular private yacht.

"Oh, a sailor's life is the life for me, Out on the ocean, out on the sea; Out with the whales, out with the shark, If a cat-fish mews does a dog-fish bark?"

The Ocean Spray once more forged ahead, and so absorbed were the boys in putting the little ship through her paces that not one of them noticed a curious change that was gradually taking place in the weather. The air had grown more chilly and an almost imperceptible film of mist was creeping over the sun-warmed waters. If Bluewater Bill had not dropped into the little cabin for a snooze he would have warned the boys of their peril, but, as it was, their first realization of the fact that the fog was upon them was their complete envelopment in a dense blanket of dripping mist.

If a curtain had rolled down all about them they could not have been more completely blotted out from their surroundings.

Everywhere the soft white mist baffled sight. From the stern of the Ocean Spray it was impossible to make out the tiny vessel's bow.

The smothering blanket of pearly-gray vapor had enwrapped them so completely that in their first excitement they lost all sense of their bearings, and as they had no compass they were in a bad fix indeed.

Hastily Frank awoke Bluewater Bill.

The old sailor uttered a sharp exclamation as he emerged from the cubby hole in which he had been sleeping and gazed about him. The fog settled in glittering masses on his bushy eyebrows and whiskers, as he scanned the impenetrable mist in every direction.

"Whereabouts was you when the fog came up?" he asked suddenly.

"About in the middle of the Sound," announced Frank.

"Couldn't be in a worse place," commented Bill, "right in the track of the Fall River steamers and any other craft that happens to come up or down the Sound."

Even as he spoke there came the long melancholy boom of a steamer's whistle from somewhere in the obscurity.

Bill hastily searched the Ocean Spray's cabin.

"Well, we are in a fix, boys," was his comment as he concluded his examination of the lockers and cupboards.

The boys looked their questions.

"Ain't a fog-horn nor a bell aboard this craft," was Bill's alarming intelligence, "we may get run down any minute."

Again through the fog came the roar of the approaching steamer's whistle.

Ominous, full of sinister possibilities, the voice of the nearing peril roared through the fog.

Suddenly there was a shout from astern.

"Hey there, I don't want to squeal, but I'm getting nervous. Have you forgotten me or am I adrift?"

"Billy Barnes!" cried Frank, "I had clean forgotten about him. Come on, boys, lay a hand on the tow-rope and we'll get him aboard."

The engine of the Ocean Spray had been cut off by Bill, when he first discovered that the little craft was as helpless to aid herself as a drifting log in the dense smother. She now rode the swells silently and powerless.

In response to Billy's hail, the boys shouted back:

"All right, Billy, we'll have you aboard in a minute."

"Hurry up, it's awful lonesome out here," came back Billy's cheerful hail through the fog.

Frank and Harry laid on to the rope and started to haul the pontoons and their freight inboard, but even as their hands closed on the rope the booming roar of the menacing steamer's whistle permeated the fog once more.

It seemed as if this time it was directly over them.

"Start the engine," cried Harry, as the full sense of their peril was borne in on him.

The shriek of the large vessel's whistle was now sounding almost in their ear-drums. Frank expected every minute to see the obscurity pierced by a huge black prow.

But as this thought flashed across him there came a sudden diversion. The tow-rope they were hauling on suddenly was torn from their hands, almost dragging them overboard, and though they could hardly see it they could "feel" the presence of a huge vessel going past not twenty feet astern.

"Billy!" shouted Frank as the tow-rope was jerked from his grasp.

The only reply was a grinding, rasping crash as if some great object were brushing resistlessly past a smaller one, and then the whistle boomed out again.

This time, however, its sound came in diminishing form and as the Ocean Spray cruised round blindly in the fog, searching in vain for any trace of the raft, it grew fainter and fainter and finally died away into the distance.

Half an hour later a breeze sprang up, the fog lifted almost as suddenly as it had closed in and the Sound once more shone in the sparkling rays of the afternoon sun.

The boys uttered a shout as they perceived not a mile from them the raft bobbing about on the waves as buoyant as a cork. It had, then, evidently survived the collision, but in the same glance they saw that it had no occupant.

Billy Barnes had vanished.

They spent the rest of the day till sunset circling about in the vain hope of coming across some trace of the missing lad; but in vain.

If the sea had indeed, as the boys now feared with sinking hearts, swallowed their young companion, he could not have vanished more completely.



Chapter XII.

Billy Hears An Interesting Conversation.


When Billy Barnes opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a white and gold stateroom that seemed luxurious enough in its furnishings to be the cabin on some millionaire's yacht. Where he was, he had not the slightest idea. All that he recollected of the events preceding his awakening was his shout to the boys to be taken aboard after the fog closed down. Then came the sudden appearance above his head of what seemed a mountainous black steamer bow, a terrific crash, that hurled him from the pontoon raft into the water, and then a frenzied grip for a trailing rope.

As he reflected on these events and wondered where on earth he could be, the door opened and a white-coated steward stepped in. He seemed surprised to see Billy's eyes opened.

"You came to pretty quick after your ducking," he remarked. "I'll go call the doctor."

In a few minutes he was back with a pleasant-faced, gray-whiskered man who informed Billy that the ship that had run him down was the Sound steamer, Princeton, bound from Boston for New York. The instant the lookout had reported an object dead ahead, ropes and life-buoys had been thrown overboard, one of which Billy had managed to grasp and hold on to till a sailor could be lowered and the half-drowned reporter dragged on board.

"You held so tight to the rope even after you became insensible," commented the physician, "that we had a hard time to break your grip. How did you come to be out on the Sound in such a fog?"

Billy hastily related to him the events that had led up to his presence on the raft, only omitting, of course, the object of the experiments. The doctor was very curious on this point, but his inquisitiveness was destined to go unsatisfied. Billy had no intention of betraying the boys' confidence in so important a matter as the proposed recovery of the golden galleon. The secret was theirs alone, he reflected. What was his amazement, then, about half an hour after the doctor had left him, with orders to sleep if he could, to hear in the next stateroom a voice, which he had no difficulty in recognizing as Luther Barr's, utter the following words:

"Then we start for the Sargasso Sea as soon as possible. You have done very well, Sanborn, and you, Malvoise. You need not be afraid I shall not reward you."

"Thank you," the listening boy heard Malvoise reply, in his smooth tones. "We have indeed done all that we could to hasten the scheme. It was lucky that we were able to purchase that dirigible of Constantio's at Boston, for if we had had to construct one of our own we should have been in a hard fix to beat the Boy Aviators in getting to the golden galleon. As it is we will be there first and when they arrive they will find an empty shell of a ship for their pains."

"Ha! ha! ha!" Billy heard old Luther Barr laugh in his thin piping tones, "it will be as good as a feast to see their faces when they find that we have forestalled them. What is the best part of it is that they will never guess who gave us the secret of the lost galleon's location."

"I look to you to make that information worth my while," put in Sanborn's rasping tones.

"And I will," cried old Barr, clapping his withered hands together. "You shall be well rewarded, never fear. But now about your purchase in Boston -- how much did she cost?"

"Twelve thousand dollars," was the cool reply of the speaker, whose voice Billy had recognized as being that of Malvoise.

"Twelve thousand dollars!" almost screamed old Luther Barr, "why you mean to ruin me."

"What, you grudge twelve thousand dollars when there are millions, perhaps, at stake?" demanded Malvoise's calm tones.

"No, no," old Barr corrected himself, "it's not that, but twelve thousand dollars is a lot of money. However, I'd gladly give twice that sum to get first to the lost galleon and her golden cargo."

"It's well worth it," commented Sanborn.

"Anyway, she is exactly the kind of air-ship we need for the recovery of the treasure," put in Malvoise. "Originally intended for Government use, she was turned back to her owner on account of a defect in the machinery which has since been rectified. She carries a fine cabin and a pilot house on her substructure, and is fitted up with sleeping quarters. Best of all, she is capable of lifting five tons beside her own weight. The hydrogen gas to inflate her with, we can carry down in tubes on your yacht and fill the bag when we get to the borders of the Sargasso, although Constantio, her inventor, who will go with us, has ideas of his own about hydrogen."

"But how are you to float her while we are rifling the galleon of her treasure?" demanded old Barr.

"Very simple," was the reply, "merely tether her to the galleon as you would a horse and when we are ready to load, haul her to a level with the deck and then with a full cargo of treasure -- hurray for New York!"

"Splendid," cried old Barr, catching the enthusiasm of the other, "we will sail then, shortly?"

"As soon as everything is ready" was the reply of Malvoise, "we need one more man and I have advertised for him -- now let us drink to the treasure of the Buena Ventura and may we soon have our hands in the sack."

There was a clinking of glasses as the toast was drunk, and then the trio conversed in lower tones. Billy had heard enough, however, to convince him that by some strange fate he had been rescued from death in the Sound to become the instrument of the discovery of a plot to beat the boys to the Sargasso and the treasure ship. Gritting his teeth he resolved to do all he could to frustrate the man who had tried to outwit the Boy Aviators in Africa and steal their hard-won ivory.

Two hours later, the Princeton docked at New York, and Billy hastened to despatch a telegram to Lone Cove, telling the others of his safety and that he had important news to communicate.

With what delight the chums received news of their comrade's safety may be imagined and they boarded the first available train to meet him at the Astor House in New York, where Billy had agreed to be at the appointed time.

As the young reporter hastened from the wharf, taking good care -- as he thought -- not to let old Barr and his two accomplices see him, he almost collided with a seafaring man who was hurrying down the wharf to board a Boston steamer that was about to pull out. The next instant his hand was caught in a mighty grasp that almost wrung it off.

"Wal, I'll be hornswoggled, Billy Barnes!" was the exclamation of the stranger.

"Ben Stubbs!" exclaimed the amazed Billy, almost knocked off his feet at the sudden encounter with the brave adventurer who had shared the boys' perils in Nicaragua, the Everglades and in Africa. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ax the same question of you," was the reply, "but one at a time as the feller said when they all wanted to shoot him at once for stealing a horse. I've got time and I can wait."

"You are the same old Ben, I see," laughed Billy; "but seriously, what are you doing here?"

"Why I was just on my way to Boston," was the rejoinder. "I seen this 'ad' in the paper where it said, 'Wanted, brave man, ex-sailor preferred, to assume dangerous mission -- Big pay. Apply No. 46, Charlton Street, Boston.'" And Ben flourished a clipping.

"But, Ben," remonstrated Billy, "you have plenty of money from your share of the ivory. I thought you had invested it in a rubber plantation in Central America."

"That's right," said Ben, with a sorrowful air. "I invested it all right -- sunk it, maybe would be a better word, fer when I gets down there to start in developing my plantation, I finds that you couldn't see my noble estate fer the water that happened to cover it."

"What!" exclaimed Billy, "you had been swindled?"

"Ay, ay, lad, that's about it. Some of these here land-sharks had trimmed me from top-gallant mast to bilge keel. They cleaned me out and left me high and dry. So when I see that 'ad' I says to myself, says, I, there's just the thing for me."

"Say, Ben," exclaimed Billy, suddenly, "Let me have a look at that 'ad' again, will you?"

"Sure," said the old adventurer, handing him the clipping from which he had taken the address, "here you are."

"Why!" exclaimed Billy suddenly, "L. B. are the initials of Luther Barr."

"What! that old cat-a-mount?" cried Ben, "is he still alive?"

"He certainty is and up to fresh mischief," was the rejoinder. "Of course there are lots of L. B.'s in Boston, but coupled with a conversation I overheard, it looks to me as if the man who inserted this 'ad' is Barr himself."

"What makes you think so, youngster?"

Billy launched into a narration of what he had overheard on the steamer after his rescue.

"Ph-e-e-w!" whistled Ben, as the young reporter concluded, "so the old varmint is up to his tricks again, is he? Well now, sonny, if this L. B. in the 'ad' should be the same as Luther Barr, it won't do no harm for me to be along with him. But first, I'll get my whiskers shaved off and that will make me look a heap different. Then I'll dress in a different rig and he won't know me any more than I'd know the old clipper North Star after they turned her into a coal barge."

"You really mean that, Ben?"

"Do I really mean it," echoed Ben, "well, watch me. Hullo!" he exclaimed suddenly, "there goes the last whistle. Well, good-by for the present and give me your address and I'll let you know as soon as I find out anything. Whoop-ee! it's good to see you lads again."

So saying, after a hearty clasp of the hand the former mariner ran up the wharf and was pulled aboard clinging to one end of the gang-plank like a fly.

As Billy started for the hotel to meet the others, he was musing deeply over what he had overheard. So engrossed was he in his thoughts, in fact that when a rather roughly-dressed man stepped in front of him and peered into his face once or twice, as if to make certain he was the lad he sought, Billy gave an involuntary start. He was walking beside the gloomy arches of Brooklyn Bridge, some of which are used for refrigerating plants and others to store all kinds of goods, from hides to tin articles. It is a little frequented part of town except by persons walking across town from East River steamers.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"Your name Barnes, young feller?" was the response.

"It is -- what do you want?"

"Old man named Eben Joyce was just run over. They carried him into my house and he sent me to look for you."

"How did you come to recognize me in the street?" demanded Billy, feeling a strong distrust of the stranger, who had little rat-like eyes and a furtive manner.

"I was on my way ter yer noospaper office, guv'ner," rejoined the other, "but you see I had such a good description of yer handsome face that I couldn't miss but rec'ernize yer when I ran inter yer in the street."

Now if Billy had thought this explanation over he would have seen that it would not hold water for a minute, but he was excited by the events of the day and in no mood for reflection.

"Well," he demanded, "what does Mr. Joyce want?"

"I don't know, guv'ner. I didn't ask him that, you know. We always mind our own business, we folks on Vanderwater Street do. Come on, guv'ner, I'll take you there. It's only a few blocks. The old man does want to see you awful bad."

"As a matter of fact I had an important engagement," cried Billy, "but still if the poor old man is injured and wants me, I'll go with you."

"All right, guv'ner, I'll take yer there," promised his guide with a grin, "follow me and you can't go wrong. You've got a good heart, guv'ner."

So saying he dived into the shadow of one of the great arches and Billy the next instant followed him into the gloom.



Chapter XIII.

Luther Barr's Trap.


Billy's guide conducted him under the bridge and along a gloomy-looking street of poor houses, huddled together like the cages of animals. The windows of many of them were broken and they were otherwise tumbledown, and the young reporter realized that he was in one of the most squalid parts of New York. He grew suspicious and was about to halt his guide and ask him some questions when the ill-favored conductor suddenly stopped in front of a particularly dark, gloomy-looking brick tenement, and beckoning to Billy, urged the lad to follow.

In spite of his misgivings, Billy entered the place and followed his guide up four flights of steep, unlighted stairs.

"Here is Mr. Joyce's room," he announced, flinging open a door. Billy stepped forward through the portal, and found himself in an apartment in which the paper was peeling off the wall from long neglect, and the light only streaked in through cracks in the closed shutters. Save for a rickety chair and a broken-down table, it was empty.

"Where is Mr. Joyce?" Billy was about to ask, when he felt himself seized from behind and a voice hissed in his ear:

"Well, Master Barnes, we've got you where we want you."

At the same instant a stout rope was drawn about him, pinioning his arms to his sides.

In his captor, as he stepped forward, Billy had no difficulty in recognizing Sanborn, the treacherous mechanic, and while he gazed in astonishment at the man there appeared from an inner room Luther Barr and Malvoise, the French aviator.

"You'd better let me go at once," cried Billy angrily. "What do you want with me?"

"Nothing very much," piped old Barr, "nothing very much, my dear lad. You are in a position to do us a great service, that is all, and I am sure, after your providential rescue from the waters of the Sound, you ought to be grateful enough to try to benefit your fellow man by imparting a little information. You see, we saw your rescue and had a messenger track you from the wharf and bring you here."

Billy was puzzled, but nevertheless somewhat relieved. He had thought at first that his capture was due to the fact that the boys' enemies knew that he had overheard their conversation in the stateroom of the Princeton, but it was now evident that they had some other motive in luring him to their obscure meeting place, and had no idea that he had played eavesdropper on their plan to forestall the boys in their treasure quest.

"Tell me first what it is you want to know," said he stoutly, "I cannot say whether I will tell you anything or not till I learn that."

"Well, we won't occupy much of your valuable time then," put in Malvoise; "what we want to know is this: "How soon are those young whelps, the Boy Aviators, going to start for the Sargasso Sea?"

"Suppose I won't tell you," retorted Billy, bravely sparring for time.

"Then we shall find a means to make you."

"Well, I will not tell you one single thing about our plans, and you might as well make up your minds to that right now."

"What, you won't?"

"No, I won't."

Malvoise crouched as if he was about to spring on the boy, but old Barr interfered.

"No violence now, Malvoise," he croaked; "we can use other means. I really think we shall have to use another method to bring this young man to his senses. First of all, however, search him, he may have papers on him that concern our project."

But a search of Billy's clothes revealed no paper that threw any light on the Boy Aviators' plans, and the baffled plotters looked their rage.

"Lock him in the inner room," ordered old Barr, "it's a nice warm place for a young man to sit and meditate on his stubbornness, and perhaps to-morrow he will have come to his senses."

Without more ado Malvoise and Sanborn picked Billy up in their arms and carried him through the door from which Barr and the Frenchman had emerged and thrust him forward into a small room without windows. It was really more like a large cupboard than a room, and most probably at one time or another had been used as a clothes closet in the days when the old house was a mansion and stood in a fashionable part of the town.

Billy heard the key click in the lock and found himself in total darkness. From outside came to him the mocking voice of old Barr.

"We shall be back at the same time to-morrow, Master Barnes; please be ready to tell us what we want to know at that time."

The others laughed; but Billy, angry and somewhat scared as he was, made no reply. Then he heard their footsteps die away and he was alone in the darkness in the deserted tenement.

He threw himself against the door with all his force several times, till his body was bruised and sore in fact, but it was of stout wood and yielded no more than if it had been the portal of a steel vault.

Seeing the futility of hoping to escape that way, Billy fell to trying to work himself out of his rope bonds. To his great joy after several minutes of wriggling he succeeded in loosening the not very securely tied knot and was soon free; so far as the rope was concerned. This accomplished he felt far more cheerful and set about trying some means of opening the door of his prison.

But without tools this was difficult -- in fact, an impossible feat -- as Billy, after a long period of wasted effort, found out. If only he had some kind of tool, however, he might be able to make some impression on the lock, he thought.

It was quite by accident that he encountered what he wanted. He was leaning back against the wall, after a long period of vain effort on the door, when his hand encountered what his sense of touch told him was a clothes hook, formed of bent wire -- a relic of the days when Billy's dungeon was used as a cupboard evidently. With eager fingers the young reporter unscrewed the hook from the wall and then went to work to straighten it out till he should have a serviceable bit of wire with which to pick the lock. In his capacity as a reporter, Billy had some knowledge of the methods used by burglars; but he never thought, at the time the subject had interested him, that he would ever have occasion to put his knowledge to practical use.

Now, however, with his clumsy skeleton key he set to work poking about in the lock as eagerly as any marauder trying to effect an illicit entrance to a rich trove.

Just as it seemed that he would have to give up in despair, the lad's wire encountered a "tumbler" of the lock that yielded to its pressure.

Billy with a beating heart pressed and the lock, which in spite of its age seemed to have been recently oiled, probably by Barr, responded. The next instant with a click, the lock slid open and Billy walked out of the stifling air of the coop -- free.

It was the work of only a few minutes for him to reach the street, as Barr and his accomplices had not taken the precaution to lock the outer door in their hurry. Probably they didn't think it necessary, anyhow, as it could never have occurred to them that Billy would be able to effect an escape from the locked closet, except by working a miracle.

Swiftly the boy threaded his way through the streets and finally reached the Astor House. He found that the boys had preceded him there and had gone away, after leaving a message with the clerk for Billy to call up the Chesters' Madison Avenue home in case he should happen to arrive after they had left.

Billy at once made his way to the 'phone booths and was soon in communication with Frank at the other end of the wire.

"This is the second time to-day you've worried the life out of us," exclaimed Frank, much relieved as he heard Billy's voice. "When you didn't appear at the Astor we were badly puzzled, I can tell you. We thought something had happened to you."

"And it nearly did," retorted Billy indignantly, "I've got a long story to tell you, Frank."

"Get right on a car and come up," was the rejoinder.

Billy was soon speeding uptown to the Chester boys' home. He found all the adventurers there in the room over the garage which had been given up to the lads as a workshop and experimental laboratory. With what wonderment the boys listened to Billy's tale may be imagined.

"I'd like to see the rascals' faces when they open that closet to-morrow morning," cried Lathrop Beasley, who had joined the boys' party at Frank's urgent invitation.

"It will be a case of 'gone, but not forgotten,'" grinned Billy. "But seriously, fellows, this shows the necessity of starting as soon as possible. It means a race between us and old Luther Barr."

"And we mean to win it," put in Frank in a determined voice. "It will not take long to adjust the pontoons to the Golden Eagle's frames, and that done we are practically ready."

"Where do you intend to start from?" asked Billy.

"We were talking that over on our way up to the city," was Frank's reply. "My plan was to charter a large cabin motor-boat at some point on the Gulf coast -- say Galveston -- and then round the point of Florida and keep on east across the Caribbean. Once we have arrived on the outskirts of the Sargasso we can erect the Golden Eagle on her pontoons and make a flight for the galleon."

"A good idea," cried Billy, eagerly, "we ought to have no difficulty in getting a good boat at Galveston."

"I have one already," was Frank's astonishing reply. Frank loved to spring surprises.

"What?" shouted the amazed young reporter.

Frank drew out a telegram.

"I got this to-night in response to a wire I sent a yacht broker there some days ago," he said.

"Read it out, Frank," urged Billy.

"Have what you want in gasolene yacht, Bolo. Fifty feet over all, twenty-five horsepower engine, auxiliary sails and fine cabin. Will charter reasonably. Wire at once if you want her."

"Sounds good," commented Harry.

"So I thought," said Frank, "and as we've no time to lose, it would be a good idea to telegraph them to get her ready for sea at once. I will also instruct the agent to get a ship chandler to stock her with provisions for a cruise of two months."

Billy threw his hat in the air.

"Hurray for the BOY AVIATORS afloat!" he shouted.



Chapter XIV.

MR. "L. B.'s" DIRIGIBLE


The next morning Ben Stubbs arrived in Boston, and waiting till evening made his way to No. 46 Charlton Street. During the day he had had his whiskers shaved off which entirely altered his appearance.

The house bearing the number he sought was a five-story structure of gray stone, and had evidently once been a home of wealth; but the manufacturing district had long since encroached on the region and it now was the only residence remaining in the midst of monotonous blocks of houses of industry. In fact, at dusk -- the time at which Ben Stubbs paid his first visit to it -- the neighborhood was practically deserted, as the factory hands who worked there during the day had all gone home and they lived in another part of the city.

Ben "took his bearings," as he would have termed it, before he mounted the flight of steps leading to the front door of the house. He noticed that the windows were all shuttered, and to the casual observer it would have seemed that the house was unoccupied. The sailor's sharp eye, however, noticed that a cloud of smoke was proceeding from a chimney and that numerous electric wires were strung from the street poles into the house.

As he stood there gazing at it an old watchman, who had been sitting in a shanty in front of one of the factories, approached him.

"A gloomy-looking place that, eh?" said the garrulous old man, addressing Ben.

"Ay, ay, shipmate, you may well say that," was the reply, "a melancholer looking craft I never see. Do you know anything about the folks as lives there?"

"Very little," replied the old man in his quavering tones, "but that little I don't like. I've seen wagons drive up there with big carboys of acid on 'em, and sometimes in the night, when it's all still, I hear a great noise of hammering and strange lights gleam through the chinks of the shutters -- ah, there's something queer about it I can tell you. All's not right in that house."

"Hum," said Ben, for lack of anything better to say.

"And for the last week," went on the old man, "things has been queerer than ever. I don't like it, I tell you, when at midnight you see a great dark thing come flying off the roof with a gleaming eye on it and a buzzing voice like a big fly. I leave it to you if that ain't enough to scare any Christian, let alone an old man watching a factory in this lonesome part of town."

Ben agreed; but to tell the truth, his attention had been distracted by the old man's description of the night-terror he had seen. In the old sailor's mind there was little doubt that the object that had so scared the old watchman was the dirigible that Luther Barr had purchased and which the crafty old millionaire was trying out by night so as to avoid attracting any attention.

"Well," said Ben lightly, "I've got a little business in that there house, shipmate, and if so be as I finds out anything about what kind of folks they are, I'll let you know."

"Thank you," rejoined the old watchman earnestly, "I'm getting an old man to have such scares thrown into me -- it's really too bad."

Ben lightly ran up the steps, having nodded farewell to the old watchman, and the next minute pressed the electric bell. Somewhere in the far interior of the gloomy mansion he could hear the tinkle of the answering summons. The sailor, as he waited for the door to open on he knew not what, reached back with his weather-beaten hand to his hip pocket. He nodded with satisfaction as his fingers encountered the butt of a revolver of heavy caliber.

"All right, old bark-and-bite," muttered Ben to himself, "I feel better now we've shaken hands."

At that moment there came a great clanking from inside the door, as if heavy bolts and chains were being removed, and the next instant the portal swung open and Ben found himself face to face with a thickset man, who seemed, by his complexion and general appearance, to be of Spanish origin. His heavy eyebrows and thin, cruel lips gave him a singularly sinister appearance.

"What do you wish?" he demanded of Ben, with a foreign accent that agreed with his general makeup.

"Is Mr. L. B. at home?" inquired Ben, "'cos if he is, I want to see him particular. You see, I'm in need of a job and -- "

"Oh" said the other, with what seemed to be relief in his tones, "you come in answer to the advertisement. Come in. I am glad you have called. We were sadly in need of a hand, and you seem stout and strong enough for any work we may call on you to do."

"That's as it may be," cautiously replied Ben. "I ain't delicate exactly, but I'd like to know just what my dooties are to be, afore I signs on for this cruise."

By this time the man with the heavy eyebrows had ushered Ben into a parlor furnished with what had once been great splendor; but now the hangings were faded, the furniture warped and aged and over all hung a musty aroma as if the place had been closed for ages.

"Sit down," ordered Ben's guide, "now then, first, where do you come from?"

"Right here in Boston," rejoined Ben, "that is, when I'm at home; but Hank Hardtack don't get a shore cruise very often. I follow the sea, guv'ner, from year's end to year's end mostly; but tiring of the foc'sle I thought I'd like a land job for a spell, and seeing your 'ad' in a New York paper, I happened to get a hold of, I made bold to call."

"What did you say your name was?" inquired the other.

"Hardtack -- Mr. Hank Hardtack, sometimes called 'Skilly,'" said the unblushing Ben. "I'm a homely craft, but seaworthy, guv'ner."

"So I see," said the other, with a slight smile. "Well, Mr. Luther Barr, who is L. B., is not at home now. In fact, he is in New York; but I venture to say that you will suit him down to the ground."

Ben could scarcely suppress a grin of delight at the mention of old Barr's name. He was then on the right track. How lucky that the crafty old wolf was in New York, he thought.

"As for your duties," went on the other, "they will be novel to you. I do not suppose you are at all acquainted with air-craft?"

Ben shook his head, inwardly thinking, "If you knew what I know, my hearty."

"Well, this job is to help run a dirigible balloon," went on the other. "We advertised for a sailor so that we would be sure of getting a man who would not lose his head at a height and who would be an all round handy man. We have an engineer and a pilot and Mr. Barnes and myself at present complete the crew. If you will follow me I will show you the vessel."

Hardly able to conceal his satisfaction, Ben, with all the indifference he could assume, replied that he would be very glad to see the air-ship, and followed his guide to the roof of the house. The factories about them were mostly two - and three-story structures, so that the roof of the deserted mansion formed a fine workshop for those who did not want their movements spied upon or overlooked.

Housed under a protecting shed of canvas, stretched in a wooden framework, was a large dirigible balloon, its partially filled bag of yellow silk wrinkled and lopsided under its network of stout cord. Suspended below the bag was a framework, in the center of which was built a pilot house with a short "deckhouse," so to speak, extended astern of it. A runway extended fore and aft on the platform and was railed, clearly indicating its purpose as a sort of promenade deck, or perhaps a navigating bridge.

Ben's guide beckoned to the amazed adventurer to follow, and led the way through a small door, kept closed with a powerful spring, into what seemed to be the engine-room of the craft.

"A hundred horsepower here," said the black-browed man, touching the glittering cylinder tops of the gasolene engine. "The tanks are carried below and have a large capacity. We have a cruising radius of more than fifteen hundred miles on one filling."

Ben nodded and his guide, after indicating the various gauges, height and speed indicators and other instruments in the engine-room, led the way through another spring-closed door into a comfortably fitted up main cabin. Touching a switch he flooded the cabin with a soft light that glowed from a ground glass shade affixed to the engine-room bulkhead. The place was decorated in white and gold, and divans, covered with crimson velvet cushions, extended along each side of the chamber. In the center was a swinging table, and above it, in neat racks, were numerous charts and mathematical instruments, each in its own place. Six large portholes, three on a side, admitted daylight when the ship was out of the shed, and there was a window of plate glass in the floor, through which occupants of the cabin could gaze down to the landscape below if so inclined. Small staterooms opened off it.

The next part of the ship to be visited was the pilot-house, which was reached by a short flight of steps from the main cabin. In this part of Luther Barr's dirigible were placed the steering wheel, engine controls and wind and weather gauges. Large portholes, that could be opened if required, gave a view out on every side, and through two affixed at the rear of the pilot-house, which was raised about three feet above the cabin roof, it was possible to command a view of the stern of the ship. From the pilot-house, doors opened on to the navigating deck. Ben's attention was caught by an object shrouded in heavy tarpaulin on the deck immediately forward of the pilot-house.

"A rapid-firing gun," explained his guide, "you see we are going on a cruise that may be dangerous and so we are going armed. In the cabin, beneath the divans, are lockers in which ammunition and rifles are kept."

"Well, shipmate, I don't want to go on no cruise that threatens danger," cried Ben, hoping in this way to elicit something as to the nature of Barr's plans, but he was unsuccessful. The other merely shrugged his shoulders and replied:

"I did not say there WAS danger. There is none in fact -- to us that is, but -- "

He paused and checked himself as if he realized he was saying too much, nor could Ben elicit anything more from him.

"Well, you've got a good-looking ship here," was Ben's next remark, "but are you sure she can fly?"

"Fly!" indignantly cried the other, "like a seagull, man. We have tested her several nights from this roof. She is as safe as a street car. This wonderful craft, senor, is my invention -- mine, the child of the brain of Alfredo Constantio."

He struck an attitude.

"Well, Mr. Constantio, you're all right," replied Ben," and now if you'll excuse me I'll just go round to my sumptuous apartments and get my ditty bag."

"Very well, I will come with you," rejoined Constantio, "you see, you have seen the secrets of the ship now, and I don't want you out of my sight till we are ready to sail on our venture."

This was an unexpected complication.

Ben had figured on getting out of the house on the excuse of packing his things and then taking a train to New York and apprising his young friends of his discoveries. Senor Constantio, it seemed, was too crafty for this, however.

"Well," thought Ben, "there is no help for it. I shall have to trust to luck to give him the slip I suppose."

Thus hoping the old sailor sallied forth with the redoubtable Don Constantio, who, for his part, was very garrulous and confided to Ben that he had sold his invention to Luther Barr for a big price, because the old millionaire needed a good dirigible in a hurry.

"But," he went on, "while I have a great ship, my main secret is in the gas. I have discovered a powder which can be easily carried and which when mixed with the proper ingredients forms the pure hydrogen gas. I make it in cylinders that will withstand a pressure of two thousand pounds. Hydrogen cylinders weigh, it is true, three hundred pounds each, they are of such enormous thickness, and are made of special steel -- like a gun, but, Senor Hardtack, my powder occupies so little space that I can carry enough for several inflations in receptacles which combined do not weigh more than one hundred and fifty pounds."

Talking thus the black-browed inventor walked beside Ben, occasionally asking:

"How much further, Senor Hardtack, to your lodgings?"

"Not much further now," Ben always replied, wondering when an opportunity would present itself to escape. Suddenly one came.

As they turned a corner a small boy with a bundle of papers almost ran into them, and thrusting his papers up almost in Senor Constantio's face, shouted:

"Wuxtry, wuxtry!" with deafening lung power.

All at once he darted off, and at the same moment the inventor cried:

"My watch! he has taken my watch! While he thrust his papers in my face he stole my watch!"

Shouting "Stop thief" at the top of his voice he raced off in the direction the newsboy had run, and Ben lost no time in taking to his heels in the opposite direction.

After doubling round several corners and then doubling on his own trail round another block he felt reasonably secure he had given the inventor the slip and, hailing a cab, was driven to the station. He was fortunate in securing a train to New York without having to wait more than five minutes, and late that night the Chester boys and the others of their party were in full possession of the details of the air-ship in which Luther Barr meant to overreach them if it lay within his power.



Chapter XV.

Off For The Sargasso.


The knowledge that Luther Barr's air-ship was so nearly ready to start on the expedition which Sanborn's treachery had suggested to the old millionaire, acted as a spur to the boys in making their final arrangements. By starting from Galveston itself they saved the necessity of laying in a large stock of supplies in New York, so that when two days later "good-byes" having been said and last parental warnings issued -- their only equipment beside their personal belongings were the boxes containing the sections of the Golden Eagle and the pontoons. The coverings had not been removed from the aeroplane's surfaces, but they had been packed, covered as they were. There was a reason for this, as lacing on the coverings at sea, even with the additional stability the boys hoped to secure by the use of the pontoons, would have been a tedious or even perhaps an impossible task. The wings, therefore, which joined at the center of the aeroplane, above the chassis, were packed in four sections measuring twenty-eight feet each. These sections Frank planned to carry in the cabin of the Bolo where they would be out of harm's way.

Five days later the adventurers reached the flat, uninteresting city of Galveston and lost no time in making immediate preparations for a start. Frank found that the agent had followed his instructions to the letter, and the galley shelves of the Bolo were filled with small articles to be used in cooking, and that flour bins, sugar and other receptacles had been well stocked. Besides all this there was a plentiful supply of such staples as beans, onions, potatoes, bacon, coffee, tea and a big stock of canned meats and vegetables. Their weapons were the boys' own armory, and Harry put in the best part of a day constructing neat racks in the cabin, which, when the various rifles and shotguns were hung in place, gave the little chamber a very businesslike appearance. The cabin was twenty-nine feet long, and the wings of the Golden Eagle were therefore a snug fit when suspended on slings from the cabin roof. The aeroplane engine was also placed in the cabin. The framework and other less perishable parts of the Golden Eagle, as well as the pontoons, were placed outside on the cabin roof, securely lashed down and covered with waterproof tarpaulin.

In the space under the cabin floor was stored an extra heavy anchor for use in emergency, in addition to the two fifty-pound mud-hooks the Bolo regularly carried. The boys noted with satisfaction that the booms on which the Bolo spread her auxiliary sails were lengthy affairs and would readily lend themselves to use as derricks when the time came to hoist the various parts on the Golden Eagle overboard into the floating erection base. The Bolo also carried a twelve-foot, high-sided dory, almost as seaworthy, despite her diminutive size, as the larger vessel. Under the cockpit seats were reserve tanks for gasolene and water, and beneath the cabin floor and in the bow were additional receptacles for fuel. Besides this supply the boys laid in a stock of five-gallon cans of gasolene, which were distributed wherever they would fit in on the little craft; some even being lashed on deck alongside the cabin.

The transportation of so much inflammable matter naturally called for the greatest caution, and, much to the disappointment of Ben Stubbs, who had insisted on joining the expedition, and Bluewater Bill, Frank absolutely forbade smoking aboard the craft. Nor was anybody allowed to carry matches. The only lucifers aboard were locked in the galley under Frank's sole charge. However, they all agreed that no precautions could be too stringent on a craft so laden with inflammables and explosives as was the Bolo.

The night before they were to sail, the boys slept on board. The Bolo's cabin was equipped with folding Pullman berths and also with transoms. Each berth held two, and the transoms accommodated the same number, so that eight could sleep comfortably aboard the little craft. Early the next morning, while the appetizing aroma of coffee and frizzling bacon filled the cabin from Ben's galley, a youthful news peddler wandered on to the dock and took up his place with other curious persons; for the equipping of the Bolo had made quite a stir among the water-front loungers of Galveston. The lad insisted on throwing a paper on board for "good luck," he said. Frank, who was out in the cockpit at the time re-stowing some cases of gasolene, threw the boy a coin and thought no more of the paper till, as they were discussing Ben's breakfast, he idly glanced over its front page.

"Mysterious Air-ship," was the heading that instantly caught his eye and caused him to set down his cup of coffee untasted. Reading the article he found even more matter to hold his attention. The item was dated Miami, Fla., and read as follows:

"Much curiosity has been excited here by the sudden appearance of a tent housing a huge air-ship. The aerial camp is located at a point several miles south of town. The tent is guarded by men armed with shotguns and no one is allowed to approach anywhere near it. The air-ship, however, has been seen at night taking flights seaward. So far, no explanation of the object of the air-ship's presence here has been vouchsafed by those interested in it. They are all strangers here and will not impart any information."

A few paragraphs further down another Miami despatch caught the eye. It was to the effect that "the Brigand, the yacht of Luther Barr, the New York and Newport millionaire, arrived here yesterday and anchored off shore. Mr. Barr is not a guest of any of our hotels, but is making his home aboard his palatial craft."

"Well, here's some news as is news," laughed Frank, handing the paper to the others. "It just goes to show that we are not any too previous in making a start. Now, if everybody's finished breakfast, I propose that we send our good-bye letters ashore and cast off for the Sargasso."

"The sooner the better," cried Harry, diving into his locker for a letter he had written the night before. The others also had their correspondence ready, so no time was lost in entrusting the mail to the same gamin who had thrown the paper on board and making final preparations for the start.

With the exception of the loafers on the wharf there was no one to look on, as the Bolo, with the Stars and Stripes bravely flying from her staff astern and the Golden Eagle's pennant attached to her bow, chugged out of the harbor and into the open Gulf.

"Off at last!" shouted Billy Barnes, from his seat on the top of the piled up cabin roof, as the shores of Galveston rapidly receded and finally became a mere blot. "If we don't have some dandy adventures before we get back call me a doodle bug."

All that day and the next the Bolo forged steadily onward over the purple waters of the Gulf. The boys set regular watches and things moved aboard the little craft man-of-war fashion from the start. Every night at sundown "colors" were made, that is, the flags were hauled down and the sunset gun fired with the tiny saluting cannon the little craft boasted. Then the red and green side-lights and the white bow-light were set in position. After supper in the cockpit under the awning -- for it was far too warm to eat in the cabin -- there would be songs and stories by Ben Stubbs and Bluewater Bill, who had been appointed navigating officer and first mate respectively, of the good ship Bolo.

On the morning of the second day out the boys were treated to a rare sea spectacle. There was a fair seaway, and the Bolo was plunging along through it as if she enjoyed it as much as the boys, when a cry from Billy, who had the lookout, aroused them all.

"Sail ho! -- or rather, steamer ho!" hailed the amateur A. B.

"Where away?" thundered Bluewater Bill, who had the wheel, in true nautical style.

Billy was up a stump. What to reply he had no idea.

"It's off our bow," he hailed back; "but I don't know if you call it port or starboard."

Steadying himself by one of the foremast stays, Ben Stubbs sprang on to the cabin roof.

"Steamer on the port bow," he hailed, "looks like a Mallory liner."

And a Mallory liner it was.

As the boys drew nearer they gazed entranced at the fine spectacle the huge black hull made as she rushed through the rolling Gulf waters, her bow piling up a huge creamy wave as she cut her way. Her passengers lined her rail and waved madly at the tiny Bolo, rolling and plunging about in the waves that did not even rock the big liner. The boys for their part waved with all their might and Billy blew a blast on the foghorn.

"Aft there -- aft and dip your colors!" shouted Bluewater Bill.

Ben Stubbs scrambled to the stern and dipped the flag again and again as the big black craft rushed on, without, however, noticing the courtesy of the small boat. As she sped by the boys spied her name, Brazos, in big gilt letters on her stern.

"I wish we could go as fast as that," remarked Billy, as the big steamer rapidly dwindled and finally passed out of sight, leaving only a black pall of smoke to show that she had passed.

"We are doing well enough," remarked Bluewater Bill, gazing back at the Bolo's wake.

"What are we making, do you judge?" asked Frank.

"Ten knots easily," replied the sailor, squinting at the white line of foam astern.

"Pretty good for this little craft," remarked Ben Stubbs, "though you can't always judge by the wake. I remember when I was on the old Dolphin brigantine in the China Sea. One morning we all of a sudden noticed a most termendous wake ahind us. It was running like a mill-race. I peeked over the side and it was fair whooping along.

"Why, we must be going twenty miles an hour," says the skipper; "queer we can't feel any motion."

"Well, boys, to make a long story short, we was that way for three days and never moved a foot. You see, it was one of them queer currents, and the pace it streaked by made it look as though we was going ahead when, shiver my top-gallants, if we wasn't standing still, the wind being just strong enough to keep us going forward at the same pace the current drew us back -- what do you think of that?"

The boys didn't know what to think, and said so, but Bluewater Bill winked at them with a portentous eye and merely said:

"That reminds me, shipmate, of what happened when I was aboard the Flying Scud off Madagascar. If so be you don't mind, I'll spin you the yarn.

"One night it comes on to blow most tremenjous, and by morning we finds we was in one of them circular storms. Wall, mates, the wind blew all around us, but we didn't move at all. At eight bells the pig-pen fetched loose and them porkers got caught in the wind and whisked off the deck by the hurricane. As I've said, it was a circular storm and them poor porkers jest kep a goin' roun' and roun' and roun' the ship all that day. It was night afore the wind died down, and then, by a freak, it reversed and blew 'em all back again; but they was so dizzy that for a week they ran round the deck in circles and when we wanted pork it was no trick at all to catch a hog. All you had to do was to find out how he was revolving and then get in his way, -- what do you think of that?"

"That you are exaggerating, William," said Ben, in a tone of reproof.

"Wall, if wind and tide can hold a ship still; wind alone can give a bunch of hogs a merry-go-round, can't it?" rejoined Bill.

"It can, but it don't," was Ben's reply.

"Ah, but you never sailed off the coast of Madagascar, did yer?" demanded Bill.

"No, I can't say as I ever did," replied Ben.

"Wall, then," triumphantly cried Bill, "you don't know what a pesky wind that Madagascar one is."

How long this argument, which the boys listened to with some amusement, might have gone on is hard to say, probably all night, if Ben had not suddenly cut it short by springing to his feet with an exclamation:

"Come on, shipmates!" he exclaimed, "stop gamming and get a move on and snug down this yer awning if you don't want to lose it. Billy, you open the self-baling scuppers in the cockpit, my lad, and Lathrop and Harry, you get out forward and double lash all that top hamper."

"Why, Ben, what's the matter?" asked Frank, "the sea is just as smooth as it has been all day and the sun is shining."

"Well, it won't be in a half an hour," replied the old salt, pointing southward. "See that cloud?"

He indicated a tiny purplish bit of vapor floating against the distant blue like an argosy. "There's wind in that cloud or my name's not Ben Stubbs," he concluded.

Bluewater Bill nodded his assent.

"Mor'n a capful, too," he said grimly.

Even as the two old salts exchanged glances the cloud seemed to grow, as if by magic, and by the time the awning was snugged home and lashed and everything had been hauled taut in preparation for the blow, the whole heavens were overcast with a sullen gray veil, and the sea began to rise with a low moaning sound that presaged what Ben Stubbs termed "a bad blow."



Chapter XVI.

In Dire Peril.


"Get that thar dory aboard," was Ben's next order to the boys, who began to feel quite tired, what with their exertions and the oppressive weather. As he spoke, a livid streak of lightning tore across the overcast sky, followed by a long roll of thunder that made the boat vibrate.

"Come on, bear a hand, there's no time to lose," he insisted, "tumble aft there -- tumble aft."

It was quite a task to get the dory aboard, even with the aid of the Bolo's stern davits. The sea was rising every minute and even when they had the "falls," as they are called, secured to the little dinghy, she threatened to stave either herself or the Bolo while she was being hoisted and lashed. At last, however, even that task was accomplished and the boys began to anticipate a rest. But the indefatigable Ben would not let them loaf, even then.

"I want her to set more by the stern," he said, "shift those gasolene cans aft here, and we will trim her down in good shape."

"You see," he explained to Frank, "when the sea gets real high she's going to lift her propeller out of the water if she isn't well down by the stern, and that would make the engine 'race,' and that we don't want it to do, as it is likely to put it out of business."

The boy nodded.

"I suppose it's a good thing to have all the freeboard at the bow you can, also," he said.

"That's the idea," was Ben's reply.

And now the storm was upon them in its full fury.

The wind seemed like a wild beast filled with furious instincts and bent on the destruction of the Bolo. Half buried in the giant waves that the sudden hurricane whipped up, the little craft bravely struggled along. Bluewater Bill kept her nose pointed right into the big combers.

Her engine was cut down to half and then a quarter speed, but she was rolling so badly that Ben Stubbs was considering the advisability of putting a rag of sail on her to steady her. She wallowed in the big seas like an empty bottle, and every lurch threatened to start some of her seams.

While not exactly scared, the boys were certainly worried.

"Do you think she'll last out?" asked Billy of Ben, poking his head out of the cabin companion -- for all the boys but Frank had been ordered below by Ben that there might be plenty of room for working the Bolo in case of a sudden emergency.

"Last out?" roared Ben, the wind whipping the words from his lips as fast as he framed them, "why of course she will, my boy. I've seen as bad seas as this lived out by a craft no bigger than our dory."

But although Ben spoke so confidently he was, none the less, worried. As long as the engine kept at its work he knew they were all right, but, like most old "tar hands," he mistrusted gasolene "contraptions," as he called them, and in this instance his mistrust seemed well founded, for, as he stood in the after part of the cockpit looking anxiously astern at the mountainous green combers that raced after the Bolo, as if determined to drag her down to "Davy Jones' locker," the old sailor noticed something peculiar about the motion of the boat.

She seemed to be falling off into the trough of the waves.

"Keep her up!" yelled Ben to Bluewater Bill, who sat grimly at the wheel affixed to the cabin bulkhead.

"I can't!" roared back Bill against the fury of the wind.

"What's the matter?"

"The engine's broke down, I guess; anyhow, she don't answer her helm, I can't get steerageway on her."

As he spoke a huge sea crashed broadside on against the Bolo, shaking her as an angry mother shakes a child, and sending a great volume of green water tumbling aboard.

"We've got to do something and do it quick or we'll be swamped," thought Ben to himself.

He banged on the top of the closed companion slide.

It was drawn back from inside and Harry's head appeared.

"Did we strike anything, Ben?" he asked.

"No, youngster, but a wave struck us and that's near as bad. What's the matter with the engine?"

"I don't know," answered the boy, "I'm trying to fix it, but the boat's rolling so that I can't seem to get at anything. I'm doing the best I can."

"Well, fix it as quick as you can," was Ben's reply.

"Why -- are we in danger?" demanded Harry, struck by Ben's anxious tone.

"Well, I don't want to say that YET, but we've got to get out of the trough of the sea or -- "

A huge wave came toppling aboard, drenching the speaker from top to toe, and almost washing him overboard. A brass handhold saved him. The cockpit was instantly flooded, but thanks to the patent self-baling scuppers, she cleared herself without much water getting into the cabin.

But it had been a narrow escape for all three of the adventurers in the open part of the boat. As the mass of water struck him, Frank had grabbed an awning stanchion, more from instinct than anything else, and thus saved himself from being swept overboard.

Bill had laid hold of the wheel, and although he was lifted from the helmsman's seat and forcibly banged down again, he was safe.

"We've got to rig a sea anchor," declared Ben, "but in the first place, Frank, get below and empty your canvas clothes bags, stuff 'em with oakum and pour all the lubricating oil you can spare in on top of the oakum and then make a lot of holes in the side with your knife."

Frank did not ask any questions, although he had no idea what the old sailor meant to do. He entered the cabin, through the slide, and was soon at work on his assigned task, although the motion of the Bolo, which seemed first to stand on her bow and then on her stern and varied this with a plunge sideways till it seemed as if she was going to the bottom, made its accomplishment difficult.

In the meantime, Ben had taken the oars and spare spar out of the dory and lashed them all together with a long rope. Carrying this bundle forward he attached it to a line and dropped it overboard. The Bolo instantly began to drift away from it as it seemed. Soon there was a distance of fifty feet or more between the struggling vessel's bow and this improvised "sea-anchor." Ben made the line fast to a Samson post and crawled aft along the cabin roof; pausing several times when an extra hard blast of wind made it dangerous to proceed.

Primitive as the device was, it answered.

The Bolo's head was drawn round toward the wind by this "drag," as sailors call it, and she no longer shipped cross seas. A few minutes later, Frank had two of the oil bags ordered by Ben ready. Once more the sailor crawled on to the plunging bow and made one of the devices fast on either side.

To Frank's amazement the seas at once began to subside -- that is, in the immediate vicinity of the Bolo.

"That's what oil will do," commented Ben, gazing about him with a satisfied look. "It spreads a thin scum on the waves and prevents them breaking. Now we shall do nicely for awhile, though now the worst is about over, I don't mind admitting that I did think once or twice that we were bound for Davy Jones' locker."

After a lot of searching the cause of the engine's sudden stoppage was located. One of the bearings had become so heated in the struggle against the storm that the machine had ceased working. The cause was evidently that the violent "tumblefication" that the Bolo had gone through had hindered the proper operation of the force-feed lubrication. After giving the bearing time to cool off, Frank affixed a regular grease cup to it and no difficulty was then experienced in starting up the engine once more.

"No use in laying to," said Ben, after he had been consulted as to the advisability of going ahead. "The blow's as bad now as it will get, and we are being driven back every minute we aren't going forward. There's no such thing at sea as standing still."

The drag was accordingly hauled aboard, at no small risk; but the oil bags were left to drip their calming lubricant alongside. This done, the Bolo was put on her course again and slowly forced her way through and over the angry waves that seemed determined to prevent her progress. Owing to the heavy clouds that overhung the sky, ever and anon ripped open by a lightning flash, it grew dark at four o'clock, or eight bells, as Ben called it, and Bluewater Bill was sent forward with the lights. But they had hardly been placed in position when a huge sea swept the Bolo from stem to stern, extinguishing them instantly.

"No use putting out any more," said Ben, "we must trust to luck not to run across any vessels. I don't think that we are in the steamer track anyway."

But how wrong Ben's words were they all realized when, at about midnight, Harry, who had the wheel, thundered on the cabin top and yelled at the top of his voice:

"All hands on deck."

They tumbled out without waiting to don any more clothes than they had turned in with. The cause of the boy's sudden summons was at once plain. Not half a mile from them were the red and green lights of an approaching steamer, and judging from the height they were out above the water, the vessel was a big one.

"She's headed right for us," shouted Harry.

"That's right, we can see both lights," exclaimed Frank.

"Put your wheel over," yelled Ben.

"I can't, something's the matter with it," rejoined Harry, as the Bolo rose on the crest of another big wave and they saw the steamer driving toward them right in their path.

"Tiller rope's broken," pronounced Frank after a brief examination.

"No time to fix it up now," announced Ben, "cut out the engine. We must trust to the wind to drift us off the steamer's course."

Bluewater Bill dived into the cabin for the lantern, but the furious wind snuffed out the light in a second.

And all the time the big steamer was driving closer and closer -- straight for the helpless motor-boat.

"The signal gun," suddenly shouted Frank. This was a small saluting cannon fixed to the after end of the cabin roof.

Quick as thought Billy and Lathrop ripped off the waterproof cover and Frank jerked the lanyard. Luckily the gun had been loaded with the idea of firing salutes as they left Galveston, but the idea had been forgotten in the excitement.

"Bang!"

Even above the storm the report sounded loudly, and the flash at least was visible.

Would the steamer notice their signal?

There was a moment of agonizing suspense -- in which the boys saw death at sea in its ugliest form loom up in front of them.

"A moment of agonizing suspense."

The towering black bows seemed to be imminent above the Bolo when there was a sudden flashing of lights on the lofty foredeck, and a voice hailed through the night:

"Motor-boat ahoy!"

The adventurers shouted back at the top of their lungs.

Suddenly the black form of the great vessel, pierced by scores of lighted portholes, seemed to glide away from the Bolo, and, with a rush and roar as the waves smashed against her lofty steel sides, the big vessel raced by.

Gazing far above them the boys could see a uniformed figure on the bridge shouting questions through a megaphone. He was, no doubt, inquiring what sort of lunatics they were whom he had so narrowly escaped sending to the bottom.

"A miss is as good as a mile," was Ben's comment when they all breathed more freely, "but no more misses like that, thank you."



Chapter XVII.

Billy's Narrow Escape.


By daybreak the fury of the hurricane had blown itself out and the sun rose on a sea that while still storm-tossed was moderate compared to the terrific upheaval of the preceding night; by noon, in fact, so suddenly did the wind drop, the Bolo was nosing her way along through what seemed a glittering, sunlit desert of almost perfectly smooth water.

"Let's get the lines out and troll; we might catch a shark," was Billy's sudden suggestion.

"Right you are," assented Bluewater Bill. "There's lots of them in these waters -- savage critters, too. It's a charity to catch them."

Suddenly he broke into song:

"Oh, sharks have teeth and whales have tails, Cows have horns and so have snails, But of all the fish in the ocean blue The very worst is the green gaboo."

"What on earth is a gaboo?" demanded Frank, who with the others was lolling about the cockpit under the awning, which had been re-rigged.

"Why," said Bill, scratching his head, "a gaboo is -- well now, let's see -- ah, yes, a gaboo is a good rhyme for blue."

"If you do anything like that again we shall have to hold a court-martial and have you thrown overboard to feed your gaboos," laughed Frank.

"Well, that's what you call poetic license," protested Bill.

"From now on, yours is revoked," declared Frank, "but, seriously, Bill, do you know anything about shark fishing?"

"Do I?" demanded the old shellback. "Well, when I was in these very waters in the Scaramouch we caught one with a bit of pork that weighed -- the shark, I mean, not the pork -- I forget just what, and wouldn't say, for fear you might think I was prevastigating, but it was twenty-four foot long."

"Oh, come, Bill, not twenty-four," protested Harry.

"That's what it was," stoutly asserted Bill, rummaging in a locker for a shark-hook.

"Why, the biggest shark recorded is only eighteen feet in length," protested Billy.

"Don't know nothing 'bout records, Master Billy, but I do know that this yar varmint was twenty-four."

"Did you measure him?" asked Frank.

"Not much," snorted Bill, "he'd have measured us, and we'd have soon measured our length if we'd tried. But now if any one has a bit of fat pork, I wouldn't be a bit surprised but we can fish up one of them finny monsters."

Accordingly a bit of pork was secured from the galley stores and placed on the shark-hook, a huge affair as big as the hook used to hang meat on in butcher shops. To its hank was shackled a bit of stout chain, about two feet long. To this, Bill affixed a stout rope, and let the line trail out astern about fifty feet.

"Now, Billy Barnes, since you was so skeptical, you hold the line, and, when you feel a tug, take a turn around the cleat here or he'll yank you overboard."

"Yank me overboard," cried Billy, incredulously. "Oh, get out, Bill! What do you think I am -- an old woman?"

Bill said nothing, but cut himself a big bit of chewing tobacco and stuffed it into his face. Frank would not have allowed such a habit on the Bolo, but he felt as he had deprived the old sailors of their pipes, he could not cut off every luxury, so Bill was allowed to chew in quiet content.

"Isn't this bully, just going right ahead like this after all the terrible things that happened in the night!" exclaimed Harry, as the Bolo cut along through the placid waters.

"Great," agreed Frank, "and yet I am glad in one way we ran into that blow. Ben Stubbs assured me that we were not likely to get anything worse in these latitudes, and the Bolo stood up to it as if she had been a clipper."

"Yes; she certainly is a fine little ship," agreed the others.

All at once there came a yell from Billy Barnes.

The startled boys look up just in time to see him yanked bodily out of the cockpit, over the counter and into the sea. To their horror, when he struck the water he vanished; only to reappear a few seconds later, however, with his head above the surface, and moving through the water away from the boat at a terrific rate.

"Good heavens, what has happened!" exclaimed Frank, horror-struck at the scene. The others were white and too unnerved at the sudden accident to speak.

Only Bill and Ben Stubbs kept their heads.

"Let go of the rope," they bellowed.

Billy gave a despairing look back and then was rushed onward through the water at a greater speed than ever.

"What is it -- what has happened?" repeated Frank.

"Matter enough," was Ben's rejoinder, "he has evidently got that shark line entangled in his clothing and when the monster gave a pull at the hook it yanked him overboard."

"What are we to do?" cried Harry.

"Put on full speed and go about," cried Ben, suiting the action to the word.

At top speed the Bolo rushed through the water after poor Billy, who was still being borne along at a terrific rate by the hooked shark.

"Get ready to shoot the shark when he comes up," yelled Ben.

"But will he come up?" asked Frank.

"He's got to," was Ben's brief reply, "with that hook in him, he's as good as dead. He won't keep under much longer now."

"Hold up, Billy," shouted the boys to their imperiled companion, but the young reporter was too far gone and too choked with the water he had swallowed in trying to keep his head above water to reply.

Frank dived into the cabin and reappeared with a heavy rifle. He slipped into it a cartridge carrying an explosive bullet. Trembling with eagerness, he took up his position on the bow of the speeding Bolo, anxiously scanning the waters ahead for any sign of the shark's reappearance.

Suddenly an ugly black fin loomed up, cutting through the water like the conning tower of a submarine.

"Crack!"

The explosive bullet sped from the rifle, but either Frank's aim was bad from nervousness or the powder charge was too heavy, the ball struck the water fully a foot from the racing creature.

"Try again," said Ben consolingly, "I'll slow down the boat."

Luckily the shark had not dived and his fin still afforded a good mark. It was moving so rapidly, however, that it was going to be a difficult matter to hit the large body that moved beneath it.

Once more Frank rested the rifle and drew a careful sight on the fin. He aimed a little ahead of it this time, with the result that there was a terrific disturbance of the waters as the bullet sped home and the wounded creature convulsed with the pain.

"Another," cried Ben; "good work."

Before Frank could fit another cartridge -- his rifle was a single-chambered one -- the shark had dived, leaving only a crimsoned pool on the smooth surface to bear testimony that he was wounded.

The boys uttered a groan of dismay as they saw the thrashing form vanish and a second later saw Billy flash out of view.

It seemed impossible that their chum could survive being dragged to the depths of the sea.

The shark, however, did not remain down long. It soon reappeared on the surface, with Billy in tow, still thrashing the water into crimson fountains with its fins and tail. Sometimes it leaped clear out of the water in its agony.

"Bang!"

Another bullet sped from Frank's rifle, and this time the maddened animal seemed to sense from whence came the attack, for it suddenly charged furiously at the motor-boat.

Quick as thought, Ben Stubbs, who had seen its coming, leaned over the side and with his seaman's knife in hand waited the moment when it dived under the boat.

As it did so he gave a quick downward slash.

The rope that seemed to be pulling Billy to his doom severed under the blade with a crack. The next minute the young reporter was able to swim feebly to the side of the Bolo.

Badly weakened and unnerved by his experience he was pulled on board and laid on a bunk in the cabin, where restoratives were administered to him.

It was late in the evening before he was himself again, and he then explained how he had been idly twisting the line in and out of a hook on his belt when there came a sudden tug. Before he knew what was happening he found himself rushing through the air and was then immersed. Fortunately, he was a good swimmer and kept his head or there might have been a more serious termination to his adventure.

"How big do you think that shark was, Billy Barnes?" Frank could not help asking him mischievously later in the evening.

"Oh, at least fifty feet," was the young reporter's reply, delivered in all seriousness.



Chapter XVIII.

Into The Sargasso.


The days slipped rapidly by until one fine morning, about a week after the events narrated in our last chapter, Ben Stubbs and Frank announced that their observations showed that they had doubled the southernmost cape of Florida (which had been the scene of some earlier thrilling adventures described in the second volume of this series, "The Boy Aviators on Secret Service"), and were now on a direct course for the mysterious region of the Sargasso Sea. For three days more they went steadily onward toward the rising sun, occasionally sighting a school of porpoises and scaring up whole legions of flying-fish with their sharp bow. The days were glorious -- a trifle hot, perhaps, but none of the boys minded that; and at night the stars, "as big as lamps," Billy declared they looked in the far southern latitude they had now reached, gave almost as much light as the moon in our chilly northern clime.

Every day, now, some one of the party took turns with the glasses under a small shelter erected with canvas and oars in the bow of the boat, and painstakingly scanned the horizon all about for any sight of the Brigand or Luther Barr's dirigible. But although once or twice they saw distant smoke, it always turned out to be a false alarm, and they hourly grew nearer the Sargasso without having made out a trace of the rival treasure-hunters. This fact put them all in high spirits, and each of the boys was already busy building lofty air-castles concerning what he would do with the treasure when he got it.

Much of the time, too, was occupied in clearing away the lashings of the planes and other apparatus and parts of the Golden Eagle attached to the cabin top forward, and discussing plans to erect her at sea. Frank perhaps was the only one of the party who fully realized the extreme difficulties that confronted them. However, the water was at present smooth as glass almost and seemed likely to remain so, if Bluewater Bill and Ben Stubbs were to be relied on as weather prophets.

"We are getting into the Doldrums now for fair," the old sailor announced one morning, pointing to the horizon, where a big, full-rigged vessel lay motionless in the breathless atmosphere. "That ship yonder may not get out of here for a week."

The chart now showed that they were far out of the track of all ships and on a lonely sea, so that the becalmed wind-jammer had probably been driven off her course in the same hurricane that menaced them and was likely to be a long time before she got out of her melancholy predicament.

One day Billy, who was leaning over the side, gave a sharp cry and drew back from the bulwarks.

"Come here, fellows -- ugh, what an awful-looking thing," he cried.

He pointed down at the sea. The others rushed to his side, and as they gazed into the water, which was as clear as crystal for a considerable depth, they felt like echoing his exclamation of repulsion.

Through the opalescent green overside could be seen a huge shadowy shape slowly settling downward, though from the depth two menacing eyes gleamed upward at the young watchers.

From every side of the creature's round, barrel-like body stretched huge arms covered with myriads of suckers. It looked like some evil spirit of the deep, and the boys estimated the length of its arms as at least twenty-five feet. It slowly waved the long feelers as if in farewell as it sank.

"That there's a devil-fish," proclaimed Ben, who had joined the group as the monster vanished, "some calls 'em octopus, but devil-fish is a better word, to my thinking."

The boys agreed with him.

"Surely that must have been an unusually large one, Ben?" exclaimed Frank, still with the feeling of repulsion with which the monster had imbued him strong upon him.

"A big one," echoed Ben. "Oh, no, not so extra big -- though he was sizeable, I'll admit. I've never seen such things myself, but I've heard crews of whalers tell of having been attacked by one of them critters, and sometimes they come back to the ship several men short. Them devil-fish are as ferocious as tigers and many's the poor sponge-diver they have gobbled up."

"Are there any in Sargasso Sea?" asked Billy, who seemed fascinated by the subject.

"I should say there are," put in Bluewater Bill, "and they grow there as big as elephants to a rabbit compared to this fellow. I don't doubt that some of them has lived there for hundreds of years, just like turtles. You see it's a fine place for feeding in, among all that seaweed, and when a ship gets in there and some poor chap goes crazy and jumps overboard, why, then they have an extra nice morsel to make 'em get fat and live long."

"Well, that's a nice prospect," said Billy. "I don't know but what I should prefer their room to their company."

"Same here," chorused the others.

Hour by hour now the seaweed began to get thicker. At first spread in isolated clumps and drifting prettily on the waves, it now became so dense as to be a menace.

"We'll have to turn back," announced Frank, "we can't afford to risk snarling up the propeller."

Accordingly the Bolo's head was put about and she was headed westward again. When the seaweed became so thin as to not offer any serious impediment to navigation, the Bolo's heavy anchor was dropped. Luckily she carried six hundred feet of one inch manila, but even this was hardly enough for the depth of water and had to be eked out with every bit of chain and cable that could be spared. Fortunately under the circumstances the Bolo carried a capstan which could be thrown into a gear with the engine, otherwise it would have been impossible for her to anchor in that depth of water, as her crew could never have got up the mud-hook by hand.

The weather promised to be clear, and a consultation of the barometer showed the instrument to be absolutely steady. After breakfast the next day, therefore, the work of erecting the Golden Eagle at sea was begun. First the pontoons were lowered over the side and the boys, working from the Bolo's dory, connected them by the rigid vanadium steel framework provided for that purpose, and which fitted into brackets bolted to the sides of the tubes themselves. When connected up they formed a sort of catamaran with a space of about twenty-five feet intervening between them. The chassis of the Golden Eagle, which was in sections, was then erected on a framework previously built and which was attached to the floating pontoons. This work occupied the greater part of two days, and impatient as Frank was to be off, he would not allow it to be slighted.

Erecting the Golden Eagle on the pontoons.

The wing-supporting framework rising from the chassis next engaged the young workmen's attention, each part being screwed to the other and fixed in place with nuts locked by a spring devised for the purpose by Frank. This was necessary, as the incessant jarring of an aeroplane's powerful engines will work loose the most tightly screwed on nut if it is not locked, and, of course, the working loose of even a minor part on an air craft is a serious proposition indeed. The vanadium steel quadrangle being in place, the next task was to adjust the wide stretching wing-frames of the big plane. This was a tough job, but the boys managed to overcome the tendency of the floating craft to capsize under the uneven burden by placing a raft made of boards from the cabin floor of the Bolo under each wing tip as it was screwed in place.

Of course, as soon as the frames were bolted on on either side and the weight was equalized, the aeroplane balanced on her pontoons and there was no need for artificial support. Getting the engine in place came next, and for a time seemed to promise serious difficulties; but this problem was finally solved by towing the pontoon-supported air-ship alongside the Bolo, and then using her main boom as a derrick. Billy Lathrop and Ben Stubbs hauled on a tackle attached to the engine, and thence to the end of the boom, and the heavy bit of machinery swung outboard without a hitch. It was then an easy matter to lower the motor on to its bed, which had been previously set in place. It didn't take long to bolt the engine down, lay the propeller bearings and set the main shaft and its twin connections in place and "true" them up. The last work, before adjusting the tanks for gasolene and oil, was to affix the propellers themselves. This was accomplished by erecting a rough stand on a platform of the cabin floor boards.

At last everything was pronounced ready for a start and the finishing touches were completed. Harry even lovingly touched up some scratched places about the frame with the contents of a paint-pot he had found in a locker.

It was at this point that Billy Barnes made a great discovery.

"But say, Frank," he exclaimed, "when you start the propellers she is going to fly even though you may want her to skim the water."

"Is she, mister know-it-all?" laughed Frank, "that shows all you know. See this pump?" He indicated a small centrifugal affair geared to the main shaft.

Billy nodded.

"Well," explained Frank, "when we want to keep the Golden Eagle down on earth, or rather sea, we fill the pontoon tanks to the necessary weight with this pump. When I want to rise, I pump the water out again."

"Gee, that's simple -- like all your ideas, Frank," said the admiring Billy.

"When are we going to try a trial trip?" demanded Lathrop.

"No reason why we shouldn't start right away on one," declared Frank, "if you fellows will bear a hand and fill up the gasolene, radiator and lubricator tanks."

The receptacles were quickly replenished with fuel, water and oil, and then the young aviators waited in a thrilling state of suspense while Frank tested the engine. After a few adjustments of the bed, the machine fell to work as evenly as it had at Mineola, and Frank announced that he was ready to cast off the lines that restrained the aeroplane to the side of the Bolo.

With Frank in the driving seat, Harry at the engines and the others grouped in the chassis the start was made.

At Harry's cry of "All right," the young leader started up the power and threw in the propeller clutch. A shout broke from the throats of the adventurers as the Golden Eagle began to move gracefully ahead in her new element.

Soon she began to gather speed and skim rapidly over the water as Frank increased the power; but he soon came to a stop.

"We'll have to put more water in the tanks," he announced, "she's trying to rise."

More water was quickly pumped in by running the machine pump on the engine with the propellers cut out. As the ship settled lower and lower, Frank watched her carefully.

"That's enough," he cried at length to Harry, who was filling the tanks. The pump was stopped and the automatic caps screwed on the valve opening of the pontoons.

Once more Frank threw in the propeller clutch and started up the engine. This time he ran the motor to high speed without the aeroplane rising more than enough to just gracefully skim the top of the water, like a drinking swallow.

"It's better than flying," enthusiastically cried Billy, hugging Lathrop in his excitement, "and you don't have to keep still either," he added.

"Wall, I've followed the water for a good many years, but I never went to sea on a water air-ship before," was Bluewater Bill's contribution.

"You like it, don't you?" demanded Billy, almost fiercely.

"You bet cher life, I do," was Bill's truthful, if vulgarly expressed, rejoinder.

On and on skimmed the Golden Eagle, seemingly as much at home on the surface of the gently heaving South Atlantic as in the upper air currents. So exhilarating was the sensation, that Frank kept the winged craft straight on, holding her to her course with the air rudder, which worked as well on the water as in the clouds.

Then swinging in a long circle, so that the strain on the long pontoons and their bracings would not be too great, he brought the ship about and headed her back for the Bolo, that lay, a tiny speck, on the far horizon, so far and fast had they traveled.

They came back at the same swift gait as they had taken the outward spin, and all voted this new form of water riding as enjoyable as anything they had ever experienced.

That night was spent in making final arrangements for the dash in search of the golden galleon. As the adventurers did not want to carry more weight than could be avoided, it was agreed that Bluewater Bill, Lathrop and Billy Barnes should remain on board the Bolo, while the Boy Aviators and Ben Stubbs started on the aerial search for the treasure ship.

From the latitude and longitude in which they were then anchored, Bluewater Bill judged that the galleon could not lie much more than two hundred miles to the southeast, out across the wilderness of Sargasso. Of course she might have shifted, but from an aeroplane it is possible to survey a tremendous area, and the young adventurers were confident of being able to pick up the prize.

Two more bitterly disappointed youths than Billy and Lathrop could hardly be imagined than they were when they learned that it would be impossible to take them on the scouting expedition. Frank, however, pointed out the utter foolishness of overloading the Golden Eagle -- more especially as they might have to bring back a heavy load. Being sensible boys, both Billy and Lathrop, therefore, soon got over their gloom.

Early the next morning, the final provisions were loaded into the aeroplane's chassis and her barometer, auto-clock and other instruments were adjusted by the Bolo's own and set in place. A careful note was then made of the Bolo's position and noted in Frank's pocket log-book. This done there only remained farewells to be said and these were necessarily brief.

It was ten-thirty o'clock on a cloudless, breathless morning that the Golden Eagle, with her pontoons empty, except for a supply of drinking water carried in the small reserve tanks at either end, shot into the air from the glassy sea.

Had any strangers been there to witness the start they could not have forborne to cheer at the sight the noble ship presented, soaring onward higher and higher, like a mighty sea-bird winging its way toward the unknown wastes of the mysterious Sargasso.



Chapter XIX.

The Rat Ship.


Strong of wing and sound of engine, the Golden Eagle sped on through the clear, warm air, the rushing sensation of her flight sending the wind in a cooling stream against the faces of the occupants of her chassis. From time to time, Ben scanned the vast flats of ocean below them with the glasses, but for some time nothing appeared in the field of the binoculars to warrant them in changing their course. Seen from above, the mucilaginous character imparted to the Sargasso Sea by the vast acreage of flowing seaweed, inextricably entangled, was clearly perceptible, even though from the deck of a ship the shallow layer of water that overlies the seaweed imparts the blue hue of open water to it and makes its treacherous character.

"It is like traveling over a water desert," declared Harry.

Far on the horizon were piled castellated cloud masses, seemingly immoveable and changing in tint as the day lengthened. On all the vast stretch beneath them was not a sign of life. It was an ocean solitude indeed.

Suddenly Ben who had the glasses in hand gave a shout.

"I make out something!" he exclaimed.

"Where?" cried Harry.

"About two points to the starboard -- change your course a bit, Frank, and we'll be bearing directly up for it."

Frank gave the wheel a slight twist and the Golden Eagle obediently swerved off to the right.

"What was it you saw?" asked Frank.

"A ship, though whether it is the one we are after is doubtful," was Ben's reply. "I reckon there are enough ships drifting about in this tangle to stock up a dockyard."

It was not long before all doubt on this point was resolved. The object Ben had sighted was indeed a ship.

As the Golden Eagle soared nearer they perceived that the vessel was a small steamer -- a craft of perhaps 2,000 tons, painted black with a yellow funnel. Except that no smoke curled upward from her stack and there was not a sign of life about her, she looked as if she might have just set out on a voyage. From her mainmast a flag hung, wrapped about the spar in the breathless atmosphere.

"I'm going to drop," announced Frank.

Instantly the Golden Eagle's steady, forward motion ceased and she began to descend with a rapidity that would have taken the breath away from less experienced aviators than her occupants.

It was like going down in a rapidly falling elevator.

She struck the water with a gentle gliding impact that hardly did more than ripple the surface, and a cheer broke from the boys as they perceived how perfectly the new pontoons worked.

"As easy as lighting on a feather-bed," was the way Harry put it.

The spot where they had settled was some little distance from the steamer, so, at a pace which would not raise the aeroplane from the water, Frank steered her toward the derelict.

Viewed even in the cheerful sunlight she was a melancholy object. Although at a distance it was not perceptible that she was an abandoned craft, a near view showed that it must have been some time, perhaps even a period of years, since she had been trapped in the Sargasso.

As she rose and fell in the gentle, heaving swell, the boys could see that long green weeds grew on her sides where the water laved them and her paint was blistered and flaked off in great patches, showing the rusty red of her iron plates beneath.

In the presence of this mystery of the ocean the boys grew silent as Frank maneuvered the Golden Eagle alongside and stopped the clattering motor.

The silence was profound.

Except for the occasional creak of a block as the derelict slowly swung to and fro it was as still as noonday in the desert. Even the usually light-hearted Harry was awe-stricken in the presence of the silent derelict.

Ben was the first to break the stillness.

"I'm going aboard," he announced, singling out with his eye a dangling rope which depended from a davit.

"Look, boys," he went on; "perhaps the poor fellows got away. See, the boats are gone."

"Let's hope they did," replied Frank, making fast the Golden Eagle to another of the dangling "falls," and preparing to follow Ben's example and clamber aboard.

Soon the boys stood on the main deck of the abandoned steamer, whose name they now saw was Durham Castle.

"She was a Britisher," declared Ben.

As he spoke there was a mighty noise like that of rushing water from the forecastle and the boys started back in affright. And well they might, for on the heels of the noise came a perfect torrent of rats. Gray rats, brown rats, young rats, old rats, thin rats, fat rats. They dashed directly at the boys, seeming mad with terror, or rendered ferocious from thirst or other causes.

Their little beady black eyes gleamed wickedly and their sharp yellow teeth were exposed.

The boys ran and Ben leaped into the main shrouds by which they had been standing, but the forerunners of this avalanche of crazed creatures was upon them. The rodents with squeaks and cries swarmed after the human beings as if they meant to devour them by sheer force of numbers.

"Shoot -- shoot," shouted Ben, as he dashed from his waist a big brown rat that left the imprint of its teeth in his hand as he struck at it.

Frenziedly the boys emptied their magazine revolvers at the mass of swarming creatures and they fell dead in heaps at their feet. But still the onrush came and the lads shuddered with repulsion as they felt the tiny claws of the rodents fixed in their trousers as the creatures tried to swarm up them.

They seemed to have a leader. An immense gray fellow almost as big as a rabbit. A sudden idea came into Frank's head, he did not know at the time whether he had been told it, or read of it somewhere, but it seemed to him if he could kill that old gray leader the rest might take fright.

Hastily he fired, almost blowing the creature's head off, so close was it to him.

As the others saw their leader killed they hesitated, and Ben and Harry took advantage of the pause to empty a fresh magazine full of bullets into the closely packed mass.

It was the turning point.

With shrill squeaks and cries the rats turned and dashed for the other rail. As they reached it they swarmed over it madly, unheeding of the water beneath. In whole battalions they plunged into the sea, most of them sinking immediately; but some of them swimming about in circles with piteous cries. The sea was discolored with their swarming heads for some distance about the ship.

Suddenly there shot up from the seaweed a long fleshy arm covered with what seemed to be huge excrescences. It curved like a serpent and swept deftly within its grasp dozens of the struggling rodents. Other arms appeared waving and seizing on the rats as they swam desperately about.

The boys knew that the arms were the tendons of giant devil-fish that had scented from afar the feast of rats.

They shuddered as they thought of the fate of human beings who should be cast adrift in such waters. In a short time not a rat remained on the water and the arms too subsided and sank.

White and shaky from the creepiness of the scene they had just witnessed the boys turned to Ben. The old mariner was mopping the sweat off his brow with a huge, red bandanna handkerchief.

"Wall, boys, if that's one of the sights of the Sargasso," he said, "I'd prefer Africa or even the Everglades -- oof."

"How could such myriads of rats exist aboard a ship?" asked Frank.

"Easy enough, boy. This ship was a sugar ship bound from New Orleans to England with raw sugar for refining I take it. -- See the remains of the sugar bags scattered about where the rats dragged 'em?"

The boys nodded.

"Well, rats swarm aboard such ships if they are not kept down, and I suppose that when this craft drifted in here to the Sargasso, and her crew deserted her, that the rats just naturally multiplied till they ate the holds clean of sugar and gnawed into the water tanks. Then we come along and they figures on making a meal out of us. They're queer things are ship rats, look how they ran when their leader was killed," went on the old sailor. "No sailor would go to sea on a ship that hasn't got any aboard though."

"Why is that?" asked Frank.

"Well, it's the old saying, 'rats leave a sinking ship,' you know," rejoined Ben.

"Let's explore the ship," said Frank, "that is, if there are no more rats about. Thank goodness, there is no chance of our meeting any devil-fish aboard here."

"No, that's one good thing," put in Harry. "Ugh! -- did you ever see such horrid looking things as those waving arms?"

Peeping down into the deserted engine-room, where the machinery was rusting and rotting from long neglect, the boys made their way aft to what had evidently been the quarters of the vessel's captain.

"Ah, here's his log-book!" exclaimed Ben, opening a volume which lay on a desk attached to a bulkhead, "but first let's look into the staterooms."

There were four of these, opening off from the main cabin and in each there were evident signs of a hasty departure. Clothes, books and nautical instruments lay scattered about in confusion. The boys did not come across anything though to show them the fate of the crew of the ill-fated vessel.

They therefore examined the log-book and found that, as Ben had surmised, the derelict had started on her last voyage from New Orleans to Liverpool laden with raw sugar. Her captain was Elias Goodall, and her first mate James Hooper. The day of her entrance into the fatal Sargasso was set down as June 21st, 1898. Previous to this date there had been several entries referring to a break-down in the engine-room, which caused the steamer to be driven miles off her course by heavy gales. It was undoubtedly in this way that she drifted into the fatal seaweed.

"Have got the engine going again," read the entry, "but the sky for days has been overcast and have had no chance to make observations. Know we must be miles off our course, however."

Below was the next record of the ship's fate.

"Chief Engineer Maxwell just informed me that something seems the matter with propeller. -- Later -- Found the propeller matted with huge growths of seaweed. Cleared it with some difficulty by shifting some cargo forward and then revolving wheel till, blade by blade, we cleared it with axes from the small boats."

June 22nd. -- "Seaweed seems to be getting thicker. With difficulty we progress at all. Mate Hooper just suggested terrifying possibility. -- Are we in the Sargasso?"

June 25. -- "Since the last entry in the log, have learned that our fears were only too well grounded. We are indeed in the Sargasso and there seems to be no escape. Engine stopped working long ago. The propeller so matted with seaweed that we could make no progress. What will become of us?"

June 26. -- "Have tried to keep true state of affairs from the crew, but they learned of facts in some way, and made a demand to take to the boats. I told them that our duty was to stick by the ship till all possibility of aid was exhausted. They seemed ugly; but for the present at least there is no sign of mutiny. If only we had wireless we might signal our plight."

June 28. -- "The worst has happened. In attempting to drive the crew back from the boats, Chief Engineer Maxwell was instantly killed with a handspike, poor Hooper so badly wounded and beaten that he died half-an-hour ago and I myself wounded in the left arm. The crew have taken to the boats and two loads are now about half a mile from the vessel. The men are shouting. Something terrible must have happened -- "

June 29. -- "I have not been able to nerve myself until to-day to record the frightful interruption that occurred while I was penning the last lines. I was interrupted by a fearful shriek and hastening on deck saw a sight that will not be blotted from my memory till I go to my death. The boats seemed to be in the grasp of what appeared at first glance gigantic snakes. The men, unfortunate fellows, were trying to beat the creatures off and pull back to the ship. Their vain cries for aid were pitiful. I got the glasses, the better to see what was happening. My horror at what I saw then was so great that I can hardly set it down. The creatures I had seen were not snakes at all but the arms of huge octopi. They enwrapped the boats in every direction. Even as I gazed one boat-load was drawn beneath the surface. In a few minutes more all was over."

July 4. -- "On this day, at home, all are celebrating and rejoicing, and here am I encircled with horrors, and adrift, as it seems, on a doomed ship. There is one boat left. I mean to lower it and try to reach the land or at least the open sea where I may fall in with a vessel. The rats are swarming everywhere. They have attacked the cargo in the forward hold and the noise of their fighting and struggling is terrible. Last night they killed my poor cat. I found her clean-picked bones on the fore-deck this morning. I can stay no longer on this horror ship. -- God be with me."

Goodall,

Captain.

Here the pathetic record ended abruptly and of the fate of the unfortunate captain the boys had of course no inkling. They, however, took the log-book with them for delivery in the future to the vessel's owners, and ten minutes later were back on board the Golden Eagle.

"It feels good to be off that 'horror ship' as her captain called her," exclaimed Frank, as he started up the engine.

"I should say so," was Harry's reply, in a sobered tone, "and I suppose scores of other ships have met the same fate."

"Undoubtedly," said Ben, "every year vessels sail from the United States and foreign ports that are never heard of again. No accounts of storms are received during their voyages, yet they never reach port; undoubtedly many of them wind up in the graveyard of the Sargasso."

"I'm glad we have a good stout air-ship to carry us," exclaimed Frank, as the Golden Eagle soared into the air and soon left the derelict far behind.



Chapter XX.

The Golden Galleon.


A sharp hail from Harry, who had the glasses, aroused Frank from a reverie into which he had fallen as the Golden Eagle skimmed along. It was some time since she had left the ill-fated Durham Castle.

"Look, Frank, -- here, take the glasses," the younger boy cried excitedly, -- "there's a queer-looking ship dead ahead of us -- can she be the Buena Ventura?"

Frank surrendered the wheel to Harry and gave the object a prolonged scrutiny. Then he handed the glasses to Ben with a quiet:

"What do you make of her, Ben."

The old sailor held the glasses to his eyes for a space of ten seconds or more and then turned to the boys with an excited look on his face.

"Whatever she is, she is no modern ship," he cried, "she's got a high stern on her like a castle, and her masts and rigging are like no ship that sails the sea to-day."

"There's another ship over on the horizon," cried Harry, "looks like a wreck."

Ben took the glasses once more.

"It's the wreck of a barque," he announced. "Guess it's the one that Bluewater Bill was cast away on. If it is, that must be the galleon over yonder, 'cause Bill said she was close to his ship, and I guess vessels don't change their relative positions much in this place."

As the Golden Eagle rapidly approached the ancient vessel the boys went nearly wild with excitement.

The glasses were constantly trained on her and when Harry, who had kept the binoculars fixed on the vessel's stern, announced in a voice that quivered with suspense:

"I can see her name -- it's Buena Ventura all right," they all broke into a shout.

"I can see her name -- it's Buena Ventura all right."

The goal was reached at last then.

Frank sent the Golden Eagle swinging in a long graceful circle round the galleon, from whose tall masts still hung fragments of rotting sails, and finally settled alongside her towering wooden sides, which still bore tracings of the gilding and paint with which the old Spaniards loved to decorate their vessels. Her lofty stern was a mass of splendid carving and gilt work. In its centre, in faded paint was the figure of a woman, surrounded by stars and other heavenly bodies. The vessel's stern cabin windows also were richly embossed and gilded.

"If there's as much gold inside her as there is out we'll all be millionaires!" exclaimed Ben.

"How are we going to get aboard?" questioned Frank, as he gazed at the high, smooth sides.

"Yes, that's a problem. I don't see the rope Bluewater Bill used either. It must have rotted away," rejoined Ben.

"Let's circle round her," he went on, "maybe I can see a foothold and then I can get aboard and let down a rope to you boys."

Accordingly, the Golden Eagle was steered slowly round the great hull, and finally Ben selected a place to clamber up among the fretwork below the heel of the bowsprit. With a nimble leap he was soon clinging to the heavy carving, and rapidly swarming hand over hand to the galleon's deck. When he reached it, he flung down a rope with which the Golden Eagle was made fast to the galleon's side, and in a few minutes the boys stood by his side on the moldering deck.

As it was getting dark, there was not time to do a great deal that night. All they found opportunity to accomplish, in fact, was a brief exploration of the main cabin, which was magnificently hung in silks and velvets once splendid, now mildewed and rotting. The decorations of the place had been sumptuous evidently.

In the rear of the cabin was a pile of ancient-looking chests, heavily strapped with iron, and with great brass locks curiously carved affixed to them.

"The treasure chests!" cried Harry, trembling with excitement.

All three of the adventurers hurried across the cabin. In the afternoon-light that streamed through the stern-windows Frank fell on his knees and eagerly tried to wrench one of the locks off. Aged as it was, however, it resisted his exertions.

"Hold on!" cried Ben. "I'll get it off." He raised his heavily booted foot, as Frank drew back, and brought it down with a crash on the massive brasswork. With a rending and tearing of the worm-eaten wood the lock ripped loose and the lid, operated by some concealed spring, flew open.

The boys gave a shout of disappointment. Nothing in the way of treasure lay revealed -- only a faded velvet cloak edged with tarnished lace.

"Wait a bit," cried Ben tearing off the cloak. "Ah! -- "

A different sort of shout came from the boys' throats then. Beneath the cloak lay candle-sticks, gold and silver, great vases, gleaming dull yellow in the mellow light of the gloomy beamed cabin, bowls of the precious metal, splendidly carved, and small parchment bags bulging with the varied shapes of the coins they contained.

The boys dragged the contents of the chest and spread it in a glittering pile.

"So it was no dream of Bluewater Bill's after all," exclaimed Harry.

So excited were they that the boys were anxious to go ahead with the work of breaking open more treasure chests that night; but they yielded to Ben's entreaties and agreed to have supper and a good night's rest before they proceeded to their task. After a meal of bacon, coffee, bread and preserved fruit, cooked on the gasolene stove of the Golden Eagle, the boys professed themselves ready for bed.

"Better sleep aboard the galleon," said Ben.

"Why?" asked Frank.

"Why, we don't want any of those devil-fish coming snooping around in the night, do we?" asked the old sailor, "and they might, if we slept so near the water."

"I should say not," exclaimed Harry, with a shudder at the bare idea.

"Say Frank," exclaimed the younger lad, an hour later, when they were snuggled under blankets -- for there is a heavy dew and night chill on the Sargasso -- on the deck of the Buena Ventura, "what would you do if the door of the cabin yonder should suddenly open and an old don all in armor should come stalking out and say:

"'Get hence, get hence, young marauders, and leave my treasure untroubled!'"

"I'd offer him a ride in the Golden Eagle to clear the cobwebs out of his brain," said Frank sleepily.

The treasure hunters were astir early the next day and immediately after breakfast -- a hearty meal cooked on the Golden Eagle's stove, -- had been despatched they were ready for work.

It had been determined to go at the task systematically, so Frank in a notebook, checked off the articles as chest after chest of valuable gold and plate was dragged from the galleon's cabin. He soon had his book full and was compelled to borrow a small pocket diary from his brother.

"I say, Frank!" exclaimed Harry, as he and Ben drew from the moldering chests piece after piece of dull golden ornaments, some of them studded with jewels that blazed as they caught the sun. "What should you say this stuff was worth, as far as we have gone?"

"Every bit of $50,000 I should imagine," replied the elder boy, "although I'm not much of a judge in such matters."

"Hurray, Ben! that will make us all rich," shouted Harry.

"Say," remarked Ben, pausing in his task of emptying a squat chest, marked, Don Ramon De Guzman, Sevilla, "you don't think I'm going to touch any of this loot do you? It all belongs to you boys and Bluewater Bill, and I've no right to a cent's worth of it. The excitement is enough for old Ben Stubbs."

"Well, you've got a nerve!" cried Frank, "to think that you are not going to get a share. Why we are all in on this, and, when we have all the stuff out and get it valued, we'll divide it up in fair proportion."

"You won't get me to take any of it," grumbled old Ben obstinately, grubbing away in the treasure-filled box.

"We shall see about that," said Frank, who knew it was useless to argue with the old sailor.

As they worked feverishly, from time to time gazing at the sky in apprehension of the appearance of Luther Barr's dirigible, the adventurers had an illustration of the manner in which the old Spaniards guarded their treasure that came very near having a tragical termination.

Ben Stubbs had hammered off the lock of a huge chest, with a semi-circular top, and was in the act of flinging back the lid, when he stopped short with an exclamation. It was fortunate for him that he paused, for as he did so, the lid, actuated by some hidden mechanism, swung back and a steel arm, tipped with sharp prongs, shot out. Had the sailor been less nimble the device would undoubtedly have caved his skull in. As it was, it missed him only by an inch.

"Well, that's a nice murderous contrivance," gasped the astonished sailor.

An examination showed the boys that the tips of the prongs were stained and they had little doubt, as they examined it, that the marks were those of human blood. The life fluid of some old-time marauder who had paid with his life for his attempt to rifle the chest. The death-bearing arm, they discovered, was actuated by levers and springs, connecting with the lifting mechanism of the lid. The boys were compelled to admit, as they examined the device, that fiendish as it was it had been designed by a master mechanic of his time.

As they worked, you may imagine, the boys swept the sky for a sign of Luther Barr's dirigible, but not a trace of her did they discover that day.

"It begins to look as if we had beaten Luther Barr this time," cried Harry, exultingly.

"Don't be too sure," was Frank's cautious reply. "He is capable of going to any lengths to satisfy his lust for gold, and I am sure he would stop at nothing to get the treasure from us. We may have a lot of trouble on our hands yet."

The treasure as it was catalogued was placed in canvas sacks brought for the purpose, and by supper time that night all the chests had been pretty well emptied and the sacks lay distributed in such a manner as not to interfere with her equilibrium on the Golden Eagle's deck.

"It's going to make a heavy load," said Frank, shaking his head as he looked at the pile.

"We've got to take it all out at once, however," said Ben, "or we would be pretty sure not to find any when we came back."

"It's very certain that Barr cannot be far off," said Harry, gazing about at the opal sunset sky.

"Well, if he comes to-morrow he'll come too late," said Frank, "for we'll be far away from here by then. I intend to sail at dawn."

"That's the idea," was Ben's comment, "no use wasting time on a job of this sort. It's a good thing the weather has kept so clear, otherwise we might have had trouble; aside from old Barr's brand."

"I must confess it was a surprise to me to find that he had not reached here ahead of us," went on Frank; "you know we lost a lot of time in that storm."

"Maybe something went wrong with the dirigible before they started," suggested Harry.

"I guess that must be it," said Ben; "otherwise you can bet he'd have gotten on more of a hustle than this."

"Well, I'm just as well content with things as they are," commented Harry, "in fact it would not grieve me much to hear that his old balloon had tumbled into the ocean, crew and all."

Supper was soon despatched that evening, and the boys turned in early. They slept soundly, but toward midnight Frank had a queer dream. It seemed to him that he was on board the rat ship once more and that scores of the rodents they had battled with were again overwhelming him. He battled bravely with the hosts but they were too many for him. Just as it seemed that all was over, however, he heard a voice say, "Hold on there!"

So startlingly clear was the voice that Frank awoke as it uttered the words and almost gave a cry, which he instantly checked, as he perceived that it was no dream-voice he had heard.

As he listened intently he heard the voice once more.

"Hold on there -- this is it."

The words seemed to come from overhead.

Gazing upward, the boy saw, hovering between the deck of the galleon and the stars, a large black object.

He instantly knew it for what it was.

Luther Barr's air-ship!



Chapter XXI.

Dirigible Vs. Aeroplane.


A galvanic shock passed through the boy at the discovery, and he silently crawled to where Harry and Ben lay and placing his hand over their mouths he in turn awoke them.

"Don't utter a word," he whispered, "Luther Barr's air-ship is here."

From the spot in which they crouched, keeping as closely in the shadow of the stout mast as they were able, the adventurers could hear distinctly the conversation of the men in the dirigible.

"This must be the galleon," Frank heard a voice he recognized as Sanborn's saying, "it's lucky we decided to keep on."

"Well, we might as well have turned back for all the good we can do now," came another voice -- that of Malvoise. "I'm not going to run a chance of wrecking the ship by making a landing in the dark."

"What, you are not going to descend?" came Sanborn's voice in a querulous tone.

"Not much," was the rejoinder. "What's the use of risking our necks and taking a chance on smashing up the air-ship. If she is damaged we would be stranded here and leave our bones in the Sargasso in all probability."

"That's so," chimed in another voice -- that of the inventor Constantio. "It would be very dangerous, senor, to make a landing to-night. Let us go back to the island and start out to-morrow again."

The boys exchanged glances. So the Barr party had encamped on an island; doubtless one of the numerous little keys that abound in those waters and which, had they water on them -- which few have -- are ideal spots.

"That's my idea, Sanborn," went on Malvoise, "come, shall I put her about and sail back?"

"Let's circle the ship first," exclaimed Sanborn. "So far as we know we are here ahead of those Boy Aviator cubs, but we can't tell positively unless we make an examination."

Frank's heart stood still. If they circled the ship there was little doubt they would spy the Golden Eagle floating alongside; in black shadow though she was. His fingers closed on his revolver. But fortunately there was no need to use weapons then, for Sanborn's idea was overruled, and from the position in which the air-ship hovered she could not spy the aeroplane.

"No; come on, let's get back," urged Malvoise; "there is something wrong with one of the cylinders and I want to fix it before we tackle the job of taking off the treasure."

"Very well then," said Sanborn, yielding to the will of the majority. "We'll get back, but I want to be here first thing in the morning and make a thorough overhauling of the ship. There ought to be enough gold aboard her, from what I overheard Bluewater Bill say, to make us all kings."

"Ah, then I can invent more dirigibles, large ones to carry passengers across the Atlantic," the boys heard Constantio say -- though of course, till Ben told them, they were not aware of the speaker's identity.

To their great relief the engine of the dirigible, which had hovered stationary above the galleon during the men's talk, was once more set in motion and the big air-ship drove off at a rapid pace.

"Phew! that was a narrow escape," exclaimed Frank. "I don't want many more like that, I can tell you."

"If they had only gone round the galleon they could not have escaped spying the Golden Eagle," said Harry.

"Fortunate for them they didn't," said Ben grimly, fondling his blue magazine revolver; "they'd have got some indigestible leaden pills, I'm thinking."

"Shooting is just what we want to avoid," said Frank. "I never want to have to fire on a human being."

"Well, if they fire at you first, what are you going to do?" was Ben's incontrovertible argument.

Naturally the Boy Aviators and their companion slept no more that night. The remaining hours before daybreak were occupied with getting everything in first-class shape aboard the Golden Eagle in readiness for what might prove a dash for life.

"Are we faster than the dirigible?" asked Harry, who realized as well as his brother that there might be a chase between the two air-ships.

"I don't know," was Frank's reply, "we ought to be; but from Ben's description, and what we saw of her, that dirigible must be at least a hundred and fifty feet long and she has a more powerful engine than we have."

"But look at her weight," argued Harry.

"That doesn't cut so much figure if you have a powerful enough engine to overcome it," was the reply; "some European dirigibles, bigger than Luther Barr's, have made eighty and even ninety miles."

"Well, we wouldn't stand much chance with an affair like that and that's a fact," commented Harry.

"We can only hope things won't come to such a pass," said Frank.

Soon all was ready for a start and Frank, taking careful bearings, headed the Golden Eagle round on the course she had followed on her way to the galleon. As the sun poked his rim above the horizon the Golden Eagle shot into the air and rapidly the hulls of the galleon and Bluewater Bill's castaway hulk were mere specks behind them.

The spirits of the boys rose. They breakfasted on cold stuff cooked before they started and coffee heated over the exhaust of the engine. Ben lit his pipe, and with Frank at the wheel and Harry on lookout, any one looking at the party in the Golden Eagle would have said that they were a trio of pleasure-makers instead of adventurers engaged on a daring dash for fortune.

It was about nine o'clock in the morning when the danger they had feared loomed up out of the clear sky as suddenly as a tropic squall.

Coming straight toward them, but a mere dot on the sky, though momentarily growing larger, was an air-ship that they could not doubt was Luther Barr's.

"What are you going to do?" asked Harry, as Frank put the wheel over and brought the aeroplane on a course which would take her far to the westward of the dirigible.

"Try to avoid her," was Frank's reply; "they are equipped with a rapid-firing gun and could make mince-meat of us in a short time."

"We have rifles," said Harry.

"They would be little use against such a weapon," replied Frank.

But as the Golden Eagle shifted her course it became clear to those aboard her that the other air-ship did the same.

"They have seen us," gasped Harry.

"Yes, and mean to pursue us, too," was Frank's reply, through gritted teeth; "well, we'll give them a long chase of it."

The Golden Eagle was speeded up to her full capacity, although with the heavy load she was carrying, she by no means attained the speed of which she was capable.

In one thing, however, she had the advantage over the dirigible. She could maneuver with twice the speed and turn and twist like a snake, while the more cumbersome air-ship took a lot of handling to navigate in any intricate movements.

As the dirigible drew nearer, the boys, critical as was the moment, could hardly restrain their admiration at the fine appearance she presented. Her distended gas-bag shone in the sunlight like silk and her cabin woodwork sparkled where brass handholds and plates were attached to it, like the main deck of a passenger liner.

Suddenly, however, her sinister character became apparent.

There was a puff of smoke from what, if she had been a "sea" ship, would have been her bow, and a projectile sang by the Golden Eagle. "That was a warning shot, Frank," cried Ben; "the next will come closer."

"I am going to watch them get ready to fire and then drop suddenly," said Frank, his face white, but with a set, determined look on it.

The man at the lanyard of the dirigible's gun, who looked like Sanborn, bent low over the weapon once more and adjusted it carefully for a second shot, the helmsman of the air-ship at the same time swinging her so that she would be on a direct line with the Golden Eagle.

Frank watched his every movement with a hawk-like intensity. Just as Sanborn stepped back, lanyard in hand, to fire a second shot, Frank dived like a sea-gull sweeping down on a fish and the missile whistled harmlessly overhead.

At the same instant Ben Stubbs, unable to restrain himself any longer, snatched a rifle from one of the lockers and aimed at the pilot-house of Luther Barr's craft.

A shower of splinters flew from the casing of a porthole as his bullet struck, but no further harm was done.

The aeroplane was now far below the dirigible, which was soaring at a height of two thousand feet. At such an angle it was impossible for those on board to use their rapid-fire gun, and Frank, setting the Golden Eagle's rising planes, soared rapidly along at an elevation of about two hundred feet.

By the time the men on the dirigible had got her round, the Golden Eagle was two miles ahead of the gas-suspended craft.

"We've escaped them," cried Harry.

"Not yet," said Frank; "don't holler till you are out of the woods. They know now we've got the treasure and they are not going to give up the chase as easily as all this."

From time to time the dirigible, which was not gaining on the Golden Eagle, fired a shot from her forward gun, but the dipping, scudding aeroplane afforded a poor mark and, moreover, the deck of a dirigible at full speed is not the steadiest place in the world. So after a few attempts more to wing the swift aeroplane, the crew of the dirigible gave the effort up and turned all their attention to getting every ounce of speed out of their craft. With sinking hearts the boys realized that she was gaining on them.

Hour after hour, above the glassy Sargasso Sea, the battle went on, the aeroplane ducking and diving and gliding and skimming whenever the dirigible got a good chance to send a fatal projectile into her.

From time to time, also, Ben got a chance to send a bullet crashing into the dirigible's gas-bag, and from the actions of the men aboard her they were evidently badly worried by this. However, as Ben knew, the gas-bag of the dirigible was constructed in sections and the gas manufactured by Constantio was so buoyant that if even one section remained intact it would still serve to sustain the dirigible in the air.

But no fight of such a character can endure long. Sooner or later one or the other of the combatants is bound to succumb, and so it was in this case.

Just as Frank was making a dive to avoid, for the twentieth time, getting within range of the dirigible's gun, a skillfully aimed projectile came crashing through the Golden Eagle's gasolene tank. The fluid poured out in a flood.

A few minutes later the engines ceased to revolve and the aeroplane was compelled to descend, Frank driving her down in a long arc that brought her to the surface of the water without accident.

Crippled as she was, the Golden Eagle could not be set going again without repairs that would take hours.

In the meantime their opponents had taken advantage of the aeroplane's plight to riddle her wings with bullets.

Brave as the boys were, they were not foolhardy.

Ten minutes after the fatal accident to the tank, Ben Stubbs, with bitter protests, waved a white shirt in token that the occupants of the Golden Eagle were driven to surrender.



Chapter XXII.

On Board Barr's Ship.


"Do you surrender?" shouted a voice through a megaphone from the dirigible as it hovered above the stricken aeroplane.

"Yes, hornswoggle you," roared Ben Stubbs, "but if it hadn't been for that gas-bag of yours you'd never have got us, and I can lick any man aboard yer with my fists or any other weapon."

Luther Barr's men paid no attention to this outburst and the boys were too sick at heart at the complete failure of their venture even to hear Ben's words. Frank choked back his tears with difficulty and Harry gazed straight out over the sea.

It was defeat final and complete.

"Make fast the ladder and we'll board you," was the next hail as a trap in the under side of the dirigible was opened and a long rope ladder came snaking down.

Ben, although he would cheerfully have slashed it to bits with his sea knife, had no recourse but to make the end of the apparatus fast to the Golden Eagle's framework, and a few seconds later Malvoise came rapidly down it. To guard against any attack on him the men on the dirigible leaned over the rail and kept their rifles covering the boys and Ben.

"Hum, you saved us the trouble of packing up the treasure, I see," said Malvoise, his eyes sparkling as they fell on the sacks of treasure.

"If we'd only fixed you last night when you was in the air over the galleon we'd have done a good job," growled old Ben.

"Ah, you think so," grinned the Frenchman. "I don't doubt that it feels bad to be the conquered, but you must not grudge us the treasure, my dear Mr. Stubbs -- "

The sneer on his face was unbearable and Ben started forward to fall upon him, but as he did so a bullet from above zipped down, narrowly missing his arm. In fact, it ploughed through his loose shirt-sleeve.

"You see, I am well protected," grinned the Frenchman, as Ben started back.

"Yes, I reckon we've got to give in with as good a grace as we can," grumbled Ben; "though I'd give all the treasure in them sacks to get my hands on you for just five minutes," he muttered to himself.

"Let down a tackle there, you," shouted Malvoise to the crew of the dirigible, "and you, Sanborn, come down aboard here. We must get the treasure on board before it starts to blow at all."

Sanborn came hastily scrambling down the ladder, and a few seconds later a block and tackle were lowered. Malvoise and Sanborn, who greeted the boys with a scowling sneer, first deprived the boys of their weapons and forced Ben to give up his revolver and then made fast the block and tackle to the first of the treasure sacks.

It was rapidly hauled up to the dirigible; the other treasure bags followed in the same manner. In half an hour the Golden Eagle was swept clean of the contents of the galleon's chests which the boys had loaded on her with such light hearts.

"Now, then, I guess we are all ready for a start," said Malvoise, when the last of the sacks had been hauled into the dirigible's cabin. "As a matter of fact," he went on, "I suppose I ought to leave you here, as you only will make a lot more weight in the air-ship, but I am more humane than that and I'll allow you to come on board. Up the ladder with you, and briskly now."

Ben went first, followed by the two boys; behind them came Malvoise.

"Come on, Sanborn," shouted the Frenchman to his companion, who still lingered on board the aeroplane.

"Wait a minute. I've got a job to do first. I want to sink the thing for all time," cried the other.

The boys, who had by this time gained the swaying deck of the dirigible, saw the treacherous mechanic deliberately draw a pistol and prepare to fire a hole in the pontoons, which would inevitably have sunk the gallant craft.

But as his finger pressed the trigger the man's foot slipped and he was dumped off the pontoon into the water.

His companions, far from being alarmed, shouted with laughter at his mishap, as Sanborn, cursing, prepared to climb back on to the Golden Eagle. But even as the oaths left his lips a change came over his face. It turned an ashen gray.

"Help!" he shouted.

"What's the matter?" roared Malvoise.

"Something is after me!" came the agonized cry of the man.

As the words left his lips a cry of horror broke from all on the dirigible's deck who were watching Sanborn's struggles.

A great arm, covered with mouths, like the ones the boys had seen absorb the rats, shot out of the sea. Another and another followed it, and hapless Sanborn, screaming in terror, was dragged from the structure of the aeroplane, to which he clung with a drowning man's clutch.

"It's a devil-fish," shouted the boys.

"Fire on the thing," shouted Malvoise, pouring the contents of his revolver down into the fleshy mass of the octopus.

Instantly a great cloud of inky fluid spread over the waters and into the opaque waves the waving arms sank, dragging with them to the depths of the sea the treacherous mechanic.

Shocked and sickened by the scene, the boys turned away and even Malvoise seemed powerfully affected. He hid his face in his hands as the wounded monster slowly sank without relinquishing its hold on its victim.

As for Constantio and a red-headed bushy-whiskered man, whom the boys learned later on was Sam Wells, one of the three men who helped in working the dirigible, they seemed completely unnerved by the sight they had witnessed. Malvoise's sharp voice recalled them to themselves.

"Come now, collect your wits," he shouted; "poor Sanborn's gone, and we can't save him. Cut loose from the aeroplane and haul up the rope-ladder. Constantio, you take the wheel. Wells, when you have got the ladder aboard, turn to and stow that stuff further aft."

He indicated the pile of treasure sacks.

Wells and two other men who had been standing about the deck instantly busied themselves obeying these orders. It was evident from their implicit obedience that Malvoise was master on the dirigible.

As the engine was set going and the ship forged ahead, leaving behind it the wrecked aeroplane and the watery grave of Sanborn, Malvoise called the boys' attention, in a half-joking way, to the damage Ben Stubbs' bullets had done to the gas-bag.

"However," he went on, "fortunately it does not make so much difference as it would in any other air-craft. After dinner I will send one of the crew aloft to put a patch on the hole and we can then re-inflate that section from one of the hydrogen tubes."

Precarious as their situation was, the boys, whose interest in aeronautics was a sort of ruling passion with them, could not but help being interested with the perfect working out of all details aboard Luther Barr's craft. After an excellent dinner, in which fresh meat and vegetables from a well-stocked ice-box formed the staples, they watched with interest the red-headed sailor, Wells, scramble up into the network of the bag and sew a patch over the bullet hole made by Ben Stubbs' shot. The patch affixed, it was coated with a water and gas-proof solution the sailor carried in a small pot suspended round his waist. After an interval allowed for drying, a cylinder of gas was dragged out of the after storeroom where they were kept, and the section which had been injured was refilled by means of its own inflation hose, which was provided with a nozzle adjustable to the mouth of the gas receptacle.

To the boys' surprise, when darkness fell the dirigible still forged ahead and no change of her course was observable. They had imagined that she was on her way to join Luther Barr at some nearby meeting-place, where the Brigand would take the treasure on board, but, so far, her navigators showed no intention of alighting.

At ten o'clock Malvoise stepped up to the three adventurers and said:

"It is a rule on board that all lights shall be extinguished at this hour. If you are ready for bed I will show you to your sleeping place."

He led the way to a small cabin fitted with two bunks and lounge. The boys wanted to ask a score of questions, but knew it would be useless, so remained silent.

"I wish you a good night's rest," said Malvoise as he switched on a tiny electric light with the warning that the dynamo would be cut off in ten minutes' time.

As he closed the cabin door behind him there was a sharp click.

The cabin door was fitted with a stout spring lock.

The adventurers were prisoners a thousand feet in the air.



Chapter XXIII.

Prisoners In Dire Peril.


"Locked in, by gosh!" exclaimed Ben Stubbs, as the lock clicked.

"What can they mean to do with us?" wondered Frank.

"So far we've been treated like lords, but I don't like the idea of being penned up in this cabin," said Harry.

Much more speculation was indulged in by the boys, but without their arriving any further at an accurate idea of what was likely to be their ultimate fate at the hands of Luther Barr's men. While they were still talking the light went out, as Malvoise had warned them it would, and they were plunged in total darkness.

Not being heroes of romance, but just healthy boys, the two lads were asleep a few minutes after they threw themselves in their bunks, which were provided with excellent springs, and bed-clothing of good material. As for Ben Stubbs, as he himself said, he could have slept on a whale's back so long as the animal didn't dive.

How long he slept Frank had, of course, no means of estimating, as it was too pitchy black in the cabin for him to see the dial of his watch, but he opened his eyes with a start and soon found out that he had been aroused by what seemed an unusual disturbance aboard the dirigible.

He heard the trampling of feet as the crew ran to and fro, and the shouting of orders in Malvoise's voice. The cabin port was closed and locked on the outside, although the cabin seemed perfectly ventilated by some other aperture; so it was impossible for Frank to distinguish what was said, but the tones of the Frenchman's voice conveyed intense excitement.

The motion of the air-ship, too, seemed strange.

When they had gone to sleep it seemed as if they were sleeping in a room ashore, so perfectly evenly did the ship rush ahead through the night; but now every portion of her frame seemed to be complaining in its own particular voice, and she groaned and strained like a ship in a storm.

Frank aroused Harry, and a few minutes later Ben Stubbs, too, was awakened by the peculiar motion of the ship.

"What's happening?" he demanded, as one of the air sailors ran heavily along the deck overhead.

"I don't know," rejoined Frank; "but it seems to me that we are in a storm of some kind. -- Hark!"

As he spoke there was a blue glare of lightning outside, in which the ropes and stays of the ship, seen through the closed port, stood out as in an etching. Simultaneously there came a terrific crash of thunder. They were evidently in a bad storm.

"I wish we were outside instead of cooped up in here," exclaimed Ben. "I like to be out on deck in bad weather and not penned up in a cubby hole."

"Let's try the door," suggested Frank, "we might be able to force the lock."

But the lock was evidently put on to stay, and tug and strain as they would, they could not budge it an inch.

The motion of the ship by this time was so violent as to make them feel quite seasick. She swayed from side to side and now and then took long dips.

"I know what they are doing," exclaimed Frank as the ship executed the latest of these diving maneuvers; "they are setting their aeroplanes low so as to try and find a smooth current of air."

"They've got a fine chance to, if it's blowing as hard as it seems to be," was Harry's comment.

The uproar on deck grew louder.

They could now hear Malvoise's voice, directing the crew to strengthen this stay or lend a hand on that rudder brace.

The ship was evidently passing through a crisis.

It was hard for the boys to remain cooped up in their pen, but deliverance was near at hand.

The door was suddenly flung open, and Malvoise himself stood framed in the square of light from the illuminated saloon behind him.

"You had better come out of there," he said briefly, "we are in a bad storm."

"Are we in danger?" asked Harry.

"I don't know yet. If it doesn't blow any harder we may be able to weather it."

"And if not?"

"If not, we may go to the bottom."

"Is anything wrong with the ship?" was Frank's next question.

"Yes, the engine is not working right. It is not developing enough power to keep us driving against the storm. I am afraid it may strike us broadside on and tear the cabin and decks loose from the gas-bag," replied the Frenchman.

As the boys and Ben gained the deck, the storm struck them in its full fury. It was not cold, they were too far south for that, but the wind fairly drove their breath back down their throats.

"Say, let's grab on to a stay or something," gasped Harry, "I don't want to get blown overboard."

They fairly fought their way to the edge of the navigating deck, which was swaying in a sickening fashion, and clung to one of the stout mainstays of the stressed and storm-driven gas bag above them.

Far below, the sea roared and its wave crests gleamed with phosphorescent light, as the furious wind ripped off their tops and sent them scurrying over the heaving waters.

But, bad as the wind was, a far graver peril menaced the dirigible, and the boys knew it. The lightning was zipping and ripping across the sky in every direction, and, in the event of a bolt striking the craft to which they clung, the boys knew that they might as well be sitting on a keg of exploding dynamite. There would a blinding crash as the gas exploded, and then oblivion.

As they hung on for dear life, Malvoise, his face gleaming white in the glare cast from one of the cabin ports, came up to them.

"Do you think you can take the wheel for a while?" he asked Frank. "What with fear and exhaustion Constantio is almost unable to stand up."

Frank agreed, and, followed by the others he entered the pilot-house. With the exception of the binnacle light above the compass and a small shaded incandescent that shed a glow on the height indicator, the place was as black as a well.

"How is she doing now?" the boys heard Malvoise ask the inventor.

"Ah, senor, poor thing, she is torn and strained in every direction. My heart bleeds for her!" exclaimed the Spaniard.

"Yes -- yes," broke in Malvoise impatiently; "but can she last out?"

"I do not know," came the reply of the other. "It is much to ask of any dirigible to last out such a storm. See," he turned the light on to the wind-gauge -- it showed a pressure of sixty miles an hour, "it is a wonder to me she has not been torn apart," he declared.

"Well, you'd better go and get some sleep now," said Malvoise abruptly, "one of these boys here will take care of the ship while you nap."

"Very well," said the Spaniard, "do not drive her too hard against the wind, senor, but rather let the wind drive her. Good-night."

He staggered out on to the swaying, plunging deck and vanished. Frank had taken the wheel as the Spaniard relinquished it and he was astonished to find how, in spite of its gears, the wind-stressed rudder tore and tugged at the spokes.

"The strain on the rudder must be terrific," he thought to himself; "it's a wonder it has held out as long as it has."

Taking a casual glance at the height indicator, Frank gave a start. It indicated twelve thousand feet. It was higher than the boy had ever been before.

For several minutes he was too busy easing the dirigible through a blast that seemed as if it would rip her apart to notice the gauge again. When he had an opportunity to do so, he gave a whistle of surprise.

The dirigible had now climbed on the wings of the storm to an altitude of fourteen thousand feet.

Glancing through the pilot-house window the young helmsman saw tattered shreds of storm clouds driven by at a terrific speed; but fast as they went, the dirigible was hurried along with them at an equal speed. The rapid motion had a tendency first to exhilarate and then to turn dizzy those who participated in it.

All at once a sharp whistle sounded from a tube placed so that it was close to the helmsman's ear.

"A signal from the engine-room," cried Malvoise, "answer it."

"Hullo!" called Frank, turning back the whistler at the mouth of the tube. Then he placed his ear to it.

"Two cylinders are missing fire," came the hail, "to make repairs we shall have to stop the engine."

"Keep on with what power you have," shouted back Frank. "We've got to keep going."

There was no need to explain to the others what the bad news from the engine-room was. They had guessed from his reply.

And still the dirigible rose.

She was now at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, and even as Frank gazed at the indicator she soared higher.

It grew bitterly cold.

"Something will have to be done," he shouted to Malvoise, "if we keep on going higher the air will soon be so rarefied that we shall be unable to breathe."

"Set your dropping planes," shouted Malvoise, above the turmoil.

"I have tried to," yelled back Frank, "but she won't drop unless the engine forces her ahead faster. The wind is stronger than we are."

"Let out the gas," suggested Harry.

Frank shook his head.

"I don't want to do that except in case of actual necessity," he said. "We may need all we have before long."

"I can feel an awful pressure on my ear drums!" suddenly exclaimed Harry.

"No wonder," was Frank's rejoinder; "look at that."

He pointed to the gauge.

The dirigible had now been driven to a height of eighteen thousand five hundred feet, and breathing was really becoming painful.

Desperately Frank struggled to get the sinking planes to act, but the wind pressure on the bag counteracted all his efforts in this direction. So fast was the hurricane now driving the gas-bag ahead that the sub-structure lagged behind, straining at its confining stays and braces.

All at once Harry gave a cry and sank to the floor of the pilot-house. Malvoise, the next instant, hastened to the deck and cried:

"Air, air!"

Frank felt a warm liquid streaming from his nose and ears. He put up his hand. It came away stained red. Even tough old Ben Stubbs felt the baleful effect of the high altitude.

"I'll be hornswoggled if I can stand this much longer," he gasped out to Frank.

"Can you take the wheel?" replied the young aviator. Ben nodded.

"Then take it. I'm going to get this ship down."

Frank reeled from the pilot-house on to the deck. He almost stumbled over the body of Malvoise as he did so. It lay as inanimate as in death where it had been thrown against the railing by the impact of the ship's wild swaying.

"You'll go overboard if you're not careful," Frank found himself saying in a voice he hardly recognized as his own.

Making his way aft the lad encountered the red-headed sailor, Wells.

"Oh, sir, what is happening?" gasped the poor fellow.

"We've gone too high," replied Frank, every word cutting his chest as if a knife had been plunged into it. "Where's the valve cord?"

"Aft there, sir, it's belayed to the starboard rail."

As he spoke the man pitched forward as if he had been shot and lay inanimate on his face.



Chapter XXIV.

The Inventor's Treachery.


Weak almost as a baby, Frank made his way to the stern of the navigating deck, and with what seemed the last ounce of strength in his body he gave the cord a feeble yank.

It resisted and the boy tugged once more.

Still it stuck.

Mustering his strength to keep on his feet a minute longer, the boy tied the cord to his wrist. Then, as he fell forward in the swoon that he knew must ensue, the cord tightened under the weight of his body and yielded.

The dirigible with an unconscious crew aboard plunged on through the night, but every moment exhausted more gas from her bags and the craft gradually dropped till she had reached an altitude where the air was breathable.

Frank was the first to stir. He discovered at once that the air-ship's drop must have been considerable and hastened to close the valve which connected by a tube with each one of the gas partitions. The dirigible's fall was checked in this way and the lad made his way forward.

By this time a sickly dawn had arisen and although it was still blowing hard the full fury of the hurricane had distinctly moderated. The dirigible, however, was clearly beyond all control and Frank, after a glance into the engine-room, where the engineer lay insensible beside his machines, started for the pilot-house.

At its threshold he stopped with a cry of surprise.

The railing, against which he had left Malvoise lying, gaped open raggedly for a space of several feet, as if a heavy body had plunged through it. A brief examination showed the boy some bits of cloth still clinging to the rough ends of the shattered rail, indicating plainly enough that the doomed Frenchman had been hurled into empty space while the storm was at its height and they all lay senseless.

Undoubtedly his body had been rolled by a lurch of the ship in toward the cabin and then been cast outward again by a reverse swing. The railing, none too strong at best, had evidently not been capable of withstanding the impact and the Frenchman's body had been hurled through into the void.

Shuddering at the thought of such an end, Frank aroused his brother and Ben and then went aft to inspect the engine-room. He found that of the eight cylinders only five were doing their work, and a brief examination showed why. The insulation on three of the spark plugs had cracked and it was not before he had done a lot of rummaging around that the boy found spare ones stored in a locker.

By this time the engineer, who seemed a decent enough fellow, and told Frank his name was Dick Richards, had recovered and helped the boy fit the new sparkers to the motor. First, however, Frank had hailed Harry through the tube leading to the pilot-house.

"How high are we?" he asked.

"A thousand feet," came back the reply.

"All right," shouted Frank back. "I guess the wind has moderated enough now for us to drift for a while. I am going to stop the engine."

The machinery accordingly was brought to a standstill and Frank and the engineer set busily to work placing the new sparkplugs and wiring them up.

This completed, Frank hailed Harry once more.

"I'm going to start up."

"All right. I'm looking out," came the reply.

The compressed air apparatus that started the engines was put in operation and the engine was soon working as if nothing had happened.

"Say, you are an all right mechanic," was Dick Richards' admiring tribute to Frank's skill.

By noon the last traces of the hurricane had died out and the dirigible was driving forward over a sparkling sea with a cloudless sky overhead. After breakfast, in which the now resuscitated members of the crew and Constantio took part, Frank called them forward and told them of the fate of Malvoise. None of them seemed particularly grieved, as the man had undoubtedly been a hard taskmaster.

"You are captain of this ship now," said Constantio to Frank. "I am only her inventor and have already received from Luther Barr the full purchase price. I have deposited it in a bank in New York. In this treasure they are hunting I have no interest. All I want to do is to invent air-ships."

Constantio had recognized Ben Stubbs as soon as he set eyes on him, and laughed with apparent good nature at the recollection of their meeting in Boston. He had recovered the watch the little gamin got away with, he told them, and had never mentioned to Luther Barr the fact that Ben had inspected the air-ship and then escaped, for fear of the grim old millionaire's wrath.

"When he is mad he is like one volcano," he declared volubly.

Breakfast over, they skimmed along through the air till noon, when Frank took an observation with the ill-fated Malvoise's instruments.

"We ought to be falling in soon with one of the Bahama group of islands," he announced. "We were not driven so far as I thought, and if we can make a landing we ought to be able to effect repairs and then fly for land. We certainly cannot go much further on the supply of gas we now have, the ship is getting lower all the time."

This was indeed the fact. With her heavy load and reduced supply of gas the air-ship was rapidly decreasing the space between herself and the sea.

During the afternoon the water tanks were emptied, which lightened the ship considerably, but left the voyagers only a small supply of the fluid, which was likely to prove serious if they did not find land soon. By supper time it became necessary also to tear out some of the heavy cabin fittings and cast them away.

By early the next day, after a restless night, the ship had settled so much, despite the lightening process, that she rode soggily along at not more than fifty feet above the level of the sea. The situation was indeed a serious one.

Suddenly there came a hail from Ben, who was standing at the bow of the craft.

"Land ho!"

The adventurers crowded forward.

There, sure enough, dead ahead of them, was what looked like a tiny blue cloud on the horizon, but which Ben's practiced eye had told him was land. With new heart the voyagers drove on and by mid-afternoon were in sight of the island, which on closer view proved to be one of those small palm-crowned atolls that are common enough in these waters.

The dirigible had by this time settled so badly that she was barely twenty feet above the wave-tops.

Some sacks of ballast still remained, kept by Frank for an emergency. He now was compelled reluctantly to give the order to cut these away and one by one they dropped overboard; but as they did so, the ship rose and an hour later they landed on a smooth beach.

The island did not seem to be of great extent, but to the delight of the adventurers, from the midst of the cocoanut grove that crowned the islet there flowed a tiny stream of clear water. This was indeed a godsend, as they did not know how long they might have to remain there. With a spade, which formed part of the dirigible's outfit -- "I suppose they figured on shoveling out the treasure," laughed Harry -- a small basin was soon dug out for the water to settle in and make a sort of small well, from which it could be dipped out for cooking and drinking purposes.

Fortunately the larder of the dirigible was well stocked, and as they were two mouths short they were not in any immediate fear of hunger. That evening, when arrangements for sleeping and keeping watch for any passing steamer or vessel had been made, Constantio beckoned to Frank and asked him to join him in a walk along the beach. The lad, nothing loath of a chance for exploration, started off with the Spanish inventor, who seemed to be anxious to confide something to him.

"You are worried about getting away from the island?" he said.

"I am -- yes," rejoined Frank, "you see our gas is exhausted and I for one can't figure out but we shall stay here till some one comes along and picks us up. Unless we can build a raft out of the remains of the dirigible."

"Oh, make yourself easy about that, my dear young friend," exclaimed the inventor. "I can refill the gas-bag and that without delay, but -- but -- well, to be frank with you, how much is it worth to you if I do so?"

Frank was amazed at the sudden proposal and no less astonished at the Spaniard's boast that he could inflate the dirigible.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I confess I don't altogether understand you."

"I thought I had made myself clear," was the reply. "I have changed my mind since I spoke to you last about the treasure, and now I feel that I am entitled to some of it if I can refill the dirigible."

"Why, yes," said Frank, with a laugh; "of course you are IF you really can."

"Would five thousand dollars' worth of ornaments or doubloons seem too much?" ventured the Spaniard.

Frank broke into a loud laugh.

"Why, no; you shall have that, and gladly, if you think you can help us to get out of this place."

"Thank you," said the inventor, quite seriously, "I don't want more than my just dues, but I certainly am entitled to that."

"Oh, certainly," laughed Frank, much amused at the man's deprecatory manner. "What is your plan?"

"Well, senor," said the Spaniard, "I have a certain amount of my gas-producing powder left in my cabin. There is none too much, but enough, I think, to inflate the dirigible with -- at any rate, to fit her for flight to the mainland, which cannot be so very far off."

Frank nodded.

"There are some empty cylinders on board," went on the inventor. "All that is necessary to do is to put equal parts of sand, water and my powder into the cylinders and then screw on the caps to produce almost pure hydrogen gas at tremendous pressure. You follow me?"

"Yes," said Frank, "when can we do this?"

"Why, to-morrow morning," was the reply. "The actual inflation will take but little time."

As they returned to their camp they found it in a state of great excitement. Two of the men, in strolling about the island, had found lying up in a small cove, where it seemed to have drifted, a ship's boat.

There was no clue as to how it had come there, but on its stern were painted the words "Falcon, New York."

"I'll bet a lemon that it's one of the ship's boats of the Falcon that I read about been missing this year," exclaimed Ben; "it's got oars in it, too, they say. They are lashed under the seats, so that it must have broken loose from the ship when she went down and been washed ashore here. We can get away in the boat if nothing better offers."

Frank drew him aside and explained to him Constantio's plan for reinflating the gas-bag.

"We will try that, and if that plan fails then we can take to the boat," said the boy.

Ben agreed that if the air-ship could be inflated it would be much better to fly to land in her than to set out under the tropical sun in an open boat, not knowing where they might land.

The camp was so arranged that night that the treasure was placed near to the boys and Ben, while the three members of the dirigible's crew, her engineer and Constantio slept at some little distance.

Had the boys seen the gleam that had come into the inventor's eyes at the discovery of the boat they would not have been so trustful of him when he volunteered to take the middle watch of the night. As it was, however, they little imagined the plot that had formed in the fellow's head. While the boys and Ben slumbered, however, he drew aside the engineer and Wells, the red-headed sailor, and the three rapidly stocked up the boat with water from the spring in kegs and jars taken from the dirigible and laid in a supply of provisions. Then they awakened the other two men and explained to them in low whispers the plan to escape from the island they had formed.

"We will get all the treasure and divide it," whispered the cunning inventor. "If the boys wake while we are getting it to the boat, don't hesitate to attack them. We are stronger in numbers and can beat them off."

The other two readily agreed, more particularly as the inventor told them that it was the boys' intention to keep all the treasure for themselves in the event of their getting ashore in the dirigible. Before the boat had been found the inventor had been willing enough to aid the boys, but with the discovery of that means of escape his plans had undergone a change. He saw a way to appropriate the entire mass of treasure.



Chapter XXV.

The Fight On The Island.


Silently as cats the plotters approached the pile of treasure sacks when they judged that the time was ripe for their raid on the valuables. Constantio, who was a coward at heart, had taken his station by the boat so as to be the furthest away from danger should the boys be aroused.

With a beating heart he waited the appearance of the first heavy bag of treasure. At last the engineer and one of the sailors came in sight dragging it over the top of a sand dune.

"Phew, that's heavy," exclaimed the sailor, who was our red-headed friend, Wells, setting the bag down with a sigh. "How far is it from the camp to this boat, Mister Concertina?"

"Not more than a few hundred yards," replied Constantio; "I don't see what a big strapping fellow like you is making so much fuss over packing a fortune that little distance."

"It's a wonder you wouldn't tackle the job yourself," said Wells indignantly, as he and the engineer heaved the sack into the boat. "I guess you are scared though. I always knew that Spaniards were cowards."

Infuriated as much by the truth of the insult as stung by the stigma it conveyed, Constantio, pale with fury, sprang at the sailor with his knife drawn. He sprang back again with the same agility and crouched on his haunches like a tiger-cat, as the sailor whipped out a revolver and leveled it at him.

"Now you be careful what you are doing, Concertina," he said, "or I'll have to send you where you won't make no more trouble."

As he spoke there came a loud report from the direction of the camp.

It was followed by another and another.

"They have discovered us!" cried Constantio, seizing hold of the boat and trying to drag it off.

At the same instant the two sailors, who had been left behind to bring a second sack of the treasure, appeared, racing over the top of the sand dune.

"They heard us as we were moving the sack," cried one of them; "something jangled, I guess, and -- "

"They awakened and fired at us, -- see here," he held up a bleeding arm, "broke my elbow I guess."

"Come on," shouted Wells, "we are playing for too big a stake to let two boys and an old man beat us off. Who is for coming back and driving them off?"

Constantio turned white, fighting was not in his line, but the sailor stepped to his side and whispered something, at the same time pressing his revolver to the Spaniard's head, and the wretch, trembling in every limb, followed the others back. But the attacking party was doomed not to get any more treasure that night. As they approached the camp Frank called out in a clear voice:

"We don't want to do you any harm, but don't come any closer or we shall fire."

For reply Wells let fly a bullet at the boy's head, which, if the sailor had not been an indifferent shot, would have inflicted a serious wound. As it was, it flew wide and went whistling out to sea.

Before Frank could check him, old Ben in a furious rage stood up and fired straight at Wells. He shattered the man's wrist and with a howl of pain he dropped his revolver.

"Come on, men," shouted Constantio, as he saw the mainstay of the attackers rendered helpless; "we've got enough loot in that one sack to secure us all a good sum when we get ashore. Come on -- I'm for the boat!"

So saying he turned and ran at top speed for the boat, the others after him. The shore gained, they leaped to the sides of the craft, having first thrown in the wounded sailor Wells, and then shoved the boat off till they were waist-deep in water.

The boys and Ben reached the spot just as they were clambering in and getting out the oars.

"Shall I tell 'em to come back, or have a hole shot in their boat?" asked Ben.

"No," decided Frank, "let them go. We are cheaply rid of the rascals at the cost of only one sack of valuables."

The men fell to the oars with a will, and were soon out of sight in the darkness. Nothing more was ever heard of them by the boys, but as some time ago a sailor was arrested on the Bowery trying to pawn a candlestick of solid gold marked Buena Ventura, it is reasonable to suppose the men eventually got ashore. The prisoner gave the name of Jones, but as he had red hair it is not unreasonable to assume that he was none other than Wells. As nobody claimed the candlestick and the police had received no word of such an article being stolen, it was given back to the man and he was released.



Chapter XXVI.

The Boys Win Out.


"Now," said Frank briskly the next morning, "as that scoundrel Constantio tried to steal a march on us we shall have to try to discover his powder and make the gas by ourselves."

"What," exclaimed Harry, "do you mean to say that you think it would be possible to do it?"

"If he can, I don't see why we can't," rejoined the other. "The first thing to do is to find his powder. Then to mix it with equal parts of water and sand in the cylinders and screw the caps on."

"Sounds easy," commented Harry.

"I guess the hardest part will be to find the powder," put in Ben. "How are we to tell whether it's hydrogen gas powder or Seidlitz powder, I'd like to know."

After a hasty breakfast a thorough rummaging of the cabin occupied by Constantio was begun.

"Say, Frank," suddenly cried Ben, who was bending over a locker, "is this the stuff?"

Frank hastened to his side and saw, ranged side by side, a number of wooden boxes about a foot square labeled "Dangerous."

"I guess that's the stuff all right, Ben," he said, "bear a hand and we'll drag it out. Only be very careful of it. It is probably a high explosive if not handled delicately."

One by one the boxes were transferred until two dozen of them stood on the beach, set in soft sand. Then a sudden difficulty flashed into Frank's mind. Constantio had said "equal parts of sand, water and the powder," but he had not said how much these equal parts were to be. The only thing to do was to experiment.

Fortunately the massive steel cylinders, in which the gas was to be generated, were provided with gauges to register the pressure. One thousand pounds were marked as top measure, so Frank assumed that somewhere about 800 pounds would be enough.

The first mixture they tried only registered three hundred pounds, but by gradually increasing the amount of powder they at last hit upon the required strength, and were ready to start on the work of inflation.

They had six cylinders full of the gas. Not enough to fully inflate the bag, but enough, Frank calculated, to render it sufficiently buoyant to carry the reduced weight it would be called upon to convey now that the crew was gone.

The inflation nozzle was connected with cylinder after cylinder, till the bag became so buoyant that it was necessary to weight the machine down with heavy stones. At last the cylinders were emptied and the great bag, expanded by the warm sun, swelled up till it seemed it must burst. The expansion of gas by the sun was one of the things Frank had counted on when filling the bag, and he was glad to see his theories work out right. The treasure bags were hastily laden on to the craft and then the boys, standing on the lower framework, one on each side, while Ben stood in the pilot-house, started to kick off the weights that restrained the ship from rising.

They had not cast off more than half a dozen before the ship gave a mighty bound upward that threatened to throw them off her frames and before they could catch their breath they had shot up 1,200 feet or more. Hastily clambering aboard and laughing at the sudden jump, the boys got the engine going and shaped a course that would bring them over the spot where they had left the Bolo.

They held steadily on their course that day and the next. Early in the morning of the second they encountered a surprising incident. Frank, who was on lookout, hailed "Air-ship ahead."

And there, sure enough, heading northward, was a big red dirigible coming toward them like the wind.

As they drew near, a man with a megaphone appeared on her bridge and signaled that he wanted to hail them. Frank shut down the engine and the two air-ships drew alongside.

"What ship is that?" hailed the man on the bridge of the red air-ship, who wore yachting flannels as did his three companions.

"The Luther Barr of New York," responded Frank for lack of a better name.

"We are the Dos Hermanos, five days out from Cuba, bound for Jacksonville, Florida," was the response, "can you spare us any bread?"

"Come alongside," responded Frank in a hearty tone, "and we'll give you some tins of pilot bread."

"Bully for you," responded the red air-ship man.

The two dirigibles drifted together and the boys handed over some tins of pilot bread or ship biscuit with which the larder of the Luther Barr, as Frank had called her, was well provided.

"Thank-you," shouted the men on the red dirigible, as the lines were cast off, "good-bye and good luck."

"Same to you," hailed the boys, as the engines were started. An hour later the red dirigible had vanished on its voyage to the north.

"Well," said Frank, "that's the first time I've ever heard of 'ships that pass in air and speak to each other in passing.' I'm glad we were able to help a fellow voyager out."

Frank's observations that day showed that they could not be far from the spot from where the Bolo had been left, but eager scrutiny failed to reveal her till almost sundown, when Ben's sharp eyes spied her -- little more than a tiny black object on the horizon.

"There she is," he hailed.

Frank's binoculars soon confirmed the good tidings.

But as they neared the Bolo an astonishing thing happened.

Through the glasses they saw a form they recognized as Bluewater Bill's come out on the deck and gaze at them in amazement, to judge from the way he threw his arms about.

Presently he was joined by two other figures that the boys recognized as Billy Barnes and Lathrop.

Harry impetuously rushed to the rail, oblivious of the fact that at that distance the boys could not hear him, and shouted at the top of his voice.

"Hullo, Billy, hullo, Lathrop, hullo, Bill!"

It was then that the surprise was sprung. Frank through the glasses saw Bluewater Bill raise a rifle to his shoulder, and take deliberate aim at the dirigible. The bullet sang by the pilot-house chipping off a bit of molding.

"What on earth is the matter with them, have they gone crazy?" exclaimed Harry.

Frank was as puzzled as his brother for a minute, but suddenly the meaning of this inexplicable conduct burst upon him.

"They think we are Luther Barr! The sight of the dirigible has deceived them," he cried.

"I'll bet that's the right explanation," cried Harry, "how are we to undeceive them without getting our heads shot off?"

"I have it," cried Frank, diving into his pocket and bringing out a rumpled bit of silk, "that's the old Golden Eagle flag. I saved it when we had to abandon her."

Ben seized it from the boy's hand and ran to the rail with it, waving the bit of silk furiously. Evidently the occupants of the Bolo saw and recognized it, for they stopped their threatening demonstrations and began waving furiously.

As they hovered above the Bolo, Frank shouted as much explanation as he could through the megaphone, and then told the Boloites to be ready to make fast a line. This done a tackle was rigged and one by one, amid great cheering on Billy Barnes' part, the sacks of treasure were lowered.

This task accomplished, there remained but one thing for the boys on board the dirigible to do -- namely to get on board the Bolo. The gas-bag was deflated by means of the escape valve till the big dirigible was but a few feet above the Bolo, and then the adventurers slid down the rope on to the smaller vessel's deck. There being no way of transporting the dirigible, she was allowed to drift away.

What greetings, handshakings, dances and yarn spinning took place then, we will leave our readers to imagine. Early next day, after it had been agreed that two-thirds of the treasure was to be divided among Bluewater Bill, Frank and Harry, and the remainder in even parts to Billy Lathrop and Ben Stubbs, anchor was got up and the Bolo headed for the Florida coast. The young adventurers meant to head for St. Augustine and then take train to New York, sending the Bolo back to Galveston with a hired crew.

They had but one regret -- the loss of the gallant Golden Eagle. How she was recovered will be related in another volume, but restored to them she was.

"I'm glad we came through with such flying colors," said Harry to Frank one evening, while the boys were all seated on the foredeck, "but I hate to think our adventures are all over."

"I don't suppose we shall have any more for awhile," sighed Billy Barnes, "it seems to me we've done about all that's possible."

Frank laughed.

"With the money we can make from the sale of the treasure, we can build another aeroplane and have lots of good times," he said, "we might even try a transcontinental flight."

"From New York to Frisco -- bully," exclaimed Billy Barnes.

"Do you think that you really could make such a flight, Frank?" asked Lathrop.

To satisfy the curiosity of others like Lathrop, we will say that not only could the boys make the flight but that they did, and had a series of surprising adventures in connection with it.

It now only remains to tell of the conclusion of Luther Barr's vain quest for the treasure. Perhaps an item from a New York newspaper best covers the ground. The clipping we have selected reads as follows:

"Luther Barr's yacht, Brigand, returned to-day and thus cleared up some of the mystery connected with her long sojourn in Southern waters. Seen on board her, Mr. Barr declined to be interviewed or to tell anything about his absence, which has created some stir on Wall Street. Asked if he were still interested in aeronautics, he became furiously angry and threatened to have the reporter thrown overboard. Mr. Barr said he had not heard anything about the remarkable discoveries on a derelict Spanish galleon made by Frank and Harry Chester, the Boy Aviators, and a party of adventurers who accompanied them, and of which a full account was printed in these columns some days ago, on the safe arrival of the boys from St. Augustine, Fla. Frank Chester said yesterday that there was nothing to add to our article as printed, except that the valuables recovered had realized more than $500,000."

And here for the present we will leave our young friends to renew our acquaintance with them in the next volume of this series, which will be called:

The Boy Aviators In Record Flight; Or, The Rival Aeroplane.

<eob>

A Chinese Wonder Book

By

Norman Hinsdale Pitman



The Golden Beetle Or Why The Dog Hates The Cat


"What we shall eat to-morrow, I haven't the slightest idea!" said Widow Wang to her eldest son, as he started out one morning in search of work.

"Oh, the gods will provide. I'll find a few coppers somewhere," replied the boy, trying to speak cheerfully, although in his heart he also had not the slightest idea in which direction to turn.

The winter had been a hard one: extreme cold, deep snow, and violent winds. The Wang house had suffered greatly. The roof had fallen in, weighed down by heavy snow. Then a hurricane had blown a wall over, and Ming-li, the son, up all night and exposed to a bitter cold wind, had caught pneumonia. Long days of illness followed, with the spending of extra money for medicine. All their scant savings had soon melted away, and at the shop where Ming-li had been employed his place was filled by another. When at last he arose from his sick-bed he was too weak for hard labour and there seemed to be no work in the neighbouring villages for him to do. Night after night he came home, trying not to be discouraged, but in his heart feeling the deep pangs of sorrow that come to the good son who sees his mother suffering for want of food and clothing.

"Bless his good heart!" said the poor widow after he had gone. "No mother ever had a better boy. I hope he is right in saying the gods will provide. It has been getting so much worse these past few weeks that it seems now as if my stomach were as empty as a rich man's brain. Why, even the rats have deserted our cottage, and there's nothing left for poor Tabby, while old Blackfoot is nearly dead from starvation."

When the old woman referred to the sorrows of her pets, her remarks were answered by a pitiful mewing and woebegone barking from the corner where the two unfed creatures were curled up together trying to keep warm.

Just then there was a loud knocking at the gate. When the widow Wang called out, "Come in!" she was surprised to see an old bald-headed priest standing in the doorway. "Sorry, but we have nothing," she went on, feeling sure the visitor had come in search of food. "We have fed on scraps these two weeks -- on scraps and scrapings -- and now we are living on the memories of what we used to have when my son's father was living. Our cat was so fat she couldn't climb to the roof. Now look at her. You can hardly see her, she's so thin. No, I'm sorry we can't help you, friend priest, but you see how it is."

"I didn't come for alms," cried the clean-shaven one, looking at her kindly, "but only to see what I could do to help you. The gods have listened long to the prayers of your devoted son. They honour him because he has not waited till you die to do sacrifice for you. They have seen how faithfully he has served you ever since his illness, and now, when he is worn out and unable to work, they are resolved to reward him for his virtue. You likewise have been a good mother and shall receive the gift I am now bringing."

"What do you mean?" faltered Mrs. Wang, hardly believing her ears at hearing a priest speak of bestowing mercies. "Have you come here to laugh at our misfortunes?"

"By no means. Here in my hand I hold a tiny golden beetle which you will find has a magic power greater than any you ever dreamed of. I will leave this precious thing with you, a present from the god of filial conduct."

"Yes, it will sell for a good sum," murmured the other, looking closely at the trinket, "and will give us millet for several days. Thanks, good priest, for your kindness."

"But you must by no means sell this golden beetle, for it has the power to fill your stomachs as long as you live."

The widow stared in open-mouthed wonder at the priest's surprising words.

"Yes, you must not doubt me, but listen carefully to what I tell you. Whenever you wish food, you have only to place this ornament in a kettle of boiling water, saying over and over again the names of what you want to eat. In three minutes take off the lid, and there will be your dinner, smoking hot, and cooked more perfectly than any food you have ever eaten."

"May I try it now?" she asked eagerly.

"As soon as I am gone."

When the door was shut, the old woman hurriedly kindled a fire, boiled some water, and then dropped in the golden beetle, repeating these words again and again:


"Dumplings, dumplings, come to me, I am thin as thin can be. Dumplings, dumplings, smoking hot, Dumplings, dumplings, fill the pot."


Would those three minutes never pass? Could the priest have told the truth? Her old head was nearly wild with excitement as clouds of steam rose from the kettle. Off came the lid! She could wait no longer. Wonder of wonders! There before her unbelieving eyes was a pot, full to the brim of pork dumplings, dancing up and down in the bubbling water, the best, the most delicious dumplings she had ever tasted. She ate and ate till there was no room left in her greedy stomach, and then she feasted the cat and the dog until they were ready to burst.

"Good fortune has come at last," whispered Blackfoot, the dog, to Whitehead, the cat, as they lay down to sun themselves outside. "I fear I couldn't have held out another week without running away to look for food. I don't know just what's happened, but there's no use questioning the gods."

Mrs. Wang fairly danced for joy at the thought of her son's return and of how she would feast him.

"Poor boy, how surprised he will be at our fortune -- and it's all on account of his goodness to his old mother."

When Ming-li came, with a dark cloud overhanging his brow, the widow saw plainly that disappointment was written there.

"Come, come, lad!" she cried cheerily, "clear up your face and smile, for the gods have been good to us and I shall soon show you how richly your devotion has been rewarded." So saying, she dropped the golden beetle into the boiling water and stirred up the fire.

Thinking his mother had gone stark mad for want of food, Ming-li stared solemnly at her. Anything was preferable to this misery. Should he sell his last outer garment for a few pennies and buy millet for her? Blackfoot licked his hand comfortingly, as if to say, "Cheer up, master, fortune has turned in our favour." Whitehead leaped upon a bench, purring like a sawmill.

Ming-li did not have long to wait. Almost in the twinkling of an eye he heard his mother crying out,

"Sit down at the table, son, and eat these dumplings while they are smoking hot."

Could he have heard correctly? Did his ears deceive him? No, there on the table was a huge platter full of the delicious pork dumplings he liked better than anything else in all the world, except, of course, his mother.

"Eat and ask no questions," counselled the Widow Wang. "When you are satisfied I will tell you everything."

Wise advice! Very soon the young man's chopsticks were twinkling like a little star in the verses. He ate long and happily, while his good mother watched him, her heart overflowing with joy at seeing him at last able to satisfy his hunger. But still the old woman could hardly wait for him to finish, she was so anxious to tell him her wonderful secret.

"Here, son!" she cried at last, as he began to pause between mouthfuls, "look at my treasure!" And she held out to him the golden beetle.

"First tell me what good fairy of a rich man has been filling our hands with silver?"

"That's just what I am trying to tell you," she laughed, "for there was a fairy here this afternoon sure enough, only he was dressed like a bald priest. That golden beetle is all he gave me, but with it comes a secret worth thousands of cash to us."

The youth fingered the trinket idly, still doubting his senses, and waiting impatiently for the secret of his delicious dinner. "But, mother, what has this brass bauble to do with the dumplings, these wonderful pork dumplings, the finest I ever ate?"

"Baubles indeed! Brass! Fie, fie, my boy! You little know what you are saying. Only listen and you shall hear a tale that will open your eyes."

She then told him what had happened, and ended by setting all of the left-over dumplings upon the floor for Blackfoot and Whitehead, a thing her son had never seen her do before, for they had been miserably poor and had had to save every scrap for the next meal.

Now began a long period of perfect happiness. Mother, son, dog and cat -- all enjoyed themselves to their hearts' content. All manner of new foods such as they had never tasted were called forth from the pot by the wonderful little beetle. Bird-nest soup, shark's fins, and a hundred other delicacies were theirs for the asking, and soon Ming-li regained all his strength, but, I fear, at the same time grew somewhat lazy, for it was no longer necessary for him to work. As for the two animals, they became fat and sleek and their hair grew long and glossy.

But alas! according to a Chinese proverb, pride invites sorrow. The little family became so proud of their good fortune that they began to ask friends and relatives to dinner that they might show off their good meals. One day a Mr. and Mrs. Chu came from a distant village. They were much astonished at seeing the high style in which the Wangs lived. They had expected a beggar's meal, but went away with full stomachs.

"It's the best stuff I ever ate," said Mr. Chu, as they entered their own tumble-down house.

"Yes, and I know where it came from," exclaimed his wife. "I saw Widow Wang take a little gold ornament out of the pot and hide it in a cupboard. It must be some sort of charm, for I heard her mumbling to herself about pork and dumplings just as she was stirring up the fire."

"A charm, eh? Why is it that other people have all the luck? It looks as if we were doomed forever to be poor."

"Why not borrow Mrs. Wang's charm for a few days until we can pick up a little flesh to keep our bones from clattering? Turn about's fair play. Of course, we'll return it sooner or later."

"Doubtless they keep very close watch over it. When would you find them away from home, now that they don't have to work any more? As their house only contains one room, and that no bigger than ours, it would be difficult to borrow this golden trinket. It is harder, for more reasons than one, to steal from a beggar than from a king."

"Luck is surely with us," cried Mrs. Chu, clapping her hands. "They are going this very day to the Temple fair. I overheard Mrs. Wang tell her son that he must not forget he was to take her about the middle of the afternoon. I will slip back then and borrow the little charm from the box in which she hid it."

"Aren't you afraid of Blackfoot?"

"Pooh! he's so fat he can do nothing but roll. If the widow comes back suddenly, I'll tell her I came to look for my big hair-pin, that I lost it while I was at dinner."

"All right, go ahead, only of course we must remember we're borrowing the thing, not stealing it, for the Wangs have always been good friends to us, and then, too, we have just dined with them."

So skilfully did this crafty woman carry out her plans that within an hour she was back in her own house, gleefully showing the priest's charm to her husband. Not a soul had seen her enter the Wang house. The dog had made no noise, and the cat had only blinked her surprise at seeing a stranger and had gone to sleep again on the floor.

Great was the clamour and weeping when, on returning from the fair in expectation of a hot supper, the widow found her treasure missing. It was long before she could grasp the truth. She went back to the little box in the cupboard ten times before she could believe it was empty, and the room looked as if a cyclone had struck it, so long and carefully did the two unfortunates hunt for the lost beetle.

Then came days of hunger which were all the harder to bear since the recent period of good food and plenty. Oh, if they had only not got used to such dainties! How hard it was to go back to scraps and scrapings!

But if the widow and her son were sad over the loss of the good meals, the two pets were even more so. They were reduced to beggary and had to go forth daily upon the streets in search of stray bones and refuse that decent dogs and cats turned up their noses at.

One day, after this period of starvation had been going on for some time, Whitehead began suddenly to frisk about in great excitement.

"Whatever is the matter with you?" growled Blackfoot. "Are you mad from hunger, or have you caught another flea?"

"I was just thinking over our affairs, and now I know the cause of all our trouble."

"Do you indeed?" sneered Blackfoot.

"Yes, I do indeed, and you'd better think twice before you mock me, for I hold your future in my paw, as you will very soon see."

"Well, you needn't get angry about nothing. What wonderful discovery have you made -- that every rat has one tail?"

"First of all, are you willing to help me bring good fortune back to our family?"

"Of course I am. Don't be silly," barked the dog, wagging his tail joyfully at the thought of another good dinner. "Surely! surely! I will do anything you like if it will bring Dame Fortune back again."

"All right. Here is the plan. There has been a thief in the house who has stolen our mistress's golden beetle. You remember all our big dinners that came from the pot? Well, every day I saw our mistress take a little golden beetle out of the black box and put it into the pot. One day she held it up before me, saying, 'Look, puss, there is the cause of all our happiness. Don't you wish it was yours?' Then she laughed and put it back into the box that stays in the cupboard."

"Is that true?" questioned Blackfoot. "Why didn't you say something about it before?"

"You remember the day Mr. and Mrs. Chu were here, and how Mrs. Chu returned in the afternoon after master and mistress had gone to the fair? I saw her, out of the tail of my eye, go to that very black box and take out the golden beetle. I thought it curious, but never dreamed she was a thief. Alas! I was wrong! She took the beetle, and if I am not mistaken, she and her husband are now enjoying the feasts that belong to us."

"Let's claw them," growled Blackfoot, gnashing his teeth.

"That would do no good," counselled the other, "for they would be sure to come out best in the end. We want the beetle back -- that's the main thing. We'll leave revenge to human beings; it is none of our business."

"What do you suggest?" said Blackfoot. "I am with you through thick and thin."

"Let's go to the Chu house and make off with the beetle."

"Alas, that I am not a cat!" moaned Blackfoot. "If we go there I couldn't get inside, for robbers always keep their gates well locked. If I were like you I could scale the wall. It is the first time in all my life I ever envied a cat."

"We will go together," continued Whitehead. "I will ride on your back when we are fording the river, and you can protect me from strange animals. When we get to the Chu house, I will climb over the wall and manage the rest of the business myself. Only you must wait outside to help me to get home with the prize."

No sooner arranged than done. The companions set out that very night on their adventure. They crossed the river as the cat had suggested, and Blackfoot really enjoyed the swim, for, as he said, it took him back to his puppyhood, while the cat did not get a single drop of water on her face. It was midnight when they reached the Chu house.

"Just wait till I return," purred Whitehead in Blackfoot's ear.

With a mighty spring she reached the top of the mud wall, and then jumped down to the inside court. While she was resting in the shadow, trying to decide just how to go about her work, a slight rustling attracted her attention, and pop! one giant spring, one stretch-out of the claws, and she had caught a rat that had just come out of his hole for a drink and a midnight walk.

Now, Whitehead was so hungry that she would have made short work of this tempting prey if the rat had not opened its mouth and, to her amazement, begun to talk in good cat dialect.

"Pray, good puss, not so fast with your sharp teeth! Kindly be careful with your claws! Don't you know it is the custom now to put prisoners on their honour? I will promise not to run away."

"Pooh! what honour has a rat?"

"Most of us haven't much, I grant you, but my family was brought up under the roof of Confucius, and there we picked up so many crumbs of wisdom that we are exceptions to the rule. If you will spare me, I will obey you for life, in fact, will be your humble slave." Then, with a quick jerk, freeing itself, "See, I am loose now, but honour holds me as if I were tied, and so I make no further attempt to get away."

"Much good it would do you," purred Whitehead, her fur crackling noisily, and her mouth watering for a taste of rat steak. "However, I am quite willing to put you to the test. First, answer a few polite questions and I will see if you're a truthful fellow. What kind of food is your master eating now, that you should be so round and plump when I am thin and scrawny?"

"Oh, we have been in luck lately, I can tell you. Master and mistress feed on the fat of the land, and of course we hangers-on get the crumbs."

"But this is a poor tumble-down house. How can they afford such eating?"

"That is a great secret, but as I am in honour bound to tell you, here goes. My mistress has just obtained in some manner or other, a fairy's charm --  -- "

"She stole it from our place," hissed the cat, "I will claw her eyes out if I get the chance. Why, we've been fairly starving for want of that beetle. She stole it from us just after she had been an invited guest! What do you think of that for honour, Sir Rat? Were your mistress's ancestors followers of the sage?"

"Oh, oh, oh! Why, that explains everything!" wailed the rat. "I have often wondered how they got the golden beetle, and yet of course I dared not ask any questions."

"No, certainly not! But hark you, friend rat -- you get that golden trinket back for me, and I will set you free at once of all obligations. Do you know where she hides it?"

"Yes, in a crevice where the wall is broken. I will bring it to you in a jiffy, but how shall we exist when our charm is gone? There will be a season of scanty food, I fear; beggars' fare for all of us."

"Live on the memory of your good deed," purred the cat. "It is splendid, you know, to be an honest beggar. Now scoot! I trust you completely, since your people lived in the home of Confucius. I will wait here for your return. Ah!" laughed Whitehead to herself, "luck seems to be coming our way again!"

Five minutes later the rat appeared, bearing the trinket in its mouth. It passed the beetle over to the cat, and then with a whisk was off for ever. Its honour was safe, but it was afraid of Whitehead. It had seen the gleam of desire in her green eyes, and the cat might have broken her word if she had not been so anxious to get back home where her mistress could command the wonderful kettle once more to bring forth food.

The two adventurers reached the river just as the sun was rising above the eastern hills.

"Be careful," cautioned Blackfoot, as the cat leaped upon his back for her ride across the stream, "be careful not to forget the treasure. In short, remember that even though you are a female, it is necessary to keep your mouth closed till we reach the other side."

"Thanks, but I don't think I need your advice," replied Whitehead, picking up the beetle and leaping on to the dog's back.

But alas! just as they were nearing the farther shore, the excited cat forgot her wisdom for a moment. A fish suddenly leaped out of the water directly under her nose. It was too great a temptation. Snap! went her jaws in a vain effort to land the scaly treasure, and the golden beetle sank to the bottom of the river.

"There!" said the dog angrily, "what did I tell you? Now all our trouble has been in vain -- all on account of your stupidity."

For a time there was a bitter dispute, and the companions called each other some very bad names -- such as turtle and rabbit. Just as they were starting away from the river, disappointed and discouraged, a friendly frog who had by chance heard their conversation offered to fetch the treasure from the bottom of the stream. No sooner said than done, and after thanking this accommodating animal profusely, they turned homeward once more.

When they reached the cottage the door was shut, and, bark as he would, Blackfoot could not persuade his master to open it. There was the sound of loud wailing inside.

"Mistress is broken-hearted," whispered the cat, "I will go to her and make her happy."

So saying, she sprang lightly through a hole in the paper window, which, alas! was too small and too far from the ground for the faithful dog to enter.

A sad sight greeted the gaze of Whitehead. The son was lying on the bed unconscious, almost dead for want of food, while his mother, in despair, was rocking backwards and forwards wringing her wrinkled hands and crying at the top of her voice for some one to come and save them.

"Here I am, mistress," cried Whitehead, "and here is the treasure you are weeping for. I have rescued it and brought it back to you."

The widow, wild with joy at sight of the beetle, seized the cat in her scrawny arms and hugged the pet tightly to her bosom.

"Breakfast, son, breakfast! Wake up from your swoon! Fortune has come again. We are saved from starvation!"

Soon a steaming hot meal was ready, and you may well imagine how the old woman and her son, heaping praises upon Whitehead, filled the beast's platter with good things, but never a word did they say of the faithful dog, who remained outside sniffing the fragrant odours and waiting in sad wonder, for all this time the artful cat had said nothing of Blackfoot's part in the rescue of the golden beetle.

At last, when breakfast was over, slipping away from the others, Whitehead jumped out through the hole in the window.

"Oh, my dear Blackfoot," she began laughingly, "you should have been inside to see what a feast they gave me! Mistress was so delighted at my bringing back her treasure that she could not give me enough to eat, nor say enough kind things about me. Too bad, old fellow, that you are hungry. You'd better run out into the street and hunt up a bone."

Maddened by the shameful treachery of his companion, the enraged dog sprang upon the cat and in a few seconds had shaken her to death.

"So dies the one who forgets a friend and who loses honour," he cried sadly, as he stood over the body of his companion.

Rushing out into the street, he proclaimed the treachery of Whitehead to the members of his tribe, at the same time advising that all self-respecting dogs should from that time onwards make war upon the feline race.

And that is why the descendants of old Blackfoot, whether in China or in the great countries of the West, have waged continual war upon the children and grandchildren of Whitehead, for a thousand generations of dogs have fought them and hated them with a great and lasting hatred.



The Great Bell


The mighty Yung-lo sat on the great throne surrounded by a hundred attendants. He was sad, for he could think of no wonderful thing to do for his country. He flirted his silken fan nervously and snapped his long finger-nails in the impatience of despair.

"Woe is me!" he cried at last, his sorrow getting the better of his usual calmness. "I have picked up the great capital and moved it from the South to Peking and have built here a mighty city. I have surrounded my city with a wall, even thicker and greater than the famous wall of China. I have constructed in this city scores of temples and palaces. I have had the wise men and scholars compile a great book of wisdom, made up of 23,000 volumes, the largest and most wonderful collection of learning ever gathered together by the hands of men. I have built watch-towers, bridges, and giant monuments, and now, alas! as I approach the end of my days as ruler of the Middle Kingdom there is nothing more to be done for my people. Better far that I should even now close my tired eyes for ever and mount up on high to be the guest of the dragon, than live on in idleness, giving to my children an example of uselessness and sloth."

"But, your Majesty," began one of Yung-lo's most faithful courtiers, named Ming-lin, falling upon his knees and knocking his head three times on the ground, "if you would only deign to listen to your humble slave, I would dare to suggest a great gift for which the many people of Peking, your children, would rise up and bless you both now and in future generations."

"Only tell me of such a gift and I will not only grant it to the imperial city, but as a sign of thanksgiving to you for your sage counsel I will bestow upon you the royal peacock feather."

"It is not for one of my small virtues," replied the delighted official, "to wear the feather when others so much wiser are denied it, but if it please your Majesty, remember that in the northern district of the city there has been erected a bell-tower which as yet remains empty. The people of the city need a giant bell to sound out the fleeting hours of the day, that they may be urged on to perform their labours and not be idle. The water-clock already marks the hours, but there is no bell to proclaim them to the populace."

"A good suggestion in sooth," answered the Emperor, smiling, "and yet who is there among us that has skill enough in bell-craft to do the task you propose? I am told that to cast a bell worthy of our imperial city requires the genius of a poet and the skill of an astronomer."

"True, most mighty one, and yet permit me to say that Kwan-yu, who so skilfully moulded the imperial cannon, can also cast a giant bell. He alone of all your subjects is worthy of the task, for he alone can do it justice."

Now, the official who proposed the name of Kwan-yu to the Emperor had two objects in so doing. He wished to quiet the grief of Yung-lo, who was mourning because he had nothing left to do for his people, and, at the same time, to raise Kwan-yu to high rank, for Kwan-yu's only daughter had for several years been betrothed to Ming-lin's only son, and it would be a great stroke of luck for Ming-lin if his daughter-in-law's father should come under direct favour of the Emperor.

"Depend upon it, Kwan-yu can do the work better than any other man within the length and breadth of your empire," continued Ming-lin, again bowing low three times.

"Then summon Kwan-yu at once to my presence, that I may confer with him about this important business."

In great glee Ming-lin arose and backed himself away from the golden throne, for it would have been very improper for him to turn his coat-tails on the Son of Heaven.

But it was with no little fear that Kwan-yu undertook the casting of the great bell.

"Can a carpenter make shoes?" he had protested, when Ming-lin had broken the Emperor's message to him.

"Yes," replied the other quickly, "if they be like those worn by the little island dwarfs, and, therefore, made of wood. Bells and cannon are cast from similar material. You ought easily to adapt yourself to this new work."

Now when Kwan-yu's daughter found out what he was about to undertake, she was filled with a great fear.

"Oh, honoured father," she cried, "think well before you give this promise. As a cannon-maker you are successful, but who can say about the other task? And if you fail, the Great One's wrath will fall heavily upon you."

"Just hear the girl," interrupted the ambitious mother. "What do you know about success and failure? You'd better stick to the subject of cooking and baby-clothes, for you will soon be married. As for your father, pray let him attend to his own business. It is unseemly for a girl to meddle in her father's affairs."

And so poor Ko-ai -- for that was the maiden's name -- was silenced, and went back to her fancy-work with a big tear stealing down her fair cheek, for she loved her father dearly and there had come into her heart a strange terror at thought of his possible danger.

Meanwhile, Kwan-yu was summoned to the Forbidden City, which is in the centre of Peking, and in which stands the Imperial palace. There he received his instructions from the Son of Heaven.

"And remember," said Yung-lo in conclusion, "this bell must be so great that the sound of it will ring out to a distance of thirty-three miles on every hand. To this end, you should add in proper proportions gold and brass, for they give depth and strength to everything with which they mingle. Furthermore, in order that this giant may not be lacking in the quality of sweetness, you must add silver in due proportion, while the sayings of the sages must be graven on its sides."

Now when Kwan-yu had really received his commission from the Emperor he searched the bookstalls of the city to find if possible some ancient descriptions of the best methods used in bell-casting. Also he offered generous wages to all who had ever had experience in the great work for which he was preparing. Soon his great foundry was alive with labourers; huge fires were burning; great piles of gold, silver and other metals were lying here and there, ready to be weighed.

Whenever Kwan-yu went out to a public tea-house all of his friends plied him with questions about the great bell.

"Will it be the largest in the world?"

"Oh, no," he would reply, "that is not necessary, but it must be the sweetest-toned, for we Chinese strive not for size, but for purity; not for greatness, but for virtue."

"When will it be finished?"

"Only the gods can tell, for I have had little experience, and perhaps I shall fail to mix the metals properly."

Every few days the Son of Heaven himself would send an imperial messenger to ask similar questions, for a king is likely to be just as curious as his subjects, but Kwan-yu would always modestly reply that he could not be certain; it was very doubtful when the bell would be ready.

At last, however, after consulting an astrologer, Kwan-yu appointed a day for the casting, and then there came another courtier robed in splendid garments, saying that at the proper hour the Great One himself would for the first time cross Kwan-yu's threshold -- would come to see the casting of the bell he had ordered for his people. On hearing this, Kwan-yu was sore afraid, for he felt that somehow, in spite of all his reading, in spite of all the advice he had received from well-wishers, there was something lacking in the mixture of the boiling metals that would soon be poured into the giant mould. In short, Kwan-yu was about to discover an important truth that this great world has been thousands of years in learning -- namely, that mere reading and advice cannot produce skill, that true skill can come only from years of experience and practice. On the brink of despair, he sent a servant with money to the temple, to pray to the gods for success in his venture. Truly, despair and prayer rhyme in every language.

Ko-ai, his daughter, was also afraid when she saw the cloud on her father's brow, for she it was, you remember, who had tried to prevent him from undertaking the Emperor's commission. She also went to the temple, in company with a faithful old servant, and prayed to heaven.

The great day dawned. The Emperor and his courtiers were assembled, the former sitting on a platform built for the occasion. Three attendants waved beautiful hand-painted fans about his imperial brow, for the room was very warm, and a huge block of ice lay melting in a bowl of carved brass, cooling the hot air before it should blow upon the head of the Son of Heaven.

Kwan-yu's wife and daughter stood in a corner at the back of the room, peering anxiously towards the cauldron of molten liquid, for well they knew that Kwan-yu's future rank and power depended on the success of this enterprise. Around the walls stood Kwan-yu's friends, and at the windows groups of excited servants strained their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of royalty, and for once afraid to chatter. Kwan-yu himself was hurrying hither and thither, now giving a final order, now gazing anxiously at the empty mould, and again glancing towards the throne to see if his imperial master was showing signs of impatience.

At last all was ready; everyone was waiting breathlessly for the sign from Yung-lo which should start the flowing of the metal. A slight bow of the head, a lifting of the finger! The glowing liquid, hissing with delight at being freed even for a moment from its prison, ran forward faster and faster along the channel that led into the great earthen bed.

The bell-maker covered his eyes with his fan, afraid to look at the swiftly-flowing stream. Were all his hopes to be suddenly dashed by the failure of the metals to mix and harden properly? A heavy sigh escaped him as at last he looked up at the thing he had created. Something had indeed gone wrong; he knew in the flash of an eye that misfortune had overtaken him.

Yes! sure enough, when at last the earthen casting had been broken, even the smallest child could see that the giant bell, instead of being a thing of beauty was a sorry mass of metals that would not blend.

"Alas!" said Yung-lo, "here is indeed a mighty failure, but even in this disappointment I see an object lesson well worthy of consideration, for behold! in yonder elements are all the materials of which this country is made up. There are gold and silver and the baser metals. United in the proper manner they would make a bell so wonderfully beautiful and so pure of tone that the very spirits of the Western heavens would pause to look and listen. But divided they form a thing that is hideous to eye and ear. Oh, my China! how many wars are there from time to time among the different sections, weakening the country and making it poor! If only all these peoples, great and small, the gold and silver and the baser elements, would unite, then would this land be really worthy of the name of the Middle Kingdom!"

The courtiers all applauded this speech of the great Yung-lo, but Kwan-yu remained on the ground where he had thrown himself at the feet of his sovereign. Still bowing his head and moaning, he cried out:

"Ah! your Majesty! I urged you not to appoint me, and now indeed you see my unfitness. Take my life, I beg you, as a punishment for my failure."

"Rise, Kwan-yu," said the great Prince. "I would be a mean master indeed if I did not grant you another trial. Rise up and see that your next casting profits by the lesson of this failure."

So Kwan-yu arose, for when the King speaks, all men must listen. The next day he began his task once more, but still his heart was heavy, for he knew not the reason of his failure and was therefore unable to correct his error. For many months he laboured night and day. Hardly a word would he speak to his wife, and when his daughter tried to tempt him with a dish of sunflower seed that she had parched herself, he would reward her with a sad smile, but would by no means laugh with her and joke as had formerly been his custom. On the first and fifteenth day of every moon he went himself to the temple and implored the gods to grant him their friendly assistance, while Ko-ai added her prayers to his, burning incense and weeping before the grinning idols.

Again the great Yung-lo was seated on the platform in Kwan-yu's foundry, and again his courtiers hovered round him, but this time, as it was winter, they did not flirt the silken fans. The Great One was certain that this casting would be successful. He had been lenient with Kwan-yu on the first occasion, and now at last he and the great city were to profit by that mercy.

Again he gave the signal; once more every neck was craned to see the flowing of the metal. But, alas! when the casing was removed it was seen that the new bell was no better than the first. It was, in fact, a dreadful failure, cracked and ugly, for the gold and silver and the baser elements had again refused to blend into a united whole.

With a bitter cry which touched the hearts of all those present, the unhappy Kwan-yu fell upon the floor. This time he did not bow before his master, for at the sight of the miserable conglomeration of useless metals his courage failed him, and he fainted. When at last he came to, the first sight that met his eyes was the scowling face of Yung-lo. Then he heard, as in a dream, the stern voice of the Son of Heaven:

"Unhappy Kwan-yu, can it be that you, upon whom I have ever heaped my favours, have twice betrayed the trust? The first time, I was sorry for you and willing to forget, but now that sorrow has turned into anger -- yea, the anger of heaven itself is upon you. Now, I bid you mark well my words. A third chance you shall have to cast the bell, but if on that third attempt you fail -- then by order of the Vermilion Pencil both you and Ming-lin, who recommended you, shall pay the penalty."

For a long time after the Emperor had departed, Kwan-yu lay on the floor surrounded by his attendants, but chief of all those who tried to restore him was his faithful daughter. For a whole week he wavered between life and death, and then at last there came a turn in his favour. Once more he regained his health, once more he began his preparations.

Yet all the time he was about his work his heart was heavy, for he felt that he would soon journey into the dark forest, the region of the great yellow spring, the place from which no pilgrim ever returns. Ko-ai, too, felt more than ever that her father was in the presence of a great danger.

"Surely," she said one day to her mother, "a raven must have flown over his head. He is like the proverb of the blind man on the blind horse coming at midnight to a deep ditch. Oh, how can he cross over?"

Willingly would this dutiful daughter have done anything to save her loved one. Night and day she racked her brains for some plan, but all to no avail.

On the day before the third casting, as Ko-ai was sitting in front of her brass mirror braiding her long black hair, suddenly a little bird flew in at the window and perched upon her head. Immediately the startled maiden seemed to hear a voice as if some good fairy were whispering in her ear:

"Do not hesitate. You must go and consult the famous juggler who even now is visiting the city. Sell your jade-stones and other jewels, for this man of wisdom will not listen unless his attention is attracted by huge sums of money."

The feathered messenger flew out of her room, but Ko-ai had heard enough to make her happy. She despatched a trusted servant to sell her jade and her jewels, charging him on no account to tell her mother. Then, with a great sum of money in her possession she sought out the magician who was said to be wiser than the sages in knowledge of life and death.

"Tell me," she implored, as the greybeard summoned her to his presence, "tell me how I can save my father, for the Emperor has ordered his death if he fails a third time in the casting of the bell."

The astrologer, after plying her with questions, put on his tortoise-shell glasses and searched long in his book of knowledge. He also examined closely the signs of the heavens, consulting the mystic tables over and over again. Finally, he turned toward Ko-ai, who all the time had been awaiting his answer with impatience.

"Nothing could be plainer than the reason of your father's failure, for when a man seeks to do the impossible, he can expect Fate to give him no other answer. Gold cannot unite with silver, nor brass with iron, unless the blood of a maiden is mingled with the molten metals, but the girl who gives up her life to bring about the fusion must be pure and good."

With a sigh of despair Ko-ai heard the astrologer's answer. She loved the world and all its beauties; she loved her birds, her companions, her father; she had expected to marry soon, and then there would have been children to love and cherish. But now all these dreams of happiness must be forgotten. There was no other maiden to give up her life for Kwan-yu. She, Ko-ai, loved her father and must make the sacrifice for his sake.

And so the day arrived for the third trial, and a third time Yung-lo took his place in Kwan-yu's factory, surrounded by his courtiers. There was a look of stern expectancy on his face. Twice he had excused his underling for failure. Now there could be no thought of mercy. If the bell did not come from its cast perfect in tone and fair to look upon, Kwan-yu must be punished with the severest punishment that could be meted out to man -- even death itself. That was why there was a look of stern expectancy on Yung-lo's face, for he really loved Kwan-yu and did not wish to send him to his death.

As for Kwan-yu himself, he had long ago given up all thought of success, for nothing had happened since his second failure to make him any surer this time of success. He had settled up his business affairs, arranging for a goodly sum to go to his beloved daughter; he had bought the coffin in which his own body would be laid away and had stored it in one of the principal rooms of his dwelling; he had even engaged the priests and musicians who should chant his funeral dirge, and, last but not least, he had arranged with the man who would have charge of chopping off his head, that one fold of skin should be left uncut, as this would bring him better luck on his entry into the spiritual world than if the head were severed entirely from the body.

And so we may say that Kwan-yu was prepared to die. In fact, on the night before the final casting he had a dream in which he saw himself kneeling before the headsman and cautioning him not to forget the binding agreement the latter had entered into.

Of all those present in the great foundry, perhaps the devoted Ko-ai was the least excited. Unnoticed, she had slipped along the wall from the spot where she had been standing with her mother and had planted herself directly opposite the huge tank in which the molten, seething liquid bubbled, awaiting the signal when it should be set free. Ko-ai gazed at the Emperor, watching intently for the well-known signal. When at last she saw his head move forward she sprang with a wild leap into the boiling liquid, at the same time crying in her clear, sweet voice:

"For thee, dear father! It is the only way!"

The molten white metal received the lovely girl into its ardent embrace, received her, and swallowed her up completely, as in a tomb of liquid fire.

And Kwan-yu -- what of Kwan-yu, the frantic father? Mad with grief at the sight of his loved one giving up her life, a sacrifice to save him, he had sprung forward to hold her back from her terrible death, but had succeeded only in catching one of her tiny jewelled slippers as she sank out of sight for ever -- a dainty, silken slipper, to remind him always of her wonderful sacrifice. In his wild grief as he clasped this pitiful little memento to his heart he would himself have leaped in and followed her to her death, if his servants had not restrained him until the Emperor had repeated his signal and the liquid had been poured into the cast. As the sad eyes of all those present peered into the molten river of metals rushing to its earthen bed, they saw not a single sign remaining of the departed Ko-ai.

This, then, my children, is the time-worn legend of the great bell of Peking, a tale that has been repeated a million times by poets, story-tellers and devoted mothers, for you must know that on this third casting, when the earthen mould was removed, there stood revealed the most beautiful bell that eye had ever looked upon, and when it was swung up into the bell-tower there was immense rejoicing among the people. The silver and the gold and the iron and the brass, held together by the blood of the virgin, had blended perfectly, and the clear voice of the monster bell rang out over the great city, sounding a deeper, richer melody than that of any other bell within the limits of the Middle Kingdom, or, for that matter, of all the world. And, strange to say, even yet the deep-voiced colossus seems to cry out the name of the maiden who gave herself a living sacrifice, "Ko-ai! Ko-ai! Ko-ai!" so that all the people may remember her deed of virtue ten thousand years ago. And between the mellow peals of music there often seems to come a plaintive whisper that may be heard only by those standing near, "Hsieh! hsieh" -- the Chinese word for slipper. "Alas!" say all who hear it, "Ko-ai is crying for her slipper. Poor little Ko-ai!"

And now, my dear children, this tale is almost finished, but there is still one thing you must by no means fail to remember. By order of the Emperor, the face of the great bell was graven with precious sayings from the classics, that even in its moments of silence the bell might teach lessons of virtue to the people.

"Behold," said Yung-lo, as he stood beside the grief-stricken father, "amongst all yonder texts of wisdom, the priceless sayings of our honoured sages, there is none that can teach to my children so sweet a lesson of filial love and devotion as that one last act of your devoted daughter. For though she died to save you, her deed will still be sung and extolled by my people when you are passed away, yea, even when the bell itself has crumbled into ruins."



The Strange Tale Of Doctor Dog


Far up in the mountains of the Province of Hunan in the central part of China, there once lived in a small village a rich gentleman who had only one child. This girl, like the daughter of Kwan-yu in the story of the Great Bell, was the very joy of her father's life.

Now Mr. Min, for that was this gentleman's name, was famous throughout the whole district for his learning, and, as he was also the owner of much property, he spared no effort to teach Honeysuckle the wisdom of the sages, and to give her everything she craved. Of course this was enough to spoil most children, but Honeysuckle was not at all like other children. As sweet as the flower from which she took her name, she listened to her father's slightest command, and obeyed without ever waiting to be told a second time.

Her father often bought kites for her, of every kind and shape. There were fish, birds, butterflies, lizards and huge dragons, one of which had a tail more than thirty feet long. Mr. Min was very skilful in flying these kites for little Honeysuckle, and so naturally did his birds and butterflies circle round and hover about in the air that almost any little western boy would have been deceived and said, "Why, there is a real bird, and not a kite at all!" Then again, he would fasten a queer little instrument to the string, which made a kind of humming noise, as he waved his hand from side to side. "It is the wind singing, Daddy," cried Honeysuckle, clapping her hands with joy; "singing a kite-song to both of us." Sometimes, to teach his little darling a lesson if she had been the least naughty, Mr. Min would fasten queerly twisted scraps of paper, on which were written many Chinese words, to the string of her favourite kite.

"What are you doing, Daddy?" Honeysuckle would ask. "What can those queer-looking papers be?"

"On every piece is written a sin that we have done."

"What is a sin, Daddy?"

"Oh, when Honeysuckle has been naughty; that is a sin!" he answered gently. "Your old nurse is afraid to scold you, and if you are to grow up to be a good woman, Daddy must teach you what is right."

Then Mr. Min would send the kite up high -- high over the house-tops, even higher than the tall Pagoda on the hillside. When all his cord was let out, he would pick up two sharp stones, and, handing them to Honeysuckle, would say, "Now, daughter, cut the string, and the wind will carry away the sins that are written down on the scraps of paper."

"But, Daddy, the kite is so pretty. Mayn't we keep our sins a little longer?" she would innocently ask.

"No, child; it is dangerous to hold on to one's sins. Virtue is the foundation of happiness," he would reply sternly, choking back his laughter at her question. "Make haste and cut the cord."

So Honeysuckle, always obedient -- at least with her father -- would saw the string in two between the sharp stones, and with a childish cry of despair would watch her favourite kite, blown by the wind, sail farther and farther away, until at last, straining her eyes, she could see it sink slowly to the earth in some far-distant meadow.

"Now laugh and be happy," Mr. Min would say, "for your sins are all gone. See that you don't get a new supply of them."

Honeysuckle was also fond of seeing the Punch and Judy show, for, you must know, this old-fashioned amusement for children was enjoyed by little folks in China, perhaps three thousand years before your great-grandfather was born. It is even said that the great Emperor, Mu, when he saw these little dancing images for the first time, was greatly enraged at seeing one of them making eyes at his favourite wife. He ordered the showman to be put to death, and it was with difficulty the poor fellow persuaded his Majesty that the dancing puppets were not really alive at all, but only images of cloth and clay.

No wonder then Honeysuckle liked to see Punch and Judy if the Son of Heaven himself had been deceived by their queer antics into thinking them real people of flesh and blood.

But we must hurry on with our story, or some of our readers will be asking, "But where is Dr. Dog? Are you never coming to the hero of this tale?" One day when Honeysuckle was sitting inside a shady pavilion that overlooked a tiny fish-pond, she was suddenly seized with a violent attack of colic. Frantic with pain, she told a servant to summon her father, and then without further ado, she fell over in a faint upon the ground.

When Mr. Min reached his daughter's side, she was still unconscious. After sending for the family physician to come post haste, he got his daughter to bed, but although she recovered from her fainting fit, the extreme pain continued until the poor girl was almost dead from exhaustion.

Now, when the learned doctor arrived and peered at her from under his gigantic spectacles, he could not discover the cause of her trouble. However, like some of our western medical men, he did not confess his ignorance, but proceeded to prescribe a huge dose of boiling water, to be followed a little later by a compound of pulverized deer's horn and dried toadskin.

Poor Honeysuckle lay in agony for three days, all the time growing weaker and weaker from loss of sleep. Every great doctor in the district had been summoned for consultation; two had come from Changsha, the chief city of the province, but all to no avail. It was one of those cases that seem to be beyond the power of even the most learned physicians. In the hope of receiving the great reward offered by the desperate father, these wise men searched from cover to cover in the great Chinese Cyclopedia of Medicine, trying in vain to find a method of treating the unhappy maiden. There was even thought of calling in a certain foreign physician from England, who was in a distant city, and was supposed, on account of some marvellous cures he had brought to pass, to be in direct league with the devil. However, the city magistrate would not allow Mr. Min to call in this outsider, for fear trouble might be stirred up among the people.

Mr. Min sent out a proclamation in every direction, describing his daughter's illness, and offering to bestow on her a handsome dowry and give her in marriage to whoever should be the means of bringing her back to health and happiness. He then sat at her bedside and waited, feeling that he had done all that was in his power. There were many answers to his invitation. Physicians, old and young, came from every part of the Empire to try their skill, and when they had seen poor Honeysuckle and also the huge pile of silver shoes her father offered as a wedding gift, they all fought with might and main for her life; some having been attracted by her great beauty and excellent reputation, others by the tremendous reward.

But, alas for poor Honeysuckle! Not one of all those wise men could cure her! One day, when she was feeling a slight change for the better, she called her father, and, clasping his hand with her tiny one said, "Were it not for your love I would give up this hard fight and pass over into the dark wood; or, as my old grandmother says, fly up into the Western Heavens. For your sake, because I am your only child, and especially because you have no son, I have struggled hard to live, but now I feel that the next attack of that dreadful pain will carry me away. And oh, I do not want to die!"

Here Honeysuckle wept as if her heart would break, and her old father wept too, for the more she suffered the more he loved her.

Just then her face began to turn pale. "It is coming! The pain is coming, father! Very soon I shall be no more. Good-bye, father! Good-bye; good --  -- ." Here her voice broke and a great sob almost broke her father's heart. He turned away from her bedside; he could not bear to see her suffer. He walked outside and sat down on a rustic bench; his head fell upon his bosom, and the great salt tears trickled down his long grey beard.

As Mr. Min sat thus overcome with grief, he was startled at hearing a low whine. Looking up he saw, to his astonishment, a shaggy mountain dog about the size of a Newfoundland. The huge beast looked into the old man's eyes with so intelligent and human an expression, with such a sad and wistful gaze, that the greybeard addressed him, saying, "Why have you come? To cure my daughter?"

The dog replied with three short barks, wagging his tail vigorously and turning toward the half-opened door that led into the room where the girl lay.

By this time, willing to try any chance whatever of reviving his daughter, Mr. Min bade the animal follow him into Honeysuckle's apartment. Placing his forepaws upon the side of her bed, the dog looked long and steadily at the wasted form before him and held his ear intently for a moment over the maiden's heart. Then, with a slight cough he deposited from his mouth into her outstretched hand, a tiny stone. Touching her wrist with his right paw, he motioned to her to swallow the stone.

"Yes, my dear, obey him," counselled her father, as she turned to him inquiringly, "for good Dr. Dog has been sent to your bedside by the mountain fairies, who have heard of your illness and who wish to invite you back to life again."

Without further delay the sick girl, who was by this time almost burned away by the fever, raised her hand to her lips and swallowed the tiny charm. Wonder of wonders! No sooner had it passed her lips than a miracle occurred. The red flush passed away from her face, the pulse resumed its normal beat, the pains departed from her body, and she arose from the bed well and smiling.

Flinging her arms about her father's neck, she cried out in joy, "Oh, I am well again; well and happy; thanks to the medicine of the good physician."

The noble dog barked three times, wild with delight at hearing these tearful words of gratitude, bowed low, and put his nose in Honeysuckle's outstretched hand.

Mr. Min, greatly moved by his daughter's magical recovery, turned to the strange physician, saying, "Noble Sir, were it not for the form you have taken, for some unknown reason, I would willingly give four times the sum in silver that I promised for the cure of the girl, into your possession. As it is, I suppose you have no use for silver, but remember that so long as we live, whatever we have is yours for the asking, and I beg of you to prolong your visit, to make this the home of your old age -- in short, remain here for ever as my guest -- nay, as a member of my family."

The dog barked thrice, as if in assent. From that day he was treated as an equal by father and daughter. The many servants were commanded to obey his slightest whim, to serve him with the most expensive food on the market, to spare no expense in making him the happiest and best-fed dog in all the world. Day after day he ran at Honeysuckle's side as she gathered flowers in her garden, lay down before her door when she was resting, guarded her Sedan chair when she was carried by servants into the city. In short, they were constant companions; a stranger would have thought they had been friends from childhood.

One day, however, just as they were returning from a journey outside her father's compound, at the very instant when Honeysuckle was alighting from her chair, without a moment's warning, the huge animal dashed past the attendants, seized his beautiful mistress in his mouth, and before anyone could stop him, bore her off to the mountains. By the time the alarm was sounded, darkness had fallen over the valley and as the night was cloudy no trace could be found of the dog and his fair burden.

Once more the frantic father left no stone unturned to save his daughter. Huge rewards were offered, bands of woodmen scoured the mountains high and low, but, alas, no sign of the girl could be found! The unfortunate father gave up the search and began to prepare himself for the grave. There was nothing now left in life that he cared for -- nothing but thoughts of his departed daughter. Honeysuckle was gone for ever.

"Alas!" said he, quoting the lines of a famous poet who had fallen into despair:


"My whiting hair would make an endless rope, Yet would not measure all my depth of woe."


Several long years passed by; years of sorrow for the ageing man, pining for his departed daughter. One beautiful October day he was sitting in the very same pavilion where he had so often sat with his darling. His head was bowed forward on his breast, his forehead was lined with grief. A rustling of leaves attracted his attention. He looked up. Standing directly in front of him was Dr. Dog, and lo, riding on his back, clinging to the animal's shaggy hair, was Honeysuckle, his long-lost daughter; while standing near by were three of the handsomest boys he had ever set eyes upon!

"Ah, my daughter! My darling daughter, where have you been all these years?" cried the delighted father, pressing the girl to his aching breast. "Have you suffered many a cruel pain since you were snatched away so suddenly? Has your life been filled with sorrow?"

"Only at the thought of your grief," she replied, tenderly, stroking his forehead with her slender fingers; "only at the thought of your suffering; only at the thought of how I should like to see you every day and tell you that my husband was kind and good to me. For you must know, dear father, this is no mere animal that stands beside you. This Dr. Dog, who cured me and claimed me as his bride because of your promise, is a great magician. He can change himself at will into a thousand shapes. He chooses to come here in the form of a mountain beast so that no one may penetrate the secret of his distant palace."

"Then he is your husband?" faltered the old man, gazing at the animal with a new expression on his wrinkled face.

"Yes; my kind and noble husband, the father of my three sons, your grandchildren, whom we have brought to pay you a visit."

"And where do you live?"

"In a wonderful cave in the heart of the great mountains; a beautiful cave whose walls and floors are covered with crystals, and encrusted with sparkling gems. The chairs and tables are set with jewels; the rooms are lighted by a thousand glittering diamonds. Oh, it is lovelier than the palace of the Son of Heaven himself! We feed of the flesh of wild deer and mountain goats, and fish from the clearest mountain stream. We drink cold water out of golden goblets, without first boiling it, for it is purity itself. We breathe fragrant air that blows through forests of pine and hemlock. We live only to love each other and our children, and oh, we are so happy! And you, father, you must come back with us to the great mountains and live there with us the rest of your days, which, the gods grant, may be very many."

The old man pressed his daughter once more to his breast and fondled the children, who clambered over him rejoicing at the discovery of a grandfather they had never seen before.

From Dr. Dog and his fair Honeysuckle are sprung, it is said, the well-known race of people called the Yus, who even now inhabit the mountainous regions of the Canton and Hunan provinces. It is not for this reason, however, that we have told the story here, but because we felt sure every reader would like to learn the secret of the dog that cured a sick girl and won her for his bride.



How Footbinding Started


In the very beginning of all things, when the gods were creating the world, at last the time came to separate the earth from the heavens. This was hard work, and if it had not been for the coolness and skill of a young goddess all would have failed. This goddess was named Lu-o. She had been idly watching the growth of the planet, when, to her horror, she saw the newly made ball slipping slowly from its place. In another second it would have shot down into the bottomless pit. Quick as a flash Lu-o stopped it with her magic wand and held it firmly until the chief god came dashing up to the rescue.

But this was not all. When men and women were put on the earth Lu-o helped them greatly by setting an example of purity and kindness. Every one loved her and pointed her out as the one who was always willing to do a good deed. After she had left the world and gone into the land of the gods, beautiful statues of her were set up in many temples to keep her image always before the eyes of sinful people. The greatest of these was in the capital city. Thus, when sorrowful women wished to offer up their prayers to some virtuous goddess they would go to a temple of Lu-o and pour out their hearts before her shrine.

At one time the wicked Chow-sin, last ruler of the Yins, went to pray in the city Temple. There his royal eyes were captivated by the sight of a wonderful face, the beauty of which was so great that he fell in love with it at once, telling his ministers that he wished he might take this goddess, who was no other than Lu-o, for one of his wives.

Now Lu-o was terribly angry that an earthly prince should dare to make such a remark about her. Then and there she determined to punish the Emperor. Calling her assistant spirits, she told them of Chow-sin's insult. Of all her servants the most cunning was one whom we shall call Fox Sprite, because he really belonged to the fox family. Lu-o ordered Fox Sprite to spare himself no trouble in making the wicked ruler suffer for his impudence.

For many days, try as he would, Chow-sin, the great Son of Heaven, could not forget the face he had seen in the temple.

"He is stark mad," laughed his courtiers behind his back, "to fall in love with a statue."

"I must find a woman just like her," said the Emperor, "and take her to wife."

"Why not, most Mighty One," suggested a favourite adviser, "send forth a command throughout the length and breadth of your Empire, that no maiden shall be taken in marriage until you have chosen yourself a wife whose beauty shall equal that of Lu-o?"

Chow-sin was pleased with this suggestion and doubtless would have followed it had not his Prime Minister begged him to postpone issuing the order. "Your Imperial Highness," began the official, "since you have been pleased once or twice to follow my counsel, I beg of you to give ear now to what I say."

"Speak, and your words shall have my best attention," replied Chow-sin, with a gracious wave of the hand.

"Know then, Great One, that in the southern part of your realm there dwells a viceroy whose bravery has made him famous in battle."

"Are you speaking of Su-nan?" questioned Chow-sin, frowning, for this Su-nan had once been a rebel.

"None other, mighty Son of Heaven. Famous is he as a soldier, but his name is now even greater in that he is the father of the most beautiful girl in all China. This lovely flower that has bloomed of late within his household is still unmarried. Why not order her father to bring her to the palace that you may wed her and place her in your royal dwelling?"

"And are you sure of this wondrous beauty you describe so prettily?" asked the ruler, a smile of pleasure lighting up his face.

"So sure that I will stake my head on your being satisfied."

"Enough! I command you at once to summon the viceroy and his daughter. Add the imperial seal to the message."

The Prime Minister smilingly departed to give the order. In his heart he was more than delighted that the Emperor had accepted his suggestion, for Su-nan, the viceroy, had long been his chief enemy, and he planned in this way to overthrow him. The viceroy, as he knew, was a man of iron. He would certainly not feel honoured at the thought of having his daughter enter the Imperial Palace as a secondary wife. Doubtless he would refuse to obey the order and would thus bring about his own immediate downfall.

Nor was the Prime Minister mistaken. When Su-nan received the imperial message his heart was hot with anger against his sovereign. To be robbed of his lovely Ta-ki, even by the throne, was, in his eyes, a terrible disgrace. Could he have been sure that she would be made Empress it might have been different, but with so many others sharing Chow-sin's favour, her promotion to first place in the Great One's household was by no means certain. Besides, she was Su-nan's favourite child, and the old man could not bear the thought of separation from her. Rather would he give up his life than let her go to this cruel ruler.

"No, you shall not do it," said he to Ta-ki, "not though I must die to save you."

The beautiful girl listened to her father's words, in tears. Throwing herself at his feet she thanked him for his mercy and promised to love him more fondly than ever. She told him that her vanity had not been flattered by what most girls might have thought an honour, that she would rather have the love of one good man like her father, than share with others the affections of a king.

After listening to his daughter, the viceroy sent a respectful answer to the palace, thanking the Emperor for his favour, but saying he could not give up Ta-ki. "She is unworthy of the honour you purpose doing her," he said, in conclusion, "for, having been the apple of her father's eye, she would not be happy to share even your most august favour with the many others you have chosen."

When the Emperor learned of Su-nan's reply he could hardly believe his ears. To have his command thus disobeyed was an unheard-of crime. Never before had a subject of the Middle Kingdom offered such an insult to a ruler. Boiling with rage, he ordered his prime minister to send forth an army that would bring the viceroy to his senses. "Tell him if he disobeys that he and his family, together with all they possess, shall be destroyed."

Delighted at the success of his plot against Su-nan, the Prime Minister sent a regiment of soldiers to bring the rebel to terms. In the meantime the friends of the daring viceroy had not been idle. Hearing of the danger threatening their ruler, who had become a general favourite, hundreds of men offered him their aid against the army of Chow-sin. Thus when the Emperor's banners were seen approaching and the war drums were heard rolling in the distance, the rebels, with a great shout, dashed forth to do battle for their leader. In the fight that took place the Imperial soldiers were forced to run.

When the Emperor heard of this defeat he was hot with anger. He called together his advisers and commanded that an army, double the size of the first one, should be sent to Su-nan's country to destroy the fields and villages of the people who had risen up against him. "Spare not one of them," he shouted, "for they are traitors to the Dragon Throne."

Once more the viceroy's friends resolved to support him, even to the death. Ta-ki, his daughter, went apart from the other members of the family, weeping most bitterly that she had brought such sorrow upon them. "Rather would I go into the palace and be the lowest among Chow-sin's women than to be the cause of all this grief," she cried, in desperation.

But her father soothed her, saying, "Be of good cheer, Ta-ki. The Emperor's army, though it be twice as large as mine, shall not overcome us. Right is on our side. The gods of battle will help those who fight for justice."

One week later a second battle was fought, and the struggle was so close that none could foresee the result. The Imperial army was commanded by the oldest nobles in the kingdom, those most skilled in warfare, while the viceroy's men were young and poorly drilled. Moreover, the members of the Dragon Army had been promised double pay if they should accomplish the wishes of their sovereign, while Su-nan's soldiers knew only too well that they would be put to the sword if they should be defeated.

Just as the clash of arms was at its highest, the sound of gongs was heard upon a distant hill. The government troops were amazed at seeing fresh companies marching to the rescue of their foe. With a wild cry of disappointment they turned and fled from the field. These unexpected reinforcements turned out to be women whom Ta-ki had persuaded to dress up as soldiers and go with her for the purpose of frightening the enemy. Thus for a second time was Su-nan victorious.

During the following year several battles occurred that counted for little, except that in each of them many of Su-nan's followers were killed. At last one of the viceroy's best friends came to him, saying, "Noble lord, it is useless to continue the struggle. I fear you must give up the fight. You have lost more than half your supporters; the remaining bowmen are either sick or wounded and can be of little use. The Emperor, moreover, is even now raising a new army from the distant provinces, and will soon send against us a force ten times as great as any we have yet seen. There being no hope of victory, further fighting would be folly. Lead, therefore, your daughter to the palace. Throw yourself upon the mercy of the throne. You must accept cheerfully the fate the gods have suffered you to bear."

Ta-ki, chancing to overhear this conversation, rushed in and begged her father to hold out no longer, but to deliver her up to the greed of the wicked Chow-sin.

With a sigh, the viceroy yielded to their wishes. The next day he despatched a messenger to the Emperor, promising to bring Ta-ki at once to the capital.

Now we must not forget Fox Sprite, the demon, who had been commanded by the good goddess Lu-o to bring a dreadful punishment upon the Emperor. Through all the years of strife between Chow-sin and the rebels, Fox Sprite had been waiting patiently for his chance. He knew well that some day, sooner or later, there would come an hour when Chow-sin would be at his mercy. When the time came, therefore, for Ta-ki to go to the palace, Fox Sprite felt that at last his chance had come. The beautiful maiden for whom Chow-sin had given up so many hundreds of his soldiers, would clearly have great power over the Emperor. She must be made to help in the punishment of her wicked husband. So Fox Sprite made himself invisible and travelled with the viceroy's party as it went from central China to the capital.

On the last night of their journey Su-nan and his daughter stopped for rest and food at a large inn. No sooner had the girl gone to her room for the night than Fox Sprite followed her. Then he made himself visible. At first she was frightened to see so strange a being in her room, but when Fox Sprite told her he was a servant of the great goddess, Lu-o, she was comforted, for she knew that Lu-o was the friend of women and children.

"But how can I help to punish the Emperor?" she faltered, when the sprite told her he wanted her assistance. "I am but a helpless girl," and here she began to cry.

"Dry your tears," he said soothingly. "It will be very easy. Only let me take your form for a little. When I am the Emperor's wife," laughing, "I shall find a way to punish him, for no one can give a man more pain that his wife can, if she desires to do so. You know, I am a servant of Lu-o and can do anything I wish."

"But the Emperor won't have a fox for a wife," she sobbed.

"Though I am still a fox I shall look like the beautiful Ta-ki. Make your heart easy. He will never know."

"Oh, I see," she smiled, "you will put your spirit into my body and you will look just like me, though you really won't be me. But what will become of the real me? Shall I have to be a fox and look like you?"

"No, not unless you want to. I will make you invisible, and you can be ready to go back into your own body when I have got rid of the Emperor."

"Very well," replied the girl, somewhat relieved by his explanation, "but try not to be too long about it, because I don't like the idea of somebody else walking about in my body."

So Fox Sprite caused his own spirit to enter the girl's body, and no one could have told by her outward appearance that any change had taken place. The beautiful girl was now in reality the sly Fox Sprite, but in one way only did she look like a fox. When the fox-spirit entered her body, her feet suddenly shrivelled up and became very similar in shape and size to the feet of the animal who had her in his power. When the fox noticed this, at first he was somewhat annoyed, but, feeling that no one else would know, he did not take the trouble to change the fox feet back to human form.

On the following morning, when the viceroy called his daughter for the last stage of their journey, he greeted Fox Sprite without suspecting that anything unusual had happened since he had last seen Ta-ki. So well did this crafty spirit perform his part that the father was completely deceived, by look, by voice, and by gesture.

The next day the travellers arrived at the capital and Su-nan presented himself before Chow-sin, the Emperor, leading Fox Sprite with him. Of course the crafty fox with all his magic powers was soon able to gain the mastery over the wicked ruler. The Great One pardoned Su-nan, although he had fully intended to put him to death as a rebel.

Now the chance for which Fox Sprite had been waiting had come. He began at once, causing the Emperor to do many deeds of violence. The people had already begun to dislike Chow-sin, and soon he became hateful in their sight. Many of the leading members of the court were put to death unjustly. Horrible tortures were devised for punishing those who did not find favour with the crown. At last there was open talk of a rebellion. Of course, all these things delighted the wily fox, for he saw that, sooner or later, the Son of Heaven would be turned out of the palace, and he knew that then his work for the goddess Lu-o would be finished.

Besides worming his way into the heart of the Emperor, the fox became a general favourite with the ladies of the palace. These women saw in Chow-sin's latest wife the most beautiful woman who had ever lived in the royal harem. One would think that this beauty might have caused them to hate Fox Sprite, but such was not the case. They admired the plumpness of Fox Sprite's body, the fairness of Fox Sprite's complexion, the fire in Fox Sprite's eyes, but most of all they wondered at the smallness of Fox Sprite's feet, for, you remember, the supposed Ta-ki now had fox's feet instead of those of human shape.

Thus small feet became the fashion among women. All the court ladies, old and young, beautiful and ugly, began thinking of plans for making their own feet as tiny as those of Fox Sprite. In this way they thought to increase their chances of finding favour with the Emperor.

Gradually people outside the palace began to hear of this absurd fashion. Mothers bound the feet of their little girls, in such a manner as to stop their growth. The bones of the toes were bent backwards and broken, so eager were the elders to have their daughters grow up into tiny-footed maidens. Thus, for several years of their girlhood the little ones were compelled to endure the most severe tortures. It was not long before the new fashion took firm root in China. It became almost impossible for parents to get husbands for their daughters unless the girls had suffered the severe pains of foot-binding. And even to this day we find that many of the people are still under the influence of Fox Sprite's magic, and believe that a tiny, misshapen foot is more beautiful than a natural one.

But let us return to the story of Fox Sprite and the wicked Emperor. For a number of years matters grew continually worse in the country. At last the people rose in a body against the ruler. A great battle was fought. The wicked Chow-sin was overthrown and put to death by means of those very instruments of torture he had used so often against his subjects. By this time it had become known to all the lords and noblemen that the Emperor's favourite had been the main cause of their ruler's wickedness; hence they demanded the death of Fox Sprite. But no one wished to kill so lovely a creature. Every one appointed refused to do the deed.

Finally, a grey-headed member of the court allowed himself to be blindfolded. With a sharp sword he pierced the body of Fox Sprite to the heart. Those standing near covered their eyes with their hands, for they could not bear to see so wonderful a woman die. Suddenly, as they looked up, they saw a sight so strange that all were filled with amazement. Instead of falling to the ground, the graceful form swayed backward and forward for a moment, when all at once there seemed to spring from her side a huge mountain fox. The animal glanced around him, then, with a cry of fear, dashing past officials, courtiers and soldiers, he rushed through the gate of the enclosure.

"A fox!" cried the people, full of wonder.

At that moment Ta-ki fell in a swoon upon the floor. When they picked her up, thinking, of course, that she had died from the sword thrust, they could find no blood on her body, and, on looking more closely, they saw that there was not even the slightest wound.

"Marvel of marvels!" they all shouted. "The gods have shielded her!"

Just then Ta-ki opened her eyes and looked about her. "Where am I?" she asked, in faint voice. "Pray tell me what has happened."

Then they told her what they had seen, and at last it was plain to the beautiful woman that, after all these years, Fox Sprite had left her body. She was herself once more. For a long time she could not make the people believe her story; they all said that she must have lost her mind; that the gods had saved her life, but had punished her for her wickedness by taking away her reason.

But that night, when her maids were undressing her in the palace, they saw her feet, which had once more become their natural size, and then they knew she had been telling the truth.

How Ta-ki became the wife of a good nobleman who had long admired her great beauty is much too long a story to be told here. Of one thing, however, we are certain, that she lived long and was happy ever afterwards.



The Talking Fish


Long, long before your great-grandfather was born there lived in the village of Everlasting Happiness two men called Li and Sing. Now, these two men were close friends, living together in the same house. Before settling down in the village of Everlasting Happiness they had ruled as high officials for more than twenty years. They had often treated the people very harshly, so that everybody, old and young, disliked and hated them. And yet, by robbing the wealthy merchants and by cheating the poor, these two evil companions had become rich, and it was in order to spend their ill-gotten gains in idle amusements that they sought out the village of Everlasting Happiness. "For here," said they, "we can surely find that joy which has been denied us in every other place. Here we shall no longer be scorned by men and reviled by women."

Consequently these two men bought for themselves the finest house in the village, furnished it in the most elegant manner, and decorated the walls with scrolls filled with wise sayings and pictures by famous artists. Outside there were lovely gardens filled with flowers and birds, and oh, ever so many trees with queer twisted branches growing in the shape of tigers and other wild animals.

Whenever they felt lonely Li and Sing invited rich people of the neighbourhood to come and dine with them, and after they had eaten, sometimes they would go out upon the little lake in the centre of their estate, rowing in an awkward flat-bottomed boat that had been built by the village carpenter.

One day, on such an occasion, when the sun had been beating down fiercely upon the clean-shaven heads of all those on the little barge, for you must know this was long before the day when hats were worn -- at least, in the village of Everlasting Happiness -- Mr. Li was suddenly seized with a giddy feeling, which rapidly grew worse and worse until he was in a burning fever.

"Snake's blood mixed with powdered deer-horn is the thing for him," said the wise-looking doctor who was called in, peering at Li carefully through his huge glasses, "Be sure," he continued, addressing Li's personal attendant, and, at the same time, snapping his long finger-nails nervously, "be sure, above all, not to leave him alone, for he is in danger of going raving mad at any moment, and I cannot say what he may do if he is not looked after carefully. A man in his condition has no more sense than a baby."

Now, although these words of the doctor's really made Mr. Li angry, he was too ill to reply, for all this time his head had been growing hotter and hotter, until at last a feverish sleep overtook him. No sooner had he closed his eyes than his faithful servant, half-famished, rushed out of the room to join his fellows at their mid-day meal.

Li awoke with a start. He had slept only ten minutes. "Water, water," he moaned, "bathe my head with cold water. I am half dead with pain!" But there was no reply, for the attendant was dining happily with his fellows.

"Air, air," groaned Mr. Li, tugging at the collar of his silk shirt. "I'm dying for water. I'm starving for air. This blazing heat will kill me. It is hotter than the Fire god himself ever dreamed of making it. Wang, Wang!" clapping his hands feebly and calling to his servant, "air and water, air and water!"

But still no Wang.

At last, with the strength that is said to come from despair, Mr. Li arose from his couch and staggered toward the doorway. Out he went into the paved courtyard, and then, after only a moment's hesitation, made his way across it into a narrow passage that led into the lake garden.

"What do they care for a man when he is sick?" he muttered. "My good friend Sing is doubtless even now enjoying his afternoon nap, with a servant standing by to fan him, and a block of ice near his head to cool the air. What does he care if I die of a raging fever? Doubtless he expects to inherit all my money. And my servants! That rascal Wang has been with me these ten years, living on me and growing lazier every season! What does he care if I pass away? Doubtless he is certain that Sing's servants will think of something for him to do, and he will have even less work than he has now. Water, water! I shall die if I don't soon find a place to soak myself!"

So saying, he arrived at the bank of a little brook that flowed in through a water gate at one side of the garden and emptied itself into the big fish-pond. Flinging himself down by a little stream Li bathed his hands and wrists in the cool water. How delightful! If only it were deep enough to cover his whole body, how gladly would he cast himself in and enjoy the bliss of its refreshing embrace!

For a long time he lay on the ground, rejoicing at his escape from the doctor's clutches. Then, as the fever began to rise again, he sprang up with a determined cry, "What am I waiting for? I will do it. There's no one to prevent me, and it will do me a world of good. I will cast myself head first into the fish-pond. It is not deep enough near the shore to drown me if I should be too weak to swim, and I am sure it will restore me to strength and health."

He hastened along the little stream, almost running in his eagerness to reach the deeper water of the pond. He was like some small Tom Brown who had escaped from the watchful eye of the master and run out to play in a forbidden spot.

Hark! Was that a servant calling? Had Wang discovered the absence of his employer? Would he sound the alarm, and would the whole place soon be alive with men searching for the fever-stricken patient?

With one last sigh of satisfaction Li flung himself, clothes and all, into the quiet waters of the fish-pond. Now Li had been brought up in Fukien province on the seashore, and was a skilful swimmer. He dived and splashed to his heart's content, then floated on the surface. "It takes me back to my boyhood," he cried, "why, oh why, is it not the fashion to swim? I'd love to live in the water all the time and yet some of my countrymen are even more afraid than a cat of getting their feet wet. As for me, I'd give anything to stay here for ever."

"You would, eh?" chuckled a hoarse voice just under him, and then there was a sort of wheezing sound, followed by a loud burst of laughter. Mr. Li jumped as if an arrow had struck him, but when he noticed the fat, ugly monster below, his fear turned into anger. "Look here, what do you mean by giving a fellow such a start! Don't you know what the Classics say about such rudeness?"

The giant fish laughed all the louder. "What time do you suppose I have for Classics? You make me laugh till I cry!"

"But you must answer my question," cried Mr. Li, more and more persistently, forgetting for the moment that he was not trying some poor culprit for a petty crime. "Why did you laugh? Speak out at once, fellow!"

"Well, since you are such a saucy piece," roared the other, "I will tell you. It was because you awkward creatures, who call yourselves men, the most highly civilized beings in the world, always think you understand a thing fully when you have only just found out how to do it."

"You are talking about the island dwarfs, the Japanese," interrupted Mr. Li, "We Chinese seldom undertake to do anything new."

"Just hear the man!" chuckled the fish. "Now, fancy your wishing to stay in the water for ever! What do you know about water? Why you're not even provided with the proper equipment for swimming. What would you do if you really lived here always?"

"What am I doing now?" spluttered Mr. Li, so angry that he sucked in a mouthful of water before he knew it.

"Floundering," retorted the other.

"Don't you see me swimming? Are those big eyes of yours made of glass?"

"Yes, I see you all right," guffawed the fish, "that's just it! I see you too well. Why you tumble about as awkwardly as a water buffalo wallowing in a mud puddle!"

Now, as Mr. Li had always considered himself an expert in water sports, he was, by this time, speechless with rage, and all he could do was to paddle feebly round and round with strokes just strong enough to keep himself from sinking.

"Then, too," continued the fish, more and more calm as the other lost his temper, "you have a very poor arrangement for breathing. If I am not mistaken, at the bottom of this pond you would find yourself worse off than I should be at the top of a palm tree. What would you do to keep yourself from starving? Do you think it would be convenient if you had to flop yourself out on to the land every time you wanted a bite to eat? And yet, being a man, I doubt seriously if you would be content to take the proper food for fishes. You have hardly a single feature that would make you contented if you were to join an under-water school. Look at your clothes, too, water-soaked and heavy. Do you think them suitable to protect you from cold and sickness? Nature forgot to give you any scales. Now I'm going to tell you a joke, so you must be sure to laugh. Fishes are like grocery shops -- always judged by their scales. As you haven't a sign of a scale, how will people judge you? See the point, eh? Nature gave you a skin, but forgot the outer covering, except, perhaps at the ends of your fingers and your toes You surely see by this time why I consider your idea ridiculous?"

Sure enough, in spite of his recent severe attack of fever, Mr. Li had really cooled completely off. He had never understood before what great disadvantages there were connected with being a man. Why not make use of this chance acquaintance, find out from him how to get rid of that miserable possession he had called his manhood, and gain the delights that only a fish can have? "Then, are you indeed contented with your lot?" he asked finally. "Are there not moments when you would prefer to be a man?"

"I, a man!" thundered the other, lashing the water with his tail. "How dare you suggest such a disgraceful change! Can it be that you do not know my rank? Why, my fellow, you behold in me a favourite nephew of the king!"

"Then, may it please your lordship," said Mr. Li, softly, "I should be exceedingly grateful if you would speak a kind word for me to your master. Do you think it possible that he could change me in some manner into a fish and accept me as a subject?"

"Of course!" replied the other, "all things are possible to the king. Know you not that my sovereign is a loyal descendant of the great water dragon, and, as such, can never die, but lives on and on and on, for ever and ever and ever, like the ruling house of Japan?"

"Oh, oh!" gasped Mr. Li, "even the Son of Heaven, our most worshipful emperor, cannot boast of such long years. Yes, I would give my fortune to be a follower of your imperial master."

"Then follow me," laughed the other, starting off at a rate that made the water hiss and boil for ten feet around him.

Mr. Li struggled vainly to keep up. If he had thought himself a good swimmer, he now saw his mistake and every bit of remaining pride was torn to tatters. "Please wait a moment," he cried out politely, "I beg of you to remember that I am only a man!"

"Pardon me," replied the other, "it was stupid of me to forget, especially as I had just been talking about it."

Soon they reached a sheltered inlet at the farther side of the pond. There Mr. Li saw a gigantic carp idly floating about in a shallow pool, and then lazily flirting his huge tail or fluttering his fins proudly from side to side. Attendant courtiers darted hither and thither, ready to do the master's slightest bidding. One of them, splendidly attired in royal scarlet, announced, with a downward flip of the head, the approach of the King's nephew who was leading Mr. Li to an audience with his Majesty.

"Whom have you here, my lad?" began the ruler, as his nephew, hesitating for words to explain his strange request, moved his fins nervously backwards and forwards. "Strange company, it seems to me, you are keeping these days."

"Only a poor man, most royal sir," replied the other, "who beseeches your Highness to grant him your gracious favour."


"When man asks favour of a fish, 'Tis hard to penetrate his wish --  He often seeks a lordly dish To serve upon his table,"


repeated the king, smiling. "And yet, nephew, you think this fellow is really peaceably inclined and is not coming among us as a spy?"

Before his friend could answer, Mr. Li had cast himself upon his knees in the shallow water, before the noble carp, and bowed thrice, until his face was daubed with mud from the bottom of the pool. "Indeed, your Majesty, I am only a poor mortal who seeks your kindly grace. If you would but consent to receive me into your school of fishes. I would for ever be your ardent admirer and your lowly slave."

"In sooth, the fellow talks as if in earnest," remarked the king, after a moment's reflection, "and though the request is, perhaps, the strangest to which I have ever listened, I really see no reason why I should not turn a fishly ear. But, have the goodness first to cease your bowing. You are stirring up enough mud to plaster the royal palace of a shark."

Poor Li, blushing at the monarch's reproof, waited patiently for the answer to his request.

"Very well, so be it," cried the king impulsively, "your wish is granted. Sir Trout," turning to one of his courtiers, "bring hither a fish-skin of proper size for this ambitious fellow."

No sooner said than done. The fish-skin was slipped over Mr. Li's head, and his whole body was soon tucked snugly away in the scaly coat. Only his arms remained uncovered. In the twinkling of an eye Li felt sharp pains shoot through every part of his body. His arms began to shrivel up and his hands changed little by little until they made an excellent pair of fins, just as good as those of the king himself. As for his legs and feet, they suddenly began to stick together until, wriggle as he would, Li could not separate them. "Ah, ha!" thought he, "my kicking days are over, for my toes are now turned into a first-class tail."

"Not so fast," laughed the king, as Li, after thanking the royal personage profusely, started out to try his new fins; "not so fast, my friend. Before you depart, perhaps I'd better give you a little friendly advice, else your new powers are likely to land you on the hook of some lucky fisherman, and you will find yourself served up as a prize of the pond."

"I will gladly listen to your lordly counsel, for the words of the Most High to his lowly slave are like pearls before sea slugs. However, as I was once a man myself I think I understand the simple tricks they use to catch us fish, and I am therefore in position to avoid trouble."

"Don't be so sure about it. 'A hungry carp often falls into danger,' as one of our sages so wisely remarked. There are two cautions I would impress upon you. One is, never, never, eat a dangling worm; no matter how tempting it looks there are sure to be horrible hooks inside. Secondly, always swim like lightning if you see a net, but in the opposite direction. Now, I will have you served your first meal out of the royal pantry, but after that, you must hunt for yourself, like every other self-respecting citizen of the watery world."

After Li had been fed with several slugs, followed by a juicy worm for dessert, and after again thanking the king and the king's nephew for their kindness, he started forth to test his tail and fins. It was no easy matter, at first, to move them properly. A single flirt of the tail, no more vigorous than those he had been used to giving with his legs, would send him whirling round and round in the water, for all the world like a living top; and when he wriggled his fins, ever so slightly, as he thought, he found himself sprawling on his back in a most ridiculous fashion for a dignified member of fishkind. It took several hours of constant practice to get the proper stroke, and then he found he could move about without being conscious of any effort. It was the easiest thing he had ever done in his life; and oh! the water was so cool and delightful! "Would that I might enjoy that endless life the poets write of!" he murmured blissfully.

Many hours passed by until at last Li was compelled to admit that, although he was not tired, he was certainly hungry. How to get something to eat? Oh! why had he not asked the friendly nephew a few simple questions? How easily his lordship might have told him the way to get a good breakfast! But alas! without such advice, it would be a whale's task to accomplish it. Hither and thither he swam, into the deep still water, and along the muddy shore; down, down to the pebbly bottom -- always looking, looking for a tempting worm. He dived into the weeds and rushes, poked his nose among the lily pads. All for nothing! No fly or worm of any kind to gladden his eager eyes! Another hour passed slowly away, and all the time his hunger was growing greater and greater. Would the fish god, the mighty dragon, not grant him even one little morsel to satisfy his aching stomach, especially since, now that he was a fish, he had no way of tightening up his belt, as hungry soldiers do when they are on a forced march?

Just as Li was beginning to think he could not wriggle his tail an instant longer, and that soon, very soon, he would feel himself slipping, slipping, slipping down to the bottom of the pond to die -- at that very moment, chancing to look up, he saw, oh joy! a delicious red worm dangling a few inches above his nose. The sight gave new strength to his weary fins and tail. Another minute, and he would have had the delicate morsel in his mouth, when alas! he chanced to recall the advice given him the day before by great King Carp. "No matter how tempting it looks, there are sure to be horrible hooks inside." For an instant Li hesitated. The worm floated a trifle nearer to his half-open mouth. How tempting! After all, what was a hook to a fish when he was dying? Why be a coward? Perhaps this worm was an exception to the rule, or perhaps, perhaps any thing -- really a fish in such a plight as Mr. Li could not be expected to follow advice -- even the advice of a real KING.

Pop! He had it in his mouth. Oh, soft morsel, worthy of a king's desire! Now he could laugh at words of wisdom, and eat whatever came before his eye. But ugh! What was that strange feeling that -- Ouch! it was the fatal hook!

With one frantic jerk, and a hundred twists and turns, poor Li sought to pull away from the cruel barb that stuck so fast in the roof of his mouth. It was now too late to wish he had kept away from temptation. Better far to have starved at the bottom of the cool pond than to be jerked out by some miserable fisherman to the light and sunshine of the busy world. Nearer and nearer he approached the surface. The more he struggled the sharper grew the cruel barb. Then, with one final splash, he found himself dangling in mid-air, swinging helplessly at the end of a long line. With a chunk he fell into a flat-bottomed boat, directly on top of several smaller fish.

"Ah, a carp!" shouted a well-known voice gleefully; "the biggest fish I've caught these three moons. What good luck!"

It was the voice of old Chang, the fisherman, who had been supplying Mr. Li's table ever since that official's arrival in the village of Everlasting Happiness. Only a word of explanation, and he, Li, would be free once more to swim about where he willed. And then there should be no more barbs for him. An escaped fish fears the hook.

"I say, Chang," he began, gasping for breath, "really now, you must chuck me overboard at once, for, don't you see, I am Mr. Li, your old master. Come, hurry up about it. I'll excuse you this time for your mistake, for, of course, you had no way of knowing. Quick!"

But Chang, with a savage jerk, pulled the hook from Li's mouth, and looked idly towards the pile of glistening fish, gloating over his catch, and wondering how much money he could demand for it. He had heard nothing of Mr. Li's remarks, for Chang had been deaf since childhood.

"Quick, quick, I am dying for air," moaned poor Li, and then, with a groan, he remembered the fisherman's affliction.

By this time they had arrived at the shore, and Li, in company with his fellow victims, found himself suddenly thrown into a wicker basket. Oh, the horrors of that journey on land! Only a tiny bit of water remained in the closely-woven thing. It was all he could do to breathe.

Joy of joys! At the door of his own house he saw his good friend Sing just coming out. "Hey, Sing," he shouted, at the top of his voice, "help, help! This son of a turtle wants to murder me. He has me in here with these fish, and doesn't seem to know that I am Li, his master. Kindly order him to take me to the lake and throw me in, for it's cool there and I like the water life much better than that on land."

Li paused to hear Sing's reply, but there came not a single word.

"I beg your honour to have a look at my catch," said old Chang to Sing. "Here is the finest fish of the season. I have brought him here so that you and my honoured master, Mr. Li, may have a treat. Carp is his favourite delicacy."

"Very kind of you, my good Chang, I'm sure, but I fear poor Mr. Li will not eat fish for some time. He has a bad attack of fever."

"There's where you're wrong," shouted Li, from his basket, flopping about with all his might, to attract attention, "I'm going to die of a chill. Can't you recognise your old friend? Help me out of this trouble and you may have all my money for your pains."

"Hey, what's that!" questioned Sing, attracted, as usual, by the word money. "Shades of Confucius! It sounds as if the carp were talking."

"What, a talking fish," laughed Chang. "Why, master, I've lived nigh on to sixty year, and such a fish has never come under my sight. There are talking birds and talking beasts for that matter; but talking fish, who ever heard of such a wonder? No, I think your ears must have deceived you, but this carp will surely cause talk when I get him into the kitchen. I'm sure the cook has never seen his like. Oh, master! I hope you will be hungry when you sit down to this fish. What a pity Mr. Li couldn't help you to devour it!"

"Help to devour myself, eh?" grumbled poor Li, now almost dead for lack of water. "You must take me for a cannibal, or some other sort of savage."

Old Chang had now gone round the house to the servants' quarters, and, after calling out the cook, held up poor Li by the tail for the chef to inspect.

With a mighty jerk Li tore himself away and fell at the feet of his faithful cook. "Save me, save me!" he cried out in despair; "this miserable Chang is deaf and doesn't know that I am Mr. Li, his master. My fish voice is not strong enough for his hearing. Only take me back to the pond and set me free. You shall have a pension for life, wear good clothes and eat good food, all the rest of your days. Only hear me and obey! Listen, my dear cook, listen!"

"The thing seems to be talking," muttered the cook, "but such wonders cannot be. Only ignorant old women or foreigners would believe that a fish could talk." And seizing his former master by the tail, he swung him on to a table, picked up a knife, and began to whet it on a stone.

"Oh, oh!" screamed Li, "you will stick a knife into me! You will scrape off my beautiful shiny scales! You will whack off my lovely new fins! You will murder your old master!"

"Well, you won't talk much longer," growled the cook, "I'll show you a trick or two with the blade."

So saying, with a gigantic thrust, he plunged the knife deep into the body of the trembling victim.

With a shrill cry of horror and despair, Mr. Li awoke from the deep sleep into which he had fallen. His fever was gone, but he found himself trembling with fear at thought of the terrible death that had come to him in dreamland.

"Thanks be to Buddha, I am not a fish!" he cried out joyfully; "and now I shall be well enough to enjoy the feast to which Mr. Sing has bidden guests for to-morrow. But alas, now that I can eat the old fisherman's prize carp, it has changed back into myself.


"If only the good of our dreams came true, I shouldn't mind dreaming the whole day through."



Bamboo And The Turtle


A party of visitors had been seeing the sights at Hsi Ling. They had just passed down the Holy Way between the huge stone animals when Bamboo, a little boy of twelve, son of a keeper, rushed out from his father's house to see the mandarins go by. Such a parade of great men he had never seen before, even on the feast days. There were ten sedan chairs, with bearers dressed in flaming colours, ten long-handled, red umbrellas, each carried far in front of its proud owner, and a long line of horsemen.

When this gay procession had filed past, Bamboo was almost ready to cry because he could not run after the sightseers as they went from temple to temple and from tomb to tomb. But, alas! his father had ordered him never to follow tourists. "If you do, they will take you for a beggar, Bamboo," he had said shrewdly, "and if you're a beggar, then your daddy's one too. Now they don't want any beggars around the royal tombs." So Bamboo had never known the pleasure of pursuing the rich. Many times he had turned back to the little mud house, almost broken-hearted at seeing his playmates running, full of glee, after the great men's chairs.

On the day when this story opens, just as the last horseman had passed out of sight among the cedars, Bamboo chanced to look up toward one of the smaller temple buildings of which his father was the keeper. It was the house through which the visitors had just been shown. Could his eyes be deceiving him? No, the great iron doors had been forgotten in the hurry of the moment, and there they stood wide open, as if inviting him to enter.

In great excitement he scurried toward the temple. How often he had pressed his head against the bars and looked into the dark room, wishing and hoping that some day he might go in. And yet, not once had he been granted this favour. Almost every day since babyhood he had gazed at the high stone shaft, or tablet, covered with Chinese writing, that stood in the centre of the lofty room, reaching almost to the roof. But with still greater surprise his eyes had feasted on the giant turtle underneath, on whose back the column rested. There are many such tablets to be seen in China, many such turtles patiently bearing their loads of stone, but this was the only sight of the kind that Bamboo had seen. He had never been outside the Hsi Ling forest, and, of course, knew very little of the great world beyond.

It is no wonder then that the turtle and the tablet had always astonished him. He had asked his father to explain the mystery. "Why do they have a turtle? Why not a lion or an elephant?" For he had seen stone figures of these animals in the park and had thought them much better able than his friend, the turtle, to carry loads on their backs. "Why it's just the custom," his father had replied -- the answer always given when Bamboo asked a question, "just the custom." The boy had tried to imagine it all for himself, but had never been quite sure that he was right, and now, joy of all joys, he was about to enter the very turtle-room itself. Surely, once inside, he could find some answer to this puzzle of his childhood.

Breathless, he dashed through the doorway, fearing every minute that some one would notice the open gates and close them before he could enter. Just in front of the giant turtle he fell in a little heap on the floor, which was covered inch-deep with dust. His face was streaked, his clothes were a sight to behold; but Bamboo cared nothing for such trifles. He lay there for a few moments, not daring to move. Then, hearing a noise outside, he crawled under the ugly stone beast and crouched in his narrow hiding-place, as still as a mouse.

"There, there!" said a deep voice. "See what you are doing, stirring up such a dust! Why, you will strangle me if you are not careful."

It was the turtle speaking, and yet Bamboo's father had often told him that it was not alive. The boy lay trembling for a minute, too much frightened to get up and run.

"No use in shaking so, my lad," the voice continued, a little more kindly. "I suppose all boys are alike -- good for nothing but kicking up a dust." He finished this sentence with a hoarse chuckle, and the boy, seeing that he was laughing, looked up with wonder at the strange creature.

"I meant no harm in coming," said the child finally. "I only wanted to look at you more closely."

"Oh, that was it, hey? Well, that is strange. All the others come and stare at the tablet on my back. Sometimes they read aloud the nonsense written there about dead emperors and their titles, but they never so much as look at me, at me whose father was one of the great four who made the world."

Bamboo's eyes shone with wonder. "What! your father helped make the world?" he gasped.

"Well, not my father exactly, but one of my grandfathers, and it amounts to the same thing, doesn't it. But, hark! I hear a voice. The keeper is coming back. Run up and close those doors, so he won't notice that they have not been locked. Then you may hide in the corner there until he has passed. I have something more to tell you."

Bamboo did as he was told. It took all his strength to swing the heavy doors into place. He felt very important to think that he was doing something for the grandson of a maker of the world, and it would have broken his heart if this visit had been ended just as it was beginning.

Sure enough, his father and the other keepers passed on, never dreaming that the heavy locks were not fastened as usual. They were talking about the great men who had just gone. They seemed very happy and were jingling some coins in their hands.

"Now, my boy," said the stone turtle when the sound of voices had died away and Bamboo had come out from his corner, "maybe you think I'm proud of my job. Here I've been holding up this chunk for a hundred years, I who am fond of travel. During all this time night and day, I have been trying to think of some way to give up my position. Perhaps it's honourable, but, you may well imagine, it's not very pleasant."

"I should think you would have the backache," ventured Bamboo timidly.

"Backache! well, I think so; back, neck, legs, eyes, everything I have is aching, aching for freedom. But, you see, even if I had kicked up my heels and overthrown this monument, I had no way of getting through those iron bars," and he nodded toward the gate.

"Yes, I understand," agreed Bamboo, beginning to feel sorry for his old friend.

"But, now that you are here, I have a plan, and a good one it is, too, I think. The watchmen have forgotten to lock the gate. What is to prevent my getting my freedom this very night? You open the gate, I walk out, and no one the wiser."

"But my father will lose his head if they find that he has failed to do his duty and you have escaped."

"Oh, no; not at all. You can slip his keys to-night, lock the gates after I am gone, and no one will know just what has happened. Why it will make this building famous. It won't hurt your father, but will do him good. So many travellers will be anxious to see the spot from which I vanished. I am too heavy for a thief to carry off, and they will be sure that it is another miracle of the gods. Oh, I shall have a good time out in the big world."

Just here Bamboo began to cry.

"Now what is the silly boy blubbering about?" sneered the turtle. "Is he nothing but a cry-baby?"

"No, but I don't want you to go."

"Don't want me to go, eh? Just like all the others. You're a fine fellow! What reason have you for wanting to see me weighed down here all the rest of my life with a mountain on my back? Why, I thought you were sorry for me, and it turns out that you are as mean as anybody else."

"It is so lonely here, and I have no playmates. You are the only friend I have."

The tortoise laughed loudly. "Ho, ho! so it's because I make you a good playmate, eh? Now, if that's your reason, that's another story altogether. What do you say to going with me then? I, too, need a friend, and if you help me to escape, why, you are the very friend for me."

"But how shall you get the tablet off your back?" questioned Bamboo doubtfully. "It's very heavy."

"That's easy, just walk out of the door. The tablet is too tall to go through. It will slide off and sit on the floor instead of on my shell."

Bamboo, wild with delight at the thought of going on a journey with the turtle, promised to obey the other's commands. After supper, when all were asleep in the little house of the keeper, he slipped from his bed, took down the heavy key from its peg, and ran pell-mell to the temple.

"Well, you didn't forget me, did you?" asked the turtle when Bamboo swung the iron gates open.

"Oh, no, I would not break a promise. Are you ready?"

"Yes, quite ready." So saying, the turtle took a step. The tablet swayed backward and forward, but did not fall. On walked the turtle until finally he stuck his ugly head through the doorway. "Oh, how good it looks outside," he said. "How pleasant the fresh air feels! Is that the moon rising over yonder? It's the first time I've seen it for an age. My word! just look at the trees! How they have grown since they set that tombstone on my back! There's a regular forest outside now."

Bamboo was delighted when he saw the turtle's glee at escaping. "Be careful," he cried, "not to let the tablet fall hard enough to break it."

Even as he spoke, the awkward beast waddled through the door. The upper end of the monument struck against the wall, toppled off, and fell with a great crash to the floor. Bamboo shivered with fear. Would his father come and find out what had happened?

"Don't be afraid, my boy. No one will come at this hour of the night to spy on us."

Bamboo quickly locked the gates, ran back to the house, and hung the key on its peg. He took a long look at his sleeping parents, and then returned to his friend. After all, he would not be gone long and his father would surely forgive him.

Soon the comrades were walking down the broad road, very slowly, for the tortoise is not swift of foot and Bamboo's legs were none too long.

"Where are you going?" said the boy at last, after he had begun to feel more at home with the turtle.

"Going? Where should you think I would want to go after my century in prison? Why, back to the first home of my father, back to the very spot where the great god, P'anku, and his three helpers hewed out the world."

"And is it far?" faltered the boy, beginning to feel just the least bit tired.

"At this rate, yes, but, bless my life, you didn't think we could travel all the way at this snail's pace, I hope. Jump on my back, and I'll show you how to go. Before morning we shall be at the end of the world, or rather, the beginning."

"Where is the beginning of the world?" asked Bamboo. "I have never studied geography."

"We must cross China, then Thibet, and at last in the mountains just beyond we shall reach the spot which P'anku made the centre of his labour."

At that moment Bamboo felt himself being lifted from the ground. At first he thought he would slip off the turtle's rounded shell, and he cried out in fright.

"Never fear," said his friend. "Only sit quietly, and there will be no danger."

They had now risen far into the air, and Bamboo could look down over the great forest of Hsi Ling all bathed in moonlight. There were the broad white roads leading up to the royal tombs, the beautiful temples, the buildings where oxen and sheep were prepared for sacrifice, the lofty towers, and the high tree-covered hills under which the emperors were buried. Until that night Bamboo had not known the size of this royal graveyard. Could it be that the turtle would carry him beyond the forest? Even as he asked himself this question he saw that they had reached a mountain, and the turtle was ascending higher, still higher, to cross the mighty wall of stone.

Bamboo grew dizzy as the turtle rose farther into the sky. He felt as he sometimes did when he played whirling games with his little friends, and got so dizzy that he tumbled over upon the ground. However, this time he knew that he must keep his head and not fall, for it must have been almost a mile to the ground below him. At last they had passed over the mountain and were flying above a great plain. Far below Bamboo could see sleeping villages and little streams of water that looked like silver in the moonlight. Now, directly beneath them was a city. A few feeble lights could be seen in the dark narrow streets, and Bamboo thought he could hear the faint cries of peddlers crying their midnight wares.

"That's the capital of Shan-shi just below us," said the turtle, breaking his long silence. "It is almost two hundred miles from here to your father's house, and we have taken less than half an hour. Beyond that is the Province of the Western Valleys. In one hour we shall be above Thibet."

On they whizzed at lightning speed. If it had not been hot summer time Bamboo would have been almost frozen. As it was, his hands and feet were cold and stiff. The turtle, as if knowing how chilly he was, flew nearer to the ground where it was warmer. How pleasant for Bamboo! He was so tired that he could keep his eyes open no longer and he was soon soaring in the land of dreams.

When he waked up it was morning. He was lying on the ground in a wild, rocky region. Not far away burned a great wood fire, and the turtle was watching some food that was cooking in a pot.

"Ho, ho, my lad! so you have at last waked up after your long ride. You see we are a little early. No matter if the dragon does think he can fly faster, I beat him, didn't I? Why, even the phoenix laughs at me and says I am slow, but the phoenix has not come yet either. Yes, I have clearly broken the record for speed, and I had a load to carry too, which neither of the others had, I am sure."

"Where are we?" questioned Bamboo.

"In the land of the beginning," said the other wisely. "We flew over Thibet, and then went northwest for two hours. If you haven't studied geography you won't know the name of the country. But, here we are, and that is enough, isn't it, enough for any one? And to-day is the yearly feast-day in honour of the making of the world. It was very fortunate for me that the gates were left open yesterday. I am afraid my old friends, the dragon and the phoenix, have almost forgotten what I look like. It is so long since they saw me. Lucky beasts they are, not to be loaded down under an emperor's tablet. Hello! I hear the dragon coming now, if I am not mistaken. Yes, here he is. How glad I am to see him!"

Bamboo heard a great noise like the whirr of enormous wings, and then, looking up, saw a huge dragon just in front of him. He knew it was a dragon from the pictures he had seen and the carvings in the temples.

The dragon and the turtle had no sooner greeted each other, both very happy at the meeting, than they were joined by a queer-looking bird, unlike any that Bamboo had ever seen, but which he knew was the phoenix. This phoenix looked somewhat like a wild swan, but it had the bill of a cock, the neck of a snake, the tail of a fish and the stripes of a dragon. Its feathers were of five colours.

When the three friends had chatted merrily for a few minutes, the turtle told them how Bamboo had helped him to escape from the temple.

"A clever boy," said the dragon, patting Bamboo gently on the back.

"Yes, yes, a clever boy indeed," echoed the phoenix.

"Ah," sighed the turtle, "if only the good god, P'anku, were here, shouldn't we be happy! But, I fear he will never come to this meeting-place. No doubt he is off in some distant spot, cutting out another world. If I could only see him once more, I feel that I should die in peace."

"Just listen!" laughed the dragon. "As if one of us could die! Why, you talk like a mere mortal."

All day long the three friends chatted, feasted, and had a good time looking round at the places where they had lived so happily when P'anku had been cutting out the world. They were good to Bamboo also and showed him many wonderful things of which he had never dreamed.

"You are not half so mean-looking and so fierce as they paint you on the flags," said Bamboo in a friendly voice to the dragon just as they were about to separate.

The three friends laughed heartily.

"Oh, no, he's a very decent sort of fellow, even if he is covered with fish-scales," joked the phoenix.

Just before they bade each other good-bye, the phoenix gave Bamboo a long scarlet tail-feather for a keepsake, and the dragon gave him a large scale which turned to gold as soon as the boy took it into his hand.

"Come, come, we must hurry," said the turtle. "I am afraid your father will think you are lost." So Bamboo, after having spent the happiest day of his life, mounted the turtle's back, and they rose once more above the clouds. Back they flew even faster than they had come. Bamboo had so many things to talk about that he did not once think of going to sleep, for he had really seen the dragon and the phoenix, and if he never were to see anything else in his life, he would always be happy.

Suddenly the turtle stopped short in his swift flight, and Bamboo felt himself slipping. Too late he screamed for help, too late he tried to save himself. Down, down from that dizzy height he tumbled, turning, twisting, thinking of the awful death that was surely coming. Swish! he shot through the tree tops trying vainly to clutch the friendly branches. Then with a loud scream he struck the ground, and his long journey was ended.

"Come out from under that turtle, boy! What are you doing inside the temple in the dirt? Don't you know this is not the proper place for you?"

Bamboo rubbed his eyes. Though only half awake, he knew it was his father's voice.

"But didn't it kill me?" he said as his father pulled him out by the heel from under the great stone turtle.

"What killed you, foolish boy? What can you be talking about? But I'll half-kill you if you don't hurry out of this and come to your supper. Really I believe you are getting too lazy to eat. The idea of sleeping the whole afternoon under that turtle's belly!"

Bamboo, not yet fully awake, stumbled out of the tablet room, and his father locked the iron doors.



The Mad Goose And The Tiger Forest


Hu-lin was a little slave girl. She had been sold by her father when she was scarcely more than a baby, and had lived for five years with a number of other children in a wretched houseboat. Her cruel master treated her very badly. He made her go out upon the street, with the other girls he had bought, to beg for a living. This kind of life was especially hard for Hu-lin. She longed to play in the fields, above which the huge kites were sailing in the air like giant birds. She liked to see the crows and magpies flying hither and thither. It was great fun to watch them build their stick nests in the tall poplars. But if her master ever caught her idling her time away in this manner he beat her most cruelly and gave her nothing to eat for a whole day. In fact he was so wicked and cruel that all the children called him Black Heart.

Early one morning when Hu-lin was feeling very sad about the way she was treated, she resolved to run away, but, alas! she had not gone more than a hundred yards from the houseboat when she saw Black Heart following her. He caught her, scolded her most dreadfully, and gave her such a beating that she felt too faint to stir.

For several hours she lay on the ground without moving a muscle, moaning as if her heart would break. "Ah! if only someone would save me!" she thought, "how good I would be all the rest of my days!"

Now, not far from the river there lived an old man in a tumble-down shanty. The only companion he had was a goose that watched the gate for him at night and screamed out loudly if any stranger dared to prowl about the place. Hu-lin and this goose were close friends, and the slave girl often stopped to chat with the wise fowl as she was passing the old man's cottage. In this way she had learned that the bird's owner was a miser who kept a great deal of money hidden in his yard. Ch'ang, the goose, had an unusually long neck, and was thus able to pry into most of his master's affairs. As the fowl had no member of his own family to talk with, he told all he knew to Hu-lin.

On the very morning when Black Heart gave Hu-lin a beating for trying to run away, Ch'ang made a startling discovery. His lord and master was not really an old miser, but a young man in disguise. Ch'ang, feeling hungry, had slipped into the house at daybreak to see if any scraps had been left from the last evening's meal. The bedroom door had blown open in the night, and there lay a young man sound asleep, instead of the greybeard whom the gander called his master. Then, before his very eyes, the youth changed suddenly into his former shape and was an old man again.

In his excitement, forgetting all about his empty stomach, the terror-stricken goose rushed out into the yard to think over the mystery, but the longer he puzzled, the more strange it all seemed. Then he thought of Hu-lin, and wished that she would come by, that he might ask her opinion. He had a high regard for the slave girl's knowledge and believed that she would understand fully what had taken place.

Ch'ang went to the gate. As usual, it was locked, and there was nothing for him to do but wait for his master to rise. Two hours later the miser walked out into the yard. He seemed in good spirits, and he gave Ch'ang more to eat than usual. After taking his morning smoke on the street in front of the house, he strolled around it leaving the front gate ajar.

This was precisely what the gander had been expecting. Slipping quietly into the road, he turned towards the river where he could see the houseboats lined up at the wharf. On the sand near by lay a well-known form.

"Hu-lin," he called as he drew near, "wake up, for I have something to tell you."

"I am not asleep," she answered, turning her tear-stained face towards her friend.

"Why, what's the matter? You've been crying again. Has old Black Heart been beating you?"

"Hush! he's taking a nap in the boat. Don't let him hear you."

"It's not likely he would understand goose-talk if he did," replied Ch'ang, smiling. "However, I suppose it's always best to be on the safe side, so I'll whisper what I have to say."

Putting his bill close to her ear, he told Hu-lin of his recent discovery, and ended by asking her to tell him what it all meant.

The child forgot her own misery at hearing his wonderful story. "Are you quite sure there was not some friend of the miser's spending the night with him?" she asked gravely.

"Yes, yes, perfectly sure, for he has no friends," replied the gander. "Besides, I was in the house just before he locked up for the night, and I saw neither hair nor hide of any other person."

"Then he must be a fairy in disguise!" announced Hu-lin wisely.

"A fairy! what's that?" questioned Ch'ang, more and more excited.

"Why, you old goose, don't you know what a fairy is?" And Hu-lin laughed outright. By this time she had forgotten her own troubles and was becoming more and more amused at what she had heard. "Hark!" she said in a low tone, and speaking very slowly, "a fairy is --  -- " Here she lowered her voice to a whisper.

The gander nodded violently as she went on with her explanation, and when she had finished, was speechless with amazement, for a few moments. "Well," he said finally, "if my master is that kind of man, suppose you slip away quietly and come with me, for, if a fairy is what you say he is, he can save you from all your troubles and make me happy for the rest of my days."

"I wonder if I dare?" she answered, looking round fearfully towards the houseboat, from the open scuttle of which came the sound of deep snoring.

"Yes, yes, of course!" coaxed Ch'ang. "He gave you such a beating that he won't be afraid of your taking to your heels again very soon."

Hurriedly they went to the miser's compound. Hu-lin's heart was beating fast as she tried to decide what to say when she should actually stand before the fairy. The gate was still partly open and the two friends entered boldly.

"Come this way," said Ch'ang. "He must be in the back-yard digging in his garden."

But when they reached the vegetable patch there was no one to be seen.

"This is very strange," whispered the gander. "I don't understand it, for I have never known him to grow tired of work so early. Surely he cannot have gone in to rest."

Led by her friend, Hu-lin entered the house on tiptoe. The door of the miser's bedroom stood wide open, and they saw that there was no one either in that room or any other room of the miserable cottage.

"Come! let's see what kind of bed he sleeps on," said Hu-lin, filled with curiosity. "I have never been in a fairy's room. It must be different from other people's rooms."

"No, no! just a plain brick bed, like all the rest," answered Ch'ang, as they crossed the threshold.

"Does he have a fire in cold weather?" asked Hu-lin, stooping to examine the small fire hole in the bricks.

"Oh, yes, a hot fire every night, and even in spring when other people have stopped having fires, the brick bed is hot every night."

"Well, that's rather strange for a miser, don't you think?" said the girl. "It costs more to keep a fire going than it does to feed a man."

"Yes, that's true," agreed Ch'ang, pruning his feathers. "I hadn't thought of that. It is strange, very. Hu-lin, you're a wise child. Where did you learn so much?"

At that moment the gander turned pale at hearing the gate slam loudly and the bar thrown into place.

"Good gracious! what ever shall we do?" asked Hu-lin. "What will he say if he finds us here?"

"No telling," said the other, trembling, "but, my dear little friend, we are certainly caught, for we can't get away without his seeing us."

"Yes, and I've already had one beating to-day! And such a hard one that I don't believe I could live through another," sighed the child, as the tears began to flow.

"There, there, little girl, don't worry! Let's hide in this dark corner behind the baskets," suggested the gander, just as the master's step was heard at the front door.

Soon the frightened companions were crouching on the ground, trying to hide. Much to their relief, however, the miser did not go into his bedroom, and they soon heard him hard at work in the garden. All that day the two remained in their hiding place, afraid to show themselves outside the door.

"I can't imagine what he would say if he found out that his watch-goose had brought a stranger into the house," said Ch'ang.

"Perhaps he would think we were trying to steal some of the money he has hidden away," she answered, laughing, for as Hu-lin became used to her cramped quarters she grew less frightened. At any rate she was not nearly so much afraid of the miser as she had thought she was. "Besides," she reflected, "he can't be so bad as old Black Heart."

Thus the day wore on and darkness fell over the land. By this time girl and goose were fast asleep in one corner of the miser's room and knew nothing more of what was happening.

When the first light of a new day filtered through the paper-covered window above the miser's bed, Hu-lin awoke with a start, and at first she could not think where she was. Ch'ang was staring at her with wide-open frightened eyes that seemed to be asking, "What can it all mean? It is more than my goose brain can think out."

For on the bed, instead of the miser, there lay a young man whose hair was a black as a raven's wing. A faint smile lightened up his handsome face, as if he was enjoying some delightful dream. A cry of wonder escaped Hu-lin's lips before she could hold it back. The sleeper's eyes opened instantly and were fixed upon her. The girl was so frightened that she could not move, and the gander trembled violently as he saw the change that had come over his master.

The young man was even more surprised than his guests, and for two minutes he was speechless. "What does this mean?" he asked, finally, looking at Ch'ang. "What are you doing in my bedroom and who is this child who seems so frightened?"

"Forgive me, kind sir, but what have you done to my master?" asked the gander, giving question for question.

"Am I not your master, you mad creature?" said the man, laughing. "You are more stupid than ever this morning."

"My master was old and ugly, but you are still young and handsome," replied Ch'ang in a tone of flattery.

"What," shouted the other, "you say I am still young?"

"Why, yes. Ask Hu-lin, if you don't believe me."

The man turned towards the little girl.

"Yes, indeed you are, sir," she replied in answer to his look. "Never have I seen a man so beautiful."

"At last! at last!" he cried, laughing joyfully, "I am free, free, free from all my troubles, but how it has come about is more than I can say!"

For a few minutes he stood in a deep study, snapping his long fingers as if trying to solve some hard problem. At last a smile lighted up his face. "Ch'ang," he asked, "what was it you called your guest when you spoke of her a minute ago?"

"I am Hu-lin," said the child simply, "Hu-lin, the slave girl."

He clapped his hands. "That's right! That's right!" he cried. "I see it all now; it is as plain as day." Then, noticing the look of wonder on her face, "It is to you that I owe my freedom from a wicked fairy, and if you like, I'll tell you the story of my misfortune."

"Pray do, kind sir," she replied eagerly. "I told Ch'ang that you were a fairy, and I should like to know if I was right."

"Well, you see," he began, "my father is a rich man who lives in a distant county. When I was a boy he gave me everything I wished. I was so humoured and petted from earliest childhood that at last I began to think there was nothing at all in the world I could not have for the asking, and nothing that I must not do if I wished to.

"My teacher often scolded me for having such notions. He told me there was a proverb: 'Men die for gain, birds perish to get food.' He thought such men were very foolish. He told me that money would go a long way towards making a man happy, but he always ended by saying that the gods were more powerful than men. He said I must always be careful not to make the evil spirits angry. Sometimes I laughed in his face, telling him that I was rich and could buy the favour of gods and fairies. The good man would shake his head, saying, 'Take care, my boy, or you will be sorry for these rash speeches.'"

"One day, after he had been giving me a long lecture of this sort, we were walking in the garden of my father's compound. I was even more daring than usual and told him that I cared nothing for the rules other people followed. 'You say,' said I, 'that this well here in my father's yard is ruled by a spirit, and that if I were to anger him by jumping over it, he would be vexed and give me trouble.' 'Yes,' said he, 'that is exactly what I said, and I repeat it. Beware, young man, beware of idle boasting and of breaking the law.' 'What do I care for a spirit that lives on my father's land?' I answered with a sneer. 'I don't believe there is a spirit in this well. If there is, it is only another of my father's slaves.'

"So saying, and before my tutor could stop me, I leaped across the mouth of the well. No sooner had I touched the ground than I felt a strange shrinking of my body. My strength left me in the twinkling of an eye, my bones shortened, my skin grew yellow and wrinkled. I looked at my pigtail and found that the hair had suddenly grown thin and white. In every way I had been changed completely into an old man.

"My teacher stared at me in amazement, and when I asked him what it all meant my voice was as shrill as that of early childhood. 'Alas! my dear pupil,' he replied, 'now you will believe what I told you. The spirit of the well is angry at your wicked conduct and has punished you. You have been told a hundred times that it is wrong to leap over a well; yet you did this very thing,' 'But is there nothing that can be done,' I cried; 'is there no way of restoring my lost youth?' He looked at me sadly and shook his head.

"When my father learned of my sad condition he was terribly upset. He did everything that could be done to find some way for me to regain my youth. He had incense burned at a dozen temples and he himself offered up prayers to various gods. I was his only son, and he could not be happy without me. At last, when everything else had been done, my worthy teacher thought of asking a fortune-teller who had become famous in the city. After inquiring about everything that had led up to my sad plight, the wise man said that the spirit of the well, as a punishment, had changed me into a miser. He said that only when I was sleeping would I be in my natural state, and even then if any one chanced to enter my room or catch a glimpse of my face, I would be at once changed back into a greybeard."

"I saw you yesterday morning," shouted the gander. "You were young and handsome, and then before my very eyes you were changed back into an old man!"

"To continue my story," said the young man, "the fortune-teller at last announced that there was only one chance for my recovery and that a very small one. If at any time, while I was in my rightful shape, that is, as you see me now, a mad goose should come in, leading a tiger-forest out of slavery, the charm would be broken, and the evil spirit would no longer have control over me. When the fortune-teller's answer was brought to my father, he gave up hope, and so did I, for no one understood the meaning of such a senseless riddle.

"That night I left my native city, resolved not to disgrace my people any longer by living with them. I came to this place, bought this house with some money my father had given me, and at once began living the life of a miser. Nothing satisfied my greed for money. Everything must be turned into cash. For five years I have been storing away money, and, at the same time, starving myself, body and soul.

"Soon after my arrival here, remembering the fortune-teller's riddle, I decided that I would keep a goose to serve as night watch-man instead of a dog. In this way I made a start at working out the riddle."

"But I am not a mad goose," hissed the gander angrily. "If it had not been for me you would still be a wrinkled miser."

"Quite right, dear Ch'ang, quite right," said the young man soothingly; "you were not mad; so I gave you the name Ch'ang, which means mad, and thus made a mad goose of you."

"Oh, I see," said Hu-lin and Ch'ang together. "How clever!"

"So, you see, I had part of my cure here in my back-yard all the time; but though I thought as hard as I could, I could think of no way of securing that Ch'ang should lead a tiger-forest into my room while I was sleeping. The thing seemed absurd, and I soon gave up trying to study it out. To-day by accident it has really come to pass."

"So I am the tiger-forest, am I?" laughed Hu-lin.

"Yes, indeed, you are, my dear child, a pretty little tiger-forest, for Hu means tiger, and lin is surely good Chinese for a grove of trees. Then, too, you told me you were a slave girl. Hence, Ch'ang led you out of slavery."

"Oh, I am so glad!" said Hu-lin, forgetting her own poverty, "so glad that you don't have to be a horrible old miser any longer."

Just at that moment there was a loud banging on the front gate.

"Who can be knocking in that fashion?" asked the young man in astonishment.

"Alas! it must be Black Heart, my master," said Hu-lin, beginning to cry.

"Don't be frightened," said the youth, soothingly stroking the child's head. "You have saved me, and I shall certainly do as much for you. If this Mr. Black Heart doesn't agree to a fair proposal he shall have a black eye to remember his visit by."

It did not take long for the grateful young man to buy Hu-lin's liberty, especially as he offered as much for her freedom as her master had expected to get when she was fourteen or fifteen years of age.

When Hu-lin was told of the bargain she was wild with delight. She bowed low before her new master and then, kneeling, touched her head nine times on the floor. Rising, she cried out, "Oh, how happy I am, for now I shall be yours for ever and ever and ever, and good old Ch'ang shall be my playmate."

"Yes, indeed," he assured her, "and when you are a little older I shall make you my wife. At present you will go with me to my father's house and become my little betrothed."

"And I shall never again have to beg for crusts on the street?" she asked him, her eyes full of wonder.

"No! never!" he answered, laughing, "and you need never fear another beating."



The Nodding Tiger


Just outside the walls of a Chinese city there lived a young woodcutter named T'ang and his old mother, a woman of seventy. They were very poor and had a tiny one-room shanty, built of mud and grass, which they rented from a neighbour. Every day young T'ang rose bright and early and went up on the mountain near their house. There he spent the day cutting firewood to sell in the city near by. In the evening he would return home, take the wood to market, sell it, and bring back food for his mother and himself. Now, though these two people were poor, they were very happy, for the young man loved his mother dearly, and the old woman thought there was no one like her son in all the world. Their friends, however, felt sorry for them and said, "What a pity we have no grasshoppers here, so that the T'angs could have some food from heaven!"

One day young T'ang got up before daylight and started for the hills, carrying his axe on his shoulder. He bade his mother good-bye, telling her that he would be back early with a heavier load of wood than usual, for the morrow would be a holiday and they must eat good food. All day long Widow T'ang waited patiently, saying to herself over and over as she went about her simple work, "The good boy, the good boy, how he loves his old mother!"

In the afternoon she began watching for his return -- but in vain. The sun was sinking lower and lower in the west, but still he did not come. At last the old woman was frightened. "My poor son!" she muttered. "Something has happened to him." Straining her feeble eyes, she looked along the mountain path. Nothing was to be seen there but a flock of sheep following the shepherd. "Woe is me!" moaned the woman. "My boy! my boy!" She took her crutch from its corner and limped off to a neighbour's house to tell him of her trouble and beg him to go and look for the missing boy.

Now this neighbour was kind-hearted, and willing to help old Mother T'ang, for he felt very sorry for her. "There are many wild beasts in the mountains," he said, shaking his head as he walked away with her, thinking to prepare the frightened woman for the worst, "and I fear that your son has been carried off by one of them." Widow T'ang gave a scream of horror and sank upon the ground. Her friend walked slowly up the mountain path, looking carefully for signs of a struggle. At last when he had gone half way up the slope he came to a little pile of torn clothing spattered with blood. The woodman's axe was lying by the side of the path, also his carrying pole and some rope. There could be no mistake: after making a brave fight, the poor youth had been carried off by a tiger.

Gathering up the torn garments, the man went sadly down the hill. He dreaded seeing the poor mother and telling her that her only boy was indeed gone for ever. At the foot of the mountain he found her still lying on the ground. When she looked up and saw what he was carrying, with a cry of despair she fainted away. She did not need to be told what had happened.

Friends bore her into the little house and gave her food, but they could not comfort her. "Alas!" she cried, "of what use is it to live? He was my only boy. Who will take care of me in my old age? Why have the gods treated me in this cruel way?"

She wept, tore her hair, and beat her chest, until people said she had gone mad. The longer she mourned, the more violent she became.

The next day, however, much to the surprise of her neighbours, she set out for the city, making her way along slowly by means of her crutch. It was a pitiful sight to see her, so old, so feeble, and so lonely. Every one was sorry for her and pointed her out, saying, "See! the poor old soul has no one to help her!"

In the city she asked her way to the public hall. When she found the place she knelt at the front gate, calling out loudly and telling of her ill-fortune. Just at this moment the mandarin, or city judge, walked into the court room to try any cases which might be brought before him. He heard the old woman weeping and wailing outside, and bade one of the servants let her enter and tell him of her wrongs.

Now this was just what the Widow T'ang had come for. Calming herself, she hobbled into the great hall of trial.

"What is the matter, old woman? Why do you raise such an uproar in front of my yamen? Speak up quickly and tell me of your trouble."

"I am old and feeble," she began; "lame and almost blind. I have no money and no way of earning money. I have not one relative now in all the empire. I depended on my only son for a living. Every day he climbed the mountain, for he was a woodcutter, and every evening he came back home, bringing enough money for our food. But yesterday he went and did not return. A mountain tiger carried him off and ate him, and now, alas! there seems to be no help for it -- I must die of hunger. My bleeding heart cries out for justice. I have come into this hall to-day, to beg your worship to see that the slayer of my son is punished. Surely the law says that none may shed blood without giving his own blood in payment."

"But, woman, are you mad?" cried the mandarin, laughing loudly. "Did you not say it was a tiger that killed your son? How can a tiger be brought to justice? Of a truth, you must have lost your senses."

The judge's questions were of no avail. The Widow T'ang kept up her clamour. She would not be turned away until she had gained her purpose. The hall echoed with the noise of her howling. The mandarin could stand it no longer. "Hold! woman," he cried, "stop your shrieking. I will do what you ask. Only go home and wait until I summon you to court. The slayer of your son shall be caught and punished."

The judge was, of course, only trying to get rid of the demented mother, thinking that if she were only once out of his sight, he could give orders not to let her into the hall again. The old woman, however, was too sharp for him. She saw through his plan and became more stubborn than ever.

"No, I cannot go," she answered, "until I have seen you sign the order for that tiger to be caught and brought into this judgment hall."

Now, as the judge was not really a bad man, he decided to humour the old woman in her strange plea. Turning to the assistants in the court room he asked which of them would be willing to go in search of the tiger. One of these men, named Li-neng, had been leaning against the wall, half asleep. He had been drinking heavily and so had not heard what had been going on in the room. One of his friends gave him a poke in the ribs just as the judge asked for volunteers.

Thinking the judge had called him by name, he stepped forward, knelt on the floor, saying, "I, Li-neng, can go and do the will of your worship."

"Very well, you will do," answered the judge. "Here is your order. Go forth and do your duty." So saying, he handed the warrant to Li-neng. "Now, old woman, are you satisfied?" he continued.

"Quite satisfied, your worship," she replied.

"Then go home and wait there until I send for you."

Mumbling a few words of thanks, the unhappy mother left the building.

When Li-neng went outside the court room, his friends crowded round him. "Drunken sot!" they laughed; "do you know what you have done?"

Li-neng shook his head. "Just a little business for the mandarin, isn't it? Quite easy."

"Call it easy, if you like. What! man, arrest a tiger, a man-eating tiger and bring him to the city! Better go and say good-bye to your father and mother. They will never see you again."

Li-neng slept off his drunkenness, and then saw that his friends were right. He had been very foolish. But surely the judge had meant the whole thing only as a joke! No such order had ever been written before! It was plain that the judge had hit on this plan simply to get rid of the wailing old woman. Li-neng took the warrant back to the judgment hall and told the mandarin that the tiger could not be found.

But the judge was in no mood for joking. "Can't be found? And why not? You agreed to arrest this tiger. Why is it that to-day you try to get out of your promise? I can by no means permit this, for I have given my word to satisfy the old woman in her cry for justice."

Li-neng knelt and knocked his head on the floor. "I was drunk," he cried, "when I gave my promise. I knew not what you were asking. I can catch a man, but not a tiger. I know nothing of such matters. Still, if you wish it, I can go into the hills and hire hunters to help me."

"Very well, it makes no difference how you catch him, as long as you bring him into court. If you fail in your duty, there is nothing left but to beat you until you succeed. I give you five days."

During the next few days Li-neng left no stone unturned in trying to find the guilty tiger. The best hunters in the country were employed. Night and day they searched the hills, hiding in mountain caves, watching and waiting, but finding nothing. It was all very trying for Li-neng, since he now feared the heavy hands of the judge more than the claws of the tiger. On the fifth day he had to report his failure. He received a thorough beating, fifty blows on the back. But that was not the worst of it. During the next six weeks, try as he would, he could find no traces of the missing animal. At the end of each five days, he got another beating for his pains. The poor fellow was in despair. Another month of such treatment would lay him on his deathbed. This he knew very well, and yet he had little hope. His friends shook their heads when they saw him. "He is drawing near the wood," they said to each other, meaning that he would soon be in his coffin. "Why don't you flee the country?" they asked him. "Follow the tiger's example. You see he has escaped completely. The judge would make no effort to catch you if you should go across the border into the next province."

Li-neng shook his head on hearing this advice. He had no desire to leave his family for ever, and he felt sure of being caught and put to death if he should try to run away.

One day after all the hunters had given up the search in disgust and gone back to their homes in the valley, Li-neng entered a mountain temple to pray. The tears rained down his cheeks as he knelt before the great fierce-looking idol. "Alas! I am a dead man!" he moaned between his prayers; "a dead man, for now there is no hope. Would that I had never touched a drop of wine!"

Just then he heard a slight rustling near by. Looking up, he saw a huge tiger standing at the temple gate. But Li-neng was no longer afraid of tigers. He knew there was only one way to save himself. "Ah," he said, looking the great cat straight in the eye, "you have come to eat me, have you? Well, I fear you would find my flesh a trifle tough, since I have been beaten with four hundred blows during these six weeks. You are the same fellow that carried off the woodman last month, aren't you? This woodman was an only son, the sole support of an old mother. Now this poor woman has reported you to the mandarin, who, in turn, has had a warrant drawn up for your arrest. I have been sent out to find you and lead you to trial. For some reason or other you have acted the coward, and remained in hiding. This has been the cause of my beating. Now I don't want to suffer any longer as a result of your murder. You must come with me to the city and answer the charge of killing the woodman."

All the time Li-neng was speaking, the tiger listened closely. When the man was silent, the animal made no effort to escape, but, on the contrary, seemed willing and ready to be captured. He bent his head forward and let Li-neng slip a strong chain over it. Then he followed the man quietly down the mountain, through the crowded streets of the city, into the court room. All along the way there was great excitement. "The man-slaying tiger has been caught," shouted the people. "He is being led to trial."

The crowd followed Li-neng into the hall of justice. When the judge walked in, every one became as quiet as the grave. All were filled with wonder at the strange sight of a tiger being called before a judge.

The great animal did not seem to be afraid of those who were watching so curiously. He sat down in front of the mandarin, for all the world like a huge cat. The judge rapped on the table as a signal that all was ready for the trial.

"Tiger," said he, turning toward the prisoner, "did you eat the woodman whom you are charged with killing?"

The tiger gravely nodded his head.

"Yes, he killed my boy!" screamed the aged mother. "Kill him! Give him the death that he deserves!"

"A life for a life is the law of the land," continued the judge, paying no attention to the forlorn mother, but looking the accused directly in the eye. "Did you not know it? You have robbed a helpless old woman of her only son. There are no relatives to support her. She is crying for vengeance. You must be punished for your crime. The law must be enforced. However, I am not a cruel judge. If you can promise to take the place of this widow's son and support the woman in her old age, I am quite willing to spare you from a disgraceful death. What say you, will you accept my offer?"

The gaping people craned their necks to see what would happen, and once more they were surprised to see the savage beast nod his head in silent agreement.

"Very well, then, you are free to return to your mountain home; only, of course, you must remember your promise."

The chains were taken from the tiger's neck, and the great animal walked silently out of the yamen, down the street, and through the gate opening towards his beloved mountain cave.

Once more the old woman was very angry. As she hobbled from the room, she cast sour glances at the judge, muttering over and over again, "Who ever heard of a tiger taking the place of a son? A pretty game this is, to catch the brute, and then to set him free." There was nothing for her to do, however, but to return home, for the judge had given strict orders that on no account was she to appear before him again.

Almost broken-hearted she entered her desolate hovel at the foot of the mountain. Her neighbours shook their heads as they saw her. "She cannot live long," they said. "She has the look of death on her wrinkled face. Poor soul! she has nothing to live for, nothing to keep her from starving."

But they were mistaken. Next morning when the old woman went outside to get a breath of fresh air she found a newly killed deer in front of her door. Her tiger-son had begun to keep his promise, for she could see the marks of his claws on the dead animal's body. She took the carcass into the house and dressed it for the market. On the city streets next day she had no trouble in selling the flesh and skin for a handsome sum of money. All had heard of the tiger's first gift, and no one was anxious to drive a close bargain.

Laden with food, the happy woman went home rejoicing, with money enough to keep her for many a day. A week later the tiger came to her door with a roll of cloth and some money in his mouth. He dropped these new gifts at her feet and ran away without even waiting for her thank-you. The Widow T'ang now saw that the judge had acted wisely. She stopped grieving for her dead son and began to love in his stead the handsome animal that had come to take his place so willingly.

The tiger grew much attached to his foster-mother and often purred contentedly outside her door, waiting for her to come and stroke his soft fur. He no longer had the old desire to kill. The sight of blood was not nearly so tempting as it had been in his younger days. Year after year he brought the weekly offerings to his mistress until she was as well provided for as any other widow in the country.

At last in the course of nature the good old soul died. Kind friends laid her away in her last resting place at the foot of the great mountain. There was money enough left out of what she had saved to put up a handsome tombstone, on which this story was written just as you have read it here. The faithful tiger mourned long for his dear mistress. He lay on her grave, wailing like a child that had lost its mother. Long he listened for the voice he had loved so well, long he searched the mountain-slopes, returning each night to the empty cottage, but all in vain. She whom he loved was gone for ever.

One night he vanished from the mountain, and from that day to this no one in that province has ever seen him. Some who know this story say that he died of grief in a secret cave which he had long used as a hiding-place. Others add, with a wise shrug of the shoulders, that, like Shanwang, he was taken to the Western Heaven, there to be rewarded for his deeds of virtue and to live as a fairy for ever afterwards.



The Princess Kwan-Yin


Once upon a time in China there lived a certain king who had three daughters. The fairest and best of these was Kwan-yin, the youngest. The old king was justly proud of this daughter, for of all the women who had ever lived in the palace she was by far the most attractive. It did not take him long, therefore, to decide that she should be the heir to his throne, and her husband ruler of his kingdom. But, strange to say, Kwan-yin was not pleased at this good fortune. She cared little for the pomp and splendour of court life. She foresaw no pleasure for herself in ruling as a queen, but even feared that in so high a station she might feel out of place and unhappy.

Every day she went to her room to read and study. As a result of this daily labour she soon went far beyond her sisters along the paths of knowledge, and her name was known in the farthest corner of the kingdom as "Kwan-yin, the wise princess." Besides being very fond of books, Kwan-yin was thoughtful of her friends. She was careful about her behaviour both in public and in private. Her warm heart was open at all times to the cries of those in trouble. She was kind to the poor and suffering. She won the love of the lower classes, and was to them a sort of goddess to whom they could appeal whenever they were hungry and in need. Some people even believed that she was a fairy who had come to earth from her home within the Western Heaven, while others said that once, long years before, she had lived in the world as a prince instead of a princess. However this may be, one thing is certain -- Kwan-yin was pure and good, and well deserved the praises that were showered upon her.

One day the king called this favourite daughter to the royal bedside, for he felt that the hour of death was drawing near. Kwan-yin kowtowed before her royal father, kneeling and touching her forehead on the floor in sign of deepest reverence. The old man bade her rise and come closer. Taking her hand tenderly in his own, he said, "Daughter, you know well how I love you. Your modesty and virtue, your talent and your love of knowledge, have made you first in my heart. As you know already, I chose you as heir to my kingdom long ago. I promised that your husband should be made ruler in my stead. The time is almost ripe for me to ascend upon the dragon and become a guest on high. It is necessary that you be given at once in marriage."

"But, most exalted father," faltered the princess, "I am not ready to be married."

"Not ready, child! Why, are you not eighteen? Are not the daughters of our nation often wedded long before they reach that age? Because of your desire for learning I have spared you thus far from any thought of a husband, but now we can wait no longer."

"Royal father, hear your child, and do not compel her to give up her dearest pleasures. Let her go into a quiet convent where she may lead a life of study!"

The king sighed deeply at hearing these words. He loved his daughter and did not wish to wound her. "Kwan-yin," he continued, "do you wish to pass by the green spring of youth, to give up this mighty kingdom? Do you wish to enter the doors of a convent where women say farewell to life and all its pleasures? No! your father will not permit this. It grieves me sorely to disappoint you, but one month from this very day you shall be married. I have chosen for your royal partner a man of many noble parts. You know him by name already, although you have not seen him. Remember that, of the hundred virtues filial conduct is the chief, and that you owe more to me than to all else on earth."

Kwan-yin turned pale. Trembling, she would have sunk to the floor, but her mother and sisters supported her, and by their tender care brought her back to consciousness.

Every day of the month that followed, Kwan-yin's relatives begged her to give up what they called her foolish notion. Her sisters had long since given up hope of becoming queen. They were amazed at her stupidity. The very thought of any one's choosing a convent instead of a throne was to them a sure sign of madness. Over and over again they asked her reason for making so strange a choice. To every question, she shook her head, replying, "A voice from the heavens speaks to me, and I must obey it."

On the eve of the wedding day Kwan-yin slipped out of the palace, and, after a weary journey, arrived at a convent called, "The Cloister of the White Sparrow." She was dressed as a poor maiden. She said she wished to become a nun. The abbess, not knowing who she was, did not receive her kindly. Indeed, she told Kwan-yin that they could not receive her into the sisterhood, that the building was full. Finally, after Kwan-yin had shed many tears, the abbess let her enter, but only as a sort of servant, who might be cast out for the slightest fault.

Now that Kwan-yin found herself in the life which she had long dreamt of leading, she tried to be satisfied. But the nuns seemed to wish to make her stay among them most miserable. They gave her the hardest tasks to do, and it was seldom that she had a minute to rest. All day long she was busy, carrying water from a well at the foot of the convent hill or gathering wood from a neighbouring forest. At night when her back was almost breaking, she was given many extra tasks, enough to have crushed the spirit of any other woman than this brave daughter of a king. Forgetting her grief, and trying to hide the lines of pain that sometimes wrinkled her fair forehead, she tried to make these hard-hearted women love her. In return for their rough words, she spoke to them kindly, and never did she give way to anger.

One day while poor Kwan-yin was picking up brushwood in the forest she heard a tiger making his way through the bushes. Having no means of defending herself, she breathed a silent prayer to the gods for help, and calmly awaited the coming of the great beast. To her surprise, when the bloodthirsty animal appeared, instead of bounding up to tear her in pieces, he began to make a soft purring noise. He did not try to hurt Kwan-yin, but rubbed against her in a friendly manner, and let her pat him on the head.

The next day the princess went back to the same spot. There she found no fewer than a dozen savage beasts working under the command of the friendly tiger, gathering wood for her. In a short time enough brush and firewood had been piled up to last the convent for six months. Thus, even the wild animals of the forest were better able to judge of her goodness than the women of the sisterhood.

At another time when Kwan-yin was toiling up the hill for the twentieth time, carrying two great pails of water on a pole, an enormous dragon faced her in the road. Now, in China, the dragon is sacred, and Kwan-yin was not at all frightened, for she knew that she had done no wrong.

The animal looked at her for a moment, switched its horrid tail, and shot out fire from its nostrils. Then, dashing the burden from the startled maiden's shoulder, it vanished. Full of fear, Kwan-yin hurried up the hill to the nunnery. As she drew near the inner court, she was amazed to see in the centre of the open space a new building of solid stone. It had sprung up by magic since her last journey down the hill. On going forward, she saw that there were four arched doorways to the fairy house. Above the door facing west was a tablet with these words written on it: "In honour of Kwan-yin, the faithful princess." Inside was a well of the purest water, while, for drawing this water, there a strange machine, the like of which neither Kwan-yin nor the nuns had ever seen.

The sisters knew that this magic well was a monument to Kwan-yin's goodness. For a few days they treated her much better. "Since the gods have dug a well at our very gate," they said, "this girl will no longer need to bear water from the foot of the hill. For what strange reason, however, did the gods write this beggar's name on the stone?"

Kwan-yin heard their unkind remarks in silence. She could have explained the meaning of the dragon's gift, but she chose to let her companions remain in ignorance. At last the selfish nuns began to grow careless again, and treated her even worse than before. They could not bear to see the poor girl enjoy a moment's idleness.

"This is a place for work," they told her. "All of us have laboured hard to win our present station. You must do likewise." So they robbed her of every chance for study and prayer, and gave her no credit for the magic well.

One night the sisters were awakened from their sleep by strange noises, and soon they heard outside the walls of the compound the blare of a trumpet. A great army had been sent by Kwan-yin's father to attack the convent, for his spies had at last been able to trace the runaway princess to this holy retreat.

"Oh, who has brought this woe upon us?" exclaimed all the women, looking at each other in great fear. "Who has done this great evil? There is one among us who has sinned most terribly, and now the gods are about to destroy us." They gazed at one another, but no one thought of Kwan-yin, for they did not believe her of enough importance to attract the anger of heaven, even though she might have done the most shocking of deeds. Then, too, she had been so meek and lowly while in their holy order that they did not once dream of charging her with any crime.

The threatening sounds outside grew louder and louder. All at once a fearful cry arose among the women: "They are about to burn our sacred dwelling." Smoke was rising just beyond the enclosure where the soldiers were kindling a great fire, the heat of which would soon be great enough to make the convent walls crumble into dust.

Suddenly a voice was heard above the tumult of the weeping sisters: "Alas! I am the cause of all this trouble."

The nuns, turning in amazement, saw that it was Kwan-yin who was speaking. "You?" they exclaimed, astounded.

"Yes, I, for I am indeed the daughter of a king. My father did not wish me to take the vows of this holy order. I fled from the palace. He has sent his army here to burn these buildings and to drag me back a prisoner."

"Then, see what you have brought upon us, miserable girl!" exclaimed the abbess. "See how you have repaid our kindness! Our buildings will be burned above our heads! How wretched you have made us! May heaven's curses rest upon you!"

"No, no!" exclaimed Kwan-yin, springing up, and trying to keep the abbess from speaking these frightful words. "You have no right to say that, for I am innocent of evil. But, wait! You shall soon see whose prayers the gods will answer, yours or mine!" So saying, she pressed her forehead to the floor, praying the almighty powers to save the convent and the sisters.

Outside the crackling of the greedy flames could already be heard. The fire king would soon destroy every building on that hill-top. Mad with terror, the sisters prepared to leave the compound and give up all their belongings to the cruel flames and still more cruel soldiers. Kwan-yin alone remained in the room, praying earnestly for help.

Suddenly a soft breeze sprang up from the neighbouring forest, dark clouds gathered overhead, and, although it was the dry season a drenching shower descended on the flames. Within five minutes the fire was put out and the convent was saved. Just as the shivering nuns were thanking Kwan-yin for the divine help she had brought them, two soldiers who had scaled the outer wall of the compound came in and roughly asked for the princess.

The trembling girl, knowing that these men were obeying her father's orders, poured out a prayer to the gods, and straightway made herself known. They dragged her from the presence of the nuns who had just begun to love her. Thus disgraced before her father's army, she was taken to the capital.

On the morrow, she was led before the old king. The father gazed sadly at his daughter, and then the stern look of a judge hardened his face as he beckoned the guards to bring her forward.

From a neighbouring room came the sounds of sweet music. A feast was being served there amid great splendour. The loud laughter of the guests reached the ears of the young girl as she bowed in disgrace before her father's throne. She knew that this feast had been prepared for her, and that her father was willing to give her one more chance.

"Girl," said the king, at last regaining his voice, "in leaving the royal palace on the eve of your wedding day, not only did you insult your father, but your king. For this act you deserve to die. However, because of the excellent record you had made for yourself before you ran away, I have decided to give you one more chance to redeem yourself. Refuse me, and the penalty is death: obey me, and all may yet be well -- the kingdom that you spurned is still yours for the asking. All that I require is your marriage to the man whom I have chosen."

"And when, most august King, would you have me decide?" asked Kwan-yin earnestly.

"This very day, this very hour, this very moment," he answered sternly. "What! would you hesitate between love upon a throne and death? Speak, my daughter, tell me that you love me and will do my bidding!"

It was now all that Kwan-yin could do to keep from throwing herself at her father's feet and yielding to his wishes, not because he offered her a kingdom, but because she loved him and would gladly have made him happy. But her strong will kept her from relenting. No power on earth could have stayed her from doing what she thought her duty.

"Beloved father," she answered sadly, and her voice was full of tenderness, "it is not a question of my love for you -- of that there is no question, for all my life I have shown it in every action. Believe me, if I were free to do your bidding, gladly would I make you happy, but a voice from the gods has spoken, has commanded that I remain a virgin, that I devote my life to deeds of mercy. When heaven itself has commanded, what can even a princess do but listen to that power which rules the earth?"

The old king was far from satisfied with Kwan-yin's answer. He grew furious, his thin wrinkled skin turned purple as the hot blood rose to his head. "Then you refuse to do my bidding! Take her, men! Give to her the death that is due to a traitor to the king!" As they bore Kwan-yin away from his presence the white-haired monarch fell, swooning, from his chair.

That night, when Kwan-yin was put to death, she descended into the lower world of torture. No sooner had she set foot in that dark country of the dead than the vast region of endless punishment suddenly blossomed forth and became like the gardens of Paradise. Pure white lilies sprang up on every side, and the odour of a million flowers filled all the rooms and corridors. King Yama, ruler of the dominion, rushed forth to learn the cause of this wonderful change. No sooner did his eyes rest upon the fair young face of Kwan-yin than he saw in her the emblem of a purity which deserved no home but heaven.

"Beautiful virgin, doer of many mercies," he began, after addressing her by her title, "I beg you in the name of justice to depart from this bloody kingdom. It is not right that the fairest flower of heaven should enter and shed her fragrance in these halls. Guilt must suffer here, and sin find no reward. Depart thou, then, from my dominion. The peach of immortal life shall be bestowed upon you, and heaven alone shall be your dwelling place."

Thus Kwan-yin became the Goddess of Mercy; thus she entered into that glad abode, surpassing all earthly kings and queens. And ever since that time, on account of her exceeding goodness, thousands of poor people breathe out to her each year their prayers for mercy. There is no fear in their gaze as they look at her beautiful image, for their eyes are filled with tears of love.



The Two Jugglers


One beautiful spring day two men strolled into the public square of a well-known Chinese city. They were plainly dressed and looked like ordinary countrymen who had come in to see the sights. Judging by their faces, they were father and son. The elder, a wrinkled man of perhaps fifty, wore a scant grey beard. The younger had a small box on his shoulder.

At the hour when these strangers entered the public square, a large crowd had gathered, for it was a feast day, and every one was bent on having a good time. All the people seemed very happy. Some, seated in little open-air booths, were eating, drinking, and smoking. Others were buying odds and ends from the street-vendors, tossing coins, and playing various games of chance.

The two men walked about aimlessly. They seemed to have no friends among the pleasure-seekers. At last, however, as they stood reading a public notice posted at the entrance of the town-hall or yamen, a bystander asked them who they were.

"Oh, we are jugglers from a distant province," said the elder, smiling and pointing towards the box. "We can do many tricks for the amusement of the people."

Soon it was spread about among the crowd that two famous jugglers had just arrived from the capital, and that they were able to perform many wonderful deeds. Now it happened that the mandarin or mayor of the city, at that very moment was entertaining a number of guests in the yamen. They had just finished eating, and the host was wondering what he should do to amuse his friends, when a servant told him of the jugglers.

"Ask them what they can do," said the mandarin eagerly. "I will pay them well if they can really amuse us, but I want something more than the old tricks of knife-throwing and balancing. They must show us something new."

The servant went outside and spoke to the jugglers: "The great man bids you tell him what you can do. If you can amuse his visitors he will bring them out to the private grand stand, and let you perform before them and the people who are gathered together."

"Tell your honourable master," said the elder, whom we shall call Chang, "that, try us as he will, he will not be disappointed. Tell him that we come from the unknown land of dreams and visions, that we can turn rocks into mountains, rivers into oceans, mice into elephants, in short, that there is nothing in magic too difficult for us to do."

The official was delighted when he heard the report of his servant. "Now we may have a little fun," he said to his guests, "for there are jugglers outside who will perform their wonderful tricks before us."

The guests filed out on to the grand stand at one side of the public square. The mandarin commanded that a rope should be stretched across so as to leave an open space in full view of the crowd, where the two Changs might give their exhibition.

For a time the two strangers entertained the people with some of the simpler tricks, such as spinning plates in the air, tossing bowls up and catching them on chopsticks, making flowers grow from empty pots, and transforming one object into another. At last, however, the mandarin cried out: "These tricks are very good of their kind, but how about those idle boasts of changing rivers into oceans and mice into elephants? Did you not say that you came from the land of dreams? These tricks you have done are stale and shopworn. Have you nothing new with which to regale my guests on this holiday?"

"Most certainly, your excellency. But surely you would not have a labourer do more than his employer requires? Would that not be quite contrary to the teachings of our fathers? Be assured, sir, anything that you demand I can do for you. Only say the word."

The mandarin laughed outright at this boasting language. "Take care, my man! Do not go too far with your promises. There are too many impostors around for me to believe every stranger. Hark you! no lying, for if you lie in the presence of my guests, I shall take great pleasure in having you beaten."

"My words are quite true, your excellency," repeated Chang earnestly. "What have we to gain by deceit, we who have performed our miracles before the countless hosts of yonder Western Heaven?"

"Ha, ha! hear the braggarts!" shouted the guests. "What shall we command them to do?"

For a moment they consulted together, whispering and laughing.

"I have it," cried the host finally. "Our feast was short of fruit, since this is the off season. Suppose we let this fellow supply us. Here, fellow, produce us a peach, and be quick about it. We have no time for fooling."

"What, masters, a peach?" exclaimed the elder Chang in mock dismay. "Surely at this season you do not expect a peach."

"Caught at his own game," laughed the guests, and the people began to hoot derisively.

"But, father, you promised to do anything he required," urged the son. "If he asks even a peach, how can you refuse and at the same time save your face?"

"Hear the boy talk," mumbled the father, "and yet, perhaps he's right. Very well, masters," turning to the crowd, "if it's a peach you want, why, a peach you shall have, even though I must send into the garden of the Western Heaven for the fruit."

The people became silent and the mandarin's guests forgot to laugh. The old man, still muttering, opened the box from which he had been taking the magic bowls, plates, and other articles. "To think of people wanting peaches at this season! What is the world coming to?"

After fumbling in the box for some moments he drew out a skein of golden thread, fine spun and as light as gossamer. No sooner had he unwound a portion of this thread than a sudden gust of wind carried it up into the air above the heads of the onlookers. Faster and faster the old man paid out the magic coil, higher and higher the free end rose into the heavens, until, strain his eyes as he would, no one present could see into what far-region it had vanished.

"Wonderful, wonderful!" shouted the people with one voice, "the old man is a fairy."

For a moment they forgot all about the mandarin, the jugglers, and the peach, so amazed were they at beholding the flight of the magic thread.

At last the old man seemed satisfied with the distance to which his cord had sailed, and, with a bow to the spectators, he tied the end to a large wooden pillar which helped to support the roof of the grand stand. For a moment the structure trembled and swayed as if it too would be carried off into the blue ether, the guests turned pale and clutched their chairs for support, but not even the mandarin dared to speak, so sure were they now that they were in the presence of fairies.

"Everything is ready for the journey," said old Chang calmly.

"What! shall you leave us?" asked the mayor, finding his voice again.

"I? Oh, no, my old bones are not spry enough for quick climbing. My son here will bring us the magic peach. He is handsome and active enough to enter that heavenly garden. Graceful, oh graceful is that peach tree -- of course, you remember the line from the poem -- and a graceful man must pluck the fruit."

The mandarin was still more surprised at the juggler's knowledge of a famous poem from the classics. It made him and his friends all the more certain that the newcomers were indeed fairies.

The young man at a sign from his father tightened his belt and the bands about his ankles, and then, with a graceful gesture to the astonished people, sprang upon the magic string, balanced himself for a moment on the steep incline, and then ran as nimbly up as a sailor would have mounted a rope ladder. Higher and higher he climbed till he seemed no bigger than a lark ascending into the blue sky, and then, like some tiny speck, far, far away, on the western horizon.

The people gazed in open-mouthed wonder. They were struck dumb and filled with some nameless fear; they hardly dared to look at the enchanter who stood calmly in their midst, smoking his long-stemmed pipe.

The mandarin, ashamed of having laughed at and threatened this man who was clearly a fairy, did not know what to say. He snapped his long finger nails and looked at his guests in mute astonishment. The visitors silently drank their tea, and the crowd of sightseers craned their necks in a vain effort to catch sight of the vanished fairy. Only one in all that assembly, a bright-eyed little boy of eight, dared to break the silence, and he caused a hearty burst of merriment by crying out, "Oh, daddy, will the bad young man fly off into the sky and leave his poor father all alone?"

The greybeard laughed loudly with the others, and tossed the lad a copper. "Ah, the good boy," he said smiling, "he has been well trained to love his father; no fear of foreign ways spoiling his filial piety."

After a few moments of waiting, old Chang laid aside his pipe and fixed his eyes once more on the western sky. "It is coming," he said quietly. "The peach will soon be here."

Suddenly he held out his hand as if to catch some falling object, but, look as they would, the people could see nothing. Swish! thud! it came like a streak of light, and, lo, there in the magician's fingers was a peach, the most beautiful specimen the people had ever seen, large and rosy. "Straight from the garden of the gods," said Chang, handing the fruit to the mandarin, "a peach in the Second Moon, and the snow hardly off the ground."

Trembling with excitement, the official took the peach and cut it open. It was large enough for all his guests to have a taste, and such a taste it was! They smacked their lips and wished for more, secretly thinking that never again would ordinary fruit be worth the eating.

But all this time the old juggler, magician, fairy or whatever you choose to call him, was looking anxiously into the sky. The result of this trick was more than he had bargained for. True, he had been able to produce the magic peach which the mandarin had called for, but his son, where was his son? He shaded his eyes and looked far up into the blue heavens, and so did the people, but no one could catch a glimpse of the departed youth.

"Oh, my son, my son," cried the old man in despair, "how cruel is the fate that has robbed me of you, the only prop of my declining years! Oh, my boy, my boy, would that I had not sent you on so perilous a journey! Who now will look after my grave when I am gone?"

Suddenly the silken cord on which the young man had sped so daringly into the sky, gave a quick jerk which almost toppled over the post to which it was tied, and there, before the very eyes of the people, it fell from the lofty height, a silken pile on the ground in front of them.

The greybeard uttered a loud cry and covered his face with his hands. "Alas! the whole story is plain enough," he sobbed. "My boy was caught in the act of plucking the magic peach from the garden of the gods, and they have thrown him into prison. Woe is me! Ah! woe is me!"

The mandarin and his friends were deeply touched by the old man's grief, and tried in vain to comfort him. "Perhaps he will return," they said. "Have courage!"

"Yes, but in what a shape?" replied the magician. "See! even now they are restoring him to his father."

The people looked, and they saw twirling and twisting through the air the young man's arm. It fell upon the ground in front of them at the fairy's feet. Next came the head, a leg, the body. One by one before the gasping, shuddering people, the parts of the unfortunate young man were restored to his father.

After the first outburst of wild, frantic grief the old man by a great effort gained control of his feelings, and began to gather up these parts, putting them tenderly into the wooden box.

By this time many of the spectators were weeping at the sight of the father's affliction. "Come," said the mandarin at last, deeply moved, "let us present the old man with sufficient money to give his boy a decent burial."

All present agreed willingly, for there is no sight in China that causes greater pity than that of an aged parent robbed by death of an only son. The copper cash fell in a shower at the juggler's feet, and soon tears of gratitude were mingled with those of sorrow. He gathered up the money and tied it in a large black cloth. Then a wonderful change came over his face. He seemed all of a sudden to forget his grief. Turning to the box, he raised the lid. The people heard him say: "Come, my son; the crowd is waiting for you to thank them. Hurry up! They have been very kind to us."

In an instant the box was thrown open with a bang, and before the mandarin and his friends, before the eyes of all the sightseers the young man, strong and whole once more, stepped forth and bowed, clasping his hands and giving the national salute.

For a moment all were silent. Then, as the wonder of the whole thing dawned upon them, the people broke forth into a tumult of shouts, laughter, and compliments. "The fairies have surely come to visit us!" they shouted. "The city will be blessed with good fortune! Perhaps it is Fairy Old Boy himself who is among us!"

The mandarin rose and addressed the jugglers, thanking them in the name of the city for their visit and for the taste they had given to him and his guests of the peach from the heavenly orchard.

Even as he spoke, the magic box opened again; the two fairies disappeared inside, the lid closed, and the chest rose from the ground above the heads of the people. For a moment it floated round in a circle like some homing pigeon trying to find its bearings before starting on a return journey. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, it shot off into the heavens and vanished from the sight of those below, and not a thing remained as proof of the strange visitors except the magic peach seed that lay beside the teacups on the mandarin's table.

According to the most ancient writings there is now nothing left to tell of this story. It has been declared, however, by later scholars that the official and his friends who had eaten the magic peach, at once began to feel a change in their lives. While, before the coming of the fairies, they had lived unfairly, accepting bribes and taking part in many shameful practices, now, after tasting of the heavenly fruit, they began to grow better. The people soon began to honour and love them, saying, "Surely these great men are not like others of their kind, for these men are just and honest in their dealings with us. They seem not to be ruling for their own reward!"

However this may be, we do know that before many years their city became the centre of the greatest peach-growing section of China, and even yet when strangers walk in the orchards and look up admiringly at the beautiful sweet-smelling fruit, the natives sometimes ask proudly, "And have you never heard about the wonderful peach which was the beginning of all our orchards, the magic peach the fairies brought us from the Western Heaven?"



The Phantom Vessel


Once a ship loaded with pleasure-seekers was sailing from North China to Shanghai. High winds and stormy weather had delayed her, and she was still one week from port when a great plague broke out on board. This plague was of the worst kind. It attacked passengers and sailors alike until there were so few left to sail the vessel that it seemed as if she would soon be left to the mercy of winds and waves.

On all sides lay the dead, and the groans of the dying were most terrible to hear. Of that great company of travellers only one, a little boy named Ying-lo, had escaped. At last the few sailors, who had been trying hard to save their ship, were obliged to lie down upon the deck, a prey to the dreadful sickness, and soon they too were dead.

Ying-lo now found himself alone on the sea. For some reason -- he did not know why -- the gods or the sea fairies had spared him, but as he looked about in terror at the friends and loved ones who had died, he almost wished that he might join them.

The sails flapped about like great broken wings, while the giant waves dashed higher above the deck, washing many of the bodies overboard and wetting the little boy to the skin. Shivering with cold, he gave himself up for lost and prayed to the gods, whom his mother had often told him about, to take him from this dreadful ship and let him escape the fatal illness.

As he lay there praying he heard a slight noise in the rigging just above his head. Looking up, he saw a ball of fire running along a yardarm near the top of the mast. The sight was so strange that he forgot his prayer and stared with open-mouthed wonder. To his astonishment, the ball grew brighter and brighter, and then suddenly began slipping down the mast, all the time increasing in size. The poor boy did not know what to do or to think. Were the gods, in answer to his prayer, sending fire to burn the vessel? If so, he would soon escape. Anything would be better than to be alone upon the sea.

Nearer and nearer came the fireball. At last, when it reached the deck, to Ying-lo's surprise, something very, very strange happened. Before he had time to feel alarmed, the light vanished, and a funny little man stood in front of him peering anxiously into the child's frightened face.

"Yes, you are the lad I'm looking for," he said at last, speaking in a piping voice that almost made Ying-lo smile. "You are Ying-lo, and you are the only one left of this wretched company." This he said, pointing towards the bodies lying here and there about the deck.

Although he saw that the old man meant him no harm, the child could say nothing, but waited in silence, wondering what would happen next.

By this time the vessel was tossing and pitching so violently that it seemed every minute as if it would upset and go down beneath the foaming waves, never to rise again. Not many miles distant on the right, some jagged rocks stuck out of the water, lifting their cruel heads as if waiting for the helpless ship.

The newcomer walked slowly towards the mast and tapped on it three times with an iron staff he had been using as a cane. Immediately the sails spread, the vessel righted itself and began to glide over the sea so fast that the gulls were soon left far behind, while the threatening rocks upon which the ship had been so nearly dashed seemed like specks in the distance.

"Do you remember me?" said the stranger, suddenly turning and coming up to Ying-lo, but his voice was lost in the whistling of the wind, and the boy knew only by the moving of his lips that the old man was talking. The greybeard bent over until his mouth was at Ying-lo's ear: "Did you ever see me before?"

With a puzzled look, at first the child shook his head. Then as he gazed more closely there seemed to be something that he recognized about the wrinkled face. "Yes, I think so, but I don't know when."

With a tap of his staff the fairy stopped the blowing of the wind, and then spoke once more to his small companion: "One year ago I passed through your village. I was dressed in rags, and was begging my way along the street, trying to find some one who would feel sorry for me. Alas! no one answered my cry for mercy. Not a crust was thrown into my bowl. All the people were deaf, and fierce dogs drove me from door to door. Finally when I was almost dying of hunger, I began to feel that here was a village without one good person in it. Just then you saw my suffering, ran into the house, and brought me out food. Your heartless mother saw you doing this and beat you cruelly. Do you remember now, my child?"

"Yes, I remember," he answered sadly, "and that mother is now lying dead. Alas! all, all are dead, my father and my brothers also. Not one is left of my family."

"Little did you know, my boy, to whom you were giving food that day. You took me for a lowly beggar, but, behold, it was not a poor man that you fed, for I am Iron Staff. You must have heard of me when they were telling of the fairies in the Western Heaven, and of their adventures here on earth."

"Yes, yes," answered Ying-lo, trembling half with fear and half with joy, "indeed I have heard of you many, many times, and all the people love you for your kind deeds of mercy."

"Alas! they did not show their love, my little one. Surely you know that if any one wishes to reward the fairies for their mercies, he must begin to do deeds of the same kind himself. No one but you in all your village had pity on me in my rags. If they had known that I was Iron Staff, everything would have been different; they would have given me a feast and begged for my protection.


"The only love that loves aright Is that which loves in every plight. The beggar in his sad array Is moulded of the selfsame clay.

"Who knows a man by what he wears, By what he says or by his prayers? Hidden beneath that wrinkled skin A fairy may reside within.

"Then treat with kindness and with love The lowly man, the god above; A friendly nod, a welcome smile --  For love is ever worth the while."


Ying-lo listened in wonder to Iron Staff's little poem, and when he had finished, the boy's face was glowing with the love of which the fairy had spoken. "My poor, poor father and mother!" he cried; "they knew nothing of these beautiful things you are telling me. They were brought up in poverty. As they were knocked about in childhood by those around them, so they learned to beat others who begged them for help. Is it strange that they did not have hearts full of pity for you when you looked like a beggar?"

"But what about you, my boy? You were not deaf when I asked you. Have you not been whipped and punished all your life? How then did you learn to look with love at those in tears?"

The child could not answer these questions, but only looked sorrowfully at Iron Staff. "Oh, can you not, good fairy, will you not restore my parents and brothers, and give them another chance to be good and useful people?"

"Listen, Ying-lo; it is impossible -- unless you do two things first," he answered, stroking his beard gravely and leaning heavily upon his staff.

"What are they? What must I do to save my family? Anything you ask of me will not be too much to pay for your kindness."

"First you must tell me of some good deed done by these people for whose lives you are asking. Name only one, for that will be enough; but it is against our rules to help those who have done nothing."

Ying-lo was silent, and for a moment his face was clouded. "Yes, I know," he said finally, brightening. "They burned incense once at the temple. That was certainly a deed of virtue."

"But when was it, little one, that they did this?"

"When my big brother was sick, and they were praying for him to get well. The doctors could not save him with boiled turnip juice or with any other of the medicines they used, so my parents begged the gods."

"Selfish, selfish!" muttered Iron Staff. "If their eldest son had not been dying they would have spent no money at the temple. They tried in this way to buy back his health, for they were expecting him to support them in their old age."

Ying-lo's face fell. "You are right," he answered.

"Can you think of nothing else?"

"Yes, oh, yes, last year when the foreigner rode through our village and fell sick in front of our house, they took him in and cared for him."

"How long?" asked the other sharply.

"Until he died the next week."

"And what did they do with the mule he was riding, his bed, and the money in his bag? Did they try to restore them to his people?"

"No, they said they'd keep them to pay for the trouble." Ying-lo's face turned scarlet.

"But try again, dear boy! Is there not one little deed of goodness that was not selfish? Think once more."

For a long time Ying-lo did not reply. At length he spoke in a low voice; "I think of one, but I fear it amounts to nothing."

"No good, my child, is too small to be counted when the gods are weighing a man's heart."

"Last spring the birds were eating in my father's garden. My mother wanted to buy poison from the shop to destroy them, but my father said no, that the little things must live, and he for one was not in favour of killing them."

"At last, Ying-lo, you have named a real deed of mercy, and as he spared the tiny birds from poison, so shall his life and the lives of your mother and brothers be restored from the deadly plague.

"But remember there is one other thing that depends on you."

Ying-lo's eyes glistened gratefully. "Then if it rests with me, and I can do it, you have my promise. No sacrifice should be too great for a son to make for his loved ones even though his life itself is asked in payment."

"Very well, Ying-lo. What I require is that you carry out to the letter my instructions. Now it is time for me to keep my promise to you."

So saying, Iron Staff called on Ying-lo to point out the members of his family, and, approaching them one by one, with the end of his iron stick he touched their foreheads. In an instant each, without a word, arose. Looking round and recognising Ying-lo, they stood back, frightened at seeing him with the fairy. When the last had risen to his feet, Iron Staff beckoned all of them to listen. This they did willingly, too much terrified to speak, for they saw on all sides signs of the plague that had swept over the vessel, and they remembered the frightful agony they had suffered in dying. Each knew that he had been lifted by some magic power from darkness into light.

"My friends," began the fairy, "little did you think when less than a year ago you drove me from your door that soon you yourselves would be in need of mercy. To-day you have had a peep into the awful land of Yama. You have seen the horror of his tortures, have heard the screams of his slaves, and by another night you would have been carried before him to be judged. What power is it that has saved you from his clutches? As you look back through your wicked lives can you think of any reason why you deserved this rescue? No, there is no memory of goodness in your black hearts. Well, I shall tell you: it is this little boy, this Ying-lo, who many times has felt the weight of your wicked hands and has hidden in terror at your coming. To him alone you owe my help."

Father, mother, and brothers all gazed in turn, first at the fairy and then at the timid child whose eyes fell before their looks of gratitude.

"By reason of his goodness this child whom you have scorned is worthy of a place within the Western Heaven. In truth, I came this very day to lead him to that fairyland. For you, however, he wishes to make a sacrifice. With sorrow I am yielding to his wishes. His sacrifice will be that of giving up a place among the fairies and of continuing to live here on this earth with you. He will try to make a change within your household. If at any time you treat him badly and do not heed his wishes -- mark you well my words -- by the power of this magic staff which I shall place in his hands, he may enter at once into the land of the fairies, leaving you to die in your wickedness. This I command him to do, and he has promised to obey my slightest wish.

"This plague took you off suddenly and ended your wicked lives. Ying-lo has raised you from its grasp and his power can lift you from the bed of sin. No other hand than his can bear the rod which I am leaving. If one of you but touch it, instantly he will fall dead upon the ground.

"And now, my child, the time has come for me to leave you. First, however, I must show you what you are now able to do. Around you lie the corpses of sailors and passengers. Tap three times upon the mast and wish that they shall come to life," So saying he handed Ying-lo the iron staff.

Although the magic rod was heavy, the child lifted it as if it were a fairy's wand. Then, stepping forward to the mast, he rapped three times as he had been commanded. Immediately on all sides arose the bodies, once more full of life and strength.

"Now command the ship to take you back to your home port, for such sinful creatures as these are in no way fit to make a journey among strangers. They must first return and free their homes of sin."

Again rapping on the mast, the child willed the great vessel to take its homeward course. No sooner had he moved the staff than, like a bird wheeling in the heavens, the bark swung round and started on the return journey. Swifter than a flash of lightning flew the boat, for it was now become a fairy vessel. Before the sailors and the travellers could recover from their surprise, land was sighted and they saw that they were indeed entering the harbour.

Just as the ship was darting toward the shore the fairy suddenly, with a parting word to Ying-lo, changed into a flaming ball of fire which rolled along the deck and ascended the spars. Then, as it reached the top of the rigging, it floated off into the blue sky, and all on board, speechless with surprise, watched it until it vanished.

With a cry of thanksgiving, Ying-lo flung his arms about his parents and descended with them to the shore.



The Wooden Tablet


"Yes, my boy, whatever happens, be sure to save that tablet. It is the only thing we have left worth keeping."

K'ang-p'u's father was just setting out for the city, to be gone all day. He had been telling K'ang-p'u about some work in the little garden, for the boy was a strong and willing helper.

"All right, father, I'll do what you tell me; but suppose the foreign soldiers should come while you are gone? I heard that they were over at T'ang Shu yesterday and burned the village. If they should come here, what must I do?"

Mr. Lin laughed heartily. "Why, there's nothing here for them to burn, if it comes to that! -- a mud house, a grass roof, and a pile of ragged bedding. Surely they won't bother my little hut. It's loot they're after -- money -- or something they can sell."

"But, father," persisted the boy, "haven't you forgotten? Surely you wouldn't wish them to burn your father's tablet?"

"Quite right; for the moment I did forget. Yes, yes, my boy, whatever happens be sure to save the tablet. It is the only thing we have worth keeping."

With that, Mr. Lin went out at the gate, leaving K'ang-p'u standing all alone. The little fellow was scarcely twelve years old. He had a bright, sunny face and a happy heart. Being left by himself did not mean tears and idleness for him.

He went into the poor little house and stood for a moment looking earnestly at the wooden tablet. It was on a shelf in the one-roomed shanty, an oblong piece of wood about twelve inches high, enclosed in a wooden case. Through the carved screen work in the front, K'ang-p'u could see his grandfather's name written in Chinese characters on the tablet. Ever since babyhood K'ang-p'u had been taught to look at this piece of wood with a feeling of reverence.

"Your grandfather's spirit is inside," his father had said one day. "You must worship his spirit, for he was a good man, far better than your dad. If I had obeyed him in all things, I, his only son, should not now be living in this miserable hut."

"But didn't he live here, too?" asked K'ang-p'u in surprise.

"Oh, no, we lived in a big house over yonder in another village; in a big house with a high stone wall."

The little fellow had gasped with surprise at hearing this, for there was not such a thing as a stone wall in his village, and he felt that his grandfather must have been a rich man. He had not asked any more questions, but from that day on he had been rather afraid of the carved wooden box in which his grandfather's spirit was supposed to live.

So, on this day when his father left him alone, the boy stood looking at the tablet, wondering how a big man's spirit could squeeze into such a small space. He put out his finger cautiously and touched the bottom of the box, then drew back, half-frightened at his own daring. No bad results followed. It seemed just like any other piece of wood. Somewhat puzzled, he walked out of the house into the little garden. His father had told him to re-set some young cabbages. This was work which K'ang-p'u had done many times before. First, he gathered a basket of chicken feathers, for his father had told him that a few feathers placed at the roots of the young plant would do more to make it strong and healthy than anything else that could be used.

All day K'ang-p'u worked steadily in the garden. He was just beginning to feel tired, when he heard a woman screaming in the distance. He dropped his basket and rushed to the gate. Down the road at the far side of the village he saw a crowd of women and children running hither and thither, and -- yes! there were the soldiers -- the dreaded foreign soldiers! They were burning the houses; they were stealing whatever they could find.

Now, most boys would have been frightened -- would have taken to their heels without thought of consequences. K'ang-p'u, however, though like other lads afraid of soldiers, was too brave to run without first doing his duty. He decided to stand his ground until he was sure the foreigners were coming his way. Perhaps they would grow tired of their cruel sport and leave the little house unharmed. He watched with wide-open eyes the work of pillage. Alas! these men did not seem to tire of their amusement. One after another the houses were entered and robbed. Women were screaming and children crying. Nearly all the village men were away in a distant market town, for none of them had expected an attack.

Nearer and nearer came the robbers. At last they were next door to K'ang-p'u's hut, and he knew the time had come for him to do his duty. Seizing the basket of chicken feathers, he rushed into the house, snatched the precious tablet from the shelf, and hid it in the bottom of the basket. Then, without stopping to say good-bye to the spot which he had known all his life, he rushed out of the gate and down the narrow street.

"Kill the kid!" shouted a soldier, whom K'ang-p'u nearly ran against in his hurry. "Put down the basket, boy! No stealing here."

"Yes, kill him!" shouted another with a loud laugh; "he'd make a good bit of bacon."

But no one touched him, and K'ang-p'u, still holding tightly to his burden, was soon far out on the winding road among the cornfields. If they should follow, he thought of hiding among the giant cornstalks. His legs were tired now, and he sat down under a stone memorial arch near some crossroads to rest.

Where was he going, and what should he do? These were the questions that filled the boy's whirling little brain. First, he must find out if the soldiers were really destroying all the houses in his village. Perhaps some of them would not be burned and he could return at night to join his father.

After several failures he managed to climb one of the stone pillars and from the arch above he could get a good view of the surrounding country. Over to the west was his village. His heart beat fast when he saw that a great cloud of smoke was rising from the houses. Clearly, the thieves were making quick work of the place, and soon there would be nothing left but piles of mud, brick, ashes and other rubbish.

Night came on. K'ang-p'u clambered down from his stone perch. He was beginning to feel hungry, and yet he dared not turn back towards home. And besides, would not all the other villagers be hungry, too? He lay down at the foot of the stone monument, placing the basket within reach at one side. Soon he fell fast asleep.

How long he had been sleeping he never knew; but it was not yet day when he awoke with a start and looked round him in the moonlight. Some one had called him distinctly by name. At first, he thought it must have been his father's voice; and then as he grew wider and wider awake he knew this could not be, for the voice sounded like that of an old man. K'ang-p'u looked round in amazement, first at the stone columns, then at the arch above. No one was to be seen. Had he been dreaming?

Just as he lay back to sleep once more, the voice sounded again very faintly, "K'ang-p'u! K'ang-p'u! why don't you let me out? I can't breathe under all these feathers."

Quick as a flash he knew what was the matter. Burying his hand in the basket, he seized the wooden tablet, drew it from its hiding-place, and stood it up on the stone base. Wonder of wonders! There before his very eyes he saw a tiny fellow, not six inches high, sitting on top of the wooden upright and dangling his legs over the front of the tablet. The dwarf had a long grey beard, and K'ang-p'u, without looking twice, knew that this was the spirit of his dead grandfather come to life and clothed with flesh and blood.

"Ho, ho!" said the small man, laughing, "so you thought you'd bury your old grandfather in feathers, did you? A soft enough grave, but rather smelly."

"But, sir," cried K'ang-p'u, "I had to do it, to save you from the soldiers! They were just about to burn our house and you in it."

"There, there, my boy! don't be uneasy. I am not scolding you. You did the best you could for your old gran'ther. If you had been like most lads, you would have taken to your heels and left me to those sea-devils who were sacking the village. There is no doubt about it: you saved me from a second death much more terrible than the first one."

K'ang-p'u shuddered, for he knew that his grandfather had been killed in battle. He had heard his father tell the story many times.

"Now, what do you propose doing about it?" asked the old man finally, looking straight into the boy's face.

"Doing about it, sir? Why, really, I don't know. I thought that perhaps in the morning the soldiers would be gone and I could carry you back. Surely my father will be looking for me."

"What! looking for you in the ashes? And what could he do if he did find you? Your house is burned, your chickens carried away and your cabbages trampled underfoot. A sorry home he will return to. You would be just one more mouth to feed. No! that plan will never do. If your father thinks you are dead, he will go off to another province to get work. That would save him from starvation."

"But what am I to do?" wailed poor K'ang-p'u. "I don't want him to leave me all alone!"

"All alone! What! don't you count your old grand-daddy? Surely you are not a very polite youngster, even if you did save me from burning to death."

"Count you?" repeated the boy, surprised. "Why, surely you can't help me to earn a living?"

"Why not, boy? Is this an age when old men are good for nothing?"

"But, sir, you are only the spirit of my grandfather, and spirits cannot work!"

"Ha, ha! just hear the child. Why, look you, I will show you what spirits can do, provided you will do exactly what I tell you."

Of course, K'ang-p'u promised, for he was always obedient; and was not this little man who spoke so strangely, the spirit of his grandfather? And is not every lad in China taught to honour his ancestors?

"Now, listen, my boy. First, let me say that if you had not been kind, brave and filial, I should not take the trouble to help you out of your misfortune. As it is, there is nothing else for me to do. I cast your father off because he was disobedient. He has lived in a dirty hovel ever since. Doubtless, he has been sorry for his misdeeds, for I see that although he was disgraced by being sent away from the family home, he has taught you to honour and love me. Most boys would have snatched up a blanket or a piece of bread before running from the enemy, but you thought only of my tablet. You saved me and went to bed hungry. For this bravery, I shall give back to you the home of your ancestors."

"But I can't live in it," said K'ang-p'u, full of wonder, "if you will not let my father come back to it. If he goes away he will have a very hard time: he will be lonely without me, and may die; and then I would not be able to take care of his grave, or to burn incense there at the proper season!"

"Quite right, K'ang-p'u. I see you love your father as well as your grandfather's tablet. Very well; you shall have your way. I daresay your father is sorry by this time that he treated me so badly."

"Indeed, he must be," said the boy earnestly, "for I have seen him kneel before your tablet many times and burn incense there on the proper days. I know he is very sorry."

"Very well; go to sleep again. Let us wait until morning and then I shall see what I can do for you. This moonlight is not bright enough for my old eyes. I shall have to wait for morning."

As he spoke these last words, the little man began to grow smaller and smaller before the eyes of his grandson, until at last he had altogether disappeared.

At first, K'ang-p'u was too much excited to close his eyes. He remained for a time looking up into the starry sky and wondering if what he had heard would really come true, or whether he could have dreamt the whole story of his grandfather's coming to life again. Could it really be that the old family property would be given back to his father? He remembered now that he had once heard his father speak of having lived in a large house on a beautiful compound. It was just before K'ang-p'u's mother had been carried away by the fever. As she had lain tossing upon the rude stone bed, with none of those comforts which are so necessary for the sick, K'ang-p'u remembered that his father had said to her: "What a shame that we are not living in my father's house! There you might have had every luxury. It is all my fault; I disobeyed my father."

Soon after that his mother had died, but K'ang-p'u had remembered those words ever since, and had often wished that he could hear more about this house where his father had spent his boyhood. Could it be possible that they would soon be living in it? No, surely there must be some mistake: the night fairies of his dreams had been deceiving him. With a sigh he closed his eyes and once more fell asleep.

*    *    *    *    *

When K'ang-p'u next awoke, the sun was shining full in his face. He looked around him, sleepily rubbing his eyes and trying to remember all that had happened. Suddenly he thought of the tablet and of his grandfather's appearance at midnight. But, strange to say, the basket had disappeared with all its contents. The tablet was nowhere to be seen, and even the stone arch under which he had gone to sleep had completely vanished. Alas! his grandfather's tablet -- how poorly he had guarded it! What terrible thing would happen now that it was gone!

K'ang-p'u stood up and looked round him in trembling surprise. What could have taken place while he was sleeping? At first, he did not know what to do. Fortunately, the path through the corn was still there, and he decided to return to the village and see if he could find any trace of his father. His talk with the old man must have been only an idle dream, and some thief must have carried off the basket. If only the stone arch had not vanished K'ang-p'u would not have been so perplexed.

He hurried along the narrow road, trying to forget the empty stomach which was beginning to cry for food. If the soldiers were still in the village, surely they would not hurt an empty-handed little boy. More than likely they had gone the day before. If he could only find his father! Now he crossed the little brook where the women came to rub their clothes upon the rocks. There was the big mulberry tree where the boys used to gather leaves for their silkworms. Another turn of the road and he would see the village.

When K'ang-p'u passed round the corner and looked for the ruins of the village hovels, an amazing sight met his gaze. There, rising directly before him, was a great stone wall, like those he had seen round the rich people's houses when his father had taken him to the city. The great gate stood wide open, and the keeper, rushing out, exclaimed:

"Ah! the little master has come!"

Completely bewildered, the boy followed the servant through the gateway, passed through several wide courts, and then into a garden where flowers and strangely-twisted trees were growing.

This, then, was the house which his grandfather had promised him -- the home of his ancestors. Ah! how beautiful! how beautiful! Many men and women servants bowed low as he passed, saluting with great respect and crying out:

"Yes, it is really the little master! He has come back to his own!"

K'ang-p'u, seeing how well dressed the servants were, felt much ashamed of his own ragged garments, and put up his hands to hide a torn place. What was his amazement to find that he was no longer clad in soiled, ragged clothes, that he was dressed in the handsomest embroidered silk. From head to foot he was fitted out like the young Prince his father had pointed out to him one day in the city.

Then they entered a magnificent reception-hall on the other side of the garden. K'ang-p'u could not keep back his tears, for there stood his father waiting to meet him.

"My boy! my boy!" cried the father, "you have come back to me. I feared you had been stolen away for ever."

"Oh, no!" said K'ang-p'u, "you have not lost me, but I have lost the tablet. A thief came and took it last night while I was sleeping."

"Lost the tablet! A thief! Why, no, my son, you are mistaken! There it is, just before you."

K'ang-p'u looked, and saw standing on a handsome carved table the very thing he had mourned as lost. As he stared in surprise he almost expected to see the tiny figure swinging its legs over the top, and to hear the high-pitched voice of his grandfather.

"Yes, it is really the lost tablet!" he cried joyfully. "How glad I am it is back in its rightful place once more."

Then father and son fell upon their knees before the wooden emblem, and bowed reverently nine times to the floor, thanking the spirit for all it had done for them. When they arose their hearts were full of a new happiness.



The Golden Nugget


Once upon a time many, many years ago, there lived in China two friends named Ki-wu and Pao-shu. These two young men, like Damon and Pythias, loved each other and were always together. No cross words passed between them; no unkind thoughts marred their friendship. Many an interesting tale might be told of their unselfishness, and of how the good fairies gave them the true reward of virtue. One story alone, however, will be enough to show how strong was their affection and their goodness.

It was a bright beautiful day in early spring when Ki-wu and Pao-shu set out for a stroll together, for they were tired of the city and its noises.

"Let us go into the heart of the pine forest," said Ki-wu lightly. "There we can forget the cares that worry us; there we can breathe the sweetness of the flowers and lie on the moss-covered ground."

"Good!" said Pao-shu, "I, too, am tired. The forest is the place for rest."

Happy as two lovers on a holiday, they passed along the winding road, their eyes turned in longing toward the distant tree-tops. Their hearts beat fast in youthful pleasure as they drew nearer and nearer to the woods.

"For thirty days I have worked over my books," sighed Ki-wu. "For thirty days I have not had a rest. My head is stuffed so full of wisdom, that I am afraid it will burst. Oh, for a breath of the pure air blowing through the greenwood."

"And I," added Pao-shu sadly, "have worked like a slave at my counter and found it just as dull as you have found your books. My master treats me badly. It seems good, indeed, to get beyond his reach."

Now they came to the border of the grove, crossed a little stream, and plunged headlong among the trees and shrubs. For many an hour they rambled on, talking and laughing merrily; when suddenly on passing round a clump of flower-covered bushes, they saw shining in the pathway directly in front of them a lump of gold.

"See!" said both, speaking at the same time, and pointing toward the treasure.

Ki-wu, stooping, picked up the nugget. It was nearly as large as a lemon, and was very pretty. "It is yours, my dear friend," said he, at the same time handing it to Pao-shu; "yours because you saw it first."

"No, no," answered Pao-shu, "you are wrong, my brother, for you were first to speak. Now, you can never say hereafter that the good fairies have not rewarded you for all your faithful hours of study."

"Repaid me for my study! Why, that is impossible. Are not the wise men always saying that study brings its own reward? No, the gold is yours: I insist upon it. Think of your weeks of hard labour -- of the masters that have ground you to the bone! Here is something far better. Take it," laughing. "May it be the nest egg by means of which you may hatch out a great fortune."

Thus they joked for some minutes, each refusing to take the treasure for himself; each insisting that it belonged to the other. At last, the chunk of gold was dropped in the very spot where they had first spied it, and the two comrades went away, each happy because he loved his friend better than anything else in the world. Thus they turned their backs on any chance of quarrelling.

"It was not for gold that we left the city," exclaimed Ki-wu warmly.

"No," replied his friend, "One day in this forest is worth a thousand nuggets."

"Let us go to the spring and sit down on the rocks," suggested Ki-wu. "It is the coolest spot in the whole grove."

When they reached the spring they were sorry to find the place already occupied. A countryman was stretched at full length on the ground.

"Wake up, fellow!" cried Pao-shu, "there is money for you near by. Up yonder path a golden apple is waiting for some man to go and pick it up."

Then they described to the unwelcome stranger the exact spot where the treasure was, and were delighted to see him set out in eager search.

For an hour they enjoyed each other's company, talking of all the hopes and ambitions of their future, and listening to the music of the birds that hopped about on the branches overhead.

At last they were startled by the angry voice of the man who had gone after the nugget. "What trick is this you have played on me, masters? Why do you make a poor man like me run his legs off for nothing on a hot day?"

"What do you mean, fellow?" asked Ki-wu, astonished. "Did you not find the fruit we told you about?"

"No," he answered, in a tone of half-hidden rage, "but in its place a monster snake, which I cut in two with my blade. Now, the gods will bring me bad luck for killing something in the woods. If you thought you could drive me from this place by such a trick, you'll soon find you were mistaken, for I was first upon this spot and you have no right to give me orders."

"Stop your chatter, bumpkin, and take this copper for your trouble. We thought we were doing you a favour. If you are blind, there's no one but yourself to blame. Come, Pao-shu, let us go back and have a look at this wonderful snake that has been hiding in a chunk of gold."

Laughing merrily, the two companions left the countryman and turned back in search of the nugget.

"If I am not mistaken," said the student, "the gold lies beyond that fallen tree."

"Quite true; we shall soon see the dead snake."

Quickly they crossed the remaining stretch of pathway, with their eyes fixed intently on the ground. Arriving at the spot where they had left the shining treasure, what was their surprise to see, not the lump of gold, not the dead snake described by the idler, but, instead, two beautiful golden nuggets, each larger than the one they had seen at first.

Each friend picked up one of these treasures and handed it joyfully to his companion.

"At last the fairies have rewarded you for your unselfishness!" said Ki-wu.

"Yes," answered Pao-shu, "by granting me a chance to give you your deserts."



The Man Who Would Not Scold


Old Wang lived in a village near Nanking. He cared for nothing in the world but to eat good food and plenty of it. Now, though this Wang was by no means a poor man, it made him very sad to spend money, and so people called him in sport, the Miser King, for Wang is the Chinese word for king. His greatest pleasure was to eat at some one else's table when he knew that the food would cost him nothing, and you may be sure that at such times he always licked his chopsticks clean. But when he was spending his own money, he tightened his belt and drank a great deal of water, eating very little but scraps such as his friends would have thrown to the dogs. Thus people laughed at him and said:


"When Wang an invitation gets, He chews and chews until he sweats, But, when his own food he must eat. The tears flow down and wet his feet."


One day while Wang was lying half asleep on the bank of a stream that flowed near his house he began to feel hungry. He had been in that spot all day without tasting anything. At last he saw a flock of ducks swimming in the river. He knew that they belonged to a rich man named Lin who lived in the village. They were fat ducks, so plump and tempting that it made him hungry to look at them. "Oh, for a boiled duck!" he said to himself with a sigh. "Why is it that the gods have not given me a taste of duck during the past year? What have I done to be thus denied?"

Then the thought flashed into his mind: "Here am I asking why the gods have not given me ducks to eat. Who knows but that they have sent this flock thinking I would have sense enough to grab one? Friend Lin, many thanks for your kindness. I think I shall accept your offer and take one of these fowls for my dinner." Of course Mr. Lin was nowhere near to hear old Wang thanking him.

By this time the flock had come to shore. The miser picked himself up lazily from the ground, and, after tiring himself out, he at last managed to pick one of the ducks up, too. He took it home joyfully, hiding it under his ragged garment. Once in his own yard, he lost no time in killing and preparing it for dinner. He ate it, laughing to himself all the time at his own slyness, and wondering what his friend Lin would think if he chanced to count his ducks that night. "No doubt he will believe it was a giant hawk that carried off that bird," he said, chuckling. "My word! but didn't I do a great trick? I think I will repeat the dose to-morrow. The first duck is well lodged in my stomach, and I am ready to take an oath that all the others will find a bed in the same boarding-house before many weeks are past. It would be a pity to leave the first one to pine away in lonely grief. I could never be so cruel."

So old Wang went to bed happy. For several hours he snored away noisily, dreaming that a certain rich man had promised him good food all the rest of his life, and that he would never be forced to do another stroke of work. At midnight, however, he was wakened from his sleep by an unpleasant itching. His whole body seemed to be on fire, and the pain was more than he could bear. He got up and paced the floor. There was no oil in the house for his lamp, and he had to wait until morning to see what was the matter. At early dawn he stepped outside his shanty. Lo, and behold! he found little red spots all over his body. Before his very eyes he saw tiny duck feathers sprouting from these spots. As the morning went by, the feathers grew larger and larger, until his whole body was covered with them from head to foot. Only his face and hands were free of the strange growth.

With a cry of horror, Wang began to pull the feathers out by handfuls, flinging them in the dirt and stamping on them. "The gods have fooled me!" he yelled. "They made me take the duck and eat it, and now they are punishing me for stealing." But the faster he jerked the feathers out, the faster they grew in again, longer and more glossy than before. Then, too, the pain was so great that he could scarcely keep from rolling on the ground. At last completely worn out by his useless labour, and moaning with despair, he took to his bed. "Am I to be changed into a bird?" he groaned. "May the gods have mercy on me!"

He tossed about on his bed: he could not sleep; his heart was sick with fear. Finally he fell into a troubled sleep, and, sleeping, had a dream. A fairy came to his bedside; it was Fairy Old Boy, the friend of the people. "Ah, my poor Wang," said the fairy, "all this trouble you have brought upon yourself by your shiftless, lazy habits. When others work, why do you lie down and sleep your time away? Why don't you get up and shake your lazy legs? There is no place in the world for such a man as you except the pig-sty."

"I know you are telling the truth," wailed Wang, "but how, oh, how can I ever work with all these feathers sticking out of me? They will kill me! They will kill me!"

"Hear the man!" laughed Old Boy. "Now, if you were a hopeful, happy fellow, you would say, 'What a stroke of luck! No need to buy garments. The gods have given me a suit of clothes that will never wear out.' You are a pretty fellow to be complaining, aren't you?"

After joking in this way for a little while, the good fairy changed his tone of voice and said, "Now, Wang, are you really sorry for the way you have lived, sorry for your years of idleness, sorry because you disgraced your old Father and Mother? I hear your parents died of hunger because you would not help them."

Wang, seeing that Old Boy knew all about his past life, and, feeling his pain growing worse and worse every minute, cried out at last: "Yes! Yes! I will do anything you say. Only, I pray you, free me of these feathers!"

"I wouldn't have your feathers," said Old Boy, "and I cannot free you of them. You will have to do the whole thing yourself. What you need is to hear a good scolding. Go and get Mr. Lin, the owner of the stolen duck, to scold freely. The harder he scolds, the sooner will your feathers drop out."

Now, of course, some readers will laugh and say, "But this was only a silly dream, and meant nothing." Mr. Wang, however, did not think in this way. He woke up very happy. He would go to Mr. Lin, confess everything and take the scolding. Then he would be free of his feathers and would go to work. Truly he had led a lazy life. What the good Fairy Old Boy had said about his father and mother had hurt him very badly, for he knew that every word was true. From this day on, he would not be lazy; he would take a wife and become the father of a family.

Miser Wang meant all right when he started out from his shanty. From his little hoard of money he took enough cash to pay Mr. Lin for the stolen duck. He would do everything the fairy had told him and even more. But this doing more was just where he got into trouble. As he walked along the road jingling the string of cash, and thinking that he must soon give it up to his neighbour, he grew very sad. He loved every copper of his money and he disliked to part with it. After all, Old Boy had not told him he must confess to the owner of the duck; he had said he must go to Lin and get Lin to give a good scolding. "Old Boy did not say that Lin must scold me," thought the miser. "All that I need do is to get him to scold, and then my feathers will drop off and I shall be happy. Why not tell him that old Sen stole his duck, and get him to give Sen a scolding? That will surely do just as well, and I shall save my money as well as my face. Besides, if I tell Lin that I am a thief, perhaps he will send for a policeman and they will haul me off to prison. Surely going to jail would be as bad as wearing feathers. Ha, ha! This will be a good joke on Sen, Lin, and the whole lot of them. I shall fool Fairy Old Boy too. Really he had no right to speak of my father and mother in the way he did. After all, they died of fever, and I was no doctor to cure them. How could he say it was my fault?"

The longer Wang talked to himself, the surer he became that it was useless to tell Lin that he had stolen the duck. By the time he had reached the duck man's house he had fully made up his mind to deceive him. Mr. Lin invited him to come in and sit down. He was a plain-spoken, honest kind of man, this Lin. Everybody liked him, for he never spoke ill of any man and he always had something good to say of his neighbours.

"Well, what's your business, friend Wang? You have come out bright and early, and it's a long walk from your place to mine."

"Oh, I had something important I wanted to talk to you about," began Wang slyly. "That's a fine flock of ducks you have over in the meadow."

"Yes," said Mr. Lin smiling, "a fine flock indeed." But he said nothing of the stolen fowl.

"How many have you?" questioned Wang more boldly.

"I counted them yesterday morning and there were fifteen."

"But did you count them again last night?"

"Yes, I did," answered Lin slowly.

"And there were only fourteen then?"

"Quite right, friend Wang, one of them was missing; but one duck is of little importance. Why do you speak of it?"

"What, no importance! losing a duck? How can you say so? A duck's a duck, isn't it, and surely you would like to know how you lost it?"

"A hawk most likely."

"No, it wasn't a hawk, but if you would go and look in old Sen's duck yard, you would likely find feathers."

"Nothing more natural, I am sure, in a duck yard."

"Yes, but your duck's feathers," persisted Wang.

"What! you think old Sen is a thief, do you, and that he has been stealing from me?"

"Exactly! you have it now."

"Well, well, that is too bad! I am sorry the old fellow is having such a hard time. He is a good worker and deserves better luck. I should willingly have given him the duck if he had only asked for it. Too bad that he had to steal it."

Wang waited to see how Mr. Lin planned to punish the thief, feeling sure that the least he could do, would be to go and give him a good scolding.

But nothing of the kind happened. Instead of growing angry, Mr. Lin seemed to be sorry for Sen, sorry that he was poor, sorry that he was willing to steal.

"Aren't you even going to give him a scolding?" asked Wang in disgust. "Better go to his house with me and give him a good raking over the coals."

"What use, what use? Hurt a neighbour's feelings just for a duck? That would be foolish indeed."

By this time the Miser King had begun to feel an itching all over his body. The feathers had begun hurting again, and he was frightened once more. He became excited and threw himself on the floor in front of Mr. Lin.

"Hey! what's the matter, man?" cried Lin, thinking Wang was in a fit. "What's the matter? Are you ill?"

"Yes, very ill," wailed Wang. "Mr. Lin, I'm a bad man, and I may as well own it at once and be done with it. There is no use trying to dodge the truth or hide a fault. I stole your duck last night, and to-day I came sneaking over here and tried to put the thing off on old Sen."

"Yes, I knew it," answered Lin. "I saw you carrying the duck off under your garment. Why did you come to see me at all if you thought I did not know you were guilty?"

"Only wait, and I'll tell you everything," said Wang, bowing still lower. "After I had boiled your duck and eaten it, I went to bed. Pretty soon I felt an itching all over my body. I could not sleep and in the morning I found that I had a thick growth of duck's feathers from head to foot. The more I pulled them out, the thicker they grew in. I could hardly keep from screaming. I took to my bed, and after I had tossed about for hours a fairy came and told me that I could never get rid of my trouble unless I got you to give me a thorough scolding. Here is the money for your duck. Now for the love of mercy, scold, and do it quickly, for I can't stand the pain much longer."

Wang was grovelling in the dirt at Lin's feet, but Lin answered him only with a loud laugh which finally burst into a roar. "Duck feathers! ha! ha! ha! and all over your body? Why, that's too good a story to believe! You'll be wanting to live in the water next. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

"Scold me! scold me!" begged Wang, "for the love of the gods scold me!"

But Lin only laughed the louder. "Pray let me see this wonderful growth of feathers first, and then we'll talk about the scolding."

Wang willingly opened his garment and showed the doubting Lin that he had been really speaking the truth.

"They must be warm," said Lin, laughing. "Winter is soon coming and you are not over fond of work. Won't they save you the trouble of wearing clothing?"

"But they make me itch so I can scarcely stand it! I feel like screaming out, the pain is so great," and again Wang got down and began to kowtow to the other; that is, he knelt and bumped his forehead against the ground.

"Be calm, my friend, and give me time to think of some good scold-words," said Lin at last. "I am not in the habit of using strong language, and very seldom lose my temper. Really you must give me time to think of what to say."

By this time Wang was in such pain that he lost all power over himself. He seized Mr. Lin by the legs crying out, "Scold me! scold me!"

Mr. Lin was now out of patience with his visitor. Besides Wang was holding him so tightly that it really felt as if Lin were being pinched by some gigantic crawfish. Suddenly Lin could hold his tongue no longer: "You lazy hound! you whelp! you turtle! you lazy, good-for-nothing creature! I wish you would hurry up and roll out of this!"

Now, in China, this is very strong language, and, with a cry of joy, Wang leaped from the ground, for he knew that Lin had scolded him. No sooner had the first hasty words been spoken than the feathers began falling from the lazy man's body, and, at last, the dreadful itching had entirely stopped. On the floor in front of Lin lay a great pile of feathers, and Wang freed from his trouble, pointed to them and said, "Thank you kindly, my dear friend, for the pretty names you have called me. You have saved my life, and, although I have paid for the duck, I wish to add to the bargain by making you a present of these handsome feathers. They will, in a measure, repay you for your splendid set of scold-words. I have learned my lesson well, I hope, and I shall go out from here a better man. Fairy Old Boy told me that I was lazy. You agree with the fairy. From this day, however, you shall see that I can bend my back like a good fellow. Good-bye, and, many thanks for your kindness."

So saying, with many low bows and polite words, Wang left the duck owner's house, a happier and a wiser man.



Lu-San, Daughter Of Heaven


Lu-san went to bed without any supper, but her little heart was hungry for something more than food. She nestled up close beside her sleeping brothers, but even in their slumber they seemed to deny her that love which she craved. The gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the houseboat, music which had so often lulled her into dreamland, could not quiet her now. Scorned and treated badly by the entire family, her short life had been full of grief and shame.

Lu-san's father was a fisherman. His life had been one long fight against poverty. He was ignorant and wicked. He had no more feeling of love for his wife and five children than for the street dogs of his native city. Over and over he had threatened to drown them one and all, and had been prevented from doing so only by fear of the new mandarin. His wife did not try to stop her husband when he sometimes beat the children until they fell half dead upon the deck. In fact, she herself was cruel to them, and often gave the last blow to Lu-san, her only daughter. Not on one day in the little girl's memory had she escaped this daily whipping, not once had her parents pitied her.

On the night with which this story opens, not knowing that Lu-san was listening, her father and mother were planning how to get rid of her.

"The mandarin cares only about boys," said he roughly. "A man might kill a dozen girls and he wouldn't say a word."

"Lu-san's no good anyway," added the mother. "Our boat is small, and she's always in the wrong place."

"Yes, and it takes as much to feed her as if she were a boy. If you say so, I'll do it this very night."

"All right," she answered, "but you'd better wait till the moon has set."

"Very well, wife, we'll let the moon go down first, and then the girl."

No wonder Lu-san's little heart beat fast with terror, for there could be no doubt as to the meaning of her parents' words.

At last when she heard them snoring and knew they were both sound asleep, she got up silently, dressed herself, and climbed the ladder leading to the deck. Only one thought was in her heart, to save herself by instant flight. There were no extra clothes, not a bite of food to take with her. Besides the rags on her back there was only one thing she could call her own, a tiny soapstone image of the goddess Kwan-yin, which she had found one day while walking in the sand. This was the only treasure and plaything of her childhood, and if she had not watched carefully, her mother would have taken even this away from her. Oh, how she had nursed this idol, and how closely she had listened to the stories an old priest had told about Kwan-yin the Goddess of Mercy, the best friend of women and children, to whom they might always pray in time of trouble.

It was very dark when Lu-san raised the trapdoor leading to the outer air, and looked out into the night. The moon had just gone down, and frogs were croaking along the shore. Slowly and carefully she pushed against the door, for she was afraid that the wind coming in suddenly might awaken the sleepers or, worse still, cause her to let the trap fall with a bang. At last, however, she stood on the deck, alone and ready to go out into the big world. As she stepped to the side of the boat the black water did not make her feel afraid, and she went ashore without the slightest tremble.

Now she ran quickly along the bank, shrinking back into the shadows whenever she heard the noise of footsteps, and thus hiding from the passers-by. Only once did her heart quake, full of fear. A huge boat dog ran out at her barking furiously. The snarling beast, however, was not dangerous, and when he saw this trembling little girl of ten he sniffed in disgust at having noticed any one so small, and returned to watch his gate.

Lu-san had made no plans. She thought that if she could escape the death her parents had talked about, they would be delighted at her leaving them and would not look for her. It was not, then, her own people that she feared as she passed the rows of dark houses lining the shore. She had often heard her father tell of the dreadful deeds done in many of these houseboats. The darkest memory of her childhood was of the night when he had almost decided to sell her as a slave to the owner of a boat like these she was now passing. Her mother had suggested that they should wait until Lu-san was a little older, for she would then be worth more money. So her father had not sold her. Lately, perhaps, he had tried and failed.

That was why she hated the river dwellers and was eager to get past their houses. On and on she sped as fast as her little legs could carry her. She would flee far away from the dark water, for she loved the bright sunshine and the land.

As Lu-san ran past the last houseboat she breathed a sigh of relief and a minute later fell in a little heap upon the sand. Not until now had she noticed how lonely it was. Over there was the great city with its thousands of sleepers. Not one of them was her friend. She knew nothing of friendship, for she had had no playmates. Beyond lay the open fields, the sleeping villages, the unknown world. Ah, how tired she was! How far she had run! Soon, holding the precious image tightly in her little hand and whispering a childish prayer to Kwan-yin, she fell asleep.

When Lu-san awoke, a cold chill ran through her body, for bending over her stood a strange person. Soon she saw to her wonder that it was a woman dressed in beautiful clothes like those worn by a princess. The child had never seen such perfect features or so fair a face. At first, conscious of her own filthy rags, she shrank back fearfully, wondering what would happen if this beautiful being should chance to touch her and thus soil those slender white fingers. As the child lay there trembling on the ground, she felt as if she would like to spring into the fairy creature's arms and beg for mercy. Only the fear that the lovely one would vanish kept her from so doing. Finally, unable to hold back any longer, the little girl, bending forward, stretched out her hand to the woman, saying, "Oh, you are so beautiful! Take this, for it must be you who lost it in the sand."

The princess took the soapstone figure, eyed it curiously, and then with a start of surprise said, "And do you know, my little creature, to whom you are thus giving your treasure?"

"No," answered the child simply, "but it is the only thing I have in all the world, and you are so lovely that I know it belongs to you. I found it on the river bank."

Then a strange thing happened. The graceful, queenly woman bent over, and held out her arms to the ragged, dirty child. With a cry of joy the little one sprang forward; she had found the love for which she had been looking so long.

"My precious child, this little stone which you have kept so lovingly, and which without a thought of self you have given to me -- do you know of whom it is the image?"

"Yes," answered Lu-san, the colour coming to her cheeks again as she snuggled up contentedly in her new friend's warm embrace, "it is the dear goddess Kwan-yin, she who makes the children happy."

"And has this gracious goddess brought sunshine into your life, my pretty one?" said the other, a slight flush covering her fair cheeks at the poor child's innocent words.

"Oh, yes indeed; if it had not been for her I should not have escaped to-night. My father would have killed me, but the good lady of heaven listened to my prayer and bade me stay awake. She told me to wait until he was sleeping, then to arise and leave the houseboat."

"And where are you going, Lu-san, now that you have left your father? Are you not afraid to be alone here at night on the bank of this great river?"

"No, oh no! for the blessed mother will shield me. She has heard my prayers, and I know she will show me where to go."

The lady clasped Lu-san still more tightly, and something glistened in her radiant eye. A tear-drop rolled down her cheek and fell upon the child's head, but Lu-san did not see it, for she had fallen fast asleep in her protector's arms.

When Lu-san awoke, she was lying all alone on her bed in the houseboat, but, strange to say, she was not frightened at finding herself once more near her parents. A ray of sunlight came in, lighting up the child's face and telling her that a new day had dawned. At last she heard the sound of low voices, but she did not know who were the speakers. Then as the tones grew louder she knew that her parents were talking. Their speech, however, seemed to be less harsh than usual, as if they were near the bed of some sleeper whom they did not wish to wake.

"Why," said her father, "when I bent over to lift her from the bed, there was a strange light about her face. I touched her on the arm, and at once my hand hung limp as if it had been shot. Then I heard a voice whispering in my ears, 'What! would you lay your wicked hands on one who made the tears of Kwan-yin flow? Do you not know that when she cries the gods themselves are weeping?'"

"I too heard that voice," said the mother, her voice trembling; "I heard it, and it seemed as if a hundred wicked imps pricked me with spears, at every prick repeating these terrible words, 'And would you kill a daughter of the gods?'"

"It is strange," he added, "to think how we had begun to hate this child, when all the time she belonged to another world than ours. How wicked we must be since we could not see her goodness."

"Yes, and no doubt for every time we have struck her, a thousand blows will be given us by Yama, for our insults to the gods."

Lu-san waited no longer, but rose to dress herself. Her heart was burning with love for everything around her. She would tell her parents that she forgave them, tell them how she loved them still in spite of all their wickedness. To her surprise the ragged clothes were nowhere to be seen. In place of them she found on one side of the bed the most beautiful garments. The softest of silks, bright with flowers -- so lovely that she fancied they must have been taken from the garden of the gods -- were ready to slip on her little body. As she dressed herself she saw with surprise that her fingers were shapely, that her skin was soft and smooth. Only the day before, her hands had been rough and cracked by hard work and the cold of winter. More and more amazed, she stooped to put on her shoes. Instead of the worn-out soiled shoes of yesterday, the prettiest little satin slippers were there all ready for her tiny feet.

Finally she climbed the rude ladder, and lo, everything she touched seemed to be changed as if by magic, like her gown. The narrow rounds of the ladder had become broad steps of polished wood, and it seemed as if she was mounting the polished stairway of some fairy-built pagoda. When she reached the deck everything was changed. The ragged patchwork which had served so long as a sail had become a beautiful sheet of canvas that rolled and floated proudly in the river breeze. Below were the dirty fishing smacks which Lu-san was used to, but here was a stately ship, larger and fairer than any she had ever dreamed of, a ship which had sprung into being as if at the touch of her feet.

After searching several minutes for her parents she found them trembling in a corner, with a look of great fear on their faces. They were clad in rags, as usual, and in no way changed except that their savage faces seemed to have become a trifle softened. Lu-san drew near the wretched group and bowed low before them.

Her mother tried to speak; her lips moved, but made no sound: she had been struck dumb with fear.

"A goddess, a goddess!" murmured the father, bending forward three times and knocking his head on the deck. As for the brothers, they hid their faces in their hands as if dazzled by a sudden burst of sunlight.

For a moment Lu-san paused. Then, stretching out her hand, she touched her father on the shoulder. "Do you not know me, father? It is Lu-san, your little daughter."

The man looked at her in wonder. His whole body shook, his lips trembled, his hard brutish face had on it a strange light. Suddenly he bent far over and touched his forehead to her feet. Mother and sons followed his example. Then all gazed at her as if waiting for her command.

"Speak, father," said Lu-san. "Tell me that you love me, say that you will not kill your child."

"Daughter of the gods, and not of mine," he mumbled, and then paused as if afraid to continue.

"What is it, father? Have no fear."

"First, tell me that you forgive me."

The child put her left hand upon her father's forehead and held the right above the heads of the others, "As the Goddess of Mercy has given me her favour, so I in her name bestow on you the love of heaven. Live in peace, my parents. Brothers, speak no angry words. Oh, my dear ones, let joy be yours for ever. When only love shall rule your lives, this ship is yours and all that is in it."

Thus did Lu-san change her loved ones. The miserable family which had lived in poverty now found itself enjoying peace and happiness. At first they did not know how to live as Lu-san had directed. The father sometimes lost his temper and the mother spoke spiteful words; but as they grew in wisdom and courage they soon began to see that only love must rule.

All this time the great boat was moving up and down the river. Its company of sailors obeyed Lu-san's slightest wish. When their nets were cast overboard they were always drawn back full of the largest, choicest fish. These fish were sold at the city markets, and soon people began to say that Lu-san was the richest person in the whole country.

One beautiful day during the Second Moon, the family had just returned from the temple. It was Kwan-yin's birthday, and, led by Lu-san, they had gone gladly to do the goddess honour. They had just mounted to the vessel's deck when Lu-san's father, who had been looking off towards the west, suddenly called the family to his side. "See!" he exclaimed. "What kind of bird is that yonder in the sky?"

As they looked, they saw that the strange object was coming nearer and nearer, and directly towards the ship. Every one was excited except Lu-san. She was calm, as if waiting for something she had long expected.

"It is a flight of doves," cried the father in astonishment, "and they seem to be drawing something through the air."

At last, as the birds flew right over the vessel, the surprised onlookers saw that floating beneath their wings was a wonderful chair, all white and gold, more dazzling even than the one they had dreamed the Emperor himself sat in on the Dragon Throne. Around each snow-white neck was fastened a long streamer of pure gold, and these silken ribbons were tied to the chair in such a manner as to hold it floating wherever its light-winged coursers chose to fly.

Down, down, over the magic vessel came the empty chair, and as it descended, a shower of pure white lilies fell about the feet of Lu-san, until she, the queen of all the flowers, was almost buried. The doves hovered above her head for an instant, and then gently lowered their burden until it was just in front of her.

With a farewell wave to her father and mother, Lu-san stepped into the fairy car. As the birds began to rise, a voice from the clouds spoke in tones of softest music: "Thus Kwan-yin, Mother of Mercies, rewards Lu-san, daughter of the earth. Out of the dust spring the flowers; out of the soil comes goodness. Lu-san! that tear which you drew from Kwan-yin's eye fell upon the dry ground and softened it; it touched the hearts of those who loved you not. Daughter of earth no longer, rise into the Western Heaven, there to take your place among the fairies, there to be a star within the azure realms above."

As Lu-san's doves disappeared in the distant skies, a rosy light surrounded her flying car. It seemed to those who gazed in wonder that heaven's gates were opening to receive her. At last when she was gone beyond their sight, suddenly it grew dark upon the earth, and the eyes of all that looked were wet with tears.

<eob>

White Otter

By

Elmer Russell Gregor



Chapter I

Riders Of The Night


It was the time of the new-grass moon. The long cold winter had finally passed, and the season of abundance was at hand. The Sioux gave thanks to the Great Mystery with song and dance. They knew that vast herds of buffaloes would soon appear from the south, and then every want would be supplied. The hunters were already making plans for the great buffalo drive which would provide the camp with meat for many days.

It was at this season that White Otter, the grandson of Wolf Robe, the famous Ogalala war chief, had planned to visit the Minneconjoux camp to see his friends, Sun Bird and his brother Little Raven. The three young warriors had shared many perilous adventures the previous year, when White Otter won fame by recovering the Red Arrow, a Sioux medicine trophy which had been stolen by the Pawnees, and Sun Bird rescued his brother from captivity. At that time the lads pledged themselves to an undying friendship, and Sun Bird and Little Raven accompanied White Otter to the Ogalala village. When they departed White Otter gave each two splendid ponies, and promised to visit them the following spring. Now the time was at hand and he was eager to go.

When Wolf Robe learned White Otter's intention he said: "It is good; the Minneconjoux are our brothers. Curly Horse, their chief, is a great man. You will see many brave warriors in that camp. Sun Bird and Little Raven are your friends. They will tell their people about you. Go and tell the Minneconjoux that Wolf Robe is thinking about them."

Two days later White Otter set out upon his journey. As he was anxious to make a good appearance before the proud people whom he planned to visit, he had arrayed himself with elaborate care. He was dressed in all the finery of a Sioux warrior. He wore soft doeskin leggings extending to his thighs, a buckskin breech-cloth, moccasins gayly decorated with dyed deer-hair, a rawhide belt from which hung his knife-sheath, his weaselskin pouch containing his fire-sticks and a small buckskin bag filled with dried meat. His bow and arrows were in a wolfskin case which was slung across his back, and at his side hung his buffalo-hide war shield. His robe was a beautifully tanned pelt of the grizzly bear. His hair was arranged in two braids which were bound with otter fur, and fastened to his scalp-lock was a tail-feather of the golden eagle, which proclaimed him a warrior. He rode his fastest war pony, a nervous little roan, and in its mane and tail he had fastened many hawk feathers, and strips of fur. Thus equipped, the lad of seventeen winters was an imposing figure. Tall and manly, he carried himself with the commanding dignity which he had inherited from his father, Standing Buffalo, and his grandfather, Wolf Robe, the stern old war chief of the Ogalalas.

As White Otter left his grandfather's lodge and rode through the center of the village the people greeted him with shouts of approval. He had won an everlasting place in their hearts, and they looked upon him with pride and affection. Most of the boys, many of the old men and some of the women followed him from the village, singing his praise and calling his name. Once he had left the camp, however, White Otter soon urged his pony into a canter, and rode away from his enthusiastic admirers.

"The Minneconjoux will see that White Otter, the grandson of the great war chief of the Ogalalas, is a man," said Yellow Horse, the medicine-man.

"Yes, he is brave like his father, Standing Buffalo, who has gone on the Long Trail," replied Wolf Robe, as he looked admiringly after his grandson.

White Otter rode away with a light heart, for he was overjoyed at the thought of rejoining his friends. He had never been to the Minneconjoux village, but he knew that it was far to the westward near the great mountains, and as Wolf Robe had carefully described certain prominent landmarks along the route he had little fear of missing his destination. The young Sioux had heard many tales relating to the courage and valor of his distant tribesmen, and he was eager to meet the famous warriors of whom he had heard. He was particularly anxious to see Curly Horse, the renowned Minneconjoux war chief, and Sun Bird's father, Rain Crow, a famous medicine-man.

At midday White Otter came to a great village of the little Underground People, the prairie dogs. He rode slowly between the small earth lodges, and saw hundreds of the eccentric little creatures sitting up to watch him. One old gray-whiskered sentinel chattered shrilly as the pony approached, and finally dove frantically into his burrow. Most of the Underground People followed his example. White Otter laughed at their fright. He stopped his pony and waited for them to reappear. When the gray nose of the cautious old patriarch finally came in sight, the young Sioux called a greeting.

"Ho, you Underground People. Do you see who I am? Ho, you old man. Why do you chatter like a frightened old woman? Come out and call to your people. Tell them that White Otter is their friend. See, at my side is the scalp of your enemy, the weasel. See, on my back is the scalp of your enemy, the wolf. See, in my hair is a feather of your enemy, the great war bird. I am telling you about this so that you can tell it to your children. Now I am going away from here. Keep my words in your heart."

As White Otter rode slowly on his way all the little Underground People came from their burrows, and sat up on the low mounds of earth to watch him. When he looked back and saw them he laughed, and raised his hand in greeting. Then he cantered away and disappeared from sight over a low rise of the plain. He rode until sunset, when he saw the first of the landmarks which Wolf Robe had described: it was a small grove of aspens which he had been told concealed a water-hole.

Although he was still on the hunting grounds of his people, and believed he had little to fear from prowling enemies, White Otter approached the spot with his customary caution. He knew that carelessness had betrayed more than one brave warrior into the hands of his foes, and he determined to run no unnecessary risks. Before exposing himself within arrow range, therefore, he rode slowly around the grove, watching for a sign of concealed foes, and studying the ground for fresh pony tracks. When he had ridden several times around the spot without discovering anything to rouse his suspicions, he drew his weapons, and dropped to the side of his pony. Then he walked boldly toward the trees. He found the grove unoccupied, and as it contained a pool of fresh water he decided to camp there for the night.

It was barely dark, however, when White Otter's fancied security was shattered by a noise which filled him with alarm. Rushing to the edge of the plain to listen, he caught the unmistakable sound of galloping hoofs. The truth instantly flashed into his mind. A company of horsemen were approaching his camp-site. Were they friends or foes? White Otter dared not wait to learn. He realized that safety lay in flight. There was not a moment to spare, for the riders would soon be within bow-shot. Running to his pony, he fastened a buckskin muzzle over its nose, and leaped upon its back. Then he rode cautiously out upon the plain.

After he had gone a short distance the young Sioux stopped to assure himself that the unknown horsemen were continuing in his direction. He was surprised to learn that the sounds had ceased. However, the stillness failed to deceive him. He knew that, like himself, the riders were taking every precaution against a surprise. He believed that the main company had stopped some distance out on the plain to wait until one or more unmounted scouts could steal up to the water-hole to reconnoiter. Fearing that these scouts might circle about the grove and eventually discover him, he turned his pony toward the east and rode slowly away.

White Otter made his way toward a deep ravine which he had crossed a short time before he reached the water-hole. He planned to picket his pony in the ravine, and then hurry across the plain on foot to reconnoiter the camp of the mysterious horsemen. He had not gone far, however, when he heard an owl calling in the vicinity of the pool, and he knew that the scouts who had been sent forward to reconnoiter were calling their companions. The signal was answered by the cry of a coyote on the open plain, and it was evident that the riders were advancing toward the grove.

Soon afterward White Otter found the ravine, and picketed his pony. Then he climbed to the plain, and set out to spy upon the camp in the aspen grove. As he made his way cautiously through the dark he tried to guess the identity of the people who had driven him from the water-hole. It was possible that they might prove to be a party of Sioux hunters from the Minneconjoux village, but White Otter determined to risk nothing on the chance. He believed it far more probable that they were a scouting party of Crows or Blackfeet from the north who had ventured upon the Sioux hunting grounds to look for buffaloes.

White Otter hurried across the vast star-lit plain with a firm determination to solve the riddle. He realized that to learn what he wished to know he must expose himself to considerable danger, but he was without fear. He had already established an enviable reputation as a warrior, and had passed through many perilous adventures on the war trail.

The young Sioux guided himself by the stars, and soon arrived in the general vicinity of the aspen grove. When he believed that he was within hailing distance, he stopped to reconnoiter. He stood a long time peering anxiously into the dark to catch the glow of a camp-fire, and listening for some sound which would tell him the exact whereabouts of the people whom he wished to see. His efforts were fruitless, however, and he realized that he was farther from the camp than he had supposed. As there was nothing to gain by loitering where he was, he continued across the plain.

White Otter had gone some distance farther, when he was suddenly stopped by the shrill whinny of a horse. It sounded directly ahead of him, but apparently quite far away. Believing that the call had come from the vicinity of the grove, White Otter looked eagerly in that direction. For a few moments he saw only the vast black plain, and the star-studded heavens. Then he caught a gleam of light far off to the westward. It filled his heart with joy, for he knew that he had located the camp. It also assured him that the horsemen had actually stopped in the grove, and he felt greatly relieved. More than once he had been troubled by the fear that the travelers had merely visited the pool to refresh their ponies and had then resumed their journey. However, now that he was certain of finding them in the grove, he was more perplexed than before. He knew that a hostile war party would be almost sure to travel by night, especially when they found themselves in the very center of the Sioux hunting grounds. Therefore, White Otter concluded that these people were hunters either from the Minneconjoux village, or from that of one of the hostile tribes farther to the north.

Having definitely located the camp, the young Sioux determined to approach it without further delay. He knew that to learn the identity of these people he must get near enough to reconnoiter while the light from the fire made it possible to see them. Therefore, he drew his weapons and advanced toward the water-hole. As he finally neared the grove he stopped at the end of every third stride to listen. Then when he heard the ponies stamping restlessly he knew that he was within arrow-range, and he sank noiselessly to the ground. He realized that if these people were enemies they had probably stationed scouts about the grove, and he feared to move lest he might encounter one of the alert sentinels at any moment.

As White Otter lay upon the plain determining the safest way to approach the camp, he heard sounds which led him to suspect that the horsemen were preparing to leave the grove. At the same time he noted that they were placing fresh fuel upon the fire. The maneuver made him suspicious. "These people are not Sioux," he told himself.

Fearing that they would go away before he could identify them, the eager lad rose and hurried toward the grove. Before he had covered half the distance, however, the unknown riders mounted their ponies and rode away at a gallop. They went toward the south, and White Otter felt sure that they were foes.

The young Sioux listened with a heavy heart until the mocking hoof-beats finally died away in the distance, and then he made his way to the little pool. The fire was blazing fiercely, and he felt certain that it had been left to give the impression that the riders were encamped in the grove. Their hasty departure convinced him that the horsemen believed themselves pursued. It seemed as if his earlier fears had been confirmed. These people were evidently retreating from a larger company of foes. The thought made White Otter serious. He wondered if his tribesmen, the Minneconjoux, were involved in the mystery.

However, as White Otter saw no way of learning what he wished to know until he reached the Minneconjoux camp, he told himself that he must be patient. He concealed himself near the pool and waited some time, hoping that a pursuing company of horsemen might soon appear. But the possibility that they might be Crows or Blackfeet caused him considerable uneasiness, and he finally determined to return to his pony and spend the balance of the night in the ravine.




Chapter II

The War Party


At daylight White Otter crept cautiously up the side of the gully to survey the plain. Far away toward the west he saw the little grove of aspens, and he wondered if another company of riders were encamped at the water-hole. He searched the sky above the trees for a trace of smoke, but he believed that the precaution was useless, for he told himself that a war party on the trail of foes would never betray themselves in such a manner. White Otter watched a long time, but saw nothing except a distant band of antelope, and several animals which he thought were prairie wolves. Soon after sunrise he led his pony from the ravine, and rode away.

Once again the young Sioux circled cautiously about the aspens, and when he had made sure that the spot was free of foes he entered the grove. He and his pony drank heartily at the little pool, and then resumed their journey toward the Minneconjoux camp. White Otter was still pondering upon the identity of the mysterious riders. He was sorely disappointed at the failure of his bold reconnaissance the previous night. However, he consoled himself with the thought that his friends might be able to tell him something about the horsemen. The possibility made him impatient, and he hurried along at a rapid pace. He kept a sharp watch for buffaloes, but it was evident that those great beasts were still farther south. Antelope were plentiful, but as White Otter had a sufficient supply of dried meat he made no attempt to hunt them.

Later in the day as he was crossing a wide stretch of grassy prairie White Otter saw a solitary horseman watching him from the summit of a distant knoll. Convinced that he had already been discovered, he realized that it would be folly to attempt to hide. He stopped his pony, therefore, and waited to see what the stranger would do. The latter, however, was apparently using the same tactics against White Otter. Thus many minutes passed while the two riders sat motionless on their ponies, and watched with distrust and suspicion. They were too far apart to identify each other, but neither showed any inclination to approach nearer. At last the stranger turned his pony, and disappeared over the crest of the rise.

White Otter did not know exactly what to do. The appearance of the lone horseman had filled him with all sorts of alarming suspicions. First of all, he felt quite sure that the rider was a scout reconnoitering in advance of a war party. The idea suggested several interesting possibilities. Perhaps it was a company of Sioux. The thought thrilled him. He realized, however, that he must not permit the hope to betray him. He feared it more likely that he was confronted by a roving band of foes. As the horseman had made no attempt to conceal himself, White Otter believed that he was endeavoring to decoy him into a trap. It was quite probable that a large body of warriors were lurking behind the low ridge over which the rider had disappeared. The thought was somewhat alarming, and for a moment White Otter was tempted to flee. As the plain was level and open, however, and he was well beyond bow-shot of the ridge, he believed that he was in little immediate danger after all. He saw that it would be impossible for an enemy to steal upon him unobserved, and the assurance made him bold. Banishing all idea of retreating until he learned more about the lone horseman, he determined to hold his ground and wait for further developments.

It was not long before the rider again showed himself on the summit of the knoll. A moment afterward he was joined by a companion. The appearance of the second horseman convinced White Otter that a war party was concealed behind the ridge. He watched anxiously to learn what the two scouts intended to do.

In a few moments one of the riders raised his right hand above his head and moved it slowly to the right and left. White Otter instantly understood the signal, which meant, "I do not know you. Who are you?" Unwilling to proclaim himself until he knew more about the strangers, the young Sioux replied by repeating the question. Then the horseman who was conversing with him again raised his right hand, but this time be held it motionless. It was the sign for friendship. The second horseman waved his robe, and then spread it upon the ground. White Otter understood it as an invitation to come and talk with them. He began to hope that he was in communication with a company of his own people. Still he realized that he must take every precaution before exposing himself. Therefore, he answered the invitation by clasping his hands and raising them above his head, which meant, "Are you peaceful?" The horseman pledged himself by repeating the signal.

"My heart tells me that these people are Sioux," White Otter assured himself.

Then he again raised his right hand above his head, and swept it forward and downward to his side, which meant, "Come here." He watched eagerly while the horsemen seemed to be considering the invitation. At length one of the riders turned his pony down the ridge and rode toward White Otter. The latter saw that his invitation had been accepted, and he determined to be very cautious. When the horseman finally stopped, and signaled for White Otter to advance, the lad made no reply. He had no intention of placing himself one stride nearer the ridge until he knew the intentions of the strangers. As he showed no inclination to meet the horseman, therefore, the latter betrayed considerable impatience. After repeating the sign for friendship a number of times, and asking White Otter to meet him, he finally turned to rejoin his companion.

In the meantime White Otter had been studying him closely, and although he could not be sure at that distance he believed that the disgruntled warrior was a Sioux. Therefore, as the latter showed every intention of terminating the interview, White Otter made haste to pacify him. As the scout looked back to make sure that he was not followed, the young Sioux rode slowly forward.

The stranger instantly wheeled his pony and waited for White Otter to approach. The latter advanced with the alert, watchful caution of a fox. He made no attempt to conceal his suspicions, and to reassure him the unknown rider raised his hand in token of peace. Neither White Otter nor the warrior who awaited him had drawn their weapons, for to have done so under the circumstances would have been a grave breach of etiquette. However, White Otter stopped before he was within arrow-range, and looked searchingly at the man before him. He had all the characteristics of a Sioux, but the cautious lad determined to take nothing for granted. As he was now sufficiently near to open negotiations in the sign language, White Otter extended his right hand a short distance and turned the open palm slowly from right to left. Then he pointed toward the rider. The signs meant, "Who are you?"

The horseman replied by raising his right hand to the level of his shoulder, and drawing his flat palm swiftly across his throat, which was the sign for the great Sioux nation.

The announcement filled White Otter's heart with joy. Still he determined to demand further proof before venturing within arrow-range. He, too, made the sign for Sioux. Then he elevated his hands and brought the tips of his fingers together so that his palms formed the familiar outlines of a lodge or tepee, which was the sign for village. Then he repeated the signs for "Who are you?" Thus he demanded to know from what tribe or village the stranger had come.

The latter extended his clenched fists in front of him, and placed the right thumb upon the left thumb, twisting his hands to represent the motion for grinding corn. Then he opened his hands, and held them before him with the thumbs uppermost and the fingers pointing forward. He moved his hands by wrist action so that the fingers moved downward and to the front, and then raised them and moved his hands slightly to the right. These motions were repeated several times.

White Otter uttered an involuntary exclamation of delight, for he knew that the motions were the signs for Minneconjoux Sioux. Then as the rider was demanding an answer, White Otter pointed to the ground, brought his clenched right hand, with the back outward, in front of his face and snapped his fingers toward his eyes. It was the symbol for Ogalala Sioux.

Having convinced each other that there was no need for further caution, the two riders advanced. As they came within easy hailing distance the Minneconjoux scout raised his hand and called a greeting.

"Ho, my brother, I see that you are a Sioux. It is good; we will talk together."

"Ho, my brother, I have heard your words. They are the words of my people. Yes, I will talk with you," said White Otter, as he hurried forward to meet his tribesman.

A few moments later they dismounted and clasped hands. White Otter saw that the Minneconjoux was a tall, broad-shouldered warrior in the prime of life. He looked as sinewy and active as one of the great mountain cats, and White Otter recalled the stories he had heard about this powerful tribe of the Dacotah nation.

"I see that you are a young man. But you wear a feather of the great war bird, and I know that you are a warrior. I do not know who you are, but I will tell you that I am Feather Dog. I have fought in many battles. You say that you are an Ogalala. Those people are very brave. I have talked with the great chief Wolf Robe," said Feather Dog.

"Feather Dog, I have listened to your words. I believe you are a brave warrior. The great chief Wolf Robe is my grandfather. I am White Otter; my father was Standing Buffalo. You say that you are a Minneconjoux. I am going to your village to see the great chief Curly Horse, and Rain Crow, the medicine-man. I will meet my brothers, Sun Bird and Little Raven," replied White Otter.

"Yes, now I know about you," said Feather Dog. "You are young, but you are a great warrior. I have heard my people talk about you. You have done a great thing. You call Sun Bird and Little Raven your brothers. It is true. I will tell you about them."

Feather Dog told White Otter that he and Sitting Eagle, who was still watching from the summit of the ridge, were scouting in advance of a small Minneconjoux war party. He said that they were in pursuit of a band of Utes from the south, who had stolen a number of Sioux ponies. When White Otter heard that, he knew at once the identity of the mysterious riders at the water-hole.

"I will tell you about those people," he told Feather Dog.

"Yes, tell me about them," the Minneconjoux scout said, eagerly.

"One sun back I camped over there," said White Otter, pointing toward the east. "It is a place my grandfather told me about. Over there are many of the trees whose leaves always tremble, and some good water. Do you know about it?"

"Yes, I have been there many times," said Feather Dog.

"When I was at that place I heard some ponies. Yes, it was dark, and I said: 'Perhaps it is my brothers, the Minneconjoux.' But I did not wait there. No, I rode away, and left my pony in a ravine. Then I went back to look at those people. When I got near them I heard them going away. Then I hurried ahead to see them. But it was dark, and they went away. I said: 'Those people are not Sioux. They are running away. Perhaps my brothers, the Minneconjoux, are chasing them.' Now I know about it," said White Otter.

"Come, we will go over there, and tell this thing to Sitting Eagle," proposed Feather Dog.

As they cantered across the plain White Otter learned that the war party was farther toward the west, as the Minneconjoux believed that the Utes had retreated along the edge of the great mountains. White Otter was overjoyed to learn that both Sun Bird and Little Raven were in the war party. Feather Dog told him that among the ponies carried away by the Utes was one which White Otter had presented to Sun Bird. Feather Dog said that a boy was driving the animals toward the village, when the Utes rode out of a gully and ran off the Minneconjoux ponies.

"I do not know those people," said White Otter.

"No, they do not go to your country. They are enemies of my people," replied Feather Dog.

"Then I will go to fight them," declared the loyal young Sioux.

A few moments afterward they joined Sitting Eagle on the crest of the ridge. Feather Dog soon told his companion what White Otter had seen, and Sitting Eagle listened with much interest. He, too, was a man in his prime, and his splendid physique and bold flashing eyes filled his young tribesman with admiration. When Feather Dog finished speaking Sitting Eagle remained silent, while his eyes searched the face of the youthful Ogalala. White Otter met his gaze unflinchingly, and the stern Minneconjoux scout seemed impressed by the lad's boldness.

"Feather Dog has told me your words. I have listened. They are good. I know about you. You have done a great thing. Yes, the Sioux will talk about it a long time. You say that you have found the trail of our enemies, the Black Faces. It is good. See, our people are coming over there," he said, as he extended his arm toward the west.

A company of horsemen were riding rapidly toward them. When they saw the three riders on the ridge they seemed to grow suspicious. They were still too far away to recognize Sitting Eagle and Feather Dog. It was evident that they intended to take every precaution. They had already stopped, and were apparently gathered in council. Then Sitting Eagle rode down the ridge and galloped to meet them. This maneuver soon dispelled their suspicions, and when the scout raised his voice in the Sioux war cry, his companions came on at the top speed of their ponies.

White Otter watched them with considerable emotion. Even at a distance he recognized the two friends with whom he had shared so many adventures. As they approached he was tempted to ride across the plain to meet them, but he saw Feather Dog watching him closely, and he determined to conceal his feelings. However, when the approaching horsemen learned the identity of the rider with Feather Dog, Sun Bird and Little Raven urged their ponies to a furious sprint and raced forward in advance of their companions. When they reached the top of the ridge they jumped to the ground and ran forward to greet their comrade.

"My brother, I have taken your hand, and my heart is filled with sunshine," said Sun Bird.

"I have been thinking about you a long time," replied White Otter. "Now I am talking with you. It is good; your words are like the songs of the birds in my ears."

"See, my brother, I am riding the pony which you gave me. Yes, I am a warrior. But I am not thinking about these things. I am singing in my heart because I have taken your hand," said Little Raven.

"Your words are the words of a true friend. I will keep them in my heart," replied White Otter.

Then as the warriors gathered about them White Otter told of his experience at the water-hole. Convinced that the mysterious horsemen were the Utes who had stolen the ponies, the war party determined to ride to the aspen grove. The sun was still some distance above the horizon, and they felt sure that they would reach the camp-site soon after dark. As there was little chance of overtaking the Utes before they reached their village, the daring Sioux resolved to follow them to their camp, and retaliate for the affront by running off a large bunch of ponies. They planned to spend the night at the water-hole, therefore, and set out on the trail of their foes at dawn. When White Otter learned their intention he volunteered to join the war party, and was speedily accepted.

"When I see you riding beside me I feel very brave," said Sun Bird. "It is good; we will take many ponies from our enemies, the Black Faces."

"Tell me about those people," said White Otter.

Sun Bird told him that they lived several days' journey toward the south. He said that they were smaller than the Sioux, and very dark. "My people call them the Black Faces," said Sun Bird. He added that they were very fearless, and he said that the Minneconjoux had fought many furious battles with them.

"It is good," said White Otter. "I will fight these brave people. Then I will tell my people about it."

When the war party finally reached the water-hole night had already fallen, and the wily Minneconjoux halted out of arrow-range, while Feather Dog and Sitting Eagle went forward to investigate. It was not long before they signaled that all was well, and the war party advanced. After picketing the ponies in the timber, the Sioux made a fire of dry sticks, and broiled a quantity of antelope meat which they had secured earlier in the day. When they finished eating they stationed several warriors to guard the horses, and then the balance of the company wrapped themselves in their robes and went to sleep.

"Perhaps we will have a hard fight to get those ponies," said Sun Bird, as he lay down beside White Otter.

"A Sioux is always ready to fight," replied White Otter.




Chapter III

Trailing The Enemy


The Sioux set out on the trail at daybreak. White Otter thrilled with pride as he realized that they were about to enter the stronghold of their foes to contend with a force vastly superior in numbers. Sun Bird said that the Minneconjoux war party would have been considerably larger but for a rumor that the Crows were gathering a great war party. Suspecting that those inveterate foes intended to invade their territory, the Sioux feared to leave their village unprotected. He told White Otter that the present company was composed of a few loyal friends, several of whom had lost ponies in the band which had been run off by the Utes. As White Otter saw nothing of Feather Dog and Sitting Eagle he felt sure that they had already departed to scout in advance of the war party.

"Yes, they are as wise as the fox," said Sun Bird, when White Otter mentioned their absence. "They will find the Black Faces, and tell us about them."

As the three lads rode along in company they attracted much favorable comment from their companions. They were a striking trio. The young Ogalala was taller and more slender than either of his friends. He lost nothing by comparison, however, for his figure was splendidly proportioned and showed the sinewy strength of the young mountain cat; while the shorter, more compact forms of the Minneconjoux betokened the heavier power of the young bear. It was evident that White Otter and Sun Bird were about the same age, but Little Raven looked several years younger. Sun Bird, like White Otter, wore an eagle feather in his scalp-lock, while Little Raven wore the tail feather of a hawk.

The Sioux had not gone far when they saw one of the scouts signaling from a rise of ground some distance to the south of them. When he had attracted their attention he began to ride his pony in a circle while he waited for them to come up with him.

"See, that is Feather Dog. He has found something," said Sun Bird.

Then the little company of riders galloped eagerly toward their comrade. When they reached him he led them to a wide meadow-like stretch of sloughy ground, and showed them the fresh hoof-prints of many ponies. The Sioux studied them in silence. It was evident that they were waiting for Feather Dog to tell them what was in his mind.

"There are the tracks of many ponies. Those ponies carried our enemies, the Black Faces. Those people took away two ponies that I know about. Yes, I have used them many times. One of those ponies made that mark," said Feather Dog, stooping and placing his fingers in a hoof-print.

Then his companions dismounted to inspect the track. Upon examining it closely they found that it showed an unusual bulge in the center. Convinced that they were actually on the trail of their foes, the Sioux began to chant their war songs and make boastful threats against the people who had incurred their wrath.

"What Feather Dog says is true," declared Sun Bird. "Yes, the Black Faces are running toward the mountains."

As the trail led away toward the west, the suggestion received unanimous indorsement. The Sioux suspected that the crafty Utes had attempted to make them the dupes of a wily stratagem. It was evident that the latter had fled to the water-hole solely to confuse their pursuers. White Otter now understood the purpose of the fire which they left blazing in the grove while they fled toward the mountains. However, Feather Dog's wolf-like keenness in following a trail had made their efforts of no avail.

The Sioux waited until Feather Dog had again gone forward in advance of them, and then they rode away toward the south. They kept a sharp watch for foes, for they realized that they were in peril not only from the Utes, but from roving bands of Kiowas and Pawnees as well.

"Perhaps we will see our enemies the Wolf People," said Sun Bird, referring to the latter tribe.

"We have fought a great battle with those people. I feel it in my heart that we will fight them again," White Otter prophesied grimly.

The day was well advanced before the war party again came into communication with the scouts. Then Feather Dog suddenly appeared from a gully, and rode furiously to and fro. It was the danger signal, and the Sioux knew that he had discovered something which had alarmed him.

"Perhaps we are near our enemies," said Sun Bird. "Feather Dog has seen something. We must be very cautious."

When they reached him he told them that he and Sitting Eagle, who had joined him earlier in the day, had discovered smoke some distance to the south. Sitting Eagle had gone forward to reconnoiter, and Feather Dog advised the war party to wait in the ravine until the scout returned.

"It is the best thing to do," agreed Sun Bird.

"Yes, we must wait until we know about this thing," said White Otter.

The Sioux picketed their ponies in the bottom of the ravine, and composed themselves to await the return of their comrade. They knew that to be successful they must be patient as well as cautious. Feather Dog pointed out the spot where he had seen the smoke, but it had faded from the sky before the war party arrived.

"Perhaps it was a signal," suggested a warrior named Spotted Elk.

"No, it was different," declared Feather Dog, with conviction.

They watched anxiously for Sitting Eagle, but the day ended and he failed to return. As night closed down the Sioux posted sentinels on both sides of the ravine. Then they waited in silence, straining their ears to catch the first warning of the scout's return. However, as the time passed and he failed to appear some of the younger warriors showed signs of uneasiness.

"Perhaps Sitting Eagle has been captured," suggested Little Raven.

"A Sioux does not turn back until he sees what he goes to know about," said Sun Bird. "Sitting Eagle is as cautious as an old wolf. He will come back and tell us about this thing. A warrior must know how to wait."

"You speak wise words. I will keep them in my heart," Little Raven replied, humbly.

The night was far spent when the Sioux were roused by the shrill bark of the little gray fox. It sounded from the east, and seemed close at hand. They listened anxiously, and in a few moments they heard it again. The keenest ear among them could detect no flaw in the call, and they wondered if the animal itself was deceiving them. Then they heard it the third time, and their suspense was ended. They knew it was a signal from their absent tribesman. One of the sentinels barked twice in rapid succession. Then they heard the sound of hoofs, and a few moments later Sitting Eagle led his pony into the ravine.

"You have returned; it is good," said Feather Dog.

"Yes, I have looked at those people," replied Sitting Eagle. "Now I will tell you about it."

He said that after leaving Feather Dog he had advanced across the plain with great caution until he finally discovered a camp situated in a scattered growth of timber beside a stream. As he saw a number of lodges among the trees, however, he began to doubt that these were the people whom he wished to find. He knew that a war party setting out to steal ponies would never incumber themselves in that manner. Besides, the lodges implied the presence of women and children. Sitting Eagle was convinced, therefore, that these people were not on the warpath. The thought troubled him. The trail of the people who had stolen the Sioux ponies led in the general direction of this camp. For a time the scout was sorely perplexed. At last he decided that these people were hunters, roaming the plains in search of buffaloes. He believed that the Sioux ponies had been stolen by a company of young warriors from this camp. However, Sitting Eagle realized that his opinions were of no value until he learned whether these people were actually his enemies, the Black Faces. To gain this information he knew that he must approach sufficiently near to recognize them. As it would have been sheer madness to attempt such a maneuver in daylight, he waited until dark. Then he concealed his pony, and advanced toward the camp on foot. He gained the edge of the camp in safety, and soon convinced himself that the people who occupied it were his foes, the Utes. Then he looked for evidence to connect them with the theft of the ponies. Determined to supply positive proof to his tribesmen, the daring scout risked his life to obtain the information. Waiting until the fire made it possible to see every detail of the camp, Sitting Eagle crawled forward in the shadows until he could study the band of ponies. It was not long before he discovered the animals which had been stolen from his people. Then having learned all that he wished to know he retreated to his pony, and raced away to join his companions.

"Sitting Eagle has done a good thing," said Feather Dog, as the scout finished his story. "I have listened to his words. Yes, now I know about that smoke. I know about another thing. The Black Faces have made a fire. Yes, they have cooked some meat. Then I know that they will travel easy. It is good; they are not thinking about us. Well, we will follow these people. Perhaps they will stop to hunt. If they camp, then we will run off many ponies. But I will tell you another thing. Perhaps they are near the great village. If they meet their people, then I do not know how the thing will be. My brothers, this is what I am thinking about."

"Feather Dog has spoken. He is a great warrior. You have heard his words," said Sun Bird, who appeared to be the leader of the war party. "I believe he has told the thing as it is. We must watch the Black Faces. When it is light perhaps they will go away from that place. Then we will follow them. Now I will ask my brother, Sitting Eagle, to go with me to watch those people. Now I will ask you, my friends, to wait here until we know about this thing. I have finished."

"My brothers, Sun Bird has told you a good thing to do. Yes, he is a good war leader. Now I will go with my brother to watch the Black Faces," declared Sitting Eagle.

"When a war leader speaks his brothers listen," said the warrior, Spotted Elk. "Sun Bird is a young man, but he is a brave warrior. What he says is good. We will do this thing."

Daylight was close at hand, and Sun Bird and his companion realized that there was not a moment to spare. They knew that they must arrive within sight of the camp and conceal themselves while it was still dark. They sprang upon their ponies, therefore, and rode away at a gallop. Little Raven was eager to accompany them but Sun Bird refused his request. He promised, however, that both White Otter and Little Raven should share the honor of entering the Ute camp to lead out the ponies.

The first hint of daylight was showing in the east as Sitting Eagle finally led Sun Bird to a low ridge within sight of the camp. After they had picketed the ponies the two scouts crawled to the top of the rise to reconnoiter. It was still too dark to see anything beyond bow-range, and they withdrew behind the ridge and waited impatiently for dawn to raise the curtain which concealed their foes.

"Perhaps those people are waiting at that place for buffaloes," suggested Sun Bird. "Perhaps the warriors will ride around and see us. Now it is getting light; we must be as wise as the fox."

"Yes, we will be very cautious," replied Sitting Eagle.

Darkness was slowly giving way to twilight, and the eager scouts again peered cautiously over the top of the ridge. It was still impossible to locate the camp, but they continued to watch. Each moment the light grew stronger and enabled them to see farther across the plain. At last they saw the trees, and a few moments afterward they discovered the lodges.

"It is good; the Black Faces have not gone away," Sitting Eagle said, with apparent relief.

Soon afterward they saw a thin column of blue smoke rising into the sky. It filled their hearts with hope. They believed that the Utes intended to remain at the stream another day. In that event the Sioux knew that their task would be easier than it would if they were compelled to invade the main Ute village. They watched anxiously, therefore, until they saw a number of horsemen leave the camp and ride away in different directions. This maneuver convinced them that the Utes had no intention of moving the camp.

"My words have come true," declared Sun Bird. "These people are waiting for buffaloes. Those riders are going out to look around. It is bad; perhaps they will come over here and find us."

"Yes, I believe we are in danger," agreed Sitting Eagle, as he looked anxiously about him in the hope of finding a hiding place.

The wide expanse of sage-grown plain offered little concealment for the ponies, and the Sioux knew that it would be folly to leave the animals in open sight at the base of the ridge. They realized, therefore, that they must take them away before the Ute scouts approached any nearer.

"Now I know how to do this thing," said Sun Bird. "My brother, I will ask you to take the ponies to our people. I will hide here in the sage, and watch the camp. When it is dark you must come back with the war party. You must come ahead, and make the call of the little gray fox. When you hear another fox barking on the ridge, then you will know I am here. Then you must call the war party, and we will go to the camp for the ponies. But if your ears tell you nothing, then you will know that I have gone away to follow the Black Faces. This is the best thing to do. I have finished."

"You are a brave warrior and a good war leader," replied Sitting Eagle. "I will do what you tell me. If we do not find you here, then we will follow on the trail. Now I am going away with the ponies."

Sitting Eagle hurried down the ridge, and retreated with the ponies. He was entirely screened from the camp, and was in little danger of being discovered. Sun Bird watched until his comrade finally passed from sight over a distant rise of the plain. Then, feeling sure of Sitting Eagle's safety, the loyal lad concealed himself in a clump of sage, and began the long, tedious vigil that would end at nightfall.

Sun Bird had not been long in concealment when he saw two of the horsemen from the camp approaching the very ridge on which he was hiding. Feeling sure that they would climb the ridge to reconnoiter the country beyond, the young Sioux realized that his predicament was serious. For a moment he thought of crawling down the side of the ridge, and moving out on the plain. However, upon second thought, he realized that if he left his hiding place he might be unable to return before dark, and in the meantime the Utes might move their camp. Therefore, he determined to remain where he was.

Having made this bold decision, Sun Bird sought to lessen the chance of discovery by tying branches of sage to his head and shoulders. Then he pressed himself against the ground, and waited for the approaching horsemen, who were already within arrow-range. It was evident that the Utes were making almost directly for his place of concealment. However, Sun Bird had little fear, for he had passed through several similar experiences, and he hoped to be equally fortunate this time.

When the horsemen reached the base of the ridge they stopped, and one dismounted and left his pony with his comrade. A few moments later Sun Bird saw the unmounted warrior crawling directly toward him. The Sioux believed that he had been discovered. An encounter appeared unavoidable. Sun Bird had already fitted an arrow to his bow, and now he prepared to drive it through the heart of his foe.

Then the Ute turned aside to avoid some bowlders, and crawled to the crest of the ridge several bow-lengths away. Sun Bird was much relieved to know that he had not been seen. He had no desire to force an encounter, for he knew that even if he were victorious the Utes would learn of his presence in the vicinity of their camp, and then it would be impossible to secure the ponies without a desperate battle.

The Ute peered carefully over the ridge, and Sun Bird smiled as he realized that for the moment he held his foe completely at his mercy. However, he overcame the desire for personal glory, for he knew that the recovery of the Sioux ponies should be his first consideration. A moment afterward the Ute signaled to his companion, and the latter brought the ponies. The two warriors spent some time in earnest conversation, and then they mounted and rode slowly down the ridge. When they reached the level plain they rode away at a gallop.

"That is bad," Sun Bird told himself, as he watched them disappear toward the north. Two alarming possibilities suggested themselves to his mind. He feared that the Utes would find the trail of Sitting Eagle, and if they failed in that he feared they might discover his friends in the distant ravine. He encouraged himself with the assurance that the Sioux were far too wise to be caught unawares. However, as the day wore on, and the two scouts failed to return, his uncertainty increased. He knew that they had not gone in search of buffaloes, for in that event they would have ridden toward the south. Furthermore, the haphazard manner in which they had chosen their route led him to suspect that they had originally planned to travel in another direction. Why had they changed? He wondered if they anticipated the appearance of a Sioux war party.

Toward the end of the day all the other riders returned, but the two warriors who had ridden into the north failed to appear. Sun Bird feared that their tardiness betokened a meeting with his friends. The thought kept him in trying suspense. He wondered if there had been a skirmish. Perhaps the Sioux had either killed or captured the two Ute scouts. His heart bounded at the possibility. However, he knew that it was equally possible that the Utes had discovered the Sioux war party, and were waiting to learn the strength of the invaders before returning to warn their people.

Twilight was already settling upon the plain when the perplexed young Sioux finally saw two horsemen approaching from the north. As they drew nearer he recognized them as the Ute scouts. They were riding at the top speed of their ponies, and Sun Bird wondered if they were bringing news of the Sioux war party. They crossed the ridge some distance from him, and raced toward the camp, shouting and waving their weapons. A number of people ran out to meet them, and from the general excitement it was evident that the riders brought news of considerable importance.

Sun Bird was greatly disturbed. He knew that if the Ute scouts had discovered his friends the camp would be closely guarded, and it might be impossible to obtain the ponies. He watched with much anxiety, therefore, hoping to get some clew which would enable him to guess the nature of the information which the two horsemen had brought their people.

As darkness fell he waited impatiently for the glow from the Ute camp-fires. When he finally saw them he was filled with delight, for he felt sure that the Utes knew nothing of the approaching war party. Then an alarming doubt entered his mind. He wondered if the crafty Utes were repeating the stratagem which they had employed at the water-hole. Perhaps they were again deserting their camp under cover of the night. It might also be possible that they had learned the weakness of the Sioux in numbers, and were attempting to lure them into a trap. As Sun Bird watched the twinkle of the distant fires he had grave fears for the safety of the courageous little company who were advancing to meet him. Still he saw no way of warning them, for he feared to leave his hiding place lest he should pass his friends in the dark. He waited, therefore, listening eagerly for the signal from Sitting Eagle.




Chapter IV

A Perilous Adventure


Each moment seemed an age to the anxious lad watching on the crest of the ridge. The night hush had fallen upon the plain, and the very stillness oppressed him. His mind became a prey to all sorts of gloomy forebodings. He began to give way to his imagination. He feared that he was surrounded by prowling, sharp-eared scouts from the Ute camp, and that some of them had concealed themselves on the ridge to wait for the Sioux war party. The thought startled him. Every few moments he held his breath to listen. The slightest rustling of the sage set his heart beating wildly, but his fear was not for himself. He had already been exposed to sufficient peril to make him indifferent. However, this was the first time he had gone out as a war leader, and he knew that his reputation would suffer severely if disaster befell the little company who had enlisted under him. He raised his face toward the vast starry heavens, and asked aid from the Great Mystery.

A few moments later the sharp, snappy bark of the little gray fox sounded through the night. Sun Bird fairly trembled with delight. He felt sure that it was Sitting Eagle, but he determined to take every precaution. He waited, therefore, until the signal had been repeated twice more, and then he knew it was genuine. Fearing to reply from his hiding place, the wily lad crawled stealthily from concealment, and wriggled cautiously down the ridge. Then as he heard nothing to rouse his suspicions he glided away in the direction of the sound. When he had gone an arrow-flight he stopped, and barked twice, very softly. Then he listened for an answer. It came out of the darkness directly ahead of him, and he fitted an arrow to his bow and advanced as noiselessly as a shadow. When he finally heard the soft, guarded tread of a led pony he stopped and uttered a low-voiced challenge.

"If you are a Dacotah you will tell me about something," he said.

"It is good; what your eyes do not see, your ears must tell you," replied the familiar voice of Sitting Eagle.

A few moments afterward they met. Sitting Eagle said that the war party was waiting some distance back on the plain. When Sun Bird told about the two Ute scouts the older warrior assured him that the Sioux had seen nothing of them. He declared that they had kept a sharp watch, and that it would have been impossible for the Utes to have discovered them without being seen.

"Then I do not know about this thing," acknowledged the perplexed young Sioux.

"Come, I will go up on this ridge and look around," proposed Sitting Eagle.

Then Sitting Eagle surrendered his pony to Sun Bird, and said that he would climb the ridge alone. When Sun Bird objected the older warrior reminded him that one must remain with the pony.

"My brother, you have seen this thing. Now I must see it. Then we can talk about it. Yes, I will ask you to wait here until I come back," said Sitting Eagle.

"You have been on many war journeys. I will listen to your words," agreed Sun Bird.

A moment later Sitting Eagle disappeared into the night. He was gone a long time. When he returned he said that he had reconnoitered the ridge and the plain on both sides of it, and was convinced that the approach to the Ute camp was unguarded.

"The Black Faces will not know about this thing until we have run off the ponies," said Sitting Eagle. "Now, my brother, I will ask you to wait here. Yes, I am going back to call our friends."

When Sitting Eagle had gone Sun Bird again crawled to the summit of the ridge to watch the distant fires. The actions of the two Ute horsemen still troubled him. He was unable to convince himself that their apparent excitement had nothing to do with the Sioux war party. He dismissed the doubts from his mind, however, for he knew that he would never become a great war leader by giving way to imaginary perils.

"No, when my friends come I will lead them to that camp to lead out the ponies," he declared, resolutely.

It was not long before he again heard the call of the little gray fox, and a few moments afterward he joined his friends at the base of the ridge. As he took his pony from Sitting Eagle, Sun Bird realized that he must assume command of the enterprise. He knew that the time for doubting had passed, and that he must fill the hearts of his comrades with courage and confidence.

"My brothers, you have come with me to do a great thing. It is good. Yes, we will take many ponies from our enemies, the Black Faces. Pretty soon you will see the fires in that camp. The Black Faces are like children; they do not know how to watch. My brothers, I will ask you to follow me to that camp. Perhaps we will fight. Then we will remember that we are Dacotahs. I have finished," said Sun Bird.

"Sun Bird has spoken like a brave war leader. I believe we are about to do a great thing," said Feather Dog.

Then Sun Bird called White Otter to his side, and together they led the gallant little company forward to invade the camp. They stopped on the summit of the ridge a few moments, and then they rode carefully down the slope and moved cautiously across the plain. The Ute fires were still twinkling among the trees and the Sioux realized that they could do nothing until the camp became dark. They approached slowly, therefore, until they were as near as Sun Bird thought it wise to venture and then he ordered a halt.

"My brothers, now we are near our enemies. I will tell you what I am going to do," said Sun Bird. "I will ask my brother White Otter to go into that camp with me. I will ask my brother Sitting Eagle to go into that camp with me. I will ask my brother Little Raven to go into that camp with me. I will ask my other brothers to wait here with the ponies. I will tell you that your ears must be as sharp as the ears of the wolf. I will tell you that your minds must be as wise as the mind of the fox. I will tell you that your hearts must be as brave as the heart of the bear. Perhaps the Black Faces will hear us. Perhaps there will be a fight. When we call you, my brothers, you must come as fast as the deer and as strong as the buffalo. Now we will go close to the camp to wait until we can go in after the ponies. I have finished."

"I have listened to the words of Sun Bird. I have been in many war parties. Yes, I have gone into many camps to lead out ponies. Sun Bird has told the best way to do this thing. I would like to go into that camp and lead out some ponies, but I will not go. No, I will wait here. My brothers, I will ask you to remember what Sun Bird has spoken. I have finished," said Feather Dog.

His words received the silent indorsement of his companions, and it was evident that Sun Bird possessed the full confidence of his friends. As there was no opposition to his plan, therefore, the youthful war leader determined to carry it out without delay. Leaving their ponies with their comrades, the four daring scouts who intended to enter the camp hurried away on their hazardous undertaking.

"The son of Rain Crow is very brave," said Spotted Elk. "I believe he will lead out many ponies."

"Yes, he will bring us some good horses," replied Feather Dog.

Sun Bird and his companions made their way across the plain with great caution, for the story of the Ute scouts had roused their suspicions and they feared a trap. As they drew near the camp they stopped and lay down beside one another to watch. The fires were still burning brightly, and the Sioux wondered whether the Utes had again fled under cover of the night. Then one of the twinkling lights was blotted from their sight for a few moments, and their hopes revived.

"It is good. My eyes tell me that the Black Faces are in that place. Yes, someone was moving around that fire," said Sun Bird.

"What you say is true," agreed White Otter. "But I will tell you another thing. Perhaps the Black Faces are getting ready to ride away. I am thinking about that time at the water-hole."

"You are as wise as the fox," replied Sun Bird. "Yes, we will find out about this thing. Come, we must go nearer to that place."

Determined to learn what the Utes intended to do, the four scouts rose and advanced toward the camp. They moved along close together, peering anxiously into the night and listening eagerly for a warning of the sentinels who they feared might be scattered about the plain. As they advanced they noticed that one of the fires was growing dull.

"See, that fire is dying down. Yes, I believe the Black Faces will stay here," said Sitting Eagle.

"Well, I will tell you what is the best thing to do," replied Sun Bird. "I will ask you, my brothers, to wait here until I creep up to the camp and find out about this thing."

White Otter and Little Raven instantly objected. They demanded to be allowed to share his peril. Sitting Eagle, however, agreed with Sun Bird. Many thrilling experiences on the war-trail had made the older warrior indifferent not only to danger for himself, but also for others. He knew that it was the duty of a war leader to assume the most perilous roles of the undertaking. Sitting Eagle himself had often placed his life in jeopardy while acting in that capacity, and he saw no reason to ask Sun Bird to alter his decision.

"My young brothers, Sun Bird has spoken like a Sioux warrior. He is going to find out about those people. It is good. A war leader must do these things alone. We will wait here until he knows about this thing. I am telling you this because it is the best thing to do. I am not afraid to go to that camp alone. If my brother Sun Bird tells me to do that then I will go. It would be bad for more than one to do this thing. A war leader must do as he finds it in his heart. I have finished," said Sitting Eagle.

"White Otter, you have heard the words of a great Minneconjoux warrior. Little Raven, you must keep those words in your heart," declared Sun Bird. "It is enough. Now I am going to know about this thing."

"Well, I believe that you are doing a good thing," replied White Otter. "Yes, what Sitting Eagle says is true. I am not afraid to go into that camp alone. But I will wait here until you come back."

After Sun Bird had gone his companions waited in much suspense, ready and eager to rush to his assistance at the first hint of danger. However, as the time passed and they heard nothing to rouse their suspicions they believed that their comrade had approached the camp in safety. One of the fires had already disappeared, and the glow from the remaining one was growing fainter each moment. The watchers had hopes that the Utes were already slumbering.

"Listen!" cautioned White Otter. "Someone is coming."

A moment afterward Sun Bird rejoined them.

"My brothers, I will tell you that the Black Faces are sleeping. Come, we will go into the camp and lead out the ponies," said the resolute young war leader.

They followed him across the silent black plain until they were within bow-shot of the trees, and then they stopped to listen. The stillness was unbroken, and except for a few glowing embers from the smoldering fires the camp was smothered in blackness. Led by Sun Bird, the little company of scouts moved stealthily through the dark. The lodges were well separated, and the Sioux made their way between them with little likelihood of being heard. Once in the camp, they drew their knives and hurried toward the ponies. It took only a few moments for each daring intruder to sever the picket ropes of three ponies and lead them cautiously from the camp. White Otter led out the horse he had originally presented to Sun Bird. When they reached the plain they decided that one should remain with the captured ponies, while the others again ventured into the camp.

"My brother, Little Raven, you have done a brave thing. You have led ponies out of this camp. But you are the youngest. Yes, I will ask you to wait here with the horses. If you hear the long cry of the big gray wolf, ride away as fast as you can," said Sun Bird.

"I would like to go into that camp again, and lead out some more ponies," replied Little Raven. "But I will listen to your words."

Then his companions left him, and returned to the camp. Once again Sun Bird led the way, and White Otter and Sitting Eagle followed close behind him. They were passing noiselessly between two lodges when a pony whinnied shrilly, and the next moment several of the horses on the plain answered. Instantly the camp was in a commotion. Taking advantage of the first confusion, the three Sioux rushed to the horses and began to cut the picket ropes. They secured six ponies before the Utes realized what was happening. Then as the Sioux attempted to ride from the camp they found themselves surrounded by foes.

"Remember that we are Dacotahs!" cried Sun Bird, as he rode into the midst of his enemies.

White Otter rode close beside him and a bow-length back followed Sitting Eagle. Crouching low over their ponies' flanks, the determined Sioux knocked down all who attempted to bar their way, and escaped from the camp unhurt. Then they raced to Little Raven, who was waiting where they had left him.

"Come, we have escaped, but the Black Faces are close behind us!" cried Sun Bird.

Dividing the captured ponies between them, they raced across the plain to join their comrades. As they rode they raised their voices in the ringing war cry of their nation, and the war party echoed the cry and rushed to meet them.

Realizing that the Sioux had followed and surprised them, the Utes were in a frenzy of rage. Mounting the ponies which were still in the camp, the riders raced away in pursuit of their foes, while other warriors rushed wildly about the plain attempting to round up the horses that had been turned loose to graze. However, when they heard the Sioux war cry ringing through the night they became alarmed. They began to fear that the camp had been surrounded by a large Sioux war party, and the thought made them cautious. Besides, the women and children were in a state of panic, and the bewildered Utes realized that in the event of a sudden attack it would be difficult to keep them under control. As fast as the unmounted warriors secured ponies, therefore, they rode madly about the camp, yelling and singing their war songs to intimidate any of their foes who might be lurking in the vicinity.

In the meantime the triumphant Sioux were racing across the plain with the captured ponies. They had turned abruptly toward the west and were riding in silence in the hope of throwing their pursuers from the trail. However, having successfully run off the horses they believed there was little to fear. They knew that the main company of Utes would be delayed some time in procuring mounts, and they felt themselves more than a match for the small company who were pursuing them. In fact several of the younger warriors were eager to turn about and engage the Utes in battle.

"No, that would be foolish," Sun Bird declared, when they suggested the plan. "We have done a good thing. We are taking back more ponies than the Black Faces ran off. Those people did not kill any of us. It is good. We will ride into our village singing. It would be bad to have our friends killed. Yes, the old men would say, 'Sun Bird is a foolish war leader; he takes ponies but he loses his friends.' No, my brothers, we have done what we set out to do. Now we will go to our people and tell them about it."

His words found instant favor with the majority of the war party. Having accomplished the object of their perilous expedition, they were eager to regain their village without loss. They saw no wisdom in waiting to risk themselves in a skirmish which could add nothing to the glory of their exploit.

"Does the wolf come back to fight after it has taken the young buffalo?" demanded Sitting Eagle. "No, that would be foolish. Sun Bird has done a brave thing. A good war leader does not exchange warriors for ponies. We have a long way to go. Perhaps we will meet enemies. We must keep ourselves strong. I have finished."




Chapter V

A Surprise


The Sioux rode until dawn, and then they took shelter in a dense stand of willows on the bank of a shallow stream. They knew that they were far west of the Ute camp, and as they believed that they had eluded their pursuers they determined to stop and rest the ponies until dark. Then as a precaution against attack they sent scouts to the ridges to watch the plain.

The day was more than half gone when a young warrior named Short Bear brought word of a large company of horsemen approaching from the east. He said that they were a long distance off, and were riding slowly. Nevertheless the announcement caused great excitement.

"It is the Black Faces!" cried several of the war party.

"No, I believe they are different people," declared Sun Bird. "Does a war party ride easy on the trail of an enemy? See, the ground is hard. You all have sharp eyes, but do you see any tracks? No, the ground tells you nothing. The wolf can follow a trail with his nose, but a warrior must use his eyes. Are the Black Faces like the wolf? No, I do not believe they can follow us. But perhaps we will meet other enemies in this place. Yes, we must know about this thing."

Short Bear and a companion were sent back to watch the unknown horsemen, and White Otter and Little Raven galloped away to find and warn the Sioux scouts. Then Sun Bird advised his followers to remain in the timber until they learned something about the plans of the strangers. He said that the latter might pass at a safe distance, and that it would be folly to venture upon the open plain until they knew that there was no other alternative.

"Yes, we must wait here until Short Bear comes back," said Sitting Eagle.

A short time afterward the scout returned. He declared that the horsemen had altered their course and were riding farther toward the north. Short Bear said that he did not believe the travelers would even come within sight of the Sioux hiding place. Therefore, as the day would soon be over, he advised his friends to remain where they were until darkness made it safe to resume their journey across the plain.

"Do you know about those people?" inquired Sun Bird.

Short Bear said that although he and Lean Wolf, his companion, had crawled as near as they dared on the open plain they were unable to approach sufficiently close to identify the riders. However, they felt quite sure that they were not Utes. Lean Wolf, who had remained behind to watch, believed that the horsemen were Pawnees, but Short Bear did not agree with him.

"No, my heart tells me something different. I believe those people are Kiowas," he told Sun Bird.

"Well, we must know about it, my brother," replied Sun Bird. "I will ask you to follow those people until they camp. Then you must come back and tell us about it."

Short Bear was scarcely out of sight when another scout rode in from the north. He, too, had discovered the horsemen. He had also seen Lean Wolf following cautiously on their trail, and after making sure that the scout was one of his own people he had set out to warn his companions. This warrior had seen nothing of White Otter and Little Raven. While he was talking, however, those very riders returned. They said that they had found and warned the two remaining scouts.

"It is good," said Sun Bird. "Now we will wait here until we know where those people have stopped."

Just before dark the other scouts arrived, but Short Bear and Lean Wolf had not yet returned. The riders who had been watching to the south and west of the camp said that they had seen nothing but antelope and prairie wolves. Therefore, the Sioux waited in considerable suspense to hear what Short Bear and his companion had learned about the travelers.

Night had already fallen when the two scouts finally returned. They said that they had followed the riders until sunset, when they stopped and made camp at a water-hole some distance to the north. Waiting until it was dark, Short Bear left his pony with Lean Wolf, and approached sufficiently near to identify the horsemen as Kiowas. He learned furthermore that they were armed and painted for war.

"It is bad," declared Sitting Eagle. "Perhaps those people are going to steal Sioux ponies. We must hurry away from here, and go back to our village."

"Yes, that is the best thing to do," agreed Feather Dog. "The Kiowas are our enemies. If they are traveling toward our village we must get ahead of them and warn our people."

"What you say is true," declared Sun Bird. "I will tell you what it is in my mind to do. I will ask my brother Sitting Eagle, and my brother Lean Wolf to ride ahead and tell our people about this thing. We will follow with the horses."

A few moments later the two warriors who had been selected to ride ahead of the war party mounted their ponies and rode away. Their companions followed soon afterward. Sun Bird and White Otter rode together at the head of the company, and the others followed in single file, leading the captured ponies. They rode some distance farther toward the west and then they turned toward the north and hastened along at a brisk canter. They had not gone far, however, when they were halted by a wide stream which the spring freshets had transformed into an impassable barrier. Even the most daring among them saw at once that it would be sheer madness to attempt to swim the ponies through that raging flood. However, they soon learned that their dilemma was not as serious as it appeared, for Feather Dog and Spotted Elk both knew the stream. They declared that if they followed it toward the east they would find that it turned abruptly toward the north, and they could travel along parallel with it.

"But if we go over there perhaps we will meet the Kiowas," suggested Sun Bird.

"No, we will not go so far," replied Feather Dog. "But we must be very cautious."

They changed their route, and rode swiftly along beside the swollen stream. Short Bear declared that they were a long way west of the spot where the Kiowas had encamped. However, the Sioux determined to take every precaution, and after they had gone some distance they stopped and sent Short Bear and Feather Dog forward to reconnoiter. They soon returned and said that a short distance farther on the stream turned toward the north. Short Bear told his companions that he had crawled to the top of a ridge to look for the Kiowa camp, but had been unable to find it. He had recognized the general contour of the plain, however, and he said he felt sure that their foes were too far away to cause concern.

Encouraged by the report of the scouts, Sun Bird gave the word to advance. The little company rode along in silence, for they were suspicious and apprehensive of an attack. They knew that if the Kiowas were on a war expedition they would be almost sure to resume their journey before daylight, and the Sioux feared they might encounter them somewhere along their route. They reached the abrupt turn in the stream, and had ridden an arrow-flight toward the north, when White Otter suddenly stopped his pony and placed his hand on Sun Bird's arm.

"Stop!" he whispered. "My ears tell me there is danger."

The Sioux brought their ponies to a stand, and listened anxiously to learn the cause of White Otter's alarm. For some moments they heard nothing but the sullen roar of the torrent beside them, and then directly ahead of them they heard the approach of a pony. As they fitted arrows to their bows and peered eagerly into the dark the sound ceased. It was evident that the rider had stopped. They wondered if he had discovered them. Then one of the ponies snorted, and an instant later they heard the mysterious horseman galloping wildly across the plain.

The perplexed Sioux remained silent as the hoofbeats of the racing pony echoed through the night, for they were anxious to make sure which way the rider had gone. Still they realized that they could not place much confidence in such a hint, for they knew that an experienced scout would alter his course to fool them. Therefore, when the hoofbeats finally died away in the north the anxious listeners were unable to place much faith in the clew.

"It is bad," said White Otter. "Whoever that rider is, I believe he has gone to tell his people about us. Perhaps he is a Kiowa."

"Yes, I believe he is with the war party," replied Sun Bird. "My brothers, I will tell you how the thing is in my mind. If we wait here that scout will bring his people to fight us. If we go back perhaps we will meet the Black Faces. We cannot cross this water. If we go the other way we will find the Kiowas. There is only one thing to do. Come, we will go ahead. If we find our enemies there then we must fight. I have finished."

His words received the hearty approval of his companions, and as there seemed to be no other alternative they resumed their way toward the north. They rode in pairs with the captured ponies between them. Having been discovered, they feared that an attack was unavoidable, and they prepared to make a valiant defense. While they could not be sure of the identity or whereabouts of the people who threatened them, still they believed that they were Kiowas, who were advancing from the west. The fact that the lone scout had galloped toward the north without attempting to conceal his flight made the Sioux suspicious. They felt quite sure that the maneuver was a clever ruse to mislead them. Hoping that the way before them was unguarded, therefore, they raced through the night at top speed.

A short distance farther on, however, they collided with a large company of horsemen who had been awaiting them at the top of a shallow ravine. As the Sioux slackened their pace to cross the gully the unknown war party rushed upon them. For a moment all was confusion, and Sun Bird saw his little force hesitating on the verge of panic. Then as he called upon them to be men they recovered themselves, and began to fight furiously.

"Stop! Stop! These people are not Kiowas. They are our brothers, the Cheyennes!" cried Feather Dog, after the skirmish had continued a few moments.

"Cheyennes, hold your arrows! We are fighting our brothers, the Sioux!" shouted a warrior of the opposing force.

Then the conflict ended as suddenly as it began, for the two war parties had quickly recognized each other. Fortunately no one had been killed, and beyond the loss of several ponies and the slight wounding of a Cheyenne warrior no serious damage had been done.

Once the blunder had been discovered order was soon restored, and the two forces met to offer apologies and pledge their friendship. It was then that Sun Bird and White Otter learned that the Cheyenne war party was under the leadership of an old friend, a warrior named Red Dog, whom they had saved from the Pawnees the year previous. At that time the two young Sioux had joined forces with a large Cheyenne war party, which had ultimately met defeat and disaster at the hands of a great company of Pawnees. Now as the Cheyennes came forward to see the people whom they had mistaken for Kiowas, the two lads were speedily recognized. As both had established an enviable reputation among the Cheyennes they soon found themselves surrounded by a host of enthusiastic admirers.

"My brothers, this thing has made clouds in my heart," Red Dog assured the Sioux, in their own dialect. "We have done a foolish thing, but I do not believe your hearts are black against us. No, we have not killed any of your people. It is good. If we have killed some of your ponies we will give you others. You have not killed any of my people. It is good. The Great Mystery does not wish brothers to kill each other. But I see that you have wounded my brother Running Buffalo. Well, I will tell you that the sting of an arrow is nothing to a Cheyenne warrior. My brothers, our hearts are peaceful toward you."

"I have listened to the words of my brother, Red Dog," replied Sun Bird. "Yes, you have done a foolish thing, but we have wiped it out of our minds. It is true that the Cheyennes are our brothers. We have smoked the peace pipe together. It is good that the Great Mystery put the great black robe between us so that our arrows went past. I see that there is some blood on the arm of Running Buffalo, and my heart is heavy with shame. I do not know what arrow did that. But I will tell you that I am the war leader, and I will ask Running Buffalo to draw his knife and take some blood from my arm. Yes, then the thing will be wiped out of our hearts. I have finished."

There were few of the Cheyennes who understood the Sioux tongue, but Red Dog translated Sun Bird's words, and it was apparent that the listeners were much impressed. When he had finished there were many signs of approval. Then all eyes turned upon Running Buffalo. The latter advanced to meet Sun Bird, speaking earnestly in the Cheyenne dialect, which Red Dog translated into Sioux.

"Running Buffalo says that he has listened to the words of his brother, Sun Bird," said Red Dog. "He says that they have taken the sting from his arm. He says that his heart is peaceful toward his brothers, the Sioux. He says that Sun Bird's words must be carried out, so that the thing will be forgotten."

Then Running Buffalo drew his knife, and turned to Sun Bird. The young Sioux smiled and offered his arm. The Cheyenne pricked the flesh just enough to draw blood. Then they clasped hands.

"It is good; now the thing is forgotten between us," said Sun Bird.

"Yes, Running Buffalo says that he has wiped it from his heart," declared Red Dog.

After this formal ceremony had been completed the two war parties gathered in council. As the Cheyenne war leader dismounted to talk the Sioux saw that he was badly crippled in both legs. He walked with considerable difficulty, and once off his horse seemed quite helpless. White Otter told his companions that Red Dog had been desperately wounded the year previous, when in a fierce encounter with a roving band of Pawnees he had been pinned beneath his dying pony and left for dead. Some time later White Otter and Sun Bird, who had witnessed the battle from a distant ridge, visited the battlefield to learn the identity of the combatants. They discovered the wounded Cheyenne hiding in a clump of sage. After convincing him that they were friends, they carried him to a stream and attended him until his people returned with reenforcements under cover of the night.

"That is why Red Dog has the legs of an old man," said White Otter.

Red Dog told the Sioux that he and his warriors had left the Cheyenne village to intercept a large war party of Kiowas, who were advancing to attack the Cheyenne camp. He said that when scouts brought word of the intended attack, the Cheyennes had decided to organize a war party and advance across the plain to surprise their foes. Red Dog said that one of the scouts had discovered a dust-cloud along the stream late in the day, and believing that their enemies were advancing along the water, the Cheyennes followed the stream in the hope of surprising the Kiowas under cover of the dark. When the lone scout reconnoitering in advance of the war party collided with the Sioux he believed that he had found the enemy, and raced back to warn his companions. The war party determined to attack their foes at the ravine, and it was thus that the blunder had occurred. Red Dog declared that several other scouts were riding farther to the east, and he believed that they would soon bring word of the Kiowas.

"I will tell you about those people," said Sun Bird, when the Cheyenne had finished speaking.

"Have you seen them?" Red Dog inquired, eagerly.

"No, I have not seen them. But I will ask my brother, Short Bear, to tell you about it," replied Sun Bird.

Short Bear told how he had discovered the Kiowa war party, and how he and Lean Wolf had trailed them until they camped at the water-hole. When Red Dog translated the talk to his companions they became greatly excited, and were eager for Short Bear to lead them to the camp of their enemies. While they were talking, however, two of the Cheyenne scouts returned and said that they had found the Kiowas. They said that the latter were still at the water-hole, and that by riding fast it would be possible to reach the camp-site and make an attack before daylight.

When the Sioux learned that the Cheyennes were going to fight the Kiowas, they held a council among themselves, and most of them wished to enlist in the war party. Sun Bird at first talked against it, but when he found White Otter and several of his closest friends determined to go, he yielded.

"My brothers, a good war leader must always listen to the words of his friends. You say that you will go to fight the Kiowas. You say that those people have many good ponies. You say that the Kiowas are our enemies. You say that the Cheyennes are our brothers. You say that a Dacotah must help his brother, and fight his enemy. Well, I will tell you that those words are true. But we have taken some good ponies from the Black Faces. Yes, we have done what we set out to do. I did not ask you to come out to fight the Kiowas. I am not going to fight those people. No, I am going on with these ponies. I will show my people that we have done what we set out to do. It is enough. If any of you go to fight the Kiowas I will tell you that I have nothing to do with it. I have brought you through what we set out to do. Now if you get killed I have nothing to do with it. My brothers, I will ask some of you to help me take the ponies to the village. I have finished."

When Sun Bird had finished speaking all but five of his companions agreed to abandon the idea of fighting the Kiowas. Those who persisted in their determination to go with the war party were White Otter, Little Raven, Short Bear, Feather Dog and Spotted Elk and Sun Bird said nothing further to deter them.

"My brother, it is in my heart to do this thing, and I must go," said White Otter. "I believe we will bring back some fast ponies."

"You are very brave, and I will not ask you to hold back," replied Sun Bird. "I will go to my people, and tell them that a great warrior is coming to see them."

The Cheyennes were already mounting their ponies, and when Red Dog learned that five of the Sioux had decided to join his company he was overjoyed. He knew that White Otter was looked upon as a great warrior, and he believed that the presence of the young Sioux would stimulate the Cheyennes to deeds of great valor. When he told his followers that White Otter and four of his companions were going to fight the Kiowas, the Cheyennes greeted the announcement with shouts of approval.

"My brothers, the Sioux have brave hearts," said Red Dog. "It is good that you are going with us to fight the Kiowas. Yes, we will count many coups, and bring back some good ponies."

Both war parties were mounted and ready to depart. Before riding away, however, Sun Bird called Little Raven and White Otter to his side.

"My brothers, you are going to fight our enemies, the Kiowas. It is good. I believe you will bring back some ponies. White Otter, you are a great warrior. The song of the arrow is sweet to your ears. Little Raven, you are very young, but you are brave. You have taken some ponies, but you have never fought in a great battle. I will tell you to keep close to White Otter, and do what he tells you. I will ask the Great Mystery to help you. Now, my brothers, I will take you by the hand. Then I will go to the village to wait for you," said Sun Bird.

"I will keep your words in my heart," declared Little Raven.

Then White Otter and Little Raven rode away toward the east in pursuit of the Cheyennes who had already departed, and a few moments afterward Sun Bird and his companions resumed their journey toward the north.




Chapter VI

A Fight In The Dark


When White Otter and Little Raven overtook the Cheyennes they found their three companions riding with Red Dog at the head of the war party. It was an unusual honor, and the Sioux were much impressed. The Cheyenne scouts had gone on in advance, and Short Bear was acting as guide. He told Red Dog that his force was superior to the Kiowas, and assured him that he would win an easy victory.

"Those are good words," said Red Dog. "Yes, I believe we will drive those people back to their village."

It was evident that the Cheyennes shared his confidence. They rode along in high spirits, chanting their war songs and making all sorts of boastful threats against the Kiowas. If they had any doubts about the result of the encounter they were sufficiently experienced to conceal them.

"These people are very brave," said Little Raven.

"Yes, our brothers, the Cheyennes, know how to fight," declared White Otter.

A short distance farther on they were intercepted by one of the Cheyenne scouts. He said that the Kiowas were still at the water-hole. This news greatly pleased Red Dog and his followers. They had feared that their foes might desert the camp, and hurry forward under cover of the dark. Now it seemed that they intended remaining until daylight. It was evident, therefore, that they were sparing their ponies to have them in good condition when they attacked the Cheyenne camp.

"The Kiowas think they are doing a good thing. Well, we will fool them," laughed Red Dog.

The Cheyennes had suddenly turned serious. They had learned that they were close upon their enemies, and the thought sobered them. They knew that a war party had the ears of a fox, and they advanced in silence until the scout cautioned them to halt. He declared that they were within sight of the Kiowa camp, and pointed out its exact location, but they were unable to find it in the darkness.

"My brothers, you have heard the words of Standing Hawk," said Red Dog. "We are near our enemies, the Kiowas. Pretty soon we will begin to fight. But first we must surround the camp. Then we will close in, and when I make the cry of the prairie wolf we will rush upon our enemies. My brothers, I will tell you to look at these Sioux. They are very brave. I want them to tell their people about this fight. Cheyennes, I will ask you to be men."

While Red Dog was speaking another Cheyenne scout joined the war party. He said that the Kiowas were apparently sleeping, but he felt sure that the camp was surrounded by wide-awake sentinels. This was to be expected, and the announcement seemed to give the Cheyennes little concern. They knew that it was the duty of a war leader to overcome or sweep aside such barriers, and they felt confident that Red Dog would lead them to sure and speedy victory.

When the scout had finished speaking, therefore, the Cheyennes gathered about Red Dog to receive final instructions for attacking the camp. As the night was well advanced he said that they must proceed without further delay. Red Dog told his followers that they must advance until they saw the little stand of timber which sheltered their foes, and then they must encircle the camp. Having done that, he ordered them to ride slowly forward until he raised the cry of the prairie wolf. "Then you must rush in, and fight," he concluded.

A few moments afterward the war party advanced cautiously in the direction of the Kiowa camp. The two scouts rode on ahead, Red Dog followed with the Sioux close behind him, and then came the gallant force of Cheyenne fighting men. All moved forward in grim silence, ready and eager to grapple with their foes. When they finally saw the little patch of timber, they stopped to listen.

"See, there is the place where our enemies are sleeping. Now we will surround them," said Red Dog.

The war party separated into two companies which filed away in opposite directions, to meet behind the camp and draw the fatal circle about their enemies. Red Dog remained where he was, and requested the two scouts and the little company of Sioux to attend him. The latter realized that his request was a compliment to their courage. They knew that he would lead the attack against the camp, and that they would be sure to participate in the fiercest fighting.

"I believe that Red Dog will take us into great danger," White Otter told Little Raven. "When we rush in to fight the Kiowas you must stay close by me. If you go ahead alone you may be killed."

"I will do as you tell me," replied Little Raven. "I have never fought in a great battle, but I have done other things. Yes, I have led ponies out of the Pawnee camp, and I have taken ponies from the Black Faces. Now I am going to fight the Kiowas. Well, I will tell you that I am not afraid."

Red Dog waited until he felt sure that his warriors were on every side of the camp, and then he began to advance. The Cheyenne scouts and the Sioux accompanied him. White Otter and Little Raven kept close together. They realized that the Cheyennes were closing the net about their foes, and they knew that the fight might begin at any moment. Then a wild yell echoed across the plain, and it was evident that some of the war party had encountered a Kiowa sentinel. Aware that further caution would be useless, Red Dog raised his voice in the dismal howl of the prairie wolf, and raced his pony toward the Kiowa camp.

A moment afterward the night reverberated with the defiant yells of the attacking Cheyennes. They rode recklessly into the Kiowa camp, and attempted to gain possession of the ponies. In spite of having been completely surprised, however, the Kiowas soon rallied and fought desperately. The little patch of timber was now the scene of a terrific conflict. The fighting was at close range, and as darkness made it difficult to distinguish between friend and foe, the wildest confusion followed. To add still further disorder, many of the Kiowa ponies pulled the picket stakes and raced madly among the excited combatants. The Sioux soon found themselves in the thick of the combat. They kept close together, and fought with great bravery. White Otter and Short Bear had their ponies killed beneath them, but both secured new mounts and continued the fight. Then the superior numbers of the Cheyennes began to tell, and the Kiowas were forced to give way. They had lost many of their ponies, and almost half of the warriors were fighting on foot. They fought stubbornly until they were driven from the timber, and then they scattered and fled across the plain.

"See, the Kiowas are running!" cried White Otter. "Come, we must take some ponies."

At that instant, however, several mounted warriors dashed forward and attacked the Sioux with great ferocity. In the desperate hand to hand fighting which followed Little Raven was dragged from his pony, and would surely have been killed but for the timely assistance of White Otter. Then the Sioux vanquished their foes, and captured three ponies. They had escaped unharmed, and as they heard the Cheyennes whooping excitedly on the plain they galloped from the timber to join them.

"Come, we have chased away the Kiowas, now we will ride around and look for ponies," said White Otter.

Once on the plain they separated, and began to look for horses. They soon learned the folly of this maneuver, however, for White Otter had barely left his companions when he was attacked by three mounted Kiowas. After a desperate running fight he finally escaped with another Kiowa pony. Similar encounters were being fought everywhere, for the crafty Kiowas had separated into small bands and were lurking in the dark to attack their foes whenever they could catch them at a disadvantage.

"It is bad," White Otter declared, as he rejoined his companions. "Yes, we must keep together. We are in great danger. The big fight is over, but perhaps we will be killed. The Kiowas are all around us. They are like the wolves, which wait in the dark to pull down the elk that goes out alone. We have helped our brothers, the Cheyennes. We have taken some ponies for ourselves. There is nothing else to do. It is foolish to wait here. Come, we will find Red Dog, and talk with him about this thing."

"It is the best thing to do," agreed Feather Dog.

Then they heard the call of the prairie wolf a short distance to the west of them, and they believed that Red Dog was summoning his warriors. Still they determined to act with great prudence, for it was possible that the Kiowas were attempting to decoy them into a trap. However, when the signal was repeated they determined to investigate. They had not gone an arrow-flight, when they heard a company of horsemen racing directly toward them. Scorning to avoid an encounter, the Sioux fitted arrows to their bows, and sent their war cry ringing through the night. The approaching riders stopped at the sound, and the Sioux heard the low murmur of their voices.

"Come, we will ride over there and fight these people," proposed Short Bear.

"No, we must wait until we know who they are," cautioned White Otter.

A moment afterward his caution was rewarded. They heard themselves addressed in their own tongue, and learned that the horsemen were their allies, the Cheyennes. The latter instantly joined them, and the Sioux saw that they were leading a number of captured ponies. The warrior who spoke the Sioux dialect assured them that the Kiowas had been decisively beaten, and were in full flight toward their village.

"It was a great fight, but I believe that some of our people were killed," he said soberly.

Then they galloped across the plain to join Red Dog. When they reached him they found the balance of the war party with many Kiowa ponies. The Cheyenne war leader was thoughtful and serious, and the Sioux believed that some of his friends had been killed in the fighting. They saw that Red Dog himself had been severely wounded, but he appeared to be unmindful of his injury. When he saw the Sioux he called them to him and complimented them upon their courage. Then he addressed his warriors.

"My brothers, we have fought our enemies, the Kiowas. Yes, we have chased them away like rabbits. We have taken many ponies. Now our village is safe. The old men and the women and children can sleep without fear. But my heart is filled with clouds because some of our people have been killed. We will wait here until it is light, and then we will go and tell our people about this fight. I have finished."

When Red Dog had ceased speaking a warrior called out the names of four Cheyennes who had lost their lives in the encounter, and then their friends rose and rendered glowing tribute to their memory. Among those killed was Standing Hawk, the scout, a close friend of Red Dog, and a man of prominence and influence in the tribe. A number of warriors had been more or less severely injured, but, like Red Dog, they made light of their injuries and scorned the concern and sympathy of their companions.

Having rendered the customary honors to their dead, the Cheyennes turned their attention to celebrating the victory over the Kiowas. The captured ponies were paraded in a circle, and the warriors rushed forward and counted coup upon them as they passed. Other trophies were exhibited with much pride and boasting on the part of the warriors who had taken them. The Sioux, too, were invited to take a prominent part in the ceremonies. They had heard themselves complimented and praised by all the speakers, and they saw that Red Dog and his followers desired to show them every possible honor. White Otter, Short Bear and Feather Dog all made speeches in which they highly commended the Cheyennes for their bravery, and promised to tell the great chief, Curly Horse, and his people about them. The celebration finally ended with a dance. Then sentinels were posted about the camp, and the tired Cheyennes wrapped themselves in their robes to rest until daylight.




Chapter VII

The Minneconjoux Camp


The Sioux traveled with the Cheyennes until late the following day. Then, as the latter turned toward the east to reach their camp, White Otter and his companions left them and continued toward the north. Red Dog presented each of his allies with two ponies, and as they had taken a number from the Kiowas they felt very well repaid for having joined the war party.

"We have done a good thing," said Short Bear. "Yes, we will show our people some good ponies."

"Sun Bird has brought back what the Black Faces took away. Now we are bringing more ponies. Our people will talk about it a long time," declared Feather Dog.

The Sioux made their way across the plain with great caution, for they were fearful of losing their prizes to a superior force of foes. As a precaution, therefore, White Otter and Feather Dog proceeded some distance ahead of their companions, reconnoitering from the ridges and keeping a sharp watch for enemies. However, they saw only antelope and wolves on the plain, and deer and elk in the swales and along the base of the foothills. The third day after leaving the Cheyennes they came in sight of their destination.

"See, there are the lodges of my people," said Feather Dog, as he and White Otter stopped on the crest of a low ridge to wait for their comrades.

Some distance farther to the west the plain ended at a range of low pine-clad foothills, and within their shadows was the great Minneconjoux camp. It was located beside a wide stream that flowed down from towering snow-topped peaks still farther to the west. The young Ogalala saw many lodges, and great numbers of ponies grazing on the fertile plain near the village.

"My eyes tell me that this is a great camp," said White Otter.

"Yes, you will find many people in that village," Feather Dog assured him. "But see, we have been discovered."

White Otter saw that he and Feather Dog had caused a sudden stir in the Minneconjoux camp. A great crowd had gathered at the edge of the village, and seemed to be regarding them with considerable suspicion. Several horsemen were riding excitedly about the plain driving the ponies toward the camp, and it was evident that the Sioux feared an attack.

"Perhaps your people believe that we are Crow scouts," suggested White Otter.

"No, it is not so. My people have eyes like the eagle, but they are very cautious," laughed Feather Dog.

A few moments later Short Bear and his two companions rode to the top of the ridge with the captured ponies. Their appearance instantly reassured their tribesmen and threw them into an ecstasy of delight, for the riderless ponies proclaimed the success of the gallant little company who had parted from Sun Bird to join the Cheyenne expedition against the Kiowas.

Aware that they had been recognized, Feather Dog and his companions galloped toward the camp, shaking their weapons and yelling triumphantly. A company of warriors raced to meet them, and the plain reverberated with the shouts of the excited throng at the edge of the village. As the horsemen approached one another White Otter saw that the riders from the camp were led by Sun Bird, and his heart filled with emotion. Both companies rode at full speed until they were only several bow-lengths apart. Then they pulled their ponies to their haunches, and stopped in a choking smother of dust.

Sun Bird greeted Little Raven with much affection, and praised him for bringing ponies to the camp. Then he turned to his friend, White Otter.

"My brother, I have waited for you. Now you have come. It is good; my heart is filled with sunshine. I see that you have taken some more ponies. You are a great warrior. I have told the great chief, Curly Horse, and Rain Crow, my father, about you. They have told the people about you. Now they are waiting to see you. Come, we will ride into the village, and I will take you to my father's lodge," said Sun Bird.

"Sun Bird, it is true that you are my brother," replied White Otter. "Your people are the brave Minneconjoux and I am an Ogalala, but we have the same blood. Yes, we are Dacotahs. I have listened to your words, and I am glad I came here. It is bad when I am away from you. Now we are together. It is good; I can sing again. You say you have told the great chief, Curly Horse, about me. Well, I will tell him the words of my grandfather, the great chief, Wolf Robe. You say you have told the great medicine-man, Rain Crow, about me. Well, when I take his hand then I will talk about it until I am an old man. Yes, I will go to your village with a good heart. The Minneconjoux are my brothers."

As they neared the camp they heard the people singing songs of welcome and shouting their names, and they thrilled with pride. A few old men and most of the boys ran out on the plain to meet them, and count coup on the captured ponies. When they entered the village, however, they were greeted with more dignity by the warriors who had assembled to receive them. It was apparent that the Minneconjoux fighting men had determined to maintain a proud reserve before their famous young tribesman from the Ogalala village.

However, Sun Bird gave them little opportunity to satisfy their vanity, for he rode past them and escorted White Otter directly to the lodge of Curly Horse. They dismounted before the entrance, and the young Ogalala tied three ponies, which he had brought from the Cheyennes, to the picket-post. Then he waited outside while Sun Bird entered to announce him to the Minneconjoux war chief.

"Curly Horse says that he is waiting to see his young brother," Sun Bird said, when he rejoined his friend a few moments afterward.

Then Sun Bird and White Otter entered the lodge. They saw two warriors seated opposite the entrance. One, a middle-aged man of massive physique, wore a splendid head-dress of eagle feathers, and White Otter had little difficulty in recognizing him as Curly Horse. The other, who looked somewhat older and less robust, wore a head-piece of beaver ornamented with the horns of a bull buffalo, while his dress and insignias proclaimed him a medicine-man. White Otter felt sure, therefore, that he was Rain Crow, the father of Sun Bird. The two lads advanced around the left side of the lodge until they finally stood before the warriors. For some moments the older men remained silent, while they peered searchingly into the face of the Ogalala. Apparently impressed with what they saw, they exchanged a few words in an undertone, and then the chief addressed Sun Bird.

"Tell him who I am," he said, curtly.

"My brother, I will tell you that you are looking at Curly Horse, the great war chief of the Minneconjoux. He has fought in many battles. He has killed many enemies. He has taken many ponies. He has given his people good words. When Curly Horse speaks you must open your ears, for he is a great man," said Sun Bird.

When the eulogy was finished Curly Horse rose and offered his hand to White Otter.

"Now you know who I am," said Curly Horse. "It is good. I have taken your hand. Now I will tell you what I am thinking about. First I will tell you that I am glad you have come here. I have heard about you. You are a young man, but you have done some good things. I have talked with your father, Standing Buffalo. Yes, a long time ago he came here with some young men to help us fight the Black-feet. He was a very brave warrior. I know about your grandfather, the great chief Wolf Robe. The Minneconjoux and the Ogalalas are brothers. Our lodges are always open to our brothers. Perhaps you will stay here a long time. Then I will talk to you again. Now I am going to tell you about this great man who is standing beside me. He is Rain Crow. He is a great medicine-person. He has done some great things. Some time I will tell you about it. I have finished."

"I have listened to the words of a great chief," replied White Otter. "I have taken the hand of Curly Horse. I have painted these things on my heart. You say that the Ogalalas are your brothers. It is true. Now I will tell you the words of the great chief, Wolf Robe. He said, 'The Minneconjoux are our brothers. Curly Horse, their chief, is a great man. You will see many brave warriors in that camp. Sun Bird and Little Raven are your friends. They will tell their people about you. Go, and tell the Minneconjoux that Wolf Robe is thinking about them.' I have brought you these words. You say that you have talked with my father. Then you have seen a man. But I must tell you that he has gone on the Long Trail. Now I will talk to that great man beside you. Rain Crow, you are a great medicine-person. My people know about you. You are the father of my brother Sun Bird, and my brother Little Raven. I will call you my father. Now I have taken your hand. Well, I will tell about it a long time. Now I will tell you something else. I have tied three ponies out there for Curly Horse. Well, I took some more ponies from your enemies, the Black Faces. One of those ponies belongs to my brother, Sun Bird. But I will give three other ponies to my father, Rain Crow. This is how it is in my heart to do. I have finished."

"My son, you talk like a man," said Rain Crow. "It is good that you have called me your father. Yes, Sun Bird has told me about you. I know that you are as cautious as the fox, and as brave as the bear. It is enough. You will be a great war chief, like your grandfather. I am glad you have come here. Perhaps you will stay many days. It is good. I may tell you some great things. I have spoken."

A few moments afterward the lads left the lodge. They found a crowd gathered to see them. As they appeared the people ceased talking, and the warriors came forward to greet White Otter. They welcomed him with great warmth, and several of the principal men of the tribe announced feasts in his honor.

"My brothers, I see that you are great warriors," replied White Otter. "I have heard my people talk about you. Now I have taken your hands. You have told me something good. You have called me your brother. Yes, it is true. It is a good thing I came here. Now I see what kind of people you are. I know I will have plenty to eat here. I know I will have a good place in my brother's lodge. I know I will hear some good talks. When I go away from here I will tell my people about it. But perhaps I will stay here many days. My brothers, my heart is peaceful toward you."

Then Sun Bird took him to Rain Crow's lodge. It was located in about the center of the village. As it was decorated with two figures of the mysterious Thunder Bird, White Otter knew that Rain Crow had seen these things in a dream or vision. He knew the custom governing these sacred dreams, which entitled the dreamer to decorate his personal property with the symbol of his dreams. At his death the privilege was inherited by his oldest son, who might make four copies of the mysterious emblem. Unless the latter happened to see or dream the same vision, however, the privilege of using the symbol ended with his death. The young Ogalala had been taught to reverence these mysterious dreamers of visions, and he looked with superstitious awe upon the crude red emblems which announced Rain Crow's mysterious powers to the people. The medicine-man's buffalo-hide war shield was suspended from a tripod of poles beside the lodge, and White Otter particularly noted the two red pipes which had been painted on it.

"My brother, I see that your father is a very great man," he told Sun Bird. "He has seen the mysterious Thunder Beings. That is a wonderful thing to happen to a man. I see two pipes on his war shield. Now I know that he has led two war parties. It is a great thing to sit in his lodge. I will tell my grandfather about it."

When they entered the lodge they found Little Raven and his mother, Dancing Fawn. It was evident that the youthful warrior had been relating a vivid account of his exploits.

"My mother, I have brought you another son," said Sun Bird. "White Otter is my brother. I have told you about him. He is a great warrior. The brave Ogalalas are his people. I have lived in their lodges. Now White Otter has come to talk with his brothers. Make him welcome."

"My son, I have listened to your words. What you have told me is good. Your brother, White Otter, shall be my son. He shall spread his robe in Rain Crow's lodge. I will make his moccasins and cook his meat," declared Dancing Fawn.

"Mother, I will keep your words in my heart," replied White Otter.

Sun Bird showed him where to spread his robe, and thus establish his place in the lodge. Then the two lads sat down beside each other to talk. Believing that they wished to be alone, Dancing Fawn and Little Raven immediately went outside. Sun Bird told White Otter that as soon as it grew dark the Minneconjoux would celebrate the triumphant return of the war party. Even while he spoke they heard criers walking about the village calling to the people to assemble at nightfall. Soon afterward the odor of smoke and the fragrance of broiling meat told the lads that the day had ended, and the women were busy with the evening meal.

"Come, we will go out and see what our mother has for us," proposed Sun Bird.

They found Dancing Fawn and several other women broiling antelope meat over the glowing embers of a cooking fire. The fire was shared by the occupants of several lodges, and while the women prepared the food the warriors sat together smoking and telling stories. Rain Crow was in the party, and he immediately invited the lads to join him. Similar fires were twinkling in all parts of the camp, and about each sat a little company of men and boys. The meal was the occasion for much light-hearted mirth, and the village resounded with song and laughter. The success of Sun Bird and his war party had fired the pride of the people, and they were prepared to celebrate the victory with customary enthusiasm.

"See, my people have good hearts because we have done this thing," said Sun Bird. "They will talk about it a long time. Pretty soon Curly Horse will call the warriors. Then we will sing the war songs, and dance the medicine dances."

"It is good. I will tell my people about it," replied White Otter.

Soon afterward they heard the familiar throbbing of the buffalo-hide war drums, and they knew it was the signal to assemble. At the summons the people sprang to their feet and hurried to the center of the village, where they found Curly Horse and a number of prominent men awaiting them.

The warriors formed a circle about two great fires which blazed fiercely. Behind them stood the old men, and still farther in the background were the women and children. The war chief and prominent men of the tribe stood together outside the circle, and close by them were the musicians with their buffalo-hide drums. When all were ready to begin the ceremony Curly Horse stepped forward to deliver the customary address.

"People of the great Dacotah nation, we have come together to sing about a great thing. Our young men have returned from the war trail with many ponies. The Black Faces took some horses, but our young men went to their camp. Now we are laughing about it. Our enemies, the Kiowas, have lost some good ponies. Do you know where they are? Well, if you look around you will see them. Now I will ask my young brother, Sun Bird, to tell us how they came here," said Curly Horse.

Sun Bird advanced into the center of the circle, and gave a vivid account of his adventures. When he had finished the musicians began to beat the drums, and the warriors began to dance. They circled slowly about the fires, waving their trophies and singing boastful songs against their foes. From time to time a dancer would rush excitedly into the center of the circle and tell his part in bringing success and glory to the expedition. Each moment added to the general excitement, and the people seemed to have been roused into a nervous frenzy. The dance was continued until many of the older warriors were completely exhausted, and then it was temporarily stopped.

While the dancers rested from their strenuous efforts, White Otter was asked to speak. He told of the expedition against the Kiowas, and rendered glowing tribute to the courage of Little Raven and the other Sioux who had joined the war party. His words touched the vanity of the Minneconjoux and roused them into resuming their wild celebration. Thus the ceremonies were continued until the night was three-quarters gone, and then the people succumbed to their fatigue and retired to the lodges.

"Well, my brother, you have seen a great thing," said Sun Bird, when he and White Otter reached Rain Crow's lodge.

"It is true. Those songs will stay in my ears a long time," replied White Otter.

"Well, you will see something else when the next sun comes," declared Sun Bird. "My people will dance the great Buffalo Dance. You will see how they do it. You will see scouts go away to watch on the ridges. And I will tell you another thing. Our brothers, the brave Uncapapas, are coming to hunt with us. You will see a great camp. Many things will happen while these people are with us. Yes, we will run races, and ride horses, and try our arrows. The Uncapapas are great warriors. They have fought in many battles. You will hear about it. All the people will sing the buffalo songs, and you will see how my father brings the buffaloes to his people."

"When I have seen all these things, then I will tell my grandfather about it," said White Otter.




Chapter VIII

Visitors From The North


At dawn the three lads stole noiselessly from the lodge and raced away to the stream, lured on by the shouts and laughter of a jolly little company who were already in the water. The first plunge into the icy current from the mountains dispelled the last traces of drowsiness and sent the blood bounding through their veins. Then followed a few moments of wild frolicking, for all the boys and most of the younger men of the tribe were assembled at the stream. When they emerged from the water they chased one another about the plain until they were thoroughly dry and glowing with health. Then they ran to the camp to eat bountifully of the food which the women were already preparing.

At sunrise the warriors who had been selected to dance in the Buffalo Dance walked to the center of the village. Each of the dancers wore the skin of a bull buffalo, including the head and horns, and about his ankles were tied tufts of buffalo hair. Their faces and bodies were streaked and spotted with clay of various colors, and fastened to their backs were small bundles of willow branches. They carried their hunting weapons, and small rawhide rattles filled with pebbles.

While the dancers were assembling, a number of scouts mounted their ponies and galloped away to watch from the ridges about the camp. At the same time Rain Crow made his way out on the plain with the sacred medicine-pipe, and seated himself beside a painted buffalo skull to smoke and petition the Great Mystery to send the great herds of buffaloes near the Minneconjoux camp.

The beating of the war drums drew the people to the spot selected for the ceremony, and when the tribe was finally assembled the dance commenced. About twenty warriors took part, and as the old men sang the sacred buffalo songs the dancers began to imitate the animals which they were supposed to represent. Keeping time with the drums, they moved slowly around in a circle, performing all the antics of the great beasts which they believed they were luring to their hunting grounds. Once begun, the dance might be continued for several days, unless the animals suddenly appeared and abruptly ended the ceremony. When a dancer became tired he stooped over, and one of the onlookers, who were waiting to take advantage of such an emergency, immediately pretended to drive an arrow through him. Then the exhausted dancer fell and was dragged from the circle, and the fresh recruit gladly surrendered himself to the strenuous exertions of the dance.

"That man who is throwing dirt over himself is Kicking Bull. He is a great hunter," Sun Bird told White Otter. "Once he sent his arrow right through a bull buffalo. Another time he killed three bears that were bigger than his pony. You will see him do some great things when we go out to hunt the buffaloes."

"I will keep close beside him," declared White Otter.

White Otter was thoroughly familiar with every detail of the interesting ceremony, for he had seen the Ogalalas dance the Buffalo Dance many times. Like all his people, he had deep reverence for these mysterious medicine-rites, and he believed implicitly in their alleged power to bring about the desired result. He had little doubt, therefore, that the combined efforts of Rain Crow and the dancers in the present ceremony, would soon bring the buffaloes within sight of the village.

"Come, now we will go and watch my father," Sun Bird proposed, after they had spent some time at the dance.

When they arrived at the edge of the village they saw Rain Crow standing rigid and immovable some distance out on the plain. He held the sacred medicine-pipe before him at arm's length.

"See, my father is pointing the pipe toward the place where we first see the buffaloes," said Sun Bird. "Now he is looking up and singing to the Great Mystery. He is making strong medicine. Pretty soon he will bring the buffaloes."

They would have liked to approach sufficiently near to hear the words of the mysterious medicine-songs, but they knew better than to make the attempt. To have intruded upon Rain Crow at that time would have broken his power, and invited the censure of the entire tribe. Therefore, they curbed their curiosity, and contented themselves with watching him from the border of the camp. They had not been there long when they were approached by a prominent member of Sun Bird's war party, who invited them to his lodge to partake of a feast which he had prepared in honor of White Otter.

"My brother, you have opened your lodge. It is good. I will go in and eat with you," said White Otter.

When the young Ogalala parted from his host some time later he was immediately invited to accept the bounteous hospitality of another admirer. Aware that a refusal would be interpreted as an insult, White Otter saw nothing to do but to accept. As the etiquette of his people required a visitor to eat heartily at each lodge to which he was invited, and as each host invariably endeavored to offer a more sumptuous repast than his neighbor, White Otter foresaw embarrassing complications ahead of him. By the time he had fulfilled his obligations at three of these feasts he found himself almost helpless from the effects of his enforced gluttony. Sun Bird and Little Raven were in a similar state of discomfort, for they had felt it a matter of duty to accompany their friend to each lodge to which he had been invited. As the day was but half over the situation looked serious. Having accepted the first invitations, they realized that it would be impossible to refuse those that were sure to follow. Still, they knew it would be equally impossible to consume more food, and they were aware that to attend a feast and slight the repast would be a greater insult than to stay away. They were searching their brains for a way of escape, when they were unexpectedly delivered from their awkward dilemma.

"See, Feather Dog is returning. He has something to tell about," cried Sun Bird, pointing toward a solitary horseman who was galloping toward the camp.

The cry was echoed through the village, and the people rushed from the lodges in a state of wild excitement. Some feared that he was bringing warning of an impending attack by the Crows, others declared that the buffaloes were in sight, and still others that the Uncapapas were approaching from the north. Determined to be prepared for an emergency, Curly Horse instantly assembled the fighting men and held himself in readiness to defend the camp. When Feather Dog finally came within shouting distance, however, he called out that a great company of Uncapapas were approaching the village. The news filled the Minneconjoux with delight, and when Feather Dog rode into the camp they crowded eagerly around him to inquire about the famous people who were coming to visit them. Then Curly Horse called the warriors in council, and made an address.

"My people, you have heard the words of Feather Dog. He has told you that our brothers, the great chief Laughing Bird and his people, are coming here. It is good. I will ask you to open your lodges to them. Pretty soon you will see Laughing Bird and some great warriors come across the plain. We will go to meet them. Feather Dog, I will ask you to go back and tell Laughing Bird that Curly Horse will ride out to meet him. I have finished," said the Minneconjoux war chief.

As Feather Dog raced away with a message of welcome, Curly Horse went slowly about the group of Minneconjoux fighting men selecting the warriors whom he wished to accompany him. He chose twenty-five of the most renowned men of the tribe, and ordered them to prepare themselves to meet Laughing Bird and his escort. The warriors rushed to their lodges to array themselves in all their finery, while the boys brought in their fastest ponies, which the women proceeded to decorate with feathers and strips of fur.

When the escort for Curly Horse finally assembled in the center of the village they made a striking appearance, and the people greeted them with shouts of approval. They were a splendid-looking body of men, and the eyes of the Minneconjoux chief flashed with pride as he inspected them. Then he called Rain Crow to his side, and together they led the gallant little company from the camp. As they cantered slowly across the plain, the people watching from the border of the village saw another company of riders appear on the summit of a ridge to the north. These horsemen watched the Minneconjoux a few minutes, and then they galloped forward to meet them.

"See, Laughing Bird and his warriors are coming to talk with our people," said Sun Bird, as he stood at the edge of the camp with White Otter. "When those people come here you will see a great man."

The two chiefs advanced with their escorts until they were less than a bow-shot apart, and then each halted his followers and rode forward alone. They met and clasped hands, and after a complimentary exchange of greetings they signaled their warriors to join them. The latter appeared to splendid advantage as they moved slowly forward in perfect alignment, each rider sitting erect and dignified on his prancing pony, with his great war bonnet of eagle feathers reaching almost to the ground behind him. They had streaked the upper part of their bodies with colored clay, and had dressed themselves in their finest ceremonial attire. Each warrior carried his coup-stick with its complement of fluttering eagle feathers so that all who saw him might instantly recognize him as a man of courage and valor. The two companies of fighting men stopped a short distance apart while Curly Horse and Laughing Bird addressed them. The former welcomed the Uncapapa war chief and his escort and invited the Uncapapas to make their camp beside his village. Laughing Bird accepted the invitation with proper courtesy, and immediately dispatched a courier to bring his people, who were waiting far out on the plain. Then, after all the warriors had greeted one another and exchanged the customary compliments, the entire company cantered toward the Minneconjoux camp.

"Now you will hear some good words," said Sun Bird, as he and White Otter hurried to join the warriors who had assembled before the council lodge to receive the visitors.

Laughing Bird and his warriors received a royal welcome from the Minneconjoux. Much time was consumed in making speeches and exchanging greetings, but White Otter gave little attention to the talk. He was more interested in studying these distant tribesmen whom he had never seen. He saw that the Uncapapa chief was a young man, tall and wiry, with an alert, fearless face which was somewhat disfigured by a great scar extending entirely across the left cheek from ear to chin. The young Ogalala believed that it was the record of some thrilling combat, and he hoped to hear the story. The warriors who accompanied Laughing Bird were superb specimens of manhood. They were slighter and considerably taller than the Minneconjoux, but they had the Dacotah characteristics, and White Otter would have recognized them as his people even before they spoke.

However, White Otter's attention was suddenly diverted by the shouts of some boys at the edge of the camp. "The Uncapapas are coming! The Uncapapas are coming!" they cried excitedly. Rushing to the border of the village, the Minneconjoux saw a great company of people advancing slowly across the plain. It was an impressive spectacle. In front were the warriors, each leading one or more ponies besides the animal he rode. Behind them came the slower pack animals, carrying the women and children and dragging the lodge poles, to which was lashed the property of the owners. Then followed the herd of unburdened animals in charge of a noisy company of youths and boys. The interesting cavalcade was flanked on all sides by stray companies of dogs of various sizes and colors, many of the larger animals dragging small loads behind them like the ponies.

Curly Horse sent a delegation of warriors to meet and welcome the Uncapapas, while Laughing Bird and his escort galloped along the stream to find a suitable camp-site. They selected a spot some distance below the Minneconjoux village, and a few minutes afterward it was the scene of bustling activity. The women soon had the horses unpacked and the lodge poles in place, and then the great buffalo-hide covers, each composed of from fifteen to twenty skins of the bull buffalo, were wrapped about the frame and the shelter was completed. In the meantime the older women and the children were searching through the timber for fuel, while the warriors walked about giving orders to the boys who were busy picketing the riding ponies, and stretching rawhide lariats between the trees to form a temporary corral for the pack animals. In spite of these various activities, however, there was little confusion, and by the time the evening shadows settled upon the plain the great Uncapapa camp was entirely in order.

At nightfall the Minneconjoux and the Uncapapas began to exchange visits, and as both camps vied with each other in the number and bounteousness of their feasts, the people had little chance to rest. In the meantime the Buffalo Dance drew fresh recruits from the Uncapapas, and the entire night was passed in ceremony and celebration. Dawn was already breaking in the east as Sun Bird and White Otter finally stole away to Rain Crow's lodge for a few winks of sleep.

The following day the scouts again rode away to watch on the ridges, and Rain Crow took the sacred pipe and went out on the plain to pray to the Great Mystery. The Buffalo Dance, too, was continued with undiminished enthusiasm. However, as but few were able to participate in the ceremony at one time, the majority of the people occupied themselves with less serious affairs. The people from the two camps mingled together with less evidence of reserve, and more jolly comradeship than on the previous day. The warriors met to trade ponies and boast of their exploits; the old men sat in the shade and recalled the days that had gone; the women gossiped and compared their handiwork; and the boys met on the plain to play their games. Thus the morning passed, and at midday criers went through the camps announcing the sports that had been arranged to while away the time until the buffaloes appeared. The announcement was received with shouts of enthusiasm, for there was keen rivalry between the tribes and each was eager for an opportunity to prove the superiority of its champions.

The sports began soon afterward, and were so hotly contested that the results were always in doubt until the last moment of the contest. There were foot races, and jumping contests, and games of shinny and ball, and pony races, and various competitions for the women and girls; but neither tribe was able to secure much of an advantage, and when these sports were finally ended the total scores were exactly even. Then came the final, and perhaps the most popular event of the day, which was known as the Arrow Game.

When White Otter heard it announced his heart began to beat excitedly. It was a favorite game of his people, and one at which he excelled. He had been forced to practice it from the time he received his first small bow and blunt wooden arrows. Now there were none in his tribe who could equal his skill, and the Ogalalas proudly acknowledged him as their champion. Therefore, as he realized that the result of this contest would give the day's victory to the tribe of the winner, he determined to enter the event on the side of the Minneconjoux.

Two teams were soon selected, and the rival contestants marched solemnly to the spot which had been set apart for the event. Sun Bird as well as White Otter had secured a place on the Minneconjoux team. The object of the contest was to see who could shoot the most arrows into the air before the first one reached the ground. It was a sport which demanded agility as well as skill, and only the most expert took part.

When the rival teams reached the meeting place they formed in two lines some distance apart. Then Curly Horse and Laughing Bird walked between them urging the warriors of their respective tribes to do their utmost to win the victory for their people. The words of the Minneconjoux war chief filled White Otter with enthusiasm. Having already won the championship of his own tribe, he was anxious to establish his title among the other tribes of the great Dacotah nation. Besides, he was equally eager to crown the strenuous efforts of the Minneconjoux with final victory. Therefore, as he strung his bow and took his place beside Sun Bird, he raised his eyes to the sky and offered a silent petition to the Great Mystery to aid him in securing the coveted victory.

The first warrior to try his skill was an Uncapapa, who succeeded in discharging six arrows before the first returned to earth. He was followed by the warrior at the head of the Minneconjoux line, who fumbled at the fourth arrow and scored only five. The next Uncapapa, a great, powerful fellow of striking appearance, sent eight arrows into the air and caused enthusiastic rejoicing among his tribesmen. The Minneconjoux who was his rival scored six. The following Uncapapa was so anxious to surpass his comrade that he splintered his bow and eliminated himself from the contest. Then a Minneconjoux named Little Rabbit succeeded in tying the score with eight arrows in the air at once, and his people went wild with joy. Their delight was short-lived, however, for a few moments afterward an Uncapapa discharged nine arrows in the allotted time.

"That is a great thing to do," Sun Bird told White Otter, with apparent uneasiness.

White Otter made no reply. He was at the very end of the Minneconjoux line, and he began to realize that perhaps the final result might depend upon him. The thought startled him. He watched each contestant with intense interest. More than half of the warriors on each side had already made their attempts and the honors still rested with the Uncapapas.

Then a Minneconjoux shot ten arrows from his bow before the first one struck the ground. The feat threw the entire assemblage into a frenzy of excitement, friend and rival alike yelling approval of his skill. It seemed that victory was about to fall to the Minneconjoux, and Curly Horse and his warriors made no attempt to conceal their delight. Their hopes were rudely shattered, however, when an Uncapapa duplicated the remarkable achievement. Once again the score was tied. As only four remained to try for each side, it looked as if the all-day struggle between the tribes was doomed to end in a deadlock.

White Otter awaited his turn with feverish impatience. If the other contestants failed to better the score he believed that he might still win for the Minneconjoux, for on two occasions he had surpassed the score of the Uncapapa. Both times he had succeeded in having eleven arrows in the air at one time. However, the young Ogalala knew that such a record was not easily duplicated. The slightest mishap would ruin his chances. He dared not hope.

A few moments later an Uncapapa sent eleven arrows into the air in the specified interval of time. The people were now beside themselves with excitement. The Uncapapas were yelling and waving their robes in a delirium of joy, while the crestfallen Minneconjoux were calling upon all sorts of mysterious powers to save them from defeat. But three more contestants remained to try for victory, Sun Bird and White Otter on the Minneconjoux side, and one Uncapapa.

Sun Bird felt the responsibility that was resting upon him, but he knew that he was powerless to save his people from defeat. He had never done better than eight arrows in the air at once. He determined to make a supreme effort, however, and succeeded so well that he actually bettered his record and scored nine. The Minneconjoux accepted his gallant attempt with a murmur of approval, but their hearts were filled with gloom.

The remaining Uncapapa scored only six, but his people were well satisfied with his indifferent performance, as they were now sure of their victory.

Then White Otter prepared to make his attempt. He was the target for every eye in the great assemblage as he stepped out to make the final effort for the Minneconjoux. The young Ogalala appeared calm and confident, but his heart was beating furiously and his blood raced through his veins. He knew that to save the Minneconjoux from defeat he must duplicate his best performance, and under the circumstances the odds all seemed against him. For a moment he lost confidence. Then he heard a mocking laugh over among the Uncapapas, and it drove the hot fighting blood to his brain. His eyes flashed a challenge along the line of Uncapapa warriors, and he slowly drew twelve arrows from his quiver and held them in his left hand. There was something in his manner that commanded respect, and the Uncapapas began to ask one another his name. They saw that this cool young warrior intended to make a determined effort to steal their victory, and the idea caused them considerable uneasiness.

"My brother, if you do this thing my people will make you a great man," Sun Bird said, in a voice trembling with eagerness.

White Otter remained silent. He had tested his bow, and was ready to fit the first arrow. Then as an expectant hush settled upon the throng of tense spectators, the lad raised his face toward the sky and stood a few moments with closed eyes, while he asked the aid of the Great Mystery. When he had ended his simple appeal, he crouched and raised his bow in his left hand, while he tightened the bow-string until the point of the arrow was almost even with the weapon. He held it an instant, and then he sent it whizzing toward the sky. As it soared upward his agile hands worked with a speed that actually baffled the onlookers, and caused them to cry out in admiration of his skill. The humming arrows sped from his bow in such rapid succession that it was difficult to count them. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, Eleven -- TWELVE! soared into space before the first one returned to the ground. Then, flushed with the pride of victory, the young champion straightened and smiled triumphantly into the eyes of his friend.

Having turned what seemed like sure defeat into a glorious victory, White Otter found himself a hero among the Minneconjoux. Curly Horse was the first to greet him.

"My son, you have done a great thing," said the Minneconjoux chief. "You have filled the hearts of my people with the song of victory. It has been a great day, but you have done the best thing. Yes, we will have something to tell about when people come to our lodges."

Even the vanquished Uncapapas crowded eagerly forward to praise the young tribesman who had defeated them. The sting of their unexpected downfall was relieved by the pride they got from assuring themselves that none but a Dacotah could have performed such an exploit.

"My young brother, you have done the best of all. You are as quick as the panther, and as steady as the rock. You have done a good thing for our brothers, the Minneconjoux. But I will tell you that our hearts are glad about it. Yes, you are a Dacotah. It is enough. We will talk about you at the council fire," said the famous Uncapapa war chief.

Sun Bird kept his praise until they reached the seclusion of Rain Crow's lodge. Then he seized White Otter's hand and spoke with great feeling.

"My brother, you have done a great thing. You have heard many good words. What you have done makes me feel like a great chief. When I think about it my heart is very big. I cannot say any more. But you know how my heart is toward you," said Sun Bird.

"Yes, I have heard many good words," replied White Otter. "But I will tell you that the words of Sun Bird, my brother, are the sweetest to my ears."




Chapter IX

The Great Buffalo Drive


Early the following day the Sioux saw several of the scouts who had been sent to the ridges to watch for buffaloes racing wildly toward the Minneconjoux village. It was evident that they had news of great importance, and the people became much excited. Rain Crow was out on the plain continuing his mysterious ceremony to bring the buffaloes. As the riders passed they called to him, and he immediately rose and extended the sacred pipe toward the heavens. Then a joyous shout went up from the village, for the Minneconjoux knew that his appeal had been answered, the Great Mystery had listened to their prayers.

"The buffaloes have come! The buffaloes have come!" the scouts cried, eagerly, as they approached the lodges.

The cry was soon ringing through the camps, and all who heard it were thrown into wild transports of joy. Shouting and laughing, the delighted Sioux ran to make preparations for the great buffalo hunt, the most important event in their lives. The boys were sent to bring in the ponies, while the warriors hurried to the lodges to collect their weapons and decorate themselves for the occasion. The women were as busy as the men, for their task was to follow after the hunters to cut up and pack in the meat. Even the aged veterans who were too old to participate hobbled about chuckling gleefully in anticipation of the feasts which were now assured. It was indeed a time of general rejoicing, and the villages were in a noisy uproar.

The buffaloes had been discovered feeding on a vast rolling plain to the south, and the scouts declared that it would be easy to circle around behind the ridges and surround the herd.

"My people, you have heard about this thing," said Curly Horse. "The Great Mystery has listened to our words. Yes, he has taken pity on us. He has sent the buffaloes. It is good. We will have plenty to eat. We will have plenty of hides for robes and moccasins. Now I will tell you what to do. You must get your best ponies, and go out there and kill some meat. I have finished."

Soon afterward the Minneconjoux and the Uncapapas united in a great hunting party which included every active warrior in both tribes. It was a noble assemblage. As the great host of warriors galloped away the very earth seemed to tremble beneath the thundering hoofs of their ponies. Only the old men and the women and children were left behind. They stood together at the edge of the camps watching the imposing cavalcade until it finally passed from sight over a swell of the plain, and left a great yellow cloud of dust to roll back toward the deserted villages.

Curly Horse and Laughing Bird rode together at the head of the warriors. Far in advance of them, however, was a company of picked scouts whose duty was to locate the buffaloes and reconnoiter the country over which the hunters would advance to surround the herd. On either flank of the hunting party rode the Dog Soldiers, whose task was to maintain order and system. These warriors were men of courage and wisdom, whose sound judgment and impartial justice qualified them to act as the guardians of peace and discipline in their respective tribes. Their insignia of office was a raven skin which they usually wore attached to their belts. Their power was unquestioned, and at all times they commanded the respect and ready obedience of their comrades.

The Sioux cantered across the plain in high spirits. The return of the buffaloes assured them an abundance of meat for many days, and the thought filled them with enthusiasm. Light-hearted laughter, and snatches of song, made it evident that the stern Dacotah warrior had thrown off his reserve and softened his heart to enjoy the gentler excitement of the chase.

White Otter rode with Sun Bird and Little Raven. He was mounted on a fiery little buckskin which he had captured from the Kiowas. His two companions rode the splendid hunting ponies with which he had presented them when they visited the Ogalala village the year previous. All three lads were eager and excited, for the hunt promised plenty of thrills.

The sun was some distance past the meridian when the Sioux finally came in sight of the buffaloes. Then the chiefs and the Dog Soldiers immediately held a council, while the hunting party waited behind a low ridge. When the plan of attack had finally been decided upon, the force was divided into three companies. Curly Horse took command of one, Laughing Bird of another, and Rain Crow of the third. The latter was told to hold his warriors behind the ridge until the chiefs and their followers had advanced along both flanks of the herd. Then at the proper signal the three companies of hunters were to charge forward and surround the buffaloes.

The young Ogalala and his two friends remained with Rain Crow. In this party were some of the most famous Minneconjoux hunters. White Otter was particularly pleased when he saw Kicking Bull, the warrior of whom Sun Bird had told him so many wonderful things.

"It is good. I see that Kicking Bull is here," said White Otter.

"If you watch him you may see something to talk about," replied Sun Bird.

"Look, my brothers, something has happened!" cried Little Raven.

The scouts who had been looking over the crest of the ridge were gesticulating excitedly, and calling to the hunters. They said that the buffaloes had discovered Curly Horse and his warriors, and were already fleeing across the plain.

"That is bad. But come, my brothers, we must go after them," shouted Rain Crow, as he raced his pony to the top of the ridge, and the others urged their horses after him.

Then the hunt began. As Rain Crow and his companions swept over the ridge they saw the buffaloes thundering away in a stifling smother of dust, pursued on both flanks by long lines of whooping horsemen. The latter were riding furiously in an endeavor to get far enough ahead to turn the animals at the front of the herd.

"Come, we must ride fast!" cried White Otter, as he galloped away from his friends.

Sun Bird and Little Raven raced after him, with the other riders close behind them. Yelling excitedly, the Sioux urged their ponies to top speed, and for the moment the hunt became a mad break-neck scramble across the rocky plain. A false step on the part of a pony meant severe injury or death for itself and its rider, but the nimble little beasts kept their feet and soon overtook the clumsy animals ahead of them. Once within arrow-range, Rain Crow and his warriors began a furious attack upon the rear of the herd, while Curly Horse and Laughing Bird closed in on them from the sides.

White Otter soon found that his confidence in the pony which he had taken from the Kiowas was well placed. He had no difficulty in keeping up with the fastest animals in the company, and he believed that the buckskin had still greater speed in reserve. When the buffaloes were overtaken, the Kiowa pony quickly proved that it was familiar with every detail of the exciting sport. It seemed to know exactly which animal the rider wished to attack. Having maneuvered to a favorable position, it would run beside the doomed buffalo until the twang of the bow-string gave warning that the fatal arrow had sped to its mark; then the clever little beast would instantly swerve aside to avoid the death lunge of the animal it had helped to kill.

"That is a very fast pony," said Sun Bird.

"Yes, I believe it belonged to a great buffalo hunter," replied White Otter.

Then the warriors began to ride recklessly into the herd, and the three lads became separated. White Otter saw Kicking Bull, and immediately turned to follow him. The famous Minneconjoux hunter was talking to his pony and laughing with boyish glee as he drove his arrows into the helpless buffaloes. As each of his victims fell to the plain he dismounted beside it and recovered his arrow. Then he leaped upon his pony and raced after the retreating herd.

The Sioux had already killed many buffaloes, and the plain was dotted with carcasses. Some of the warriors had deserted the main hunt to run down the wounded animals that had been left behind in the wild stampede. At the same time the horsemen on both flanks, having failed in their efforts to turn the leaders, were breaking into the herd and killing as many animals as possible before the buffaloes ran too far from the camps.

Having followed Kicking Bull some distance into the herd, White Otter found himself in close quarters. The buffaloes had crowded so closely together that there was danger of the pony and its rider being crushed to death in the jam. It was not a new experience for the young Ogalala, however, for he had passed through a somewhat similar trial once before. Although he was fully alive to his peril, he had little fear. He believed that the Kiowa pony had learned to care for itself in just such an emergency. The thought gave him confidence, and he began to shoot his arrows at the animals behind him in the hope of opening an avenue of escape.

Then he saw Kicking Bull a short distance ahead of him. It was evident that the noted hunter was in a similar predicament, and White Otter watched anxiously to learn how he would extricate himself. He saw two huge bulls crowding the Minneconjoux pony between them, and it looked as if both horse and rider were doomed to instant destruction. For a moment or two the active little beast kept on its feet, and then it stumbled and disappeared beneath the great brown avalanche of frenzied buffaloes.

As the unfortunate pony went to its death, however, Kicking Bull grasped the coarse shaggy mane of the nearest bull, and succeeded in drawing himself upon its back. It was all done so quickly that White Otter could scarcely believe his eyes. However, when the daring hunter turned and shook his bow at him, the young Ogalala realized that what he saw actually had happened.

Having escaped death by the slightest margin, Kicking Bull was still in a desperate predicament. The great beast upon which he had taken temporary refuge was making frantic efforts to dislodge him, and he was in imminent danger of losing his grip and falling from its back. To make matters worse, the buffaloes on either side were crowding so closely that the bull was liable to stumble and share the fate of the missing pony.

In the meantime White Otter was making an heroic attempt to reach his tribesman. He realized that if he could ride his pony up beside Kicking Bull he might be able to carry him safely from the herd. He knew that it was a desperate undertaking which might end in bringing both of them to a sudden death, but he was willing to risk his life in the attempt. Strive as he might, however, he was unable to clear a way for his pony, and as he knew that it would be fatal to kill the buffaloes directly in front of him he saw little chance of rendering aid to the unfortunate Minneconjoux. His heart filled with dismay as he realized his utter helplessness to save the famous hunter whose daring career was about to come to a tragic end.

The buffaloes were crowding closer together each moment, and White Otter suddenly realized that unless he found a way to escape from the jam he, too, was sure to suffer a similar fate. He again turned his attention to the animals behind him, and when he had opened a gap he slackened the speed of his pony, hoping that the buffaloes might run past him. It was an old trick of the Sioux hunters, and one which the young Ogalala had already used successfully. However, as he thought of abandoning the brave man who was still clinging to the back of the great bull, all his instincts rebelled. Although he knew that for the moment he was powerless to help him, still the loyal lad believed that the opportunity might present itself at any moment. Therefore, he determined to forfeit his own chance in the hope of saving his tribesman.

A few moments afterward the animals ahead of him separated, and White Otter forced his pony into the gap. At that instant Kicking Bull turned his head and saw that the courageous lad was attempting to help him. Fully aware of the peril, the gallant Minneconjoux waved his hand toward the rear of the herd, as a signal for White Otter to attempt to save himself by that avenue of escape. The latter shook his head, and made it plain that he was determined to remain where he was while there was a possibility of rendering aid.

Realizing that each moment of delay only lessened the chance of escape for both of them, White Otter again attempted to open a way to the Minneconjoux hunter. Laying vigorously about him with his heavy riding quirt he succeeded in crowding several more animals from his path, and advancing considerably closer to Kicking Bull. They were now sufficiently near to call to each other, and the Minneconjoux turned his head and addressed White Otter.

"I see what you are trying to do," he said. "You are very brave. You cannot do this thing. No, if you stay here you may be killed. Perhaps I will not come out of this. But I am not afraid. See how the buffaloes crowd against my legs. Pull back your pony, and keep your life. You are a young man. I have told you the best thing to do."

"I am a Dacotah," cried White Otter. "I have closed my ears to your words. I will stay here until something happens. Perhaps I will find a way to help you."

Roused by the possibility, White Otter redoubled his efforts, and crowded forward until he was on a line with Kicking Bull. There were a number of animals between them, however, and they were so close together that it was impossible to separate them. It looked, therefore, as if his gallant attempt at rescue had been made in vain. Instead of being able to save his tribesman, it began to look as though White Otter was doomed to share the same tragic fate. As he peered anxiously through the blinding smother of dust he saw that he was entirely closed in, and he had slight hope of opening a path through the closely packed ranks of panic-stricken beasts that imprisoned him.

Then he heard a warning shout from Kicking Bull. A moment later the daring Minneconjoux made known his intention of reaching him over the backs of the intervening buffaloes. For a moment White Otter was dazed by the very boldness of the plan. It seemed like the wild whim of a madman, and he wondered whether Kicking Bull had actually lost his senses. As soon as he had recovered from his astonishment, therefore, White Otter called out to warn his tribesman against attempting something which he felt sure would end in certain death.

"No, it is the only thing to do," declared Kicking Bull. "I will do this thing. Now I am getting ready. You must watch me. Then you will know how to save yourself from the buffaloes. Now I am going to start."

Before White Otter could offer further remonstrance, the Minneconjoux slung his weapons across his back and prepared to make the desperate attempt at escape. Seizing the long hair which covered the shoulders of the great bull, Kicking Bull rose to his knees. He balanced himself in that position a moment or two, while his flashing eyes studied the dusty backs of the buffaloes between him and White Otter. Then, having decided what to do, he rose to his feet, still clinging to the coarse mane of the infuriated beast beneath him. For an instant he hesitated, while he caught his balance. Then, as White Otter called a warning, the Minneconjoux relaxed his hold, and half straightened. The next instant he stepped lightly to the back of the next buffalo, steadied himself a moment, and then sprang to the one beyond, and then moved quickly from one to another until he dropped upon the animal beside White Otter. The marvelous exploit was performed so quickly, and so skillfully, that the astounded young Ogalala scarcely realized what had happened.

"Now you have seen something to tell about," laughed Kicking Bull, as he threw his arm about White Otter and drew himself upon the pony.

When White Otter realized that Kicking Bull had actually reached him he was overwhelmed with joy. He felt repaid for having risked his life, and he determined to make a desperate attempt to escape from the herd. The Kiowa pony seemed unmindful of its double burden, and despite the odds against it, the young Ogalala believed that it would eventually carry them to safety. The buffaloes had run a considerable distance since the beginning of the hunt, and most of the Sioux had already abandoned the chase and turned back to claim a share of the spoils. It seemed, therefore, that the panting beasts would soon slacken their pace, and White Otter believed the safest plan would be to continue with the herd until the tired buffaloes finally slowed down sufficiently to allow the pony to escape from their midst. Kicking Bull destroyed his hope, however, by warning him that not far ahead was a rocky stretch of plain which would cause sad havoc if the buffaloes attempted to race over it. He said that many of the awkward brutes would be sure to fall, and the pony would be powerless to save itself from sharing their fate.

Aware that every moment was precious, the Sioux immediately attempted to open a way of escape. While Kicking Bull drove his arrows into the buffaloes directly behind them, White Otter began an attack against those that were crowding from the sides. After a few minutes of vigorous fighting they finally opened up a small gap, and before the buffaloes could close it White Otter pulled the buckskin into the opening. Then they continued to attack the animals behind them, and at last they succeeded in turning them to either side. Once started, the gap continually widened until the little buckskin was soon dropping slowly back toward the rear of the herd, while the buffaloes galloped past on either flank. When they finally escaped, the two Sioux slid from the lathery pony, and looked searchingly into each other's eyes.

"You have done the bravest thing I ever saw," said White Otter. "Now I will have something to tell my people."

"Well, I am glad you saw it. But I will tell you that you are very fearless. You brought me out here. That was a great thing to do. I will tell the Minneconjoux about it," declared Kicking Bull.

The buffaloes had already disappeared over a swell of the plain, and the two Sioux again mounted the buckskin and rode slowly back to join their comrades. They found the course of the hunt marked with the bodies of dead buffaloes, and at each carcass were several hunters who were busy removing the pelt and cutting out the choicest meat. Farther back they found the women and some of the old men who had followed after the hunters with the pack horses. They were already loading the meat upon the ponies and the scene was one of bustling activity. White Otter found Sun Bird and Little Raven cutting up a fat yearling cow, and he stopped to help them.

The purple twilight shadows were already settling upon the plain when the great Sioux hunting party finally set out for the camps beside the stream. The warriors returned on tired, sweat-caked ponies, but the hearts of the riders were filled with joy. They rode along singing songs of thanks to the Great Mystery who had sent them an abundance of meat to nourish the old people and the children, and make the warriors bold and strong. Behind the hunters followed the women, leading the pack animals loaded with buffalo meat. There was a great quantity, and the Sioux attributed their success to the efforts of Rain Crow and the Buffalo Dancers, who they believed had gained the favor of the Great Mystery.

"You have been very brave; Kicking Bull has told me about it," said Sun Bird, as he and White Otter rode along together.

"Kicking Bull is a great man," replied White Otter, affectionately stroking the neck of the faithful little buckskin.




Chapter X

An Adventure Among The Peaks


Several days after the great buffalo drive, White Otter and his two friends set out to explore the gigantic snow-clad peaks which showed against the sky, a day's journey to the westward. Sun Bird and Little Raven had told the Ogalala many wonderful tales about a mysterious rocky cave, whose walls were decorated with all sorts of queer drawings representing animals and birds and reptiles. These fanciful stories had aroused White Otter's curiosity, and he was anxious to see this strange place, which Little Raven solemnly declared was the abode of all sorts of uncanny monsters.

"I have never seen it, but I have heard the old men tell about it," Little Raven said, very seriously. "Yes, old Spotted Face was there a long time ago. I have heard him talk about it. He says he met some funny little people way back there in the darkness. He did not see them, but he saw their eyes shine and heard them squeak like ground dogs. He says they told him if he came any nearer he would be killed. Then he ran out."

"Yes, what Little Raven says is true," agreed Sun Bird. "My people know about this place. Short Bear once went far inside. Then he heard a great noise, and he ran out. I have seen this place, but I have never gone in so far."

These superstitious tales made a deep impression upon White Otter. Like all his people, he had implicit faith in the weird stories which the old men told around the fires on winter nights, and he had no doubt that the queer hobgoblins of their imaginations really existed. It was part of his life and faith. To have doubted the existence of both those good and evil spirits which his people believed were constantly interfering in their daily affairs, would have made him an object of ridicule and distrust among his tribesmen. Therefore, having had his mind filled with these simple superstitions since early infancy, White Otter saw no reason to doubt the stories about the rocky den on the distant snow-capped peak.

The three lads left the village soon after sunrise, and made their way to the foothills. They followed the elk trails over the low ridges, and descended into a beautiful wooded valley that extended to the base of the great peaks they wished to reach. It was watered by the stream which flowed past the Minneconjoux village, and well timbered with aspen, birch and pine. This sheltered vale fairly teemed with game, and the Sioux found themselves in a veritable "Happy Hunting Ground." They saw many elk, the cows with long-legged spotted calves beside them, and the bulls with their short, knobby velvet-covered horns of early spring; deer bounded from the thickets; wild turkeys rose from beside the stream; antelope appeared in the open parks; beavers swam about the flooded meadows; song birds filled the balmy air with melody; and far above in the azure sky a great golden eagle, the war bird of their people, soared about on motionless wings.

The Sioux traveled slowly through this wonderful valley, and at the end of the day they camped in the timber at the base of the mountains. Just before dark White Otter killed a yearling black-tail deer, and they immediately made a fire and broiled some of the meat. Then, as the night closed in about them, they sat in the ruddy glow of the fire, talking about the great peaks among which they intended to venture on the following day. Sun Bird had explored their grim fastnesses many times, but White Otter was a lad of the open prairie, and had only reached the mountains on one other occasion, when he unexpectedly met Sun Bird. Little Raven had never been above the foothills and pine-clad ridges.

The night passed without incident, and shortly after daylight the lads picketed their ponies in an open park half-way up the steep wooded slope, and set out to explore the snow-topped peaks that towered above them. They followed a well-marked game trail up through the timber until they reached the desolate reaches of slide-rock. Then they climbed laboriously over the confused jumble of slabs and bowlders until they were halted by a great precipitous field of snow. Sun Bird said that the mysterious cave was above it, and the lads stopped and gazed thoughtfully at the rugged pinnacles of rock that rose from the treacherous white barrier like the warning fingers of some buried giant.

"Have you been up there?" White Otter asked Sun Bird.

"Yes, I have been there many times," replied Sun Bird.

"Then we will go," declared the Ogalala.

Sun Bird led the way, Little Raven followed, and White Otter brought up the rear. It was slow, difficult climbing, and to guard against accident Sun Bird continually tested the uncertain footing by thrusting his bow into the snow ahead of him. When they were half-way to the top they stopped to rest. As they stood gasping for breath they heard an ominous rumble above them, and looking up they saw a large bowlder bounding down the incline directly toward them. For an instant they seemed paralyzed with fear. Then Sun Bird called a warning, and moved carefully to one side. Little Raven and White Otter followed his example.

However, in his eagerness to escape from the bowlder, Little Raven threw caution to the winds, and promptly lost his footing. With a wild cry of alarm he sped down the steep descent, toward the rocks below. His dismayed companions realized that he would be dashed to death unless he checked his wild slide in time to save himself. They shouted instructions, but the terrified young Minneconjoux failed to hear them. Instinct, however, came to his aid, and, pressing with his feet and clutching with his fingers, he finally stopped himself two-thirds of the way down the slide. Then, waiting until he had regained some of his confidence, he again began the laborious climb. Warned and encouraged by his anxious comrades, he finally reached them without further mishap.

Once at the base of the massive granite peaks, the lads hurried on in the direction of the mysterious cave. As they were moving carefully along a narrow ledge, Sun Bird suddenly stopped and stooped to examine something which had attracted his attention. He saw by several indistinct marks on the rock, and several dislodged fragments of stone, that something had passed across the narrow trail ahead of him.

"My brothers, something has gone along here," he said, soberly.

The announcement instantly aroused the interest of his comrades. Having failed to discover a trail on the snow-field, they were at a loss to account for the evidence discovered by Sun Bird. As they stopped to study his find, they immediately began to think of the weird tales connected with the rocky den.

"We have seen no footprints. Perhaps we have found the trail of the mysterious people who live in the cave," suggested Little Raven.

"Well, perhaps it is so," replied Sun Bird. "But we will go on and find out about it."

They moved cautiously along the narrow ledge, and although they examined every foot of the rocky trail with great care they failed to discover any further clews. Then a sudden explanation flashed across White Otter's mind.

"My brothers, I have been thinking about that thing," he said. "I will tell you about it. Perhaps the great war bird made those marks. See, he is flying up there above us. I believe his lodge is near this place."

"Yes, that is true," replied Sun Bird. "But we have not seen the thing. What we see we know about. Perhaps you have told how it happened. I do not know about it."

"No, I do not believe it is that way," declared Little Raven. "I believe that some of the mysterious Thunder People went along there."

A few moments afterward they came to a wider shelf of rock, and Sun Bird stopped and pointed to a large cavern, which he declared was the mysterious cave. They stood and gazed upon it for some time, and then Sun Bird led them toward the entrance. When they reached it they found that it apparently extended some distance into the granite cap of the mountain. The smooth rock sides were decorated as described by Sun Bird. White Otter saw all sorts of queer emblems and crude imitations of animals, birds and reptiles. These mysterious picture-writings appeared to have been chiseled into the rough granite, and some of them were apparently very old, as they were dim and scarcely discernible. The lads examined them with eager interest, for they had little doubt that they had been made by the wonderful beings who were believed to dwell upon the bleak, inhospitable peaks of these great mountains. Sun Bird declared that his people had no knowledge of their origin, but he said that his father had often told him that he understood their meaning.

"Perhaps he will tell us about it," suggested White Otter.

"No, that would break his medicine," Sun Bird assured him. "It is bad to tell such things. My father is a great medicine-person. That is why he knows those things. But he will not talk about it."

After they had spent some time studying these baffling decorations, the lads advanced a little farther into the cavern. They moved very cautiously, peering expectantly ahead of them, and straining their ears to catch some of the strange noises which they had heard described. At first they were able to stand upright, but after going a short distance they found the dimensions of the cave shrinking, and they were compelled to crouch to avoid striking their heads on the rocky roof. Sun Bird said that he had never penetrated farther than that point, and he showed no inclination to continue.

"If we stay here and listen, perhaps we will hear something," he said, somewhat uneasily.

They squatted down close together, and waited in considerable suspense to hear some strange sound from the interior of the cave. Ahead of them all was dark, and still and mysterious. Behind them they still saw the light of day streaming in at the mouth of the cave, and weakening as it followed the rocky passageway until it faded to a dim, misty twilight at the spot where they had stopped. When they had waited some time without hearing anything, White Otter proposed that they should proceed to explore the black recesses beyond them.

"No, my heart tells me that it would be a bad thing to do," declared Sun Bird. "I have never gone beyond this place. Back there in that black place are the Evil People. Yes, I have heard my father tell about them. If you go back there, I believe something will happen to you."

"Well, now I know how you feel about this thing," said White Otter. "You must do as you find it in your heart. But, my brother, I must tell you that I am going back there. Yes, it is in my heart to do this thing. Perhaps if I hear something I will run out. But I am going to start in there. Perhaps I will meet those Evil People. I believe that this is a very mysterious place, but I am going to find out something. Now I am going ahead. My brother, Little Raven, how do you feel about this thing?"

"I believe that you are very brave, but it is a foolish thing to do," replied Little Raven. "You do not know about this place. I have heard some very brave warriors tell about it. If you go in there, I believe that you will surely come to harm. No, I will not go any farther."

"Well, my brothers, I must do what it is in my heart to do," declared White Otter, as he prepared to advance into the black depths of the cave.

Aware that it would be useless to attempt to dissuade him, Sun Bird and Little Raven remained silent. Their hearts filled with gloomy misgivings, however, as White Otter drew several arrows from his quiver, and crawled slowly forward into the dark, forbidding interior of the cavern. When he had disappeared from their sight they sat in glum silence, listening fearfully for some sound which might warn them of the fate of their comrade. When they heard nothing their fears increased, and Sun Bird called softly into the darkness. Then they waited in nervous suspense as the moments passed and their eager inquiry went unanswered. Tortured by a multitude of alarming possibilities, Sun Bird again sent an anxious inquiry into the black depths of the cavern. This time they received a short, indistinct reply. It assured them that for the moment their comrade was safe, and their hearts bounded with joy.

"White Otter is very brave to do this thing," declared Little Raven.

"Yes, he is very fearless, but it is a bad thing to do," replied Sun Bird. "Perhaps he will make the Evil People mad. Then they may bring trouble to our people."

In the meantime the young Ogalala was advancing cautiously into the unexplored depths of the cavern. As he continued he found that the cave shrunk greatly in height, while it lost little in width. Therefore, although he was compelled to crawl painfully along on his hands and knees, he still had plenty of room if he cared to turn around. White Otter found himself in a smother of darkness, which made it impossible to see a bow-length before him. As his eyes were of little avail, he depended upon his ears to warn him of peril. Keeping in mind the tales which he had heard from Sun Bird and Little Raven, he moved forward very slowly, stopping after every short advance to listen for the strange noises which he expected to hear at any moment.

Then from somewhere in the impenetrable blackness came a peculiar whimpering cry that sent a thrill through him, and made his heart beat wildly. After waiting some moments in trying suspense he again heard the uncanny sound, and located it some distance ahead of him. For some time White Otter was undecided just what to do. His first impulse was to turn about, and retreat from the weird place into which he had so rashly ventured. Then curiosity overcame fear, and he determined to at least have a look at these unknown demons that created such fear among the superstitious Minneconjoux. He recalled that whoever claimed to have ventured into the depths of the cave had escaped unhurt, and old Spotted Face even declared that he had actually seen the eyes of these mysterious creatures before he was warned to retreat from their stronghold. Therefore, White Otter believed that he, too, would be equally fortunate, and he decided to hold his ground and await further developments.

Convinced that whatever threatened him was still in front, White Otter peered anxiously forward into the darkness. The sounds had ceased, however, and he wondered whether he had been discovered. Fitting an arrow to his bow, he waited to be attacked. Then, as nothing came to disturb him, he became bolder. Determined to learn what had made the strange noise, he again crawled forward to investigate.

White Otter had not gone a bow-length when the same strange whimpering cry brought him to a stop. Then, as he listened to hear it repeated, another sound reached his ears. It was a low rumbling growl, and the young Ogalala immediately read defiance in the tone. At first he failed to recognize it, and all sorts of superstitious fears crowded into his mind. He wondered if he had actually invaded the home of some great Thunder Being. His confidence weakened at the thought, for he knew that the bravest warrior could not survive an encounter with one of those terrific monsters. Then he again heard the angry challenge, and at once it became familiar. A few moments later he saw two spots of greenish light shining in the darkness, and he realized that he was confronted by one of the great mountain cats. Once before he had fought a fierce encounter with one of these savage creatures, and he knew what to expect. However, he was greatly relieved to know that he was threatened by an adversary that was without magic power to turn aside his arrows, as the mysterious Thunder Beings were said to do.

Realizing that this fierce beast had its den somewhere in the back of the cavern, the young Ogalala believed that the strange noises had been made by the kittens of the great cat. He felt sure, therefore, that the latter would attack him with great fury, and he determined to kill it before it came sufficiently near to spring at him.

In the meantime the weird glowing eyes had disappeared, and White Otter wondered what had happened. He wondered whether the snarling brute had slunk farther back into the cave. Then a more alarming possibility entered his mind -- perhaps the great cat was attempting to slink past him to make an attack from the rear. He looked anxiously on both sides of him, but saw nothing. Then he heard the whimpering cries ahead of him. Holding his arrow ready for instant use, he peered expectantly forward into the blackness. In a few moments he caught a flash of the blazing eyes; they were considerably nearer. However, they disappeared before he could release his arrow. Long, anxious moments passed before he again saw the glowing signals. Then, as he aimed his arrow, a defiant, deep-throated growl warned him that the fearless creature was about to attack him. Aware that a moment's hesitation might prove fatal, White Otter released his bow-string and sent his arrow at the tempting target.

The next instant the cave echoed with the piercing scream of the dying lioness, and Sun Bird and Little Raven looked at each other in wild alarm. For an instant they hesitated, as a confused babel of sound came from the black interior of the cavern. Then, as they realized that something was happening to their comrade, they overcame their fears and determined to go to his aid.

"Something has happened to White Otter!" cried Sun Bird. "Perhaps he has met the Evil People. I am going in there to help him. If I do not come out, you must tell our people about it. Now I am going."

"Well, I am going with you," declared Little Raven. "I am afraid of those Evil People, but I will go in there to die with you. You are my brother; White Otter is my friend. It is enough."

The excited lads hurried back into the cave, calling nervously to White Otter. However, their frantic appeals were drowned by the fierce bedlam of sound ahead of them. Screams, snarls and choking sobs were echoed along the rocky passageway, and it really seemed that the mysterious black cavern was indeed the abode of all the demons with which the vivid imaginations of the Minneconjoux had peopled it. Still the loyal lads continued to advance. They had little doubt that they were going to some horrible death, but they were unwilling to save themselves by abandoning their friend.

Then the sounds ceased as suddenly as they had begun, and Sun Bird and Little Raven stopped in bewilderment. For a moment the unexpected stillness was even more alarming than the wild outburst that had preceded it. A sickening fear gripped their hearts. They believed that White Otter had met some terrible fate. As they lay one behind the other in the low black passageway, they felt that the last ray of hope had fled. They would not retreat, and yet they had little doubt that to continue meant death.

"We must go on," Sun Bird declared, resolutely.

"I will follow you, my brother," Little Raven said, quietly.

As they crawled slowly forward, Sun Bird again called the name of the Ogalala. The next instant he heard his friend's voice from the blackness directly ahead of him.

"Ho, my brother, you have come to see about this thing," cried White Otter. "Well, I will tell you that I have had a great fight, but I am alive. Yes, I will show you something."

"Have you met the Evil People?" Little Raven asked, excitedly.

"Ho, Little Raven, you are very brave to come in here. No, I have not seen those mysterious people. But I have killed a very fierce animal," replied White Otter.

When his companions crawled to him, he told them how he had killed the lioness. He said that the latter had destroyed her two kittens in her dying rage. As Sun Bird and Little Raven could not see the great beast in the impenetrable darkness, they crawled forward and passed their hands over the carcass. Then White Otter said that after killing the lioness he had crept forward to the den, which was in a rocky recess at the end of the cave. A short distance beyond the body of his victim he had found the mutilated bodies of the two kittens.

"Now we will pull this animal out of here," proposed the young Ogalala.

It took them a long time to drag the heavy body of the mountain lion to the mouth of the cave. Once outside, however, they each counted coup upon the carcass, and danced joyfully about the trophy. Then White Otter cut off the claws, and removed the coarse tawny pelt. He also cut out the heart, which he said they would eat at their fire, as old Yellow Horse, the Ogalala medicine-man, declared it would give the hunter the strength and courage of the great cat itself.

"Yes, it is true," declared Sun Bird. "I have heard my father say it is a good thing to do."

The day was far spent when the lads finally returned to the ponies. Realizing that they could not reach the Minneconjoux village until long after dark, they moved farther down the wooded slope, and camped at the spot where they had passed the previous night.

"I am thinking about that mysterious place up there," said Sun Bird, as they sat before their fire. "I have heard my people tell how the Evil People change themselves into animals. Perhaps that great mountain cat was one of those people."

"I believe it is true," Little Raven declared, impulsively. "White Otter, perhaps you have done a bad thing. Those people may find out that you have killed a great chief. Perhaps they will do something bad to our people."

"No, I do not feel that way," replied White Otter. "We cannot kill those people with our arrows. No, I am not afraid about that."




Chapter XI

A Call To War


Late the next day, as the lads came within sight of the Sioux camps, they were astonished to hear the ominous booming of the war drums. As they stopped to listen they heard the people singing and shouting, and it was evident that the camps were in a wild commotion.

"My ears tell me that our people are getting ready for war," said Sun Bird. "Perhaps our enemies, the Crows, are coming to fight us."

"Well, we will go and find out about it," proposed White Otter.

They galloped toward the Minneconjoux village at top speed. When they reached the camp they found the people in an uproar. Then White Otter saw High Eagle, a warrior from his own tribe, and his heart was immediately filled with grave misgivings.

"It is bad; something has happened to my people," he cried, as he dismounted and ran to question the Ogalala scout.

"My brother, our enemies, the Pawnees, have come to fight us," declared High Eagle. "They are on every side of the camp. It is a great war party. They are like the grass. When Wolf Robe saw so many warriors he said: 'High Eagle, when it is dark you must crawl away and go and ask the Minneconjoux to help us.' Well, I will tell you that I got away when it was dark. Now I have told this thing to the great chief, Curly Horse. He has told his warriors about it. See, they are ready to fight. Yes, the Uncapapas are dancing. Laughing Bird, their chief, has talked to them. They will go to fight the Pawnees."

"High Eagle, your words have filled my heart with clouds," declared White Otter. "Perhaps my grandfather has been killed. Perhaps the Pawnees have captured the village. Perhaps they have killed my grandmother. Do you know about it?"

"No, I do not know about it," replied the scout. "But I will tell you that I do not feel it in my heart. I did not see the fight, but I believe our people drove the Pawnees away."

Somewhat reassured by High Eagle's confidence, White Otter hurried away to tell Sun Bird what he had learned. The young Minneconjoux had already heard the story from his father, and White Otter found him preparing for the war trail.

"Yes, I know about this thing," said Sun Bird. "I will go with you to fight our enemies, the Pawnees."

"You are a brave warrior, and a true friend," White Otter declared with considerable emotion.

As the Ogalala left the lodge to find Curly Horse, he met Little Raven. He saw at once that the latter, too, was preparing to join the war party.

"My brother, I have heard the words of High Eagle," said Little Raven. "The Pawnees are our enemies. Yes, the great chief, Curly Horse, and his warriors are going to help their brothers, the brave Ogalalas. And I will tell you that I have heard the Uncapapas singing their war songs. Yes, those fearless warriors are going with my people. Now I will tell you that I am going with my brother, White Otter. I have finished."

"You are very brave, like your brother, Sun Bird," declared White Otter, as he clasped Little Raven's hand.

When White Otter reached the center of the village, a few moments later, he found a number of warriors already engaged in the war dance. The company was composed of both Minneconjoux and Uncapapas, and his heart filled with gratitude toward the brave men who were willing to risk their lives to help his people. It was a splendid exhibition of the loyalty that existed between the various tribes of the great Dacotah nation, and it made White Otter thrill with pride. He saw High Eagle participating in the ceremony, and, as he heard the dancers calling him, he hastened to join them.

The dance was stopped, soon afterward, by the appearance of Curly Horse and Laughing Bird, accompanied by the most prominent men in both tribes. These famous warriors had been sitting in council to decide the best way to deal with the unexpected emergency, and the people were anxious to learn their verdict. Therefore, as they advanced slowly from the council-lodge, and took their places inside the circle of warriors, a sudden hush fell upon the camp. The drums were stilled, the songs ceased, the dancers stood quietly in their places, and the vast assemblage waited silently to hear the decision of the great war chiefs. In a few moments Curly Horse began to talk.

"People of the great Dacotah nation, you know what has happened," he said. "Our brothers, the brave Ogalalas, have asked us to help them. There is only one thing to do -- we must go. But I will tell you that we must think about another thing. Our enemies, the Crows, are somewhere about. We must not leave our women and children behind us. We cannot take them on the war trail. Well, I will tell you how we must do this thing. I will lead half of the warriors to help our brothers, the Ogalalas. Rain Crow will stay behind with the other half of the warriors to guard the camp. It is the best thing to do. I have finished."

The plan of the Minneconjoux war chief met with the instant approval of his people, although the warriors immediately began to debate about who should go to fight and who should remain behind to guard the camp. As all of them were eager to meet the Pawnees, the selection of the war party threatened to be a serious problem. While they were discussing it, however, Laughing Bird began to speak, and the argument was temporarily halted.

"Men of the Uncapapas, you have heard the words of the great chief, Curly Horse," said Laughing Bird. "He has told you the best way to do this thing. Now I will ask you to listen to my words. The Minneconjoux are our brothers. They are going to fight the Pawnees. The Ogalalas are our brothers. They have asked us to help them. We are Dacotahs. Does a Dacotah stay back when his brothers go to war? No, we will go to help these brave men. I will lead our people to fight the Pawnees. But I will tell you that we must follow the advice of Curly Horse. Yes, we must leave some warriors here to guard the camp. I will tell you how to do this thing. First, I will ask Two Dogs to stay here. Yes, he will be the leader. Now I will call out the name of a warrior. That man will go with me to fight the Pawnees. Then Two Dogs will call out the name of a warrior. That man will stay here with him to guard the camp. Then we will keep calling out until every one is taken. It is the only way to do. I have finished."

Thus the diplomatic Uncapapa chief quickly settled the dispute over the selection of the war parties. His plan offered no chance for argument. Everyone saw at once that it was the wisest and fairest way of arranging the matter, and there was no further discussion. The Minneconjoux accepted it as willingly as the Uncapapas, and the four leaders immediately began to select their men. It was a time of intense excitement, as the people of both camps crowded eagerly around the rival bidders to learn the names of the men they had chosen. The warriors listened with breathless interest, each hoping that he might be sufficiently fortunate to be enrolled in the war party. The men who won the honor immediately withdrew from the throng, and rushed away to get their favorite ponies, and array themselves for the war trail. Among these lucky ones were White Otter, Sun Bird and Little Raven. As each tribe contained a great host of fighting men, the day had ended and the evening shadows were already settling upon the plain when the last warrior was called.

Then several great fires were started in each camp, and the warriors whom fate had forced to remain behind attempted to overcome their disappointment with the strenuous exertions of the war dance. While they were thus employed their more fortunate comrades appeared in full war regalia. They looked like weird demons from another world, as they led their decorated ponies into the light, for they had blackened their faces with charcoal, and streaked and spotted their bodies with red and yellow clay. Their scalp-locks were ornamented with the feathers of the eagle, and some of the more famous warriors wore splendid war bonnets of those coveted plumes, whose trailing streamers touched the ground behind them. Each member of the war party carried his favorite weapons, his buffalo-hide war shield and his robe.

When the two forces had finally assembled, they united before the Uncapapa camp. Then, as the Minneconjoux were somewhat stronger in numbers, Curly Horse was chosen as the leader of the entire force. It was an honor for even one as famous as he, for the combined company numbered hundreds of warriors, each one a veteran of the war trail. They were men accustomed to hardship and indifferent to peril; men for whom death had no terrors. Their stern faces, and bold, defiant eyes proclaimed their fearlessness. As crafty and cautious as the fox, they possessed the unconquerable courage of the bear. Once aroused, they would fight to the death. Willing to sacrifice their lives for their friends, they were unforgiving and merciless to their foes. These were the men whom Curly Horse was leading to the rescue of Wolf Robe and his people.

"Dacotahs, I will only give you a few words," cried the Minneconjoux chief, as the war party was about to ride away. "You see many brave warriors. Some are Minneconjoux. Some are Uncapapas. But we all are Dacotahs. You see the great war chief, Laughing Bird. He is a great man. Well, you know what we are going to do. Perhaps some of these brave men will not come back. But you must not think about that. Now I will tell you that many brave men have been left here. It is good. Our hearts will be easy. Yes, we will know that the Crows will be afraid to try to get into the camp. But if those people come, then Rain Crow must send a rider to tell us about it. Then we will send some of these fearless men back to help you. I see two great leaders staying here with you. Rain Crow is a brave man. Two Dogs is a great Uncapapa leader. Now we are going away. Yes, I hear the calls of my brothers, the Ogalalas. Come, my brothers, we will go to help those brave people drive away the Pawnees."

Then the great host of fighting men raised their voices in the thrilling battlecry of their nation, and thundered away into the night. As they raced across the plain, their shouts were echoed from the camps, where their comrades were dancing, and singing the war songs, to bring success to the expedition. Once beyond hearing of the camps, however, the Sioux slackened their pace, for they had several days' journey before them, and they were anxious to save their ponies. Most of the warriors were provided with two animals, a good horse for ordinary riding, and a fiery war pony for use in battle. After the first flurry of excitement had passed, Curly Horse called White Otter and High Eagle to ride beside him.

"My brothers, you are Ogalalas. You know about this country. I will ask you to go ahead, and see what you can find. If you want anyone to go with you, tell me about it. You must keep in sight of us. If you see the Wolf people, you must ride back here and tell us about it. Now you know what to do," said the Minneconjoux.

"I have listened to the words of Curly Horse; they are good," replied White Otter. "We will do as you say. Now I will tell you that I will ask my brother, Sun Bird, and my brother, Little Raven, to go ahead with me."

"It is good," said Curly Horse.

Then White Otter turned back to find his friends. They were riding some distance in the rear.

"Come, my brothers, we are going ahead to watch out for our enemies," White Otter told Sun Bird. "The great chief, Curly Horse, has told me to do this thing. I will ask you to go with me. High Eagle will go with us."

"My brother, we will go with you," replied Sun Bird.

"Yes, we will keep together," declared Little Raven.

Then the four scouts urged their ponies to a faster pace, and made their way to the front of the cavalcade. They stopped a few moments to talk with Curly Horse and Laughing Bird, and then they galloped away and disappeared into the night.




Chapter XII

A Night Of Uncertainty


Hollow Bear and Little Wolf were a half day's journey south of the Ogalala camp, looking for buffaloes, when they suddenly discovered a heavy dust-cloud rising above a low ridge to the east of them. It suggested a number of alarming possibilities, and the Sioux determined to take every precaution. Riding hurriedly into a nearby ravine, they muzzled the ponies with buckskin, and then crawled cautiously to the top of the steep embankment to watch.

"It is bad," said Hollow Bear. "If that dust is raised by buffaloes, then they are running hard. Perhaps the Kiowas or the Pawnees are chasing them. We must be very cautious."

"Well, perhaps what you say is true," replied Little Wolf. "But I must tell you that I believe it is different. I believe that dust is raised by the hoofs of many ponies."

They watched anxiously, hoping each moment to learn the answer to the riddle. Nothing appeared on the summit of the ridge, however, and as they noticed that whatever caused the dust was moving directly north, in the direction of the Ogalala village, their fears increased. They wondered if it were a hostile war party. The thought roused them to action. They knew that if the fear proved true there would not be a moment to spare. The slightest delay might bring disaster to their people. Therefore, they determined to leave their hiding place, and ride boldly to the ridge to reconnoiter.

"Come, perhaps our people are in danger; we must know about this thing," declared Hollow Bear, as he descended into the ravine for his pony.

They mounted and rode boldly out upon the plain. They knew that they were placing themselves in great peril, but concern for their people made them daring. However, the possibility that keen-eyed scouts were lying concealed on the crest of the ridge made them watchful and wary. As they neared the perilous swell of ground that concealed what they wished to see, they slackened their pace and approached with great caution. Then, before they finally ventured within arrow-range, they stopped and searched the ridge for evidence of hidden foes. They saw nothing to rouse their suspicions. Therefore, they determined to investigate. Aware that it would be folly for both to expose themselves, Little Wolf dismounted and hurried to the base of the ridge, while Hollow Bear remained a short distance away with the ponies.

Little Wolf crawled quickly up the grassy slope, and peered cautiously over the crest of the ridge. What he saw sent his heart into his throat. A great company of horsemen were cantering rapidly across the plain, in the direction of the distant Ogalala village. The scout instantly recognized them as Pawnees, and his sharp eyes soon told him that it was a war party. He had little doubt that these hated foes were on their way to attack the Sioux camp. The thought enraged him. For a moment he glared defiantly at the long line of distant horsemen, and his heart burned with a desire to fight. Then he realized that he had no time to waste on such futile thoughts. He knew that his first duty was to carry a warning to his people. The day was not yet half gone, and he felt sure that the Pawnees would make their attack against the Ogalala village that very night. Realizing that he must act at once, he withdrew behind the ridge and hurried down the slope.

"That dust is raised by many ponies," Little Wolf told his companion. "There is a great war party of Pawnees over there. I believe that they are going to fight our people. Come, my brother, we must go and tell Wolf Robe about it."

"Yes, we will go," agreed Hollow Bear. "But first I must go up there, and see this thing."

Hollow Bear left his pony with Little Wolf, and hurried to the top of the ridge. He watched only a few moments, however, and then he ran down to join his tribesmen. Little Wolf saw at once that he was greatly excited, and he wondered what he had seen.

"Come, we must go fast!" cried Hollow Bear. "Two riders are galloping toward this place."

"Well, we will hide here, and kill them," proposed Little Wolf, as the fierce glow of hate showed in his eyes.

"No, that would be a bad thing to do," declared Hollow Bear. "If the Pawnees know that we are here, then we will not get away. Come, we will ride over there and hide in that gully until those scouts go away. Then we will go and tell our people about this thing. My brother, it is the best way to do."

"Yes, I believe it is true," agreed Little Wolf.

They leaped upon their ponies, and raced toward the ravine. Once they reached it, they again muzzled the panting beasts, and crept to the top of the embankment to watch the ridge. For some time they saw nothing, and they began to wonder whether the Pawnee scouts had changed their plans. Then Hollow Bear thought he saw something appear for an instant above the summit of the ridge.

"I believe someone is looking over that place," he told Little Wolf.

A few moments afterward they saw the suspicion verified, as a small black dot appeared against the sky. They knew at once that it was the head of a warrior. It remained in sight some time, and it was evident that the cautious scout was carefully reconnoitering the plain. Then he disappeared, and the Sioux wondered whether he had actually gone.

"We must be very cautious," declared Hollow Bear. "The Pawnees are as sharp as the wolf."

"Yes, we will stay here and watch until we know about this thing," replied Little Wolf.

As they waited, however, they saw the disturbing clouds of dust continually rising farther to the north, and they became uneasy and impatient. The thought of the hostile war party drawing nearer to the Ogalalas each moment, while they lingered in concealment, drove them into a frenzy. They looked anxiously toward the ridge, and wondered whether the Pawnee scout was still watching. At last they determined to run the risk rather than lose more time.

"Come, we will ride away," proposed Hollow Bear. "We are far enough from that ridge, and our ponies are fast. We will get away."

"My brother, I believe it is the best thing to do," agreed Little Wolf.

They waited a moment longer to search the crest of the ridge with eager, straining eyes. Then, as they saw nothing of the scout, they mounted their ponies and rode from the ravine. Once on the open plain they turned toward the west, and rode away at a furious gallop. They glanced backward many times, but saw nothing to arouse their suspicions. When they finally rode over a rise of the plain, and passed from sight of the distant ridge, they felt somewhat easier.

"Now we must look back and see if anyone is following us," said Hollow Bear as he stopped his pony.

Little Wolf dismounted and crawled cautiously to the top of the slope behind them. He remained there some time, watching their back-trail. Then he hurried down to his companion.

"My eyes tell me nothing," he said.

"It is good," replied Hollow Bear. "Come, now we will ride toward our people."

Having made the wide detour toward the west to deceive anyone who might have been watching, the crafty Sioux now turned toward the north. They forced the ponies to a desperate pace, for they realized that they must reach the Ogalala camp without a moment of unnecessary delay. They had not gone far, however, when they saw what looked like the heads of several prairie wolves, above a rise of ground to the west. There was something about them that instantly roused the suspicions of the Ogalalas. They felt sure that the "wolves" were disguised scouts.

"It is bad," cried Hollow Bear. "Those things are not wolves. No, they are Pawnee scouts. We have been discovered. We must keep watching that place. I believe there is another big war party over there."

"Yes, I believe it is so," declared Little Wolf. "Those people are watching for their brothers. I believe that all the Pawnees are coming to fight our people. They will come up on both sides of the village. See, those scouts have gone away. I believe that they have gone to tell their people about us."

"Well, there is one over there," replied Hollow Bear. "See, he is looking over that rock."

"Your eyes are like the eyes of the great war bird," said Little Wolf. "Now I see him. Yes, he is watching us."

The Sioux were much depressed by what they had seen. It was evident that a vast force of Pawnees were approaching the Ogalala village. The two scouts felt sure that their people would be greatly outnumbered, and as the Ogalala camp contained many women and children, besides the aged, they dared not think what would happen if the pitiless Pawnees once forced their way into the village. They realized that they must reach the village far enough ahead of their foes to give Wolf Robe and his warriors time to prepare for the attack. Roused by the thought, they urged their ponies to the limit of endurance. Then, as they glanced uneasily over their shoulders, they saw a small company of horsemen watching them from the ridge to the westward.

"We are too far away; they will not ride after us," declared Hollow Bear.

"Perhaps they do not know that we are Dacotahs," suggested Little Wolf.

"They cannot see our faces, but they will say: 'See, those riders go very fast. They are running toward the camp of our enemies, the Sioux. They are scouts. If they were Kiowas they would go the other way. If they were Black-feet they would ride over this way to go around their enemies, the Sioux. The Crows do not come down so far. No, they are Sioux.' Yes, that is how the Pawnees will know about us," declared Hollow Bear with conviction.

"You are as wise as the fox," said Little Wolf.

As they looked back they saw several horsemen galloping wildly across the plain toward the east. For a moment the unexpected maneuver baffled them, and then they suddenly realized the object of it.

"Now I know about it," declared Little Wolf. "Those riders are scouts. They are going over there to look for their brothers. They will tell them about us. It is good. Perhaps the war leaders will come together to talk about it. Then our people will have time to do something."

"I believe you have told the thing as it is," agreed Hollow Bear.

The western sky was ablaze with the glories of the sunset as they finally came in sight of the Ogalala camp. It was still some distance away, however, and the eager scouts lashed their ponies without mercy as they raced across the plain to warn their people. They believed that the Pawnees were following swiftly on their trail, with the hope of attacking the Sioux before they had an opportunity to prepare themselves.

The great Ogalala camp was the scene of peaceful tranquillity. The herds of unprotected ponies grazing on the plain, the smoke rising lazily above the lodges, the absence of sentinels from the ridges, all these things proclaimed the fancied security of the unsuspecting Ogalalas. The excited scouts groaned as they realized it. As they neared the lodges they began to shout at the top of their voices, and in a few moments the people rushed to the edge of the camp. Hollow Bear and Little Wolf pointed excitedly toward the south, and then toward the herds of ponies, at the same time sounding the piercing war cry of the Dacotahs.

"The Pawnees are coming! Drive in the ponies. Get ready to fight!" they cried when they came within shouting distance.

The warning instantly caused a commotion in the village. The warriors rushed for their weapons, the women dragged the frightened children to the lodges, and a company of boys ran out on the plain to drive in the horses. The war ponies, as usual, were picketed in the camp. Then, when the riders dashed into the village and told their story, a number of scouts leaped upon their ponies and raced away to watch for the Pawnees.

A few moments afterward Wolf Robe, the Ogalala war chief, called his warriors together in council. He realized at once that the situation was serious, and he was troubled and fearful of the outcome. The presence of the women and children filled his heart with gloomy misgivings, for he saw no way of getting them away. Ordinarily they would have been sent to the hills under a strong escort of warriors, but in the present emergency he knew that such an attempt would be almost sure to end disastrously. The nearest foothills were far away to the west, in the country of the Minneconjoux, and the experienced old chief realized that the first maneuver of his foes would be to surround the Ogalala camp. But even if the women and children were taken from the village before the way was barred, Wolf Robe knew that it would be folly to send them across the open plain under as feeble an escort as he could spare for their protection. Hollow Bear and Little Wolf both assured him that there were at least four Pawnees for every Ogalala, and Wolf Robe believed that in the face of such overwhelming odds the village itself would be the best safeguard for his people. Protected somewhat by the lodges, he believed that they might hold off their foes until help could arrive. Therefore, he determined to keep the women and children in the camp, at least until he learned the actual strength and disposition of the Pawnee forces.

"My brothers, you have heard about this thing," he told the warriors. "Our enemies, the Pawnees, are coming to fight us. But the sharp eyes of our scouts found them. It is good. Now we know about it. We are ready to fight. But our women and children are in this camp. We cannot get them out. No, the Pawnees are all around us. There are many warriors. We must keep them out of the village. Perhaps it will be a hard thing to do. I will ask you to be men. When it is dark I will send a scout to our brothers, the brave Minneconjoux. They will come here to help us. White Otter will come. I believe the Pawnees are doing this thing because White Otter brought the Red Arrow from their medicine-lodge. Now it is in the lodge of Yellow Horse. Now the Pawnees will try to take it away again. Well, we are Dacotahs. I will ask you to make your hearts brave against these boastful Wolf People. You have heard the words of Wolf Robe."

The Ogalalas received the speech with enthusiasm. All of the warriors were eager to fight, and, although they knew that they were greatly outnumbered, there was not one among them who had any doubt of their ability to keep the Pawnees from entering the village. Having endorsed the words of their chief, therefore, they were now ready to obey his commands.

Wolf Robe immediately made preparations for the battle. The ponies were driven in from the plain and picketed in the center of the village; the women and children were sent to the inside lodges; and the warriors took their places along the edge of the camp. Then the stern old war chief waited impatiently for word from his scouts. Darkness was already settling upon the plain when several riders returned to the village to report. They said that the Pawnees were divided into three great war parties, each composed of more warriors than were in the Ogalala camp. The scouts declared that the enemy had halted some distance out on the plain, but they warned Wolf Robe that the camp was entirely surrounded. They said that they had little doubt that Pawnee scouts were already creeping forward to reconnoiter the village.

"Then we must watch," replied the Ogalala war chief.

After the scouts had ridden away, Wolf Robe hurried around the edge of the camp, telling his warriors what he had learned. He warned them against the Pawnee scouts, and urged them to be as watchful as the fox. Then he stopped beside High Eagle, one of the most famous warriors of the tribe.

"My brother, there are a great many Pawnees out there," said Wolf Robe. "Our women and children are in the lodges. They cannot get away. The village is surrounded by the Wolf People. Perhaps there will be too many against us. I am troubled in my heart. You have done many great things. You are very brave. Now I will ask you to risk your life."

"My ears are open -- I am waiting for your words," replied High Eagle, as the old chief hesitated.

"Well, I will ask you to take your best pony, and go to tell our brothers, the brave Minneconjoux, about this thing. Perhaps you will be killed. But if you get away you will do a great thing," declared Wolf Robe.

"I will go," said High Eagle. "If I get away I will give the call of the prairie wolf. But if you do not hear it, then you will know that I have been killed. Then you must send another scout to do this thing. Now I am going."

"You are a great warrior," declared Wolf Robe.

A few moments afterward High Eagle led his muzzled pony from the village and disappeared into the night. The people waited anxiously. It was a long time before they finally heard the dismal call of the prairie wolf, far away toward the west. Then their hearts filled with joy, and they began to shout and sing their war songs.

"It is good. High Eagle has crept past the Pawnees. Now he will bring our brothers, the Minneconjoux, to help us," declared Wolf Robe.

Then the bark of the little gray fox sounded close to the edge of the camp, and the Ogalalas knew that one of the scouts was returning. When the signal had been repeated the proper number of times, it was answered from the village. A few moments afterward Crooked Dog rode into the camp. He said that the Pawnees to the south of the village were advancing. While he was talking another signal sounded through the darkness and a scout rode in from the west. He, too, declared that the war party on that side of the camp was moving forward. Then the other scouts returned and gave warning that their foes were closing in on all sides of the village.

"My brothers, the Pawnees are coming to fight us!" cried Wolf Robe. "You must watch with the eyes of a fox; you must fight with the heart of a bear. Do not run out to meet them. No, that would be foolish. Keep close together, near the lodges. Then the Pawnees cannot get into the camp. Listen! I hear the great war cry of the Dacotahs. Yes, it is what I am listening for. We must drive off these boastful people until our brothers come here to help us. Then we will run out and chase the Wolf People back to their lodges. Dacotahs, I will ask you to fight like men. Now I am taking my weapons. I am going to the edge of the camp to kill many Pawnees. I have told you what to do."

Roused by the fearlessness of their aged chief, the Ogalala fighting men raised their voices in a mighty shout of defiance that rang out across the somber black plain, and carried an ominous warning to the ears of the advancing Pawnees. Then, having sent their challenge, they subsided into grim, silent watchfulness. Crouching close beside one another at the edge of the camp, they peered anxiously into the night, straining their ears to catch the first warning of their crafty foes.

For some time the stillness was unbroken, and the Sioux waited in trying suspense. Then the cry of the great gray wolf sounded a short distance to the west of the camp. The Dacotahs knew at once that it was a signal, and they believed the attack was about to begin. A few moments later a similar signal sounded from the south. The eyes of the Sioux flashed angrily as they listened. Then a third call came from the east.

"The Wolf People are all around us," said Wolf Robe. "When the next call sounds above the camp, then they will rush ahead and the fight will begin."

It was evident, however, that the company of warriors who were to attack the Ogalala village from the north had been longer in reaching their position, for as yet no signal had come from that direction. While the Sioux waited expectantly for the final signal another cry sounded from the west. It was apparent that the Pawnees were impatient at the tardiness of their comrades. Again an answer came from the east, and, a few moments afterward, another from the south. The north was still silent.

"I do not know about that thing," Wolf Robe told Yellow Horse, the medicine-man.

Before the latter could reply, however, the weird, long-drawn-out howl of the timber wolf rose in the north. Every Dacotah's heart bounded at the sound. They knew that the circle had been completed, the last gap had been closed, the camp was surrounded. The thought steadied the warriors for the fight. They realized that upon them depended the fate of their women and children, and they told one another that they must fight to the death to keep the Pawnees from the village. Then they waited calmly for their foes to appear.

It was not long before a piercing yell sounded to the west of the village, and a moment afterward it was echoed on all sides of the camp. Then the great horde of frenzied Pawnees charged. Instantly all was confusion. The shouts and whoops of the warriors, the hysterical screams of the terrorized women and children, the barking of the dogs, the neighing of the frightened ponies were combined in one deafening uproar that turned the besieged camp into a bedlam. Darkness added to the disorder. In spite of the tumult, however, the fearless men at the edge of the village continued calm and undismayed. They faced the furious assault without a tremor, and fought with a sullen ferocity that bewildered their foes.

Once within arrow-range of the Ogalala camp, the Pawnees thronged out of the night like a great swarm of angry bees. Realizing the importance of making their first onslaught successful, they risked themselves with foolhardy recklessness, and charged to the very border of the village. Then they found themselves face to face with a foe as determined as they, and a terrific hand to hand conflict ensued. In spite of their superior numbers, however, the Pawnees were unable to gain a foothold in the camp. The Sioux held their ground with a dogged stubbornness that frustrated all attempts to break through them. Partly sheltered by the lodges, they inflicted severe punishment upon their enemies, with slight loss to themselves. The Pawnees were quick to realize that the fight was going against them. The idea roused them to a frenzy of rage, and they fought like demons. Again and again they strove to break through the impenetrable circle of grim Dacotah warriors, and each time they were hurled back with heavy losses. Here and there a hostile warrior did succeed in gaining a temporary foothold at the edge of the camp, but in every case he forfeited his life to his valor. Aware that their efforts were proving futile, the Pawnees finally became demoralized, and withdrew in confusion. As they retreated into the night, their ears rang with taunts and challenges of the triumphant Ogalalas.

When the Pawnees had gone from hearing, the Sioux took account of their losses. A number of warriors had been killed, and many more had been wounded. As the names of the dead were called out great wailing and lamenting began among the women. The more desperately wounded were carried to the center of the camp, and their places were filled by the older boys, who were delighted at the opportunity to participate in the fight.

The Sioux realized that they were in a desperate plight. They had little doubt that the Pawnees would renew the attack at dawn, and the thought suggested all sorts of alarming possibilities. In spite of their temporary success, therefore, the Ogalalas were depressed and doubtful.

"My brothers, you have made a great fight," cried Wolf Robe, as he walked along the edge of the camp. "We have kept the Wolf People out of the camp. They have carried away many dead warriors. But I must tell you that they will come again. When the light comes over there in the sky then you must watch like the fox. We must keep them off. Our brothers, the brave Minneconjoux, will come to help us. We must keep alive until they get here. It will be a hard thing to do. Perhaps it will be a long time. But I will ask you to make your hearts strong to do this thing. I have finished."




Chapter XIII

Racing To The Rescue


As White Otter and his companions raced through the night in advance of the war party, the troubled young Ogalala turned his eyes to the vast, star-lit heavens, and asked the Great Mystery to help his people. His mind was filled with all sorts of vague fears for the safety of the Ogalala camp, and he regretted that he was not there to share the peril with its gallant defenders. Then he suddenly realized that he might be able to render still greater aid in his present position, and he sought to comfort himself with the thought.

"My brother, I see that you feel bad in your heart," Sun Bird said soothingly.

"It is true; my heart is filled with clouds," replied White Otter. "I am thinking about my grandfather, the great chief Wolf Robe. I am thinking about my grandmother, the good Singing Wind. I am thinking about my friends. High Eagle has told me something bad. The Pawnees are on every side of the village. They are like the grass. It is bad. The Ogalalas are very brave, but many wolves can kill a bear. I do not know what has happened. Two suns have passed since High Eagle left that camp. We are riding fast, but another sun will pass before we come near that place. Perhaps my people have been wiped away. My brothers, I am thinking about these things. Yes, I feel bad in my heart."

White Otter's gloomy words were received in silence. His companions found nothing to say in reply. High Eagle felt quite as hopeless as his tribesman, and Sun Bird and Little Raven dared not fill the Ogalala's heart with false hopes. The four anxious scouts galloped along in silence, therefore, each hoping that his fears for the Ogalala camp would prove groundless. They rode thus until the first gray hint of daylight showed in the eastern sky, and then White Otter seemed to rally from his gloom.

"See, my brothers, the Great Mystery is wiping away the darkness," he said eagerly. "Pretty soon it will be gone. Then the sun will come. That makes me feel good again. Yes, I will wipe the clouds from my heart. I will be a warrior. See how the Great Mystery does this thing. I am thinking about it. When the darkness is gone, then everything is good. The birds sing. Yes, my brothers, it is a great thing to do. Well, I will wipe the darkness out of my heart. Then the sun will come there. It is good. I will sing my war songs. Yes, I will be strong to help my people. Ho, my brothers, we are Dacotahs! It is enough."

This unexpected display of cheerfulness had an instant effect upon his comrades. Stimulated by his fortitude, they, too, roused themselves from their depression and became light-hearted and hopeful. The dawn of a new day restored their confidence.

"White Otter, you have spoken brave words," said High Eagle. "Now I feel different in my heart. I believe our people will keep the Pawnees out of the camp. Pretty soon this great war party will come to that place. Then the Wolf People will run like rabbits."

As the light strengthened they saw that they had left the war party far behind, and they realized that they had ridden desperately. However, except for their rapid breathing and lathery sides, the wiry little ponies showed no effects of the strenuous pace, and their riders felt greatly relieved. They rode to the summit of a rocky knoll and dismounted to watch the plain.

It was not long before they saw the dust from the war party rising some distance away to the west. Shortly afterward the foremost riders galloped into view. They immediately discovered the four scouts and stopped to study them. Then Sun Bird mounted his pony and rode rapidly in a circle. Assured by the maneuver, the great company of Sioux warriors thundered across the plain to join their tribesmen.

When Curly Horse and Laughing Bird learned that the scouts had seen nothing to arouse suspicion, they led the war party to a distant grove of aspens, which High Eagle said marked a water-hole. White Otter and his companions accompanied them, but as soon as they had refreshed themselves and their ponies at the little pool they galloped away to reconnoiter in advance of the company.

The alert scouts proceeded with more caution as the day wore on, for although they knew that they were still a long distance from the besieged camp, they feared that the Pawnees might have sent riders far out on the plain to watch for reenforcements from the Minneconjoux camp.

"Perhaps the Wolf People know about this thing; we must keep watching ahead," declared White Otter.

"Yes, if they see us it will be a bad thing," replied Sun Bird. "Then they will tell their people, and they will get away before this great war party can catch them."

"I do not believe that the Pawnees know about this thing," High Eagle said hopefully. "No, I crawled away as easy as a snake. I do not believe that the Pawnees will know about this great war party until we come to fight them."

The day passed without incident, and at sunset they came in sight of the grove where White Otter had encountered the Ute war party. His heart beat fast with emotion as he saw the little patch of trees, and realized that he might reach the Ogalala village before daylight. All his anxiety returned at the thought, and once more he became a prey to all sorts of doubts and fears.

"My brothers, we are getting close to my people," he said soberly. "Over there is the place where I heard the Black Faces. It is not far from the Ogalala camp. Our ponies are fresh. Perhaps we will get to that place before another sun comes. But we must be very cautious. Perhaps some of the Wolf People are hiding over there among the trees. I will ask my brother, Sun Bird, and my brother, Little Raven, to wait here behind this ridge to watch for Curly Horse and his people. Come, High Eagle, we will go over there and see if anyone is hiding in that place."

"Well, I will wait here with Little Raven," agreed Sun Bird.

Then White Otter and High Eagle mounted their ponies and rode toward the timber. As they approached it they dropped to one side of their mounts and advanced very cautiously. They found the grove free of enemies, and immediately signaled the news to Little Raven, who was watching from the ridge. Soon afterward the Dacotah war party galloped across the plain. The two Ogalalas thrilled with pride as they watched the great force of Sioux fighting men approach. They felt certain that they would soon vanquish the Pawnees, and their only fear was that they might be too late. They realized that three days had passed since High Eagle had crawled safely through the Pawnee lines, and they feared that the battle had been won or lost in the meantime. The latter possibility filled them with dread, for they knew that defeat meant death for most of the people in the Ogalala camp.

"If our people have been wiped away, then I will go and let the Pawnees kill me," declared White Otter.

"Well, if you do that, then I will go with you," said High Eagle.

When the war party reached the grove, the warriors dismounted from their sweating ponies and threw themselves upon the ground for a few moments of rest. However, Curly Horse had no intention of loitering longer than was actually necessary for the tired ponies. He knew that every moment was precious in such an emergency, and he was eager to reach the scene of the conflict as soon as possible.

"My brothers, I must tell you that we are near the place where the brave Ogalalas are fighting the Pawnees," he told his warriors. "It is true that we have come a long way. But we must not stay here. No, if we wait here the Wolf People will get into that camp and kill many of our people. Our brothers are waiting for us. They are listening to hear the war cry of the great Dacotah nation. It will make them strong to fight. I believe that we are as many as the Pawnees. We will wait here a little time so that our ponies will be fresh. Then we will go on. I have spoken."

The Sioux remained at the water-hole until the ponies had recovered from their violent exertions, and then they mounted and galloped away toward the east. The thought that they were actually nearing the besieged camp made them eager and impatient to come within striking distance of their foes, and they raced on at a desperate pace. White Otter and his companions rode some distance in advance of the war party.

"Look!" cried Little Raven, as the four scouts raced over the summit of a low ridge.

They were dismayed to see two horsemen suddenly appear from a ravine directly ahead of them and ride furiously toward the east. They had little doubt that the unknown riders were Pawnee scouts who had been watching the advance of the Sioux war party. As they were too far away to be overtaken, there was nothing to do but report the discovery to Curly Horse.

"It is bad," said High Eagle. "Those scouts will tell their people about this great war party. Perhaps the Wolf People will rush into the camp before we get there."

"I will ride back and tell Curly Horse about this thing," cried Sun Bird.

"Yes, it is the best thing to do," replied White Otter. "We have found out something bad. But I will tell you that I believe my people have kept the Pawnees out of the camp. When I think about it my heart grows strong. If the Pawnees got into the village those scouts would not be watching in that ravine. I believe that the fight is still going on. Go, Sun Bird, my brother, and tell your great chief to come as fast as the wind. The Pawnees know about us. Now they will do some brave things to get into the village. We must help the brave Ogalalas. Now I am going ahead to do something."

A moment afterward the loyal lad raced away, with High Eagle and Little Raven beside him, while Sun Bird wheeled his pony and galloped back to meet Curly Horse and the great company of Sioux fighting men.




Chapter XIV

The Plight Of The Ogalalas


Two anxious days and two terrible nights had passed since High Eagle had crawled successfully through the Pawnee lines. During that time the great host of Pawnee fighting men had made many desperate attempts to enter the Ogalala village. In each attack, however, they had been compelled to recoil before the heroic defense of the Sioux. At the dawn of the third day, therefore, the camp was still in possession of its gallant defenders.

In spite of their apparent success, however, the Ogalalas were in a desperate plight. Many of the warriors had been killed, and many more had been wounded. Thus the Sioux force, which was outnumbered four to one at the beginning of hostilities, had been still further weakened, and most of the boys and all the old men had been called upon to take part in the fight. The food supply was exhausted, and they had already killed several ponies for meat. Fortunately the pool which supplied the water was located close to the edge of the village, and as yet the Pawnees had been unable to gain possession of it.

"My people, over there you see the first light of a new day," Wolf Robe told the Ogalalas as the dawn crept slowly above the rim of the plain. "Two suns have passed since the Wolf People came here to fight us. Well, we are still alive. The Pawnees have made many boasts, but we have laughed at them. Our women and children are safe in the lodges. We have killed many of our enemies. Pretty soon our brothers, the Minneconjoux, will come here. Yes, I am listening for the noise of their ponies. White Otter will lead them to this place. Then you will see how the Pawnees can run. My brothers, we have made a great fight. But I must tell you that it is not over. No, the Wolf People will keep trying to get into the village. Perhaps another sun will pass before the great chief, Curly Horse, and his warriors come here. Yes, perhaps two suns will pass. Well, we will keep off our enemies. They are many more than we are, but that is nothing to a Dacotah. We have plenty of ponies. We can give meat to our people. We have water. The Pawnees cannot get that. Yes, we will keep up the fight until our people come. You have heard the words of Wolf Robe."

"Ogalalas, you have listened to a great war chief," cried Yellow Horse, the medicine-man. "Wolf Robe has led us in many battles. We will keep his words in our hearts. Yes, we will show the boastful Pawnees that it takes many wolves to kill the bear in his den. We are Dacotahs! It is enough. Now it is getting light. We must watch."

As the narrow streak of light gradually broadened and reached across the sky, the Sioux listened expectantly for the first warning yell from their foes. They felt sure that they would make another attack before sunrise, and each moment's delay increased the suspense. However, when darkness finally merged into twilight, a long, quavering cry rose in the south. Then the Ogalalas knew that the expected assault was at hand. An ominous silence followed the signal. The Sioux looked anxiously for their foes. Their efforts were fruitless, however, for the light was still too weak to disclose objects beyond bow-shot, and it was evident that the cautious Pawnees were safely beyond that distance. The stillness was baffling. The Ogalalas were perplexed. They wondered why the Pawnees were delaying their attack. The maneuver made them suspicious.

"My brothers, we must keep watching," cried Wolf Robe. "The Wolf People are very sly. Perhaps they are moving forward like the fox. Then they will rush ahead. If we are not ready, then --  -- "

At that instant he was interrupted by a wild outburst of piercing whoops, and a multitude of yelling horsemen emerged from the shadows and swept toward the camp. Having entirely surrounded the village, they charged with a reckless fury that might have temporarily demoralized the bravest foes. However, the Sioux faced them with the same calm determination that had made their resistance so effective in the previous attacks. Reserving their arrows until the Pawnees were close upon them, their deadly volleys took costly toll of ponies and riders. Although they exposed themselves with great bravery, the invaders were again prevented from reaching the village. Realizing, at length, that they were sacrificing themselves in vain, the Pawnees wheeled and raced from danger. Once beyond bow-shot, they rode furiously around the camp, shaking their weapons and shouting idle threats at the jeering Sioux.

The Ogalalas had repulsed this last attack without losing a man, although a number of warriors had been more or less severely wounded. They knew that they had inflicted heavy punishment upon the Pawnees, and they believed that the latter would be slow to renew the fight. The thought gave them considerable relief. They hoped that a strong force of tribesmen were racing to their aid, and they realized that if they could hold out another day they might be saved.

The Pawnees soon tired of riding around the village, and finally withdrew far out on the plain. Then, leaving a sufficient number of sentinels on each side of the camp, the several war parties united and rode from sight over a distant ridge. The Sioux knew at once that they had gone to hold a council of war, and they hoped that they might decide to abandon the siege.

"No, I do not believe that they will go away," said Wolf Robe. "They have come here to do a great thing. We have killed many of their people. Their hearts are very black against us. We must watch them. Perhaps they will wait until it is dark. But I must tell you that I believe they will make another great fight. Perhaps our brothers, the Minneconjoux, will come before that time. If they do not come here, then I do not know what will happen. I have spoken."

Soon after sunrise the Pawnees reappeared. Once more they separated into four companies. The suspicious Sioux watched them with much anxiety. However, it was soon evident that for the moment, at least, they had no intention of attacking the camp. They sat quietly on the ponies, watching the village like a pack of hungry wolves around a herd of buffaloes.

"Those people are thinking about something," said Yellow Horse. "We must be very cautious."

"Yes, I believe they will try to fool us," declared old Crying Wolf, a warrior who had seen more than ninety winters.

However, as the day wore on, and the Pawnees made no further attempts against the village, the Sioux began to take heart. They believed that their determined foes were waiting to make one supreme effort under cover of the night, and they comforted themselves with the thought that their tribesmen would come to their assistance in the meantime. They felt sure that High Eagle had reached the Minneconjoux and delivered his appeal for aid. They peered anxiously toward the west, therefore, hoping each moment to see the dust signal that would tell them that help was at hand.

Then, when the long day finally passed, and the sun disappeared below the plain, their hopes began to dwindle. The thought of night filled them with dread. They had a gloomy premonition that unless the Minneconjoux arrived before dark, their own efforts would at last prove ineffectual. They believed that the vastly superior strength of their foes would eventually give them the victory. As yet the Pawnees had withdrawn before the deadly volleys that met them at the edge of the camp, but the Sioux feared that in the final attempt they might make one supreme sacrifice to achieve their object. In that event the Ogalalas realized that it would be impossible to keep them from the village. Once they had gained a foothold, their superiority in numbers would soon give them the victory. The bravest Sioux heart faltered at the possibility. They knew that it would mean torture and death for themselves, and captivity and slavish drudgery for their women and children. The peril appalled them. They turned their anxious faces to the sky and asked the Great Mystery to help them. Then they waited calmly for the falling of darkness, determined to meet whatever fate awaited them with the undying courage of their race.

"My people, I must tell you that my heart is heavy," said Wolf Robe, as the light slowly faded from the plain. "I have looked for something, but it has not come. I have listened for something, but I have not heard it. Curly Horse and his warriors are not here. Pretty soon it will be dark. I feel bad about it. Some of our bravest men are dead. Some are hurt and cannot fight. We have used many arrows. The Pawnees are very strong. They are like mad wolves. Their medicine-men will talk to them. They will tell them to do great things. When it is dark I believe they will rush ahead to fight us. Perhaps they will leave their ponies and crawl close to the lodges. We must watch with the eyes of the great war bird, and listen with the ears of the deer. But if they get into the camp, then we must fight until we die. Our women and children are in those lodges. I will ask you to keep thinking about it. Perhaps something has happened to High Eagle. The Minneconjoux have not come. I do not know about that. I have finished."

When Wolf Robe had ceased speaking, several famous warriors ran to the center of the camp and called out in a loud tone so that all might hear. They urged their comrades to be brave, and declared that the odds against them were not sufficient to cause defeat. They reminded their listeners that having successfully repulsed every attack of their foes, there was no reason to believe that they would not be equally successful in the final assault. They declared that they had no doubt that a great Minneconjoux war party was racing to their aid. They recalled many desperate battles with these same hated foes in which they had turned apparent defeat into victory. In this way these stout-hearted men infused their own heroic confidence into the hearts of their tribesmen, and roused them from the depths of gloom to the highest pitch of enthusiasm.

"My brothers, I have listened to the words of those brave men," cried old Crying Wolf. "I am a very old man. My arms are weak. My eyes do not travel far. I am like a crooked stick. But those great words have made me strong. Yes, I am anxious to fight the Pawnees. I cannot send my arrows far, but if any of those people rush into the village I will count another coup before I die. My people, listen to the words of a very old man. Well, I must tell you what is in my heart. I believe that White Otter will do another great thing. Yes, I believe he will bring the great chief, Curly Horse, and his people to help us. I do not believe I will come out of this battle. But I will tell you that I am not afraid. No, I have been in many fights. I have killed many enemies. I have lived a long time. It is enough. Now I will do the best I can. I have finished."

The simple heroism of this famous old warrior found a ready sympathy in the hearts of his people. As he tottered toward the edge of the camp to take his place in the fighting line, his loyal self-sacrifice fired the resolution of the warriors and filled them with a determination to uphold the splendid traditions for which this aged veteran was willing to die.

As the evening shadows gradually closed in about the camp the Pawnees showed sudden signs of renewed activity. They approached nearer to the village, as if they feared that the Sioux might attempt to send away scouts under cover of the dusk. Then riders began to race about the plain, apparently carrying instructions to the various war companies. This maneuver made the Ogalalas believe that their foes had become impatient, and intended to attack them without further delay.

"Those riders are telling the war leaders the words of the great war chief," said Wolf Robe. "Pretty soon they will rush ahead to fight us. Curly Horse and his people are not here. We must make this great fight alone."

A few moments afterward the Pawnees faded from sight in the gathering gloom, and the Sioux increased their vigilance. The thought of what might happen before the dawn of another day filled them with many disturbing misgivings. Still they knew that it would be fatal to give way to those dismal premonitions. Therefore, they fought down their doubts and fortified themselves with the determination to administer a final, crushing defeat to their foes.

During the day Wolf Robe had ordered the women to collect the supply of fire-wood and distribute it in a number of piles along the edge of the camp. Now, as darkness closed down, he appointed a lad, with a buffalo horn containing tinder and several glowing embers, to stand beside each pile of fuel. In the event of the Pawnees dismounting and attempting to steal into the camp under cover of the night, the crafty Ogalala chief planned to ignite his beacons and flood the village and the surrounding plain with light.

Wolf Robe's precaution was a timely one, for the wily Pawnees did exactly what he feared they might attempt. Dismounting some distance from the village, they left their ponies under a strong guard and advanced noiselessly on foot. They were within bow-shot of the camp before the Sioux discovered them. Then, as they heard the alarm, they rushed forward, yelling at the top of their voices to confuse their enemies.

However, the Sioux had already called to the boys with the embers, and before the Pawnees actually reached the edge of the village the dry fuel was blazing fiercely, and the camp was flooded with light. The unexpected illumination completely surprised the invaders, and for a moment they hesitated in bewilderment. The Sioux took advantage of the opportunity, and delivered a furious volley of arrows at short range. Attacked at the very moment when they were attempting to rally from their sudden surprise, the Pawnees fell back in dismay. Then, as the arrows of the Sioux continued to thin their ranks, they recovered from their bewilderment and rushed recklessly to the border of the camp. A desperate struggle immediately followed, as the opposing forces met in a deadly hand-to-hand encounter. Warrior grappled with warrior, and the fight became a series of personal combats. The Sioux were greatly handicapped by the odds against them, but the terrorized cries of the women and children in the lodges gave them courage, and they fought with a strength and courage that astounded their foes. The old men and the boys fought as heroically as the warriors. For a time their gallant efforts seemed of little avail, for the Pawnees were determined to enter the village. In spite of their superior numbers, however, they were unable to fight their way between the valiant Ogalalas. The latter were resolved to die rather than yield a foot of ground, and their indomitable courage made them invincible. At last their heroic struggle was crowned with success, for the Pawnees began to give way. Fearing a trap, Wolf Robe called out and warned his people against leaving the camp to follow them. There was one, however, for whom the caution had no meaning. It was old Crying Wolf. He seemed to have suddenly gone mad from excitement. Whooping shrilly, the aged warrior left the village and hobbled boldly after the retreating Pawnees. As several Ogalalas rushed to his rescue he fell, a bow-shot from the camp, with a Pawnee arrow through his heart.

When their foes had retreated into the night, the Sioux took account of their loss. They found that the encounter had cost them dear, for many prominent warriors had sacrificed themselves to keep the Pawnees from the village. The death of old Crying Wolf filled them with gloom, and they recalled his ominous prophecy on the eve of the battle.

"He was a great man," said Wolf Robe, who had survived the encounter unharmed. "Crying Wolf did many things for his people. But he was very old. He died like a warrior. I believe it is the thing he wanted to do. Now he has gone on the Long Trail. Well, we will talk about him a long time."

However, the Ogalalas found little time to either eulogize the dead or attend the wounded, for it was not long before the night again rang with excited whoops. It was evident that the Pawnees intended to make another attempt to enter the camp. The Sioux threw fresh fuel on the fires, and watched anxiously for their foes to appear within the great circle of light that surrounded the village. The yells were quickly followed by the thunder of hoofs, and the Ogalalas realized that the Pawnees were again relying on their ponies to force their way into the village.

This time the fighting was even fiercer than in the preceding attacks. The reckless bravery of the invaders soon made it evident that they were staking everything on one great final assault. The thought nerved the Sioux to fight as they had never fought before. In spite of their heroism, however, some of the Pawnees found a weak spot in the line of defense, and gained a foothold in the village. Before they could reach the ponies, or the lodges which sheltered the women and children, Wolf Robe led a picked company of warriors to attack them. They fought with a wild fury that finally forced the invaders from the camp. In the desperate encounter, however, Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse were separated from their companions, and surrounded by their foes. The Pawnees instantly recognized these two famous warriors, and, instead of killing them, they made them prisoners, and carried them away before the Ogalalas knew what had happened.

A few moments later word of the capture was carried through the entire force of Pawnees. They immediately abandoned the attack on the camp, and raced away, yelling in triumph. The unexpected maneuver caused wild rejoicing among the Ogalalas, who were still ignorant of the desperate plight of their unfortunate tribesmen.

The Pawnees had already ridden beyond hearing when the first inquiry for Wolf Robe was made. Then, as they were searching for him among the warriors at the edge of the camp, they suddenly missed Yellow Horse. When they failed to find them, the Ogalalas were thrown into a frenzy of despair. At first they believed that both these great men had been killed, but when they did not find them among those who had fallen in the fight, the truth suddenly flashed into their minds.

"Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse have been carried away by the Pawnees!"

When the terrible announcement rang through the camp, the Ogalalas were stunned into silence. It was the crowning shock of the great disaster which had befallen them, and they were unable to rally from the blow. They realized the hopelessness of attempting an immediate rescue, and they feared that to delay would mean certain death to their famous tribesmen. While the principal men of the tribe were gathered in gloomy council, attempting to determine the wisest plan of action, they were roused by a joyous shout from the warriors along the west side of the camp.

"We have heard the bark of the little gray fox!" they cried, excitedly. "Yes, our people are coming. Listen, someone is leading ponies to the camp."

"We must be cautious; perhaps they are Pawnees," warned Spotted Dog, a famous war leader, who had assumed command.

"Well, pretty soon they will come into the light. Then we will see who they are," declared the impatient watchers.




Chapter XV

White Otter's Bold Resolve


White Otter's anxiety for his people made him indifferent to his own safety, and he rode recklessly through the night, risking ambush and sudden death at the hands of his foes. High Eagle and Little Raven seemed equally unconcerned. They were willing to take desperate chances to get within sight of the Ogalala village and learn the answer to the question that was torturing their minds. As they actually neared the vicinity, however, White Otter himself advised greater caution.

"We are coming close to our enemies," he said. "If they kill us then what we have done will be foolish. A scout must save himself to help his people. Now we will go ahead easy. We must watch, and listen like the fox."

They slackened their ponies and advanced very cautiously. For a long time they heard nothing to rouse their suspicions, and the very stillness added to their fears. They wondered whether the Pawnees, having achieved their object, had already ridden away. Their courage weakened at the thought. Then, as they stopped on the crest of a ridge, they heard a wild outburst of yells, far away toward the east. Their hearts beat frantically as they turned to one another with flashing eyes.

"Listen!" cried White Otter. "The fight is still going on. Yes, the Ogalalas are keeping the Wolf People out of the camp. Come, we will ride over there and try to do something."

They galloped away in the direction of the Ogalala camp. However, when they again stopped to listen, the noise had ceased. They listened anxiously, hoping to hear something that would tell them that the Sioux had successfully withstood the attack. The silence troubled them. It made it evident that the fight was over. The thought suggested a number of alarming possibilities.

"Come, my brothers, we must go near to the camp," declared White Otter. "Then we will know about this thing."

As they started away they again heard a wild clamor in the direction of the Ogalala village, and they believed that the fight had been renewed. The thought filled them with hope, for they knew that the Sioux had repulsed the first attack successfully. As the confused babel of sound echoed faintly across the plain, the three scouts stopped and made an earnest appeal to the Great Mystery. Then they lashed their ponies into a furious sprint, and raced away to aid their tribesmen.

"I believe those scouts have told their people about us," cried White Otter. "Now they know about the war party that is coming to fight them. They are making another great fight to get into the camp. Perhaps they will do this thing. I am thinking about it. It is bad."

A short time afterward they rode to the top of another low ridge, and saw the glow of the Ogalala fires. As they were watching them, however, they heard the shouts and whoops of the Pawnees rising some distance south of the camp. Each moment the noise sounded farther from the village, and it soon became evident that the Pawnees were withdrawing. A mighty chorus of yells from the camp convinced White Otter and his companions that the Sioux had finally been victorious. The thought sent them into an ecstasy of joy.

"Listen, my brothers!" White Otter cried, delightedly. "The Pawnees are running away. Yes, my people have made a great fight. The Wolf People know about this great war party. They are running away before our people come. But we will follow them. Yes, Curly Horse and Laughing Bird will chase them. Now we will go ahead, and find out about this thing."

"My brother, I believe that what you say is true," replied Little Raven. "If your people have chased away all those Pawnees they have done a great thing. Pretty soon we will know about it. But when our people come here, then we must go on to fight the boastful Wolf People. Yes, I believe I will count many coups, and take some good ponies."

"Yes, the Pawnees are going away," declared High Eagle. "But it has been a great battle. I believe many of our brothers have been killed. Yes, I am proud about this thing, but I must tell you that my heart is heavy. I believe that something bad has happened to our people. I do not like to talk about it. I have been in many battles. When I feel like that in my heart it is always bad."

The older warrior's gloomy prophecy instantly sobered White Otter and Little Raven. They began to realize that the victory might have been a costly one. The thought increased White Otter's anxiety, and he determined to learn exactly what had happened without further delay. He felt certain that the Pawnees had really departed, and he raced toward the camp with little attempt at concealment.

"We must be cautious when we come near the village," High Eagle warned him. "Our people will be watching. When they hear us perhaps they will take us for Pawnees. Perhaps they will send their arrows through us."

"Yes, what you say is so," agreed White Otter. "But we will stop before we go near enough to be killed. Then I will make the sound of the little gray fox. When our people hear that they will feel good again."

When they finally came close to the camp, they stopped, and White Otter imitated the bark of the prairie fox. In a few moments an answer sounded from the border of the village. Then he repeated the signal three times, and, when he received a reply, he and his companions rode boldly toward the lodges. As they showed themselves in the glow from the fires, they were immediately challenged by the suspicious guards at the edge of the camp.

"Ho, my brothers, we are Dacotahs; we have come to tell you something good," cried White Otter.

"It is White Otter!" cried the delighted Ogalalas. "He has brought Curly Horse and his people to help us."

When the three scouts rode their exhausted ponies into the village, a few moments later, they saw all the evidences of a tragedy. It was apparent that the Sioux loss had been even greater than they had anticipated. White Otter and High Eagle recognized many loyal friends among the dead and wounded, and as they gazed upon them they were filled with a wild desire for vengeance. Then White Otter turned to search the great throng of people who were crowding eagerly about them. When he failed to discover his grandfather, a great fear entered his heart. He had grave doubts of Wolf Robe's safety, and he feared to ask for him. Before he could frame the difficult inquiry, however, he was startled by a series of piercing screams from one of the lodges. The next moment Singing Wind, his grandmother, rushed toward him, frantically waving her arms, and crying out hysterically.

"My grandfather has been killed," White Otter told High Eagle.

As Singing Wind reached his side she fell to the ground, prostrated by her grief. White Otter and High Eagle raised her with great tenderness, and attempted to comfort her. The loyal old woman was beside herself, and it was some moments before she could speak. Then she threw her arms about White Otter and sobbed out her story.

"Ah, my son, I must tell you something bad," she cried. "Your grandfather, the great chief, Wolf Robe, has been taken away by the Pawnees. Yes, there is a great hole in my heart. Perhaps they have killed him. You must find out about it. If he is dead, then I will die. You have done some great things, my son. Now I will ask you to do the greatest thing of all. Yes, I will ask you to go and find out about your grandfather. If the Pawnees have killed him, then you must come back and tell me. But if he is alive in that camp, then you must take him away. You are the son of Standing Buffalo -- I believe you can do this thing. That is all I can say."

As Singing Wind ended her frantic appeal she tottered backward and would have collapsed had not White Otter thrown his arm about her. The Ogalalas watched in silence as the striking young warrior and the frail old woman looked searchingly into each other's eyes. Then, when Singing Wind finally recovered her strength, White Otter made his reply.

"My mother, I have heard your words; they have cut into my heart like Pawnee arrows," he said. "But I am a Dacotah. Yes, I am the son of Standing Buffalo. It is enough. I know what to do. I will follow the Pawnees and find out about my grandfather. If he has been killed, then I will not come back. No, I will rush into the camp and fight until I die. But if he is alive I will bring him away. Spotted Dog has told me about Yellow Horse. Well, I will find out about him. Now I must tell my brothers, the Ogalalas, that a great war party is coming behind me. Yes, pretty soon you will hear a big noise, like the Thunder Birds flapping their wings. It is the sound of racing ponies. They are carrying Curly Horse, and a great war party of Minneconjoux. But I will tell you something better. They are carrying the great war chief, Laughing Bird, and a great war party of Uncapapas. Pretty soon these people will come here. Then you must tell my brother, Sun Bird, about me. Perhaps he will tell Curly Horse about it. Then our people will go to the Pawnee camp to fight. I will watch for them. Now I am going to take a fast pony. Yes, I am going away. My mother, you must keep your heart strong. If I come back I will bring my grandfather. If you do not see me again, then you will know that I have done what I told you about. I have finished."

White Otter was immediately besieged by a host of volunteers, who were eager to accompany him on his perilous mission. He refused them, however, and told them to wait for the great war party which he felt sure would follow him to the Pawnee camp. Still, there was one who would not be denied. It was Little Raven.

"My brother, it is true that I have not done many great things," said the loyal Minneconjoux lad. "But I am not afraid to die. You say if you do not find your grandfather you will go into the Pawnee camp and fight until they kill you. Well, it is a brave thing to do. But I will go with you. If we go together, we will kill more Pawnees. If the great chief, Wolf Robe, and the great medicine-man, Yellow Horse, are alive, perhaps I will help you. No, my brother, I will not stay back. I am a Dacotah. Yes, I am the son of Rain Crow. I must carry out what it is in my heart to do. I will ask you for a fast pony. Yes, I am going with you."

"Little Raven, your words make me feel big in my heart," White Otter replied, with genuine emotion. "But I must tell you that you are doing a foolish thing. You are very brave, but you must keep your life. Wolf Robe is my grandfather. He has given me many good things. There is only one thing to do if he is alive: I must try to get him away. There is only one thing to do if he is dead: I must go into the camp and kill as many Pawnees as I can. You say you will go with me. Well, I must tell you another time that it is a foolish thing to do. But I know that you are a Dacotah. Yes, you will do what it is in your heart to do. Perhaps this thing will make you a great man. Perhaps you will be killed. I have finished."

"White Otter, I must go with you," declared Little Raven.

"Ogalalas, I must tell you something," cried White Otter. "Little Raven, the son of Rain Crow, the great Minneconjoux medicine-man, is going with me to the Pawnee Camp."

Then the two fearless young warriors rode away on two of Wolf Robe's fastest ponies. The Ogalalas were too heavily burdened with grief to rouse themselves sufficiently to make a demonstration, and except for the wailing of the women and the excited cries of a few old men, the lads were permitted to depart in silence.

"White Otter is very brave. Yes, he is as cautious as the fox. He has done a great thing. But I believe he will be killed," Spotted Bear declared, gloomily, as the hoof-beats of the ponies died away in the distance.

The Ogalalas endorsed his words with their silence. There were few among them who expected to again see the courageous youths who had just ridden away.




Chapter XVI

A Baffling Trail


White Otter felt certain that the Pawnees had been warned of the approaching Sioux war party, and he believed that they would ride furiously to reach their own territory before the Dacotahs overtook them. He realized, therefore, that it would be foolhardy to attempt to come up with them before they arrived at their permanent camp. However, the thought of what might happen to Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse in the meantime filled him with despair. He knew only too well the intense hatred that the Sioux and the Pawnees held for each other, and he feared that the latter might take sudden vengeance upon their helpless captives. His one hope was that the war chiefs would insist that the prisoners be spared until they reached the camp, so that the entire Pawnee nation might participate in their punishment and death. Still, he realized that even if his unfortunate tribesmen reached the Pawnee village in safety his chances for saving them were slight indeed. He feared that the Pawnees would waste little time in putting them to death, and he knew that unless he arrived at the hostile camp soon after his foes he might be too late.

"We must keep near the Wolf People," he told Little Raven. "If they take those two brave warriors to the camp, perhaps they will kill them before we come to that place. Well, we must be near enough to do something."

"You are the leader," replied Little Raven, "I will listen to your words."

At daylight they searched the plain for signs of the Pawnees. When they failed to discover them, they separated and reconnoitered in different directions. It was not long until White Otter found the fresh tracks of the Pawnee ponies. He immediately called Little Raven, and they hurried away on the trail.

"Perhaps some scouts are watching," suggested White Otter. "We must look sharp."

"Yes, we will keep watching ahead," replied Little Raven.

The day was more than half gone before they saw anything to awaken their suspicions. Then they suddenly discovered that the trail divided into three distinct branches. The main trail continued toward the south, another trail turned abruptly toward the west, and a third trail swerved toward the east. White Otter regarded them in dismay. He instantly recognized the unexpected maneuver as a wily bit of stratagem to confuse the Sioux war party. It was evident that the crafty Pawnees feared pursuit, and hoped in this manner to throw their enemies from their trail. However, it was also possible that they hoped to induce the Sioux force to separate into smaller companies to follow them. Then they might suddenly unite, and attack one of the weakened commands. But whatever was the reason for the ruse, it completely bewildered the anxious young Ogalala.

"This thing fills my heart with clouds," he told Little Raven. "I do not know about it. The Wolf People have fooled us. It is bad. I do not know what to do."

Little Raven remained silent. He realized that in such a predicament he must submit to the greater experience of White Otter. The loyal Minneconjoux had implicit confidence in the ability of his friend. He believed that the sharp-witted Ogalala would eventually think of a way to overcome the difficulty. Many moments passed while they sat quietly on their ponies, gazing gloomily at the confusing trails. Then White Otter determined on a plan of action.

"There is only one thing to do," he said. "We must find out if these trails go far. You must go one way and I will go another way. Perhaps we will come together. But if these trails do not turn before the sun goes away, then we will come back here and talk about it. Perhaps the Pawnees are watching to see someone do this thing. I will tell you to be very cautious."

"I will use my eyes," Little Raven promised.

A moment later they separated. White Otter followed the trail toward the west, and Little Raven turned toward the east. They rode until sunset, and then, as the tracks showed no signs of turning to join the original trail toward the south, the discouraged young scouts returned to the place where they had parted. It was dark when they finally met.

"My brother, I must tell you something bad," White Otter said, disconsolately. "That trail does not turn around. There is only one thing to do. I must follow it."

"White Otter, I must tell you that I saw the same thing," replied Little Raven. "I went a long way but those tracks went straight ahead. When the sun went away I thought about your words. Then I turned around and came here. Now you must tell me how to do this thing."

For some moments White Otter remained silent. It was evident that the baffling maneuver of his foes had greatly upset him. He knew that it meant a delay, and he realized that each lost moment weakened his chance of saving the Ogalala prisoners. Still, he knew that it would be fatal to give way to his fears.

"Yes, I will tell you how to do this thing," he assured Little Raven. "We must wait here until it is light. Then we will go different ways. We will follow those trails and find out where they go. If they come back to this straight trail, then we will leave three stones in three tracks. That will tell us that we are both on that trail. If I find those stones, I will keep going until I come up with you. If you find those stones, then you must keep going until you find me. I have finished."

"My brother, I have listened to your words -- now I know what to do," said Little Raven. "But I must tell you that I am heavy in my heart. Perhaps we will not see each other again. Perhaps the Pawnees will kill us. Well, I will not think about it."

"You are a warrior," White Otter reminded him. "A warrior wipes those things from his heart."

Fearing that Pawnee scouts might follow the trail back under cover of the night, to learn if they were followed, the wily young Sioux made a long detour and camped farther to the west. They muzzled and picketed the ponies, and took turns watching until the faint gray streak in the east finally ended their suspense.

"Now we must go away," White Otter said soberly. "Little Raven, you are my brother. You are very brave. You are going to do a hard thing. Perhaps you will be killed. I will take your hand."

"White Otter, you have called me your brother -- it is true," replied Little Raven. "Yes, we are going away from each other. Perhaps we will never meet again. Well, I will do the best I can. Now I will take your hand."

They stood a moment, silently clasping hands. Then they mounted their ponies and rode away. The eastern sky was tinged with gray, but the plain was still dark. They rode rapidly toward the place where each had abandoned his search the day before.

Darkness had already given way to daylight when White Otter reached the grassy swale where he had ended his reconnoissance the previous day. He immediately set out on the trail, riding slowly, and keeping a sharp watch for Pawnee scouts. There was constant peril of running into an ambush, and, wherever the plain offered suitable concealment for his foes, he made a wide detour, and kept safely out of arrow-range. As the trail continued directly toward the west, he feared that this company of Pawnees were actually from another village. The possibility caused him much concern. He realized that once the main force of his foes divided into different bands, it might be necessary to visit each camp before he could locate his tribesmen. In that event he felt certain that his efforts would be useless, as he had little doubt that Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse would have already met their fate before he could even find them. Therefore, the anxious lad rode along with a heavy heart, and a mind filled with all sorts of disquieting misgivings.

The day was far advanced when he finally learned that his long detour had been in vain. The trail suddenly ended in an intricate maze of tracks, which scattered in all directions. As White Otter realized how easily he had fallen into the wily trap that had been set for him, a great rage entered his heart, and his eyes flashed threateningly. He knew at once that the Pawnees had simply separated temporarily to delay their pursuers. Having lured them a day's journey from the real trail, they had scattered and gone to join the main command. White Otter saw it all plainly enough now, but he feared that the trick had already achieved its purpose. He believed that the delay would prove fatal to Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse.

For a moment the discouraged Ogalala lost heart. It seemed mere folly to continue in the face of the unexpected difficulties that beset him. Still, he banished all idea of turning back. He had given his word to his grandmother, and even if he could not save Wolf Robe, he was determined to rush into the Pawnee village and avenge him. The frantic appeals of old Singing Wind rang in his ears, and the memory of her grief restored his confidence. He told himself that he might still save the Ogalala war chief. The possibility drove him to action. Wheeling his pony, he raced madly toward the east.

White Otter knew that there were two things to do. The first was to return to the main trail of the Pawnees and leave a sign to warn the Sioux war party from repeating his blunder. The second was to find Little Raven. He felt sure that the false trail which the Minneconjoux had followed would either end in a hopeless tangle of tracks, or eventually return to the original trail. Therefore, he hoped to find Little Raven somewhere along the route taken by the main company of Pawnees.

It was almost dark when White Otter again returned to the place where the false trails began. His heart burned with anger as he realized the time he had lost, each precious moment a link in the chain that was dragging Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse to their doom. Still, he hoped that in spite of the delay he might yet arrive at the Pawnee village in time to aid his tribesmen. It was barely possible that the Pawnees might spare the captives for several days, and White Otter strengthened his confidence with the thought.

Aware that there was not an instant to lose, he proceeded to leave a warning for the war party. Riding to a little patch of willows, he selected a long, slender branch, and peeled the bark from one end. Then he stuck it in one of the hoof-prints, with the peeled end pointing in the direction of the Pawnee village. Next, he placed a barrier of small stones across each of the false trails. Then he mounted his pony and galloped along the original trail.

When night finally closed down, White Otter dismounted to follow the tracks of the Pawnee ponies. He moved slowly forward, listening and watching for some evidence of Little Raven. As time passed and he failed to find him he began to worry. He wondered whether the fearless lad had fallen into the hands of the Wolf People. He tried to reassure himself with the possibility that the trail toward the east had actually continued to another camp.

Then a sound came out of the night, a short distance ahead of him, and he instantly drew his pony from the trail, and prepared his bow. As he listened the noise was repeated, and he recognized it as the attempt of a muzzled pony to call to one of its kind. His own horse tried to reply, but he instantly grasped its nostrils and smothered it with a heavy fold of buckskin. Then he imitated the bark of the little gray fox. In a few moments he received a crude reply. He knew at once that it came from Little Raven.

"Ho, my brother, I see that you have come back; it is good," White Otter called softly.

"My ears tell me that you are my brother, White Otter," replied Little Raven.

A moment afterward they met. Little Raven said that the tracks which he had followed had rejoined the main trail at that very spot. He declared that he had seen nothing but antelope and buffaloes and some stray prairie wolves.

"Perhaps they were Pawnee scouts," White Otter suggested.

"No, I came close to those animals, and I know that they were wolves," Little Raven assured him.

"Well, now we know about this thing," said the Ogalala, "we must go on. Perhaps the Pawnees have reached their camp. Perhaps they have sent Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse on the Long Trail. But we must not wait. Now I will go to that village and do the thing I have set out to do. If my grandfather is not there, then I will rush into the camp and throw myself away. But I will kill many Pawnees before I die. My brother, this is how it is in my heart to do. If you feel different, then you must turn back. I have finished."

"My brother, you have spoken brave words," declared Little Raven. "But I must tell you that I will not turn around. Perhaps we will help Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse. But if they have been sent away, then I will go into the camp to die with you. This is how the thing is in my heart."

"You are as brave as your brother, Sun Bird," said White Otter. "If you come out of this thing, you will be a great warrior. Yes, I will tell all the Dacotahs about you. Now we will go."

As they cantered boldly forward into the night, the long, dismal wail of the prairie wolf sounded some distance away toward the west. White Otter instantly stopped his pony to listen. In a few moments an answer came from the east. The calls were so perfect, however, that the keen ears of the Ogalala could find no reason to suspect them. Still, he was suspicious. He was unable to overcome a disturbing premonition that had worried him throughout the day; he felt almost certain that both Little Raven and he had been watched by Pawnee scouts.

"I believe that the Pawnees are telling about us," White Otter whispered, uneasily.

"Do your ears tell you that?" inquired Little Raven.

"No, my ears tell me that it is the cry of the wolf, but my heart tells me a different thing," replied White Otter.

They waited some moments longer, but the calls were not repeated. Then the two daring young scouts resumed their perilous advance through the darkness. They had not gone far, however, when the lonely cry in the west was repeated. This time they did not stop, but listened anxiously as they cantered along. There was no answer from the east, and Little Raven felt somewhat reassured.

"I believe it is a wolf," he told White Otter.

The Ogalala made no reply.




Chapter XVII

A Peep Into The Pawnee Camp


The lads rode continuously throughout the night, guiding themselves by the stars, and traveling toward the south. At dawn they again found the tracks of the Pawnee ponies. However, they feared to follow the trail in daylight. They had little doubt that alert Pawnee scouts had been stationed on the ridges to watch for the Sioux war party. There seemed nothing to do, therefore, but to spend the day in concealment, until darkness again made it safe to venture forward in search of the Pawnee camp. It meant another perilous delay, and White Otter's heart sank at the thought of the possible consequences. Still, he knew that it would be foolhardy to risk being seen by hostile scouts. He felt sure that such an unfortunate mishap would destroy the last chance of the prisoners whom he wished to save.

"Yes, we must wait here until it is dark," he told Little Raven. "It is bad. But I believe it is the only thing to do. If we go ahead, perhaps the Pawnees will see us. Then they will know what we are trying to do. It is enough. They will kill Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse. They must not know about us. We will wait here. Now we must look around for a good place to hide in."

"Well, if that is how the thing is in your heart, then we must do it," replied Little Raven.

The plain was still shrouded in the dim, misty half-light of dawn, and they had little fear of being seen. Riding a short distance west of the Pawnee trail, they came upon the dry rocky bed of a stream. As it was considerably below the level of the plain, it offered an ideal place of concealment. Furthermore, it led away in a general southerly direction, and the eager young scouts hoped that by following it they might eventually come within sight of the Pawnee camp.

Once in the bottom of the ravine, the Sioux immediately set out along the tortuous, rocky stream-bed. As daylight strengthened, White Otter crept up the bank to reconnoiter. A long, undulating sweep of the plain obstructed his view toward the south, but in every other direction he saw to the horizon. The ground was open and bare of cover, and he discovered nothing to awaken his suspicions. The south, however, was still a mystery. The low ridge that barred his vision suggested many alarming possibilities, and White Otter regarded it with much distrust. He saw that the stream-bed apparently cut through it, in a deep ravine, farther to the west. It looked like an ideal spot for an ambush. He wondered whether Pawnee sentinels were concealed at that perilous pass. Then, having learned all that it was possible to know for the moment, the Ogalala descended into the gully to join his companion.

"Well, I have looked around and I will tell you about it," he told Little Raven. "I did not see any Pawnees. No, on both sides, and back there where we came from, I saw everything. There is no place to hide, and there is nothing to harm us. But ahead of us it is different. Yes, that way I saw a ridge. Perhaps some scouts are watching there. Perhaps the Pawnee camp is behind it. I do not know about it. But I will tell you that this gully goes through it. Yes, over there I saw the place where it crawls through. I believe we will be in great danger if we go over there before it is dark. But if we wait, perhaps it will be too late to help Wolf Robe. Yes, I am going ahead to find out about this thing. When we come near that place I will ask you to stay behind with the ponies. Then I will crawl ahead as easy as the fox. I believe it is the only thing to do."

"I will listen to your words," agreed Little Raven.

They advanced cautiously along the dry watercourse until it made an abrupt turn toward the west. Then White Otter again crawled carefully to the top of the bank. He saw that the bed of the stream continued still farther toward the west, and then turned sharply toward the ravine that cut through the ridge. He believed, therefore, that it would be perilous to take the ponies any farther until he had made a thorough reconnoissance.

As White Otter was about to descend into the ravine to announce his plan to Little Raven, his sharp eyes discovered something against the sky, above the crest of the ridge. For several moments he was unable to convince himself that he had actually seen it, and he watched anxiously to learn whether his eyes had played him a trick. Then he saw it again, more distinctly than before, and his heart beat wildly. It was smoke. Aware that he was within a short distance of the great Pawnee camp, White Otter scrambled frantically down the rocky bank of the ravine to tell Little Raven of his discovery.

"My brother, my eyes have found a great thing!" he cried, excitedly. "Yes, I saw smoke rising behind that ridge. We are close to the great Pawnee village. We must be very cautious. I believe it would be foolish to go any nearer before it is dark. We will wait here and watch. Then, when it is dark, I will go ahead. I will crawl through that ravine, and try to get near the camp. Perhaps I will find out about Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse. Now I am going to crawl up there to watch."

"White Otter, I have listened to your words," replied Little Raven. "You have told how you will do this thing. Well, I must tell you that I will go with you. If you do not find your people, then you will rush into the camp to die. I will not stay behind. No, I have told what I will do. I must go through with it. I have spoken."

"What you say is true," declared White Otter. "I will not keep you from doing what you have set out to do. But first I must find out about this thing. I will tell you that if I do not see my people in that camp, then I will come back. Yes, I will tell you what I am going to do. If you feel like going into the camp to die with me, then you must do it. But perhaps I will find my people. You must wait here until I know about it. I am the son of Standing Buffalo, and I have spoken."

"You say that you will come back here," replied Little Raven. "It is enough. I will wait. But I must tell you something different. Perhaps the Pawnees will come here and find us before it is dark."

"When the fox hides, it is hard to find him," declared White Otter. "We will be very cautious."

Although the lads watched steadily until night-fall, they failed to see anything of their enemies. However, they had little doubt that a number of Pawnee scouts were concealed along the summit of the ridge. The possibility made them extremely wary, and they waited until the last ray of light had faded from the plain before they ventured to advance. Then, when they reached the sharp turn toward the south, White Otter left his pony with Little Raven, and disappeared into the night.

The young Ogalala moved cautiously along the rocky bed of the stream, with the swift, noiseless tread of a panther. He advanced until he saw the sharp, clear-cut edge of the ravine showing against the sky. Then he stopped. For some moments he crouched in the shadow of the bank, listening for some warning of his foes. The stillness failed to quiet his suspicions. He felt sure that the narrow pass was guarded by keen-eared sentinels. He feared it. For a moment or so he was undecided just how to proceed. Then he made his decision, and climbed noiselessly up the side of the gully.

Once on the plain, White Otter made a short detour toward the east. Then, when he was several arrow-flights from the stream, he turned directly toward the ridge. As he came within bow-shot of it, he again stopped to listen. Hearing nothing to arouse his fears, he advanced through the darkness as quietly as a shadow. He reached the low, grassy slope in safety, and crawled cautiously to the summit. As he peered carefully over the crest of the ridge, he saw the fires twinkling in the great Pawnee camp. It was scarcely more than a bow-shot away, and the anxious Ogalala fairly trembled with eagerness.

Fearing that a moment's delay might prove fatal, White Otter crept slowly over the summit of the ridge, and descended to the level plain on the other side. Then he hurried toward the Pawnee village. As he neared the edge of the camp, he sank to his hands and knees, and crawled forward with the stealth and caution of a lynx. He advanced to the very border of the village. Then he concealed himself in the heavy shadows from the lodges, and peered anxiously into the camp. It was brightly illuminated by a number of great fires, and White Otter was able to study his foes at close range. The entire tribe seemed to be assembled, and he believed that the people were discussing something of importance. Then, as his eyes traveled swiftly over the great company of warriors, he started, and almost cried out in his excitement. With the Pawnees were Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse. Both were securely bound, and closely guarded, but neither seemed to have been harmed. White Otter looked upon them with amazement. His great joy bewildered him. He had approached the camp with little hope of finding them alive. Now, as he saw them apparently uninjured, he could scarcely believe his eyes. He wondered why the Pawnees had spared them. However, he lost little time attempting to solve the riddle. His one thought was how he might take advantage of the temporary respite that had been granted to his tribesmen.

White Otter was soon convinced that no matter what the final fate of the prisoners might be, they were to be spared for the night at least. The thought filled him with hope. If the Pawnees would only wait until the following night, he believed he could save the captives. He felt sure that by that time the great Sioux war party would be within striking distance of the camp, and he believed they would surprise and completely overwhelm their foes. Still, he knew that unless he could think of a way to protect the helpless prisoners, the Pawnees would kill them at the first warning of an attack. He waited, therefore, until he saw Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse taken to one of the lodges. Then he withdrew from the camp, and made his perilous return to Little Raven.

"My brother, my heart is filled with the songs of birds," White Otter cried, joyously, as he finally rejoined the loyal Minneconjoux. "Yes, I have seen my grandfather, the great chief, Wolf Robe, and Yellow Horse, the wonderful medicine-man. They are alive in the Pawnee camp. I watched until I saw them taken into a lodge. Then the camp quieted down. Now I know where they are. I do not believe that the Pawnees will kill them before another sun goes by. I believe we will get them out of that camp."

"Your words have filled my heart with sunshine," declared Little Raven. "You have done a good thing. I believe we will take your people out of that camp. But I must tell you another thing. After you went away, I heard something. I listened a long time. Then I heard someone coming. I tried to lead away the ponies. But someone was right behind me. Pretty soon I heard two people talking. They were speaking Sioux words. Then my heart was glad. I called out and told them my name. Pretty soon Short Bear and two Uncapapas came here. Yes, the great war party is back there on the plain. The Uncapapas have gone away to tell about us, but Short Bear will take us to Curly Horse."

"Where is Short Bear?" inquired the Ogalala.

"I am here, my brother," replied the famous Minneconjoux, as he suddenly appeared out of the night.

"It is good. We will go," said White Otter.




Chapter XVIII

A Daring Attempt


The night was almost gone when Short Bear and his companions finally reached the great company of Sioux warriors. They were concealed behind a high ridge, about half a day's journey from the Pawnee camp. White Otter found that Spotted Bear and a strong force of Ogalalas had joined the war party. The lads went directly to Curly Horse, and told him what they had learned. When the Ogalalas heard that their two famous tribesmen were still alive, they were beside themselves with excitement. Some of the more impulsive warriors wished to attack the Pawnees at once, but the war chiefs and the older men advised them to wait.

"Men of the Dacotah nation, you have heard good words," said Curly Horse. "Yes, White Otter has found his people in the Pawnee camp. It is good. We must try to get them away. I will tell you the best way to do this thing. Pretty soon it will be light. Well, it would be foolish to go ahead when the Pawnees can see us. Then the scouts would ride into the village, and tell about us. If the Wolf People see us coming to fight them, I believe they will kill those two brave Ogalalas. No, we must not let them see us. We will wait here until another sun passes. But we will send out scouts to watch. Then, when it is dark again, I will send some brave men to crawl into the camp. They must go to the edge of the village, and wait. Then this great war party will go ahead. When we come near the lodges, we will rush forward. When we make our great war cry, then those men at the edge of the village must run into the camp, and save the Ogalalas. I believe it is the best way to do this thing. But I will ask my brother, the great chief, Laughing Bird, to talk about it. Yes, I will listen to the words of the brave Ogalala leader, Spotted Bear. I have finished."

"Dacotahs, you have listened to a great man," declared Laughing Bird. "What Curly Horse says is true. He is a good leader. Yes, I know that he has been in many battles. I believe he has told the best way to get our brothers out of that camp. I will not say anything different. I have spoken."

"My brothers, I am an Ogalala," said Spotted Bear. "Our great chief, Wolf Robe, and Yellow Horse, the great medicine-man, are in that camp. I have come here to help them. I am the leader of my people in this fight, but I am not a great chief. No, many of our great men have been killed. That is how I was made the leader. I have fought in many battles. But I will listen to the words of those great chiefs who have just talked. I believe that they have told the best way to do this thing. No, I will not say anything against it. I have finished."

The plan suggested by the Minneconjoux chief was quickly adopted, and Curly Horse immediately called a council of the principal men in each tribe, to work out the final details of the attack against the Pawnee camp. When they finally completed their task day had already dawned.

"My brothers, I will tell you what we have decided to do," declared Curly Horse. "First, we will send scouts to watch the Pawnees. Then we will wait here until it is dark. When it is dark, I will ask Spotted Bear to send some of his people into that camp. Then this great war party will separate. Laughing Bird and his warriors will go on one side of the camp. I will lead the Minneconjoux in the center. Spotted Bear and the Ogalalas will come up on the other side. We will ride ahead until we find the Pawnee scouts. Then we will rush into the village. I have told you how we must do this thing."

When he had finished speaking, Curly Horse selected a number of warriors to act as scouts. These men, most of whom were Minneconjoux, immediately mounted their ponies and galloped away to watch the Pawnee camp. Then the great host of Sioux fighting men picketed their ponies, and threw themselves upon the plain to rest until the time for attacking the hostile camp arrived.

In the meantime Spotted Bear had made White Otter the leader of the gallant little company who were to invade the Pawnee village in an attempt to save the Ogalala prisoners. It was a great honor, and the fearless young warrior determined to justify the confidence reposed in him. He chose three famous Ogalala warriors to accompany him; they were Little Wolf, High Eagle and Black Moccasin. Besides, he asked Sun Bird and Little Raven.

"Yes, my brother, I will go with you," declared Sun Bird. "It is a great thing to do. If I come out of this fight, I will have something good to talk about."

"You have asked me to go with you to do a great thing," said Little Raven. "That makes me feel very brave. I will do the best I can."

The Sioux waited impatiently while the tedious day dragged slowly along. The scouts returned at frequent intervals, and reported about their foes. They said that the Pawnees had stationed watchers on all the ridges in the vicinity of the camp. It was evident, however, that they thought it quite unnecessary to send riders farther out on the plain to reconnoiter beyond sight of the sentinels. The Dacotahs hoped, therefore, that failing to see anything to rouse their suspicions, the Pawnees might somewhat relax their vigilance and make it easier for the little company of Ogalalas to enter the camp.

As twilight finally gathered upon the plain, Curly Horse sent for White Otter and the warriors who were to accompany him in his perilous undertaking. They found the stern Minneconjoux war chief and Laughing Bird waiting to receive them.

"My brothers, I have called you here to tell you what is in my heart," said Curly Horse, as the Ogalalas stood before him. "Pretty soon you are going ahead to do a hard thing. You will be in great danger. White Otter, you are the leader. You are a young man. It is true that you have done some great things. But I have seen many more winters. Yes, I have been in many more battles. You must listen to my words."

"When the great chief, Curly Horse, speaks, my ears are open," replied the young Ogalala.

"It is good," resumed Curly Horse. "Now I will tell you what to do. If you live to get to the edge of that camp, you must wait there until you hear the great Dacotah war cry. When you hear that, you must rush into the camp. After that you must do whatever comes into your heart. If you get your people away, then you must keep shouting, so that we will not kill you. Yes, we will be right up to the camp. Then we will go in and take some ponies. I believe it will be a great fight. Now I have told you all I know about it."

"Curly Horse, I will keep your words in my heart," White Otter assured the Minneconjoux chief. "I see that the great chief, Laughing Bird, is standing beside you. Well, I will ask him if he has any words."

"My young brother, I am not the leader of this great war party," replied Laughing Bird. "Curly Horse has told you what to do. It is enough. But I will tell you that if you do this thing, it will be something to talk about. You are standing here with those brave men who are going with you. I see that two of them are very young. It makes me feel sad. Perhaps I will never see any of you again. I see that four of you are Ogalalas, and two of you are Minneconjoux. I am an Uncapapa, but you all are my brothers. Yes, we are Dacotahs. The Dacotahs have hearts like the bear. It is good. Go. I have finished."

Soon afterward White Otter and his gallant little company rode away to risk their lives in the desperate attempt to save the Ogalala captives. Night had fallen upon the plain, and they had little fear of being discovered before they actually neared the Pawnee camp. Still, they determined to take every precaution, for they fully realized the heavy responsibility that rested upon them. White Otter and Sun Bird each led an extra war pony, for the use of Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse. They had gone some distance when they were suddenly stopped by the sharp bark of the little gray fox.

"It is a Sioux," said White Otter.

After he had repeated the signal three times, they heard the slow, measured hoof-beats of a walking pony. A few moments afterward a Minneconjoux scout appeared out of the darkness.

"Ho, my brother, Big Weasel," said Sun Bird. "You have the ears of a fox."

"Ho, my brothers," replied the Minneconjoux. "I see that you are going ahead to do something. Well, I will tell you that there are Pawnee scouts watching on the ridges near the village. Now I will ask you what you are going to do."

"We are going into that camp, to help Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse," White Otter told him. "Yes, we will wait near the lodges until we hear the great war cry of our people. Then we will rush ahead to keep the Pawnees from killing our brothers."

"Well, it is a brave thing to do, but I believe you will be killed," declared Big Weasel.

"We are Ogalalas," boasted High Eagle. "Wolf Robe is our chief. Is a Dacotah afraid to die for his chief?"

Then Big Weasel left them, and they continued their perilous journey toward the south. They had gone but a short distance, however, when they heard the Minneconjoux imitate the bark of the prairie fox six times in rapid succession. They knew at once that he was advising his companions, in other parts of the plain, that a company of six Sioux were passing.

When White Otter finally came upon the dry stream-bed where he and Little Raven had concealed themselves, he warned his companions that they were nearing the ridge that hid the camp. They advanced with great caution until they came within sight of the long slope itself. Then they stopped, and, after they had muzzled the ponies, the young Ogalala issued his instructions.

"The great Pawnee camp is behind that ridge," he said, softly. "Our people are in that camp. We have come here to help them. Now I will tell you how to do it. First, I will ask my brother, Little Wolf, and my brother, Black Moccasin, to wait here with the ponies. Then I will lead Sun Bird, and Little Raven, and High Eagle to the edge of the camp. I believe that Little Wolf and Black Moccasin would like to go with us. Well, I will tell you that someone must be ready to help us with the ponies. When you hear us make the long howl of the big gray wolf, then you must rush ahead with the ponies until you find us. If you do not do this thing, then we will surely be killed. I have finished."

"My brother, it is true that I would like to go with you," declared Little Wolf, striving to conceal his bitter disappointment. "But I know that you have told us the best way to do. Yes, I know that we will have a hard thing to do. I believe that we will get into the fight. Well, I will wait here with the ponies."

"White Otter, I have listened to your words. You are the leader. I will do as you say," said Black Moccasin.

"It is good," replied White Otter.

Then the four daring scouts who intended to enter the camp surrendered their ponies to Little Wolf and Black Moccasin, and advanced fearlessly into the darkness on foot. They knew that each stride forward was placing them in greater peril, and the thought made them as wary as deer. White Otter led, and the others followed in his cautious footsteps. He knew that hostile scouts were on guard along the summit of the ridge, and he realized the difficulty of crawling between them without being discovered. Therefore, when he finally came within bow-shot of the low slope that caused him so much uneasiness, he asked his companions to wait while he crawled forward to investigate.

He was gone a long time, and his three anxious comrades were growing impatient when he finally returned. He told them that he had actually crawled to the top of the ridge, and looked upon the flickering Pawnee fires. Then he asked them to follow him.

When they arrived at the foot of the slope, they stopped and spent some time listening anxiously. As they heard nothing to furnish them with a clew to the whereabouts of their foes, they saw no reason for further delay. Dropping to their hands and knees, they followed White Otter up the ridge. Just as they reached the top, however, they heard someone talking a few bow-lengths to the west of them.

Warned by a low hiss from White Otter, the alarmed Sioux prepared their weapons, and began to wriggle slowly down the south side of the ridge. They feared to move rapidly, for they knew that careless haste would be almost sure to betray them to their enemies. Their one hope was to get far enough down the slope to avoid being seen if the speakers should advance in their direction. But it soon was evident that the Pawnees were moving in the opposite direction. The Sioux' hearts filled with relief at the thought. Still, they knew that the danger had not passed. A dislodged bowlder or the tell-tale rattle of sliding gravel would be quite sure to reach the sharp ears of the suspicious sentinels who had just passed. Therefore, they continued down the ridge with the greatest caution, feeling carefully with their hands and feet before they attempted to move their bodies.

Once at the base of the slope, they lost little time in advancing toward the camp. As they eventually crept within bow-shot of the lodges, White Otter again asked them to wait, while he went forward to reconnoiter. It was not long before he returned, and told them that the Pawnees were holding an important council.

"I believe that they are talking about Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse," he said.

"Did you see our people?" High Eagle asked anxiously.

"No, I did not see them," replied White Otter. "But my heart tells me that they are alive."

Then he led the way toward the hostile camp. They crept cautiously forward, one behind the other, keeping in the heavy shadows, and moving toward the spot from which White Otter had made his reconnoissance. It was a low, bushy knoll within leaping distance of the edge of the village. When they finally reached it, they sank to the ground and peered eagerly into the camp.




Chapter XIX

A Splendid Victory


The Sioux watched the Pawnees with breathless interest. The intense emotion of the speakers, and the apparent excitement of the audience, soon convinced them that the entire tribe was on the verge of an hysterical outburst. The anxious scouts at the edge of the camp had little doubt that the fate of the unfortunate captives was the topic of discussion. The prisoners themselves were nowhere in sight. However, White Otter pointed out the lodge into which they had been taken the previous night. The Sioux looked upon it with longing eyes. The same thought was in the mind of each. Still, they knew that it would be impossible to reach the shelter without being seen. It was located some distance from the outside of the village, and the brilliant light from the fires illuminated every inch of the ground about it. They realized, therefore, that for the moment, at least, there was nothing to do but to wait.

"I know that man," whispered Little Raven, as a new speaker rose to address the people. "Yes, he is Yellow Cloud. He is the great war chief of all the Pawnees."

The Sioux saw a tall, broad-shouldered warrior of wonderful physique. He wore a trailing head-dress of eagle plumes, and carried a beautiful robe of the white buffalo. His appearance and manner marked him as a man of great distinction. As he began to talk, the Pawnees listened with an eager attention that promised ready obedience to his commands. The Sioux regretted that they were not nearer to him, for Little Raven had been a prisoner of the Pawnees, and was familiar with their dialect. They watched the chief with great anxiety, hoping to gain a clew to his thoughts.

When Yellow Cloud finally ended his harangue, the Sioux saw that the people had been greatly impressed. They began to talk earnestly among themselves, and it seemed as if most of them endorsed the ideas of their chief. Then several other warriors spoke, and as the last rose to his feet, Little Raven seized White Otter's arm with much agitation.

"That man is Standing Elk; he is a great medicine-man!" he whispered, excitedly. "Yes, I knew him when I was a prisoner in the village of the great chief, Two Moons. But Two Moons was killed by our brothers, the brave Cheyennes. Now I believe that Standing Elk is a great chief. I will tell you that his people will listen to his words. His heart is black against the Dacotahs. I believe he will ask the Pawnees to kill our people."

"Perhaps they will not kill a great medicine-man like Yellow Horse," White Otter said, hopefully.

The idea had sustained him ever since he had learned of the plight of his tribesmen. He knew that even the most bitter enemies often spared the lives of these powerful men of mystery, and he had hoped that Yellow Horse's great gifts of magic would protect Wolf Robe as well as himself. Now he began to doubt. Having learned the identity of the warrior who was apparently working himself into a perfect frenzy of excitement, the young Ogalala dreaded the effect on his audience. It was soon apparent that his words were changing the opinions of many of the warriors. As he proceeded with his wild harangue, a number of the younger men began to call out in approval of his talk. Their enthusiasm quickly spread to their companions, and it was not long before the vengeful medicine-man had injected his own bitterness and hate into the hearts of his listeners. The Pawnees were fast losing control of themselves. It was evident that Standing Elk was deliberately rousing them into a fury.

"That man will make it bad for our people," whispered White Otter, as his eyes flashed dangerously.

"Yes, he is putting fire into the hearts of the Wolf People," replied Sun Bird.

The Sioux longed to drive their arrows into his heart, but they knew that it would only hasten the death of the men whom they wished to save. They realized that it would be folly to act until they learned what the Pawnees really planned to do with the prisoners. Their one hope was that Standing Elk's talk would lead to further discussion, and more delay. The night was already half gone, and each moment gained strengthened the chances of Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse. Therefore, although they saw that his words were rousing the wrath of the people to uncontrollable bounds, the Sioux were eager for him to continue.

"If that man keeps talking, perhaps we will get a chance to do what we came here to do," said Sun Bird. "But if he stops, then I believe we will have to die with our people."

"Well, I believe that we will hear the great Dacotah war cry pretty soon," High Eagle declared, hopefully.

Then Standing Elk suddenly ended his talk, and all hope fled from the hearts of the anxious watchers at the border of the camp. The people were carried away with excitement, and the camp was instantly in a turmoil. A number of warriors had already begun to dance and sing, and others quickly joined them. As the excitement increased, several men rushed toward the lodge which the Sioux believed contained the prisoners.

"Come!" White Otter cried, recklessly. "We will rush into the camp, and die with our people."

"Wait," cautioned High Eagle. "Perhaps we can do something better."

The next moment proved the wisdom of his caution, for Yellow Cloud cried out in a tone of commanding authority, and the warriors who were about to enter the lodge stopped short at his challenge. As they turned, the chief beckoned for them to return, and they obeyed without a moment's hesitation. Then Yellow Cloud again addressed the council. He spoke with a ringing eloquence that compelled instant attention. The Pawnees listened in respectful silence, and it was only a few moments before he had the vast assemblage completely under his control. The Sioux looked upon him with admiration. It was a remarkable exhibition of the influence and power which this great chief exercised over his people, and the Dacotahs were much impressed.

"He is a great man," said Sun Bird.

"Yes, I believe that the Pawnees will do what ever he says," replied White Otter.

Yellow Cloud did not talk long. He spoke with an earnestness that carried conviction, and the Sioux would have given much to know what he said. However, they read a clew from the face and manner of Standing Elk, the warlike medicine-man. He soon made it plain that the Pawnee chief was talking against him. The Dacotahs wondered, therefore, whether Yellow Cloud was actually pleading for the lives of his captives. It seemed too much to hope, and still they realized that he might fear to kill a man possessing the mysterious powers credited to Yellow Horse. At any rate the Sioux felt quite sure that he would at least prolong the delay, and for the moment it satisfied them.

When the Pawnee chief had finished speaking, his tribesmen maintained an impressive silence. As they waited, the warriors turned their eyes upon the glowering face of the medicine-man, but Standing Elk made no attempt to resume his talk. Then Yellow Cloud called several stalwart warriors, and sent them to the lodge which apparently sheltered the Ogalalas.

"Now we must be ready to do something," White Otter told his companions.

The lodge into which the Pawnees had disappeared was between the great assemblage of warriors and the border of the camp, and the Dacotahs realized that if they would help their tribesmen they must act while Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse were being taken from the lodge to the council-fire. Still, uncertainty as to what the Pawnees planned to do with the prisoners made them hesitate. The talk of the Pawnee war chief had filled them with hope, and yet the fact that he had actually sent for the captives had awakened their distrust. They knew that a word, a look, a gesture might suddenly rouse the passion of that great company of warlike people, and bring instant death upon the helpless prisoners. To delay, therefore, in the hope that Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse would survive the interview unharmed, seemed like abandoning them to their fate. White Otter and his companions realized that once the Ogalalas were engulfed in the great throng of Pawnee fighting men, all attempts to save them would be futile.

"No, there is only one thing to do," White Otter whispered, excitedly, as he watched the entrance of the lodge. "We have come here to help our people. When they come out of that lodge, we must do something. I will give the bark of the little gray fox. Then Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse will know that we are here. Perhaps they will try to help us. But we must be ready to rush into the camp, and do the best we can. I have told you what I am going to do. Now I will ask you to follow me."

"You are the leader; we will follow you," Sun Bird said, calmly.

Aware that the fateful moment was at hand, the Sioux nerved themselves for the desperate attempt to rescue the Ogalalas. Each member of the heroic little band knew that he was probably going to his death, and still there was not a trace of fear in the heart of any of them. Fitting arrows to their bows, they fastened their attention upon the lodge, and watched anxiously for the prisoners.

Their suspense was soon ended, however, for in a few moments the wolfskin over the entrance of the lodge was drawn aside, and two of the three Pawnee guards came out. Then Wolf Robe appeared, and a moment later Yellow Horse followed. The third Pawnee brought up the rear. The Sioux saw that the arms of the Ogalalas were bound, but their feet were free. At sight of them the Pawnees began to shout and jeer, and it was evident that the captives were in considerable peril of violence. They walked fearlessly forward, however, accompanied by their stalwart guards.

The prisoners had not taken three strides, when a piercing yell rose through the night, some distance to the south of the camp. The next instant the plain reverberated with the ringing war cry of the Dacotahs and the thunderous hoofbeats of their ponies.

"Come!" cried White Otter, as he sprang to his feet, and drove his arrow through the Pawnee behind the prisoners.

Sun Bird and High Eagle had already disabled the other guards, and, as Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse seized their opportunity and dashed behind the nearest lodge, their determined tribesmen at the edge of the camp covered their retreat with a deadly volley of arrows. The captives reached the border of the village in safety, and were instantly freed from their bonds by their delighted rescuers.

"Listen, our people are here!" White Otter cried, delightedly, as the Dacotah battle cry rang out on all sides of the camp.

Rushing wildly out on the plain, the little band of Sioux raised their voices in the thrilling cry that was striking terror into the hearts of the demoralized Pawnees. They had not gone much farther than a bow-shot from the camp, when they encountered Little Wolf and Black Moccasin, racing forward in advance of the war party, with the ponies.

Once mounted, Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse dashed away toward the east, to lead their people in the attack on the Pawnee village. White Otter followed them, whooping triumphantly, and with him went Sun Bird and Little Raven.

Having been taken entirely unawares, the Pawnees were thrown into terrific confusion. A company of them rode recklessly out on the plain in pursuit of the escaped Ogalalas, and were soon surrounded and almost annihilated by a great force of Minneconjoux. The few who escaped rushed into the camp and told the people that the plain was actually covered with Sioux. Then Yellow Cloud rallied his warriors for the defense of the village.

"This is the work of that great Sioux medicine-man!" cried the superstitious Pawnees, as they heard their foes yelling savagely on all sides of the camp.

A few moments later the Sioux made their attack. Led by their famous war chiefs, each tribe tried to outdo the others in recklessness and bravery. They raced their ponies to the very border of the camp, and quickly fought their way into the village. Then the panic-stricken Pawnees fled before them in an effort to secure the ponies, and escape into the protection of the night. The Sioux followed close on their heels, however, and fought with a ferocity that knew neither fear nor pity. It was Yellow Horse who overtook Standing Elk, the Pawnee medicine-man, and killed him in a savage hand to hand encounter.

"Come, my brothers, these people have called us women; now we will show them how to fight!" cried Wolf Robe, as he led his warriors into the camp.

The Sioux were entirely successful, and it was not long before they found themselves in possession of the village. Unable to beat back the furious assault of their foes, the Pawnees had fled in wild disorder, leaving most of their ponies and all their lodges in the hands of their enemies. The Dacotahs pursued them far out on the plain, inflicting still greater punishment, and taking many prisoners. Having made their attack a complete surprise, their own losses were comparatively light, and they were wild with joy over their splendid victory.

"Men of the Dacotah nation," cried Curly Horse, as the triumphant war party gathered in the Pawnee camp, "I will tell you that we have done a great thing. It is something to tell about. When the next sun comes, we will start back to our people. We will bring them many ponies and many prisoners. When our brothers see what we have done, they will say some good things about us. Yes, they will sing about it a long time."




Chapter XX

The Crown Of Eagle Plumes


Some days later as the victorious war party approached the vast Sioux encampment, where the Ogalalas had joined the Minneconjoux and the Uncapapas, a great company of warriors galloped across the plain to meet them. When they saw Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse, alive and unharmed, they raced madly back toward the Ogalala lodges, shouting the good tidings at the top of their voices.

"Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse are alive! Yes, they are coming with the great war party!" cried the couriers.

The three camps were soon ringing with the welcome announcement, and the people were thrown into a delirium of joy. The warriors immediately began to beat the war drums, and sing their boastful songs of victory. The women, too, shouted and sang, and the entire nation united in the wild rejoicing.

The war party halted several bow-shots from the camps, and then Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse rode toward the Ogalala camp. As they neared the lodges, the people rushed out on the plain to welcome them. When old Singing Wind saw Wolf Robe riding to meet her, she became delirious from joy.

"You have come back; it is enough!" she cried, hysterically, as she ran to meet him. "White Otter, my son, has kept his word. He has done what he set out to do."

"Yes, he is a great man," declared Wolf Robe, as he dismounted to greet Singing Wind.

Then the entire war party paraded around the border of the great encampment. It was a wonderful spectacle, and the Dacotahs realized that it might never be equalled. It was the first time that these powerful tribes had combined in one vast war company, and the oldest man in the nation could not recall having ever seen anything like it.

"Men of the Dacotahs, look at this thing a long time," cried Rain Crow, the Minneconjoux medicine-man. "Many winters have passed over my head, but I have never looked at anything like this. I do not believe I will ever see so many great warriors together again. Look, Dacotahs, and keep this great sight in your hearts. It is something to talk about as long as you live."

The great host of Sioux fighting men circled slowly around the camp, counting their coups and singing their war songs. They were led by the famous chief, Curly Horse, who shared the honor of the victory with White Otter, whom he invited to ride beside him. They were followed by the sub-chiefs and warriors of the Minneconjoux tribe. Then came Laughing Bird, and with him rode Little Raven, to whom the honor had been accorded in recognition of his courage and loyalty. They were followed by the great force of Uncapapas, men whose valor and fearlessness made them the idols of the Dacotah nation. After them followed Wolf Robe and Yellow Horse, with Sun Bird riding between them. Their appearance was the signal for an enthusiastic demonstration from the throng of spectators along the border of the camp. The Ogalala fighting force had been sadly weakened in the two furious engagements with, the Pawnees, and many famous warriors were missing from the company. Still, these lion-hearted people sang their songs of triumph with as much spirit as their more fortunate tribesmen.

After the Dacotahs had ridden about the camp, the prisoners and the captured ponies were taken into the Minneconjoux village. Then the great company of Sioux warriors rode out on the plain, and formed in a huge square, with the three war chiefs and Rain Crow and Yellow Horse, the medicine-men, in the center. Rain Crow lighted the sacred pipe and smoked to the Great Mystery, to the earth, and to each of the four winds. Then he passed the pipe to Yellow Horse, who repeated the ceremony, and passed the pipe to Curly Horse. After each chief had smoked, the pipe was returned to Rain Crow, who emptied it, and wrapped it in the sacred medicine-bundle. Then Curly Horse addressed the Dacotahs.

"My people, my heart is filled with brave thoughts," declared the distinguished warrior, as he looked proudly upon the great throng of stern Sioux fighting men. "We have won a great fight. We have brought back many prisoners and many ponies. It is a great thing to tell about. Our people have been very brave. Yes, those brave Ogalalas and those two brave Minneconjoux who went to the Pawnee camp are great warriors. They got those two great men out of the camp. It was a wonderful thing to do. It makes me feel strong in my heart. Well, you will hear about it when we sit together at the council-fire. Yes, you will hear about some brave things. We will all camp together many days, and sing many songs about this great fight. Now I will ask the great chief, Laughing Bird, to say something. I have finished."

"Dacotahs, you have done a great thing," said Laughing Bird. "I have been in many battles, but that fight was the greatest of them all. My people fought very hard. But I must tell you that the great chief, Curly Horse, is a good leader. His people did some big things. Yes, I must tell you that Wolf Robe and his people were as brave as the bear. But those fearless warriors who went to the Pawnee camp were the bravest of all. When I think about it, I feel good in my heart. I am going to give some ponies to those brave men before I go away. I see the great chief, Wolf Robe, with us here. Well, I will ask him to tell you something."

The venerable war chief of the Ogalalas was greeted with shouts of approval as he prepared to speak. It was some minutes before the noisy ovation finally subsided. Then Wolf Robe began to talk.

"My brothers, you see me sitting on my pony, and you hear my voice," he said. "Do you know how I come to be here? Well, I will tell you about it. My brother, Curly Horse, and his people came to help me. They were very brave. My brother, Laughing Bird, and his people came to help me. They were very brave. My brother, Spotted Bear, and my people came to help me. They were very brave. All those great warriors rode a long way to get me out of that camp. But I must tell you that White Otter, and Sun Bird, and Little Raven, and High Eagle, and Black Moccasin and Little Wolf were the men who saved my life. Yes, they came to the edge of the camp, and drove their arrows through the Pawnees. They made it easy for us to run out of the village. I am going to ask those brave men to ride out here in front of me."

As the heroic little company rode into the center of the square to meet the chiefs, they received a stirring ovation from their tribesmen. As they lined up before the Ogalala chief, he turned and spoke a few words with his associates. Then he asked Yellow Horse to address the six heroes.

"My brothers, you have heard some good words from Wolf Robe," he told them. "Well, they are true. You have saved my life. You are very brave. Three of you are young men. It was a great thing to do. Now I am going to do something good. I am going to give three fast ponies to each of you. I have finished."

"Well, you have heard Yellow Horse," said Wolf Robe. "Now I am going to tell you something good. I am going to give Little Raven ten fast ponies, because he is very young, and he has done a great thing. I am going to give Sun Bird, and High Eagle, and Black Moccasin and Little Wolf each five ponies because they have saved my life. Now, Dacotahs, you must listen to what I am going to say. I am getting old. I have fought in many battles. I have led my people to many victories. It is enough. Pretty soon a young man must take my place. I have no son. But the son of Standing Buffalo, who has gone on the Long Trail, is my grandson. He has done some great things. He is as sly as the fox and as brave as the bear. He has saved my life. He has done a great thing for his people. Now I am going to take off this war bonnet. See, Dacotahs, I am going to give it to my grandson, White Otter. He is brave enough to wear it. He will lead the Ogalalas to many victories. I have spoken."

As he concluded his speech, the Ogalala war chief asked White Otter to dismount. Then he, too, slid from his pony. For a moment or so the battle-scarred veteran and the famous young warrior stood, clasping hands. Then Wolf Robe smiled, and placed the coveted head-dress of eagle plumes upon the lad's head. The Ogalalas sanctioned the deed with a mighty shout of approval, and a moment afterward the entire company of Dacotahs acclaimed the young leader with the nation's ringing war cry.

<eob>

Zanzibar Tales Told By Natives Of The East Coast Of Africa

By

George W. Bateman



I.

The Monkey, The Shark, And The Washerman's Donkey.


Once upon a time Kee'ma, the monkey, and Pa'pa, the shark, became great friends.

The monkey lived in an immense mkooyoo tree which grew by the margin of the sea -- half of its branches being over the water and half over the land.

Every morning, when the monkey was breakfasting on the kooyoo nuts, the shark would put in an appearance under the tree and call out, "Throw me some food, my friend;" with which request the monkey complied most willingly.

This continued for many months, until one day Papa said, "Keema, you have done me many kindnesses: I would like you to go with me to my home, that I may repay you."

"How can I go?" said the monkey; "we land beasts can not go about in the water."

"Don't trouble yourself about that," replied the shark; "I will carry you. Not a drop of water shall get to you."

"Oh, all right, then," said Mr. Keema; "let's go."

When they had gone about half-way the shark stopped, and said: "You are my friend. I will tell you the truth."

"Why, what is there to tell?" asked the monkey, with surprise.

"Well, you see, the fact is that our sultan is very sick, and we have been told that the only medicine that will do him any good is a monkey's heart."

"Well," exclaimed Keema, "you were very foolish not to tell me that before we started!"

"How so?" asked Papa.

But the monkey was busy thinking up some means of saving himself, and made no reply.

"Well?" said the shark, anxiously; "why don't you speak?"

"Oh, I've nothing to say now. It's too late. But if you had told me this before we started, I might have brought my heart with me."

"What? haven't you your heart here?"

"Huh!" ejaculated Keema; "don't you know about us? When we go out we leave our hearts in the trees, and go about with only our bodies. But I see you don't believe me. You think I'm scared. Come on; let's go to your home, where you can kill me and search for my heart in vain."

The shark did believe him, though, and exclaimed, "Oh, no; let's go back and get your heart."

"Indeed, no," protested Keema; "let us go on to your home."

But the shark insisted that they should go back, get the heart, and start afresh.

At last, with great apparent reluctance, the monkey consented, grumbling sulkily at the unnecessary trouble he was being put to.

When they got back to the tree, he climbed up in a great hurry, calling out, "Wait there, Papa, my friend, while I get my heart, and we'll start off properly next time."

When he had got well up among the branches, he sat down and kept quite still.

After waiting what he considered a reasonable length of time, the shark called, "Come along, Keema!" But Keema just kept still and said nothing.

In a little while he called again: "Oh, Keema! let's be going."

At this the monkey poked his head out from among the upper branches and asked, in great surprise, "Going? Where?"

"To my home, of course."

"Are you mad?" queried Keema.

"Mad? Why, what do you mean?" cried Papa.

"What's the matter with you?" said the monkey. "Do you take me for a washerman's donkey?"

"What peculiarity is there about a washerman's donkey?"

"It is a creature that has neither heart nor ears."

The shark, his curiosity overcoming his haste, thereupon begged to be told the story of the washerman's donkey, which the monkey related as follows:

"A washerman owned a donkey, of which he was very fond. One day, however, it ran away, and took up its abode in the forest, where it led a lazy life, and consequently grew very fat.

"At length Soongoo'ra, the hare, by chance passed that way, and saw Poon'da, the donkey.

"Now, the hare is the most cunning of all beasts -- if you look at his mouth you will see that he is always talking to himself about everything.

"So when Soongoora saw Poonda he said to himself, 'My, this donkey is fat!' Then he went and told Sim'ba, the lion.

"As Simba was just recovering from a severe illness, he was still so weak that he could not go hunting. He was consequently pretty hungry.

"Said Mr. Soongoora, 'I'll bring enough meat to-morrow for both of us to have a great feast, but you'll have to do the killing.'

"'All right, good friend,' exclaimed Simba, joyfully; 'you're very kind.'

"So the hare scampered off to the forest, found the donkey, and said to her, in his most courtly manner, 'Miss Poonda, I am sent to ask your hand in marriage.'

"'By whom?' simpered the donkey.

"'By Simba, the lion.'

"The donkey was greatly elated at this, and exclaimed: 'Let's go at once. This is a first-class offer.'

"They soon arrived at the lion's home, were cordially invited in, and sat down. Soongoora gave Simba a signal with his eyebrow, to the effect that this was the promised feast, and that he would wait outside. Then he said to Poonda: 'I must leave you for a while to attend to some private business. You stay here and converse with your husband that is to be.'

"As soon as Soongoora got outside, the lion sprang at Poonda, and they had a great fight. Simba was kicked very hard, and he struck with his claws as well as his weak health would permit him. At last the donkey threw the lion down, and ran away to her home in the forest.

"Shortly after, the hare came back, and called, 'Haya! Simba! have you got it?'

"'I have not got it,' growled the lion; 'she kicked me and ran away; but I warrant you I made her feel pretty sore, though I'm not strong.'

"'Oh, well,' remarked Soongoora; 'don't put yourself out of the way about it.'

"Then Soongoora waited many days, until the lion and the donkey were both well and strong, when he said: 'What do you think now, Simba? Shall I bring you your meat?'

"'Ay,' growled the lion, fiercely; 'bring it to me. I'll tear it in two pieces!'

"So the hare went off to the forest, where the donkey welcomed him and asked the news.

"'You are invited to call again and see your lover,' said Soongoora.

"'Oh, dear!' cried Poonda; 'that day you took me to him he scratched me awfully. I'm afraid to go near him now.'

"'Ah, pshaw!' said Soongoora; 'that's nothing. That's only Simba's way of caressing.'

"'Oh, well,' said the donkey, 'let's go.'

"So off they started again; but as soon as the lion caught sight of Poonda he sprang upon her and tore her in two pieces.

"When the hare came up, Simba said to him: 'Take this meat and roast it. As for myself, all I want is the heart and ears.'

"'Thanks,' said Soongoora. Then he went away and roasted the meat in a place where the lion could not see him, and he took the heart and ears and hid them. Then he ate all the meat he needed, and put the rest away.

"Presently the lion came to him and said, 'Bring me the heart and ears.'

"'Where are they?' said the hare.

"'What does this mean?' growled Simba.

"'Why, didn't you know this was a washerman's donkey?'

"'Well, what's that to do with there being no heart or ears?'

"'For goodness' sake, Simba, aren't you old enough to know that if this beast had possessed a heart and ears it wouldn't have come back the second time?'

"Of course the lion had to admit that what Soongoora, the hare, said was true.

"And now," said Keema to the shark, "you want to make a washerman's donkey of me. Get out of there, and go home by yourself. You are not going to get me again, and our friendship is ended. Good-bye, Papa."



II.

The Hare And The Lion.


One day Soongoo'ra, the hare, roaming through the forest in search of food, glanced up through the boughs of a very large calabash tree, and saw that a great hole in the upper part of the trunk was inhabited by bees; thereupon he returned to town in search of some one to go with him and help to get the honey.

As he was passing the house of Boo'koo, the big rat, that worthy gentleman invited him in. So he went in, sat down, and remarked: "My father has died, and has left me a hive of honey. I would like you to come and help me to eat it."

Of course Bookoo jumped at the offer, and he and the hare started off immediately.

When they arrived at the great calabash tree, Soongoora pointed out the bees' nest and said, "Go on; climb up." So, taking some straw with them, they climbed up to the nest, lit the straw, smoked out the bees, put out the fire, and set to work eating the honey.

In the midst of the feast, who should appear at the foot of the tree but Sim'ba, the lion? Looking up, and seeing them eating, he asked, "Who are you?"

Then Soongoora whispered to Bookoo, "Hold your tongue; that old fellow is crazy." But in a very little while Simba roared out angrily: "Who are you, I say? Speak, I tell you!" This made Bookoo so scared that he blurted out, "It's only us!"

Upon this the hare said to him: "You just wrap me up in this straw, call to the lion to keep out of the way, and then throw me down. Then you'll see what will happen."

So Bookoo, the big rat, wrapped Soongoora, the hare, in the straw, and then called to Simba, the lion, "Stand back; I'm going to throw this straw down, and then I'll come down myself." When Simba stepped back out of the way, Bookoo threw down the straw, and as it lay on the ground Soongoora crept out and ran away while the lion was looking up.

After waiting a minute or two, Simba roared out, "Well, come down, I say!" and, there being no help for it, the big rat came down.

As soon as he was within reach, the lion caught hold of him, and asked, "Who was up there with you?"

"Why," said Bookoo, "Soongoora, the hare. Didn't you see him when I threw him down?"

"Of course I didn't see him," replied the lion, in an incredulous tone, and, without wasting further time, he ate the big rat, and then searched around for the hare, but could not find him.

Three days later, Soongoora called on his acquaintance, Ko'bay, the tortoise, and said to him, "Let us go and eat some honey."

"Whose honey?" inquired Kobay, cautiously.

"My father's," Soongoora replied.

"Oh, all right; I'm with you," said the tortoise, eagerly; and away they went.

When they arrived at the great calabash tree they climbed up with their straw, smoked out the bees, sat down, and began to eat.

Just then Mr. Simba, who owned the honey, came out again, and, looking up, inquired, "Who are you, up there?"

Soongoora whispered to Kobay, "Keep quiet;" but when the lion repeated his question angrily, Kobay became suspicious, and said: "I will speak. You told me this honey was yours; am I right in suspecting that it belongs to Simba?"

So, when the lion asked again, "Who are you?" he answered, "It's only us." The lion said, "Come down, then;" and the tortoise answered, "We're coming."

Now, Simba had been keeping an eye open for Soongoora since the day he caught Bookoo, the big rat, and, suspecting that he was up there with Kobay, he said to himself, "I've got him this time, sure."

Seeing that they were caught again, Soongoora said to the tortoise: "Wrap me up in the straw, tell Simba to stand out of the way, and then throw me down. I'll wait for you below. He can't hurt you, you know."

"All right," said Kobay; but while he was wrapping the hare up he said to himself: "This fellow wants to run away, and leave me to bear the lion's anger. He shall get caught first." Therefore, when he had bundled him up, he called out, "Soongoora is coming!" and threw him down.

So Simba caught the hare, and, holding him with his paw, said, "Now, what shall I do with you?" The hare replied, "It's of no use for you to try to eat me; I'm awfully tough." "What would be the best thing to do with you, then?" asked Simba.

"I think," said Soongoora, "you should take me by the tail, whirl me around, and knock me against the ground. Then you may be able to eat me."

So the lion, being deceived, took him by the tail and whirled him around, but just as he was going to knock him on the ground he slipped out of his grasp and ran away, and Simba had the mortification of losing him again.

Angry and disappointed, he turned to the tree and called to Kobay, "You come down, too."

When the tortoise reached the ground, the lion said, "You're pretty hard; what can I do to make you eatable?"

"Oh, that's easy," laughed Kobay; "just put me in the mud and rub my back with your paw until my shell comes off."

Immediately on hearing this, Simba carried Kobay to the water, placed him in the mud, and began, as he supposed, to rub his back; but the tortoise had slipped away, and the lion continued rubbing on a piece of rock until his paws were raw. When he glanced down at them he saw they were bleeding, and, realizing that he had again been outwitted, he said, "Well, the hare has done me to-day, but I'll go hunting now until I find him."

So Simba, the lion, set out immediately in search of Soongoora, the hare, and as he went along he inquired of every one he met, "Where is the house of Soongoora?" But each person he asked answered, "I do not know." For the hare had said to his wife, "Let us remove from this house." Therefore the folks in that neighborhood had no knowledge of his whereabouts. Simba, however, went along, continuing his inquiries, until presently one answered, "That is his house on the top of the mountain."

Without loss of time the lion climbed the mountain, and soon arrived at the place indicated, only to find that there was no one at home. This, however, did not trouble him; on the contrary, saying to himself, "I'll hide myself inside, and when Soongoora and his wife come home I'll eat them both," he entered the house and lay down, awaiting their arrival.

Pretty soon along came the hare with his wife, not thinking of any danger; but he very soon discovered the marks of the lion's paws on the steep path. Stopping at once, he said to Mrs. Soongoora: "You go back, my dear. Simba, the lion, has passed this way, and I think he must be looking for me."

But she replied, "I will not go back; I will follow you, my husband."

Although greatly pleased at this proof of his wife's affection, Soongoora said firmly: "No, no; you have friends to go to. Go back."

So he persuaded her, and she went back; but he kept on, following the footmarks, and saw -- as he had suspected -- that they went into his house.

"Ah!" said he to himself, "Mr. Lion is inside, is he?" Then, cautiously going back a little way, he called out: "How d'ye do, house? How d'ye do?" Waiting a moment, he remarked loudly: "Well, this is very strange! Every day, as I pass this place, I say, 'How d'ye do, house?' and the house always answers, 'How d'ye do?' There must be some one inside to-day."

When the lion heard this he called out, "How d'ye do?"

Then Soongoora burst out laughing, and shouted: "Oho, Mr. Simba! You're inside, and I'll bet you want to eat me; but first tell me where you ever heard of a house talking!"

Upon this the lion, seeing how he had been fooled, replied angrily, "You wait until I get hold of you; that's all."

"Oh, I think you'll have to do the waiting," cried the hare; and then he ran away, the lion following.

But it was of no use. Soongoora completely tired out old Simba, who, saying, "That rascal has beaten me; I don't want to have anything more to do with him," returned to his home under the great calabash tree.



III.

The Lion, The Hyena, And The Rabbit.


Once upon a time Sim'ba, the lion, Fee'see, the hyena, and Keetee'tee, the rabbit, made up their minds to go in for a little farming. So they went into the country, made a garden, planted all kinds of seeds, and then came home and rested quite a while.

Then, when the time came when their crops should be about ripe and ready for harvesting, they began to say to each other, "Let's go over to the farm, and see how our crops are coming along."

So one morning, early, they started, and, as the garden was a long way off, Keeteetee, the rabbit, made this proposition: "While we are going to the farm, let us not stop on the road; and if any one does stop, let him be eaten." His companions, not being so cunning as he, and knowing they could outwalk him, readily consented to this arrangement.

Well, off they went; but they had not gone very far when the rabbit stopped.

"Hullo!" said Feesee, the hyena; "Keeteetee has stopped. He must be eaten."

"That's the bargain," agreed Simba, the lion.

"Well," said the rabbit, "I happened to be thinking."

"What about?" cried his partners, with great curiosity.

"I'm thinking," said he, with a grave, philosophical air, "about those two stones, one big and one little; the little one does not go up, nor does the big one go down."

The lion and the hyena, having stopped to look at the stones, could only say, "Why, really, it's singular; but it's just as you say;" and they all resumed their journey, the rabbit being by this time well rested.

When they had gone some distance the rabbit stopped again.

"Aha!" said Feesee; "Keeteetee has stopped again. Now he must be eaten."

"I rather think so," assented Simba.

"Well," said the rabbit, "I was thinking again."

Their curiosity once more aroused, his comrades begged him to tell them his think.

"Why," said he, "I was thinking this: When people like us put on new coats, where do the old ones go to?"

Both Simba and Feesee, having stopped a moment to consider the matter, exclaimed together, "Well, I wonder!" and the three went on, the rabbit having again had a good rest.

After a little while the hyena, thinking it about time to show off a little of his philosophy, suddenly stopped.

"Here," growled Simba, "this won't do; I guess we'll have to eat you, Feesee."

"Oh, no," said the hyena; "I'm thinking."

"What are you thinking about?" they inquired.

"I'm thinking about nothing at all," said he, imagining himself very smart and witty.

"Ah, pshaw!" cried Keeteetee; "we won't be fooled that way."

So he and Simba ate the hyena.

When they had finished eating their friend, the lion and the rabbit proceeded on their way, and presently came to a place where there was a cave, and here the rabbit stopped.

"H'm!" ejaculated Simba; "I'm not so hungry as I was this morning, but I guess I'll have to find room for you, little Keeteetee."

"Oh, I believe not," replied Keeteetee; "I'm thinking again."

"Well," said the lion, "what is it this time?"

Said the rabbit: "I'm thinking about that cave. In olden times our ancestors used to go in here, and go out there, and I think I'll try and follow in their footsteps."

So he went in at one end and out at the other end several times.

Then he said to the lion, "Simba, old fellow, let's see you try to do that;" and the lion went into the cave, but he stuck fast, and could neither go forward nor back out.

In a moment Keeteetee was on Simba's back, and began eating him.

After a little time the lion cried, "Oh, brother, be impartial; come and eat some of the front part of me."

But the rabbit replied, "Indeed, I can't come around in front; I'm ashamed to look you in the face."

So, having eaten all he was able to, he left the lion there, and went and became sole owner of the farm and its crops.



IV.

The Kites And The Crows.


One day Koongoo'roo, sultan of the crows, sent a letter to Mway'way, sultan of the kites, containing these few words: "I want you folks to be my soldiers."

To this brief message Mwayway at once wrote this short reply: "I should say not."

Thereupon, thinking to scare Mwayway, the sultan of the crows sent him word, "If you refuse to obey me I'll make war upon you."

To which the sultan of the kites replied, "That suits me; let us fight, and if you beat us we will obey you, but if we are victors you shall be our servants."

So they gathered their forces and engaged in a great battle, and in a little while it became evident that the crows were being badly beaten.

As it appeared certain that, if something were not done pretty quickly, they would all be killed, one old crow, named Jeeoo'see, suddenly proposed that they should fly away.

Directly the suggestion was made it was acted upon, and the crows left their homes and flew far away, where they set up another town. So, when the kites entered the place, they found no one there, and they took up their residence in Crowtown.

One day, when the crows had gathered in council, Koongooroo stood up and said: "My people, do as I command you, and all will be well. Pluck out some of my feathers and throw me into the town of the kites; then come back and stay here until you hear from me."

Without argument or questioning the crows obeyed their sultan's command.

Koongooroo had lain in the street but a short time, when some passing kites saw him and inquired threateningly, "What are you doing here in our town?"

With many a moan he replied, "My companions have beaten me and turned me out of their town because I advised them to obey Mwayway, sultan of the kites."

When they heard this they picked him up and took him before the sultan, to whom they said, "We found this fellow lying in the street, and he attributes his involuntary presence in our town to so singular a circumstance that we thought you should hear his story."

Koongooroo was then bidden to repeat his statement, which he did, adding the remark that, much as he had suffered, he still held to his opinion that Mwayway was his rightful sultan.

This, of course, made a very favorable impression, and the sultan said, "You have more sense than all the rest of your tribe put together; I guess you can stay here and live with us."

So Koongooroo, expressing much gratitude, settled down, apparently, to spend the remainder of his life with the kites.

One day his neighbors took him to church with them, and when they returned home they asked him, "Who have the best kind of religion, the kites or the crows?"

To which crafty old Koongooroo replied, with great enthusiasm, "Oh, the kites, by long odds!"

This answer tickled the kites like anything, and Koongooroo was looked upon as a bird of remarkable discernment.

When almost another week had passed, the sultan of the crows slipped away in the night, went to his own town, and called his people together.

"To-morrow," said he, "is the great annual religious festival of the kites, and they will all go to church in the morning. Go, now, and get some wood and some fire, and wait near their town until I call you; then come quickly and set fire to the church."

Then he hurried back to Mwayway's town.

The crows were very busy indeed all that night, and by dawn they had an abundance of wood and fire at hand, and were lying in wait near the town of their victorious enemies.

So in the morning every kite went to church. There was not one person left at home except old Koongooroo.

When his neighbors called for him they found him lying down. "Why!" they exclaimed with surprise, "are you not going to church to-day?"

"Oh," said he, "I wish I could; but my stomach aches so badly I can't move!" And he groaned dreadfully.

"Ah, poor fellow!" said they; "you will be better in bed;" and they left him to himself.

As soon as everybody was out of sight he flew swiftly to his soldiers and cried, "Come on; they're all in the church."

Then they all crept quickly but quietly to the church, and while some piled wood about the door, others applied fire.

The wood caught readily, and the fire was burning fiercely before the kites were aware of their danger; but when the church began to fill with smoke, and tongues of flame shot through the cracks, they tried to escape through the windows. The greater part of them, however, were suffocated, or, having their wings singed, could not fly away, and so were burned to death, among them their sultan, Mwayway; and Koongooroo and his crows got their old town back again.

From that day to this the kites fly away from the crows.



V.

Goso, The Teacher.


Once there was a man named Go'so, who taught children to read, not in a schoolhouse, but under a calabash tree. One evening, while Goso was sitting under the tree deep in the study of the next day's lessons, Paa, the gazelle, climbed up the tree very quietly to steal some fruit, and in so doing shook off a calabash, which, in falling, struck the teacher on the head and killed him.

When his scholars came in the morning and found their teacher lying dead, they were filled with grief; so, after giving him a decent burial, they agreed among themselves to find the one who had killed Goso, and put him to death.

After talking the matter over they came to the conclusion that the south wind was the offender.

So they caught the south wind and beat it.

But the south wind cried: "Here! I am Koo'see, the south wind. Why are you beating me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Koosee; it was you who threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Koosee said, "If I were so powerful would I be stopped by a mud wall?"

So they went to the mud wall and beat it.

But the mud wall cried: "Here! I am Keeyambaa'za, the mud wall. Why are you beating me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Keeyambaaza; it was you who stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Keeyambaaza said, "If I were so powerful would I be bored through by the rat?"

So they went and caught the rat and beat it.

But the rat cried: "Here! I am Paan'ya, the rat. Why are you beating me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Paanya; it was you who bored through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Paanya said, "If I were so powerful would I be eaten by a cat?"

So they hunted for the cat, caught it, and beat it.

But the cat cried: "Here! I am Paa'ka, the cat. Why do you beat me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Paaka; it is you that eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Paaka said, "If I were so powerful would I be tied by a rope?"

So they took the rope and beat it.

But the rope cried: "Here! I am Kaam'ba, the rope. Why do you beat me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Kaamba; it is you that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Kaamba said, "If I were so powerful would I be cut by a knife?"

So they took the knife and beat it.

But the knife cried: "Here! I am Kee'soo, the knife. Why do you beat me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Keesoo; you cut Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Keesoo said, "If I were so powerful would I be burned by the fire?"

And they went and beat the fire.

But the fire cried: "Here! I am Mo'to, the fire. Why do you beat me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Moto; you burn Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Moto said, "If I were so powerful would I be put out by water?"

And they went to the water and beat it.

But the water cried: "Here! I am Maa'jee, the water. Why do you beat me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Maajee; you put out Moto, the fire; that burns Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Maajee said, "If I were so powerful would I be drunk by the ox?"

And they went to the ox and beat it.

But the ox cried: "Here! I am Ng'om'bay, the ox. Why do you beat me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Ng'ombay; you drink Maajee, the water; that puts out Moto, the fire; that burns Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Ng'ombay said, "If I were so powerful would I be tormented by the fly?"

And they caught a fly and beat it.

But the fly cried: "Here! I am Een'zee, the fly. Why do you beat me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Eenzee; you torment Ng'ombay, the ox; who drinks Maajee, the water; that puts out Moto, the fire; that burns Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

But Eenzee said, "If I were so powerful would I be eaten by the gazelle?"

And they searched for the gazelle, and when they found it they beat it.

But the gazelle said: "Here! I am Paa, the gazelle. Why do you beat me? What have I done?"

And they said: "Yes, we know you are Paa; you eat Eenzee, the fly; that torments Ng'ombay, the ox; who drinks Maajee, the water; that puts out Moto, the fire; that burns Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it."

The gazelle, through surprise at being found out and fear of the consequences of his accidental killing of the teacher, while engaged in stealing, was struck dumb.

Then the scholars said: "Ah! he hasn't a word to say for himself. This is the fellow who threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. We will kill him."

So they killed Paa, the gazelle, and avenged the death of their teacher.



VI.

The Ape, The Snake, And The Lion.


Long, long ago there lived, in a village called Keejee'jee, a woman whose husband died, leaving her with a little baby boy. She worked hard all day to get food for herself and child, but they lived very poorly and were most of the time half-starved.

When the boy, whose name was 'Mvoo' Laa'na, began to get big, he said to his mother, one day: "Mother, we are always hungry. What work did my father do to support us?"

His mother replied: "Your father was a hunter. He set traps, and we ate what he caught in them."

"Oho!" said 'Mvoo Laana; "that's not work; that's fun. I, too, will set traps, and see if we can't get enough to eat."

The next day he went into the forest and cut branches from the trees, and returned home in the evening.

The second day he spent making the branches into traps.

The third day he twisted cocoanut fiber into ropes.

The fourth day he set up as many traps as time would permit.

The fifth day he set up the remainder of the traps.

The sixth day he went to examine the traps, and they had caught so much game, beside what they needed for themselves, that he took a great quantity to the big town of Oongoo'ja, where he sold it and bought corn and other things, and the house was full of food; and, as this good fortune continued, he and his mother lived very comfortably.

But after a while, when he went to his traps he found nothing in them day after day.

One morning, however, he found that an ape had been caught in one of the traps, and he was about to kill it, when it said: "Son of Adam, I am Neea'nee, the ape; do not kill me. Take me out of this trap and let me go. Save me from the rain, that I may come and save you from the sun some day."

So 'Mvoo Laana took him out of the trap and let him go.

When Neeanee had climbed up in a tree, he sat on a branch and said to the youth: "For your kindness I will give you a piece of advice: Believe me, men are all bad. Never do a good turn for a man; if you do, he will do you harm at the first opportunity."

The second day, 'Mvoo Laana found a snake in the same trap. He started to the village to give the alarm, but the snake shouted: "Come back, son of Adam; don't call the people from the village to come and kill me. I am Neeo'ka, the snake. Let me out of this trap, I pray you. Save me from the rain to-day, that I may be able to save you from the sun to-morrow, if you should be in need of help."

So the youth let him go; and as he went he said, "I will return your kindness if I can, but do not trust any man; if you do him a kindness he will do you an injury in return at the first opportunity."

The third day, 'Mvoo Laana found a lion in the same trap that had caught the ape and the snake, and he was afraid to go near it. But the lion said: "Don't run away; I am Sim'ba Kong'way, the very old lion. Let me out of this trap, and I will not hurt you. Save me from the rain, that I may save you from the sun if you should need help."

So 'Mvoo Laana believed him and let him out of the trap, and Simba Kongway, before going his way, said: "Son of Adam, you have been kind to me, and I will repay you with kindness if I can; but never do a kindness to a man, or he will pay you back with unkindness."

The next day a man was caught in the same trap, and when the youth released him, he repeatedly assured him that he would never forget the service he had done him in restoring his liberty and saving his life.

Well, it seemed that he had caught all the game that could be taken in traps, and 'Mvoo Laana and his mother were hungry every day, with nothing to satisfy them, as they had been before. At last he said to his mother, one day: "Mother, make me seven cakes of the little meal we have left, and I will go hunting with my bow and arrows." So she baked him the cakes, and he took them and his bow and arrows and went into the forest.

The youth walked and walked, but could see no game, and finally he found that he had lost his way, and had eaten all his cakes but one.

And he went on and on, not knowing whether he was going away from his home or toward it, until he came to the wildest and most desolate looking wood he had ever seen. He was so wretched and tired that he felt he must lie down and die, when suddenly he heard some one calling him, and looking up he saw Neeanee, the ape, who said, "Son of Adam, where are you going?"

"I don't know," replied 'Mvoo Laana, sadly; "I'm lost."

"Well, well," said the ape; "don't worry. Just sit down here and rest yourself until I come back, and I will repay with kindness the kindness you once showed me."

Then Neeanee went away off to some gardens and stole a whole lot of ripe paw-paws and bananas, and brought them to 'Mvoo Laana, and said: "Here's plenty of food for you. Is there anything else you want? Would you like a drink?" And before the youth could answer he ran off with a calabash and brought it back full of water. So the youth ate heartily, and drank all the water he needed, and then each said to the other, "Good-bye, till we meet again," and went their separate ways.

When 'Mvoo Laana had walked a great deal farther without finding which way he should go, he met Simba Kongway, who asked, "Where are you going, son of Adam?"

And the youth answered, as dolefully as before, "I don't know; I'm lost."

"Come, cheer up," said the very old lion, "and rest yourself here a little. I want to repay with kindness to-day the kindness you showed me on a former day."

So 'Mvoo Laana sat down. Simba Kongway went away, but soon returned with some game he had caught, and then he brought some fire, and the young man cooked the game and ate it. When he had finished he felt a great deal better, and they bade each other good-bye for the present, and each went his way.

After he had traveled another very long distance the youth came to a farm, and was met by a very, very old woman, who said to him: "Stranger, my husband has been taken very sick, and I am looking for some one to make him some medicine. Won't you make it?" But he answered: "My good woman, I am not a doctor, I am a hunter, and never used medicine in my life. I can not help you."

When he came to the road leading to the principal city he saw a well, with a bucket standing near it, and he said to himself: "That's just what I want. I'll take a drink of nice well-water. Let me see if the water can be reached."

As he peeped over the edge of the well, to see if the water was high enough, what should he behold but a great big snake, which, directly it saw him, said, "Son of Adam, wait a moment." Then it came out of the well and said: "How? Don't you know me?"

"I certainly do not," said the youth, stepping back a little.

"Well, well!" said the snake; "I could never forget you. I am Neeoka, whom you released from the trap. You know I said, 'Save me from the rain, and I will save you from the sun.' Now, you are a stranger in the town to which you are going; therefore hand me your little bag, and I will place in it the things that will be of use to you when you arrive there."

So 'Mvoo Laana gave Neeoka the little bag, and he filled it with chains of gold and silver, and told him to use them freely for his own benefit. Then they parted very cordially.

When the youth reached the city, the first man he met was he whom he had released from the trap, who invited him to go home with him, which he did, and the man's wife made him supper.

As soon as he could get away unobserved, the man went to the sultan and said: "There is a stranger come to my house with a bag full of chains of silver and gold, which he says he got from a snake that lives in a well. But although he pretends to be a man, I know that he is a snake who has power to look like a man."

When the sultan heard this he sent some soldiers who brought 'Mvoo Laana and his little bag before him. When they opened the little bag, the man who was released from the trap persuaded the people that some evil would come out of it, and affect the children of the sultan and the children of the vizir.

Then the people became excited, and tied the hands of 'Mvoo Laana behind him.

But the great snake had come out of the well and arrived at the town just about this time, and he went and lay at the feet of the man who had said all those bad things about 'Mvoo Laana, and when the people saw this they said to that man: "How is this? There is the great snake that lives in the well, and he stays by you. Tell him to go away."

But Neeoka would not stir. So they untied the young man's hands, and tried in every way to make amends for having suspected him of being a wizard.

Then the sultan asked him, "Why should this man invite you to his home and then speak ill of you?"

And 'Mvoo Laana related all that had happened to him, and how the ape, the snake, and the lion had cautioned him about the results of doing any kindness for a man.

And the sultan said: "Although men are often ungrateful, they are not always so; only the bad ones. As for this fellow, he deserves to be put in a sack and drowned in the sea. He was treated kindly, and returned evil for good."



VII.

Haamdaanee.


Once there was a very poor man, named Haamdaa'nee, who begged from door to door for his living, sometimes taking things before they were offered him. After a while people became suspicious of him, and stopped giving him anything, in order to keep him away from their houses. So at last he was reduced to the necessity of going every morning to the village dust heap, and picking up and eating the few grains of the tiny little millet seed that he might find there.

One day, as he was scratching and turning over the heap, he found a dime, which he tied up in a corner of his ragged dress, and continued to hunt for millet grains, but could not find one.

"Oh, well," said he, "I've got a dime now; I'm pretty well fixed. I'll go home and take a nap instead of a meal."

So he went to his hut, took a drink of water, put some tobacco in his mouth, and went to sleep.

The next morning, as he scratched in the dust heap, he saw a countryman going along, carrying a basket made of twigs, and he called to him: "Hi, there, countryman! What have you in that cage?"

The countryman, whose name was Moohaad'eem, replied, "Gazelles."

And Haamdaanee called: "Bring them here. Let me see them."

Now there were three well-to-do men standing near; and when they saw the countryman coming to Haamdaanee they smiled, and said, "You're taking lots of trouble for nothing, Moohaadeem."

"How's that, gentlemen?" he inquired.

"Why," said they, "that poor fellow has nothing at all. Not a cent."

"Oh, I don't know that," said the countryman; "he may have plenty, for all I know."

"Not he," said they.

"Don't you see for yourself," continued one of them, "that he is on the dust heap? Every day he scratches there like a hen, trying to get enough grains of millet to keep himself alive. If he had any money, wouldn't he buy a square meal, for once in his life? Do you think he would want to buy a gazelle? What would he do with it? He can't find enough food for himself, without looking for any for a gazelle."

But Moohaadeem said: "Gentlemen, I have brought some goods here to sell. I answer all who call me, and if any one says 'Come,' I go to him. I don't favor one and slight another; therefore, as this man called me, I'm going to him."

"All right," said the first man; "you don't believe us. Well, we know where he lives, and all about him, and we know that he can't buy anything."

"That's so," said the second man. "Perhaps, however, you will see that we were right, after you have a talk with him."

To which the third man added, "Clouds are a sign of rain, but we have seen no signs of his being about to spend any money."

"All right, gentlemen," said Moohaadeem; "many better-looking people than he call me, and when I show them my gazelles they say, 'Oh, yes, they're very beautiful, but awfully dear; take them away.' So I shall not be disappointed if this man says the same thing. I shall go to him, anyhow."

Then one of the three men said, "Let us go with this man, and see what the beggar will buy."

"Pshaw!" said another; "buy! You talk foolishly. He has not had a good meal in three years, to my knowledge; and a man in his condition doesn't have money to buy gazelles. However, let's go; and if he makes this poor countryman carry his load over there just for the fun of looking at the gazelles, let each of us give him a good hard whack with our walking-sticks, to teach him how to behave toward honest merchants."

So, when they came near him, one of those three men said: "Well, here are the gazelles; now buy one. Here they are, you old hypocrite; you'll feast your eyes on them, but you can't buy them."

But Haamdaanee, paying no attention to the men, said to Moohaadeem, "How much for one of your gazelles?"

Then another of those men broke in: "You're very innocent, aren't you? You know, as well as I do, that gazelles are sold every day at two for a quarter."

Still taking no notice of these outsiders, Haamdaanee continued, "I'd like to buy one for a dime."

"One for a dime!" laughed the men; "of course you'd like to buy one for a dime. Perhaps you'd also like to have the dime to buy with."

Then one of them gave him a push on the cheek.

At this Haamdaanee turned and said: "Why do you push me on the cheek, when I've done nothing to you? I do not know you. I call this man, to transact some business with him, and you, who are strangers, step in to spoil our trade."

He then untied the knot in the corner of his ragged coat, produced the dime, and, handing it to Moohaadeem, said, "Please, good man, let me have a gazelle for that."

At this, the countryman took a small gazelle out of the cage and handed it to him, saying, "Here, master, take this one. I call it Keejee'paa." Then turning to those three men, he laughed, and said: "Ehe! How's this? You, with your white robes, and turbans, and swords, and daggers, and sandals on your feet -- you gentlemen of property, and no mistake -- you told me this man was too poor to buy anything; yet he has bought a gazelle for a dime, while you fine fellows, I think, haven't enough money among you to buy half a gazelle, if they were five cents each."

Then Moohaadeem and the three men went their several ways.

As for Haamdaanee, he stayed at the dust heap until he found a few grains of millet for himself and a few for Keejeepaa, the gazelle, and then went to his hut, spread his sleeping mat, and he and the gazelle slept together.

This going to the dust heap for a few grains of millet and then going home to bed continued for about a week.

Then one night Haamdaanee was awakened by some one calling, "Master!" Sitting up, he answered: "Here I am. Who calls?" The gazelle answered, "I do!"

Upon this, the beggar man became so scared that he did not know whether he should faint or get up and run away.

Seeing him so overcome, Keejeepaa asked, "Why, master, what's the matter?"

"Oh, gracious!" he gasped; "what a wonder I see!"

"A wonder?" said the gazelle, looking all around; "why, what is this wonder, that makes you act as if you were all broken up?"

"Why, it's so wonderful, I can hardly believe I'm awake!" said his master. "Who in the world ever before knew of a gazelle that could speak?"

"Oho!" laughed Keejeepaa; "is that all? There are many more wonderful things than that. But now, listen, while I tell you why I called you."

"Certainly; I'll listen to every word," said the man. "I can't help listening!"

"Well, you see, it's just this way," said Keejeepaa; "I've allowed you to become my master, and I can not run away from you; so I want you to make an agreement with me, and I will make you a promise, and keep it."

"Say on," said his master.

"Now," continued the gazelle, "one doesn't have to be acquainted with you long, in order to discover that you are very poor. This scratching a few grains of millet from the dust heap every day, and managing to subsist upon them, is all very well for you -- you're used to it, because it's a matter of necessity with you; but if I keep it up much longer, you won't have any gazelle -- Keejeepaa will die of starvation. Therefore, I want to go away every day and feed on my own kind of food; and I promise you I will return every evening."

"Well, I guess I'll have to give my consent," said the man, in no very cheerful tone.

As it was now dawn, Keejeepaa jumped up and ran out of the door, Haamdaanee following him. The gazelle ran very fast, and his master stood watching him until he disappeared. Then tears started in the man's eyes, and, raising his hands, he cried, "Oh, my mother!" Then he cried, "Oh, my father!" Then he cried, "Oh, my gazelle! It has run away!"

Some of his neighbors, who heard him carrying on in this manner, took the opportunity to inform him that he was a fool, an idiot, and a dissipated fellow.

Said one of them: "You hung around that dust heap, goodness knows how long, scratching like a hen, till fortune gave you a dime. You hadn't sense enough to go and buy some decent food; you had to buy a gazelle. Now you've let the creature run away. What are you crying about? You brought all your trouble on yourself."

All this, of course, was very comforting to Haamdaanee, who slunk off to the dust heap, got a few grains of millet, and came back to his hut, which now seemed meaner and more desolate than ever.

At sunset, however, Keejeepaa came trotting in; and the beggar was happy again, and said, "Ah, my friend, you have returned to me."

"Of course," said the gazelle; "didn't I promise you? You see, I feel that when you bought me you gave all the money you had in the world, even though it was only a dime. Why, then, should I grieve you? I couldn't do it. If I go and get myself some food, I'll always come back evenings."

When the neighbors saw the gazelle come home every evening and run off every morning, they were greatly surprised, and began to suspect that Haamdaanee was a wizard.

Well, this coming and going continued for five days, the gazelle telling its master each night what fine places it had been to, and what lots of food it had eaten.

On the sixth day it was feeding among some thorn bushes in a thick wood, when, scratching away some bitter grass at the foot of a big tree, it saw an immense diamond of intense brightness.

"Oho!" said Keejeepaa, in great astonishment; "here's property, and no mistake! This is worth a kingdom! If I take it to my master he will be killed; for, being a poor man, if they say to him, 'Where did you get it?' and he answers, 'I picked it up,' they will not believe him; if he says, 'It was given to me,' they will not believe him either. It will not do for me to get my master into difficulties. I know what I'll do. I'll seek some powerful person; he will use it properly."

So Keejeepaa started off through the forest, holding the diamond in his mouth, and ran, and ran, but saw no town that day; so he slept in the forest, and arose at dawn and pursued his way. And the second day passed like the first.

On the third day the gazelle had traveled from dawn until between eight and nine o'clock, when he began to see scattered houses, getting larger in size, and knew he was approaching a town. In due time he found himself in the main street of a large city, leading direct to the sultan's palace, and began to run as fast as he could. People passing along stopped to look at the strange sight of a gazelle running swiftly along the main street with something wrapped in green leaves between its teeth.

The sultan was sitting at the door of his palace, when Keejeepaa, stopping a little way off, dropped the diamond from its mouth, and, lying down beside it, panting, called out: "Ho, there! Ho, there!" which is a cry every one makes in that part of the world when wishing to enter a house, remaining outside until the cry is answered.

After the cry had been repeated several times, the sultan said to his attendants, "Who is doing all that calling?"

And one answered, "Master, it's a gazelle that's calling, 'Ho, there!'"

"Ho-ho!" said the sultan; "Ho-ho! Invite the gazelle to come near."

Then three attendants ran to Keejeepaa and said: "Come, get up. The sultan commands you to come near."

So the gazelle arose, picked up the diamond, and, approaching the sultan, laid the jewel at his feet, saying, "Master, good afternoon!" To which the sultan replied: "May God make it good! Come near."

The sultan ordered his attendants to bring a carpet and a large cushion, and desired the gazelle to rest upon them. When it protested that it was comfortable as it was, he insisted, and Keejeepaa had to allow himself to be made a very honored guest. Then they brought milk and rice, and the sultan would hear nothing until the gazelle had fed and rested.

At last, when everything had been disposed of, the sultan said, "Well, now, my friend, tell me what news you bring."

And Keejeepaa said: "Master, I don't exactly know how you will like the news I bring. The fact is, I'm sent here to insult you! I've come to try and pick a quarrel with you! In fact, I'm here to propose a family alliance with you!"

At this the sultan exclaimed: "Oh, come! for a gazelle, you certainly know how to talk! Now, the fact of it is, I'm looking for some one to insult me. I'm just aching to have some one pick a quarrel with me. I'm impatient for a family alliance. Go on with your message."

Then Keejeepaa said, "You don't bear any ill will against me, who am only a messenger?"

And the sultan said, "None at all."

"Well," said Keejeepaa, "look at this pledge I bring;" dropping the diamond wrapped in leaves into the sultan's lap.

When the sultan opened the leaves and saw the great, sparkling jewel, he was overcome with astonishment. At last he said, "Well?"

"I have brought this pledge," said the gazelle, "from my master, Sultan Daaraa'ee. He has heard that you have a daughter, so he sent you this jewel, hoping you will forgive him for not sending something more worthy of your acceptance than this trifle."

"Goodness!" said the sultan to himself; "he calls this a trifle!" Then to the gazelle: "Oh, that's all right; that's all right. I'm satisfied. The Sultan Daaraaee has my consent to marry my daughter, and I don't want a single thing from him. Let him come empty-handed. If he has more of these trifles, let him leave them at home. This is my message, and I hope you will make it perfectly clear to your master."

The gazelle assured him that he would explain everything satisfactorily, adding: "And now, master, I take my leave. I go straight to our own town, and hope that in about eleven days we shall return to be your guests." So, with mutual compliments, they parted.

In the meantime, Haamdaanee was having an exceedingly tough time. Keejeepaa having disappeared, he wandered about the town moaning, "Oh, my poor gazelle! my poor gazelle!" while the neighbors laughed and jeered at him, until, between them and his loss, he was nearly out of his mind.

But one evening, when he had gone to bed, Keejeepaa walked in. Up he jumped, and began to embrace the gazelle, and weep over it, and carry on at a great rate.

When he thought there had been about enough of this kind of thing, the gazelle said: "Come, come; keep quiet, my master. I've brought you good news." But the beggar man continued to cry and fondle, and declare that he had thought his gazelle was dead.

At last Keejeepaa said: "Oh, well, master, you see I'm all right. You must brace up, and prepare to hear my news, and do as I advise you."

"Go on; go on," replied his master; "explain what you will, I'll do whatever you require me to do. If you were to say, 'Lie down on your back, that I may roll you over the side of the hill,' I would lie down."

"Well," said the gazelle, "there is not much to explain just now, but I'll tell you this: I've seen many kinds of food, food that is desirable and food that is objectionable, but this food I'm about to offer you is very sweet indeed."

"What?" said Haamdaanee. "Is it possible that in this world there is anything that is positively good? There must be good and bad in everything. Food that is both sweet and bitter is good food, but if food were nothing but sweetness would it not be injurious?"

"H'm!" yawned the gazelle; "I'm too tired to talk philosophy. Let's go to sleep now, and when I call you in the morning, all you have to do is to get up and follow me."

So at dawn they set forth, the gazelle leading the way, and for five days they journeyed through the forest.

On the fifth day they came to a stream, and Keejeepaa said to his master, "Lie down here." When he had done so, the gazelle set to and beat him so soundly that he cried out: "Oh, let up, I beg of you!"

"Now," said the gazelle, "I'm going away, and when I return I expect to find you right here; so don't you leave this spot on any account." Then he ran away, and about ten o'clock that morning he arrived at the house of the sultan.

Now, ever since the day Keejeepaa left the town, soldiers had been placed along the road to watch for and announce the approach of Sultan Daaraaee; so one of them, when he saw the gazelle in the distance, rushed up and cried to the sultan, "Sultan Daaraaee is coming! I've seen the gazelle running as fast as it can in this direction."

The sultan and his attendants immediately set out to meet his guests; but when they had gone a little way beyond the town they met the gazelle coming along alone, who, on reaching the sultan, said, "Good day, my master." The sultan replied in kind, and asked the news, but Keejeepaa said: "Ah, do not ask me. I can scarcely walk, and my news is bad!"

"Why, how is that?" asked the sultan.

"Oh, dear!" sighed the gazelle; "such misfortune and misery! You see, Sultan Daaraaee and I started alone to come here, and we got along all right until we came to the thick part of the forest yonder, when we were met by robbers, who seized my master, bound him, beat him, and took everything he had, even stripping off every stitch of his clothing. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Dear me!" said the sultan; "we must attend to this at once." So, hurrying back with his attendants to his house, he called a groom, to whom he said, "Saddle the best horse in my stable, and put on him my finest harness." Then he directed a woman servant to open the big inlaid chest and bring him a bag of clothes. When she brought it he picked out a loin-cloth, and a long white robe, and a black overjacket, and a shawl for the waist, and a turban cloth, all of the very finest. Then he sent for a curved sword with a gold hilt, and a curved dagger with gold filigree, and a pair of elegant sandals, and a fine walking-cane.

Then the sultan said to Keejeepaa, "Take some of my soldiers, and let them convey these things to Sultan Daaraaee, that he may dress himself and come to me."

But the gazelle answered: "Ah, my master, can I take these soldiers with me and put Sultan Daaraaee to shame? There he lies, beaten and robbed, and I would not have any one see him. I can take everything by myself."

"Why," exclaimed the sultan, "here is a horse, and there are clothes and arms. I don't see how a little gazelle can manage all those things."

But the gazelle had them fasten everything on the horse's back, and tie the end of the bridle around his own neck, and then he set off alone, amidst the wonder and admiration of the people of that city, high and low.

When he arrived at the place where he had left the beggar-man, he found him lying waiting for him, and overjoyed at his return.

"Now," said he, "I have brought you the sweet food I promised. Come, get up and bathe yourself."

With the hesitation of a person long unaccustomed to such a thing, the man stepped into the stream and began to wet himself a little.

"Oh," said the gazelle, impatiently, "a little water like that won't do you much good; get out into the deep pool."

"Dear me!" said the man, timidly; "there is so much water there; and where there is much water there are sure to be horrible animals."

"Animals! What kind of animals?"

"Well, crocodiles, water lizards, snakes, and, at any rate, frogs; and they bite people, and I'm terribly afraid of all of them."

"Oh, well," said Keejeepaa, "do the best you can in the stream; but rub yourself well with earth, and, for goodness' sake, scrub your teeth well with sand; they are awfully dirty."

So the man obeyed, and soon made quite a change in his appearance.

Then the gazelle said: "Here, hurry up and put on these things. The sun has gone down, and we ought to have started before this."

So the man dressed himself in the fine clothes the sultan had sent, and then he mounted the horse, and they started; the gazelle trotting on ahead.

When they had gone some distance, the gazelle stopped, and said, "See here: nobody who sees you now would suspect that you are the man who scratched in the dust heap yesterday. Even if we were to go back to our town the neighbors would not recognize you, if it were only for the fact that your face is clean and your teeth are white. Your appearance is all right, but I have a caution to give you. Over there, where we are going, I have procured for you the sultan's daughter for a wife, with all the usual wedding gifts. Now, you must keep quiet. Say nothing except, 'How d'ye do?' and 'What's the news?' Let me do the talking."

"All right," said the man; "that suits me exactly."

"Do you know what your name is?"

"Of course I do."

"Indeed? Well, what is it?"

"Why, my name is Haamdaanee."

"Not much," laughed Keejeepaa; "your name is Sultan Daaraaee."

"Oh, is it?" said his master. "That's good."

So they started forward again, and in a little while they saw soldiers running in every direction, and fourteen of these joined them to escort them. Then they saw ahead of them the sultan, and the vizirs, and the emirs, and the judges, and the great men of the city, coming to meet them.

"Now, then," said Keejeepaa, "get off your horse and salute your father-in-law. That's him in the middle, wearing the sky-blue jacket."

"All right," said the man, jumping off his horse, which was then led by a soldier.

So the two met, and the sultans shook hands, and kissed each other, and walked up to the palace together.

Then they had a great feast, and made merry and talked until night, at which time Sultan Daaraaee and the gazelle were put into an inner room, with three soldiers at the door to guard and attend upon them.

When the morning came, Keejeepaa went to the sultan and said: "Master, we wish to attend to the business which brought us here. We want to marry your daughter, and the sooner the ceremony takes place, the better it will please the Sultan Daaraaee."

"Why, that's all right," said the sultan; "the bride is ready. Let some one call the teacher, Mwaalee'moo, and tell him to come at once."

When Mwaaleemoo arrived, the sultan said, "See here, we want you to marry this gentleman to my daughter right away."

"All right; I'm ready," said the teacher. So they were married.

Early the next morning the gazelle said to his master: "Now I'm off on a journey. I shall be gone about a week; but however long I am gone, don't you leave the house till I return. Good-bye."

Then he went to the real sultan and said: "Good master, Sultan Daaraaee has ordered me to return to our town and put his house in order; he commands me to be here again in a week; if I do not return by that time, he will stay here until I come."

The sultan asked him if he would not like to have some soldiers go with him; but the gazelle replied that he was quite competent to take care of himself, as his previous journeys had proved, and he preferred to go alone; so with mutual good wishes they parted.

But Keejeepaa did not go in the direction of the old village. He struck off by another road through the forest, and after a time came to a very fine town, of large, handsome houses. As he went through the principal street, right to the far end, he was greatly astonished to observe that the town seemed to have no inhabitants, for he saw neither man, woman, nor child in all the place.

At the end of the main street he came upon the largest and most beautiful house he had ever seen, built of sapphire, and turquoise, and costly marbles.

"Oh, my!" said the gazelle; "this house would just suit my master. I'll have to pluck up my courage and see whether this is deserted like the other houses in this mysterious town."

So Keejeepaa knocked at the door, and called, "Hullo, there!" several times; but no one answered. And he said to himself: "This is strange! If there were no one inside, the door would be fastened on the outside. Perhaps they are in another part of the house, or asleep. I'll call again, louder."

So he called again, very loud and long, "Hul-lo, th-e-re! Hul-lo!" And directly an old woman inside answered, "Who is that calling so loudly?"

"It is I, your grandchild, good mistress," said Keejeepaa.

"If you are my grandchild," replied the old woman, "go back to your home at once; don't come and die here, and bring me to my death also."

"Oh, come," said he, "open the door, mistress; I have just a few words I wish to say to you."

"My dear grandson," she replied, "the only reason why I do not open the door is because I fear to endanger both your life and my own."

"Oh, don't worry about that; I guess your life and mine are safe enough for a while. Open the door, anyhow, and hear the little I have to say."

So the old woman opened the door.

Then they exchanged salutations and compliments, after which she asked the gazelle, "What's the news from your place, grandson?"

"Oh, everything is going along pretty well," said he; "what's the news around here?"

"Ah!" sighed the old creature; "the news here is very bad. If you're looking for a place to die in, you've struck it here. I've not the slightest doubt you'll see all you want of death this very day."

"Huh!" replied Keejeepaa, lightly; "for a fly to die in honey is not bad for the fly, and doesn't injure the honey."

"It may be all very well for you to be easy about it," persisted the old person; "but if people with swords and shields did not escape, how can a little thing like you avoid danger? I must again beg of you to go back to the place you came from. Your safety seems of more interest to me than it is to you."

"Well, you see, I can't go back just now; and besides, I want to find out more about this place. Who owns it?"

"Ah, grandson, in this house are enormous wealth, numbers of people, hundreds of horses, and the owner is Neeo'ka Mkoo', the wonderfully big snake. He owns this whole town, also."

"Oho! Is that so?" said Keejeepaa. "Look here, old lady; can't you put me on to some plan of getting near this big snake, that I may kill him?"

"Mercy!" cried the old woman, in affright; "don't talk like that. You've put my life in danger already, for I'm sure Neeoka Mkoo can hear what is said in this house, wherever he is. You see I'm a poor old woman, and I have been placed here, with those pots and pans, to cook for him. Well, when the big snake is coming, the wind begins to blow and the dust flies as it would do in a great storm. Then, when he arrives in the courtyard, he eats until he is full, and after that, goes inside there to drink water. When he has finished, he goes away again. This occurs every other day, just when the sun is overhead. I may add that Neeoka Mkoo has seven heads. Now, then, do you think yourself a match for him?"

"Look here, mother," said the gazelle, "don't you worry about me. Has this big snake a sword?"

"He has. This is it," said she, taking from its peg a very keen and beautiful blade, and handing it to him; "but what's the use in bothering about it? We are dead already."

"We shall see about that," said Keejeepaa.

Just at that moment the wind began to blow, and the dust to fly, as if a great storm were approaching.

"Do you hear the great one coming?" cried the old woman.

"Pshaw!" said the gazelle; "I'm a great one also -- and I have the advantage of being on the inside. Two bulls can't live in one cattle-pen. Either he will live in this house, or I will."

Notwithstanding the terror the old lady was in, she had to smile at the assurance of this little undersized gazelle, and repeated over again her account of the people with swords and shields who had been killed by the big snake.

"Ah, stop your gabbling!" said the gazelle; "you can't always judge a banana by its color or size. Wait and see, grandma."

In a very little while the big snake, Neeoka Mkoo, came into the courtyard, and went around to all the pots and ate their contents. Then he came to the door.

"Hullo, old lady," said he; "how is it I smell a new kind of odor inside there?"

"Oh, that's nothing, good master," replied the old woman; "I've been so busy around here lately I haven't had time to look after myself; but this morning I used some perfume, and that's what you smell."

Now, Keejeepaa had drawn the sword, and was standing just inside the doorway; so, when the big snake put his head in, it was cut off so quickly that its owner did not know it was gone. When he put in his second head it was cut off with the same quickness; and, feeling a little irritation, he exclaimed, "Who's inside there, scratching me?" He then thrust in his third head, and that was cut off also.

This continued until six heads had been disposed of, when Neeoka Mkoo unfolded his rings and lashed around so that the gazelle and the old woman could not see one another through the dust.

Then the snake thrust in his seventh head, and the gazelle, crying: "Now your time has come; you've climbed many trees, but this you can not climb," severed it, and immediately fell down in a fainting fit.

Well, that old woman, although she was seventy-five years of age, jumped, and shouted, and laughed, like a girl of nine. Then she ran and got water, and sprinkled the gazelle, and turned him this way and that way, until at last he sneezed; which greatly pleased the old person, who fanned him and tended him until he was quite recovered.

"Oh, my!" said she; "who would have thought you could be a match for him, my grandson?"

"Well, well," said Keejeepaa; "that's all over. Now show me everything around this place."

So she showed him everything, from top to bottom: store-rooms full of goods, chambers full of expensive foods, rooms containing handsome people who had been kept prisoners for a long time, slaves, and everything.

Next he asked her if there was any person who was likely to lay claim to the place or make any trouble; and she answered: "No one; everything here belongs to you."

"Very well, then," said he, "you stay here and take care of these things until I bring my master. This place belongs to him now."

Keejeepaa stayed three days examining the house, and said to himself: "Well, when my master comes here he will be much pleased with what I have done for him, and he'll appreciate it after the life he's been accustomed to. As to his father-in-law, there is not a house in his town that can compare with this."

On the fourth day he departed, and in due time arrived at the town where the sultan and his master lived. Then there were great rejoicings; the sultan being particularly pleased at his return, while his master felt as if he had received a new lease of life.

After everything had settled down a little, Keejeepaa told his master he must be ready to go, with his wife, to his new home after four days. Then he went and told the sultan that Sultan Daaraaee desired to take his wife to his own town in four days; to which the sultan strongly objected; but the gazelle said it was his master's wish, and at last everything was arranged.

On the day of the departure a great company assembled to escort Sultan Daaraaee and his bride. There were the bride's ladies-in-waiting, and slaves, and horsemen, and Keejeepaa leading them all.

So they traveled three days, resting when the sun was overhead, and stopping each evening about five o'clock to eat and sleep; arising next morning at day-break, eating, and going forward again. And all this time the gazelle took very little rest, going all through the company, from the ladies to the slaves, and seeing that every one was well supplied with food and quite comfortable; therefore the entire company loved him and valued him like the apples of their eyes.

On the fourth day, during the afternoon, many houses came into view, and some of the folks called Keejeepaa's attention to them. "Certainly," said he; "that is our town, and that house you see yonder is the palace of Sultan Daaraaee."

So they went on, and all the company filed into the courtyard, while the gazelle and his master went into the house.

When the old woman saw Keejeepaa, she began to dance, and shout, and carry on, just as she did when he killed Neeoka Mkoo, and taking up his foot she kissed it; but Keejeepaa said: "Old lady, let me alone; the one to be made much of is this my master, Sultan Daaraaee. Kiss his feet; he has the first honors whenever he is present."

The old woman excused herself for not knowing the master, and then Sultan Daaraaee and the gazelle went around on a tour of inspection. The sultan ordered all the prisoners to be released, the horses to be sent out to pasture, all the rooms to be swept, the furniture to be dusted, and, in the meantime, servants were busy preparing food. Then every one had apartments assigned to him, and all were satisfied.

After they had remained there some time, the ladies who had accompanied the bride expressed a desire to return to their own homes. Keejeepaa begged them not to hurry away, but after a while they departed, each loaded with gifts by the gazelle, for whom they had a thousand times more affection than for his master. Then things settled down to their regular routine.

One day the gazelle said to the old woman: "I think the conduct of my master is very singular. I have done nothing but good for him all the time I have been with him. I came to this town and braved many dangers for him, and when all was over I gave everything to him. Yet he has never asked: 'How did you get this house? How did you get this town? Who is the owner of this house? Have you rented all these things, or have they been given you? What has become of the inhabitants of the place?' I don't understand him. And further: although I have done nothing but good for him, he has never done one good thing for me. Nothing here is really his. He never saw such a house or town as this since the day he was born, and he doesn't own anything of it. I believe the old folks were right when they said, 'If you want to do any person good, don't do too much; do him a little harm occasionally, and he'll think more of you.' However, I've done all I can now, and I'd like to see him make some little return."

Next morning the old woman was awakened early by the gazelle calling, "Mother! Mother!" When she went to him she found he was sick in his stomach, feverish, and all his legs ached.

"Go," said he, "and tell my master I am very ill."

So she went upstairs and found the master and mistress sitting on a marble couch, covered with a striped silk scarf from India.

"Well," said the master, "what do you want, old woman?"

"Oh, my master," cried she, "Keejeepaa is sick!"

The mistress started and said: "Dear me! What is the matter with him?"

"All his body pains him. He is sick all over."

"Oh, well," said the master, "what can I do? Go and get some of that red millet, that is too common for our use, and make him some gruel."

"Gracious!" exclaimed his wife, staring at him in amazement; "do you wish her to feed our friend with stuff that a horse would not eat if he were ever so hungry? This is not right of you."

"Ah, get out!" said he, "you're crazy. We eat rice; isn't red millet good enough for a gazelle that cost only a dime?"

"Oh, but he is no ordinary gazelle. He should be as dear to you as the apple of your eye. If sand got in your eye it would trouble you."

"You talk too much," returned her husband; then, turning to the old woman, he said, "Go and do as I told you."

So the old woman went downstairs, and when she saw the gazelle, she began to cry, and say, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

It was a long while before the gazelle could persuade her to tell him what had passed upstairs, but at last she told him all. When he had heard it, he said: "Did he really tell you to make me red millet gruel?"

"Ah," cried she, "do you think I would say such a thing if it were not so?"

"Well," said Keejeepaa, "I believe what the old folks said was right. However, we'll give him another chance. Go up to him again, and tell him I am very sick, and that I can't eat that gruel."

So she went upstairs, and found the master and mistress sitting by the window, drinking coffee.

The master, looking around and seeing her, said: "What's the matter now, old woman?"

And she said: "Master, I am sent by Keejeepaa. He is very sick indeed, and has not taken the gruel you told me to make for him."

"Oh, bother!" he exclaimed. "Hold your tongue, and keep your feet still, and shut your eyes, and stop your ears with wax; then, if that gazelle tells you to come up here, say that your legs are stiff; and if he tells you to listen, say your ears are deaf; and if he tells you to look, say your sight has failed you; and if he wants you to talk, tell him your tongue is paralyzed."

When the old woman heard these words, she stood and stared, and was unable to move. As for his wife, her face became sad, and the tears began to start from her eyes; observing which, her husband said, sharply, "What's the matter with you, sultan's daughter?"

The lady replied, "A man's madness is his undoing."

"Why do you say that, mistress?" he inquired.

"Ah," said she, "I am grieved, my husband, at your treatment of Keejeepaa. Whenever I say a good word for the gazelle you dislike to hear it. I pity you that your understanding is gone."

"What do you mean by talking in that manner to me?" he blustered.

"Why, advice is a blessing, if properly taken. A husband should advise with his wife, and a wife with her husband; then they are both blessed."

"Oh, stop," said her husband, impatiently; "it's evident you've lost your senses. You should be chained up." Then he said to the old woman: "Never mind her talk; and as to this gazelle, tell him to stop bothering me and putting on style, as if he were the sultan. I can't eat, I can't drink, I can't sleep, because of that gazelle worrying me with his messages. First, the gazelle is sick; then, the gazelle doesn't like what he gets to eat. Confound it! If he likes to eat, let him eat; if he doesn't like to eat, let him die and be out of the way. My mother is dead, and my father is dead, and I still live and eat; shall I be put out of my way by a gazelle, that I bought for a dime, telling me he wants this thing or that thing? Go and tell him to learn how to behave himself toward his superiors."

When the old woman went downstairs, she found the gazelle was bleeding at the mouth, and in a very bad way. All she could say was, "My son, the good you did is all lost; but be patient."

And the gazelle wept with the old woman when she told him all that had passed, and he said, "Mother, I am dying, not only from sickness, but from shame and anger at this man's ingratitude."

After a while Keejeepaa told the old woman to go and tell the master that he believed he was dying. When she went upstairs she found Daaraaee chewing sugar-cane, and she said to him, "Master, the gazelle is worse; we think him nearer to dying than getting well."

To which he answered: "Haven't I told you often enough not to bother me?"

Then his wife said: "Oh, husband, won't you go down and see the poor gazelle? If you don't like to go, let me go and see him. He never gets a single good thing from you."

But he turned to the old woman and said, "Go and tell that nuisance of a gazelle to die eleven times if he chooses to."

"Now, husband," persisted the lady, "what has Keejeepaa done to you? Has he done you any wrong? Such words as yours people use to their enemies only. Surely the gazelle is not your enemy. All the people who know him, great and lowly, love him dearly, and they will think it very wrong of you if you neglect him. Now, do be kind to him, Sultan Daaraaee."

But he only repeated his assertion that she had lost her wits, and would have nothing further of argument.

So the old woman went down and found the gazelle worse than ever.

In the meantime Sultan Daaraaee's wife managed to give some rice to a servant to cook for the gazelle, and also sent him a soft shawl to cover him and a pillow to lie upon. She also sent him a message that if he wished, she would have her father's best physicians attend him.

All this was too late, however, for just as these good things arrived, Keejeepaa died.

When the people heard he was dead, they went running around crying and having an awful time; and when Sultan Daaraaee found out what all the commotion was about he was very indignant, remarking, "Why, you are making as much fuss as if I were dead, and all over a gazelle that I bought for a dime!"

But his wife said: "Husband, it was this gazelle that came to ask me of my father, it was he who brought me from my father's, and it was to him I was given by my father. He gave you everything good, and you do not possess a thing that he did not procure for you. He did everything he could to help you, and you not only returned him unkindness, but now he is dead you have ordered people to throw him into the well. Let us alone, that we may weep."

But the gazelle was taken and thrown into the well.

Then the lady wrote a letter telling her father to come to her directly, and despatched it by trusty messengers; upon the receipt of which the sultan and his attendants started hurriedly to visit his daughter.

When they arrived, and heard that the gazelle was dead and had been thrown into the well, they wept very much; and the sultan, and the vizir, and the judges, and the rich chief men, all went down into the well and brought up the body of Keejeepaa, and took it away with them and buried it.

Now, that night the lady dreamt that she was at home at her father's house; and when dawn came she awoke and found she was in her own bed in her own town again.

And her husband dreamed that he was on the dust heap, scratching; and when he awoke there he was, with both hands full of dust, looking for grains of millet. Staring wildly he looked around to the right and left, saying: "Oh, who has played this trick on me? How did I get back here, I wonder?"

Just then the children going along, and seeing him, laughed and hooted at him, calling out: "Hullo, Haamdaanee, where have you been? Where do you come from? We thought you were dead long ago."

So the sultan's daughter lived in happiness with her people until the end, and that beggar-man continued to scratch for grains of millet in the dust heap until he died.

If this story is good, the goodness belongs to all; if it is bad, the badness belongs only to him who told it.



VIII.

Mkaaah Jeechonee, The Boy Hunter.


Sultan Maaj'noon had seven sons and a big cat, of all of whom he was very proud.

Everything went well until one day the cat went and caught a calf. When they told the sultan he said, "Well, the cat is mine, and the calf is mine." So they said, "Oh, all right, master," and let the matter drop.

A few days later the cat caught a goat; and when they told the sultan he said, "The cat is mine, and the goat is mine;" and so that settled it again.

Two days more passed, and the cat caught a cow. They told the sultan, and he shut them up with "My cat, and my cow."

After another two days the cat caught a donkey; same result.

Next it caught a horse; same result.

The next victim was a camel; and when they told the sultan he said: "What's the matter with you folks? It was my cat, and my camel. I believe you don't like my cat, and want it killed, bringing me tales about it every day. Let it eat whatever it wants to."

In a very short time it caught a child, and then a full-grown man; but each time the sultan remarked that both the cat and its victim were his, and thought no more of it.

Meantime the cat grew bolder, and hung around a low, open place near the town, pouncing on people going for water, or animals out at pasture, and eating them.

At last some of the people plucked up courage; and, going to the sultan, said: "How is this, master? As you are our sultan you are our protector, -- or ought to be, -- yet you have allowed this cat to do as it pleases, and now it lives just out of town there, and kills everything living that goes that way, while at night it comes into town and does the same thing. Now, what on earth are we to do?"

But Maajnoon only replied: "I really believe you hate my cat. I suppose you want me to kill it; but I shall do no such thing. Everything it eats is mine."

Of course the folks were astonished at this result of the interview, and, as no one dared to kill the cat, they all had to remove from the vicinity where it lived. But this did not mend matters, because, when it found no one came that way, it shifted its quarters likewise.

So complaints continued to pour in, until at last Sultan Maajnoon gave orders that if any one came to make accusations against the cat, he was to be informed that the master could not be seen.

When things got so that people neither let their animals out nor went out themselves, the cat went farther into the country, killing and eating cattle, and fowls, and everything that came its way.

One day the sultan said to six of his sons, "I'm going to look at the country to-day; come along with me."

The seventh son was considered too young to go around anywhere, and was always left at home with the women folk, being called by his brothers Mkaa'ah Jeecho'nee, which means Mr. Sit-in-the-kitchen.

Well, they went, and presently came to a thicket. The father was in front and the six sons following him, when the cat jumped out and killed three of the latter.

The attendants shouted, "The cat! the cat!" and the soldiers asked permission to search for and kill it, which the sultan readily granted, saying: "This is not a cat, it is a noon'dah. It has taken from me my own sons."

Now, nobody had ever seen a noondah, but they all knew it was a terrible beast that could kill and eat all other living things.

When the sultan began to bemoan the loss of his sons, some of those who heard him said: "Ah, master, this noondah does not select his prey. He doesn't say: 'This is my master's son, I'll leave him alone,' or, 'This is my master's wife, I won't eat her.' When we told you what the cat had done, you always said it was your cat, and what it ate was yours, and now it has killed your sons, and we don't believe it would hesitate to eat even you."

And he said, "I fear you are right."

As for the soldiers who tried to get the cat, some were killed and the remainder ran away, and the sultan and his living sons took the dead bodies home and buried them.

Now when Mkaaah Jeechonee, the seventh son, heard that his brothers had been killed by the noondah, he said to his mother, "I, too, will go, that it may kill me as well as my brothers, or I will kill it."

But his mother said: "My son, I do not like to have you go. Those three are already dead; and if you are killed also, will not that be one wound upon another to my heart?"

"Nevertheless," said he, "I can not help going; but do not tell my father."

So his mother made him some cakes, and sent some attendants with him; and he took a great spear, as sharp as a razor, and a sword, bade her farewell, and departed.

As he had always been left at home, he had no very clear idea what he was going to hunt for; so he had not gone far beyond the suburbs, when, seeing a very large dog, he concluded that this was the animal he was after; so he killed it, tied a rope to it, and dragged it home, singing,


"Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people."


When his mother, who was upstairs, heard him, she looked out of the window, and, seeing what he had brought, said, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people."

So he left the carcass outside and went in to talk about it, and his mother said, "My dear boy, the noondah is a much larger animal than that; but if I were you, I'd give the business up and stay at home."

"No, indeed," he exclaimed; "no staying at home for me until I have met and fought the noondah."

So he set out again, and went a great deal farther than he had gone on the former day. Presently he saw a civet cat, and, believing it to be the animal he was in search of, he killed it, bound it, and dragged it home, singing,


"Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people."


When his mother saw the civet cat, she said, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." And he threw it away.

Again his mother entreated him to stay at home, but he would not listen to her, and started off again.

This time he went away off into the forest, and seeing a bigger cat than the last one, he killed it, bound it, and dragged it home, singing,


"Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people."


But directly his mother saw it, she had to tell him, as before, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people."

He was, of course, very much troubled at this; and his mother said, "Now, where do you expect to find this noondah? You don't know where it is, and you don't know what it looks like. You'll get sick over this; you're not looking so well now as you did. Come, stay at home."

But he said: "There are three things, one of which I shall do: I shall die; I shall find the noondah and kill it; or I shall return home unsuccessful. In any case, I'm off again."

This time he went farther than before, saw a zebra, killed it, bound it, and dragged it home, singing,


"Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people."


Of course his mother had to tell him, once again, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people."

After a good deal of argument, in which his mother's persuasion, as usual, was of no avail, he went off again, going farther than ever, when he caught a giraffe; and when he had killed it he said: "Well, this time I've been successful. This must be the noondah." So he dragged it home, singing,


"Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people."


Again his mother had to assure him, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." She then pointed out to him that his brothers were not running about hunting for the noondah, but staying at home attending to their own business. But, remarking that all brothers were not alike, he expressed his determination to stick to his task until it came to a successful termination, and went off again, a still greater distance than before.

While going through the wilderness he espied a rhinoceros asleep under a tree, and turning to his attendants he exclaimed, "At last I see the noondah."

"Where, master?" they all cried, eagerly.

"There, under the tree."

"Oh-h! What shall we do?" they asked.

And he answered: "First of all, let us eat our fill, then we will attack it. We have found it in a good place, though if it kills us, we can't help it."

So they all took out their arrowroot cakes and ate till they were satisfied.

Then Mkaaah Jeechonee said, "Each of you take two guns; lay one beside you and take the other in your hands, and at the proper time let us all fire at once."

And they said, "All right, master."

So they crept cautiously through the bushes and got around to the other side of the tree, at the back of the rhinoceros; then they closed up till they were quite near it, and all fired together. The beast jumped up, ran a little way, and then fell down dead.

They bound it, and dragged it for two whole days, until they reached the town, when Mkaaah Jeechonee began singing,


"Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people."


But he received the same answer from his mother: "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people."

And many persons came and looked at the rhinoceros, and felt very sorry for the young man. As for his father and mother, they both begged of him to give up, his father offering to give him anything he possessed if he would only stay at home. But he said, "I don't hear what you are saying; good-bye," and was off again.

This time he still further increased the distance from his home, and at last he saw an elephant asleep at noon in the forest. Thereupon he said to his attendants, "Now we have found the noondah."

"Ah, where is he?" said they.

"Yonder, in the shade. Do you see it?"

"Oh, yes, master; shall we march up to it?"

"If we march up to it, and it is looking this way, it will come at us, and if it does that, some of us will be killed. I think we had best let one man steal up close and see which way its face is turned."

As every one thought this was a good idea, a slave named Keerobo'to crept on his hands and knees, and had a good look at it. When he returned in the same manner, his master asked: "Well, what's the news? Is it the noondah?"

"I do not know," replied Keeroboto; "but I think there is very little doubt that it is. It is broad, with a very big head, and, goodness, I never saw such large ears!"

"All right," said Mkaaah Jeechonee; "let us eat, and then go for it."

So they took their arrowroot cakes, and their molasses cakes, and ate until they were quite full.

Then the youth said to them: "My people, to-day is perhaps the last we shall ever see; so we will take leave of each other. Those who are to escape will escape, and those who are to die will die; but if I die, let those who escape tell my mother and father not to grieve for me."

But his attendants said, "Oh, come along, master; none of us will die, please God."

So they went on their hands and knees till they were close up, and then they said to Mkaaah Jeechonee, "Give us your plan, master;" but he said, "There is no plan, only let all fire at once."

Well, they fired all at once, and immediately the elephant jumped up and charged at them. Then such a helter-skelter flight as there was! They threw away their guns and everything they carried, and made for the trees, which they climbed with surprising alacrity.

As to the elephant, he kept straight ahead until he fell down some distance away.

They all remained in the trees from three until six o'clock in the morning, without food and without clothing.

The young man sat in his tree and wept bitterly, saying, "I don't exactly know what death is, but it seems to me this must be very like it." As no one could see any one else, he did not know where his attendants were, and though he wished to come down from the tree, he thought, "Maybe the noondah is down below there, and will eat me."

Each attendant was in exactly the same fix, wishing to come down, but afraid the noondah was waiting to eat him.

Keeroboto had seen the elephant fall, but was afraid to get down by himself, saying, "Perhaps, though it has fallen down, it is not dead." But presently he saw a dog go up to it and smell it, and then he was sure it was dead. Then he got down from the tree as fast as he could and gave a signal cry, which was answered; but not being sure from whence the answer came, he repeated the cry, listening intently. When it was answered he went straight to the place from which the sound proceeded, and found two of his companions in one tree. To them he said, "Come on; get down; the noondah is dead." So they got down quickly and hunted around until they found their master. When they told him the news, he came down also; and after a little the attendants had all gathered together and had picked up their guns and their clothes, and were all right again. But they were all weak and hungry, so they rested and ate some food, after which they went to examine their prize.

As soon as Mkaaah Jeechonee saw it he said, "Ah, this is the noondah! This is it! This is it!" And they all agreed that it was it.

So they dragged the elephant three days to their town, and then the youth began singing,


"Oh, mother, this is he, The noondah, eater of the people."


He was, naturally, quite upset when his mother replied, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." She further said: "Poor boy! what trouble you have been through. All the people are astonished that one so young should have such a great understanding!"

Then his father and mother began their entreaties again, and finally it was agreed that this next trip should be his last, whatever the result might be.

Well, they started off again, and went on and on, past the forest, until they came to a very high mountain, at the foot of which they camped for the night.

In the morning they cooked their rice and ate it, and then Mkaaah Jeechonee said: "Let us now climb the mountain, and look all over the country from its peak." And they went and they went, until after a long, weary while, they reached the top, where they sat down to rest and form their plans.

Now, one of the attendants, named Shindaa'no, while walking about, cast his eyes down the side of the mountain, and suddenly saw a great beast about half way down; but he could not make out its appearance distinctly, on account of the distance and the trees. Calling his master, he pointed it out to him, and something in Mkaaah Jeechonee's heart told him that it was the noondah. To make sure, however, he took his gun and his spear and went partly down the mountain to get a better view.

"Ah," said he, "this must be the noondah. My mother told me its ears were small, and those are small; she told me the noondah is broad and short, and so is this; she said it has two blotches, like a civet cat, and there are the blotches; she told me the tail is thick, and there is a thick tail. It must be the noondah."

Then he went back to his attendants and bade them eat heartily, which they did. Next he told them to leave every unnecessary thing behind, because if they had to run they would be better without encumbrance, and if they were victorious they could return for their goods.

When they had made all their arrangements they started down the mountain, but when they had got about half way down Keeroboto and Shindaano were afraid. Then the youth said to them: "Oh, let's go on; don't be afraid. We all have to live and die. What are you frightened about?" So, thus encouraged, they went on.

When they came near the place, Mkaaah Jeechonee ordered them to take off all their clothing except one piece, and to place that tightly on their bodies, so that if they had to run they would not be caught by thorns or branches.

So when they came close to the beast, they saw that it was asleep, and all agreed that it was the noondah.

Then the young man said, "Now the sun is setting, shall we fire at it, or let be till morning?"

And they all wished to fire at once, and see what the result would be without further tax on their nerves; therefore they arranged that they should all fire together.

They all crept up close, and when the master gave the word, they discharged their guns together. The noondah did not move; that one dose had been sufficient. Nevertheless, they all turned and scampered up to the top of the mountain. There they ate and rested for the night.

In the morning they ate their rice, and then went down to see how matters were, when they found the beast lying dead.

After resting and eating, they started homeward, dragging the dead beast with them. On the fourth day it began to give indications of decay, and the attendants wished to abandon it; but Mkaaah Jeechonee said they would continue to drag it if there was only one bone left.

When they came near the town he began to sing,


"Mother, mother, I have come From the evil spirits, home. Mother, listen while I sing; While I tell you what I bring. Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people."


And when his mother looked out, she cried, "My son, this is the noondah, eater of the people."

Then all the people came out to welcome him, and his father was overcome with joy, and loaded him with honors, and procured him a rich and beautiful wife; and when he died Mkaaah Jeechonee became sultan, and lived long and happily, beloved by all the people.



IX.

The Magician And The Sultan's Son.


There was once a sultan who had three little sons, and no one seemed to be able to teach them anything; which greatly grieved both the sultan and his wife.

One day a magician came to the sultan and said, "If I take your three boys and teach them to read and write, and make great scholars of them, what will you give me?"

And the sultan said, "I will give you half of my property."

"No," said the magician; "that won't do."

"I'll give you half of the towns I own."

"No; that will not satisfy me."

"What do you want, then?"

"When I have made them scholars and bring them back to you, choose two of them for yourself and give me the third; for I want to have a companion of my own."

"Agreed," said the sultan.

So the magician took them away, and in a remarkably short time taught them to read, and to make letters, and made them quite good scholars. Then he took them back to the sultan and said: "Here are the children. They are all equally good scholars. Choose."

So the sultan took the two he preferred, and the magician went away with the third, whose name was Keejaa'naa, to his own house, which was a very large one.

When they arrived, Mchaa'wee, the magician, gave the youth all the keys, saying, "Open whatever you wish to." Then he told him that he was his father, and that he was going away for a month.

When he was gone, Keejaanaa took the keys and went to examine the house. He opened one door, and saw a room full of liquid gold. He put his finger in, and the gold stuck to it, and, wipe and rub as he would, the gold would not come off; so he wrapped a piece of rag around it, and when his supposed father came home and saw the rag, and asked him what he had been doing to his finger, he was afraid to tell him the truth, so he said that he had cut it.

Not very long after, Mchaawee went away again, and the youth took the keys and continued his investigations.

The first room he opened was filled with the bones of goats, the next with sheep's bones, the next with the bones of oxen, the fourth with the bones of donkeys, the fifth with those of horses, the sixth contained men's skulls, and in the seventh was a live horse.

"Hullo!" said the horse; "where do you come from, you son of Adam?"

"This is my father's house," said Keejaanaa.

"Oh, indeed!" was the reply. "Well, you've got a pretty nice parent! Do you know that he occupies himself with eating people, and donkeys, and horses, and oxen and goats and everything he can lay his hands on? You and I are the only living things left."

This scared the youth pretty badly, and he faltered, "What are we to do?"

"What's your name?" said the horse.

"Keejaanaa."

"Well, I'm Faaraa'see. Now, Keejaanaa, first of all, come and unfasten me."

The youth did so at once.

"Now, then, open the door of the room with the gold in it, and I will swallow it all; then I'll go and wait for you under the big tree down the road a little way. When the magician comes home, he will say to you, 'Let us go for firewood;' then you answer, 'I don't understand that work;' and he will go by himself. When he comes back, he will put a great big pot on the hook and will tell you to make a fire under it. Tell him you don't know how to make a fire, and he will make it himself.

"Then he will bring a large quantity of butter, and while it is getting hot he will put up a swing and say to you, 'Get up there, and I'll swing you.' But you tell him you never played at that game, and ask him to swing first, that you may see how it is done. Then he will get up to show you; and you must push him into the big pot, and then come to me as quickly as you can."

Then the horse went away.

Now, Mchaawee had invited some of his friends to a feast at his house that evening; so, returning home early, he said to Keejaanaa, "Let us go for firewood;" but the youth answered, "I don't understand that work." So he went by himself and brought the wood.

Then he hung up the big pot and said, "Light the fire;" but the youth said, "I don't know how to do it." So the magician laid the wood under the pot and lighted it himself.

Then he said, "Put all that butter in the pot;" but the youth answered, "I can't lift it; I'm not strong enough." So he put in the butter himself.

Next Mchaawee said, "Have you seen our country game?" And Keejaanaa answered, "I think not."

"Well," said the magician, "let's play at it while the butter is getting hot."

So he tied up the swing and said to Keejaanaa, "Get up here, and learn the game." But the youth said: "You get up first and show me. I'll learn quicker that way."

The magician got into the swing, and just as he got started Keejaanaa gave him a push right into the big pot; and as the butter was by this time boiling, it not only killed him, but cooked him also.

As soon as the youth had pushed the magician into the big pot, he ran as fast as he could to the big tree, where the horse was waiting for him.

"Come on," said Faaraasee; "jump on my back and let's be going."

So he mounted and they started off.

When the magician's guests arrived they looked everywhere for him, but, of course, could not find him. Then, after waiting a while, they began to be very hungry; so, looking around for something to eat, they saw that the stew in the big pot was done, and, saying to each other, "Let's begin, anyway," they started in and ate the entire contents of the pot. After they had finished, they searched for Mchaawee again, and finding lots of provisions in the house, they thought they would stay there until he came; but after they had waited a couple of days and eaten all the food in the place, they gave him up and returned to their homes.

Meanwhile Keejaanaa and the horse continued on their way until they had gone a great distance, and at last they stopped near a large town.

"Let us stay here," said the youth, "and build a house."

As Faaraasee was agreeable, they did so. The horse coughed up all the gold he had swallowed, with which they purchased slaves, and cattle, and everything they needed.

When the people of the town saw the beautiful new house and all the slaves, and cattle, and riches it contained, they went and told their sultan, who at once made up his mind that the owner of such a place must be of sufficient importance to be visited and taken notice of, as an acquisition to the neighborhood.

So he called on Keejaanaa, and inquired who he was.

"Oh, I'm just an ordinary being, like other people."

"Are you a traveler?"

"Well, I have been; but I like this place, and think I'll settle down here."

"Why don't you come and walk in our town?"

"I should like to very much, but I need some one to show me around."

"Oh, I'll show you around," said the sultan, eagerly, for he was quite taken with the young man.

After this Keejaanaa and the sultan became great friends; and in the course of time the young man married the sultan's daughter, and they had one son.

They lived very happily together, and Keejaanaa loved Faaraasee as his own soul.



X.

The Physician's Son And The King Of The Snakes.


Once there was a very learned physician, who died leaving his wife with a little baby boy, whom, when he was old enough, she named, according to his father's wish, Hassee'boo Kareem' Ed Deen'.

When the boy had been to school, and had learned to read, his mother sent him to a tailor, to learn his trade, but he could not learn it. Then he was sent to a silversmith, but he could not learn his trade either. After that he tried many trades, but could learn none of them. At last his mother said, "Well, stay at home for a while;" and that seemed to suit him.

One day he asked his mother what his father's business had been, and she told him he was a very great physician.

"Where are his books?" he asked.

"Well, it's a long time since I saw them," replied his mother, "but I think they are behind there. Look and see."

So he hunted around a little and at last found them, but they were almost ruined by insects, and he gained little from them.

At last, four of the neighbors came to his mother and said, "Let your boy go along with us and cut wood in the forest." It was their business to cut wood, load it on donkeys, and sell it in the town for making fires.

"All right," said she; "to-morrow I'll buy him a donkey, and he can start fair with you."

So the next day Hasseeboo, with his donkey, went off with those four persons, and they worked very hard and made a lot of money that day. This continued for six days, but on the seventh day it rained heavily, and they had to get under the rocks to keep dry.

Now, Hasseeboo sat in a place by himself, and, having nothing else to do, he picked up a stone and began knocking on the ground with it. To his surprise the ground gave forth a hollow sound, and he called to his companions, saying, "There seems to be a hole under here."

Upon hearing him knock again, they decided to dig and see what was the cause of the hollow sound; and they had not gone very deep before they broke into a large pit, like a well, which was filled to the top with honey.

They didn't do any firewood chopping after that, but devoted their entire attention to the collection and sale of the honey.

With a view to getting it all out as quickly as possible, they told Hasseeboo to go down into the pit and dip out the honey, while they put it in vessels and took it to town for sale. They worked for three days, making a great deal of money.

At last there was only a little honey left at the very bottom of the pit, and they told the boy to scrape that together while they went to get a rope to haul him out.

But instead of getting the rope, they decided to let him remain in the pit, and divide the money among themselves. So, when he had gathered the remainder of the honey together, and called for the rope, he received no answer; and after he had been alone in the pit for three days he became convinced that his companions had deserted him.

Then those four persons went to his mother and told her that they had become separated in the forest, that they had heard a lion roaring, and that they could find no trace of either her son or his donkey.

His mother, of course, cried very much, and the four neighbors pocketed her son's share of the money.

To return to Hasseeboo.

He passed the time walking about the pit, wondering what the end would be, eating scraps of honey, sleeping a little, and sitting down to think.

While engaged in the last occupation, on the fourth day, he saw a scorpion fall to the ground -- a large one, too -- and he killed it.

Then suddenly he thought to himself, "Where did that scorpion come from? There must be a hole somewhere. I'll search, anyhow."

So he searched around until he saw light through a tiny crack; and he took his knife and scooped and scooped, until he had made a hole big enough to pass through; then he went out, and came upon a place he had never seen before.

Seeing a path, he followed it until he came to a very large house, the door of which was not fastened. So he went inside, and saw golden doors, with golden locks, and keys of pearl, and beautiful chairs inlaid with jewels and precious stones, and in a reception room he saw a couch covered with a splendid spread, upon which he lay down.

Presently he found himself being lifted off the couch and put in a chair, and heard some one saying: "Do not hurt him; wake him gently," and on opening his eyes he found himself surrounded by numbers of snakes, one of them wearing beautiful royal colors.

"Hullo!" he cried; "who are you?"

"I am Sulta'nee Waa' Neeo'ka, king of the snakes, and this is my house. Who are you?"

"I am Hasseeboo Kareem Ed Deen."

"Where do you come from?"

"I don't know where I come from, or where I'm going."

"Well, don't bother yourself just now. Let's eat; I guess you are hungry, and I know I am."

Then the king gave orders, and some of the other snakes brought the finest fruits, and they ate and drank and conversed.

When the repast was ended, the king desired to hear Hasseeboo's story; so he told him all that had happened, and then asked to hear the story of his host.

"Well," said the king of the snakes, "mine is rather a long story, but you shall hear it. A long time ago I left this place, to go and live in the mountains of Al Kaaf', for the change of air. One day I saw a stranger coming along, and I said to him, 'Where are you from?' and he said, 'I am wandering in the wilderness.' 'Whose son are you?' I asked. 'My name is Bolookee'a. My father was a sultan; and when he died I opened a small chest, inside of which I found a bag, which contained a small brass box; when I had opened this I found some writing tied up in a woolen cloth, and it was all in praise of a prophet. He was described as such a good and wonderful man, that I longed to see him; but when I made inquiries concerning him I was told he was not yet born. Then I vowed I would wander until I should see him. So I left our town, and all my property, and I am wandering, but I have not yet seen that prophet.'

"Then I said to him, 'Where do you expect to find him, if he's not yet born? Perhaps if you had some serpent's water you might keep on living until you find him. But it's of no use talking about that; the serpent's water is too far away.'

"'Well,' he said, 'good-bye. I must wander on.' So I bade him farewell, and he went his way.

"Now, when that man had wandered until he reached Egypt, he met another man, who asked him, 'Who are you?'

"'I am Bolookeea. Who are you?'

"'My name is Al Faan'. Where are you going?'

"'I have left my home, and my property, and I am seeking the prophet.

"'H'm!' said Al Faan; 'I can tell you of a better occupation than looking for a man that is not born yet. Let us go and find the king of the snakes and get him to give us a charm medicine; then we will go to King Solomon and get his rings, and we shall be able to make slaves of the genii and order them to do whatever we wish.'

"And Bolookeea said, 'I have seen the king of the snakes in the mountain of Al Kaaf.'

"'All right,' said Al Faan; 'let's go.'

"Now, Al Faan wanted the ring of Solomon that he might be a great magician and control the genii and the birds, while all Bolookeea wanted was to see the great prophet.

"As they went along, Al Faan said to Bolookeea, 'Let us make a cage and entice the king of the snakes into it; then we will shut the door and carry him off.'

"'All right,' said Bolookeea.

"So they made a cage, and put therein a cup of milk and a cup of wine, and brought it to Al Kaaf; and I, like a fool, went in, drank up all the wine and became drunk. Then they fastened the door and took me away with them.

"When I came to my senses I found myself in the cage, and Bolookeea carrying me, and I said, 'The sons of Adam are no good. What do you want from me?' And they answered, 'We want some medicine to put on our feet, so that we may walk upon the water whenever it is necessary in the course of our journey.' 'Well,' said I, 'go along.'

"We went on until we came to a place where there were a great number and variety of trees; and when those trees saw me, they said, 'I am medicine for this;' 'I am medicine for that;' 'I am medicine for the head;' 'I am medicine for the feet;' and presently one tree said, 'If any one puts my medicine upon his feet he can walk on water.'

"When I told that to those men they said, 'That is what we want;' and they took a great deal of it.

"Then they took me back to the mountain and set me free; and we said good-bye and parted.

"When they left me, they went on their way until they reached the sea, when they put the medicine on their feet and walked over. Thus they went many days, until they came near to the place of King Solomon, where they waited while Al Faan prepared his medicines.

"When they arrived at King Solomon's place, he was sleeping, and was being watched by genii, and his hand lay on his chest, with the ring on his finger.

"As Bolookeea drew near, one of the genii said to him 'Where are you going?' And he answered, 'I'm here with Al Faan; he's going to take that ring.' 'Go back,' said the genie; 'keep out of the way. That man is going to die.'

"When Al Faan had finished his preparations, he said to Bolookeea, 'Wait here for me.' Then he went forward to take the ring, when a great cry arose, and he was thrown by some unseen force a considerable distance.

"Picking himself up, and still believing in the power of his medicines, he approached the ring again, when a strong breath blew upon him and he was burnt to ashes in a moment.

"While Bolookeea was looking at all this, a voice said, 'Go your way; this wretched being is dead.' So he returned; and when he got to the sea again he put the medicine upon his feet and passed over, and continued to wander for many years.

"One morning he saw a man sitting down, and said 'Good-morning,' to which the man replied. Then Bolookeea asked him, 'Who are you?' and he answered: 'My name is Jan Shah. Who are you?' So Bolookeea told him who he was, and asked him to tell him his history. The man, who was weeping and smiling by turns, insisted upon hearing Bolookeea's story first. After he had heard it he said:

"'Well, sit down, and I'll tell you my story from beginning to end. My name is Jan Shah, and my father is Tooeegha'mus, a great sultan. He used to go every day into the forest to shoot game; so one day I said to him, "Father, let me go with you into the forest to-day;" but he said, "Stay at home. You are better there." Then I cried bitterly, and as I was his only child, whom he loved dearly, he couldn't stand my tears, so he said: "Very well; you shall go. Don't cry."

"'Thus we went to the forest, and took many attendants with us; and when we reached the place we ate and drank, and then every one set out to hunt.

"'I and my seven slaves went on until we saw a beautiful gazelle, which we chased as far as the sea without capturing it. When the gazelle took to the water I and four of my slaves took a boat, the other three returning to my father, and we chased that gazelle until we lost sight of the shore, but we caught it and killed it. Just then a great wind began to blow, and we lost our way.

"'When the other three slaves came to my father, he asked them, "Where is your master?" and they told him about the gazelle and the boat. Then he cried, "My son is lost! My son is lost!" and returned to the town and mourned for me as one dead.

"'After a time we came to an island, where there were a great many birds. We found fruit and water, we ate and drank, and at night we climbed into a tree and slept till morning.

"'Then we rowed to a second island, and, seeing no one around, we gathered fruit, ate and drank, and climbed a tree as before. During the night we heard many savage beasts howling and roaring near us.

"'In the morning we got away as soon as possible, and came to a third island. Looking around for food, we saw a tree full of fruit like red-streaked apples; but, as we were about to pick some, we heard a voice say, "Don't touch this tree; it belongs to the king." Toward night a number of monkeys came, who seemed much pleased to see us, and they brought us all the fruit we could eat.

"'Presently I heard one of them say, "Let us make this man our sultan." Then another one said: "What's the use? They'll all run away in the morning." But a third one said, "Not if we smash their boat." Sure enough, when we started to leave in the morning, our boat was broken in pieces. So there was nothing for it but to stay there and be entertained by the monkeys, who seemed to like us very much.

"'One day, while strolling about, I came upon a great stone house, having an inscription on the door, which said, "When any man comes to this island, he will find it difficult to leave, because the monkeys desire to have a man for their king. If he looks for a way to escape, he will think there is none; but there is one outlet, which lies to the north. If you go in that direction you will come to a great plain, which is infested with lions, leopards, and snakes. You must fight all of them; and if you overcome them you can go forward. You will then come to another great plain, inhabited by ants as big as dogs; their teeth are like those of dogs, and they are very fierce. You must fight these also, and if you overcome them, the rest of the way is clear."

"'I consulted with my attendants over this information, and we came to the conclusion that, as we could only die, anyhow, we might as well risk death to gain our freedom.

"'As we all had weapons, we set forth; and when we came to the first plain we fought, and two of my slaves were killed. Then we went on to the second plain, fought again; my other two slaves were killed, and I alone escaped.

"'After that I wandered on for many days, living on whatever I could find, until at last I came to a town, where I stayed for some time, looking for employment but finding none.

"'One day a man came up to me and said, "Are you looking for work?" "I am," said I. "Come with me, then," said he; and we went to his house.

"'When we got there he produced a camel's skin, and said, "I shall put you in this skin, and a great bird will carry you to the top of yonder mountain. When he gets you there, he will tear this skin off you. You must then drive him away and push down the precious stones you will find there. When they are all down, I will get you down."

"'So he put me in the skin; the bird carried me to the top of the mountain and was about to eat me, when I jumped up, scared him away, and then pushed down many precious stones. Then I called out to the man to take me down, but he never answered me, and went away.

"'I gave myself up for a dead man, but went wandering about, until at last, after passing many days in a great forest, I came to a house, all by itself; the old man who lived in it gave me food and drink, and I was revived.

"'I remained there a long time, and that old man loved me as if I were his own son.

"'One day he went away, and giving me the keys, told me I could open the door of every room except one which he pointed out to me.

"'Of course, when he was gone, this was the first door I opened. I saw a large garden, through which a stream flowed. Just then three birds came and alighted by the side of the stream. Immediately they changed to three most beautiful women. When they had finished bathing, they put on their clothes, and, as I stood watching them, they changed into birds again and flew away.

"'I locked the door, and went away; but my appetite was gone, and I wandered about aimlessly. When the old man came back, he saw there was something wrong with me, and asked me what was the matter. Then I told him I had seen those beautiful maidens, that I loved one of them very much, and that if I could not marry her I should die.

"'The old man told me I could not possibly have my wish. He said the three lovely beings were the daughters of the sultan of the genii, and that their home was a journey of three years from where we then were.

"'I told him I couldn't help that. He must get her for my wife, or I should die. At last he said, "Well, wait till they come again, then hide yourself and steal the clothes of the one you love so dearly."

"'So I waited, and when they came again I stole the clothes of the youngest, whose name was Sayadaa'tee Shems.

"'When they came out of the water, this one could not find her clothes. Then I stepped forward and said, "I have them." "Ah," she begged, "give them to me, their owner; I want to go away." But I said to her, "I love you very much. I want to marry you." "I want to go to my father," she replied. "You cannot go," said I.

"'Then her sisters flew away, and I took her into the house, where the old man married us. He told me not to give her those clothes I had taken, but to hide them; because if she ever got them she would fly away to her old home. So I dug a hole in the ground and buried them.

"'But one day, when I was away from home, she dug them up and put them on; then, saying to the slave I had given her for an attendant, "When your master returns tell him I have gone home; if he really loves me he will follow me," she flew away.

"'When I came home they told me this, and I wandered, searching for her, many years. At last I came to a town where one asked me, "Who are you?" and I answered, "I am Jan Shah." "What was your father's name?" "Taaeeghamus." "Are you the man who married our mistress?" "Who is your mistress?" "Sayadaatee Shems." "I am he!" I cried with delight.

"'They took me to their mistress, and she brought me to her father and told him I was her husband; and everybody was happy.

"'Then we thought we should like to visit our old home, and her father's genii carried us there in three days. We stayed there a year and then returned, but in a short time my wife died. Her father tried to comfort me, and wanted me to marry another of his daughters, but I refused to be comforted, and have mourned to this day. That is my story.'

"Then Bolookeea went on his way, and wandered till he died."

Next Sultaanee Waa Neeoka said to Hasseeboo, "Now, when you go home you will do me injury."

Hasseeboo was very indignant at the idea, and said, "I could not be induced to do you an injury. Pray, send me home."

"I will send you home," said the king; "but I am sure that you will come back and kill me."

"Why, I dare not be so ungrateful," exclaimed Hasseeboo. "I swear I could not hurt you."

"Well," said the king of the snakes, "bear this in mind: when you go home, do not go to bathe where there are many people."

And he said, "I will remember." So the king sent him home, and he went to his mother's house, and she was overjoyed to find that he was not dead.

Now, the sultan of the town was very sick; and it was decided that the only thing that could cure him would be to kill the king of the snakes, boil him, and give the soup to the sultan.

For a reason known only to himself, the vizir had placed men at the public baths with this instruction: "If any one who comes to bathe here has a mark on his stomach, seize him and bring him to me."

When Hasseeboo had been home three days he forgot the warning of Sultaanee Waa Neeoka, and went to bathe with the other people. All of a sudden he was seized by some soldiers, and brought before the vizir, who said, "Take us to the home of the king of the snakes."

"I don't know where it is," said Hasseeboo.

"Tie him up," commanded the vizir.

So they tied him up and beat him until his back was all raw, and being unable to stand the pain he cried, "Let up! I will show you the place."

So he led them to the house of the king of the snakes, who, when he saw him, said, "Didn't I tell you you would come back to kill me?"

"How could I help it?" cried Hasseeboo. "Look at my back!"

"Who has beaten you so dreadfully?" asked the king.

"The vizir."

"Then there's no hope for me. But you must carry me yourself."

As they went along, the king said to Hasseeboo, "When we get to your town I shall be killed and cooked. The first skimming the vizir will offer to you, but don't you drink it; put it in a bottle and keep it. The second skimming you must drink, and you will become a great physician. The third skimming is the medicine that will cure your sultan. When the vizir asks you if you drank that first skimming say, 'I did.' Then produce the bottle containing the first, and say, 'This is the second, and it is for you.' The vizir will take it, and as soon as he drinks it he will die, and both of us will have our revenge."

Everything happened as the king had said. The vizir died, the sultan recovered, and Hasseeboo was loved by all as a great physician.

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Ted And The Telephone

By

Sara Ware Bassett



Chapter I

An Unheralded Champion


Ted Turner lived at Freeman's Falls, a sleepy little town on the bank of a small New Hampshire river. There were cotton mills in the town; in fact, had there not been probably no town would have existed. The mills had not been attracted to the town; the town had arisen because of the mills. The river was responsible for the whole thing, for its swift current and foaming cascades had brought the mills, and the mills in turn had brought the village.

Ted's father was a shipping clerk in one of the factories and his two older sisters were employed there also. Some day Ted himself expected to enter the great brick buildings, as the boys of the town usually did, and work his way up. Perhaps in time he might become a superintendent or even one of the firm. Who could tell? Such miracles did happen. Not that Ted Turner preferred a life in the cotton mills to any other career. Not at all. Deep down in his soul he detested the humming, panting, noisy place with its clatter of wheels, its monotonous piecework, and its limited horizon. But what choice had he? The mills were there and the only alternative before him. It was the mills or nothing for people seldom came to live at Freeman's Falls if they did not intend to enter the factories of Fernald and Company. It was Fernald and Company that had led his father to sell the tumble-down farm in Vermont and move with his family to New Hampshire.

"There is no money in farming," announced he, after the death of Ted's mother. "Suppose we pull up stakes and go to some mill town where we can all find work."

And therefore, without consideration for personal preferences, they had looked up mill towns and eventually settled on Freeman's Falls, not because they particularly liked its location but because labor was needed there. A very sad decision it was for Ted who had passionately loved the old farm on which he had been born, the half-blind gray horse, the few hens, and the lean Jersey cattle that his father asserted ate more than they were worth. To be cooped up in a manufacturing center after having had acres of open country to roam over was not an altogether joyous prospect. Would there be any chestnut, walnut, or apple trees at Freeman's Falls, he wondered.

Alas, the question was soon answered. Within the village there were almost no trees at all except a few sickly elms and maples whose foliage was pale for want of sunshine and grimy with smoke. In fact, there was not much of anything in the town save the long dingy factories that bordered the river; the group of cheap and gaudy shops on the main street; and rows upon rows of wooden houses, all identical in design, walling in the highway. It was not a spot where green things flourished. There was not room for anything to grow and if there had been the soot from the towering chimneys would soon have settled upon any venturesome leaf or flower and quickly shrivelled it beneath a cloak of cinders. Even the river was coated with a scum of oil and refuse that poured from the waste pipes of the factories into the stream and washed up along the shores which might otherwise have been fair and verdant.

Of course, if one could get far enough away there was beauty in plenty for in the outlying country stretched vistas of splendid pines, fields lush with ferns and flowers, and the unsullied span of the river, where in all its mountain-born purity it rushed gaily down toward the village. Here, well distant from the manufacturing atmosphere, were the homes of the Fernalds who owned the mills, the great estates of Mr. Lawrence Fernald and Mr. Clarence Fernald who every day rolled to their offices in giant limousines. Everybody in Freeman's Falls knew them by sight, -- the big boss, as he was called, and his married son; and everybody thought how lucky they were to own the mills and take the money instead of doing the work. At least, that was what gossip said they did.

Unquestionably it was much nicer to live at Aldercliffe, the stately colonial mansion of Mr. Lawrence Fernald; or at Pine Lea, the home of Mr. Clarence Fernald, where sweeping lawns, bright awnings, gardens, conservatories, and flashing fountains made a wonderland of the place. Troupes of laughing guests seemed always to be going and coming at both houses and there were horses and motor-cars, tennis courts, a golf course, and canoes and launches moored at the edge of the river. Freeman's Falls was a very stupid spot when contrasted with all this jollity. It must be far pleasanter, too, when winter came to hurry off to New York for the holidays or to Florida or California, as Mr. Clarence Fernald frequently did.

With money enough to do whatever one pleased, how could a person help being happy? And yet there were those who declared that both Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Clarence Fernald would have bartered their fortunes to have had the crippled heir to the Fernald millions strong like other boys. Occasionally Ted had caught a glimpse of this Laurie Fernald, a fourteen-year-old lad with thin, colorless face and eyes that were haunting with sadness. In the village he passed as "the poor little chap" or as "poor Master Laurie" and the employees always doffed their caps to him because they pitied him. Whether one liked Mr. Fernald or Mr. Clarence or did not, every one united in being sorry for Mr. Laurie. Perhaps the invalid realized this; at any rate, he never failed to return the greetings accorded him with a smile so gentle and sweet that it became a pleasure in the day of whomsoever received it.

It was said at the factories that the reason the Fernalds went to New York and Florida and California was because of Mr. Laurie; that was the reason, too, why so many celebrated doctors kept coming to Pine Lea, and why both Mr. Fernald and Mr. Clarence were often so sharp and unreasonable. In fact, almost everything the Fernalds did or did not do, said or did not say, could be traced back to Mr. Laurie. From the moment the boy was born -- nay, long before -- both Mr. Lawrence Fernald for whom he was named, and his father, Mr. Clarence Fernald, had planned how he should inherit the great mills and carry on the business they had founded. For years they had talked and talked of what should happen when Mr. Laurie grew up. And then had come the sudden and terrible illness, and after weeks of anxiety everybody realized that if Mr. Laurie lived he would be fortunate, and that he would never be able to carry on any business at all.

In what hushed tones the townspeople talked of the tragedy and how they speculated on what the Fernalds would do now. And how surprised the superintendent of one of the mills (who, by the way, had six husky boys of his own) had been to have Mr. Lawrence Fernald bridle with rage when he said he was sorry for him. A proud old man was Mr. Fernald, senior. He did not fancy being pitied, as his employees soon found out. Possibly Mr. Clarence Fernald did not like it any better but whether he did or not he at least had the courtesy not to show his feelings.

Thus the years had passed and Mr. Laurie had grown from childhood to boyhood. He could now ride about in a motor-car if lifted into it; but he could still walk very little, although specialists had not given up hope that perhaps in time he might be able to do so. There was a rumor that he was strapped into a steel jacket which he was forced to wear continually, and the mill hands commented on its probable discomfort and wondered how the boy could always keep so even-tempered. For it was unavoidable that the large force of servants from Aldercliffe and Pine Lea should neighbor back and forth with the townsfolk and in this way many a tale of Mr. Laurie's rare disposition reached the village. And even had not these stories been rife, anybody could easily have guessed the patience and sweetness of Mr. Laurie's nature from his smile.

Among the employees of Fernald and Company he was popularly known as the Little Master and between him and them there existed a friendliness which neither his father nor his grandfather had ever been able to call out. The difference was that for Mr. Lawrence Fernald the men did only what they were paid to do; for Mr. Clarence they did fully what they were paid to do; and for Mr. Laurie they would gladly have done what they were paid to do and a great deal more.

"The poor lad!" they murmured one to another. "The poor little chap!"

Of course it followed that no one envied Mr. Laurie his wealth. How could they? One might perhaps envy Mr. Fernald, senior, or Mr. Clarence; but never Mr. Laurie even though the Fernald fortune and all the houses and gardens, with their miles of acreage, as well as the vast cotton mills would one day be his. Even Ted Turner, poor as he was, and having only the prospect of the factories ahead of him, never thought of wishing to exchange his lot in life for that of Mr. Laurie. He would rather toil for Fernald and Company to his dying day than be this weak, dependent creature who was compelled to be carried about by those stronger than himself.

Nevertheless, in spite of this, there were intervals when Ted did wish he might exchange houses with Mr. Laurie. Not that Ted Turner coveted the big colonial mansion, or its fountains, its pergolas, its wide lawns; but he did love gardens, flowers, trees, and sky, and of these he had very little. He was, to be sure, fortunate in living on the outskirts of the village where he had more green and blue than did most of the mill workers. Still, it was not like Vermont and the unfenced miles of country to which he had been accustomed. A small tenement in Freeman's Falls, even though it had steam heat and running water, was in his opinion a poor substitute for all that had been left behind.

But Ted's father liked the new home better, far better, and so did Ruth and Nancy, his sisters. Many a time the boy heard his father congratulating himself that he was clear of the farm and no longer had to get up in the cold of the early morning to feed and water the stock and do the milking. And Ruth and Nancy echoed these felicitations and rejoiced that now there was neither butter to churn nor hens to care for.

Even Ted was forced to confess that Freeman's Falls had its advantages. Certainly the school was better, and as his father had resolved to keep him in it at least a part of the high-school term, Ted felt himself to be a lucky boy. He liked to study. He did not like all studies, of course. For example, he detested Latin, French, and history; but he revelled in shop-work, mathematics, and the sciences. There was nothing more to his taste than putting things together, especially electrical things; and already he had tried at home several crude experiments with improvised telegraphs, telephones, and wireless contrivances. Doubtless he would have had many more such playthings had not materials cost so much, money been so scarce, and Ruth and Nancy so timid. They did not like mysterious sparks and buzzings in the pantry and about the kitchen and told him so in no uncertain terms.

"The next thing you know you'll be setting the house afire!" Ruth had asserted. "Besides, we've no room for wires and truck around here. You'll have to take your clutter somewhere else."

And so Ted had obediently bundled his precious possessions into the room where he slept with his father only to be as promptly ejected from that refuge also.

"You can't be spreadin' wires an' jars an' things round my room!" protested Mr. Turner with annoyance.

"You can't be spreadin' wires an' jars an' things round my room!" protested Mr. Turner. Page 9.

It did not seem to occur to him that it was Ted's room as well, -- the only room the boy had.

Altogether, his treasures found no welcome anywhere in the tiny apartment, and at length convinced of this, Ted took everything down and stowed it away in a box beneath the bed, henceforth confining his scientific adventures to the school laboratories where they might possibly have remained forever but for Mr. Wharton, the manager of the farms at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea.



Chapter II

Ted Renews Old Times


Mr. Wharton was about the last person on earth one would have connected with boxes of strings and wires hidden away beneath beds. He was a graduate of a Massachusetts agricultural college; a keen-eyed, quick, impatient creature toward whom people in general stood somewhat in awe. He had the reputation of being a top-notch farmer and those who knew him declared with zest that there was nothing he did not know about soils, fertilizers, and crops. There was no nonsense when Mr. Wharton appeared on the scene. The men who worked for him soon found that out. You didn't lean on your hoe, light your pipe, and hazard the guess that there would be rain to-morrow; you just hoed as hard as you could and did not stop to guess anything.

Now it happened that it was haying time both at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea and the rumor got abroad that the crop was an unusually heavy one; that Mr. Wharton was short of help and ready to hire at a good wage extra men from the adjoining village. Mr. Turner brought the tidings home from the mill one June night when he returned from work.

"Why don't you try for a job up at Aldercliffe, my lad?" concluded he, after stating the case. "Ever since you were knee-high to a grasshopper you had a knack for pitching hay. Besides, you'd make a fine bit of money and the work would be no heavier than handling freight down at the mills. You've got to work somewhere through your summer vacation."

He made the latter statement as a matter of course for a matter of course it had long since become. Ted always worked when he was not studying. Vacations, holidays, Saturdays, he was always busy earning money for if he had not been, there would have been no chance of his going to school the rest of the time. Sometimes he did errands for one of the dry-goods stores; sometimes, if there were a vacancy, he helped in Fernald and Company's shipping rooms; sometimes he worked at the town market or rode about on the grocer's wagon, delivering orders. By one means or another he had usually contrived, since he was quite a small boy, to pick up odd sums that went toward his clothes and "keep." As he grew older, these sums had increased until now they had become a recognized part of the family income. For it was understood that Ted would turn in toward the household expenses all that he earned. His father had never believed in a boy having money to spend and even if he had every cent which the Turners could scrape together was needed at home. Ted knew well how much sugar and butter cost and therefore without demur he cheerfully placed in the hands of his sister Ruth, who ran the house, every farthing that was given him.

From childhood this sense of responsibility had always been in his background. He had known what it was to go hungry that he might have shoes and go without shoes that he might have underwear. Money had been very scarce on the Vermont farm, and although there was now more of it than there ever had been in the past, nevertheless it was not plentiful. Therefore, as vacation was approaching and he must get a job anyway, he decided to present himself before Mr. Wharton and ask for a chance to help in harvesting the hay crops at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea.

"You are younger than the men I am hiring," Mr. Wharton said, after he had scanned the lad critically. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"I thought as much. What I want is men."

"But I have farmed all my life," protested Ted with spirit.

"Indeed!" the manager exclaimed not unkindly. "Where?"

"In Vermont."

"You don't say so! I was born in the Green Mountains," was the quick retort. "Where did you live?"

"Newfane."

Instantly the man's face lighted.

"I know that place well. And you came from Newfane here? How did you happen to do that?"

"My father could not make the farm pay and we needed money."

"Humph! Were you sorry to give up farming?"

"Yes, sir. I didn't want to come to Freeman's Falls. But," added the boy brightening, "I like the school here."

The manager paused, studying the sharp, eager face, the spare figure, and the fine carriage of the lad before him.

"Do you like haying?" asked he presently.

"Not particularly," Ted owned with honesty.

Mr. Wharton laughed.

"I see you are a human boy," he said. "If you don't like it, why are you so anxious to do it now?"

"I've got to earn some money or give up going to school in the fall."

"Oh, so that's it! And what are you working at in school that is so alluring?" demanded the man with a quizzical glance.

"Electricity."

"Electricity!"

"Wireless, telegraphs, telephones, and things like that," put in Ted.

For comment Mr. Wharton tipped back in his chair and once more let his eye wander over the boy's face; then he wheeled abruptly around to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a yellow card across which he scrawled a line with his fountain pen.

"You may begin work to-morrow morning," he remarked curtly. "If it is pleasant, Stevens will be cutting the further meadow with a gang of men. Come promptly at eight o'clock, prepared to stay all day, and bring this card with you."

He waved the bit of pasteboard to and fro in the air an instant to be certain that the ink on it was dry and afterward handed it to Ted. Instinctively the boy's gaze dropped to the message written upon it and before he realized it he had read the brief words:

"Ted Turner. He says he has farmed in Vermont. If he shows any evidence of it keep him. If not turn him off. Wharton."

The man in the chair watched him as he read.

"Well?" said he.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I did not mean to read it," Ted replied with a start. "I'm very much obliged to you for giving me the job."

"I don't see that you've got it yet."

"But I shall have," asserted the lad confidently. "All I asked was a chance."

"That's all the world gives any of us," responded the manager gruffly, as he drew forth a sheet of paper and began to write. "Nobody can develop our brains, train our muscles, or save our souls but ourselves."

With this terse observation he turned his back on the boy, and after loitering a moment to make sure that he had nothing more to say, the lad slipped away, triumphantly bearing with him the coveted morsel of yellow pasteboard. That its import was noncommittal and even contained a tang of skepticism troubled him not a whit. The chief thing was that he had wrested from the manager an opportunity, no matter how grudgingly accorded, to show what he was worth. He could farm and he knew it and he had no doubt that he could demonstrate the fact to any boss he might encounter.

Therefore with high courage he was promptly on hand the next morning and even before the time assigned he approached Stevens, the superintendent.

"What do you want, youngster?" demanded the man sharply. He was in a hurry and it was obvious that something had nettled him and that he was in no humor to be delayed.

"I came to help with the haying."

"We don't want any boys as young as you," Stevens returned, moving away.

"I've a card from Mr. Wharton."

"A card, eh? Why didn't you say so in the first place? Shell it out."

Shyly Ted produced his magic fragment of paper which the overseer read with disapproval in his glance.

"Well, since Wharton wants you tried out, you can pitch in with the crowd," grumbled he. "But I still think you're too young. I've had boys your age before and never found them any earthly use. However, you won't be here long if you're not -- that's one thing. You'll find a pitchfork in the barn. Follow along behind the men who are mowing and spread the grass out."

"I know."

"Oh, you do, do you! Trust people your size for knowing everything."

To the final remark the lad vouchsafed no reply. Instead he moved away and soon returned, fork in hand. What a flood of old memories came surging back with the touch of the implement! Again he was in Vermont in the stretch of mowings that fronted the old white house where he was born. The scent of the hay in his nostrils stirred him like an elixir, and with a thrill of pleasure he set to work. He had not anticipated toiling out there in the hot sunshine at a task which he had always disliked; but to-day, by a strange miracle, it did not seem to be a task so much as a privilege.

How familiar the scene was! As he approached the group of older men it took him only a second to see where he was needed and he thrust his pitchfork into the swath at his feet with a swing of easy grace.

"Guess you've done this job before," called a man behind him after he had worked for an interval.

"Yes, I have."

"You show it," was the brief observation.

They moved on in silence up the field.

"Where'd you learn to handle that fork, sonny?" another voice shouted, as they neared the farther wall.

"In Vermont," laughed Ted.

"I judged as much," grunted the speaker. "They don't train up farmers of your size in this part of the world."

Ted flushed with pleasure and for the first time he stopped work and mopped the perspiration from his forehead. He was hot and thirsty but he found himself strangely exhilarated by the exercise and the sweet morning air and sunshine. Again he took up his fork and tossed the newly cut grass up into the light, spreading it on the ground with a methodical sweep of his young arm. The sun had risen higher now and its dazzling brilliance poured all about him. Up and down the meadow he went and presently he was surprised to find himself alone near the point from which he had started. His fellow-laborers were no longer in sight. The field was very still and because it was, Ted began to whistle softly to himself.

He was startled to hear a quiet laugh at his elbow.

"Don't you ever eat anything, kid?"

Mr. Wharton was standing beside him, a flicker of amusement in his gray eyes.

"I didn't know it was noon," gasped Ted.

"We'll have to tie an alarm clock on you," chuckled the manager. "The gang stopped work a quarter of an hour ago."

"I didn't notice they had."

The boy flushed. He felt very foolish to have been discovered working there all by himself in this ridiculous fashion.

"I wanted to finish this side of the field and I forgot about the time," he stammered apologetically.

"Have you done it to your satisfaction?"

"Yes, I'm just through."

For the life of him Ted could not tell whether the manager was laughing at him or not. He kicked the turf sheepishly.

"Aren't you tired?" inquired Mr. Wharton at length.

"No -- at least -- well, I haven't thought about it. Perhaps I am a little."

"And well you may be. You've put in a stiff morning's work. You'd better go and wash up now and eat your lunch. Take your full hour of rest. No matter if the others do get back here before you. Stevens says you are worth any two of them, anyway."

"It's just that I'm used to it," was the modest reply.

"We'll let it go at that," Mr. Wharton returned ambiguously. "And one thing more before you go. You needn't worry about staying on. We can use you one way or another all summer. There'll always be work for a boy who knows how to do a job well."



Chapter III

Going To Housekeeping


Thus it came about that Ted Turner began the long, golden days of his summer vacation at the great estates of the Fernalds, and soon he had made himself such an indispensable part of the farming staff that both Mr. Wharton and Mr. Stevens came to rely on him for many services outside of those usually turned over to the men.

"Just step over to the south lot at Pine Lea, Ted, and see if those fellows are thinning the beets properly," Mr. Wharton would say. "I gave them their orders but they may not have taken them in. You know how the thing should be done. Sing out to them if they are not doing the job right."

Or:

"Mr. Stevens and I shall be busy this morning checking up the pay roll. Suppose you have an eye on the hilling up of the potatoes, Ted. Show the men how you want it done and start them at it. I'll be over later to see how it's going."

Frequently, instead of working, the boy was called in to give an opinion on some agricultural matter with which he had had experience.

"We are finding white grubs in the corner of the Pine Lea garden. They are gnawing off the roots of the plants and making no end of trouble. What did you do to get rid of them when you were up in Vermont?"

"Salt and wood ashes worked better than anything else," Ted would reply modestly. "It might not be any good here but we had luck with it at home."

"We can try it, at least. You tell Mr. Stevens what the proportions are and how you applied it."

And because the advice was followed by a successful extermination of the plague, the lad's prestige increased and he was summoned to future conclaves when troublesome conditions arose.

Now and then there was a morning when Mr. Stevens would remark to Mr. Wharton:

"I've got to go to the Falls to-day to see about some freight. Ted Turner will be round here, though, and I guess things will be all right. The men can ask him if they want anything."

And so it went.

First Ted filled one corner, then another. He did errands for Mr. Wharton, very special errands, that required thought and care, and which the manager would not have entrusted to every one. Sometimes he ventured valuable suggestions which Mr. Stevens, who really had had far less farming experience than he, was only too grateful to follow.

If the boy felt at all puffed up by the dependence placed upon him, he certainly failed to show it. On the contrary he did his part enthusiastically, faithfully, generously, and without a thought of praise or reward. Although he was young to direct others, when he did give orders to the men he was tactful and retiring enough to issue his commands in the form of wishes and immediately they were heeded without protest. He never shirked the hard work he asked others to perform but was always ready to roll up the sleeves of his blue jeans and pitch with vigor into any task, no matter how menial it was. Had he been arrogant and made an overbearing use of his authority, the men would quickly have rated him as a conceited little popinjay, the pet of the boss, and made his life miserable; but as he remained quite unspoiled by the preference shown him and exhibited toward every one he encountered a kindly sympathy and consideration, the workmen soon accepted him as a matter of course and even began to turn to him whenever a dilemma confronted them.

Perhaps Ted was too genuinely interested in what he was doing to think much about himself or realize that the place he held was an unusual one. At home he and his father had threshed out many a problem together and each given to it the best his brain had to offer, without thought of the difference in their ages. Sometimes Ted's way proved the better, sometimes Mr. Turner's. Whichever plan promised to bring the more successful results was followed without regard for the years of him who had sponsored it. They were working together and for the same goal and what did it matter which of them had proposed the scheme they finally followed? To get the work completed and lay low the obstacles in their path were the only issues of importance.

So it was now. Things at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea must be done and done well, and only what furthered that end counted. Nevertheless, Ted would not have been a human boy had he not been pleased when some idea of his was adopted and found to be of use; this triumph, however, was less because the programme followed was his own than because it put forward the enterprise in hand. There was a satisfaction in finding the key to a balking problem and see it cease to be a problem. It was fun, for example, to think about the potatoes and then say to Mr. Wharton:

"Do you know, Mr. Wharton, I believe if we tried a different spray on that crop that isn't doing well it might help matters."

And when the new concoction was tried and it did help matters, what a glow of happiness came with the success!

What wonder that as the days passed, the niche awarded the lad grew bigger and bigger!

"There is no way you could come up here and live, is there, Ted?" Mr. Wharton inquired one day. "I'd give a good deal to have you here on the spot. Sometimes I want to talk with you outside working hours and I can't for the life of me lay hands on you. It's the deuce of a way to Freeman's Falls and you have no telephone. If you were here --  -- " He paused meditatively, then continued, "There's a little shack down by the river which isn't in use. You may remember seeing it. It was started years ago as a boathouse for Mr. Laurie's canoes and then -- well, it was never finished. It came to me the other day that we might clean it up, get some furnishings, and let you have it. How would the notion strike you?"

Ted's eyes sparkled.

"I'd like it of all things, sir!" returned he instantly.

"You wouldn't be timid about sleeping off there by yourself?"

"No, indeed!"

"Well, well! I had no idea you would listen to such a plan, much less like it. Suppose you go down there to-day and overhaul the place. Find out what would be required to make you comfortable and we will see what we can do about it. I should want you fixed up so you would be all right, you know. While we could not afford to go into luxuries, there would be no need for you to put up with makeshifts."

"But I am quite used to roughing it," protested Ted. "I've often camped out."

"Camping is all very well for a while but after a time it ceases to be a joke. No, if you move up here to accommodate us, you must have decent quarters. Both Mr. Fernald and Mr. Clarence would insist on that, I am certain. So make sure that the cabin is tight and write down what you think it would be necessary for you to have. Then we'll see about getting the things for you."

"You are mighty good, sir."

"Nonsense! It is for our own convenience," Mr. Wharton replied gruffly.

"Shall I -- do you mean that I am to go over there after work to-night?"

"No. Go now. Cut along right away."

"But I was to help Mr. Stevens with the --  -- "

"Stevens will have to get on without you. Tell him so from me. You can say I've set you at another job."

With springing step Ted hurried away. He was not sorry to exchange the tedious task of hoeing corn for the delightful one of furnishing a domicile for himself. What sport it would be to have at last a place which he could call his own! He could bring his books from home, his box of electrical things -- all his treasures -- and settle down in his kingdom like a young lord. He did not care at all if he had only a hammock to sleep in. The great satisfaction would be to be his own master and monarch of his own realm, no matter how tiny it was. Like lightning his imagination sped from one dream to another. If only Mr. Wharton would let him run some wires from the barn to the shack, what electrical contrivances he could rig up! He could then light the room and heat it, too; he could even cook by electricity.

Probably, however, Mr. Wharton would consider such a notion out of the question and much too ambitious. Even though the Fernalds had an electrical plant of their own, such a luxury was not to be thought of. A candle would do for lighting, of course.

Soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge. Page 27.

Busy with these thoughts and others like them he sped across the meadow and through the woods toward the river. He was not content to walk the distance but like a child leaped and ran with an impatience not to be curbed. Soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge, mid-way between Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, and was sheltered from view by a grove of thick pines. Its bare, boarded walls had silvered from exposure to the weather until it was scarcely noticeable against the gray tree trunks. Nevertheless, its crude, rough sides, its staring windows, and its tarred roof looked cheerless and deserted enough. But for Ted Turner it possessed none of these forbidding qualities. Instead of being a hermitage it seemed a paradise, a fairy kingdom, the castle of a knight's tale!

Thrusting the key which Mr. Wharton had given him into the padlock, he rolled open the sliding door and intermingled odors of cedar, tar, and paint greeted him. The room was of good size and was neatly sheathed as an evident preparation for receiving a finish of stain which, however, had never been put on. There were four large windows closed in by lights of glass, a rough board floor, and a fireplace of field stone. Everywhere was dirt, cobwebs, sawdust, and shavings; and scattered about so closely there was scarcely space to step was a litter of nails, fragments of boards, and a conglomeration of tin cans of various sizes.

Almost any one who beheld the chaos would have turned away discouraged. But not so Ted! The disorder was of no consequence in his eyes. Through all its dinginess and confusion he saw that the roof was tight, the windows whole, and the interior quite capable of being swept out, scrubbed and put in order. That was all he wanted to know. Why, the place could be made into a little heaven! Already he could see it transformed into a dwelling of the utmost comfort. He had remodelled many a worse spot, -- the barn loft in Vermont, for example, and made it habitable. One had only to secure a table, a chair or two, build a bunk and get a mattress, and the trick was turned.

How proud he should be to have such a dwelling for his own!

He could hardly restrain himself from rolling up his sleeves and going to work then and there. Fearing, however, that Mr. Wharton might be awaiting his report, he reluctantly closed the door again, turned the key in it, and hurried back to the manager's office.

"Well," inquired the elder man, spinning around in his desk chair as the boy entered and noting the glow in the youthful face, "how did you find things at the shack? Any hope in the place?"

"Hope!" repeated Ted. "Why, sir, the house is corking! Of course, it is dirty now but I could clean it up and put it in bully shape. All I'd need would be to build a bunk, get a few pieces of furniture, and the place would be cosy as anything. If you'll say the word, I'll start right in to-night after work and --  -- "

"Why wait until to-night?" came drily from the manager.

"Why -- er -- I thought perhaps -- you see there is the corn --  -- "

"Never mind the corn," Mr. Wharton interrupted.

"You mean I could go right ahead now?" asked Ted eagerly.

"Certainly. You are doing this for our accommodation, not for your own, and there is no earthly reason why you should perform the work outside your regular hours."

"But it is for my accommodation, too," put in the lad with characteristic candor.

"I am very glad if it happens to be," nodded Mr. Wharton. "So much the better. But at any rate, you are not going to take your recreation time for the job. Now before you go, tell me your ideas as to furnishings. You will need some things, of course."

"Not much," Ted answered quickly. "As I said, I can knock together a bunk and rough table myself. If I could just have a couple of chairs --  -- "

Mr. Wharton smiled at the modesty of the request.

"Suppose we leave the furnishing until later," said he, turning back to his desk with a gesture of dismissal. "I may drop round there some time to-day while you're working. We can then decide more fully upon what is necessary. You'll find brooms, mops, rags, and water in the barn, you know. Now be off. I'm busy."

Away went Ted, only too eager to obey. In no time he was laden with all the paraphernalia he desired. He stopped at Stevens' cottage only long enough to add to his equipment a pail of steaming water and then, staggering under the weight of his burden of implements, made his way to the shack. Once there he threw off his coat, removed his collar and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work. First he cleared the bulk of rubbish from the room and set it outside; then he swept up the floor and mopped it with hot suds; afterwards he washed the windows and rubbed them until they shone. Often he had watched his mother and sisters, who were well trained New England housekeepers, perform similar offices and therefore he knew exactly how such things should be done. It took him a solid morning to render the interior spotless and just as he was pausing to view his handiwork with weary satisfaction Mr. Wharton came striding in at the door.

"Mercy on us!" gasped the newcomer with amazement. "You have been busy! Why, I had no idea there were such possibilities in this place. The room is actually a pretty one, isn't it? We shall be able to fix you up snug as a bug in a rug here." He ran his eye quickly about. "If you put your bunk between the windows, you will get plenty of air. You'll need window shades, some comfortable chairs, a bureau, a table --  -- "

"I think I can make a table myself," Ted put in timidly. "That is, if I can have some boards."

"No, no, no! There are boards enough. But you don't want a makeshift thing like that. If you are going to have books and perhaps read or study, you must have something that will stand solidly on four legs. I may be able to root a table out of some corner. Then there will be bedding --  -- "

"I can bring that from home."

"All right. We'll count on you to supply that if you are sure you have it to spare. I'll be responsible for the rest." He stopped an instant to glance into the boy's face then added kindly, "So you think you are going to like your new quarters, eh?"

"You bet I am!"

"That's good! And by the by, I have arranged for you to have your meals with Stevens and his wife. They like you and were glad to take you in. Only you must be prompt and not make them wait for you. Should you prove yourself a bother they might turn you out."

"I'll be on hand, sir."

"See that you are. They have breakfast at seven, dinner at twelve, and supper at six. Whenever you decide to spend Sunday with your family, or take any meals elsewhere, you must, of course, be thoughtful enough to announce beforehand that you are to be away."

"Yes, sir."

Ted waited a few moments and then, as Mr. Wharton appeared to be on the point of leaving, he asked with hesitancy:

"How -- how -- much will my meals cost?"

An intonation of anxiety rang in the question.

"Your meals are our hunt," Mr. Wharton replied instantly. "We shall see to those."

"But -- but --  -- "

"You'll be worth your board to the Fernald estates, never fear, my lad; so put it all out of your mind and don't think of it any more. All is, should we ask of you some little extra service now and then, I am sure you will willingly perform it, won't you?"

"Sure!" came with emphatic heartiness.

"Then I don't see but everything is settled," the manager declared, as he started back through the grove of pines. "I gave orders up at the toolhouse that you were to have whatever boards, nails, and tools you wanted, so don't hesitate to sail in and hunt up anything you need."

"You are mighty kind, sir."

"Pooh, pooh. Nonsense! Aren't you improving the Fernald property, I'd like to know?" Mr. Wharton laughed. "This boathouse has been an eyesore for years. We shall be glad enough to have it fixed up and used for something."



Chapter IV

The First Night In The Shack


Throughout the long summer afternoon Ted worked on, fitting up his new quarters. Not only did he make a comfortable bunk for himself such as he had frequently constructed when at logging or sugaring-off camps in Vermont, but having several boards left he built along the racks originally intended for canoes some shelves for the books he meant to bring from home. By late afternoon he had finished all it was possible for him to do and he decided to go to Freeman's Falls and join his own family at supper, and while there collect the possessions he wished to transfer to the shack.

Accordingly he washed up and started out.

It was a little late when he reached the house and already his father and sisters were at table.

"Mercy on us, Ted, what under the sun have you been doing until this time of night?" demanded Mr. Turner. "I should call from seven in the morning until seven at night a pretty long day."

"Oh, I haven't been working all this time," laughed the boy. "Or at least, if I have, I have been having the time of my life doing it."

Eagerly, and with youthful enthusiasm, he poured out the tale of the day's happenings while the others listened.

"So you are starting out housekeeping, are you?" chuckled Mr. Turner, when the narrative was finished. "It certainly ain't a bad idea. Not that we're glad to get rid of you -- although I will admit we ain't got the room here that I wish we had. It is the amount of time you'll save and the strength, too, that I'm thinking of. It must be a good three miles up to Aldercliffe and Pine Lea is at least two miles farther. Being on the spot is going to make a lot of difference. But how are you going to get along? What will you do for food? I ain't going to have you eating stuff out of tin cans."

"Oh, you needn't worry about me, Dad. Mr. Wharton has arranged for me to take my meals with Mr. and Mrs. Stevens who have a cottage on the place. Stevens is the head farmer, you know."

"A pretty penny that will cost you! What does the man think you are -- a millionaire?"

"Mr. Wharton told me the Fernalds would see to the bill."

"Oh! That's another matter," ejaculated Mr. Turner, entirely mollified. "I will say it's pretty decent of Mr. Wharton. Seems to me he is doing a good deal for you."

"Yes, he is."

"Well, all is you must do your full share in return so he won't lose anything by it." The elder man paused thoughtfully. "Ain't there anything we could do to help out? Perhaps we could donate something toward your furnishings."

"Mr. Wharton said if I could supply my own bedding --  -- "

"We certainly can do that," put in Ruth quickly. "There is a trunkful of extra comforters and blankets in the back room that I should be thankful enough to ship off somewhere else. And wouldn't you like some curtains? Seems to me they'd make it cosy and homelike. I've a piece of old chintz we've never used. Why not make it into curtains and do away with buying window shades?"

"That would be great!"

"It would be lots more cheerful," remarked Nancy. "What kind of a bed have you got?"

"I've built a wooden bunk-two bunks, in fact -- one over the other like the berths in a ship. I thought perhaps sometime Dad might want to come up and visit me; and while I was at it, it was no more work to make two beds than one."

Mr. Turner smiled in friendly fashion into his son's eyes. The two were great pals and it pleased him that the lad should have included him in his plans.

"Beds like that will do all very well for a night or two; but for a steady thing they will be darned uncomfortable. Cover 'em with pine boughs after a long tramp through the woods and they seem like heaven; but try 'em day after day and they cease to be a joke. Wasn't there a wire spring round here somewhere, Ruth? Seems to me I remember it standing up against something. Why wouldn't that be the very thing? You could fasten it in place and have a bed good as you have at home."

"That's a corking idea, Dad!"

"I wish we could go up and see the place," Ruth suggested. "I am crazy to know what it looks like. Besides, I want to measure the windows."

"Maybe we could run up there to-night," her father replied rising. "It is not late and the Maguires said they would take us out for a little spin in their Ford before dark. They might enjoy riding up to Aldercliffe and be quite willing we should take along the spring bed. Mat is a kind soul and I haven't a doubt he'd be glad to do us a favor. Run down and ask him, Ted; or wait -- I'll go myself."

The Maguires had the apartment just below the Turner's and Mat, a thrifty and good-humored Irishman, was one of the night watchmen at the Fernald mills. He had a plump little wife, but as there were no children he had been able to save more money than had some of his neighbors, and in consequence had purchased a small car which it was his delight to use for the benefit of his friends. In fact, he often called it the Maguire jitney, and the joke never became threadbare to his simple mind, for every time he made it he laughed as heartily as if he had never heard it before, and so did everybody else. Therefore no sooner had Mr. Turner proposed his plan than Mat was all eagerness to further the project.

"Sure I'll take you -- as many of you as can pile in, and the spring bed, too! If you don't mind the inconvenience of the luggage, I don't. And tell Ted to bring along anything else he'd like to carry. We can pack you all in and the stuff on top of you. 'Twill be easy enough. Just make ready as soon as you can, so the dark won't catch us."

You may be sure the Turners needed no second bidding. Ruth and Nancy scrambled the supper dishes out of the way while Ted and his father hauled the wire spring out, brushed it, and dragged it downstairs. Afterward Ted collected his box of electrical treasures, his books, and clothing. What he would do with all these things he did not stop to inquire. The chance to transfer them was at hand and he seized it with avidity. His belongings might as well be stored in the shack as anywhere else, -- better, far better, for the space they left behind would be very welcome to the Turner household.

Therefore with many a laugh, the party crowded into the waiting car and set out for Aldercliffe; and when at length they arrived at the house in the pines and Ted unlocked the sliding doors and pushed them wide open, ushering in his guests, what a landholder he felt!

"My, but this is a tidy little place!" Maguire ejaculated. "And it's not so little, either. Why, it's a regular palace! Look at the fireplace and the four windows! My eye! And the tier of bunks is neat as a ship's cabin. Bear a hand here with the spring. I'm all of a quaver to see if it fits," cried the man.

"I made the bunks regulation size, so I guess there won't be any trouble about that," Ted answered.

"The head on the lad!" the Irishman cried. "Ain't he the brainy one, though? You don't catch him wool-gathering! Not he!"

Nevertheless he was not content until the spring had been hoisted into place and he saw with his own eyes that it was exactly the proper size. "Could anything be cuter!" observed he with satisfaction. "Now with a good mattress atop of that you will have a bed fit for a king. You'll be comfortable as if you were in a solid gold bedstead, laddie!"

"I'm afraid I may be too comfortable," laughed Ted. "What if I should oversleep and not get to breakfast, or to work, on time!"

"That would never do," Mr. Turner said promptly. "You must have an alarm clock. 'Twould be but a poor return for Mr. Wharton's kindness were you to come dawdling to work."

"I guess you can trust Ted to be on time," put in Ruth soothingly. "He is seldom late -- especially to meals. Even if he were to be late at other places, I should always be sure he would show up when there was anything to eat."

"You bet I would," announced the boy, with a good-humored grin.

"I shall have enough chintz for curtains for all your windows," interrupted Nancy, who had been busy taking careful measurements during the conversation. "We'll get some brass rods and make the hangings so they will slip back and forth easily; they will be much nicer than window shades."

"Ain't there nothin' I can donate?" inquired Mat Maguire anxiously. "A rag rug, now -- why wouldn't that be a good thing? The missus makes 'em by the dozen and our house is full of 'em. We're breakin' our necks mornin', noon, and night on 'em. A couple to lay down here wouldn't be so bad, I'm thinking. You could put one beside your bed and another before the door to wipe your feet on. They'd cheer the room up as well as help keep you warm. Just say the word, sonny, and you shall have 'em."

"I'd like them tremendously."

The kind-hearted Irishman beamed with pleasure.

"Sure, they'll be better out of our house than in it," remarked he, trying to conceal his gratification. "You can try stumbling over 'em a spell instead of me. 'Twill be interesting to see which of us breaks his neck first."

It was amazing to see how furniture came pouring in at Ted's bachelor quarters during the next few days. The chintz curtains were finished and hung; the Maguire rugs made their appearance; Mr. Turner produced a shiny alarm clock; and Nancy a roll of colored prints which she had cut from the magazines.

"You'll be wanting some pictures," said she. "Tack these up somewhere. They'll brighten up the room and cover the bare walls."

Thus it was that day by day the wee shack in the woods became more cheery and homelike.

"I've managed to hunt up a few trap's for you," called Mr. Wharton one morning, as he met the boy going to work. "If you want to run over to the cabin now and unlock the door, I'll send a man over with them."

Want to! Ted was off in a second, impatient to see what new treasures he was to receive. He had not long to wait, for soon one of the farm trucks came into sight, and the driver began to deposit its contents on the wooden platform which sloped from the door down to the river.

As Ted helped the man unload, his eyes shone with delight. Could any gifts be rarer? To be sure the furniture was not new. In fact, some of it was old and even shabby with wear. But the things were all whole, and although they were simple they were serviceable and perhaps looked more in harmony with the old-fashioned curtains and the quaint rugs than if they had come fresh from the shop. There was a chest of drawers; a rocking chair, a leather armchair, and a straight wooden chair; a mirror with frame of faded gilt; a good-sized wooden table; and, best of all, a much scarred, flat-topped desk. Ted had never owned a desk in all his life. Often he had dreamed of sitting behind one when he grew to be a man. But to have it now -- here! To have it for his own! How it thrilled him!

After the furniture was in place and the teamster had gone, he arranged his few papers and pencils in the desk drawers a score of times, trying them first in one spot and then in another. It was marvelous how much room there was in such an article of furniture. What did men use to fill up such a mighty receptacle, anyway? Stretch his possessions as he would, they only made a scattered showing at the bottom of three of the drawers. He laughed to see them lying there and hear them rattle about when he brought the drawers to with a click. However, it was very splendid to have a desk, whether one had anything to put in it or not, and perhaps in time he would be able to collect more pencils, rulers and blocks of paper. The contrast between not having any room at all for his things and then so much that he did not know what to do with it was amusing.

Now at last he was fully equipped to take up residence in his new abode and every instant he could snatch from his duties that day he employed in settling his furniture, making up his bed, filling his water pitcher from the river and completing his final preparations for residence at the boathouse. That night he moved in.

Nothing had been omitted that would contribute to his comfort. Mr. Wharton had given him screens for the windows and across the broad door he had tacked a curtain of netting that could be dropped or pushed aside at will. The candlelight glowing from a pair of old brass candlesticks on the shelf above the fireplace contributed rather than took away from the effect and to his surprise the room assumed under the mellow radiance a quality actually esthetic and beautiful.

"I don't believe Aldercliffe or Pine Lea have anything better than this to offer," the boy murmured aloud, as he looked about him with pride. "I'd give anything to have Mr. Wharton see it now that it's done!"

Strangely enough, the opportunity to exhibit his kingdom followed on the very heels of his desire, for while he was arranging the last few books he had brought from home on the shelf above his desk he heard a tap at the door.

"Are you in bed, son?" called the manager. "I saw your light and just dropped round to see if you had everything you wanted."

Rushing to the door, Ted threw it open.

"I haven't begun to go to bed yet," returned he. "I've been too excited. How kind of you to come!"

"Curiosity! Curiosity!" responded the man hastily. Although Ted knew well that the comment was a libel, he laughed as Mr. Wharton came in, drawing the door together behind him.

"By Jove!" burst out the manager, glancing about the room.

"You like it?"

"Why -- what in goodness have you done to the place? I -- I -- mercy on us!"

"You do like it then?" the boy insisted eagerly.

"Like it! Why, you've made it into a regular little palace. I'd no idea such a thing was possible. Where did you get your candlesticks and your andirons?"

"From home. We have radiators in the apartment and so my sisters had stored them away and were only too glad to have me take them."

"Humph! And your curtains came from home, too?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you've missed your calling, is all I can say. You belong in the interior decorating business," asserted Mr. Wharton. "Wait until Mr. Clarence sees this place." Again the elder man looked critically round the interior. "I wouldn't mind living here myself -- hanged if I would. The only thing I don't like is those candles. There is a good deal of a draught here and you are too near the pines to risk a fire. Electricity would be safer."

Whistling softly to himself, he began to walk thoughtfully about.

"I suppose," he presently went on, "it would be a simple enough matter to run wires over here from the barn."

"Wouldn't that be bully!"

"You'd like it?"

"Yes, siree!"

The manager took up his hat.

"Well, we'll see what can be done," he answered, moving toward the door.

But on the threshold he stopped once more and looked about.

"I'm going to bring some of the Fernalds over here to see the place," observed he. "For some time Mr. Clarence has been complaining that this shack was a blot on the estate and threatening to pull it down. He'd better have a peep at it now. You may find he'll be taking it away from you."

He saw a startled look leap into the boy's eyes.

"No, no, sonny! Have no fears. I was only joking," he added. "Nevertheless, the house will certainly be a surprise to anybody who saw it a week ago. I wouldn't have believed such a transformation was possible."

Then as he disappeared with his flash-light through the windings of the pine woods he called:

"We'll see about that electric wiring. I imagine it won't be much of a job, and I should breathe easier to eliminate those candles, pretty as they are. Until something is done, just be careful not to set yourself and us afire!"

With that he was gone.

Ted dropped the screen and loitered a moment in the doorway, looking out into the night. Before him stretched the river; so near was it that he could hear the musical lappings of its waters among the tall grasses that bordered the stream. From the ground, matted thickly with pine needles, rose a warm, sun-scorched fragrance heavy with sleep.

The boy stretched his arms and yawned. Then he rolled the doors together and began to undress.

Suddenly he paused with one shoe in his hand. A thought had come to him. If Mr. Wharton ran the electric wires over to the shack, what was to prevent him from utilizing the current for some of his own contrivances? Why, he could, perhaps, put his wireless instruments into operation and rig up a telephone in his little dwelling. What fun it would be to unearth his treasures from the big wooden box in which they had been so long packed away and set them up here where they would interfere with no one but himself!

He hoped with all his heart the manager would continue to be nervous about those candles.



Chapter V

A Visitor


Fervent as this wish was, it was several days before Ted saw Mr. Wharton again and in the meantime the boy began to adapt himself to his new mode of living with a will. His alarm clock got him up in the morning in time for a plunge in the river and after a brisk rub-down he was off to breakfast with the Stevens's, whose cottage was one of a tiny colony of bungalows where lived the chauffeurs, head gardener, electricians, and others who held important positions on the two estates.

It did not take many days for Ted to become thoroughly at home in the pretty cement house where he discovered many slight services he could perform for Mrs. Stevens during the scraps of leisure left him after meals. His farm training had rendered him very handy with tools and he was quick to see little things which needed to be done. Moreover, the willingness to help, which from the moment of his advent to Aldercliffe and Pine Lea had made him a favorite with Mr. Wharton and the men, speedily won for him a place with the kindly farmer's wife.

Had Ted known it, she had been none too well pleased at the prospect of adopting into her home a ravenous young lad who might, nay, probably would be untidy and troublesome; but she did not dare oppose Mr. Wharton when the plan was suggested. Nevertheless, although she consented, she grumbled not a little to her husband about the inconvenience of the scheme. The money offered her by the manager had been the only redeeming factor in the case. Quite ignorant of these conditions, Ted had made his advent into the house and she soon found to her amazement that the daily coming of her cheery boarder became an event which she anticipated with motherly interest.

"He is such a well-spoken boy and so nice to have round," asserted she to Mr. Wharton. "Not a mite of trouble, either. In fact, he's a hundred times handier than my own man, who although he can make a garden thrive can't drive a nail straight to save his life. And there's never any fussing about his food. He eats everything and enjoys it. I believe Stevens and I were getting dreadful pokey all alone here by ourselves. The lad has brightened us up no end. We wouldn't part with him now for anything."

Thus it was that Ted Turner made his way. His password was usefulness. He never measured the hours he worked by the clock, never was too busy or too tired to fill in a gap; and although he was popular with everybody, and a favorite with those in authority, he never took advantage of his position to escape toil or obtain privileges. In fact, he worked harder if anything than did the other men, and as soon as his associates saw that the indulgence granted him did not transform him into a pig, they ceased any jealousy they cherished and accorded him their cordial goodwill. For Ted was always modestly respectful toward older persons; and if he knew more about farming and some other things than did a good many of the laborers on the place, he did not push himself forward or boast of his superiority.

Consequently when he ventured to say, "I wonder if somebody would help me with this harrow?" he would receive a dozen eager responses, the men never suspecting that Mr. Wharton had given this little chap authority to order them to aid with the harrowing of the field. Instead each workman thought his cooperation a free-will offering and enjoyed giving it.

Thus a fortnight passed and no one could have been happier than was Ted Turner on a certain clear June evening. He had finished his Saturday night supper of baked beans and brown bread and after it was over had lingered to feed the Stevens's hens, in order to let Mr. Stevens go early to Freeman's Falls to purchase the Sunday dinner. As a result, it was later than usual when he started out for his camp on the river's brink. The long, busy day was over; he was tired and the prospect of his comfortable bed was very alluring. It was some distance to the shack, and before he was halfway through the pine woods that separated Aldercliffe from Pine Lea darkness had fallen, and he was compelled to move cautiously along the narrow, curving trail. How black the night was! A storm must be brewing, thought he, as he glanced up into the starless heavens. Stumbling over the rough and slippery ground on he went. Then suddenly he rounded a turn in the path and stood arrested with terror.

Not more than a rod away, half concealed in the denseness of the sweeping branches rose his little shack, a blaze of light! A wave of consternation turned him cold and two solutions of the mystery immediately flashed into his mind -- fire and marauders. Either something had ignited in the interior of the house; or, since it was isolated and had long been known to be vacant, strolling mischief-makers had broken in and were ransacking it. He remembered now that he had left a window open when he had gone off in the morning. Doubtless thieves were at this moment busy appropriating his possessions. Of course it could not be any of the Fernald workmen. They were too friendly and honorable to commit such a dastardly deed. No, it was some one from outside. Was it not possible men had come down the river in a boat from Melton, the village above, and spying the house had made a landing and encamped there for the night?

Well, live or die, he must know who his unwelcome guests were. It would be cowardly to leave them in possession of the place and make no attempt to discover their identity. For that invaders were inside the shack he was now certain. It was not a fire. There was neither smoke nor flame. Softly he crept nearer, the thick matting of pine needles muffling his footsteps. But how his heart beat! Suppose a twig should crack beneath his feet and warn the vandals of his approach? And suppose they rushed out, caught him, and -- for a moment he halted with fear; then, summoning every particle of courage he possessed, he tiptoed on and contrived to reach one of the windows.

There he halted, staring, his knees weak from surging reaction.

Instead of the company of bandits his mind had pictured, there in the rocker sat Mr. Wharton and opposite him, in the great leather armchair, was Mr. Clarence Fernald. The latter fact would have been astounding enough. But the marvel did not cease there. The light suffusing the small room came from no flickering candles but glowed steadily from two strong, unblinking electric lights, one of which had been connected with a low lamp on his desk, and the other with a fixture in the ceiling.

Ted could scarcely believe his eyes. All day, during his absence, electricians must have been busy. How carefully they had guarded their secret. Why, he had talked with Tim Toyer that very morning on his way to work and Tim had breathed no word, although he was the head electrician and had charge of the dynamo which generated the current both for Aldercliffe and Pine Lea. The Fernalds had never depended on Freeman's Falls for their electricity; on the contrary, they maintained a small plant of their own and used the power for a score of purposes on the two estates.

Evidently either Mr. Wharton or Mr. Clarence Fernald himself must have given the order which had with such Aladdin-like magic been so promptly and mysteriously fulfilled. It certainly was kind of them to do this and Ted determined they should not find him wanting in gratitude. Pocketing his shyness, he opened the door and stepped into the room. "Well, youngster, I thought it was about time the host made his appearance," exclaimed Mr. Wharton. "We could not have waited much longer. Mr. Fernald, this is Ted Turner, the lad I have been telling you about."

Ted waited.

The mill-owner nodded, let his eye travel over the boy's flushed face, and then, as if satisfied by what he saw there, he put out his hand.

"I have been hearing very excellent reports of you, Turner," said he, "and I wished to investigate for myself the quarters they have given you to live in. You've made a mighty shipshape little den of this place."

"It didn't need very much done to it," protested Ted, blushing under the fixed gaze of the great man. "I just cleaned it up and arranged the furniture. Mr. Wharton was kind enough to give me most of it."

"I can't claim any thanks," laughed the manager. "The traps I gave you were all cast-offs and not in use. It is what you have done with them that is the marvel."

"You certainly have turned your donations to good purpose," Mr. Fernald observed. "I've been noticing your books in your absence and see that most of them are textbooks on electricity. I judge you are interested in that sort of thing."

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Humph!"

The financier drummed reflectively on the arm of his chair.

"How did you happen to go into that?" he asked presently.

"I have been studying it at school. My father is letting me go through the high school -- at least he hopes to let me finish my course there. I have been two years already. That is why I am working during the summer."

"I see. And so you have been taking up electricity at school, eh?"

"Yes, sir. I really am taking a business course. The science work in the laboratory is an extra that I just run in because I like it. My father wanted me to fit myself for business. He thought it would be better for me," explained Ted.

"But you prefer the science?"

"I am afraid I do, sir," smiled Ted, with ingratiating honesty. "But I don't mean to let it interfere with my regular work. I try to remember it is only a side issue."

Mr. Clarence Fernald did not answer and during his interval of silence Ted fell to speculating on what he was thinking. Probably the magnate was disapproving of his still going to school and was saying to himself how much better it would have been had he been put into the mill and trained up there instead of having his head stuffed with stenography and electrical knowledge.

"What did you do in electricity?" the elder man asked at length.

"Oh, I fussed around some with telephones, wireless, and telegraph instruments."

Mr. Fernald smiled.

"Did you get where you could take messages?" inquired he with real interest.

"By telegraph?"

The financier nodded.

"I did a little at it," replied Ted. "Of course I was slow."

"And what about wireless?"

"I got on better with that. I rigged up a small receiving station at home but when the war came I had to take it down."

"So that outfit was yours, was it?" commented Mr. Fernald. "I noticed it one day when I was in the village. What luck did you have with it?"

"Oh, I contrived to pick up messages within a short radius. My outfit wasn't very powerful."

"I suppose not. And the telephone?"

They saw an eager light leap into the lad's eyes.

"I've worked more at that than anything else," replied he. "You see one of the instruments at the school gave out and they set me to tinkering at it. In that way I got tremendously interested in it. Afterward some of us fellows did some experimenting and managed to concoct a crude one in the laboratory. It wasn't much of a telephone but we finally got it to work."

"They tell me you are a good farmer as well as an electrician," Mr. Fernald said.

"Oh, I was brought up on a farm, sir."

The great man rose.

"Well, mind you don't let your electricity make you forget your farming," cautioned he, not unkindly. "We need you right where you are. Still I will own electricity is a pleasant pastime. You will have a current to work with now whenever you want to play with it. Just be sure you don't get a short circuit and blow out my dynamo."

"Do -- do -- you really mean I may use the current for experiments?" demanded Ted.

Whether Mr. Fernald had made his remarks in jest or expected them to be taken seriously was not apparent; and if he were surprised at having the boy catch him up and hold him to account, he at least displayed not a trace of being taken unawares. For only an instant was he thoughtful, and that was while he paused and studied the countenance of the lad before him.

"Why, I don't know that I see any harm in your using the current for reasonable purposes," he answered slowly, after an interval of meditation. "You understand the dangers of running too many volts through your body and of crossing wires, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, sir," laughed Ted.

"I must confess I should not trust every boy with such a plaything," continued the magnate, "but you seem to have a good head on your shoulders and I guess we can take a chance on you." He moved silently across the room but on the threshold he turned and added with self-conscious hesitancy, "By the way my -- my -- son, Mr. Laurie, chances to be interested in electricity, too. Perhaps some day he might drop in here and have a talk about this sort of thing."

"I wish he would."

With a quiet glance the father seemed to thank the lad for his simple and natural reply. Both of them knew but too well that such an event could never be a casual happening, and that if poor Mr. Laurie ever dropped in at the shack it would be only when he was brought there, either in his wheel-chair or in the arms of some of the servants from Pine Lea. Nevertheless it was obvious that Mr. Fernald appreciated the manner in which Ted ignored these facts and suppressed his surprise at the unusual suggestion. Had Mr. Laurie's dropping in been an ordinary occurrence no one could have treated it with less ceremony than did Ted.

An echo of the gratitude the capitalist felt lingered in his voice when he said good night. It was both gentle and husky with emotion and the lad fell asleep marvelling that the men employed at the mills should assert that the Fernalds were frigid and snobby.



Chapter VI

More Guests


When with shining eyes Ted told his father about Mr. Fernald's visit to the shack, Mr. Turner simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled indulgently.

"Likely Mr. Clarence's curiosity got the better of him," said he, "and he wanted to look your place over and see that it warn't too good; or mebbe he just happened to be going by. He never would have taken the trouble to go that far out of his way if he hadn't had something up his sleeve. When men like him are too pleasant, I'm afraid of 'em. And as for Mr. Laurie dropping in -- why, his father and grandfather would no more let him associate with folks like us than they'd let him jump headfirst into the river. We ain't good enough for the Fernalds. Probably almost nobody on earth is. And when it comes to Mr. Laurie, why, in their opinion the boy doesn't live who is fit to sit in the same room with him."

Ted's bright face clouded with disappointment.

"I never thought of Mr. Laurie feeling like that," answered he.

"Oh, I ain't saying Mr. Laurie himself is so high and mighty. He ain't. The poor chap has nothing to be high and mighty about and he knows it. Anybody who is as dependent on others as he is can't afford to tilt his nose up in the air and put on lugs. For all I know to the contrary he may be simple as a baby. It's his folks that think he's the king-pin and keep him in cotton wool." Mr. Turner paused, his lip curling with scorn. "You'll never see Mr. Laurie at your shack, mark my words. His people would not let him come even if he wanted to."

The light of eagerness in his son's countenance died entirely.

"I suppose you're right," admitted he slowly and with evident reluctance.

Although he would not have confessed it, he had been anticipating, far more than he would have been willing to own, the coming of Mr. Laurie. Over and over again he had lived in imagination his meeting with this fairy prince whose grave, wistful face and pleasant smile had so strongly attracted him. He had speculated to himself as to what the other boy was like and had coveted the chance to speak to him, never realizing that they were not on an equal plane. Mr. Fernald's suggestion of Laurie visiting the shack seemed the most natural thing in the world, and immediately after it had been made Ted's fancy had run riot, and he had leaped beyond the first formal preliminaries to a time when he and Laurie Fernald would really know one another, even come to be genuine friends, perhaps. What sport two lads, interested in the same things, could have together!

Ted had few companions who followed the bent of thought that he did. The fellows he knew either at school or in the town were ready enough to play football and baseball but almost none of them, for example, wanted to sacrifice a pleasant Saturday to constructing a wireless outfit. One or two of them, it is true, had begun the job but they soon tired of it and either sat down to watch him work or had deserted him altogether. The only congenial companion he had been able to count on had been the young assistant in the laboratory at school who, although he was not at all aged, was nevertheless years older than Ted.

But with the mention of Mr. Laurie myriad dreams had flashed into his mind. Here was no prim old scholar but a lad like himself, who probably did not know much more about electrical matters than he. You wouldn't feel ashamed to admit your ignorance before such a person, or own that you either did not know, or did not understand. You could blunder along with such a companion to your heart's content. Such had been his belief until now, with a dozen words, Ted saw his father shatter the illusion. No, of course Mr. Laurie would never come to the shack. It had been absurd to think it for a moment. And even if he did, it would only be as a lofty and unapproachable spectator. Mr. Fernald's words were a subtly designed flattery intended to put him in good humor because he wanted something of him.

What could it be?

Perhaps he meant to oust him out of the boathouse and rebuild it, or possibly tear it down; or maybe he had taken a fancy to use it as it was and desired to be rid of Ted in some sort of pleasant fashion. Unquestionably the building belonged to Mr. Fernald and if he chose to reclaim it he had a perfect right to do so.

Poor Ted! With a crash his air castles tumbled about his ears and the ecstasy of his mood gave way to apprehension and unhappiness. Each day he waited, expecting to hear through Mr. Wharton that Mr. Clarence Fernald had decided to use the shack for other purposes. Time slipped along, however, and no such tidings came. In the meanwhile Mr. Wharton made no further mention of the Fernalds and gradually Ted's fears calmed down sufficiently for him to gain confidence enough to unpack his boxes of wire, his tools, and instruments. Nevertheless, in spite of this, his first enthusiasm had seeped away and he did not attempt to go farther than to take the things out and look at them.

Before his father had withered his ambitions by his pessimism, a score of ideas had danced through his brain. He had thought of running a buzzer over to the Stevens's bungalow in order that Mrs. Stevens might ring for him when she wanted him; and he had thought of connecting Mr. Wharton's office with the shack by telephone. He felt sure he could do both these things and would have liked nothing better than try them. But now what was the use? If a little later on Mr. Fernald intended to take the shack away from him, it would be foolish to waste toil and material for nothing. For the present, at least, he much better hold off and see what happened.

Yet notwithstanding this resolve, he did continue to improve the appearance of the boathouse. Just why, he could not have told. Perhaps it was a vent for his disquietude. At any rate, having some scraps of board left and hearing the gardener say there were more geraniums in the greenhouse than he knew what to do with, Ted made some windowboxes for the Stevens's and himself, painted them green, and filled them with flowering plants. They really were very pretty and added a surprising touch of beauty to the dull, weather-stained little dwelling in the woods. Mr. Wharton was delighted and said so frankly.

"Your camp looks as attractive as a teahouse," said he. "You have no idea how gay the red flowers look among these dark pine trees. How came you to think of window-boxes?"

"Oh, I don't know," was Ted's reply. "The bits of board suggested it, I guess. Then Collins said the greenhouses were overstocked, and he seemed only too glad to get rid of his plants."

"I'll bet he was," responded Mr. Wharton. "If there is anything he hates, it is to raise plants and not have them used. He always has to start more slips than he needs in case some of them do not root; when they do, he is swamped. Evidently you have helped him solve his problem for no sooner did the owners of the other bungalows see Stevens's boxes than everybody wanted them. They all are pestering the carpenter for boards. It made old Mr. Fernald chuckle, for he likes flowers and is delighted to have the cottages on the place made attractive. He asked who started the notion; and when I told him it was you he said he had heard about you and wanted to see you some time."

This time Ted was less thrilled by the remark than he would have been a few days before. A faint degree of his father's scepticism had crept into him and the only reply he vouchsafed was a polite smile. It was absurd to fancy for an instant that the senior member of the Fernald company, the head of the firm, the owner of Aldercliffe, the great and rich Mr. Lawrence Fernald, would ever trouble himself to hunt up a boy who worked on the place. Ridiculous!

Yet it was on the very day that he made these positive and scornful assertions to himself that he found this same mighty Mr. Lawrence Fernald on his doorstep.

It was early Saturday afternoon, a time Ted always had for a holiday. He had not been to see his family for some time and he had made up his mind to start out directly after luncheon and go to Freeman's Falls, where he would, perhaps, remain overnight. Therefore he came swinging through the trees, latchkey in hand, and hurriedly rounding the corner of the shack, he almost jostled into the river Mr. Lawrence Fernald who was loitering on the platform before the door.

"I beg your pardon, sir!" he gasped. "I did not know any one was here."

"Nor did I, young man," replied the ruffled millionaire. "You came like a thief in the night."

"It is the pine needles, sir," explained the boy simply. "Unless you happen to step on a twig that cracks you don't hear a sound."

The directness of the lad evidently pleased the elder man for he answered more kindly:

"It is quiet here, isn't it? I did not know there was a spot within a radius of five miles that was so still. I was almost imagining myself in the heart of the Maine woods before you came."

"I never was in the Maine woods," ventured Ted timidly, "but if it is finer than this I'd like to see it."

"You like your quarters then?"

"Indeed I do, sir."

"And you're not afraid to stay way off here by yourself?"

"Oh, no!"

Mr. Fernald peered over the top of his glasses at the boy before him.

"Would you -- would you care to come inside the shack?" Ted inquired after an interval of silence, during which Mr. Fernald had not taken his eyes from his face. "It is very cosy indoors -- at least I think so."

"Since I am here I suppose I might just glance into the house," was the capitalist's rather magnificent retort. "I don't often get around to this part of the estate. To-day I followed the river and came farther away from Aldercliffe than I intended. When I got to this point the sun was so pleasant here on the float that I lingered."

Nodding, Ted fitted the key into the padlock, turned it, and rolled the doors apart, allowing Mr. Fernald to pass within. The mill owner was a large man and as he stalked about, peering at the fireplace with its andirons of wrought metal, examining the chintz hangings, and casting his eye over the books on the shelf, he seemed to fill the entire room. Then suddenly, having completed his circuit of the interior, he failed to bow himself out as Ted expected and instead dropped into the big leather armchair and proceeded to draw out a cigar.

"I suppose you don't mind if I smoke," said he, at the same instant lighting a match.

"Oh, no. Dad always smokes," replied the boy.

"Your father is in our shipping room, they tell me."

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you live before you came here?"

"Vermont."

"Vermont, eh?" commented the older man with interest. "I was born in Vermont."

"Were you?" Ted ejaculated. "I didn't know that."

"Yes, I was born in Vermont," mused Mr. Fernald slowly. "Born on a farm, as you no doubt were, and helped with the haying, milking, and other chores."

"There were plenty of them," put in the boy, forgetting for the moment whom he was addressing.

"That's right!" was the instant and hearty response. "There was precious little time left afterward for playing marbles or flying kites."

The lad standing opposite chuckled understandingly and the capitalist continued to puff at his cigar.

"Spring was the best time," observed he after a moment, "to steal off after the plowing and planting were done and wade up some brook --  -- "

"Where the water foamed over the rocks," interrupted the boy, with sparkling eyes. "We had a brook behind our house. There were great flat rocks in it and further up in the woods some fine, deep trout holes. All you had to do was to toss a line in there and the next you knew --  -- "

"Something would jump for it," cried the millionaire, breaking in turn into the conversation and rubbing his hands. "I remember hauling a two-pounder out of just such a spot. Jove, but he was a fighter! I can see him now, thrashing about in the water. I wasn't equipped with a rod of split bamboo, a reel, and scores of flies in those days. A hook, a worm, and a stick you'd cut yourself was your outfit. Nevertheless I managed to land my fish for all that."

Lured by the subject Ted came nearer.

"Any pickerel holes where you lived?" inquired Mr. Fernald boyishly.

"You bet there were!" replied the lad. "We had a black, scraggy pond two miles away, dotted with stumps and rotting tree trunks. About sundown we fellows would steal a leaky old punt anchored there and pole along the water's edge until we reached a place where the water was deep, and then we'd toss a line in among the roots. It wasn't long before there would be something doing," concluded he, with a merry laugh.

"How gamey those fish are!" observed Mr. Fernald reminiscently. "And bass are sporty, too."

"I'd rather fish for bass than anything else!" asserted Ted.

"Ever tried landlocked salmon?"

"N -- o. We didn't get those."

"That's what you get in Maine and New Brunswick," explained Mr. Fernald. "I don't know, though, that they are any more fun to land than a good, spirited bass. I often think that all these fashionable camps with their guides, and canoes, and fishing tackles of the latest variety can't touch a Vermont brook just after the ice has thawed. I'd give all I own to live one of those days of my boyhood over again!"

"So would I!" echoed Ted.

"Pooh, nonsense!" objected Mr. Fernald. "You are young and will probably scramble over the rocks for years to come. But I'm an old chap, too stiff in the joints now to wade a brook. Still it is a pleasure to go back to it in your mind."

His face became grave, then lighted with a quick smile.

"I'll wager the material for those curtains of yours never was bought round here. Didn't that come from Vermont? And the andirons, too?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, I knew it! We had some of that old shiny chintz at home for curtains round my mother's four-poster bed."

He rose and began to pace the room thoughtfully.

"Some day my son is going to bring his boy over here," he remarked. "He is interested in electricity and knows quite a bit about it. I was always attracted to science when I was a youngster. I --  -- "

He got no further for there was a stir outside, a sound of voices, and a snapping of dry twigs; and as Ted glanced through the broad frame of the doorway he saw to his amazement Mr. Clarence Fernald wheel up the incline just outside a rubber-tired chair in which sat Laurie.

"I declare if here isn't my grandson now!" exclaimed Mr. Fernald, bustling toward the entrance of the shack.

Ah, it needed no great perception on Ted's part to interpret the pride, affection, and eagerness of the words; in the tones of the elder man's voice rang echoes of adoration, hope, fear, and disappointment. The millowner, however, speedily put them all to rout by crying heartily:

"Well, well! This seems to be a Fernald reunion!"

"Grandfather! Are you here?" cried the boy in the chair, extending his thin hand with the vivid smile Ted so well remembered.

"Indeed I am! Young Turner and I were just speaking of you. I told him you were coming to see him some day."

Laurie glanced toward Ted.

"It is nice of you to let me come and visit you," he said, with easy friendliness. "What a pretty place you have and how gay the flowers are! And the river is beautiful! Our view of it from Pine Lea is not half so lovely as this."

"Perhaps you might like to sit here on the platform for a while," suggested Ted, coming forward rather shyly and smiling down into the lad's eyes. Laurie returned the smile with delightful candor.

"You're Ted Turner, aren't you?" inquired he. "They've told me about you and how many things you can do. I could not rest until I had seen the shack. Besides, Dad says you have some books on electricity; I want to see them. And I've brought you some of mine. They're in a package somewhere under my feet."

"That was mighty kind of you," answered Ted, as he stooped to secure the volumes.

"Not a bit. My tutor, Mr. Hazen, got them for me and some of them are corking -- not at all dry and stupid as books often are. If you haven't seen them already, I know you'll like them."

How easily and naturally it all came about! Before they knew it, Mr. Fernald was talking, Mr. Clarence Fernald was talking, Laurie was talking, and Ted himself was talking. Sitting there so idly in the sunshine they joked, told stories, and watched the river as it crept lazily along, reflecting on its smooth surface the gold and azure of the June day. During the pauses they listened to the whispering music of the pines and drank in their sleepy fragrance. More than once Ted pinched himself to make certain that he was really awake. It all seemed so unbelievable; and yet, withal, there was something so simple and suitable about it.

By and by Mr. Clarence rose, stretched his arms, and began boyishly to skip stones across the stream; then Ted tried his skill; and presently, not to be outdone by the others, Grandfather Fernald cast aside his dignity and peeling off his coat joined in the sport.

How Laurie laughed, and how he clapped his hands when one of his grandfather's pebbles skimmed the surface of the water six times before it disappeared amid a series of widening ripples. After this they all were simply boys together, calling, shouting, and jesting with one another in good-humored rivalry. What use was it then ever again to attempt to be austere and unapproachable Fernalds? No use in the world!

Although Mr. Fernald, senior, mopped his brow and slipped back into his coat with a shadow of surprise when he came to and realized what he had been doing, he did not seem to mind greatly having lapsed from seventy years to seven. The fact that he had furnished Laurie with amusement was worth a certain loss of dignity.

Ah, it would have taken an outsider days, weeks, months, perhaps years to have broken through the conventionalities and beheld the Fernalds as Ted saw them that day. It was the magic of the sunshine, the sparkle of the creeping river, the mysterious spell of the pines that had wrought the enchantment. Perhaps, too, the memory of his Vermont boyhood had risen freshly to Grandfather Fernald's mind.

When the shadows lengthened and the glint of gold faded from the river, they went indoors and Mr. Laurie was wheeled about that he might inspect every corner of the little house of which he had heard so much. This he did with the keenest delight and it was only after both his father and his grandfather had promised to bring him again that he could be persuaded to be carried back to Pine Lea. As he disappeared among the windings of the trees, he waved his hand to Ted and called:

"I'll see you some day next week, Ted. Mr. Hazen, my tutor, shall bring me round here some afternoon when you have finished work. I suppose you don't get through much before five, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Oh, any time you want to see Ted I guess he can be let off early," cried both Mr. Fernald and Mr. Clarence in one breath.

Then as Mr. Clarence pushed the wheel-chair farther into the dusk of the pines, Mr. Fernald turned toward Ted and added in an undertone:

"It's done the lad good to come. I haven't seen him in such high spirits for days. We'll fix things up with Wharton so that whenever he fancies to come here you can be on hand. The poor boy hasn't many pleasures and he sees few persons of his own age."



Chapter VII

Mr. Laurie


The visits of Laurie during the following two weeks became very frequent; and such pleasure did they afford him that orders were issued for Ted Turner to knock off work each day at four o'clock and return to the shack, where almost invariably he found his new acquaintance awaiting him. It was long since Laurie Fernald had had a person of his own age to talk with. In fact, he had never before seen a lad whose friendship he desired. Most boys were so well and strong that they had no conception of what it meant not to be so, and their very robustness and vitality overwhelmed a personality as sensitively attuned as was that of Laurie Fernald. He shrank from their pity, their blundering sympathy, their patronage.

But in Ted Turner he immediately felt he had nothing to dread. He might have been a Marathon athlete, so far as any hint to the contrary went. Ted appeared never to notice his disability or to be conscious of any difference in their physical equipment; and when, as sometimes happened, he stooped to arrange a pillow, or lift the wheel-chair over the threshold, he did it so gently and yet in such a matter-of-fact manner that one scarcely noticed it. They were simply eager, alert, bubbling, interested boys together, and as the effect of the friendship showed itself in Laurie's shining eyes, all the Fernalds encouraged it.

"Why, that young Turner is doing Laurie more good than a dozen doctors!" asserted Grandfather Fernald. "If he did no work on the farm at all, Ted would be worth his wages. Money can't pay for what he has done already. I'm afraid Laurie has been missing young friends more than we realized. He never complains and perhaps we did not suspect how lonely he was."

Mr. Clarence nodded.

"Older people are pretty stupid about children sometimes, I guess," said he sadly. "Well, he has Ted Turner now and certainly he is a splendid boy for him to be with. Laurie's tutor, Mr. Hazen, likes him tremendously. What a blessing it is that Wharton stumbled on him and brought him up here. Had we searched the countryside I doubt if we could have found any one Laurie would have liked so much. He doesn't care especially for strangers."

With the Fernald's sanction behind the friendship, and both Laurie's tutor and his doctor urging it on, you may be sure it thrived vigorously. The boys were naturally companionable and now, with every barrier out of the way, and every fostering influence provided, the two soon found themselves on terms of genuine affection.

If Laurie went for a motor ride Saturday afternoon, Ted must go, too; if he had a new book, Ted must share it, and when he was not as well as usual, or it was too stormy for him to be carried to the shack, nothing would do but Ted Turner must be summoned to Pine Lea to brighten the dreariness of the day. Soon the servants came to know the newcomer and understand that he was a privileged person in the household. Laurie's mother, a pretty Southern woman, welcomed him kindly and it was not long before the two were united in a deep and affectionate conspiracy which placed them on terms of the greatest intimacy.

"Laurie isn't quite so well this afternoon, Ted," Mrs. Fernald would say. "Don't let him get too excited or talk too much." Or sometimes it was, "Laurie had a bad night last night and is dreadfully discouraged to-day. Do try and cheer him up."

Not infrequently Mr. Hazen would voice an appeal:

"I haven't been able to coax Laurie to touch his French lesson this morning. Don't you want to see if you can't get him started on it? He'll do anything for you."

And when Ted did succeed in getting the lesson learned, and not only that but actually made an amusing game out of it, how grateful Mr. Hazen was!

For with all his sweetness Laurie Fernald had a stubborn streak in his nature which the volume of attention he had received had only served to accentuate. He was not really spoiled but there were times when he would do as he pleased, whether or no; and when such a mood came to the surface, no one but Ted Turner seemed to have any power against it. Therefore, when it occasionally chanced that Laurie refused to see the doctor, or would not take his medicine, or insisted on getting up when told to lie in bed, Ted was made an ally and urged to promote the thing that made for the invalid's health and well-being.

After being admitted into the family circle on such confidential terms, it followed that absolute equality was accorded Ted and he came and went freely, both at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea. He read with Laurie, lunched with him, followed his lessons; and listened to his plans, his pleasures, and his disappointments. Perhaps, too, Laurie Fernald liked and respected him the more that he had duties to perform and therefore was not always free to come at his beck and call as did everybody else.

"I shan't be able to get round to see you to-day, old chap," Ted would explain over the telephone. "There is a second crop of peas to plant in the further lot and as Mr. Stevens is short of men, I'm going to duff in and help, even if it isn't my job. Of course I want to do my bit when they are in a pinch. I'll see you to-morrow."

And although Laurie grumbled a good deal, he recognized the present need, and becoming interested in the matter in spite of himself, wished to hear the following day all about the planting. That he should inquire greatly delighted both his father and his grandfather who had always been anxious that he should come into touch with the management of the estates. Often they had tried to talk to him of crops and gardens, plowing and planting, but to the subject the heir had lent merely a deaf ear. Now with Ted Turner's advent had come a new influence, the testimony of one who was practically interested in agricultural problems and thought farming anything but dull. The boy was genuinely eager that the work of the men should be a success and therefore when he hoped for fair weather for the haying and it seemed to make a real difference to him whether it was pleasant or not, how could Laurie help being eager that it should not rain until the fields were mowed and the crop garnered into the great barns? Or when Ted was worrying about the pests that invaded the garden, one wouldn't have been a true friend not to ask how the warfare was progressing.

Before Laurie knew it, he had learned much about the affairs of the estates and had become awake to the obstacles good farmers encounter in their strife with soil and weather conditions. As a result his outlook broadened, he became less introspective and more alive to the concerns of those about him; and he gained a new respect for his father's and grandfather's employees. One had much less time to be depressed and discouraged when one had so many things to think of.

Sometimes Ted brought in seeds and showed them; and afterward a slender plant that had sprouted; and then Mr. Hazen would join in and tell the two boys of other plants, -- strange ones that grew in novel ways. Or perhaps the talk led to the chemicals the gardeners were mixing with the soil and wandered off into science. Every topic seemed to reach so far and led into such fascinating mazes of knowledge! What a surprising place the world was!

Of course, had the Fernalds so desired they could have relieved Ted of all his farming duties, and indeed they were sorely tempted at times to do so; but when they saw how much better it was to keep the boy's visits a novelty instead of making of them a commonplace event, and sensed how much knowledge he was bringing into the invalid's room, they decided to let matters progress as they were going. They did, however, arrange occasional holidays for the lad and many a jolly outing did Ted have in consequence. Had they displayed less wisdom they might have wrecked the friendship altogether. As it was they strengthened it daily and the little shack among the pines became to both Ted and to Laurie the most loved spot in the world. Frequently the servants from Pine Lea surprised the boys by bringing them their luncheon there; and sometimes Mrs. Fernald herself came hither with her tea-basket, and the entire family sat about before the great stone fireplace and enjoyed a picnic supper.

It was after one of these camping teas that Mr. Clarence Fernald bought for Laurie a comfortable Adirondack canoe luxuriously fitted up with cushions. The stream before the boathouse was broad and contained little or no current except down toward Pine Lea, where it narrowed into rapids that swept over the dam at Freeman's Falls. Therefore if one kept along the edges of the upper part of the river, there was no danger and the canoe afforded a delightful recreation. Both the elder Fernalds and Mr. Hazen rowed well and Ted pulled an exceptionally strong oar for a boy of his years. Hence they took turns at propelling the boat and soon Laurie was as much at home on the pillows in the stern as he was in his wheel-chair.

He greatly enjoyed the smooth, jarless motion of the craft; and often, even when it was anchored at the float, he liked to be lifted into it and lie there rocking with the wash of the river. It made a change which he declared rested him, and it was through this simple and apparently harmless pleasure that a terrible catastrophe took place.

On a fine warm afternoon Mr. Hazen and Laurie went over to the shack to meet Ted who usually returned from work shortly after four o'clock. The door of the little camp was wide open when they arrived but their host was nowhere to be seen. This circumstance did not trouble them, however, for on the days when Laurie was expected Ted always left the boathouse unlocked. What did disconcert them and make Laurie impatient was to discover that through some error in reckoning they were almost an hour too early.

"Our clocks must have been ahead of time," fretted the boy. "We shall have to hang round here the deuce of a while."

"Wouldn't you like me to wheel you back through the grove?" questioned the tutor.

"Oh, there's no use in that. Suppose you get out the pillows and help me into the boat. I'll lie there a while and rest."

"All right."

With a ready smile Mr. Hazen plunged into the shack and soon returned laden with the crimson cushions, which he arranged in the stern of the canoe with greatest care. Afterward he picked Laurie up in his arms as if he had been a feather and carried him to the boat.

"How's that?" he asked, when the invalid was settled.

"Fine! Great, thanks! You're a wonder with pillows, Mr. Hazen; you always get them just right," replied the lad. "Now if I only had my book --  -- "

"I could go and get it."

"Oh, no. Don't bother. Ted will be here before long, won't he? What time is it?"

"About half-past three."

"Only half-past three! Great Scott! I thought it must be nearly four by this time. Then I have quite a while to wait, don't I? I don't see why you got me over here so early."

"I don't either," returned Mr. Hazen pleasantly. "I'm afraid my watch must have been wrong."

Laurie moved restlessly on the pillows. He had passed a wretched night and was worn and nervous in consequence.

"I guess perhaps you'd better run back to the house for my book," remarked he presently. "I shall be having a fit of the blues if I have to hang round here so long with nothing to do."

"I'm perfectly willing to go back," Mr. Hazen said. "But are you sure --  -- "

"Oh, I'm all right," cut in the boy sharply. "I guess I can sit in a boat by myself for a little while."

"Still, I'm not certain that I ought to --  -- "

"Leave me? Nonsense! What do you think I am, Hazen? A baby? What on earth is going to happen to me, I'd like to know?"

"Nevertheless I don't like to --  -- "

"Oh, do stop arguing. It makes me tired. Cut along and get the book, can't you? Why waste all this time fussing?" burst out the invalid fretfully. "How am I ever going to get well, or think I am well, if you keep reminding me every minute that I am a helpless wreck? It is enough to discourage anybody. Why can't you treat me like other people? If you chose to sit in a boat alone for half an hour nobody'd throw a fit. Why can't I?"

"I suppose you can," retorted the tutor unwillingly. "Only you know we never do --  -- "

"Leave me? Don't I know it? The way people tag at my heels drives me almost crazy sometimes. You wouldn't like to have some one dogging your footsteps from morning until night, would you?"

"I'm afraid I shouldn't," admitted Mr. Hazen.

For an interval Laurie was silent; then he glanced up with one of his swift, appealing smiles.

"There, there, Mr. Hazen!" he said with winning sincerity. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to be cross. I do get so fiendishly impatient sometimes. How you can keep on being so kind to me I don't see. Do please go and get the book, like a good chap. It's on the chair in my room or else on the library table. You'll find it somewhere. 'Treasure Island,' you know. I had to leave it in the middle of a most exciting chapter and I am crazy to know how it came out."

Reluctantly Mr. Hazen moved away. It was very hard to resist Laurie Fernald when he was in his present mood; besides, the young tutor was genuinely fond of his charge and would far rather gratify his wishes than refuse him anything. Therefore he hurried off through the grove, resolving to return as fast as ever he could.

In the meantime Laurie threw his head back on the pillows and looked up at the sky. How blue it was and how lazily the clouds drifted by! Was any spot on earth so still as this? Why, you could not hear a sound! He yawned and closed his eyes, the fatigue of his sleepless night overcoming him. Soon he was lost in dreams.

*   *   *   *   *

He never could tell just what it was that aroused him; perhaps it was a premonition of danger, perhaps the rocking of the boat. At any rate he was suddenly broad awake to find himself drifting out into the middle of the stream. In some way the boat must have become unfastened and the rising breeze carried it away from shore. Not that it mattered very much now. The thing that was of consequence was that he was helplessly drifting down the river with no means of staying his progress. Soon he would be caught in the swirl of the current and then there would be no help for him. What was he to do?

Must he lie there and be borne along until he was at last carried over the dam at his father's mills?

He saw no escape from such a fate! There was not a soul in sight. The banks of the river were entirely deserted, for the workmen were far away, toiling in the fields and gardens, and they could not hear him even were he to shout his loudest. As for Mr. Hazen, he was probably still at Pine Lea searching for the book and wouldn't be back for some time.

The boy's heart sank and he quivered with fear. Must he be drowned there all alone? Was there no one to aid him?

Thoroughly terrified, he began to scream. But his screams only reechoed from the silent river banks. No one heard and no one came.

He was in the current of the stream now and moving rapidly along. Faster and faster he went. Yes, he was going to be swept on to Freeman's Falls, going to be carried over the dam and submerged beneath that hideous roar of water that foamed down on the jagged rocks in a boiling torrent of noise and spray. Nobody would know his plight until the catastrophe was over; and even should any of the mill hands catch sight of his frail craft as it sped past it would be too late for them to help him. Before a boat could be launched and rescuers summoned he would be over the falls.

Yes, he was going to die, to die!

Again he screamed, this time less with a thought of calling for help than as a protest against the fate awaiting him. To his surprise he heard an answering shout and a second later saw Ted Turner dash through the pines, pause on the shore, and scan the stream. Another instant and the boy had thrown off his coat and shoes and was in the water, swimming toward the boat with quick, overhand strokes.

He heard an answering shout and a second later saw Ted Turner dash through the pines. Page 88.

"Keep perfectly still, Laurie!" he panted. "You're all right. Just don't get fussed."

Yet cheering as were the words, they could not conceal the fact that Ted was frightened, terribly frightened.

The canoe gained headway with the increasing current. It seemed now to leap along. And in just the proportion that its progress was accelerated, the speed of the pursuer lessened. It seemed as if Ted would never overtake his prize. How they raced one another, the bobbing craft and the breathless boy! Ted Turner was a strong swimmer but the canoe with its solitary occupant was so light that it shot over the surface of the water like a feather.

Was the contest to be a losing one, after all?

Laurie, looking back at the wake of the boat, saw Ted's arm move slower and slower and suddenly a wave of realization of the other's danger came upon him. They might both be drowned, -- two of them instead of one!

"Give it up, old man!" he called bravely. "Don't try any more. You may go down yourself and I should have to die with that misery on my soul. You've done your best. It's all right. Just let me go! I'm not afraid."

There was no answer from the swimmer but he did not stop. On the contrary, he kept stubbornly on, plowing with mechanical persistence through the water. Then at length he, too, was in the current and was gaining surely and speedily. Presently he was only a length away from the boat -- he was nearer -- nearer! His arm touched the stern and Laurie Fernald caught his hand in a firm grip. There he hung, breathing heavily.

"I've simply got to stop a second or two and get my wind," said he. "Then we'll start back."

"Ted!"

"There are no oars, of course, but I can tie the rope around my body or perhaps catch it between my teeth. The canoe isn't heavy, you know. After we get out of the current and into quiet water, we shall have no trouble. We can cut straight across the stream and the distance to shore won't be great. I can do it all right."

And do it he did, just how neither of the lads could have told.

Nevertheless he did contrive to bring the boat and Laurie with it to a place of safety. Shoulder-deep in the water stood the frenzied Mr. Hazen who had plunged in to meet them and drag them to land. They had come so far down the river that when the canoe was finally beached they found themselves opposite the sweeping lawns of Pine Lea.

Ted and the tutor were chilled and exhausted and Laurie was weak from fright and excitement. It did not take long, you may be sure, to summon help and bundle the three into a motor car which carried them to Pine Lea. Once there the invalid was put to bed and Mr. Hazen and Ted equipped with dry garments.

"I shall get the deuce from the Fernalds for this!" commented the young tutor gloomily to Ted. "If it had not been for you, that boy would certainly have been drowned. Ugh! It makes me shudder to think of it! Had anything happened to him, I believe his father and grandfather would have lynched me."

"Oh, Laurie is going to take all the blame," replied Ted, making an attempt to comfort the dejected young man. "He told me so himself."

"That's all very well," rejoined Mr. Hazen, "but it won't help much. I shouldn't have left him. I had no right to do it, no matter what he said. I suppose the boat wasn't securely tied. It couldn't have been. Then the breeze came up. Goodness knows how the thing actually happened. I can't understand it now. But the point is, it did. Jove! I'm weak as a rag! I guess there can't be much left of you, Ted."

"Oh, I'm all right now," protested Ted. "What got me was the fright of it. I didn't mind the swimming, for I've often crossed the river and back during my morning plunge. My work keeps me in pretty good training. But to-day I got panicky and my breath gave out. I was so afraid I wouldn't overtake the boat before --  -- "

"I know!" interrupted the tutor with a shiver. "Well, it is all over now, thank God! You were a genuine hero and I shall tell the Fernalds so."

"Stuff! Don't tell them at all. What's the use of harrowing their feelings all up now that the thing is past and done with?"

"But Laurie -- he is all done up and they will be at a loss to account for it," objected Mr. Hazen. "Besides, the servants saw us come ashore and have probably already spread the story all over the place. And anyhow, I believe in being perfectly aboveboard. You do yourself, you know that. So I shall tell them the whole thing precisely as it happened. Afterward they'll probably fire me."

"No, they won't! Cheer up!"

"I deserve to be fired, too," went on the young tutor without heeding the interruption. "I ought not to have left Laurie an instant."

"Perhaps not. But you won't do it again."

"You bet I won't!" cried Mr. Hazen boyishly.

It subsequently proved that Mr. Hazen knew far more of his employers than did Ted, for after the story was told only the pleas of the young rescuer availed to soften the sentence imposed.

"He's almighty sorry, Mr. Fernald," asserted Ted Turner. "Don't tip him out. Give him a second try. He won't ever do it again."

"W -- e -- ll, for your sake I will," Mr. Clarence said, yielding reluctantly to the pleading of the lad who sat opposite. "It would be hard for me to deny you anything after what you've done. You've saved our boy's life. We never shall forget it, never. But Hazen can thank you for his job -- not me."

And so, as a result of Ted's intercession, Mr. Hazen stayed on. In fact, as Mr. Clarence said, they could deny the lad nothing. It seemed as if the Fernalds never could do enough for him. Grandfather Fernald gave him a new watch with an illuminated face; and quite unknown to any one, Laurie's father opened a bank account to his credit, depositing a substantial sum as a "starter."

But the best of the whole thing was that Laurie turned to Ted with a deeper and more earnest affection and the foundation was laid for a strong and enduring friendship.



Chapter VIII

Diplomacy And Its Results


Laurie, Ted, and Mr. Hazen were in the shack on a Saturday afternoon not long after the adventure on the river. A hard shower had driven them ashore and forced them to scramble into the shelter of the camp at the water's edge. How the rain pelted down on the low roof! It seemed as if an army were bombarding the little hut! Within doors, however, all was tight, warm, and cosy and on the hearth before a roaring fire the damp coats were drying.

In the meantime the two boys and the young tutor had dragged out some coils of wire and a pair of amateur telephone transmitters which Ted had concocted while in school and for amusement were trying to run from one end of the room to the other a miniature telephone. Thus far their attempts had not been successful and Ted was becoming impatient.

"We got quite a fair result at the laboratory after the things were adjusted," commented he. "I don't see why we can't work the same stunt here."

"I'm afraid we haven't put time enough into it yet," replied Mr. Hazen. "Don't you remember how long Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone, experimented before he got results?"

Laurie, who was busy shortening a bit of wire, glanced up with interest.

"I can't for the life of me understand how he knew what he wanted to do, can you?" he mused. "Think of starting out to make something perfectly new -- a machine for which you had no pattern! I can imagine working out improvements on something already on the market. But to produce something nobody had ever seen before -- that beats me! How did he ever get the idea in the first place?"

The tutor smiled.

"Mr. Bell did not set out to make a telephone, Laurie," he answered. "What he was aiming to do was to perfect a harmonic telegraph, a scheme to which he had been devoting a good deal of his time. He and his father had studied carefully the miracle of speech -- how the sounds of the human voice were produced and carried to others -- and as a result of this training Mr. Bell had become an expert teacher of the deaf. He was also professor of Vocal Physiology at Boston University where he had courses in lip reading, or a system of visible speech, which his father had evolved. This work kept him busy through the day so whatever experimenting he did with sounds and their vibrations had to be done at night."

"So he stole time for electrical work, too, did he?" observed Ted.

"I'm afraid that his interest in sound vibration caused him a sorry loss of sleep," said the tutor. "But certainly his later results were worth the amount of rest he sacrificed. One of the first agencies he employed to work upon was a piano. Have you ever tried singing a note into this instrument when the sustaining pedal is depressed? Do it some time and notice what happens. You will find that the string tuned to the pitch of your voice will start vibrating while all the others remain quiet. You can even go farther and try the experiment of uttering several different pitches, if you want to, and the corresponding strings will give back your notes, each one singling out its own particular vibration from the air. Now the results reached in these experiments with the piano strings meant a great deal more to Alexander Graham Bell than they would have meant to you or to me. In the first place, his training had given him a very acute ear; and in the next place, he was able to see in the facts presented a significance which an unskilled listener would not have detected. He found that this law of sympathetic vibration could be repeated electrically and, if desired, from a distance by means of electromagnets placed under a group of piano strings; and if afterward a circuit was made by connecting the magnets with an electric battery, you immediately had the same singing of the keys and a similar searching of each for its own pitch."

"I'd like to try that trick some time," exclaimed Ted, leaning forward eagerly.

"So should I!" echoed Laurie.

"I think we could quite easily make the experiment if Laurie's mother would not object to our rigging up an attachment to her piano," Mr. Hazen responded.

"Oh, Mater wouldn't mind," answered Laurie confidently. "She never minds anything I want to do."

"I know she is a very long-suffering person," smiled the tutor. "Do you recall the white mice you had once, Laurie, and how they got loose and ran all over the house?"

"And the chameleons! And the baby alligator!" chuckled Laurie. "Mother did get her back up over that alligator. She didn't like meeting him in the hall unexpectedly. But she wouldn't mind a thing that wasn't alive."

"You call an electric wire dead then," said Ted with irony.

"Well, no -- not precisely," grinned Laurie. "Still I'm certain Mater would be less scared of it than she would of a mouse, even if the wire could kill her and the mouse couldn't."

"Let's return to Mr. Bell and his piano strings," Ted remarked, after the laughter had subsided.

Mr. Hazen's brow contracted thoughtfully and in his leisurely fashion he presently replied:

"You can see, can't you, that if an interrupter caused the electric current to be made and broken at intervals, the number of times it interrupted per second would, for example, correspond to the rate of vibration in one of the strings? In other words, that would be the only string that would answer. Now if you sang into the piano, you would have the rhythmic impulse that set the piano strings vibrating coming directly through the air, while with the battery the impulse would come through the wire and the electromagnets instead. In each case, however, the principle involved would be the same."

"I can see that," said Ted quickly. "Can't you, Laurie?"

His chum nodded.

"Now," continued Mr. Hazen, "just as it was possible to start two or more different notes of the piano echoing varying pitches, so it is possible to have several sets of these make-and-break or intermittent currents start their corresponding strings to answering. In this way one could send several messages at once, each message being toned to a different pitch. All that would be necessary would be to have differently keyed interrupters. This was the principle of the harmonic telegraph at which Mr. Bell was toiling outside the hours of his regular work and through which he hoped to make himself rich and famous. His intention was to break up the various sounds into the dots and dashes of the Morse code and make one wire do what it had previously taken several wires to perform."

"It seems simple enough," speculated Laurie.

"It was not so simple to carry out," declared Mr. Hazen. "Of course, as I told you, Mr. Bell could not give his entire time to it. He had his teaching both at Boston University and elsewhere to do. Nor was he wholly free at the Saunders's, with whom he boarded at Salem, for he was helping the Saunders's nephew, who was deaf, to study."

"And in return poor Mrs. Saunders had to offer up her piano for experiments, I suppose," Ted observed.

"Well, perhaps at first -- but not for long," was Mr. Hazen's reply. "Mr. Bell soon abandoned piano strings and in their place resorted to flat strips of springy steel, keying them to different pitches by varying their length. One end of these strips he fastened to a pole of an electromagnet and the other he extended over the other pole and left free."

"And the current interrupters?" queried Ted.

"Those current interrupters are the things which have since become known as transmitters," explained Mr. Hazen. "Those Mr. Bell made all alike except that in each one of them were springs kept in constant vibration by a magnet or point of metal placed above each spring so that the spring would touch it at every vibration, thus making and breaking the electric current the same number of times per second that corresponded to the pitch of the piece of steel. By tuning the springs of the receivers to the same pitch with the transmitters and running a wire between them equipped with signalling keys and a battery, Bell reasoned he could send as many messages at one time as there were pitches."

"Did he get it to work?" Laurie asked.

"Mr. Bell didn't, no," replied the tutor. "What sounded logical enough on paper was not so easy to put into practise. The idea has been carried out successfully, however, since then. But Mr. Bell unfortunately had no end of troubles with his scheme, and we all may thank these difficulties for the telephone, for had his harmonic telegraph gone smoothly we might not and probably would not have had Bell's other and far more important invention."

"The discovery of the telephone was a 'happen,' then," Ted ventured.

"More or less of a happen," was the reply. "Of course, the intelligent recognition of the law behind it was not a happen; nor was the patient and persistent toil that went into the perfecting of the instrument a matter of chance. Alexander Graham Bell had the genius to recognize the value and significance of the truth on which he stumbled and turn it to practical purposes. Many another might perhaps have heard the self-same sounds that came to him over that reach of wire and, detecting nothing unusual in the whining vibrations, have passed them by. But to Mr. Bell they were magic music, the sesame to a new country. Strangely enough, too, it was the good luck of a boy not much older than Ted to share with the discoverer the wonderful secret."

"How?" demanded both Laurie and Ted in a breath.

"I can't tell you that story to-day," Mr. Hazen expostulated. "It would take much too long. We must give over talking and put our minds on this telephone of our own which does not seem to be making any great progress. I begin to be afraid we haven't the proper outfit."

As he spoke, a shadow crossed the window and in another instant Mr. Clarence Fernald poked his head in at the door.

"What are you three conspirators up to?" inquired he. "You look as if you were making bombs or some other deadly thing."

"We are making a telephone, Dad, and it won't work," was Laurie's answer.

Mr. Fernald smiled with amusement.

"You seem to have plenty of wire," he said. "In fact, if I were permitted to offer a criticism, I should say you had more wire than anything else. How lengthy a circuit do you expect to cover?"

"Oh, we're not ambitious," Laurie replied. "If we can cross the room we shall be satisfied, although now that you mention it, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing if it could run from my room at home over here." He eyed his father furtively. "Then when I happened to have to stay in bed I could talk to Ted and he could cheer me up."

"So he could!" echoed Mr. Fernald in noncommittal fashion.

"It would be rather nice, too, for Mr. Wharton," went on the diplomat with his sidelong glance still fixed on his father. "He must sometimes wish he could reach Ted without bothering to send a man way over here. And then there are the Turners! Of course a telephone to the shack would give them no end of pleasure. They must miss Ted and often want to speak with him."

He waited but there was no response from Mr. Fernald.

"Ted might be sick, too; or have an accident and wish to get help and --  -- "

At last the speaker was rewarded by having the elder man turn quickly upon him.

"In other words, you young scoundrel, you want me to install a telephone in this shack for the joy and delight of you two electricians who can't seem to do it for yourselves," said Mr. Fernald gruffly.

"Now however do you suppose he guessed it?" exclaimed Laurie delightedly, as he turned with mock gravity to Ted. "Isn't he the mind reader?"

It was evident that Laurie Fernald thoroughly understood his father and that the two were on terms of the greatest affection.

"Did I say I wanted a telephone?" he went on meekly.

"You said everything else," was the grim retort.

"Did I? Well, well!" commented the boy mischievously. "I needn't have taken so much trouble after all, need I? But every one isn't such a Sherlock Holmes as you are, Dad."

Mr. Fernald's scowl vanished and he laughed.

"What a young wheedler you are!" observed he, playfully rumpling up his son's fair hair. "You could coax every cent I have away from me if I did not lock my money up in the bank. I really think, though, that a telephone here in the hut would be an excellent idea. But what I don't see is why you don't do the job yourselves."

"Oh, we could do the work all right if there wasn't danger of our infringing the patent of the telephone company," was Laurie's impish reply. "If we should get into a lawsuit there would be no end of trouble, you know. I guess we'd much better have the thing installed in the regular way."

"I guess so too!" came from his father.

"You'll really have it put in, Dad?" cried Laurie.

"Sure!"

"That will be bully, corking!" Laurie declared. "You're mighty good, Dad."

"Pooh! Nonsense!" his father protested, as he shot a quick glance of tenderness toward the boy. "A telephone over here will be a useful thing for us all. I may want to call Ted up myself sometimes. We never can tell when an emergency may arise."

Within the following week the telephone was in place and although Ted had not minded his seclusion, or thought he had not, he suddenly found that the instrument gave him a very comfortable sense of nearness to his family and to the household at Pine Lea. He and Laurie chattered like magpies over the wire and were far worse, Mrs. Fernald asserted, than any two gossipy boarding-school girls. Moreover, Ted was now able to speak each day with his father at the Fernald shipping rooms and by this means keep in closer touch with his family. As for Mr. Wharton, he marvelled that a telephone to the shack had not been put in at the outset.

"It is not a luxury," he insisted. "It's a necessity! An indispensable part of the farm equipment!"

Certainly in the days to come it proved its worth!



Chapter IX

The Story Of The First Telephone


"I am going down to Freeman's Falls this afternoon to get some rubber tape," Ted remarked to Laurie, as the two boys and the tutor were eating a picnic lunch in Ted's cabin one Saturday.

"Oh, make somebody else do your errand and stay here," Laurie begged. "Anybody can buy that stuff. Some of the men must be going to the Falls. Ask Wharton to make them do your shopping."

"Perhaps Ted had other things to attend to," ventured Mr. Hazen.

"No, I hadn't," was the prompt reply.

"In that case I am sure any of the men would be glad to get whatever you please," the tutor declared.

"Save your energy, old man," put in Laurie. "Electrical supplies are easy enough to buy when you know what you want."

"They are now," Mr. Hazen remarked, with a quiet smile, "but they have not always been. In fact, it was not so very long ago that it was almost impossible to purchase either books on electricity or electrical stuff of any sort. People's knowledge of such matters was so scanty that little was written about them; and as for shops of this type -- why, they were practically unknown."

"Where did persons get what they wanted?" asked Ted with surprise.

"Nobody wanted electrical materials," laughed Mr. Hazen. "There was no call for them. Even had the shops supplied them, nobody would have known what to do with them."

"But there must have been some who would," the boy persisted. "Where, for example, did Mr. Bell get his things?"

"Practically all Mr. Bell's work was done at a little shop on Court Street, Boston," answered Mr. Hazen. "This shop, however, was nothing like the electrical supply shops we have now. Had Alexander Graham Bell entered its doors and asked, for instance, for a telephone transmitter, he would have found no such thing in stock. On the contrary, the shop consisted of a number of benches where men or boys experimented or made crude electrical contrivances that had previously been ordered by customers. The shop was owned by Charles Williams, a clever mechanical man, who was deeply interested in electrical problems of all sorts. In a tiny showcase in the front part of the store were displayed what few textbooks on electricity he had been able to gather together and these he allowed the men in his employ to read at lunch time and to use freely in connection with their work. He was a person greatly beloved by those associated with him and he had the rare wisdom to leave every man he employed unhampered, thereby making individual initiative the law of his business."

The tutor paused, then noticing that both the boys were listening intently, he continued:

"If a man had an idea that had been carefully thought out, he was given free rein to execute it. Tom Watson, one of the boys at the shop, constructed a miniature electric engine, and although the feat took both time and material, there was no quarrel because of that. The place was literally a workshop, and so long as there were no drones in it and the men toiled intelligently, Mr. Williams had no fault to find. You can imagine what valuable training such a practical environment furnished. Nobody nagged at the men, nobody drove them on. Each of the thirty or forty employees pegged away at his particular task, either doing work for a specific customer or trying to perfect some notion of his own. If you were a person of ideas, it was an ideal conservatory in which to foster them."

"Gee! I'd have liked the chance to work in a place like that!" Ted sighed.

"It would not have been a bad starter, I assure you," agreed Mr. Hazen. "At that time there were, as I told you, few such shops in the country; and this one, simple and crude as it was, was one of the largest. There was another in Chicago which was bigger and perhaps more perfectly organized; but Williams's shop was about as good as any and certainly gave its men an excellent all-round education in electrical matters. Many of them went out later and became leaders in the rapidly growing world of science and these few historic little shops thus became the ancestors of our vast electrical plants."

"It seems funny to think it all started from such small beginnings, doesn't it," mused Laurie thoughtfully.

"It certainly is interesting," Mr. Hazen replied. "And if it interests us in this far-away time, think what it must have meant to the pioneers to witness the marvels half a century brought forth and look back over the trail they had blazed. For it was a golden era of discovery, that period when the new-born power of electricity made its appearance; and because Williams's shop was known to be a nursery for ideas, into it flocked every variety of dreamer. There were those who dreamed epoch-making dreams and eventually made them come true; and there were those who merely saw visions too impractical ever to become realities. To work amid this mecca of minds must have been not only an education in science but in human nature as well. Every sort of crank who had gathered a wild notion out of the blue meandered into Williams's shop in the hope that somebody could be found there who would provide either the money or the labor to further his particular scheme.

"Now in this shop," went on Mr. Hazen, "there was, as I told you, a young neophyte by the name of Thomas Watson. Tom had not found his niche in life. He had tried being a clerk, a bookkeeper, and a carpenter and none of these several occupations had seemed to fit him. Then one fortunate day he happened in at Williams's shop and immediately he knew this was the place where he belonged. He was a boy of mechanical tastes who had a real genius for tools and machinery. He was given a chance to turn castings by hand at five dollars a week and he took the job eagerly."

"Think how a boy would howl at working for that now," Laurie exclaimed.

"No doubt there were boys who would have howled then," answered Mr. Hazen, "although in those days young fellows expected to work hard and receive little pay until they had learned their trade. Perhaps the youthful Mr. Watson had the common sense to cherish this creed; at any rate, there was not a lazy bone in his body, and as there were no such things to be had as automatic screw machines, he went vigorously to work making the castings by hand, trying as he did so not to blind his eyes with the flying splinters of metal."

"Then what happened?" demanded Laurie.

"Well, Watson stuck at his job and in the meantime gleaned right and left such scraps of practical knowledge as a boy would pick up in such a place. By the end of his second year he had had his finger in many pies and had worked on about every sort of electrical contrivance then known: call bells, annunciators, galvanometers; telegraph keys, sounders, relays, registers, and printing telegraph instruments. Think what a rich experience his two years of apprenticeship had given him!"

"You bet!" ejaculated Ted appreciatively.

"Now as Tom Watson was not only clever but was willing to take infinite pains with whatever he set his hand to, never stinting nor measuring his time or strength, he became a great favorite with those who came to the shop to have different kinds of experimental apparatus made. Many of the ideas brought to him to be worked out came from visionaries who had succeeded in capturing the financial backing of an unwary believer and convinced themselves and him that here was an idea that was to stir the universe. But too many of these schemes, alas, proved worthless and as their common fate was the rubbish heap, it is strange that the indefatigable Thomas Watson did not have his faith in pioneer work entirely destroyed. But youth is buoyed up by perpetual hope; and paradoxical as it may seem, his enthusiasm never lagged. Each time he felt, with the inventor, that they might be standing on the brink of gigantic unfoldings and he toiled with energy to bring something practical out of the chaos. And when at length it became evident beyond all question that the idea was never to unfold into anything practical, he would, with the same zealous spirit, attack another seer's problem."

"Didn't he ever meet any successful inventors?" questioned Ted.

"Yes, indeed," the tutor answered. "Scattered among the cranks and castle builders were several brilliant, solid-headed men. There was Moses G. Farmer, for example, one of the foremost electricians of that time, who had many an excellent and workable idea and who taught young Watson no end of valuable lessons. Then one day into the workshop came Alexander Graham Bell. In his hand he carried a mechanical contrivance Watson had previously made for him and on espying Tom in the distance he made a direct line for the workman's bench. After explaining that the device did not do the thing he was desirous it should, he told Watson that it was the receiver and transmitter of his Harmonic Telegraph."

"And that was the beginning of Mr. Watson's work with Mr. Bell?" asked Ted breathlessly.

"Yes, that was the real beginning."

"Think of working with a man like that!" the boy cried with sparkling eyes. "It must have been tremendously interesting."

"It was interesting," responded Mr. Hazen, "but nevertheless much of the time it must have been inexpressibly tedious work. A young man less patient and persistent than Watson would probably have tired of the task. Just why he did not lose his courage through the six years of struggle that followed I do not understand. For how was he to know but that this idea would eventually prove as hopeless and unprofitable as had so many others to which he had devoted his energy? Beyond Mr. Bell's own magnetic personality there was only slender foundation for his faith for in spite of the efforts of both men the harmonic telegraph failed to take form. Instead, like a tantalizing sprite, it danced before them, always beckoning, never materializing. In theory it was perfectly consistent but in practise it could not be coaxed into behaving as it logically should. Had it but been possible for those working on it to realize that beyond their temporary failure lay a success glorious past all belief, think what the knowledge would have meant. But to always be following the gleam and never overtaking it, ah, that might well have discouraged prophets of stouter heart!"

"Were these transmitters and receivers made from electromagnets and strips of flat steel, as you told us the other day?" asked Ted.

"Yes, their essential parts comprised just those elements -- an electromagnet and a scrap of flattened clock spring which, as I have explained, was clamped by one end to the pole of the magnet and left free at the other to vibrate over the opposite pole. In addition the transmitter had make-and-break points such as an ordinary telephone bell has, and when these came in contact with the current, the springs inside continually gave out a sort of wail keyed to correspond with the pitch of the spring. As Mr. Bell had six of these instruments tuned to as many different pitches -- and six receivers to answer them -- you may picture to yourself the hideousness of the sounds amid which the experimenters labored."

"I suppose when each transmitter sent out its particular whine its own similarly tuned receiver spring would wriggle in response," Laurie said.

"Exactly so."

"There must have been lovely music when all six of them began to sing!" laughed Ted.

"Mr. Watson wrote once that it was as if all the miseries of the world were concentrated in that workroom, and I can imagine it being true," answered the tutor. "Well, young Watson certainly did all he could to make the harmonic telegraph a reality. He made the receivers and transmitters exactly as Mr. Bell requested; but on testing them out, great was the surprise of the inventor to find that his idea, so feasible in theory, refused to work. Nevertheless, his faith was not shaken. He insisted on trying to discover the flaw in his logic and correct it, and as Watson had now completed some work that he had been doing for Moses Farmer, the two began a series of experiments that lasted all winter."

"Jove!" ejaculated Laurie.

"Marvels of science are not born in a moment," answered Mr. Hazen. "Yet I do not wonder that you gasp, for think of what it must have meant to toil for weeks and months at those wailing instruments! It is a miracle the men did not go mad. They were not always able to work together for Mr. Bell had his living to earn and therefore was compelled to devote a good measure of his time to his college classes and his deaf pupils. In consequence, he did a portion of his experimental work at Salem while Watson carried on his at the shop, fitting it in with other odd jobs that came his way. Frequently Mr. Bell remained in Boston in the evening and the two worked at the Williams's shop until late into the night."

"Wasn't it lucky there were no labor unions in those days?" put in Ted mischievously.

"Indeed it was!" responded Mr. Hazen. "The shop would then have been barred and bolted at five o'clock, I suppose, and Alexander Graham Bell might have had a million bright ideas for all the good they would have done him. But at that golden period of our history, if an ambitious fellow like Watson wished to put in extra hours of work, the more slothful ones had no authority to stand over him with a club and say he shouldn't. Therefore the young apprentice toiled on with Mr. Bell, unmolested; and Charles Williams, the proprietor of the shop, was perfectly willing he should. One evening, when the two were alone, Mr. Bell remarked, 'If I could make a current of electricity vary in intensity precisely as the air varies in density during the production of sound, I should be able to transmit speech telegraphically.' This was his first allusion to the telephone but that the idea of such an instrument had been for some time in his mind was evident by the fact that he sketched in for Watson the kind of apparatus he thought necessary for such a device and they speculated concerning its construction. The project never went any farther, however, because Mr. Thomas Saunders and Mr. Gardiner Hubbard, who were financing Mr. Bell's experiments, felt the chances of this contrivance working satisfactorily were too uncertain. Already much time and money had been spent on the harmonic telegraph and they argued this scheme should be completed before a new venture was tried."

"I suppose that point of view was quite justifiable," mused Ted. "But wasn't it a pity?"

"Yes, it was," agreed Mr. Hazen. "Yet here again we realize how man moves inch by inch, never knowing what is just around the turn of the road. He can only go it blindly and do the best he knows at the time. Naturally neither Mr. Hubbard nor Mr. Saunders wanted to swamp any more money until they had received results for what they had spent already; and those results, alas, were not forthcoming. Over and over again poor Watson blamed himself lest some imperceptible defect in his part of the work was responsible for Mr. Bell's lack of success. The spring of 1875 came and still no light glimmered on the horizon. The harmonic telegraph seemed as far away from completion as ever. Patiently the men plodded on. Then on a June day, a day that began even less auspiciously than had other days, the heavens suddenly opened and Alexander Graham Bell had his vision!"

"What was it?"

"Tell us about it!" cried both boys in a breath.

"It was a warm, close afternoon in the loft over the Williams's shop and the transmitters and receivers were whining there more dolefully than usual. Several of them, sensitive to the weather, were out of tune, and as Mr. Bell had trained his ear to sounds until it was abnormally acute, he was tuning the springs of the receivers to the pitch of the transmitters, a service he always preferred to perform himself. To do this he placed the receiver against his ear and called to Watson, who was in the adjoining room, to start the current through the electromagnet of the corresponding transmitter. When this was done, Mr. Bell was able to turn a screw and adjust the instrument to the pitch desired. Watson admits in a book he has himself written that he was out of spirits that day and feeling irritable and impatient. The whiners had got on his nerves, I fancy. One of the springs that he was trying to start appeared to stick and in order to force it to vibrate he gave it a quick snap with his finger. Still it would not go and he snapped it sharply several times. Immediately there was a cry from Mr. Bell who rushed into the hall, exclaiming, 'What did you do then? Don't change anything. Let me see.'

"Watson was alarmed. Had he knocked out the entire circuit or what had he done in his fit of temper? Well, there was no escape from confession now; no pretending he had not vented his nervousness on the mechanism before him. With honesty he told the truth and even illustrated his hasty action. The thing was simple enough. In some way the make-and-break points of the transmitter spring had become welded together so that even when Watson snapped the instrument the circuit had remained unbroken, while by means of the piece of magnetized steel vibrating over the pole of the magnet an electric current was generated, the type of current that did exactly what Mr. Bell had dreamed of a current doing -- a current of electricity that varied in intensity precisely as the air within the radius of that particular spring was varying in density. And not only did that undulatory current pass through the wire to the receiver Mr. Bell was holding, but as good luck would have it the mechanism was such that it transformed that current back into a faint but unmistakable echo of the sound issuing from the vibrating spring that generated it. But a fact more fortunate than all this was that the one man to whom the incident carried significance had the instrument at his ear at that particular moment. That was pure chance -- a Heaven-sent, miraculous coincidence! But that Mr. Bell recognized the value and importance of that whispered echo that reached him over the wire and knew, when he heard it, that it was the embodiment of the idea that had been haunting him -- that was not chance; it was genius!"

The room had been tensely still and now both boys drew a sigh of relief.

"How strange!" murmured Ted in an awed tone.

"Yes, it was like magic, was it not?" replied the tutor. "For the speaking telephone was born at that moment. Whatever practical work was necessary to make the invention perfect (and there were many, many details to be solved) was done afterward. But on June 2, 1875, the telephone as Bell had dreamed it came into the world. That single demonstration on that hot morning in Williams's shop proved myriad facts to the inventor. One was that if a mechanism could transmit the many complex vibrations of one sound it could do the same for any sound, even human speech. He saw now that the intricate paraphernalia he had supposed necessary to achieve his long-imagined result was not to be needed, for did not the simple contrivance in his hand do the trick? The two men in the stuffy little loft could scarcely contain their delight. For hours they went on repeating the experiment in order to make sure they were really awake. They verified their discovery beyond all shadow of doubt. One spring and then another was tried and always the same great law acted with invariable precision. Heat, fatigue, even the dingy garret itself was forgotten in the flight of those busy, exultant hours. Before they separated that night, Alexander Graham Bell had given to Thomas Watson directions for making the first electric speaking telephone in the world!"



Chapter X

What Came Afterward


"Was that first telephone like ours?" inquired Ted later as, their lunch finished, they sat idly looking out at the river.

"Not wholly. Time has improved the first crude instrument," Mr. Hazen replied. "The initial principle of the telephone, however, has never varied from Mr. Bell's primary idea. Before young Watson tumbled into bed on that epoch-making night, he had finished the instrument Bell had asked him to have ready, every part of it being made by the eager assistant who probably only faintly realized the mammoth importance of his task. Yet whether he realized it or not, he had caught a sufficient degree of the inventor's excitement to urge him forward. Over one of the receivers, as Mr. Bell directed, he mounted a small drumhead of goldbeater's skin, joined the center of it to the free end of the receiver spring, and arranged a mouthpiece to talk into. The plan was to force the steel spring to answer the vibrations of the voice and at the same time generate a current of electricity that should vary in intensity just as the air varies in density during the utterance of speech sounds. Not only did Watson make this instrument as specified, but in his interest he went even farther, and as the rooms in the loft seemed too near together, the tireless young man ran a special wire from the attic down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor of the shop and ended it near his workbench at the rear of the building, thus constructing the first telephone line in history.

"Then the next day Mr. Bell came to test out his invention and, as you can imagine, there was great excitement."

"I hope it worked," put in Laurie.

"It worked all right although at this early stage of the game it was hardly to be expected that the instrument produced was perfect. Nevertheless, the demonstration proved that the principle behind it was sound and that was all Mr. Bell really wanted to make sure of. Watson, as it chanced, got far more out of this initial performance than did Mr. Bell himself for because of the inventor's practical work in phonics the vibrations of his voice carried more successfully than did those of the assistant. Yet the youthful Watson was not without his compensations. Nature had blessed him with unusually acute hearing and as a result he could catch Bell's tones perfectly as they came over the wire and could almost distinguish his words; but shout as he would, poor Mr. Bell could not hear him. This dilemma nevertheless discouraged neither of them for Watson had plenty of energy and was quite willing to leap up the two flights of stairs and repeat what he had heard; and this report greatly reassured Mr. Bell, who outlined a list of other improvements for another telephone that should be ready on the following day."

"I suppose they kept remodelling the telephones all the time after that, didn't they?" inquired Ted.

"You may be sure they did," was Mr. Hazen's response. "The harmonic telegraph was entirely sidetracked and the interest of both men turned into this newer channel. Mr. Bell, in the meantime, was giving less and less energy to his teaching and more and more to his inventing. Before many days the two could talk back and forth and hear one another's voices without difficulty, although ten full months of hard work was necessary before they were able to understand what was said. It was not until after this long stretch of patient toil that Watson unmistakably heard Mr. Bell say one day, 'Mr. Watson, please come here, I want you.' The message was a very ordinary, untheatrical one for a moment so significant but neither of the enthusiasts heeded that. The thrilling fact was that the words had come clear-cut over the wire."

"Gee!" broke in Laurie.

"It certainly must have been a dramatic moment," Mr. Hazen agreed. "Mr. Bell, now convinced beyond all doubt of the value of his idea, hired two rooms at a cheap boarding-house situated at Number 5 Exeter Place, Boston. In one of these he slept and in the other he equipped a laboratory. Watson connected these rooms by a wire and afterward all Mr. Bell's experimenting was done here instead of at the Williams's shop. It was at the Exeter Place rooms that this first wonderful message came to Watson's ears. From this period on the telephone took rapid strides forward. By the summer of 1876, it had been improved until a simple sentence was understandable if carefully repeated three or four times."

"Repeated three or four times!" gasped Laurie in dismay.

The tutor smiled at the boy's incredulousness.

"You forget we are not dealing with a finished product," said he gently. "I am a little afraid you would have been less patient with the imperfections of an infant invention than were Bell and Watson."

"I know I should," was the honest retort.

"The telephone was a very delicate instrument to perfect," explained Mr. Hazen. "Always remember that. An inventor must not only be a man who has unshaken faith in his idea but he must also have the courage to cling stubbornly to his belief through every sort of mechanical vicissitude. This Mr. Bell did. June of 1876 was the year of the great Centennial at Philadelphia, the year that marked the first century of our country's progress. As the exhibition was to be one symbolic of our national development in every line, Mr. Bell decided to show his telephone there; to this end he set Watson, who was still at the Williams's shop, to making exhibition telephones of the two varieties they had thus far worked out."

"I'll bet Watson was almighty proud of his job," Ted interrupted.

"I fancy he was and certainly he had a right to be," answered Mr. Hazen. "I have always been glad, too, that it fell to his lot to have this honor; for he had worked long and faithfully, and if there were glory to be had, he should share it. To his unflagging zeal and intelligence Mr. Bell owed a great deal. Few men could so whole-heartedly have effaced their own personality and thrown themselves with such zest into the success of another as did Thomas Watson."

The tutor paused.

"Up to this time," he presently went on, "the telephones used by Bell and Watson in their experiments had been very crude affairs; but those designed for the Centennial were glorified objects. Watson says that you could see your face in them. The Williams's shop outdid itself and more splendid instruments never went forth from its doors. You can therefore imagine Watson's chagrin when, after highly commending Mr. Bell's invention, Sir William Thompson added, 'This, perhaps, greatest marvel hitherto achieved by electric telegraph has been obtained by appliances of quite a homespun and rudimentary character.'"

Both Ted and Laurie joined in the laughter of the tutor.

"And now the telephone was actually launched?" Ted asked.

"Well, it was not really in clear waters," Mr. Hazen replied, with a dubious shrug of his shoulders, "but at least there was no further question as to which of his schemes Mr. Bell should perfect. Both Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Saunders, who were assisting him financially, agreed that for the present it must be the telephone; and recognizing the value of Watson's services, they offered him an interest in Mr. Bell's patents if he would give up his work at Williams's shop and put in all his time on this device. Nevertheless they did not entirely abandon the harmonic telegraph for Bell's success with the other invention had only served to strengthen their confidence in his ability and genius. It was also decided that Mr. Bell should move from Salem to Boston, take an additional room at the Exeter Place house (which would give him the entire floor where his laboratory was), and unhampered by further teaching plunge into the inventive career for which heaven had so richly endowed him and which he loved with all his heart. You can picture to yourselves the joy these decisions gave him and the eagerness with which he and Watson took up their labors together.

"They made telephones of every imaginable size in their attempts to find out whether there was anything that would work more satisfactorily than the type they now had. But in spite of their many experiments they came back to the kind of instrument with which they had started, discovering nothing that was superior to their original plan. Except that they compelled the transmitter to do double duty and act also as a receiver, the telephone that emerged from these many tests was practically similar in principle to the one of to-day."

"Had they made any long-distance trials up to this time?" questioned Laurie.

"No," Mr. Hazen admitted. "They had lacked opportunity to make such tests since no great span of wires was accessible to them. But on October 9, 1876, the Walworth Manufacturing Company gave them permission to try out their device on the Company's private telegraph line that ran from Boston to Cambridge. The distance to be sure was only two miles but it might as well have been two thousand so far as the excitement of the two workers went. Their baby had never been out of doors. Now at last it was to take the air! Fancy how thrilling the prospect was! As the wire over which they were to make the experiment was in use during the day, they were forced to wait until the plant was closed for the night. Then Watson, with his tools and his telephone under his arm, went to the Cambridge office where he impatiently listened for Mr. Bell's signal to come over the Morse sounder. When he had heard this and thereby made certain that Bell was at the other end of the line, he cut out the sounder, connected the telephone he had brought with him, and put his ear to the transmitter."

The hut was so still one could almost hear the breathing of the lads, who were listening intently.

"Go on!" Laurie said quickly. "Tell us what happened."

"Nothing happened!" answered the tutor. "Watson listened but there was not a sound."

"Great Scott!"

"The poor assistant was aghast," went on Mr. Hazen. "He was at a complete loss to understand what was the matter. Could it be that the contrivance which worked so promisingly in the Boston rooms would not work under these other conditions? Perhaps an electric current was too delicate a thing to carry sound very far. Or was it that the force of the vibration filtered off at each insulator along the line until it became too feeble to be heard? All these possibilities flashed into Watson's mind while at his post two miles away from Mr. Bell he struggled to readjust the instrument. Then suddenly an inspiration came to his alert brain. Might there not be another Morse sounder somewhere about? If there were, that would account for the whole difficulty. Springing up, he began to search the room and after following the wires, sure enough, he traced them to a relay with a high resistance coil in the circuit. Feverishly he cut this out and rushed back to his telephone. Plainly over the wire came Bell's voice, 'Ahoy! Ahoy!' For a few seconds both of them were too delighted to say much of anything else. Then they sobered down and began this first long-distance conversation. Now one of the objections Mr. Bell had constantly been forced to meet from the skeptical public was that while the telegraph delivered messages that were of unchallenged accuracy telephone conversations were liable to errors of misunderstanding. One could not therefore rely so completely on the trustworthiness of the latter as on that of the former. To refute this charge Mr. Bell had insisted that both he and Watson carefully write out whatever they heard that the two records might afterward be compared and verified. 'That is,' Mr. Bell had added with the flicker of a smile, 'if we succeed in talking at all!' Well, they did succeed, as you have heard. At first they held only a stilted dialogue and conscientiously jotted it down; but afterward their exuberance got the better of them and in sheer joy they chattered away like magpies until long past midnight. Then, loath to destroy the connection, Watson detached his telephone, replaced the Company's wires, and set out for Boston. In the meantime Mr. Bell, who had previously made an arrangement with the Boston Advertiser to publish on the following morning an account of the experiment, together with the recorded conversations, had gone to the newspaper office to carry his material to the press. Hence he was not at the Exeter Place rooms when the jubilant Watson arrived. But the early morning hour did not daunt the young electrician; and when, after some delay, Mr. Bell came in, the two men rushed toward one another and regardless of everything else executed what Mr. Watson has since characterized as a war dance. Certainly they were quite justified in their rejoicings and perhaps if their landlady had understood the cause of their exultations she might have joined in the dance herself. Unluckily she had only a scant sympathy with inventive genius and since the victory celebration not only aroused her, but also wakened most of her boarders from their slumbers, her ire was great and the next morning she informed the two men that if they could not be more quiet at night they would have to leave her house."

An appreciative chuckle came from the listeners.

"If she had known what she was sheltering, I suppose she would have been proud as a peacock and promptly told all her neighbors," grinned Ted.

"Undoubtedly! But she did not know, poor soul!" returned Mr. Hazen.

"After this Mr. Bell and Mr. Watson must have shot ahead by leaps and bounds," commented Laurie.

"There is no denying that that two-mile test did give them both courage and assurance," responded the tutor. "They got chances to try out the invention on longer telegraph wires; and in spite of the fact that no such thing as hard-drawn copper wire was in existence they managed to get results even over rusty wires with their unsoldered joinings. Through such experiments an increasingly wider circle of outside persons heard of the telephone and the marvel began to attract greater attention. Mr. Bell's modest little laboratory became the mecca of scientists and visitors of every imaginable type. Moses G. Farmer, well known in the electrical world, came to view the wonder and confessed to Mr. Bell that more than once he had lingered on the threshold of the same mighty discovery but had never been able to step across it into success. It amused both Mr. Bell and Mr. Watson to see how embarrassed persons were when allowed to talk over the wire. Standing up and speaking into a box has long since become too much a matter of course with us to appear ridiculous; but those experiencing the novelty for the first time were so overwhelmed by self-consciousness that they could think of nothing to say. One day when Mr. Watson called from his end of the line, 'How do you do?' a dignified lawyer who was trying the instrument answered with a foolish giggle, 'Rig-a-jig-jig and away we go!' The psychological reaction was too much for many a well-poised individual and I do not wonder it was, do you?"

"It must have been almost as good as a vaudeville show to watch the people," commented Ted.

"Better! Lots better!" echoed Laurie.

"In April, 1877, the first out-of-door telephone line running on its own private wires was installed in the shop of Charles Williams at Number 109 Court Street and carried from there out to his house at Somerville. Quite a little ceremony marked the event. Both Mr. Bell and Mr. Watson attended the christening and the papers chronicled the circumstance in bold headlines the following day. Immediately patrons who wanted telephones began to pop up right and left like so many mushrooms. But alas, where was the money to come from that should enable Mr. Bell and his associates to branch out and grasp the opportunities that now beckoned them? The inventor's own resources were at a low ebb; Watson, like many another young man, had more brains than fortune; and neither Mr. Hubbard nor Mr. Saunders felt they could provide the necessary capital. Already the Western Union had refused Mr. Hubbard's offer to sell all Mr. Bell's patents for one hundred thousand dollars, the Company feeling that the price asked was much too high. Two years later, however, they would willingly have paid twenty-five million dollars for the privilege they had so summarily scorned. What was to be done? Money must be secured for without it all further progress was at a standstill. Was success to be sacrificed now that the goal was well within sight? And must the telephone be shut away from the public and never take its place of service in the great world? Why, if a thing was not to be used it might almost as well never have been invented! The spirits of the telephone pioneers sank lower and lower. The only way to raise money seemed to be to sell the telephone instruments outright and this Mr. Bell, who desired simply to lease them, was unwilling to do. Then an avenue of escape from this dilemma presented itself to him."

"What was it?" asked Laurie.

"He would give lectures, accompanying them with practical demonstrations of the telephone. This would bring in money and banish for a time, at least, the possibility of having to sell instead of rent telephones. The plan succeeded admirably. The first lecture was given at Salem where, because of Mr. Bell's previous residence and many friends, a large audience packed the hall. Then Boston desired to know more of the invention and an appeal for a lecture signed by Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and other distinguished citizens was forwarded to Mr. Bell. The Boston lectures were followed by others in New York, Providence, and the principal cities throughout New England."

"It seems a shame Mr. Bell should have had to take his time to do that, doesn't it?" mused Ted. "How did they manage the lectures?"

"The lectures had a checkered existence," smiled Mr. Hazen. "Many very amusing incidents centered about them. Were I to talk until doomsday I could not begin to tell you the multitudinous adventures Mr. Bell and Mr. Watson had during their platform career; for although Mr. Watson was never really before the footlights as Mr. Bell was, he was an indispensable part of the show, -- the power behind the scenes, the man at the other end of the wire, who furnished the lecture hall with such stunts as would not only convince an audience but also entertain them. It was a dull, thankless position, perhaps, to be so far removed from the excitement and glamor, to be always playing or singing into a little wooden box and never catching a glimpse of the fun that was going on at the other end of the line; but since Mr. Watson was a rather shy person it is possible he was quite as well pleased. After all, it was Mr. Bell whom everybody wanted to see and of course Mr. Watson understood this. Therefore he was quite content to act his modest rôle and not only gather together at his end of the wire cornet soloists, electric organs, brass bands, or whatever startling novelties the occasion demanded, but talk or sing himself. The shyest of men can sometimes out-Herod Herod if not obliged to face their listeners in person. As Watson had spoken so much over the telephone, he was thoroughly accustomed to it and played the parts assigned him far better than more gifted but less practically trained soloists did. It always amused him intensely after he had bellowed Pull for the Shore, Hold the Fort or Yankee Doodle into the transmitter to hear the applause that followed his efforts. Probably singing before a large company was about the last thing Tom Watson expected his electrical career would lead him into. Had he been told that such a fate awaited him, he would doubtless have jeered at the prophecy. But here he was, singing away with all his lung power, before a great hall full of people and not minding it in the least; nay, I rather think he may have enjoyed it. Once, desiring to give a finer touch than usual to the entertainment, Mr. Bell hired a professional singer; but this soloist had never used a telephone and although he possessed the art of singing he was not able to get it across the wire. No one in the lecture hall could hear him. Mr. Bell promptly summoned Watson (who was doubtless congratulating himself on being off duty) to render Hold the Fort in his customary lusty fashion. After this Mr. Watson became the star soloist and no more singers were engaged."

A ripple of amusement passed over the faces of the lads listening.

"Ironically enough, as Mr. Watson's work kept him always in the background furnishing the features of these entertainments, he never himself heard Mr. Bell lecture. He says, however, that the great inventor was a very polished, magnetic speaker who never failed to secure and hold the attention of his hearers. Of course, every venture has its trials and these lecture tours were no exception to the general rule. Once, for example, the Northern Lights were responsible for demoralizing the current and spoiling a telephone demonstration at Lawrence; and although both Watson and a cornetist strained their lungs to bursting, neither of them could be heard at the hall. Then the sparks began to play over the wires and the show had to be called off. Nevertheless such disasters occurred seldom, and for the most part the performances went smoothly, the people were delighted, and Mr. Bell increased not only his fame but his fortune."

Mr. Hazen stopped a moment.

"You must not for an instant suppose," he resumed presently, "that the telephone was a perfected product. Transmitters of sufficient delicacy to do away with shouting and screaming had not yet made their appearance and in consequence when one telephoned all the world knew it; it was not until the Blake transmitter came into use that a telephone conversation could be to any extent confidential. In its present state, the longer the range the more lung power was demanded; and probably had not this been the condition, people would have shouted anyway, simply from instinct. Even with our own delicately adjusted instruments we are prone to forget and commit this folly. But in the early days one was forced to uplift his voice at the telephone and if he had no voice to uplift woe betide his telephoning. And apropos of this matter, I recall reading that once, when Mr. Bell was to lecture in New York, he thought what a drawing card it would be if he could have his music and other features of entertainment come from Boston. Therefore he arranged to use the wires of the Atlantic and Pacific Telegraph Company and to this end he and Watson planned a dress rehearsal at midnight in order to try out the inspiration. Now it chanced that the same inflexible landlady ruled at Number 5 Exeter Place, and remembering his former experience, Mr. Watson felt something must be done to stifle the shouting he foresaw he would be compelled to do at that nocturnal hour. So he gathered together all the blankets and rolled them into a sort of cone and to the small end of this he tied his telephone. Then he crept into this stuffy, breathless shelter, the ancestor of our sound-proof telephone booth, and for nearly three hours shouted to Mr. Bell in New York -- or tried to. But the experiment was not a success. He could be heard, it is true, but not distinctly enough to risk such an unsatisfactory demonstration before an uninitiated audience. Hence the scheme was abandoned and Mr. Watson scrambled his things together and betook himself to a point nearer the center of action."

"It must all have been great fun, mustn't it?" said Laurie thoughtfully.

"Great fun, no doubt, but very hard work," was the tutor's answer. "Many a long, discouraging hour was yet to follow before the telephone became a factor in the everyday world. Yet each step of the climb to success had its sunlight as well as its shadow, its humor as well as its pathos; and it was fortunate both men appreciated this fact for it floated them over many a rough sea. Man can spare almost any other attribute better than his sense of humor. Without this touchstone he is ill equipped to battle with life," concluded Mr. Hazen whimsically.



Chapter XI

The Rest Of The Story


"I should think," commented Laurie one day, when Ted and Mr. Hazen were sitting in his room, "that Mr. Bell's landlady would have fussed no end to have his telephone ringing all the time."

"My dear boy, you do not for an instant suppose that the telephones of that period had bells, do you?" replied Mr. Hazen with amusement. "No, indeed! There was no method for signaling. Unless two persons agreed to talk at a specified hour of the day or night and timed their conversation by the clock, or else had recourse to the Morse code, there was no satisfactory way they could call one another. This did not greatly matter when you recollect how few telephones there were in existence. Mr. Williams used to summon a listener by tapping on the metal diaphragm of the instrument with his pencil, a practice none too beneficial to the transmitter; nor was the resulting sound powerful enough to reach any one who was not close at hand. Furthermore, persons could not stand and hold their telephones and wait until they could arouse the party at the other end of the line for a telephone weighed almost ten pounds and --  -- "

"Ten pounds!" repeated Ted in consternation.

Mr. Hazen nodded.

"Yes," answered he, "the early telephones were heavy, cumbersome objects and not at all like the trim, compact instruments we have to-day. In fact, they were quite similar to the top of a sewing-machine box, only, perhaps, they were a trifle smaller. You can understand that one would not care to carry on a very long conversation if he must in the meantime stand and hold in his arms a ten-pound object about ten inches long, six inches wide, and six inches high."

"I should say not!" Laurie returned. "It must have acted as a fine check, though, on people who just wanted to gabble."

Both Ted and the tutor laughed.

"Of course telephone owners could not go on that way," Ted said, after the merriment had subsided. "What did Mr. Bell do about it?"

"The initial step for betterment was not taken by Mr. Bell but by Mr. Watson," Mr. Hazen responded. "He rigged a little hammer inside the box and afterwards put a button on the outside. This thumper was the first calling device ever in use. Later on, however, the assistant felt he could improve on this method and he adapted the buzzer of the harmonic telegraph to the telephone; this proved to be a distinct advance over the more primitive thumper but nevertheless he was not satisfied with it as a signaling apparatus. So he searched farther still, and with the aid of one of the shabby little books on electricity that he had purchased for a quarter from Williams's tiny showcase, he evolved the magneto-electric call bell such as we use to-day. This answered every purpose and nothing has ever been found that has supplanted it. It is something of a pity that Watson did not think to affix his name to this invention; but he was too deeply interested in what he was doing and probably too busy to consider its value. His one idea was to help Mr. Bell to improve the telephone in every way possible and measuring what he was going to get out of it was apparently very far from his thought. Of course, the first of these call bells were not perfect, any more than were the first telephones; by and by, however, their defects were remedied until they became entirely satisfactory."

"So they now had telephones, transmitters, and call bells," reflected Ted. "I should say they were pretty well ready for business."

"You forget the switchboard," was Mr. Hazen's retort. "A one-party line was a luxury and a thing practically beyond the reach of the public. At best there were very few of them. No, some method for connecting parties who wished to speak to one another had to be found and it is at this juncture of the telephone's career that a new contributor to the invention's success comes upon the scene.

"Doing business at Number 342 Washington Street was a young New Yorker by the name of Edwin T. Holmes, who had charge of his father's burglar-alarm office. As all the electrical equipment he used was made at Williams's shop, he used frequently to go there and one day, when he entered, he came upon Charles Williams, the proprietor of the store, standing before a little box that rested on a shelf and shouting into it. Hearing Mr. Holmes's step, he glanced over his shoulder, met his visitor's astonished gaze, and laughed.

"'For Heaven's sake, Williams, what have you got in that box?' demanded Mr. Holmes.

"'Oh, this is what that fellow out there by Watson's bench, Mr. Bell, calls a telephone,' replied Mr. Williams.

"'So that's the thing I have seen squibs in the paper about!' observed the burglar-alarm man with curiosity.

"'Yes, he and Watson have been working at it for some time.'

"Now Mr. Holmes knew Tom Watson well for the young electrician had done a great deal of work for him in the past; moreover, the New York man was a person who kept well abreast of the times and was always alert for novel ideas. Therefore quite naturally he became interested in the embryo enterprise and dropped into Williams's shop almost every day to see how the infant invention was progressing. In this way he met both Mr. Gardiner Hubbard and Mr. Thomas Saunders, who were Mr. Bell's financial sponsors. After Mr. Holmes had been a spectator of the telephone for some time, he remarked to Mr. Hubbard:

"'If you succeed in getting two or three of those things to work and will lend them to me, I will show them to Boston.'

"'Show them to Boston,' repeated Mr. Hubbard. 'How will you do that?'

"'Well,' said Mr. Holmes, 'I have a Central Office down at Number 342 Washington Street from which I have individual wires running to most of the banks, many jeweler's shops, and other stores. I can ring a bell in a bank from my office and the bank can ring one to me in return. By using switches and giving a prearranged signal to the Exchange Bank, both of us could throw a switch which would put the telephones in circuit and we could talk together.'

"After looking at Mr. Holmes for a moment with great surprise, Mr. Hubbard slapped him on the back and said, 'I will do it! Get your switches and other things ready.'

"Of course Mr. Holmes was greatly elated to be the first one to show on his wires this wonderful new instrument and connect two or more parties through a Central Office. He immediately had a switchboard made (its actual size was five by thirty-six inches) through which he ran a few of his burglar-alarm circuits and by means of plugs he arranged so that he could throw the circuit from the burglar-alarm instruments to the telephone. He also had a shelf made to rest the telephones on and had others like it built at the Exchange National and the Hide and Leather banks. In a few days the telephones, numbered 6, 7, and 8, arrived and were quickly installed, and the marvellous exhibition opened. Soon two more instruments were added, one of which was placed in the banking house of Brewster, Bassett and Company and the other in the Shoe and Leather Bank. When the Williams shop was connected, it gave Mr. Holmes a working exchange of five connections, the first telephone exchange in history."

"I'll bet they had some queer times with it," asserted Ted.

"They did, indeed!" smiled Mr. Hazen. "The papers announced the event, although in very retiring type, and persons of every walk in life flocked to the Holmes office to see the wonder with their own eyes. So many came that Mr. Holmes had a long bench made so that visitors could sit down and watch the show. One day a cornetist played from the Holmes building so that the members of the Boston Stock Exchange, assembled at the office of Brewster, Bassett and Company, could hear the performance. Considering the innovation a great boon, the New York man secured another instrument and after meditating some time on whom he would bestow it he decided to install it in the Revere Bank, thinking the bank people would be delighted to be recipients of the favor. His burglar-alarm department had pass-keys to all the banks and therefore, when banking hours were over, he and one of his men obtained entrance and put the telephone in place. The following morning he had word that the president of the bank wished to see him and expecting to receive thanks for the happy little surprise he had given the official, he hurried to the bank. Instead of expressing gratitude, however, the president of the institution said in an injured tone:

"'Mr. Holmes, what is that play toy you have taken the liberty of putting up out there in the banking room?'

"'Why, that is what they are going to call a telephone,' explained Mr. Holmes.

"'A telephone! What's a telephone?' inquired the president.

"With enthusiasm the New Yorker carefully sketched in the new invention and told what could be done with it.

"After he had finished he was greatly astonished to have the head of the bank reply with scorn:

"'Mr. Holmes, you take that plaything out of my bank and don't ever take such liberties again.'

"You may be sure the plaything was quickly removed and the Revere Bank went on record as having the first telephone disconnection in the country.

"Having exhibited the telephones for a couple of weeks, Mr. Holmes went to Mr. Hubbard and suggested that he would like to continue to carry on the exchange but he should like it put on a business basis.

"'Have you any money?' asked Mr. Hubbard.

"'Mighty little,' was the frank answer.

"'Well, that's more than we have got,' Mr. Hubbard responded. 'However, if you have got enough money to do the business and build the exchange, we will rent you the telephones.'

"By August, 1877, when Bell's patent was sixteen months' old, Casson's History tells us there were seven hundred and seventy-eight telephones in use and the Bell Telephone Association was formed. The organization was held together by an extremely simple agreement which gave Bell, Hubbard, and Saunders a three-tenths' interest apiece in the patents and Watson one-tenth. The business possessed no capital, as there was none to be had; and these four men at that time had an absolute monopoly of the telephone business, -- and everybody else was quite willing they should have.

"In addition to these four associates was Charles Williams, who had from the first been a believer in the venture, and Mr. Holmes who built the first telephone exchange with his own money, and had about seven hundred of the seven hundred and seventy-eight instruments on his wires. Mr. Robert W. Devonshire joined the others in August, 1877, as bookkeeper and general secretary and has since become an official in the American Telephone and Telegraph Company.

"Mr. Holmes rented the telephones for ten dollars a year and through his exchange was the first practical man who had the temerity to offer telephone service for sale. It was the arrival of a new idea in the business world.

"Now the business world is not a tranquil place and as soon as the new invention began to prosper, every sort of difficulty beset its path.

"There were those who denied that Mr. Bell had been first in the field with the telephone idea, and they began to contest his right to the patents. Other telephone companies sprang up and began to compete with the rugged-hearted pioneers who had launched the industry. Lawsuits followed and for years Mr. Bell's days were one continual fight to maintain his claims and keep others from wresting his hard-earned prosperity from him. But in time smoother waters were reached and now Alexander Graham Bell has been universally conceded to be the inventor of this marvel without which we of the present should scarcely know how to get on."

"I don't believe we could live without telephones now, do you?" remarked Laurie thoughtfully.

"Oh, I suppose we could keep alive," laughed Mr. Hazen, "but I am afraid our present order of civilization would have to be changed a good deal. We scarcely realize what a part the telephone plays in almost everything we attempt to do. Certainly the invention helps to speed up our existence; and, convenient as it is, I sometimes am ungrateful enough to wonder whether we should not be a less highly strung and nervous nation without it. However that may be, the telephone is here, and here to stay, and you now have a pretty clear idea of its early history. How from these slender beginnings the industry spread until it spanned continents and circled the globe, you can easily read elsewhere. Yet mighty as this factor has become in the business world, it is not from this angle of its greatness that I like best to view it. I would rather think of the lives it has saved; the good news it has often borne; the misunderstandings it has prevented; the better unity it has promoted among all peoples. Just as the railroad was a gigantic agent in bringing North, South, East, and West closer together, so the telephone has helped to make our vast country, with its many diverse elements, 'one nation, indivisible.'"



Chapter XII

Conspirators


With September a tint of scarlet crept into the foliage bordering the little creeks that stole from the river into the Aldercliffe meadows; tangles of goldenrod and purple asters breathed of autumn, and the mornings were now too chilly for a swim. Had it not been for the great fireplace the shack would not have been livable. For the first time both Ted and Laurie realized that the summer they had each enjoyed so heartily was at an end and they were face to face with a different phase of life.

The harvest, with its horde of vegetables and fruit, had been gathered into the yawning barns and cellars and the earth that had given so patiently of its increase had earned the right to lay fallow until the planting of another spring. Ted's work was done. He had helped deposit the last barrel of ruddy apples, the last golden pumpkins within doors, and now he had nothing more to do but to pack up his possessions preparatory to returning to Freeman's Falls, there to rejoin his family and continue his studies.

Once the thought that the drudgery of summer was over would have been a delightful one. Why, he could remember the exultation with which he had burned the last cornstalks at the end of the season when at home in Vermont. The ceremony had been a rite of hilarious rejoicing. But this year, strange to say, a dull sadness stole over him whenever he looked upon the devastated gardens and the reaches of bare brown earth. There was nothing to keep him longer either at Aldercliffe or Pine Lea. His work henceforth lay at school.

It was strange that a little sigh accompanied the thought for had he not always looked forward to this very prospect? What was the matter now? Was not studying the thing he had longed to be free to do? Why this regret and depression? And why was his own vague sadness reflected in Laurie's eyes and in those of Mr. Hazen? Summer could not last forever; it was childish to ask that it should. They all had known from the beginning that these days of companionship must slip away and come to an end. And yet the end had come so quickly. Why, it had scarcely been midsummer before the twilight had deepened and the days mellowed into autumn.

Well, they had held many happy, happy hours for Ted, at least. Never had he dreamed of such pleasures. He had enjoyed his work, constant though it had been, and had come to cherish as much pride in the gardens of Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, in the vast crops of hay that bulged from the barn lofts, as if they had been his own. And when working hours were over there was Laurie Fernald and the new and pleasant friendship that existed between them.

As Ted began to drag out from beneath his bunk the empty wooden boxes he purposed to pack his books in, his heart sank. Soon the cosy house in which he had passed so many perfect hours would be quite denuded. Frosts would nip the flowers nodding in a final glory of color outside the windows; the telephone would be disconnected; his belongings would once more be crowded into the stuffy little flat at home; and the door of the camp on the river's edge would be tightly locked on a deserted paradise.

Of course, everything had to come to an end some time and often when he had been weeding long, and what seemed interminable rows of seedlings and had been making only feeble progress at the task, the thought that termination of his task was an ultimate certainty had been a consolation mighty and sustaining. Such an uninteresting undertaking could not last forever, he told himself over and over again; nothing ever did. And now with ironic conformity to law, his philosophy had turned on him, demonstrating beyond cavil that not only did the things one longed to be free of come to a sure finality but so did those one pined to have linger.

Although night was approaching, too intent had he been on his reveries to notice that the room was in darkness. How still everything was! That was the way the little hut would be after he was gone, -- cold, dark, and silent. He wondered as he sat there whether he should ever come back. Would the Fernalds want him next season and again offer him the boathouse for a home? They had said nothing about it but if he thought he was to return another summer it would not be so hard to go now. It was leaving forever that saddened him.

He must have remained immovable there in the twilight for a much longer time than he realized; and perhaps he would have sat there even longer had not a sound startled him into breathless attention. It was the rhythmic stroke of a canoe paddle and as it came nearer it was intermingled with the whispers of muffled voices. Possibly he might have thought nothing of the happening had there not been a note of tense caution in the words that came to his ear.

Who could be navigating the river at this hour of the night? Surely not pleasure-seekers, for it was very cold and an approaching storm had clouded in the sky until it had become a dome of velvet blackness. Whoever was venturing out upon the river must either know the stream very well or be reckless of his own safety.

Ted did not move but listened intently.

"Let's take a chance and land," he heard a thick voice murmur. "The boy has evidently either gone to bed or he isn't here. Whichever the case, he can do us no harm and I'm not for risking the river any farther. It's black as midnight. We might get into the current and have trouble."

"What's the sense of running our heads into a noose by landing?" objected a second speaker. "We can't talk here -- that's nonsense."

"I tell you the boy isn't in the hut," retorted his comrade. "I remember now that I heard he was going back to the Falls to school. Likely he has gone already. In any case we can try the door and examine the windows; if the place is locked, we shall be sure he is not here. And should it prove to be inhabited, we can easy hatch up some excuse for coming. He'll be none the wiser. Even if he should be here," added the man after a pause, "he is probably asleep. After a hard day's work a boy his age sleeps like a log. There'll be no waking him, so don't fret. Come! Let's steer for the float."

"But I --  -- "

"Great Heavens, Cronin! We've got to take some chances. You're not getting cold feet so soon, are you?" burst out the other scornfully.

"N -- o! Of course not," his companion declared with forced bravado. "But I don't like taking needless risks. The boy might be awake and hear us."

"What if he does? Haven't I told you I will invent some yarn to put him off the scent? He wouldn't be suspecting mischief, anyhow. I tell you I'm not going drifting round this river in the dark any longer. Next thing we know we may hit a snag and upset."

"But you insisted on coming."

"I know I did," snapped the sharp voice. "What chance had we to talk in a crowded boarding-house whose very walls had ears? Or on the village streets? I knew the river would have no listeners and you see I was right; it hasn't. But I did expect there would be a trifle more light. It is like ink, isn't it? You can't see your hand before your face."

"I don't believe we could find the float even if we tried for it," piped his friend with malicious satisfaction.

"Find it? Of course we can. I've traveled this river too many times to get lost on it. I know every inch of the stream."

"But aren't there boats at the landing?"

"Oh, they've been hauled in for the season long ago. I know that to be a fact."

"Then I guess young Turner must have gone."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last half-hour," asserted the other voice with high-pitched irritation. "Why waste all this time? Let's land, talk things over, lay our plans, and be getting back to Freeman's Falls. We mustn't be seen returning to the town together too late for it might arouse suspicion."

"You're right there."

"Then go ahead and paddle for the landing. I'll steer. Just have your hand out so we won't bump."

The lapping of the paddles came nearer and nearer. Then there was a crash as the nose of the canoe struck the float.

"You darned idiot, Cronin! Why didn't you fend her off as I told you to?"

"I couldn't see. I --  -- "

"Hush!"

A moment of breathless silence followed and then there was a derisive laugh.

"I told you the boy wasn't here," one of the men declared aloud. "If he had been he would have had his head out the window by now. We've made noise enough to wake the dead."

"But he may be here for all that," cautioned the other speaker. "Don't talk so loud."

"Nonsense!" his comrade retorted without lowering his tone. "I tell you the boy has gone back home and the hut is as empty as a last year's bird's nest. I'll stake my oath on it. The place is shut and locked tight as a drum. You'll see I'm right presently."

Instantly Ted's brain was alert. The door was locked, that he knew, for when he came in he had bolted it for the night. One window, however, was open and he dared not attempt to close it lest he make some betraying sound; and even were he able to shut it noiselessly he reflected that the procedure would be an unwise one since it would cut him off from hearing the conversation. No, he must keep perfectly still and trust that his nocturnal visitors would not make too thorough an investigation of the premises.

To judge from the scuffling of feet outside, both of them had now alighted from the canoe and were approaching the door. Soon he heard a hand fumbling with the latch and afterward came a heavy knock.

Slipping breathlessly from his chair he crouched upon the floor, great beads of perspiration starting out on his forehead.

"The door is locked, as I told you," he heard some one mutter.

"He may be asleep."

"We can soon make sure. Ah, there! Turner! Turner!"

Once more a series of blows descended upon the wooden panel.

"Does that convince you, Cronin?"

"Y -- e -- s," owned Cronin reluctantly. "I guess he's gone."

"Of course he's gone! Come, brace up, can't you?" urged his companion. "Where's your backbone?"

"I'm not afraid."

"Tell that to the marines! You're timid and jumpy as a girl. How are we ever to put this thing over if you don't pull yourself together? I might as well have a baby to help me," sneered the gruff voice.

"Don't be so hard on me, Alf," whined his comrade. "I ain't done nothin'. Ain't I right here and ready?"

"You're here, all right," snarled the first speaker, "but whether you're ready or not is another matter. Now I'm going to give you a last chance to pull out. Do you want to go ahead or don't you? It's no good for us to be laying plans if you are going to be weak-kneed at the end and balk at carrying them out. Do you mean to stand by me and see this thing to a finish or don't you?"

"I -- sure I do!"

"Cross your heart?"

"Cross my heart!" This time the words echoed with more positiveness.

"You're not going to back out or squeal?" his pal persisted.

"Why, Alf, how can you --  -- "

"Because I've got to be sure before I stir another inch."

"But ain't I told you over and over again that I --  -- "

"I don't trust you."

"What makes you so hard on a feller, Alf?" whimpered Cronin. "I haven't been mixed up in as many of these jobs as you have and is it surprising that I'm a mite nervous? It's no sign that I'm crawling."

"You're ready to stick it out, then?"

"Sure!"

There was another pause.

"Well, let me just tell you this, Jim Cronin. If you swear to stand by me and don't do it, your miserable life won't be worth a farthing -- understand? I'll wring your neck, wring it good and thorough. I'm not afraid to do it and I will. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes."

The terror-stricken monosyllable made it perfectly apparent that Cronin did know.

"Then suppose we get down to hard tacks," asserted his companion, the note of fierceness suddenly dying out of his tone. "Come and sit down and we'll plan the thing from start to finish. We may as well be comfortable while we talk. There's no extra charge for sitting."

As Ted bent to put his ear to the crack of the door, the thud of a heavy body jarred the shack.

"Jove!" he heard Cronin cry. "The ground is some way down, ain't it?"

"And it's none to soft at that," came grimly from his comrade, as a second person slumped upon the planks outside.

Somebody drew a long breath and while the men were making themselves more comfortable on the float Ted waited expectantly in the darkness.



Chapter XIII

What Ted Heard


"Now the question is which way are we going to get the biggest results," Alf began, when they were both comfortably settled with their backs to the door. "That must be the thing that governs us -- that, and the sacrifice of as few lives as possible. Not their lives, of course. I don't care a curse for the Fernalds; the more of them that go sky-high the better, in my estimation. It's the men I mean, our own people. Some of them will have to die, I know that. It's unavoidable, since the factories are never empty. Even when no night shifts are working, there are always watchmen and engineers on the job. But fortunately just now, owing to the dull season, there are no night gangs on duty. If we decide on the mills it can be done at night; if on the Fernalds themselves, why we can set the bombs when we are sure that they are in their houses."

Ted bit his lips to suppress the sudden exclamation of horror that rose to them. He must not cry out, he told himself. Terrible as were the words he heard, unbelievable as they seemed, if he were to be of any help at all he must know the entire plot. Therefore he listened dumbly, struggling to still the beating of his heart.

For a moment there was no response from Cronin.

"Come, Jim, don't sit there like a graven image!" the leader of the proposed expedition exclaimed impatiently. "Haven't you a tongue in your head? What's your idea? Out with it. I'm not going to shoulder all the job."

The man called Cronin cleared his throat.

"As I see it, we gain nothing by blowing up the Fernald houses," answered he deliberately. "So long as the mills remain, their income is sure. After they're gone, the young one will just rebuild and go on wringing money out of the people as his father and grandfather are doing."

"But we mean to get him, too."

A murmured protest came from Cronin.

"I'm not for injuring that poor, unlucky lad," asserted he. "He's nothing but a cripple who can't help himself. It would be like killing a baby."

"Nonsense! What a sentimental milksop you are, Jim!" Alf cut in. "You can't go letting your feelings run away with you like that, old man. I'm sorry for the young chap, too. He's the most decent one of the lot. But that isn't the point. He's a Fernald and because he is --  -- "

"But he isn't to blame for that, is he?"

"You make me tired, Cronin, with all this cry-baby stuff!" Alf ejaculated. "You've simply got to cut it out -- shut your ears to it -- if we are ever to accomplish anything. You can't let your sympathies run away with you like this."

"I ain't letting my sympathies run away with me," objected Cronin, in a surly tone. "And I'm no milksop, either. But I won't be a party to harming that unfortunate Mr. Laurie and you may as well understand that at the outset. I'm willing to do my share in blowing the Fernald mills higher than a kite, and the two Fernalds with 'em; or I'll blow the two Fernalds to glory in their beds. I could do it without turning a hair. But to injure that helpless boy of theirs I can't and won't. That would be too low-down a deed for me, bad as I am. He hasn't the show the others have. They can fend for themselves."

"You make me sick!" replied Alf scornfully. "Why, you might as well throw up the whole job as to only half do it. What use will it be to take the old men of the family if the young one still lives on?"

"I ain't going to argue with you, Alf," responded Cronin stubbornly. "If I were to talk all night you likely would never see my point. But there I stand and you can take it or leave it. If you want to go on on these terms, well and good; if not, I wash my hands of the whole affair and you can find somebody else to help you."

"Of course I can't find somebody else," was the exasperated retort. "You know that well enough. Do you suppose I would go on with a scheme like this and leave you wandering round to blab broadcast whatever you thought fit?"

"I shouldn't blab, Alf," declared Cronin. "You could trust me to hold my tongue and not peach on a pal. I should just pull out, that's all. I warn you, though, that if our ways parted and you went yours, I should do what I could to keep Mr. Laurie out of your path."

"You'd try the patience of Job, Cronin."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," snarled Alf. "You're just doing this whole thing to be cussed. You know you've got me where I can't stir hand or foot. I was a fool ever to have got mixed up with such a white-livered, puling baby. I might have known you hadn't an ounce of sand."

"Take care, Sullivan," cautioned Cronin in a low, tense voice.

"But hang it all -- why do you want to balk and torment me so?"

"I ain't balking and tormenting you."

"Yes, you are. You're just pulling the other way from sheer contrariness. Why can't you be decent and come across?"

"Haven't I been decent?" Cronin answered. "Haven't I fallen in with every idea you've suggested? You've had your way fully and freely. I haven't stood out for a single thing but this, have I?"

"N -- o. But --  -- "

"Well, why not give in and let me have this one thing as I want it? It don't amount to much, one way or the other. The boy is sickly and isn't likely to live long at best."

"But I can't for the life of me see why you should be so keen on sparing him. What is he to you?"

Cronin hesitated; then in a very low voice he said:

"Once, two years ago, my little kid got out of the yard and unbeknown to his mother wandered down by the river. We hunted high and low for him and were well-nigh crazy, for he's all the child we have, you know. It seems Mr. Laurie was riding along the shore in his automobile and he spied the baby creeping out on the thin ice. He stopped his car and called to the little one and coaxed him back until the chauffeur could get to him and lift him aboard the car. Then they fetched the child to the village, hunted up where he lived, and brought him home to his mother. I -- I've never forgotten it and I shan't."

"That was mighty decent of Mr. Laurie -- mighty decent," Sullivan admitted slowly. "I've got a kid at home myself."

For a few moments neither man spoke; then Sullivan continued in quick, brisk fashion, as if he were trying to banish some reverie that plagued him:

"Well, have your way. We'll leave Mr. Laurie out of this altogether."

"Thank you, Alf."

Sullivan paid no heed to the interruption.

"Now let's can all this twaddle and get down to work," he said sharply. "We've wasted too much time squabbling over that miserable cripple. Let's brace up and make our plans. You are for destroying the mills, eh?"

"It's the only thing that will be any use, it seems to me," Cronin replied. "If the mills are blown up, it will not only serve as a warning to the Fernalds but it will mean the loss of a big lot of money. They will rebuild, of course, but it will take time, and in the interval everything will be at a standstill."

"It will throw several hundred men out of work," Sullivan objected.

"That can't be helped," retorted Cronin. "They will get out at least with their lives and will be almighty thankful for that. They can get other jobs, I guess. But even if they are out of work, I figure some of them won't be so sorry to see the Fernalds get what's coming to them," chuckled Cronin.

"You're right there, Jim!"

"I'll bet I am!" cried Cronin.

"Then your notion would be to plant time bombs at the factories so they will go off in the night?"

"Yes," confessed Cronin, a shadow of regret in his tone. "That will carry off only a few watchmen and engineers. Mighty tough luck for them."

"It can't be helped," Sullivan said ruthlessly. "You can't expect to carry through a thing of this sort without some sacrifice. All we can do is to believe that the end justifies the means. It's a case of the greatest good to the greatest number."

"I -- suppose -- so."

"Well, then, why hesitate?"

"I ain't hesitating," announced Cronin quickly. "I just happened to remember Maguire. He's one of the night watchmen at the upper mill and a friend of mine."

"But we can't remember him, Cronin," Sullivan burst out. "It is unlucky that he chances to be on duty, of course; but that is his misfortune. We'd spare him if we could."

"I know, I know," Cronin said. "It's a pitiless business." Then, as if his last feeble compunction vanished with the words, he added, "It's to be the mills, then."

"Yes. We seem to be agreed on that," Sullivan replied eagerly. "I have everything ready and I don't see why we can't go right ahead to-night and plant the machines with their fuses timed for early morning. I guess we can sneak into the factories all right -- you to the upper mill and I to the lower. If you get caught you can say you are hunting for Maguire; and if I do -- well, I must trust to my wits to invent a story. But they won't catch me. I've never been caught yet, and I have handled a number of bigger jobs than this one," concluded he with pride.

"Anything more you want to say to me?" asked Cronin.

"No, I guess not. I don't believe I need to hand you any advice. Just stiffen up, that's all. Anything you want to say to me?"

"No. I shan't worry my head about you, you old fox. You're too much of a master hand," Cronin returned, with an inflection that sounded like a grin. "I imagine you can hold up your end."

"I rather imagine I can," drawled Sullivan.

"Then if there's nothing more to be said, I move we start back to town. It must be late," Cronin asserted.

"It's black enough to be midnight," grumbled Sullivan. "We'd best go directly to our houses -- I to mine and you to yours. The explosives and bombs I'll pack into two grips. Yours I'll hide in your back yard underneath that boat. How'll that be?"

"O. K."

"You've got it straight in your head what you are to do?"

"Yes."

"And I can count on you?"

"Sure!"

"Then let's be off."

There was a splash as the canoe slipped into the water and afterward Ted heard the regular dip of the paddles as the craft moved away. He listened until the sound became imperceptible and when he was certain that the conspirators were well out of earshot he sped to the telephone and called up the police station at Freeman's Falls. It did not take long for him to hurriedly repeat to an officer what he had heard. Afterward, in order to make caution doubly sure, he called up the mills and got his old friend Maguire at the other end of the line. It was not until all this had been done and he could do no more that he sank limply down on the couch and stared into the darkness. Now that everything was over he found that he was shaking like a leaf. His hands were icy cold and he quivered in every muscle of his body. It was useless for him to try to sleep; he was far too excited and worried for that. Therefore he lay rigidly on his bunk, thinking and waiting for -- he knew not what.

It might have been an hour later that he was aroused from a doze by the sharp reverberation of the telephone bell. Dizzily he sprang to his feet and stood stupid and inert in the middle of the floor. Again the signal rang and this time he was broad awake. He rushed forward to grasp the receiver.

"Turner? Ted Turner?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is the police station at Freeman's Falls. We have your men -- both of them -- and the goods on them. They are safe and sound under lock and key. I just thought you might like to know it. We shall want to see you in the morning. You've done a good night's work, young one. The State Police have been after these fellows for two years. Sullivan has a record for deeds of this sort. Mighty lucky we got a line on him this time before he did any mischief."

"It was."

"That's all, thanks to you, kid. I advise you to go to bed now and to sleep. I'll hunt you up to-morrow. I'll bet the Fernalds will, too. They owe you something."



Chapter XIV

The Fernalds Win Their Point


The trial of Alf Sullivan and Jim Cronin was one of the most spectacular and thrilling events Freeman's Falls had ever witnessed. That two such notorious criminals should have been captured through the efforts of a young boy was almost inconceivable to the police, especially to the State detectives whom they had continually outwitted. And yet here they were in the dock and the town officers made not the slightest pretense that any part of the glory of their apprehension belonged to them. To Ted Turner's prompt action, and to that alone, the triumph was due.

In consequence the boy became the hero of the village. He had always been a favorite with both young and old, for every one liked his father, and it followed that they liked his father's son. Now, however, they had greater cause to admire that son for his own sake and cherish toward him the warmest gratitude. Many a man and woman reflected that it was this slender boy who had stood between them and a calamity almost too horrible to be believed; and as a result their gratitude was tremendous. And if the townsfolk were sensible of this great obligation how much more keenly alive to it were the Fernalds whose property had been thus menaced.

"You have topped one service with another, Ted," Mr. Lawrence Fernald declared. "We do not see how we are ever to thank you. Come, there must be something that you would like -- some wish you would be happy to have gratified. Tell us what it is and perhaps we can act as magicians and make it come true."

"Yes," pleaded Mr. Clarence Fernald, "speak out, Ted. Do not hesitate. Remember you have done us a favor the magnitude of which can never be measured and which we can never repay."

"But I do not want to be paid, sir," the lad answered. "I am quite as thankful as you that the wretches who purposed harm were caught before they had had opportunity to destroy either life or property. Certainly that is reward enough."

"It is a reward in its way," the elder Mr. Fernald asserted. "The thought that it was you who were the savior of an entire community will bring you happiness as long as you live. Nevertheless we should like to give you something more tangible than pleasant thoughts. We want you to have something by which to remember this marvelous escape from tragedy. Deep down in your heart there must be some wish you cherish. If you knew the satisfaction it would give us to gratify it, I am sure you would not be so reluctant to express it."

Ted colored, and after hesitating an instant, shyly replied:

"Since you are both so kind and really seem to wish to know, there is something I should like."

"Name it!" the Fernalds cried in unison.

"I should like to feel I can return to the shack next summer," the boy remarked timidly. "You see, I have become very fond of Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, fond of Laurie, of Mr. Hazen, and of the little hut. I have felt far more sorry than perhaps you realize to go away from here." His voice quivered.

"You poor youngster!" Mr. Clarence exclaimed. "Why in the name of goodness didn't you say so? There is no more need of your leaving this place than there is of my going, or Laurie. We ought to have sensed your feeling and seen to it that other plans were made long ago. Indeed, you shall come back to your little riverside abode next summer -- never fear! And as for Aldercliffe, Pine Lea, Laurie and all the rest of it, you shall not be parted from any of them."

"But I must go back to school now, sir."

"What's the matter with your staying on at Pine Lea and having your lessons with Laurie and Mr. Hazen instead?"

"Oh -- why --  -- "

"Should you like to?"

"Oh, Mr. Fernald, it would be --  -- "

Laurie's father laughed.

"I guess we do not need an answer to that question," Grandfather Fernald remarked, smiling. "His face tells the tale."

"Then the thing is as good as done," Mr. Clarence announced. "Hazen will be as set up as an old hen to have two chicks. He likes you, Ted."

"And well he may," growled Grandfather Fernald. "But for Ted's prayers and pleas he would not now be here."

"Yes, Hazen will be much pleased," reiterated Mr. Clarence Fernald, ignoring his father's comment. "As for Laurie -- I wonder we never thought of all this before. It is no more work to teach two boys than one, and in the meantime each will act as a stimulus for the other. The spur of rivalry will be a splendid incentive for Laurie, to say nothing of the joy he will take in your companionship. He needs young people about him. It is a great scheme, a great scheme!" mused Mr. Fernald, rubbing his hands with increasing satisfaction as one advantage of the arrangement after another rotated through his mind.

"If only my father does not object," murmured Ted.

"Object! Object!" blustered Grandfather Fernald. "And why, pray, should he object?"

That a man of Mr. Turner's station in life should view the plan with anything but pride and complacency was evidently a new thought to the financier.

"Why, sir, my father and sisters are very fond of me and may not wish to have me remain longer away from home. They have missed me a lot this summer, I know that. You see I am the youngest one, the only boy."

"Humph!" interpolated the elder Mr. Fernald.

"In spite of the fact that we are crowded at home and too busy to see much of one another, Father likes to feel I'm around," continued Ted.

"I -- suppose -- so," came slowly from the old gentleman.

"I am sure I can fix all that," asserted Mr. Clarence Fernald briskly. "I will see your father and sisters myself, and I feel sure they will not stand in the way of your getting a fine education when it is offered you -- that is, if they care as much for you as you say they do. On the contrary, they will be the first persons to realize that such a plan is greatly to your advantage."

"It is going to be almightily to your advantage," Mr. Lawrence Fernald added. "Who can tell where it all may lead? If you do well at your studies, perhaps it may mean college some day, and a big, well-paid job afterward."

Ted's eyes shone.

"Would you like to go to college if you could?" persisted the elder man.

"You bet I would -- I mean yes, sir."

The old gentleman chuckled at the fervor of the reply.

"Well, well," said he, "time must decide all that. First lay a good foundation. You cannot build anything worth building without something to build upon. You get your cellar dug and we will then see what we will put on top of it."

With this parting remark he and his son moved away.

When the project was laid before Laurie, his delight knew no bounds. To have Ted come and live at Pine Lea for the winter, what a lark! Think of having some one to read and study with every day! Nothing could be jollier! And Mr. Hazen was every whit as pleased.

"It is the very thing!" he exclaimed to Laurie's father. "Ted will not be the least trouble. He is a fine student and it will be a satisfaction to work with him. Besides, unless I greatly miss my guess, he will cheer Laurie on to much larger accomplishments. Ted's influence has never been anything but good."

And what said Laurie's mother?

"It is splendid, Clarence, splendid! We can refurnish that extra room that adjoins Laurie's suite and let Mr. Hazen and the boys have that entire wing of the house. Nothing could be simpler. I shall be glad to have Ted here. Not only is he a fine boy but he has proved himself a good friend to us all. If we can do anything for him, we certainly should do it. The lad has had none too easy a time in this world."

Yes, all went well with the plan so far as the Fernalds were concerned; but the Turners -- ah, there was the stumbling block!

"It's no doubt a fine thing you're offering to do for my son," Ted's father replied to Mr. Clarence Fernald, "and I assure you I am not unmindful of your kindness; but you see he is our only boy and when he isn't here whistling round the house we miss him. 'Tain't as if we had him at home during his vacation. If he goes up to your place to work summers and stays there winters as well, we shall scarcely see him at all. All we have had of him this last year was an occasional teatime visit. Folks don't like having their children go out from the family roof so young."

"But, Father," put in Nancy, "think what such a chance as this will mean to Ted. You yourself have said over and over again that there was nothing like having an education."

"I know it," mused the man. "There's nothing can equal knowing something. I never did and look where I've landed. I'll never go ahead none. But I want it to be different with my boy. He's going to have some stock in trade in the way of training for life. It will be a kind of capital nothing can sweep away. As I figure it, it will be a sure investment -- that is, if the boy has any stuff in him."

"An education is a pretty solid investment," agreed the elder Mr. Fernald, "and you are wise to recognize its value, Mr. Turner. To plunge into life without such a weapon is like entering battle without a sword. I know, for I have tried it."

"Have you indeed, sir?"

Grandfather Fernald nodded.

"I was brought up on a Vermont farm when I was a boy."

"You don't say so! Well, well!"

"Yes, I never had much schooling," went on the old man. "Of course I picked up a lot of practical knowledge, as a boy will; and in some ways it has not been so bad. But it was a pretty mixed-up lot of stuff and I have been all my life sorting it out and putting it in order. I sometimes wonder when I think things over that I got ahead at all; it was more happen than anything else, I guess."

"The Vermonters have good heads on their shoulders," Mr. Turner remarked.

"Oh, you can't beat the Green Mountain State," laughed the senior Mr. Fernald, unbending into cordiality in the face of a common interest. "Still, when it came to bringing up my boy I felt as you do. I wasn't satisfied to have him get nothing more than I had. So I sent him to college and gave him all the education I never got myself. It has stood him in good stead, too, and I've lived to be proud of what he's done with it."

"And well you may be, sir," Mr. Turner observed.

Mr. Clarence Fernald flushed in the face of these plaudits and cut the conversation short by saying:

"It is that kind of an education that we want to give your boy, Mr. Turner. We like the youngster and believe he has promise of something fine. We should like to prepare him for college or some technical school and send him through it. He has quite a pronounced bent for science and given the proper opportunities he might develop into something beyond the ordinary rank and file."

"Do you think so, sir?" asked Mr. Turner, glowing with pleasure. "Well, I don't know but that he has a sort of knack with wire, nails, and queer machinery. He has tinkered with such things since he was a little lad. Of late he has been fussing round with electricity and scaring us all to death here at home. His sisters were always expecting he'd meet his end or blow up the house with some claptraption he'd put together."

Nancy blushed; then added, with a shy glance toward the Fernalds:

"They say down at the school that Ted is quite handy with telephones and such things."

"Mr. Hazen, my son's tutor, thinks your brother has a knowledge of electricity far beyond his years," replied Mr. Clarence Fernald. "That is why it seems a pity his talents in that direction should not be cultivated. Who knows but he may be an embryo genius? You never can tell what may be inside a child."

"You're right there, sir," Mr. Turner assented cordially. Then after a moment of thought, he continued, "Likely an education such as you are figuring on would cost a mint of money."

The Fernalds, both father and son, smiled at the naïve comment.

"Well -- yes," confessed Mr. Clarence slowly. "It would cost something."

"A whole lot?"

"If you wanted the best."

Mr. Turner scratched his head.

"I'm afraid I couldn't swing it," declared he, regret in his tone.

"But we are offering to do this for you," put in Grandfather Fernald.

"I know you are, sir; I know you are and I'm grateful," Ted's father answered. "But if I could manage it myself, I'd --  -- "

"Come, Mr. Turner, I beg you won't say that," interrupted the elder Mr. Fernald. "Think what we owe to your son. Why, we never in all the world can repay what he has done for us. This is no favor. We are simply paying our debts. You like to pay your bills, don't you?"

"Indeed I do, sir!" was the hearty reply. "There's no happier moment than the one when I take my pay envelope and go to square up what I owe. True, I don't run up many bills; still, there is not always money enough on hand to make both ends meet without depending some on credit."

"How much do you get in the shipping room?"

"Eighty dollars a month, sir."

"And your daughters are working?"

"They are in the spinning mills."

Mr. Fernald glanced about over the little room. Although scrupulously neat, it was quite apparent that the apartment was far too crowded for comfort. The furnishings also bespoke frugality in the extreme. It was not necessary to be told that the Turners' life was a close arithmetical problem.

"Your family stand by us loyally," observed the financier.

"We have your mills to thank for our daily bread, sir," Mr. Turner answered.

"And your boy -- if he does not go on with his studies shall you have him enter the factories?"

Mr. Turner squared his shoulders with a swift gesture of protest.

"No, sir -- not if I can help it!" he burst out. Then as if he suddenly sensed his discourtesy, he added, "I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I wasn't thinking who I was talking to. It isn't that I do not like the mills. It's only that there is so little chance for the lad to get ahead there. I wouldn't want the boy to spend his life grubbing away as I have."

"And yet you are denying him the chance to better himself."

"I am kinder going round in a circle, ain't I?" returned Mr. Turner gently. "Like as not it is hard for you to understand how I feel. It's only that you hate to let somebody else do for your children. It seems like charity."

"Charity! Charity -- when we owe the life of our boy, the lives of many of our workmen, the safety of our mills to your son?" ejaculated Mr. Clarence Fernald with unmistakable sincerity.

"When you pile it up that way it does sound like a pretty big debt, doesn't it?" mused Mr. Turner.

"Of course it's a big debt -- it is a tremendous one. Now try, Mr. Turner, and see our point of view. We want to take our envelope in our hands and although we have not fortune enough in the world to wipe out all we owe, we wish to pay part of it, at least. No matter how much we may be able to do for Ted in the future, we shall never be paying in full all that he has done for us. Much of his service we must accept as an obligation and give in return for it nothing but gratitude and affection. But if you will grant us the privilege of doing this little, it will give us the greatest pleasure."

If any one had told the stately Mr. Lawrence Fernald weeks before that he would be in the home of one of his workmen, pleading for a favor, he would probably have shrugged his shoulders and laughed; and even Mr. Clarence Fernald, who was less of an aristocrat than his father, would doubtless have questioned a prediction of his being obliged actually to implore one of the men in his employ to accept a benefaction from him. Yet here they both were, almost upon their knees, theoretically, before this self-respecting artisan.

In the face of such entreaty who could have remained obdurate? Certainly not Mr. Turner who in spite of his pride was the kindest-hearted creature alive.

"Well, you shall have your way, gentlemen," he at length replied, "Ted shall stay on at Pine Lea, since you wish it, and you shall plan his education as you think best. I know little of such matters and feel sure the problem is better in your hands than mine. I know you will work for the boy's good. And I beg you won't think me ungrateful because I have hesitated to accept your offer. We all have our scruples and I have mine. But now that I have put them in the background, I shall take whole-heartedly what you give and be most thankful for it."

Thus did the Fernalds win their point. Nevertheless they came away from the Turner's humble home with a consciousness that instead of bestowing a favor, as they had expected to do, they had really received one. Perhaps they did not respect Ted's father the less because of his reluctance to take the splendid gift they had put within his reach. They themselves were proud men and they had a sympathy for the pride of others. There could be no question that the interview had furnished both of them with food for thought for as they drove home in their great touring car they did not speak immediately. By and by, however, Grandfather Fernald observed:

"Don't you think, Clarence, Turner's pay should be increased? Eighty dollars isn't much to keep a roof over one's head and feed a family of three persons."

"I have been thinking that, too," returned his son. "They tell me he is a very faithful workman and he has been here long enough to have earned a substantial increase in wages. I don't see why I never got round to doing something for him before. The fellow was probably too proud to ask for more money and unless some kick comes to me those things slip my mind. I'll see right away what can be done."

There was a pause and then the senior Mr. Fernald spoke again:

"Do you ever feel that we ought to do something about furnishing better quarters for the men?" he asked. "I have had the matter on my conscience for months. Look at that tenement of the Turners! It is old, out of date, crowded and stuffy. There isn't a ray of sunshine in it. It's a disgrace to herd a family into such a place. And I suppose there are ever so many others like it in Freeman's Falls."

"I'm afraid there are, Father."

"I don't like the idea of it," growled old Mr. Fernald. "The houses all look well enough until one goes inside. But they're terrible, terrible! Why, they are actually depressing. I haven't shaken off the gloom of that room yet. We own land enough on the other side of the river. Why couldn't we build a handsome bridge and then develop that unused area by putting up some decent houses for our people? It would increase the value of the property and at the same time improve the living conditions of our employees. What do you say to the notion?"

"I am ready to go in on any such scheme!" cried Mr. Clarence Fernald heartily. "I'd like nothing better. I have always wanted to take up the matter with you; but I fancied from something you said once when I suggested it that you --  -- "

"I didn't realize what those houses down along the water front were like," interrupted Grandfather Fernald. "Ugh! At least sunshine does not cost money. We must see that our people get more of it."



Chapter XV

What Came Of The Plot


The Fernalds were as good as their word. All winter long father, son, and grandson worked at the scheme for the new cottages and by New Year, with the assistance of an architect, they had on paper plans for a model village to be built on the opposite side of the river as soon as the weather permitted. The houses were gems of careful thought, no two of them being alike. Nevertheless, although each tiny domain was individual in design, a general uniformity of construction existed between them which resulted in a delightfully harmonious ensemble. The entire Fernald family was enthusiastic over the project. It was the chief topic of conversation both at Aldercliffe and at Pine Lea. Rolls of blue prints littered office and library table and cluttered the bureaus, chairs, and even the pockets of the elder men of each household.

"We are going to make a little Normandy on the other shore of the river before we have done with it," asserted Grandfather Fernald to Laurie. "It will be as pretty a settlement as one would wish to see. I mean, too, to build coöperative stores, a clubhouse, and a theater; perhaps I may even go farther and put up a chapel. I have gone clean daft over the notion of a model village and since I am started I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I do not believe we shall be sinking our money, either, for in addition to bettering the living conditions of our men I feel we shall also draw to the locality a finer class of working people. This will boom our section of the country and should make property here more valuable. But even if it doesn't work out that way, I shall take pride in the proposed village. I have always insisted that our mills be spotless and up to date and the fact that they have been has been a source of great gratification. Now I shall carry that idea farther and see that the new settlement comes up to our standards. I have gone over and over the plans to see if in any way they can be bettered; suppose you and I look at them together once more. Some new inspiration may come to us -- something that will be an improvement."

Patiently and for the twentieth time Laurie examined the blue prints while his grandfather volubly explained just where each building of the many was to stand.

"This little park, with a fountain in the middle and a bandstand near by, will slope down toward the river. As there are many fine trees along the shore it will be a cool and pleasant place to sit in summer. The stone bridge I am to put up will cross just above and serve as a sort of entrance to the park. We intend that everything shall be laid out with a view to making the river front attractive. As for the village itself -- the streets are to be wide so that each dwelling shall have plenty of fresh air and sunshine. No more of those dingy flats such as the Turners live in! Each family is also to have land enough for a small garden, and each house will have a piazza and the best of plumbing; and because many of the women live in their kitchens more than in any other part of their abode, I am insisting that that room be as comfortable and airy as it can be made."

"It is all bully, Grandfather," Laurie answered. "But isn't it going to cost a fortune to do the thing as you want it done?"

"It is going to cost money," nodded the elder man. "I am not deceiving myself as to that. But I have the money and if I chose to spend it on this fad (as one of my friends called it) I don't see why I shouldn't do it. Since your grandmother died I have not felt the same interest in Aldercliffe that I used to. When she was alive that was my hobby. I shall simply be putting out the money in a different direction, that is all. Perhaps it will be a less selfish direction, too."

"It certainly is a bully fine fad, Grandfather," Laurie exclaimed.

"Somehow I believe it is, laddie," the old gentleman answered thoughtfully. "Your father thinks so. Time only can tell whether I have chucked my fortune in a hole or really invested it wisely. I have been doing a good deal of serious thinking lately, thanks to those chaps who tried to blow up the mills. As I have turned matters over in my mind since the trial, and struggled to get their point of view, I have about come to the conclusion that they had a fair measure of right on their side. Not that I approve of their methods," continued he hastily, raising a protesting hand, when Laurie offered an angry interruption. "Do not misunderstand me. The means they took was cowardly and criminal and I do not for a moment uphold it. But the thing that led them to act as they planned to act was that they honestly believed we had not given them and their comrades a square deal. As I have pondered over this conviction of theirs, I am not so sure but they were right in that belief."

He paused to light a fresh cigar which he silently puffed for a few moments.

"This village plan of mine has grown to some extent out of the thinking to which this tragedy has stimulated me. There can be no question that our fortunes have come to us as a result of the hard labor of our employees. I know that. And I also know that we have rolled up a far larger proportion of the profits than they have. In fact, I am not sure we have not accepted a larger slice than was our due; and I am not surprised that some of them are also of that opinion. I would not go so far as to say we have been actually dishonest but I am afraid we have not been generous. The matter never came to me before in precisely this light and I confess frankly I am sorry that I have blundered. Nevertheless, as I tell your father, it is never too late to mend. If we have made mistakes we at least do not need to continue to make them. So I have resolved to pay up some of my past obligations by building this village and afterward your dad and I plan to raise the wages of the workers -- raise them voluntarily without their asking. I figure we shall have enough to keep the wolf from the door, even then," he added, smiling, "and if we should find we had not why we should simply have to come back on you and Ted Turner to support us, that's all."

Laurie broke into a ringing laugh.

"I would much rather you and Dad spent the money this way than to have you leave it all to me," he said presently.

"One person does not need so much money. It is more than his share of the world's profits -- especially if he has earned none of it. Besides, when a fortune is handed over to you, it spoils all the fun of making one for yourself." The boy's eyes clouded wistfully. "I suppose anyhow I never shall be able to work as hard as you and Father have; still I --  -- "

"Pooh! Pooh! Nonsense!" his grandfather interrupted huskily.

"I believe I shall be able to earn enough to take care of myself," continued Laurie steadily. "In any case I mean to try."

"Of course you will!" cried the elder man heartily. "Why, aren't you expecting to be an engineer or something?"

"I -- I -- hope -- to," replied the boy.

"Certainly! Certainly!" fidgeted Grandfather Fernald nervously. "You are going to be a great man some day, Laurie -- a consulting engineer, maybe; or a famous electrician, or something of the sort."

"I wish I might," the lad repeated. "You see, Grandfather, it is working out your own career that is the fun, making something all yourself. That is why I hate the idea of ever stepping into your shoes and having to manage the mills. All the interesting part is done already. You and Dad had the pleasure --  -- "

"The damned hard work, you mean," cut in his grandfather.

"Well, the hard work, then," chuckled Laurie, "of building the business up."

"That is true, my boy," replied Mr. Fernald. "It was a great game, too. Why, you know when I came here and we staked out the site for the mills, there wasn't a house in sight. There was nothing but that river. To one little wooden factory and that rushing torrent of water I pinned my faith. Every cent I possessed in the world was in the venture. I must make good or go under. Nobody will ever know how I slaved in those early days. For years I worked day and night, never giving myself time to realize that I was tired. But I was young and eager and although I got fagged sometimes a few hours of sleep sent me forth each morning with faith that I could slay whatever dragons I might encounter. As I look back on those years, hard though they were, they will always stand out as the happiest ones of my life. It was the fight that was the sport. Now I am an old man and I have won the thing I was after -- success. Of course, it is a satisfaction to have done what you set out to do. But I tell you, laddie, that after your money is made, the zest of the game is gone. Your fortune rolls up then without you and all you have to do is to sit back and watch it grow of itself. It doesn't seem to be a part of you any more. You feel old, and unnecessary, and out of it. You are on the shelf."

"That is why I want to begin at the beginning and earn my own money, Grandfather," Laurie put in. "Think what you would have missed if some one had deprived you of all your fun when you were young. You wouldn't have liked it."

"You bet I wouldn't!" cried the old gentleman.

"I don't want to lose my fun either," persisted Laurie. "I want to win my way just as you and Dad have done -- just as Ted Turner is going to do. I want to find out what is in me and what I can do with it."

Grandfather Fernald rubbed his hands.

"Bully for you, Laurie! Bully for you!" he ejaculated. "That's the true Fernald spirit. It was that stuff that took me away from my father's farm in Vermont and started me out in the world with only six dollars in my pocket. I was bound I would try my muscle and I did. I got some pretty hard knocks, too, while I was doing it. Still, they were all in the day's work and I never have regretted them. But I didn't mean to have your father go through all I did and so I saw that he got an education and started different. He knew what he was fighting and was armed with the proper weapons instead of going blind into the scrimmage. That is what we are trying to do for you and what we mean to do for Ted Turner. We do not intend to take either of you out of the fray but we are going to put into your hands the things you need to win the battle. Then the making good will depend solely on you."

"I mean to try to do my part."

"I know you do, laddie; and you'll do it, too."

"I just wish I was stronger -- as well as Ted is," murmured the boy.

"I wish you were," his grandfather responded gently, touching his grandson's shoulder affectionately with his strong hand. "If money could give you health you should have every farthing I possess. But there are things that money cannot do, Laurie. I used to think it was all-powerful and that if I had it there was nothing I could not make mine. But I realize now that many of the best gifts of life are beyond its reach. We grow wiser as we grow older," he concluded, with a sad shake of his head. "Sometimes I think we should have been granted two lives, one to experiment with and the other to live."

He rose, a weary shadow clouding his eyes.

"Well, to live and learn is all we can do; and thank goodness it is never too late to profit by our errors. I have learned many things from Ted Turner; I have learned some more from his father; and I have added to all these certain things that those unlucky wretches, Sullivan and Cronin, have demonstrated to me. Who knows but I may make Freeman's Falls a better place in consequence? We shall see."

With these parting reflections the old gentleman slowly left the room.



Chapter XVI

Another Calamity


The winter was a long and tedious one with much cold weather and ice. Great drifts leveled the fields about Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, shrouding the vast expanse of fields along the river in a glistening cloak of ermine spangled with gold. The stream itself was buried so deep beneath the snow that it was difficult not to believe it had disappeared altogether. Freeman's Falls had never known a more severe season and among the mill employees there was much illness and depression. Prices were high, business slack, and the work ran light. Nevertheless, the Fernalds refused to shorten the hours. There were no night shifts on duty, to be sure, but the hum of the machinery that ceased at twilight resumed its buzzing every morning and by its music gladdened many a home where anxiety might otherwise have reigned.

That the factories were being operated at a loss rather than throw the men out of employment Ted Turner could not help knowing for since he had become a member of the Fernald household he had been included so intimately in the family circle that it was unavoidable he should be cognizant of much that went on there. As a result, an entirely new aspect of manufacture came before him. Up to this time he had seen but one side of the picture, that with which the working man was familiar. But now the capitalist's side was turned toward him and on confronting its many intricate phases he gained a very different conception of the mill-owner's conundrums. He learned now for the first time who it was that tided over business in its seasons of stress and advanced the money that kept bread in the mouths of the workers. He sensed, too, as he might never have done otherwise, who shouldered the burden of care not alone during working hours but outside of them; he glimpsed something of the struggles of competition; the problems of securing raw material; the work concerning credits.

A very novel viewpoint it was to the boy, and as he regarded the complicated web, he found himself wondering how much of all this tangle was known to the men, and whether they were always fair to their employer. He had frequently overheard conversations at his father's when they had proclaimed how easy and care-free a life the rich led, and while they had envied and criticized and slandered the Fernalds and asserted that they did nothing but enjoy themselves, he had listened. Ah, how far from the truth this estimate had been! He speculated, as he reviewed the facts and vaguely rehearsed the capitalist's enigmas whether, if shown the actual conditions, the townsfolk would have been willing to exchange places with either of these men whose fortunes they so greedily coveted.

For in very truth the Fernalds seemed to Ted persons to be pitied far more than envied. Stripped of illusions, what was Mr. Lawrence Fernald but an old man who had devoted himself to money-making until he had rolled up a fortune so large that its management left him no leisure to enjoy it? Eager to accumulate more and ever more wealth, he toiled and worried quite as hard as he would have done had he had no money at all; he often passed sleepless nights and could never be persuaded to take a day away from his office. He slaved harder than any of those he paid to work for him and he had none of their respite from care.

Mr. Clarence Fernald, being of a younger generation, had perhaps learned greater wisdom. At any rate, he went away twice a year for extended pleasure trips. Possibly the fact that his father had degenerated into a mere money-making machine was ever before him, serving as a warning against a similar fate. However that may have been, he did break resolutely away from business at intervals, or tried to. Nevertheless, he never could contrive to be wholly free. Telegrams pursued him wherever he went; his secretary often went in search of him; and many a time, like a defeated runaway whose escape is cut short, he was compelled to abandon his holiday and return to the mills, there to straighten out some unlooked-for complication. Day and night the responsibilities of his position, the welfare of the hundreds of persons dependent on him, weighed down his shoulders. And even when he was at home in the bosom of his family, there was Laurie, his son, his idol, who could probably never be well! What man in all Freeman's Falls could have envied him if acquainted with all the conditions of his life?

This and many another such reflection engrossed Ted, causing him to wonder whether there was not in the divine plan a certain element of equalization.

In the meantime, his lessons with Laurie and Mr. Hazen went steadily and delightfully on. How much more could be accomplished with a tutor who devoted all his time simply to two pupils! And how much greater pleasure one derived from studying under these intimate circumstances! In every way the arrangement was ideal. Thus the winter passed with its balancing factors of work and play. The friendship between the two boys strengthened daily and in a similar proportion Ted's affection for the entire Fernald family increased.

It was when the first thaw made its appearance late in March that trouble came. Laurie was stricken with measles, and because of the contagion, Ted's little shack near the river was hastily equipped for occupancy, and the lad was transferred there.

"I can't have two boys sick," declared Mr. Clarence Fernald, "and as you have not been exposed to the disease there is no sense in our thrusting you into its midst. Plenty of wood will keep your fireplace blazing and as the weather is comparatively mild I fancy you can contrive to be comfortable. We will connect the telephone so you won't be lonely and so you can talk with Laurie every day. The doctor says he will soon be well again and after the house has been fumigated you can come back to Pine Lea."

Accordingly, Ted was once more ensconced in the little hut and how good it seemed to be again in that familiar haunt only he realized. Before the first day was over, he felt as if he had never been away. Pine Lea might boast its conservatories, its sun parlors, its tiled baths, its luxuries of every sort; they all faded into nothingness beside the freedom and peace of the tiny shack at the river's margin.

Meanwhile, with the gradual approach of spring, the sun mounted higher and the great snow drifts settled and began to disappear. Already the ice in the stream was breaking up and the turbid yellow waters went rushing along, carrying with them whirling blocks of snow. As the torrent swept past, it flooded the meadows and piled up against the dam opposite the factories great frozen, jagged masses of ice which ground and crashed against one another, so that the sounds could be distinctly heard within the mills. At some points these miniature icebergs blocked the falls and held the waters in check until, instead of cascading over the dam, they spread inland, inundating the shores. The float before Ted's door was covered and at night, when all was still and his windows open, he could hear the roaring of the stream, and the impact of the bumping ice as it sped along. Daily, as the snows on the far distant hillsides near the river's source melted, the flood increased and poured down in an ever rising tide its seething waters.

Yet notwithstanding the fact that each day saw the stream higher, no one experienced any actual anxiety from the conditions, although everybody granted they were abnormal. Of course, there was more ice in the river than there had been for many years. Even Grandfather Fernald, who had lived in the vicinity for close on to half a century, could not recall ever having witnessed such a spring freshet; nor did he deny that the weight of ice and water against the dam must be tremendous. However, the structure was strong and there was no question of its ability to hold, even though this chaos of grinding ice-cakes boomed against it with defiant reverberation.

In spite of the conditions, Ted felt no nervousness about remaining by himself in the shack and perhaps every premonition of evil might have escaped him had he not been awakened one morning very early by a ripple of lapping water that seemed near at hand. Sleepily he opened his eyes and looked about him. The floor of the hut was wet and through the crack beneath the door a thread of muddy water was steadily seeping. In an instant he was on his feet and as he stood looking about him in bewilderment he heard the roar of the river and detected in the sound a threatening intonation that had not been there on the previous day. He hurried to the window and stared out into the grayness of the dawn. The scene that confronted him chilled his blood. The river had risen unbelievably during the night. Not only were the little bushes along the shore entirely submerged but many of the pines standing upon higher ground were also under water.

As he threw on his clothes, he tried to decide whether there was anything he ought to do. Would it be well to call up the Fernalds, or telephone to the mills, or to the village, and give warning of the conditions? It was barely four o'clock and the first streaks of light were but just appearing. Nevertheless, there must be persons who were awake and as alert as he to the transformation the darkness had wrought. Moreover, perhaps there was no actual danger, and should this prove to be the case, how absurd he would feel to arouse people at daybreak for a mere nothing. It was while he paused there indecisively that a sight met his eye which spurred hesitancy to immediate action. Around the bend far up the stream came sweeping a tangle of wreckage -- trees, and brush, and floating timber -- and swirling along in its wake was a small lean-to which he recognized as one that had stood on the bank of the river at Melton, the village located five miles above Freeman's Falls. If the water were high enough to carry away this building, it must indeed have risen to a menacing height and there was not a moment to be lost.

He rushed to the telephone and called up Mr. Clarence Fernald who replied to his summons in irritable, half-dazed fashion.

"Is there any way of lifting the water gates at the mills?" asked Ted breathlessly. "The river has risen so high that it is sweeping away trees and even some of the smaller houses from the Melton shore. If the debris piles up against the dam, the pressure may be more than the thing can stand. Besides, the water will spread and flood both Aldercliffe and Pine Lea. I thought I'd better tell you."

Mr. Fernald was not dazed now; he was broad awake.

"Where are you?" inquired he sharply.

"At the shack, sir. The water is ankle deep."

"Don't stay there another moment. It is not safe. At any instant the whole hut may be carried away. Gather your traps together and call Wharton or Stevens -- or both of them -- to come and help you take them up to Aldercliffe. I'll attend to notifying the mills. You've done us a good turn, my boy."

During the next hour Ted himself was too busy to appreciate the hectic rush of events that he had set moving, or realize the feverish energy with which the Fernalds and their employees worked to avert a tragedy which, but for his warning, might have been a very terrible one. The mills were reached by wire and the sluices at the sides of the central dam immediately lifted to make way for the torrent of snow, ice, wreckage, and water. In what a fierce and maddened chaos it surged over the falls and dashed into the chasm beneath! All day the mighty current boiled and seethed, overflowing the outlying fields with its yellow flood. Nevertheless, the great brick factories that bordered the stream stood firm and so did the residences at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, both of which were fortunately situated on high ground.

Ted had not made his escape from his little camp a moment too soon, for while he stood looking out on the freshet from one of the attic windows at Pine Lea, he shivered to behold his little hut bob past him amid the rushing waters and drift into an eddy on the opposite shore along with a mass of uprooted pines.

A sob burst from him.

"It's gone, Mr. Hazen -- our little house!" he murmured brokenly to the young tutor who was standing beside him. "We never shall see it again."

"You mustn't take it so to heart, Ted," the teacher answered, laying his hand sympathetically on the lad's shoulder. "Suppose you had been in it and borne away to almost certain death. That would have been a calamity indeed. What is an empty boathouse when we consider how many people are to suffer actual financial loss and perhaps forfeit everything they have, as a result of this tragedy. The villagers who live along the river will lose practically everything they own -- boats, poultry, barns; and many of them both houses and furniture. We all loved the shack; but it is not as if its destruction left you with no other roof above your head. You can stay at Aldercliffe, Pine Lea, or join your family at Freeman's Falls. Three shelters are open to you. But these poor souls in the town --  -- "

"I had not thought about the villagers," blushed Ted.

"The Fernalds have been in the settlement since dawn and along with every man they could summon have been working to save life and property. If I had not had to stay here with Laurie, I should have gone to help, too."

Ted hung his head.

"I'm ashamed to have been so selfish," said he. "Instead of thinking only of myself, I ought to have been lending a hand to aid somebody else. It was rotten of me. Why can't I go down to the village now? There must be things I can do. Certainly I'm no use here."

"No, there is nothing to be done here," the tutor agreed. "If you could stay with Laurie and calm him down there would be some sense in your remaining; but as it is, I don't see why you shouldn't go along to the town and fill in wherever you can. I fancy there will be plenty to do. The Fernalds, Wharton, Stevens, and the rest of the men are moving the families who lived along the water front out of their houses and into others. All our trucks and cars are busy at the job."

"I know I could help," cried Ted eagerly, his foot on the top step of the staircase.

"I am sure you can," Mr. Hazen replied. "Already by your timely warning you have helped more than you will ever know. I tremble to think what might have happened if you had not awakened Mr. Clarence just when you did. Had the dam at the mills gone down, the whole town would have been devastated. Mr. Fernald told me so himself."

"I'm mighty glad if I --  -- "

"So you see you have been far from selfish," continued the tutor, in a cheery tone. "As for the shack, it can be rebuilt, so I should not mourn about that."

"I guess Mr. Fernald is glad now that he has his plans ready for his model village."

"Yes, he is. He said right away that it was providential. The snow will disappear after this thaw and as soon as the earth dries up enough to admit of building, the workmen will begin to break ground for the new settlement. The prospect of other and better houses than the old ones will encourage many of the mill people who have had their dwellings ruined to-day and in consequence been forced to move into temporary quarters where they are crowded and uncomfortable. We can all endure inconvenience when we know it is not to last indefinitely. Mr. Fernald told me over the telephone that the promise of new houses by summer or fall at the latest was buoying up the courage of all those who had suffered from this terrible disaster. He is going to grant special privileges to every family that has met with loss. They are to be given the first houses that are finished."

"I do hope another freshet like this one won't sweep away the new village," reflected Ted.

"Oh, we shall probably never again be treated to an excitement similar to this one," smiled Mr. Hazen reassuringly. "Didn't you hear them say that it was the bursting of the Melton reservoir which was largely responsible for this catastrophe? Mr. Fernald declared all along that this was no ordinary freshet. He has seen the river every spring for nearly forty years and watched it through all its annual thaws; and although it has often been high, it has never been a danger to the community. He told me over the telephone about the reservoir bursting. He had just got the news. It seems the reservoir above Melton was an old one which the authorities have realized for some time must be rebuilt. They let it go one year too long. With the weight of water, snow, and ice, it could not bear the pressure put upon it and collapsed. I'm afraid it has been a severe lesson to the officials of the place for the chance they took has caused terrible damage."

"Were people killed?" asked Ted in an awed whisper.

"We have heard so -- two or three who were trapped asleep in their houses. As for the town, practically all the buildings that fronted the river were destroyed. Of course, as yet we have not been able to get very satisfactory details, for most of the wires were down and communication was pretty well cut off. I suppose that is why they did not notify us of our peril. People were probably too busy with their own affairs, too intent on saving their own lives and possessions to think of anything else. Then, too, the thing came suddenly. If there hadn't been somebody awake here, I don't know where we should have been. I don't see how you happened to be astir so early."

"Nor I," returned Ted modestly. "I think it must have been the sound of the water coming in that woke me. I just happened to hear it."

"Well, it was an almighty fortunate happen -- that is all I can say," asserted Mr. Hazen, as the boy sped down the stairs.



Chapter XVII

Surprises


During the next few days tidings of the Melton disaster proved the truth of Mr. Hazen's charitable suppositions, for it was definitely learned that the calamity which befell the village came entirely without warning, and as the main part of the town was wiped out almost completely and the river front destroyed, all communication between the unfortunate settlement and the outside world had been cut off so that to send warnings to the communities below had been impossible. Considering the enormity of the catastrophe, it was miraculous that there had not been greater loss of life and wider spread devastation.

A week of demoralization all along the river followed the tragedy; but after the bulk of wreckage was cleared away and the stream had dropped to normal, the Fernalds actually began to congratulate themselves on the direful event.

"Well, the thing has not been all to the bad, by any means," commented Grandfather Fernald. "We have at least got rid of those unsightly tenements bordering the water which were such a blot on Freeman's Falls; and once gone, I do not mean to allow them ever to be put back again. I have bought up the land and shall use it as the site of the new granite bridge I intend to build across the stream. And in case I have more land than is needed for this purpose, the extra area can be used for a park which will be an ornament to the spot rather than an eyesore. Therefore, take it altogether, I consider that freshet a capital thing."

He glanced at Ted who chanced to be standing near by.

"I suppose you, my lad, do not entirely agree with me," added he, a twinkle gleaming beneath his shaggy brows. "You are thinking of that playhouse of yours and Laurie's that was carried off by the deluge."

"I am afraid I was, sir."

"Pooh! Nonsense!" blustered the old gentleman. "What's a thing like that? Besides, Laurie's father proposes to rebuild it for you. Hasn't he told you?" questioned the man, noticing the surprise in the boy's face. "Oh, yes, indeed! He is going to put up another house for you; and judging from his plans, you will find yourself far better off than you were in the first place for this time he is to give you a real cottage, not simply a made-over boathouse. Yes, there is to be running water; a bedroom, study, and kitchenette; to say nothing of a bath and steam heat. He plans to connect it by piping with the central heating plant. So you see you will have a regular housekeeping bungalow instead of a camp."

Ted gasped.

"But -- but -- I can't let Mr. Fernald do all this for me," he protested. "It's -- it's -- too much."

"I shouldn't worry about him, if I were you," smiled the elder man. "It won't scrimp him, I imagine. Furthermore, it will be an excellent investment, for should the time ever come when you did not need the house it could be rented to one of our tenants. He is to put a foundation under it this time and build it more solidly; and possibly he may decide to set it a trifle farther back from the water. In any case, he will see that it is right; you can trust him for that. It will not be carried away a second time."

"I certainly hope not," Ted agreed. "What a pity it was they did not have some way of notifying us from Melton! If they had only had a wireless apparatus --  -- " he broke off thoughtfully.

"I doubt if all the wireless in the world could have saved your little hut," answered Mr. Fernald kindly. "It was nothing but a pasteboard house and wireless or no wireless it would have gone anyway. I often speculate as to how ships ever dared to go to sea before they had the protection of wireless communication. Ignorance was bliss, I suppose. They knew nothing about it and therefore did not miss it. When we can boast no better way we are satisfied with the old. But think of the shipwrecks and accidents that might have been averted! You will be studying about all this some day when you go to Technology or college."

Ted's face lighted at the words.

"You have all been so kind to me, Mr. Fernald," he murmured. "When I think of your sending me to college it almost bowls me over."

"You must never look upon it as an obligation, my boy," the old gentleman declared. "If there is any obligation at all (and there is a very real one) it is ours. The only obligation you have will be to do well at your studies and make us proud of you, and that you are doing all the time. Mr. Hazen tells me you are showing splendid progress. I hope by another week Laurie will be out of the woods, Pine Lea will be fumigated, and you can resume your former way of living there without further interruptions from floods and illness. Still, I shall be sorry to have your little visit at Aldercliffe come to an end. You seem to have grown into the ways of the whole family and to fit in wherever you find yourself."

Mr. Fernald smiled affectionately at the lad.

"There is something that has been on my tongue's end to whisper to you for some time," he went on, after a brief interval of hesitancy. "I know you can keep a secret and so I mean to tell you one. In the spring we are going to take Laurie over to New York to see a very celebrated surgeon who is coming from Vienna to this country. We hear he has had great success with cases such as Laurie's and we hope he may be able to do something for the boy. Of course, no one knows this as yet, not even Laurie himself."

"Oh, Mr. Fernald! Do you mean there would be a chance that Laurie could walk sometime?" Ted cried.

The old man looked into the young and shining face and nervously brushed the back of his hand across his eyes.

"Perhaps; perhaps!" responded he gruffly. "Who can tell? This doctor has certainly performed some marvelous cures. Who knows but the lad may some day not only walk about, but leap and run as you do!"

"Oh, sir -- !"

"But we must not be too sure or allow ourselves to be swept away by hope," cautioned Grandfather Fernald. "No one knows what can be done yet and we might be disappointed -- sadly disappointed. Still, there is no denying that there is a fighting chance. But keep this to yourself, Ted. I must trust you to do that. If Laurie were to know anything about it, it would be very unfortunate, for the ordeal will mean both pain and suffering for him and he must not be worried about it in advance. He will need all his nerve and courage when the time for action comes. Moreover, we feel it would be cruel for him to glimpse such a vision and then find it only a mirage. So we have told him nothing. But I have told you because you are fond of him and I wanted you to share the secret."

"It shall remain a secret, Mr. Fernald."

"I feel sure of that," the man replied. "You are a good boy, Ted. It was a lucky day that brought you to Pine Lea."

"A lucky one for me, sir!"

"For all of us, son! For all of us!" reiterated the old gentleman. "The year of your coming here will be one we never shall forget. It has been very eventful."

Certainly the final comment was no idle one. Not only had the year been a red-letter one but it was destined to prove even more conspicuously memorable. With the spring the plans for the new village went rapidly forward and soon pretty little concrete houses with roofs of scarlet and trimmings of green dotted the slopes on the opposite side of the river. The laying out and building of this community became Grandfather Fernald's recreation and delight. Morning, noon, and evening he could be seen either perusing curling sheets of blue prints, consorting with his architects, or rolling off in his car to inspect the progress of the venture. Sometimes he took Ted with him, sometimes his son, and when Laurie was strong enough, the entire family frequently made the pilgrimage to the new settlement.

It was very attractive, there was no denying that; and it seemed as if nothing that could give pleasure to its future residents had been omitted. The tiny library had been Laurie's pet scheme, and not only had his grandfather eagerly carried out the boy's own plans but he had proudly ordered the lad's name to be chiselled across the front of the building. Ted's plea had been for a playground and this request had also been granted, since it appeared to be a wise one. It was a wonderful playground, bordering on the river and having swings and sand boxes for the children; seats for tired mothers; and a large ball-field with bleachers for the men and boys. The inhabitants of Freeman's Falls had never dreamed of such an ideal realm in which to live, and as tidings of the paradise went forth, strangers began to flock into town in the hope of securing work in the mills and homes in the new settlement.

The Fernalds, however, soon made it plain that the preference was to be given to their old employees who had served them well and faithfully for so many years. Therefore, as fast as the houses were completed, they were assigned to those who had been longest in the company's employ and soon the streets of the new village were no longer silent but teemed with life and the laughter of a happy people. And among those for whom a charming little abode was reserved were the Turners, Ted's family.

Then came the tearing down of the temporary bridge of wood and the opening of the beautiful stone structure that arched the stream. Ah, what a holiday that was! The mills were closed, there was a band concert in the little park, dedication exercises, and fireworks in the evening. And great was Ted's surprise when he spied cut in the stone the words "Turner's Bridge!" Near the entrance was a modest bronze tablet stating that the memorial had been constructed in honor of Theodore Turner who, by his forethought in giving warning of the freshet of 1912 had saved the village of Freeman's Falls from inestimable calamity.

How the boy blushed when Mr. Lawrence Fernald mentioned him by name in the dedication speech! And yet he was pleased, too. And how the people cheered; and how proud his father and sisters were! Perhaps, however, the most delighted person of all was Laurie who had been in the secret all along and who now smiled radiantly to see his friend so honored.

"The townspeople may not go to my library," he laughed, "but every one of them will use your bridge. They will have to; they can't help it!"

The thought seemed to amuse him vastly and he always referred to the exquisite granite structure with its triple arch and richly carved piers of stone as Ted's Bridge.

Thus did the year with its varied experiences slip by and when June came the Fernalds carried Laurie to New York to consult the much heralded Viennese surgeon. Ah, those were feverish, anxious days, not only for the Fernald family but for Ted and Mr. Hazen as well. The boy and the tutor had remained at Pine Lea there to continue their studies and await the tidings Laurie's father had promised to send them; and when the ominous yellow telegrams with their momentous messages began to arrive, they hardly knew whether to greet them with sorrow or rejoicing.

They need not, however, have dreaded the news for after careful examination the eminent specialist had decided to take a single desperate chance and operate with the hope of success. Laurie, they were told, was a monument of courage and had the spirit of a Spartan. Unquestionably he merited the good luck that followed for fortune did reward his heroism, -- smiling fortune. Of course, the miracle of health could not come all in a moment; months of convalescence must follow which would be unavoidably tedious with suffering. But beyond this arid stretch of pain lay the goal of recovery.

No lips could tell what this knowledge meant to those who loved the boy. In time he was to be as strong as any one! It was unbelievable. Nevertheless, the roseate promise was no dream. Laurie was brought home to Pine Lea and immediately the mending process began. Already one could read in the patient face the transformation hope had wrought. There was some day to be college, not alone for Ted but for Laurie himself, -- college, and sports, and a career.

In the fullness of time these long-anticipated joys began to arrive. Health made its appearance and at its heels trouped success and happiness; and to balance them came gratitude, humility, and service. In the meantime, with every lengthening year, the friendship between Laurie and Ted toughened in fiber and became a closer bond. And it was not engineering or electricity that ultimately claimed the constructive interest of the two comrades but instead the Fernald mills, which upon Grandfather Fernald's retirement called for younger men at their helm. So after going forth into the great world and whetting the weapons of their intellect they found the dragon they had planned to slay waiting for them at home in Freeman's Falls. Yet notwithstanding its familiar environment, it was a very real dragon and resolutely the two young men attacked it, putting into their management of the extensive industry all the spirit of brotherhood that burned in their hearts and all the desire for service which they cherished. With the aim of bringing about a kindlier coöperation and fuller sympathy between capital and labor they toiled, and the world to which they gave their efforts was the better for it.

Nevertheless, they did not entirely abandon their scientific interests for on the border of the river stood a tiny shack equipped with a powerful wireless apparatus. Here on a leisure afternoon Ted Turner and his comrade could often be found capturing from the atmosphere those magic sounds that spelled the intercourse of peoples, and the thought of nations; and often they spoke of Alexander Graham Bell and those patient pioneers who, together with him, had made it possible for the speech of man to traverse continents and circle a universe.

<eob>

Through Forest And Fire

By

Edward S. Ellis



Chapter I.

Nick.


Nicholas Ribsam was a comical fellow from his earliest babyhood, and had an original way of doing almost everything he undertook.

When he became big enough to sit on the porch of the humble little home, where he was born, and stare with his great round eyes at the world as it went by, that world, whether on horseback, in carriage, or on foot, was sure to smile at the funny-looking baby.

Nick, although born in western Pennsylvania, was as thoroughly Dutch as if he had first opened his eyes on the banks of the Zuyder Zee, in the lowlands of Holland. His parents had come from that part of the world which has produced so many fine scholars and done so much for science and literature. They talked the language of the Fatherland, although they occasionally ventured on very broken English for the instruction of the boy and girl which heaven had given them.

When Nick was a year old, he seemed as broad as he was long, and his round, red cheeks, big, honest eyes, and scanty hair, which stood out in every direction, always brought a smile to whomsoever looked at him.

"That's the Dutchest baby I ever saw!" exclaimed a young man, who, as he threw back his head and laughed, expressed the opinion of about every one that stopped to admire the youngster.

When we add that Nick was remarkably good natured, his popularity will be understood. Days and weeks passed without so much as a whimper being heard from him. If his mother forgot she was the owner of such a prize, and allowed him to remain on the porch until he was chilled through or half famished, she was pretty sure to find him smiling, when she suddenly awakened to her duties respecting the little fellow.

Several times he tipped over and rolled off the porch, bumping his head against the stones. A hoarse cry instantly made known the calamity but by the time he was snatched up (often head downward) his face was illumined again by his enormous grin, even though the big teardrops stood on his cheeks.

When he grew so as to be able to stand with the help of something which he could grasp, a board about a foot and a half high was placed across the lower part of the open door to prevent him getting outside.

The first day fat little Nick was confronted with this obstruction he fell over it, out upon the porch. How he managed to do such a wonderful thing puzzled father and mother, who half believed some person or animal must have "boosted" him over; but, as there was no other person in sight and they did not own a dog, the explanation was not satisfactory.

True, they had a big Maltese cat, but he was hardly strong enough, even if he had the disposition, to hoist a plump baby over such a gate, out of pure mischief.

But the most remarkable thing took place the next week, when Nick not only fell out of the door and over the obstruction, but a few minutes later fell in again. In fact, it looked as if from that time forward Nick Ribsam's position was inverted almost as often as it was upright.

"There's one thing I want my little boy to learn," said the father, as he took him on his knee and talked in the language of his Fatherland "and that is, 'God helps them that help themselves.' Don't ever forget it!"

"Yaw, I ish not forgots him," replied the youngster, staring in the broad face of his parent, and essaying to make use of the little English he had picked up.

The good father and mother acted on this principle from the beginning. When Nick lost his balance he was left to help himself up again; when he went bumping all the way down the front steps, halting a moment on each one, his father complacently smoked his long pipe and waited to see how the boy was going to get back, while the mother did not think it worth while to leave her household duties to look at the misfortunes of the lad.

"God helps them that help themselves."

There is a great deal in this expression, and the father of Master Nicholas Ribsam seemed to take in the whole far-reaching truth. "You must do everything you possibly can," he said, many a time; "you must use your teeth, your hands, and your feet to hang on; you must never let go; you must hammer away; you must always keep your powder dry; you must fight to the last breath, and all the time ask God to help you pull through, and He'll do it!"

This was the creed of Gustav Ribsam and his wife, and it was the creed which the children drew in with their breath, as may be said; it was such a grand faith that caused Nick to develop into a sturdy, self-reliant, brave lad, who expected to take his own part in the battle of life without asking odds from any one.

The parents of our hero and heroine proved their faith by their works. By hard, honest toil and economy, they had laid up a competence which was regularly invested each year, and of which the children were not allowed to know anything, lest it might make them lazy and unambitious.

The little house and fifty acres were paid for, and the property was more than sufficient to meet the wants of the family, even after the youngsters became large enough to go to school.

The morning on which young Nick Ribsam started for the country school, a half mile away, was one which he can never forget. He was six years old, and had picked up enough of the English language to make himself understood, though his accent was of that nature that it was sure to excite ridicule on the part of the thoughtless.

As Nick had a large head, he wore of necessity a large cap, with a long frontispiece and with a button on the top. His coat was what is called a "roundabout," scarcely reaching to his waist, but it abounded with pockets, as did the vest which it partly inclosed. His trousers were coarse, thick, and comfortable, and his large boots were never touched by blacking, Nick's father having no belief in such nonsense, but sticking to tallow all the time.

Nick carried a spelling book and slate under his arm, and, as he started off, any one looking at him would have been struck by his bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and generally clean appearance. As he was so very good natured, he was certain to become quite an acquisition to the school.

There are no more cruel, or perhaps thoughtless people in the world than a number of school-boys, under certain conditions. The peculiar dress and the broken language of little Nick excited laughter at once, and this soon turned into ridicule.

Nick was beset continually at recess and at noon by the boys, who immediately christened him "Dutchy." He laughed and did not seem to mind it, for his philosophy was that no words applied to him could injure him, and so long as the boys kept their hands off he did not care.

Among the pupils was Herbert Watrous, a spruce young gentleman from the city, who dressed better than the others, and who threw out hints about the sparring lessons he had taken at home, and his wish that he might soon have a chance to show his playmates how easily he could vanquish an opponent, much larger than himself, by reason of his "science."

He was fully four years older than Nick, and much taller -- a fact which Herbert regretted as the Pennsylvania Hollander was too insignificant for him to pick a quarrel with.

But that was no reason, as he looked at his privileges in this life, why he should not play the tyrant and bully over the honest little fellow and he proceeded at once to make life unbearable to Nicholas.

He began the cry of "Dutchy," and, finding that it did not disturb the serenity of the lad, he resorted to more active measures on the way home from school.

He began by knocking off his hat, and when Nick looked at him in a surprised way and asked why he did it, the city youth assumed a pugilistic attitude and answered, "Greens; what are you going to do about it, Dutchy?"

"Be careful of him," whispered one of the boys, who felt some sympathy for Nick in his persecutions; "he's science."

"I don't care vat he ain't," replied Nick, beginning to lose his temper; "if he don't lets me be, he'll got into trouble."

Just then Nick started to overtake a lad, who tapped him on the back and invited him to play a game of tag. As he passed close to Herbert, that boy threw out his foot and Nick went sprawling headlong, his book and slate flying from under his arm, while his cap shot a dozen-feet in another direction.

The other boys broke into laughter, while several of the girls cried out that it was a shame.

Nick picked himself up, and putting on his cap, turned about to ask Herbert what he meant by such cruelty, when he was confronted by the bully, who had thrown himself into his fancy pugilistic posture, and with one eye shut and his tongue thrust out, said:

"What are you going to do about it, Dutchy?"

"I'll show you vot I do!"



Chapter II.

School Days.


Nicholas Ribsam proceeded to show Master Herbert Watrous what he meant to do about it.

Paying no heed to the formidable attitude of the city youth, Nick rushed straight upon him, and embracing him about the waist so as to pinion his arms, he threw him flat upon the ground with great emphasis. Then, while Herbert lay on his face, vainly struggling to rise, Nick sat down heavily on his back. Although he could have used his fists with great effect, Nick declined to do so; but, rising some six or eight inches, he sat down on him again, and then repeated the performance very fast, bounding up and down as a man is sometimes seen to do when a horse is trotting; descending each time on the back of Herbert with such vigor that the breath was almost forced from his body.

"Let me up!" shouted the victim, in a jerky, spasmodic manner, as the words were helped out; "that ain't the right way to fight: that isn't fair."

"It suits me better as nefer vas," replied the grinning Nick, banging himself down on the back of the struggling Herbert, until the latter began to cry and ask the boys to pull Nick off.

No one interfered, however, and when the conqueror thought he had flattened out the city youth to that extent that he would never acquire any plumpness again, he rose from his seat and allowed Herbert to climb upon his feet.

Never was a boy more completely cowed than was this vaunting youth, on whom all the others had looked with such admiration and awe. He meekly picked up his hat, brushed off the dirt, and looking reproachfully at Nick said:

"Do you know you broke two of my ribs?"

"I dinks I brokes dem all: dat's what I meant to do; I will try him agin."

"No, you won't!" exclaimed Herbert, darting off in a run too rapid for the short legs of Nick to equal.

Nick Ribsam had conquered a peace, and from that time forth he suffered no persecution at school. Master Herbert soon after went back to his city home, wondering how it was that a small, dumpy lad, four years younger than he, was able to vanquish him so completely when all the science was on the side of the elder youth.

Young as was Nick Ribsam, there was not a boy in the school who dared attempt to play the bully over him. The display he had given of his prowess won the respect of all.

Besides this he proved to be an unusually bright scholar. He dropped his faulty accent with astonishing rapidity, and gained knowledge with great facility. His teacher liked him, as did all the boys and girls, and when he was occasionally absent he was missed more than half a dozen other lads would have been.

The next year Nick brought his sister Nellie to school. He came down the road, holding her fat little hand in his, while her bright eyes peered out from under her plain but odd-looking hat in a timid way, which showed at the same time how great her confidence was in her big brother.

Nellie looked as much like Nick as a sister can look like a brother. There were the same ruddy cheeks, bright eyes, sturdy health, and cleanly appearance. Her gingham pantalettes came a little nearer the tops of her shoes, perhaps than was necessary, but the dress, with the waist directly under the arms, would have been considered in the height of fashion in late years.

One daring lad ventured to laugh at Nellie, and ask her whether she had on her father's or mother's shoes, but when Nick heard of it he told the boy that he would "sit down" on any one that said anything wrong to Nellie. Nothing of the kind was ever hinted to the girl again. No one wished to be "sat down" on by the Pennsylvania Hollander who banged the breath so utterly from the body of the city youth who had aroused his wrath.

The common sense, sturdy frame, sound health, and mental strength of the parents were inherited in as marked a degree by the daughter Nellie as by Nick. She showed a quickness of perception greater than that of her brother; but, as is generally the case, the boy was more profound and far-reaching in his thoughts.

After Nick had done his chores in the evening and Nellie was through helping her mother, Gustav, the father, was accustomed to light his long-handled pipe, and, as he slowly puffed it while sitting in his chair by the hearth, he looked across to his boy, who sat with his slate and pencil in hand, preparing for the morrow. Carefully watching the studious lad for a few minutes, he generally asked a series of questions:

"Nicholas, did you knowed your lessons to-day?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you know efery one dot you knowed?"

"Yes, sir, -- every one," answered Nick respectfully, with a quiet smile over his father's odd questions and sentences. The old gentleman could never correct or improve his accent, while Nick, at the age of ten, spoke so accurately that his looks were all that showed he was the child of German parents.

"Did nopody gif you helps on der lessons?"

"Nobody at all."

"Dot is right; did you help anypodies?"

"Yes, sir, -- three or four of the girls and some of the boys asked me to give them a lift -- "

"Gif dem vat?"

"A lift -- that is, I helped them."

"Dot ish all right, but don't let me hears dot nopody vos efer helping you; if I does -- "

And taking his pipe from his mouth, Mr. Ribsam shook his head in a way which threatened dreadful things.

Then the old gentleman would continue smoking a while longer, and more than likely, just as Nick was in the midst of some intricate problem, he would suddenly pronounce his name. The boy would look up instantly, all attention.

"Hef you been into any fights mit nopodies to-day?"

"I have not, sir; I have not had any trouble like that for a long while."

"Dot is right -- dot is right; but, Nick, if you does get into such bad tings as fightin', don't ax nopodies to help you; takes care mit yorself!"

The lad modestly answered that he did not remember when he had failed to take care of himself under such circumstances, and the father resumed his pipe and brown study.

The honest German may not have been right in every point of his creed, but in the main he was correct, his purpose being to implant in his children a sturdy self-reliance. They could not hope to get along at all times without leaning upon others, but that boy who never forgets that God has given him a mind, a body, certain faculties and infinite powers, with the intention that he should cultivate and use them to the highest point, is the one who is sure to win in the great battle of life.

Then, too, every person is liable to be overtaken by some great emergency which calls out all the capacities of his nature, and it is then that false teaching and training prove fatal, while he who has learned to develop the divine capacities within him comes off more than conqueror.



Chapter III.

A Mathematical Discussion.


The elder Ribsam took several puffs from his pipe, his eyes fixed dreamily on the fire, as though in deep meditation. His wife sat in her chair on the other side, and was busy with her knitting, while perhaps her thoughts were wandering away to that loved Fatherland which she had left so many years before, never to see again. Nellie had grown sleepy and gone to bed.

Mr. Ribsam turned his head and looked at Nick. The boy was seated close to the lamp on the table, and the scratching of his pencil on his slate and his glances at the slip of paper lying on the stand, with the problems written upon it, told plainly enough what occupied his thoughts.

"Nicholas," said the father.

"Just one minute, please," replied the lad, glancing hastily up: "I am on the last of the problems that Mr. Layton gave us for this week, and I have it almost finished."

The protest of the boy was so respectful that the father resumed his smoking and waited until Nick laid his slate on the table and wheeled his chair around.

"There, father, I am through."

"Read owed loud dot sum von you shoost don't do."

"Mr. Layton gave a dozen original problems as he called them, to our class to-day, and we have a week in which to solve them. I like that kind of work, and so I kept at it this evening until I finished them all."

"You vos sure dot you ain't right, Nicholas, eh?"

"I have proved every one of them. Oh, you asked me to read the last one! When Mr. Layton read that we all laughed because it was so simple, but when you come to study it it isn't so simple as you would think. It is this: If New York has fifty per cent. more population than Philadelphia, what per cent. has Philadelphia less than New York?"

Mr. Ribsam's shoulders went up and down, and he shook like a bowl of jelly. He seemed to be overcome by the simplicity of the problem over which his son had been racking his brains.

"Dot makes me laughs. Yaw, yaw, yaw!"

"If you will sit down and figure on it you won't laugh quite so hard," said Nick, amused by the jollity of his father, which brought a smile to his mother; "what is your answer?"

"If I hafs feefty tollar more don you hafs, how mooch less tollar don't you hafs don I hafs? Yaw, yaw, yaw!"

"That is plain enough," said Nick sturdily "but if you mean to say that the answer to the problem I gave you is fifty per cent., you are wrong."

"Oxplains how dot ain't," said Mr. Ribsam, suddenly becoming serious.

The mother was also interested, and looked smilingly toward her bright son. Like every mother, her sympathies went out to him. When Nick told his father that he was in error, the mother felt a thrill of delight; she wanted Nick to get the better of her husband, much as she loved both, and you and I can't blame her.

Nick leaned back in his chair, shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked smilingly at his father and his pipe as he said:

"Suppose, to illustrate, that Philadelphia has just one hundred people. Then, if New York has fifty per cent. more, it must have one hundred and fifty people as its population; that is correct, is it not, father?"

Mr. Ribsam took another puff or two, as if to make sure that his boy was not leading him into a trap, and then he solemnly nodded his head.

"Dot ish so, -- dot am, -- yaw."

"Then if Philadelphia has one hundred people for its population, New York has one hundred and fifty?"

"Yaw, and Pheelatelphy has feefty per cent. less -- yaw, yaw, yaw!"

"Hold on, father, -- not so fast. I'm teacher just now, and you mustn't run ahead of me. If you will notice in this problem the per cent. in the first part is based on Philadelphia's population, while in the second part it is based on the population of New York, and since the population of the two cities is different, the per cent. cannot be the same."

"How dot is?" asked Mr. Ribsam, showing eager interest in the reasoning of the boy.

"We have agreed, to begin with, that the population of Philadelphia is one hundred and of New York one hundred and fifty. Now, how many people will have to be subtracted from New York's population to make it the same as Philadelphia?"

"Feefty, -- vot I says."

"And fifty is what part of one hundred and fifty, -- that is, what part of the population of New York?"

"It vos one thirds."

"And one third of anything is thirty-three and one third per cent. of it, which is the correct answer to the problem."

Mr. Ribsam held his pipe suspended in one hand while he stared with open mouth into the smiling face of his son, as though he did not quite grasp his reasoning.

"Vot you don't laughs at?" he said, turning sharply toward his wife, who had resumed her knitting and was dropping many a stitch because of the mirth, which shook her as vigorously as it stirred her husband a few minutes before.

"I laughs ven some folks dinks dey ain't shmarter don dey vosn't all te vile, don't it?"

And stopping her knitting she threw back her head and laughed unrestrainedly. Her husband hastily shoved the stem of his pipe between his lips, sunk lower down in the chair, and smoked so hard that his head soon became almost invisible in the vapor.

By-and-by he roused himself and asked Nick to begin with the first problem and reason out the result he obtained with each one in turn.

Nick did so, and on the last but one his parent tripped him. A few pointed questions showed the boy that he was wrong. Then the hearty "Yaw, yaw, yaw!" of the father rang out, and looking at the solemn visage of his wife, he asked:

"Vy you don't laughs now, eh? Yaw, yaw, yaw!"

The wife meekly answered that she did not see anything to cause mirth, though Nick proved that he did.

Not only that, but the son became satisfied from the quickness with which his father detected his error, and the keen reasoning he gave, that he purposely went wrong on the first problem read to him with the object of testing the youngster.

Finally, he asked him whether such was not the case. Many persons in the place of Mr. Ribsam would have been tempted to fib, because almost every one will admit any charge sooner than that of ignorance; but the Dutchman considered lying one of the meanest vices of which a man can be guilty. Like all of his countrymen, he had received a good school education at home, besides which his mind possessed a natural mathematical bent. He said he caught the answer to the question the minute it was asked him, and, although Mr. Layton may not have seen it before, Mr. Ribsam had met and conquered similar ones when he was a boy.

While he persistently refused to show Nick how to solve some of the intricate problems brought home, yet when the son, after hours of labor, was still all abroad, his father would ask him a question or two so skillfully framed that the bright boy was quick to detect their bearing on the subject over which he was puzzling his brain. The parent's query was like the lantern's flash which shows the ladder for which a man is groping.

The task of the evening being finished, Mr. Ribsam tested his boy with a number of problems that were new to him. Most of them were in the nature of puzzles, with a "catch" hidden somewhere. Nick could not give the right answer in every instance, but he did so in a majority of cases; so often, indeed, that his father did a rare thing, -- he complimented his skill and ability.



Chapter IV.

Lost.


It was two miles from the home of Mr. Ribsam to the little stone school-house where his children were receiving their education. A short distance from the dwelling a branch road turned off to the left, which, being followed nine miles or so, mostly through woods, brought one to the little country town of Dunbarton.

Between the home of Gustav Ribsam and the school-house were only two dwellings. The first, on the left, belonged to Mr. Marston, whose land adjoined that of the Hollander, while the second was beyond the fork of the roads and was owned by Mr. Kilgore, who lived a long distance back from the highway.

Nick Ribsam, as he grew in years and strength, became more valuable to his father, who found it necessary, now and then, to keep him home from school. This, however, did not happen frequently, for the parents were anxious that their children should receive a good school education, and Nick's readiness enabled him to recover, very quickly, the ground thus lost.

There was not so much need of Nellie, and, when at the age of six she began her attendance, she rarely missed a day. If it was stormy she was bundled up warmly, and, occasionally, she was taken in the carriage when the weather was too severe for walking.

The summer was gone when Nick helped harness the roan mare to the carriage, and, driving down to the forks, let Nellie out, and kept on toward Dunbarton, while the little girl continued ahead in the direction of the school-house.

"I've got to stay there so long," said Nick, in bidding his sister good-by, "that I won't be here much before four o'clock, so I will look out for you and you can look out for me and I'll take you home."

Nellie said she would not forget, and walked cheerfully up the road, singing a school song to herself.

The little girl, when early enough, stopped at the house of Mr. Marston, whose girl Lizzie attended school. This morning, however, when Nick called from the road, he was told that Lizzie had been gone some time, so he drove on without her.

The dwelling of Mr. Kilgore stood so far back that Nellie never could spare the time to walk up the long lane and back again, but she contented herself with peering up the tree-lined avenue in quest of Sallie and Bobby Kilgore.

However, they were also invisible, and so it was that Nellie made the rest of the journey alone.

The distance being so considerable, Nellie and Nick always carried their dinners with them, so that, after their departure in the morning, the parents did not expect to see them again until between four and five in the afternoon.

The roan mare was young and spirited, but not vicious, and the boy had no trouble in controlling her.

When half way through the stretch of woods they crossed a bridge, whose planks rattled so loudly under the wheels and hoofs that the animal showed a disposition to rear and plunge over the narrow railing at the side.

But the boy used his whip so vigorously that he quickly tamed the beast, which was not slow to understand that her master was holding the reins.

When Nick was on such journeys as these, he generally carried his father's watch, so as to "make his connections" better. The timepiece was of great size and thickness, having been made somewhere in England a good many years before. It ticked so loudly that it sounded like a cricket, and would have betrayed any person in an ordinary sized room, when there was no unusual noise. Nick's own handsome watch was too valuable for him to carry.

The former was so heavy that it seemed to Nick, when walking with it, that he went in a one-sided fashion. However, the lad was quite proud of it, and perhaps took it out oftener than was necessary, especially when he saw the eyes of others upon him.

Nick was kept in Dunbarton so long by the many errands he had to perform, that he was fully an hour late in starting. The mare was spirited enough to make up this time, if urged, but there was no need of doing so, and the boy knew his father would prefer him not to push the animal when no urgency existed.

Thus it came about that when Nick re-entered the main highway that afternoon, and looked in the direction of the school-house, he saw nothing of Nellie, nor indeed of any one coming from the school.

"She has gone home long ago," was his conclusion, as he allowed the mare to drop into a brisk trot, which speedily took him to his house.

When Nick had put away the horse and rendered up his account of the errands done, he was surprised to learn that Nellie had not yet appeared.

"I cannot understand what keeps her," said the father, in his native tongue; "she was never so late before."

It was plain from the mother's face and manner that she also was anxious, for she frequently went to the gate, and, shading her eyes, looked long and anxiously down the road, hoping that the figure of the little girl would come to view, with some explanation of the cause for her delay.

But the sun was low in the west, and its slanting rays brought to light the figure of no child hurrying homeward. The single object that was mistaken for the loved one proved to be a man on horseback, who turned off at the forks and vanished.

"Nick, go look for your sister," said his mother, as she came back from one of these visits to the gate; "something has happened."

The boy was glad of the order, for he was on the point of asking permission to hunt for Nellie.

"I'll stay till I find out something," said Nick, as he donned his hat and took a general look over himself to see that he was in shape, "so don't worry about me."

"But you ought not to be gone so long," said the father, whose anxious face showed that he was debating whether he should not join his boy in the search, "for it won't take long to find out where Nellie is."

"I think she has been taken sick and has stopped with some of the neighbors," ventured the mother, "but it is strange they do not send me word."

And it was the very fact that such word was not sent that prevented the husband and son from believing in the theory of the distressed mother.

But Nick did not let the grass grow under his feet. His worriment was as great as that of his parents, and as soon as he was in the road he broke into a trot, which he kept up until beyond sight, both father and mother standing at the gate and watching him until he faded from view in the gathering twilight.

The point where he disappeared was beyond the house of Mr. Marston, so it was safe to conclude he had learned nothing of his sister there, where he was seen to halt.

There is nothing more wearisome than waiting in such suspense as came to the hearts of the father and mother, while they sat watching and listening for the sound of the childish footsteps and voices whose music would have been the sweetest on earth to them.

The supper on the table remained untasted, and the only sounds heard were the solemn ticking of the old clock, the soft rustling of the kettle on the stove, and now and then a long drawn sigh from father or mother, as one strove to utter a comforting word to the other.

All at once the gate was opened and shut hastily. Then a hurried step sounded along the short walk and upon the porch.

"There they are! there they are!" exclaimed the mother, starting to her feet, as did the father.

Almost on the same instant the door was thrown open, and, panting and excited, Nick Ribsam entered.

But he was alone, and the expression of his face showed that he had brought bad news.



Chapter V.

The Party Of Search.


When Nick Ribsam set out to find his missing sister Nellie, he made the search as thorough as possible.

The first house at which he stopped was that of Mr. Marston, which, it will be remembered, was only a short distance away from his own home. There, to his disappointment, he learned that their little girl had not been at school that day, and consequently they could tell him nothing.

Without waiting longer than to give a few words of explanation he resumed his trot, and soon after turned into the lane leading to the home of Mr. Kilgore. He found that both Bobby and Sallie had been to school, but they had nothing to tell. When we are more than usually anxious to learn something, it seems that every one whom we meet is stupid beyond endurance. If we are in a strange place and apply for information, the ignorance of nearly every person is exasperating.

Bobby and Sallie remembered seeing Nellie in school during the forenoon and afternoon, but, while the boy insisted that she came along the road with them after dismissal, Sallie was just as positive that the missing girl was not with them.

The party of school children which usually went over the highway was so small in number that it is hard to understand how such a mistake could be made, but the difference between Bobby and Sallie was irreconcilable.

"I know she didn't come home with us," said Sallie, stamping her foot to give emphasis to the words.

"And I know she did," declared Bobby, equally emphatically, "for me and her played tag."

"Why don't you say she and I played tag?" asked Nick, impatient with both the children.

"'Cause it was me and her," insisted Bobby.

"What a dunce-head!" exclaimed his sister; "that was last night when you played tag, and you tumbled over into the ditch and bellered like the big baby you are."

"I remember that he did that last night," said Nick, hoping to help the two to settle the dispute.

"I know I done that last night, but this afternoon I done it too. I fall into the ditch every night and beller; I do it on purpose to fool them that are chasing me."

Nick found he could gain nothing; but he believed the sister was right and the brother wrong, as afterward proved to be the case.

There were no more houses between his own home and the school building, and Nick resumed his dog trot, never halting until he came in front of a little whitewashed cottage just beyond the stone school-house.

The latter stood at the cross roads, and the cottage to the left was where the teacher, Mr. Layton, an old bachelor, lived with his two maiden sisters.

Mr. Layton, although strict to severity in the school-room, was a kind-hearted man and was fond of the Ribsam children, for they were bright, cheerful, and obedient, and never gave him any trouble, as did some of his other pupils. He listened to Nick's story, and his sympathy was aroused at once.

"I am very sorry," said he, "that your good father and mother, not to mention yourself, should be so sorely troubled; but I hope this is not serious. Nellie came to me about three o'clock and asked whether I would let her go home."

"Was she sick?" asked the distressed brother.

"Not at all; but she said you had gone to Dunbarton in your carriage and she wanted to meet you coming back. She knew her lessons perfectly, and Nellie is such a good girl that I felt that I could not refuse so simple a request. So I told her she could go. I saw her start homeward with her lunch-basket in one hand and her two school-books in the other. She stepped off so briskly and was in such cheerful spirits that I stood at the window and watched her until she passed around the bend in the road."

Nick felt his heart sink within him, for the words of the teacher had let in a great deal of alarming truth upon him.

Nellie had reached the forks two hours ahead of him, and then, not wishing to sit down and wait, she had started up the road in the direction of Dunbarton to meet him. She must have entered the eight mile stretch of woods from the south about the same time Nick himself drove into it on his return from Dunbarton.

The two should have met near Shark Creek, but neither had seen the other. Nick, as a matter of course, had kept to the road, but what had become of Nellie?

This was the question the lad put to himself, and which caused him to feel so faint that he sank down in a chair unable to speak for a minute or two. Then, when he tried to do so, he had to stop, and was kept busy swallowing the lump that would rise in his throat, until finally the tears suddenly appeared, and, putting his hands to his eyes, he gave way to his grief.

"There, there," said Mr. Layton soothingly, "don't cry, Nick, for it will do no good. Nellie has strayed off in the woods to gather flowers or perhaps wild grapes and has missed her way."

"She -- is -- lost -- poor -- Nellie!" said the lad as best he could between his sobs; "we'll never see her again."

"Oh, it isn't as bad as that! I suppose she has grown weary, and, sitting down to rest, has fallen asleep."

If the good teacher meant this to soothe the lad, it had the contrary effect, for the picture of his little sister wandering alone in the woods was one of the most dreadful that could be imagined, and it took all the manhood of his nature to keep from breaking down again.

While the interview was under way, Mr. Layton was busy changing his slippers for his boots, his wrapper for his coat, and his hat was donned just as he spoke the last words.

His sympathy did not expend itself in talk, but the instant he saw what the trouble was he was eager to do all he could to help his suffering friends. He even reproached himself for having given Nellie permission to meet her brother, though no matter what harm may have befallen her, no one could blame her instructor therefor.

"We must hunt for her," said Mr. Layton, when he was ready to go out; "I will tell my sisters they need not be alarmed over my absence, and I guess I will take the lantern with me."

Nick passed out to the front gate, where he waited a minute for the teacher, until he should speak with his friends and get the lantern ready. When he came forth, the boy felt much like the patient who sees the surgeon take out his instruments and try their edge to make sure they are in condition before using upon him.

The sight of the lantern in the hand of Mr. Layton gave such emphasis to the danger that it caused another quick throb of Nick's heart, but he forced it down as the two started back over the road, toward the school-house.

"There is no need of lighting the lantern until we get to the woods," said the teacher, "for we don't need it, and I hope we won't need it after we reach the forest. Poor Nellie! she will feel dreadfully frightened, when she wakes up in the dark forest."

He regretted the words, for the two or three sobs that escaped the brother, before he could master himself, showed that his heart was swelled nigh to bursting.

The night was mild and pleasant, although a little too chilly for any one to sleep out of doors. The moon was gibbous, and only a few white, feathery clouds now and then drifted across its face. Where there was no shadow, one could see for a hundred yards or so with considerable distinctness -- that is, enough to recognize the figure of a man in motion.

Opposite the lane leading to the house of Mr. Kilgore, the teacher stopped.

"I will go in and get him to join us," said Mr. Layton; "and you had better hurry home for your father. On your way back, stop for Mr. Marston; that will give us a pretty large party. If when you reach the forks you do not find us there, don't wait, but hurry on toward Dunbarton; you will meet us before you reach the bridge over Shark Creek."

Nick did as told, and, still on a rapid trot, reached home panting and excited, with the story which the reader has just learned.

Mr. Ribsam threw down his pipe, donned his hat and coat, and started out the door. With his hand on the latch, he paused, and, looking back, commanded his voice so as to say:

"Katrina, you and Nick needn't wait up for me."

"Oh, father," pleaded the lad, moving toward him: "would you make me stay at home when Nellie is lost?"

"No, no -- I did not think," answered the parent, in a confused way; "I feel so bad I do not know what I do and say. Katrina, don't feel too bad; we will come back as soon as we can."

Again the half distracted father placed his hand on the latch, and he had drawn the door partly open, when his wife, pale and trembling, called out in a voice of touching pathos:

"Gustav, my heart would break should I try to stay here, when no one but God knows where my darling Nellie is; but, wherever she may be, no sorrow or pain or suffering can come to her that her mother will not share, and may our Heavenly Father let her mother take it all upon her own shoulders!"

"Come on, Katrina; come on and bring the lantern with you."



Chapter VI.

Groping In Darkness.


When the parents and brother of Nellie Ribsam reached the forks a few minutes later, they saw nothing of the three parties whom they expected to meet there.

"They have gone on to the woods to look for Nellie," said the father.

"They cannot be far off," suggested Nick, turning to the left.

All were too anxious to lose a minute, and they started after their friends on a rapid walk, Nick taking the lead, and now and then dropping into a loping trot, which he would have increased had he been alone.

A chill seemed to settle over all as they reached the deep shadow of the woods, which was one of the largest tracts of forest in that section of the country.

The road which bisected them was fully eight miles in length, as has already been stated, while the forest was much greater in extent in the other direction.

Being of such large area, there were necessarily many portions which rarely if ever were visited by hunters. Years before an occasional deer had been shot, and a few of the old settlers told of the thrilling bear hunts they had enjoyed when they were not so very much younger than now.

Those who were capable of judging were certain that if the gloomy depths were explored these dreaded animals would be met; but if such were the fact, the beasts were so few in number that no one gave them a thought.

It was now four miles to Shark Creek, and, by common consent, it was agreed that the missing Nellie must be found, if found at all, before reaching the stream.

As this creek was deep enough to drown any person who could not swim, not to mention the large pond into which it emptied, every one of the searchers felt a vague, awful dread that poor Nellie had fallen into the water.

No one spoke of it, but the thought was there all the same.

Shortly after entering the wood, Nick called attention to two star-like points of light twinkling ahead of them.

"They are the lanterns of Mr. Layton and Kilgore," said Nick, who immediately added, "we forgot to stop and get Mr. Marston."

"That is too bad, but it isn't worth while to go back now," replied his father, hardly slackening his gait.

As the lantern which Mrs. Ribsam had handed to her husband was lighted before leaving home, the men in advance detected it immediately after they were seen themselves, and the halloo of the teacher was answered by Nick.

"Have you found anything of Nellie?" asked the mother, in broken English, as soon as the parties came together.

"It could scarcely be expected," answered the instructor, in a kindly voice; "we have just got here, and have only looked along the road. I have little doubt that she is soundly sleeping somewhere not far off."

While all stood still, the father lifted up his voice, and in clear, penetrating tones called the name of his missing child:

"Nellie!"

The ticking of the big watch in the pocket of Nick was plainly heard as the little company awaited the answering call of the child.

But it came not, and three times more was the name of the missing girl repeated by the father, who broke down completely the last time.

Nick now joined his thumb and finger against the end of his tongue, and emitted a blast like that of a steam whistle. It resounded among the trees, and then followed the same oppressive stillness as before.

It was useless to remain where they were any longer, and, without a word, the five moved on. The three lamps were swung above their heads, and they peered into the gloomy depths on the right and left.

Nick, as might have been expected, kept the advance, and his father allowed him to carry the lantern. As the other lights were behind the lad, the latter saw his huge shadow continually dancing in front and taking all manner of grotesque shapes, while, if the others had looked to the rear, they would have seen the same spectacle, as it affected their own figures.

"Wait!" suddenly called out the father, who was now obliged to use his broken English, "mebbe my Nellie she does hears me."

Thereupon he called to her as before, Nick ending the appeal with an ear-splitting whistle, which must have been heard several miles on such a still night.

Not the slightest result followed, and with heavy hearts the little company moved on again.

"I think," said Mr. Layton, "that she has turned aside, where, possibly, some faint path has caught her eye, and it may be that we may discover the spot."

"Let's look here!"

It was the mother who spoke this time, and, as they turned toward her, she was seen bending over the ground at the side of the highway, where something had arrested her attention.

Instantly all the lanterns were clustered about the spot, and it was seen that the eyes of affection had detected just such a place as that named by the teacher. Persons who walked along the road were accustomed to turn aside into the woods, and the five now did the same, moving slowly, with the lanterns held close to the earth, and then swung aloft, while all eyes were peering into the portions penetrated by the yellow rays.

The path was followed some fifty yards, when, to the disappointment of all, it came back to the road: it was one of those whimsical footways often met in the country, the person who started it having left the highway without any real reason for doing so.

Again the name of the missing Nellie was repeated, and again the woods sent back nothing but the echo.

"Hark!"

It was the quick-eared Nick who spoke, just as the hum of conversation began, and all listened.

As they did so the rattle of wheels was heard coming from the direction of Dunbarton. The peculiar noise enabled the friends to recognize it as made by a heavy, lumbering farmer's wagon. The team was proceeding on a walk.

A few minutes later some one shouted:

"Halloo, there! what's the matter?"

The voice was recognized as that of Mr. Marston, whom they intended to ask to join them.

Instantly a hope was aroused that he might be able to tell them something of Nellie. Mr. Layton called back, saying they were friends, and asking whether the farmer had seen anything of Nellie Ribsam.

At this Mr. Marston whipped up his horses, which were showing some fear of the twinkling lanterns, and halted when opposite to the party of searchers.

"My gracious! is she lost?" asked the good man, forgetting the anguish of his friends in his own curiosity.

"Yes, she started up this road this afternoon toward Dunbarton to meet her brother, who was returning, but, somehow or other, missed him, and we are all anxious about her."

"My gracious alive! I should think you would be: it would drive my wife and me crazy if our Lizzie should be lost in the woods."

"I suppose, from the way you talk," continued the teacher, "that you have seen nothing of her?"

"No, I wish I had, for I tell you these woods are a bad place for a little girl to get lost in. Last March, when we had an inch of snow on the ground, I seen tracks that I knowed was made by a bear, and a mighty big one, too, and -- "

But just then a half-smothered moan from the mother warned the thoughtless neighbor that he was giving anything but comfort to the afflicted parents.

"I beg pardon," he hastened to say, in an awkward attempt to apologize; "come to think, I am sure that it wasn't a bear, but some big dog; you know a large dog makes tracks which can be mistook very easy for those of a bear. I'll hurry on home and put up my team and git the lantern and come back and help you."

And Mr. Marston, who meant well, whipped up his horses, and his wagon rattled down the road as he hastened homeward.



Chapter VII.

An Alarming Discovery.


By this time the searching party began to realize the difficulties in the path of their success.

If, as was believed, or rather hoped, Nellie had fallen asleep in the woods, they were liable to pass within a dozen feet of where she lay without discovering the fact. Should they call to her, or should Nick emit his resounding signal whistle, she might be awakened, provided only such a brief space separated them, but the chances were scarcely one in a thousand that they would be so fortunate.

This view, at the worst, was a favorable one, and behind it rose the phantoms that caused all to shudder with a dread which they dared not utter.

Only a short distance farther they came upon another path which diverged from the side of the road, returning a little ways beyond. There, an unusually careful search was made, and Nick almost split his cheeks in his efforts to send his penetrating whistle throughout the surrounding country. The three men also called out the name of Nellie in their loudest tones, but nothing except the hollow echoes came back to them.

Nick examined the face of his father's watch by the light of the lantern he carried, and saw that it lacked but a few minutes of nine. They had been searching for the lost child, as this proved, for nearly two hours.

"It seems to me," said Mr. Layton, as the party came to a halt, "that we are not likely to accomplish anything by hunting in this aimless fashion."

"What better can we do?" asked Mr. Kilgore.

"Thus far we have been forced to confine ourselves to the road, excepting when we diverge a few feet: this renders our work about the same as if done by a single person. What I propose, therefore, is that we separate."

"How will that help us?"

"It may not, but we shall cover three or four times the amount of space (I judge Mrs. Ribsam would prefer to remain with her husband and son on account of the single lantern), and it follows that some one of us must pass closer to the spot where Nellie is lying."

This seemed a sensible suggestion, and the two men turned to the afflicted father to learn what he thought of it.

He shook his head.

"Not yet, -- not yet; we goes a leetle furder."

Nothing was added by way of explanation, and yet even little Nick knew why he had protested: he wished that all might keep together until they reached the creek. If nothing was learned of his child there, then he would follow the plan of the teacher.

But something seemed to whisper to the parent that the place where they would gain tidings of little Nellie was near that dark, flowing water, which, like such streams, seemed to be always reaching out for some one to strangle in its depths.

"Perhaps Mr. Ribsam is right," said the teacher, after a silence which was oppressive even though brief; "we will keep each other's company, for it is lonely work tramping through the woods, where there is no beaten path to follow."

Thereupon the strange procession resumed its march toward the distant town of Dunbarton, pausing at short intervals to call and signal to the missing one.

It was a vast relief to all that the weather continued so mild and pleasant. In the earlier part of the day there were some signs of an approaching storm, but the signs had vanished and the night was one of the most pleasant seen in September.

Had the rain begun to fall, or had the temperature lowered, the mother would have been distracted, for nothing could have lessened the pangs caused by her knowledge that her darling one was suffering. The true mother lives for her children, and their joys and sorrows are hers.

Whenever the wind rustled among the branches around them she shuddered and instinctively drew her own shawl closer about her shoulder; she would have given a year's toil could she have wrapped the thick woolen garment about the tiny form of her loved one, who never seemed so dear to her as then.

"Gustav," she whispered, twitching his elbow, "I want to speak one word to you."

"Speak out; they cannot understand us," he answered, alluding to the fact that they were using their own language.

"Yes, but I don't want Nick to know what I say."

The husband thereupon fell back beside her, and in a tremulous voice she said:

"Do you remember when Nellie was three years old?"

"Of course I remember further back than that: why do you ask?"

"When she had the fever and was getting well?"

"Yes, I cannot forget it; poor girl, her cheeks were so hot I could almost light a match by them; but, thank God, she got over it."

"You remember, Gustav, how cross she was and how hard it was to please her?"

"But that was because she was sick; when she was well, then she laughed all the time, just like Nick when he don't feel bad."

"But -- but," and there was an unmistakable tremor in the voice, "one day when she was cross she asked for a drink of water; Nick was sitting in the room and jumped up and brought it to her, but she was so out of humor she shook her head and would not take it from him; she was determined I should hand it to her. I thought she was unreasonable and I told Nick to set it on the bureau, and I let Nellie know she shouldn't have it unless she took it from him; I meant that I wouldn't hand it to her and thereby humor her impatience. She cried, but she was too stubborn to give in, and I refused to hand her the water. Nick felt so bad he left the room, and I was sorry; but Nellie was getting well, and I was resolved to be firm with her. She was very thirsty, for her fever was a terrible one. I was tired and dropped into a doze. By-and-by I heard Nellie's bare feet pattering on the floor, and softly opening my eyes, without stirring I saw her walk hastily to the bureau, catch hold of the tumbler and she drank every drop of water in it. She was so weak and dizzy that she staggered back and threw herself on the bed like one almost dead. The next day she was worse, and we thought we were going to lose her. You saw how hard I cried, but most of my tears were caused by the remembrance of my cruelty to her the night before."

"But, Katrina, you did right," said the father, who heard the affecting incident for the first time. "It won't do to humor children so much: it will spoil them."

"That may be, but I cannot help thinking of that all the time; it would have done no harm to humor Nellie that time, for she was a good girl."

"You speak truth, but -- "

The poor father, who tried so bravely to keep up, broke down and was unable to speak. The story touched him as much as it did the mother.

"Never mind, Katrina -- "

At that moment Nick called out:

"Here's the bridge!"

The structure loomed through the gloom as it was dimly lighted by the lanterns, and all walked rapidly forward until they stood upon the rough planking.

Suddenly the mother uttered a cry, and stooping down snatched up something from the ground close to the planks.

The startled friends looked affrightedly toward her, and saw that she held the lunch basket of her little daughter in her hand.



Chapter VIII.

Startling Footprints.


On the very edge of the bridge over Shark Creek, the mother of Nellie Ribsam picked up the lunch basket which her daughter had taken to school that morning. It lay on its side, with the snowy napkin partly out, and within it was a piece of brown bread which the parent had spread with golden butter, and which was partly eaten.

No wonder the afflicted woman uttered a half-suppressed scream when she picked up what seemed a memento of her dead child.

While the lanterns were held in a circle around the basket, which the father took from his wife, Mr. Ribsam lifted the piece of bread in his hand. There were the prints made by the strong white teeth of little Nellie, and there was not a dry eye when all gazed upon the food, which the father softly returned to the basket and reverently covered with the napkin.

No one ventured to speak, but the thoughts of all were the same.

Stepping to the railing at the side of the bridge Mr. Layton held his lantern over, Nick and Mr. Kilgore immediately doing the same. The rays extended right and left and far enough downward to reach the stream, which could be seen, dark and quiet, flowing beneath and away through the woods to the big pond, a quarter of a mile below.

In the oppressive stillness the soft rustling of the water was heard as it eddied about a small root which grew out from the shore, and a tiny fish, which may have been attracted by the yellow rays, leaped a few inches above the surface and fell back with a splash which startled those who were peering over the railing of the structure.

The trees grew close to the water's edge, and as the trunks were dimly revealed they looked as if they were keeping watch over the deep creek that flowed between.

The five were now searching for that which they did not wish to find; they dreaded, with an unspeakable dread, the sight of the white face turned upward, with the abundant hair floating about the dimpled shoulders.

Thank heaven, that sight was spared them; nothing of the kind was seen, and a sigh escaped from each.

"We are all tortured by the thought that Nellie has fallen into the creek and been drowned," said the teacher; "but I cannot see any grounds for such fear."

The yearning looks of the parents and brother caused the teacher to explain more fully.

"No child, unless a very stupid one, would stumble from this bridge, and there could have been no circumstances which in my judgment would have brought such a mishap to Nellie."

This sounded reasonable enough, but:

"De basket, -- vot of dot?" asked the father.

"She has dropped that from some cause; but that of itself is a favorable sign, for had she fallen accidentally into the water she would have taken it with her."

This sounded as if true, but it did not remove the fears of any one. Even he who uttered the words could not bring himself fully to believe in their truth, for none knew better than he that the evil one himself seems to conspire with guns and pistols that appear to be unloaded, and with water which is thought to be harmless.

All wanted to place faith in the declaration, and no protest was uttered. As nothing was to be seen or learned where they stood, they crossed the bridge and descended the wooded slope until they reached the edge of the stream, which wound its way through the woods to the big pond.

Every heart was throbbing painfully and no one spoke: there was no need of it, for no comfort could be gained therefrom.

Mr. Layton and Kilgore moved carefully up the creek, while Nick and his parents walked toward the pond, which lay to the left.

The two wished to be apart from the others that they might consult without danger of being overheard by those whose hearts were suffering so much anguish.

"It's very strange," said Mr. Kilgore, "that the basket should be found on the bridge: what do you make of it, Mr. Layton?"

The teacher shook his head.

"It is strange, indeed; had there been no water in the creek you could have set it down as certain that the child had not fallen from it, but, as she could not have done so without drowning, I am inclined to think -- "

The instructor hesitated, as if afraid to pronounce the dreadful words.

"You think she is drowned?" said his friend, supplying the answer with his own question.

Mr. Layton nodded his head by way of reply, and, holding the lanterns in front, they began groping their way along the margin of the creek.

By raising the lights above their heads the rays reached the opposite bank, lighting up the water between. This was unusually clear, and they could see the bottom some distance from shore.

Both felt that if the body was floating anywhere they could not fail to see it, though the probabilities were that it was already far below them, and would be first discovered by the parents and brother.

"Halloa!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Layton, lowering his lantern close to the ground, "I don't like that."

By way of explanation, he pointed to the damp soil where no vegetation grew: it was directly in front and close to the water, being that portion which was frequently swept by the creek when above its present level.

Parallel to the stream, for a distance of several rods or so, were a number of imprints in the yielding earth, which the first glance showed were made by some large animal.

"It must have been a dog," ventured the teacher, who had little practical knowledge of the animals of the wood.

Mr. Kilgore shook his head.

"It was a bear; there can be no mistake about it. Mr. Marston was right; it was the track of a similar animal which he saw last March."

"You are not mistaken, Mr. Kilgore?"

The farmer answered impatiently:

"I have hunted bears too often to be mistaken; I can tell their trail among a hundred others, and the one which went along here a little while ago was one of the largest of his kind."



Chapter IX.

The Little Wanderer.


Although Nellie Ribsam was only eight years old at the time she was lost in the big woods, yet the results of the training received from her sensible father and mother showed themselves in a marked degree on that memorable occasion.

She had been taught, as was her brother, that under heaven she must rely upon herself to get forward in the world. Nick was rarely if ever allowed to extend her a helping hand in her lessons, and she was given to understand that whatever was possible for her to do must be done without the aid of any one.

As for sitting down and crying when in trouble, without making any effort to help herself, she knew better than to try that when either her father or mother were likely to find it out.

Her intention, when she left school that afternoon before the session closed, was to keep on in the direction of Dunbarton until she met Nick returning.

She turned off at the forks, and did not lessen her gait until she reached the woods. Her rapid walking caused her to feel quite warm, and the cool shade of the woods was refreshing.

She began wandering aimlessly forward, swinging her hat in her hand, singing snatches of school songs, and feeling just as happy as a little girl can feel who is in bounding health, high spirits, and without an accusing conscience.

It was not the time of year for flowers, and Nellie knew better than to look for any. They had drooped and died long ago; but some of the leaves were turning on the trees, and they gave a peculiar beauty to the autumnal forest.

At intervals she caught sight of the cleanly, symmetrical maple, with some of its leaves turning a fiery red and looking like flecks of flame through the intervening vegetation. At the least rustling of the wind some of the leaves came fluttering downward as lightly as flakes of snow; the little brown squirrel scampered up the shaggy trunks and out upon the limbs, where, perching on his hind legs, he peeped mischievously down at the girl, as if inviting her to play hide-and-seek with him; now and then a rabbit, fat and awkward from his gluttony on the richness around him, jumped softly a few steps, then munched rapidly with his jaws, flapped his long silken ears, looked slyly around with his big, pretty eyes, and, as the girl made a rush toward him, he was off like a shot.

The woods were fragrant with ripening grapes and decaying vegetation, and were putting on a garb whose flaming splendor surpassed the hues of spring.

Indeed, everything conspired to win a boy or girl away from study or work, and to cause the wish on the part of both that they might be a bird or squirrel, with no thought of the responsibilities of life.

Nellie Ribsam forgot for the time everything else except her own enjoyment; but by-and-by the woods took on such tempting looks that she turned off from the highway she had been following, with the intention of taking a stroll, which she meant should not lead her out of sight of the road.

The first view which stopped her was that of a large vine of wild grapes.

Some of them were green, some turning, while others were a dark purple, showing they were fully ripe: the last, as a matter of course, were at the top.

These wild grapes were small and tart, inferior to those which grew in the yard of Nellie at home; but they seemed to be trying to hide in the woods, and they were hard to get, therefore they were more to be desired than the choicest Catawba, Isabella, or Concord.

The main vine, where it started from the ground, was as thick as a man's wrist, and it twisted and wound about an oak sapling as if it were a great African constrictor seeking to strangle the young tree. Other vines branched out from the sides until not only was the particular sapling enfolded and smothered, but the greedy vine reached out and grasped others growing near it.

Nellie felt like the fox who found the grapes more tempting the longer he looked at them.

"I'm going to have some of them," she said, and straightway proceeded to help herself.

She climbed as readily as Nick himself could have done, and never stopped until she was so high that the sapling bent far over with her weight. Then she reached out her chubby hand and plucked a cluster of the wild fruit. They were about the size of buckshot, and when her sound teeth shut down on them, the juice was so sour that she shut both eyes and felt a twinge at the crown of her head as though she had taken a sniff of the spirits of ammonia.

But the grapes were none the less delicious for all that; the fact that there seemed to be something forbidden about them added a flavor that nothing else could give.

Nellie had managed to crush a handful of the vinegar-like globules, when she caught sight of another vine deeper in the woods. It was much larger and climbed fully a dozen yards from the ground, winding in and out among the limbs of a ridgy beech, which seemed to be forever struggling upward to get away from the smothering embrace of the vegetable python.

Five minutes later, Nellie was clambering upward like a monkey, never pausing until the bending tree-top warned her that if she went any higher it would yield to her weight.

Nellie disposed of one bunch and that was enough: she concluded that she was not very hungry for grapes and, without eating or even gathering more, she devoted herself to another kind of enjoyment.

Standing with one foot on a limb and the other on one near it, she grasped a branch above her and began swaying back and forth, with the vim and abandon of a child in a patent swing.

The tree bent far over as she swung outward, then straightened up and inclined the other way as her weight passed over to that side. Any one looking at the picture would have said that a general smash and giving away were certain, in which case the girl was sure to go spinning through the limbs and branches, as though driven forth by the springs within the big gun which fling the young lady outward just as the showman touches off some powder.

But a green sapling is very elastic, and, although the one climbed by Nellie bent back and forth like a bow, it did not give way. Her hair streamed from her head, and there was a thrilling feeling as the wind whistled by her ears, and she seemed to be shooting like a bird through space.

All this was well enough, and it was no more than natural that Nellie should have forgotten several important facts: she was so far from the highway that she could not see any one passing over it; the rush of the wind in her ears shut out sounds that otherwise would have been noticed, and she had gone so far and had lingered so long by the way that it was time to look for Nick on his return from Dunbarton, even though he was later than he expected to be.

It was while she was swinging in this wild fashion that her brother drove by on his way home, without either suspecting how close they were to each other.

Nellie displayed a natural, childish thoughtlessness by keeping up this sport for a half hour longer, when she came down to the ground, simply because she was tired of the amusement.

Although out of sight of the road she managed to find her way back to it without trouble. With her lunch basket in hand, she continued in the direction of Dunbarton, taking several mouthfuls of the bread which had been left over at noon.

In this aimless manner she strolled forward, stopping now and then to look at the squirrel or rabbit or the yellow-hued warbler, the noisy and swift-flying finch, the russet-coated thrush, or dark brown and mottled woodpecker, as his head rattled against the bark of the tree trunks, into which he bored in quest of worms.

The first real surprise of the girl came when she reached the bridge. This proved that she was more than four miles from home, a distance much greater than she had suspected.

"Where can Nick be?" she asked herself, never once thinking that they might have missed each other when she was swinging in the tree-top. It struck her that the day was nearly gone, for she noticed the gathering twilight diffusing itself through the forest.

"I don't think I will go any farther," she said; "Nick will be along pretty soon, and I'll wait here for him."

Standing on the bridge and looking down the road and listening for the sound of the carriage wheels were tiresome to one of Nellie's active habits, and it was not long before she broke off some of the bread, set down her lunch basket, and then dropped some crumbs into the water.

As they struck the surface, sending out little rings toward the shore, several tiny fish came up after the food. Nellie laughed outright, and, in her eagerness, was careless of how she threw the crumbs, most of which fell upon the bank.

It occurred to her that she could do better by going down to the edge of the stream, where she would not mistake her aim.

Childlike, she did not pause to think of the wrong of so doing, for she ought to have known that her parents never would have consented to such an act.

Just there, Nellie, like many another little girl, made a great mistake.



Chapter X.

In Great Danger.


A little child is like a butterfly, thinking only of the pleasures of the moment. Nellie Ribsam came down close to the edge of the creek and threw some crumbs out upon the surface. In the clear water she could see the shadowy figures of the minnows, as they glided upward and snapped at the morsels.

She became so interested in the sport that she kept walking down the bank of the stream, flinging out the crumbs until there was none left in her hand; then she debated whether she should go back after her lunch basket or wait where she was until Nick appeared on the bridge.

"It's a bother to carry the basket with me," she said to herself; "I had to leave it on the ground when I was after grapes, so I'll wait till Nick comes, and then I'll call to him. Won't he be scared when he sees me down here!"

From where she stood, she observed the bridge above her head, and consequently Nick could look directly down upon her whenever he should reach the structure.

Nellie felt that she would like to go on down the creek to the big pond into which it emptied; but she knew better than to do that, for she would be certain to miss her big brother, and it was already beginning to grow dark around her.

"I wonder what makes Nick so long," she said to herself, as she sat down on a fallen tree; "I'm so tired that I never can walk the four miles home."

She had sat thus only a brief while, when her head began to droop; her bright eyes grew dull, then closed, and leaning against a limb which put out from the fallen tree, on which she was sitting, she sank into the sweet, dreamless sleep of childhood and health.

Had she not been disturbed she would not have wakened until the sun rose, but at the end of an hour, an involuntary movement of the head caused it to slip off the limb against which it was resting with such a shock that instantly she was as wide awake as though it was mid-day.

Ah, but when she sprang to her feet and stared about her in the gloom she was dreadfully alarmed!

She was quick-witted enough to understand where she was and how it had all come about. The gibbous moon was directly overhead, and shone down upon her with unobstructed fullness.

"Nick has gone over the bridge while I was asleep," was her instant conclusion; "and father and mother will be worried about me."

Her decision as to what she should do could not but be the one thing -- that was to climb back up the bank to the bridge, cross it, and hurry homeward.

There was a little throbbing of the heart, when she reflected that she had several miles to travel, most of which was through the gloomy woods; but there was no hesitation on the part of Nellie, who, but for the sturdy teaching of her parents, would have crouched down beside the log and sobbed in terror until she sank into slumber through sheer exhaustion.

"I have been a bad girl," she said to herself, as she reflected on her thoughtlessness; "and mother will whip me, for I know she ought to; and mother always does what she ought to do."

There was no room for doubt in the mind of the child, for she understood the nature of her parents as well as any child could understand that of its guardian.

Nellie was some distance below the point where the bridge spanned the creek, but she could see the dim outlines of the structure as she started toward it. It seemed higher than usual, but that was because the circumstances were different from any in which she had ever been placed.

The little one was making her way as best she could along the stream in the direction of the bridge, when she was frightened almost out of her senses by hearing a loud, sniffing growl from some point just ahead of her.

It was a sound that would have startled the bravest man, and Nellie was transfixed for the moment. She did not turn and run, nor did she sink in a swoon to the ground, but she stood just where she had stopped, until she could find out what it meant.

She was not kept long in waiting, for in less than a minute the noise was repeated, and at the same moment she caught the outlines of a huge black bear swinging along toward her. He was coming down the bed of the creek, with his awkward, ponderous tread, and when seen by Nellie was within fifty feet of her.

When it is remembered that he was of unusual size and proceeding straight toward the child, it seems impossible that she should have done anything at all to help herself. The sight was enough to deprive her of the power of motion and speech.

But it was in such a crisis as this that little Nellie Ribsam showed that she had not forgotten the teaching of her parents: "God helps them that help themselves."

With scarcely a second's pause, she whirled on her heel and dashed down the stream with the utmost speed at her command.

The bear could not have failed to see her, though it is not to be supposed that he was looking for the little girl when he first came that way. Furthermore, had the chase lasted several minutes Nellie must have fallen a victim to the savage animal.

It required no instruction to teach her that there was but one way in which she could escape, and that was by climbing a tree. Had there been a large one near at hand she would have ascended that as quickly as possible; but, fortunately, the first one to which she fled was a sapling, no larger than those she had climbed during the afternoon, and no one could have clambered to the highest point attainable quicker than did the frightened little girl.

Had she been a veteran hunter, Nellie could not have made a better selection, for she was fully twenty feet from the ground, and as much beyond the reach of the bear as though she were in her trundle-bed at home.

But the position was a frightful one to her, and for several minutes she believed the animal would tear the tree down and destroy her.

"I have done all I can for myself," she murmured, recalling the instruction of her parents, "and now God will do the rest."

Beautiful, trusting faith of childhood! Of such, indeed, is the kingdom of heaven.

The huge bear, which from some cause or other had ventured from the recesses of the wood, was but a short distance behind the little wanderer when she climbed so hastily beyond his reach. He acted as though he was somewhat bewildered by the unusual scene of a small child fleeing from him, but nothing is so tempting to pursuit as the sight of some one running from us, and the brute galloped after Nellie with an evident determination to capture her, if the thing could be done.

When he found the child had eluded him for the time, he sat down on his haunches and looked upward, as though he intended to wait till she would be compelled to descend and surrender herself.

The small tree in which Nellie had taken refuge was several yards from the edge of the stream, the bank sloping so steeply that the water never reached the base, excepting during a freshet.

It was a chestnut, whose smooth bark rendered it all the more difficult to climb, but Nellie went up it as rapidly as a man ascends telegraph poles with the spikes strapped to his boots.

The bear clawed the bark a little while, as a cat is sometimes seen to do when "stretching" herself, and it was during these few minutes that the girl thought nothing could save her from falling into his clutches.

When he ceased, she peered downward through the branches, and could just see the massy animal near the base of the tree, as if asking himself what was the next best thing to do.

It will be admitted that the situation of Nellie Ribsam was one in which few children of her tender years are ever placed. Happy it is, indeed, that it is so, for what one in a thousand would have retained her self-possession?

In explanation, it may be doubted indeed whether Nellie fully comprehended her peril. Had she been older, her consternation, doubtless, would have been greater, as the emotion she showed some years later, when placed in great danger, would seem to prove.

But there was one fact of which she was firmly convinced: she had complied with her father's instructions, for, as has been shown, she put forth every possible exertion to save herself, and now she called on Heaven to assist her.

Perched in the top of the tree, with the enormous bear sitting beneath and looking hungrily upward, she prayed:

"Heavenly Father, please take care of me and don't let that big bear catch me; don't let papa and mamma feel too bad, and please make the bad bear go away and let me alone."



Chapter XI.

"Gott Sei Dank!"


The prayer of little Nellie Ribsam -- so far as it related to herself -- was answered.

She secured her seat, as best she could, in the branches of the chestnut sapling, and, by arranging her dress and the yielding limbs with considerable skill, she made herself quite comfortable.

The trying situation in which she was placed, it would be thought, was enough to drive away all disposition to sleep, but at the end of less than half an hour the little head was nodding again, and, forgetful of her peril, her senses soon left her.

It will be understood that the danger of the young wanderer was rendered all the greater by this loss of consciousness, for her muscles would relax in slumber, and, unless her position was unusually secure, she was certain to fall.

But that gracious Father in whom she so implicitly trusted watched over the little one, and she remained as though seated in the broad rocking-chair at home.

When at last she moved slightly and was on the point of losing her balance, she awoke so quickly that she saved herself just in the nick of time.

She was shocked and startled, but regaining her breath she held fast with one hand while she parted the branches with the other and carefully peered down among the limbs.

"He is gone!" was her joyous exclamation; "I knew the Lord would make him go away, because I asked him to."

She was right: the bear had vanished, and all danger from that source for the time had passed.

The brute probably found enough to eat without waiting for little girls to fall into his clutches. As he had never been known to trouble any one in the neighborhood, it was reasonable to believe that he got all he wanted without venturing away from the depths of the woods, and rousing an ill-will against himself that would speedily result in his destruction.

Nellie did not feel surprised at all, for, as I have shown, she had the faith to believe that her prayer would be answered.

"Now I will go down to the ground and start for home. I guess the bear isn't far off, but the Lord will not let him hurt me."

She carefully descended the tree and stood on the ground a minute later. She found that her dress was torn and she had lost part of the ribbon from her hat. This troubled her more than anything else, for her frugal mother had told her many a time that she must take the best care of her clothing.

"I was so scared that I forgot to look out," she said to herself, after taking an inventory of the damages; "but I guess mother will excuse me for losing the ribbon, though I know she won't for coming so far into the woods without permission."

She now set out resolutely for the bridge, determined to lose no more time in reaching home. As is the rule, the brief space she had passed in sleep seemed three times as long as was actually the case, and she thought it must be near morning.

She had gone but a short distance when she stopped with another shock of affright.

"My gracious! what can that be?"

A point of light appeared between her and the bridge, flickering about like an ignis-fatuus or jack-o'-lantern. Nellie felt like taking to the tree again, but she bravely stood her ground until she could satisfy her curiosity as to its nature.

Watching it closely she observed shadowy figures flitting around the light in a curious and grotesque way. She was in greater doubt than ever, when she heard voices.

"I think I saw her tracks, but I couldn't be sure; Nellie knows too much to walk or fall into the deep water."

"I hope so, but my heart misgives me sorely. God be merciful, for if she is lost I can never recover!"

The first speaker was Nick Ribsam, and the second was the father, the mother immediately adding:

"Why the poor child came here is more than I can understand, but He doeth all things well."

"Oh, mother! Oh, father! Oh, Nick! It is I, Nellie! I am so glad to see you!"

And the little wanderer flew like the wind along the bank of the creek. The mother was the first to recognize the voice, and rushing forward she caught her child in her arms, murmuring in her own language:

"Mein Kind! Mein Kind! Gott sei Dank!" (My child! My child! God be thanked!)

"Mein lieber Nellie! Komm an mein Herz! Kannst du es sein?" (My dear Nellie! Come to my heart! Can it be you?) exclaimed the overjoyed father.

"O meine abtruennige Schwester! Wie du uns erschreckt hast! Wie es mich freut dich zu finden!" (Oh, my truant sister! What a scare you have given us! How glad I am to find you!) shouted Nick.

And the child that was lost and was found was hugged first by mother, then by father, and then by Nick, and then all strove to get hold of her at the same time, till the brother ceased, through fear that she would be torn apart.

Nellie was laughing and crying, and wondering why it was such commotion was caused by her return to her folks.

Mr. Layton and Kilgore heard the tumult, and knew what it meant. A few minutes brought them to the spot, and, though their greeting was less demonstrative, their eyes filled with tears over the exceeding joy of the reunited family.

When the excitement had subsided somewhat, the group listened to the story of Nellie. She told it in her childish, straightforward manner, and it was all the more impressive on that account.

The listeners were greatly touched; but the probability that a large bear was in the neighborhood hastened their footsteps and they lost no time in hurrying away.

When they reached the highway above, crossed the bridge, and had gone some distance on their way home, they began to feel there was nothing to be feared from the animal. Mr. Layton referred to the tracks of the beast which they had noticed when hunting for Nellie, but said he would never have mentioned it until the fate of the girl became known; for the suggestions which must have followed were too dreadful.

Nothing was seen of the animal, however, and, as the distance from the bridge was increased the party finally gave up all thought and conversation respecting it.

There was a grateful household that night, when, at a late hour, they gathered about the family altar and the head returned thanks to Him who had been so merciful to them and theirs.

The happy mother held the daughter in her arms all night, while they both slept; and when the parent awoke, now and then, through the darkness, she shuddered, pressed the little one closer to her and kissed the chubby cheek, on which her former tears had not yet dried.

But Katrina Ribsam was none the less an affectionate mother when, several days later, she called Nellie to her knee and told her how wrongly she had acted in venturing on such a dangerous tramp without asking permission from her parents.

Nellie said she knew it, and wondered why it was her mother delayed the punishment so long. She was ready, and loved and respected her mother the more for administering it.

But truth compels me to say that the chastisement was given with such a gentle hand that it was hardly worth the name, and the mother herself suffered far more than did the child, who to this day is not conscious that she received anything like physical pain.



Chapter XII.

Ominous Preparations.


Happily there are few little girls in this favored land who are called upon to go through such trials as fell to the lot of little Nellie Ribsam when she was but eight years old.

It created much talk in the neighborhood, and she was complimented on the bravery she had shown, while the glad father became more confirmed than ever in his favorite belief that God helps them that help themselves.

"'Spose dot she didn't try to helps herself some," he said, in talking the matter over with Mr. Marston, "don't you not sees dot she would get eat up doo, dree times by dot bear dot vos bigger as nefer vos?"

"It is a good thing for one, even though he be a child, to be able to do his utmost when overtaken by danger -- there can be no question about that; but it would require a great deal of training to bring some children to that point, even when they are double the years of your little girl."

"Dot's becos dere folks don't not begins right; we starts mit Nick and Nellie when dey was so small dot dey didn't know nuffin, which is why it happens dey knows so much now."

Great as was the interest excited by the adventure of Nellie, it was not long before it was thrown in the shade by another fact which was brought to light by that same experience: that was the existence of a large bear in the woods which lay to the east and west of the road leading to Dunbarton.

This forest, as has already been intimated, covered a large tract of country, in which, a few years previous, bears, deer, and wolves had been hunted by many of those dwelling on the outskirts. Large inroads had been made on the woodland, and here and there the cabin of a settler or squatter was found by those who penetrated any distance.

There were clearings extending over several acres, while, again, a man might wander for hours without emerging from the timber, which included the common varieties found in the Middle States -- oak, beech, maple, birch, hickory, hemlock, black walnut, American poplar or whitewood, gum, elm, persimmon, and others less important.

The pine resembled the famous white pine of the Allegheny mountains, and predominated. Where there was such a large area covered with timber, about every variety of surface was known. In some places were rocks, ravines, hollows, and gulches; in others there were marshy swamps through which a hunter would find it hard work to force his way.

Shark Creek entered from the east and was of considerable volume. In many places it was deep, while elsewhere it widened into broad and shallow expansions. It wound its way through the woods in the sinuous course always taken by such streams, and, crossing the road, where it was spanned by a bridge, it continued onward a quarter of a mile, when it reached Shark Pond, the overflow of which ultimately found its way into the Susquehanna and so to the Atlantic.

Why the waters were called Shark Creek and Pond was more than any one could explain. Most likely it was because no such fish as the shark had ever been seen near them, the circumstances of the case rendering it impossible that such a voracious creature ever should have sported in their depths.

From what has been said, it will be seen that the woods offered a most inviting home for a few wild bears, and there was the best reason for the belief of many of the neighbors that if the tract was well hunted over several of the animals would be found.

The universal opinion was that they should be exterminated, for so long as they were in the woods, so long were they a standing menace to all the men, women, and children who dwelt in the section. The children, especially, were considered in great peril, and several timid mothers refused to let their girls and boys go to school, which stood at no great distance from the woods.

There was more than one farmer who contended that, if the few bears were left alone they would multiply to that degree that they would sally forth from the forest, like the Delaware Indians of the last century, and carry death and destruction before them.

A few individuals, like Gustav Ribsam, said there was nothing to fear, for when the bears showed any marked increase they would be killed, and it would be no very difficult job, either.

But no one could dispute the desirability of ridding the country of the brute which came so near eating little Nellie Ribsam; and, where there was so much talk, something was done, or at least attempted.

A hunting party of six men was organized in the month of October, and they tramped through the woods for days, with a couple of dogs, but the trail of the animal could not be found. They finally gave up the hunt, the most tired and disgusted not hesitating to declare they did not believe a bear had been seen in the forest for half a century.

The opinion of those best qualified to judge, was that bruin obtained all the food he wanted with such little trouble that he did not care to molest any persons, and therefore kept out of the way of the hunters.

Nick Ribsam, like all boys, was fond of a gun and dog, and he did not own either. His father had brought from Holland an old musket, used before the country was erected into a kingdom for Louis Bonaparte, more than eighty years ago; but when Nick rammed a charge down its dusty throat one day, forgetful that one had been resting there for months, and pulled trigger, it hung fire a long time; but, when it did go off, it did so in an overwhelming fashion, bursting into a dozen pieces and narrowly missing killing the astounded lad who discharged it.

But Nick was so anxious to own a gun, that his father bought him one on the day he reached the age of ten years, which was shortly after Nellie's adventure with the bear. Although the farmer was frugal in all things, he believed it was the cheapest to buy the best, and the gun which was placed in the hands of Nick was a breech-loader with double barrels. It was a shot-gun, as a matter of course, for little use could be found for a rifle in that neighborhood.

But Nick had practiced with this piece only a few weeks, when his ambition was turned in another direction by a large, strong boy, who hired himself out upon the farm of Mr. Marston. He was sixteen years of age, and was named Sam Harper. His father had been a soldier in the late war, and gave to Sam a fine breech-loading rifle, which he brought with him when he hired out to Mr. Marston.

The lad had owned it two years, and, under the tutelage of his father, who was wounded and living upon a pension, he became very skillful for one of his age.

Beside this, Mr. Marston himself, as I have shown, was fond of hunting in his early manhood, and was the owner of an excellent muzzle-loading rifle, which was as good as when his keen eye glanced along the brown barrel and the bullet was buried in the unsuspicious deer, so far away as to be scarcely visible to the ordinary vision.

"If you and Sam want to hunt the bear," said the kind owner, "you are welcome to my rifle, for you know a shot-gun ain't exactly the thing to go hunting bears with."

"That's just what I want it for," said Nick, with sparkling eyes.



Chapter XIII.

The Bear Hunters.


Nothing is impossible to pluck and perseverance. That boy who is determined to become brilliant in his studies, no matter what their nature, or to master a difficult profession, or to attain any point possible of attainment, is sure to win, if he will but stick to it.

Nick Ribsam was resolved to become skillful with the rifle, and he gave all the time he could spare to practice with the gun which belonged to Mr. Marston. He was desirous of starting after the bear with Sam, as soon as he could use the gun, but his sensible father shook his head.

"No, Nicholas, that would be doing wrong, for you do not know how to handle the rifle; God does not step in and help the lazy and careless; first learn how to use the weapon, so you will never miss; then you may go hunt bears."

Although a lusty lad, Nick found the heavy gun was quite a burden, and he preferred to rest the barrel on the fence, or in the crotch of a tree, when aiming, but Sam Harper told him he could never amount to anything unless he used his weapon off-hand, and was ready to do so effectively, no matter how sudden the call.

Nick applied all his energies, and in the course of a few weeks won the praise of Sam, who had become very fond of the bright and good-natured "Pennsylvania Dutchman," who, in return, helped him in his efforts to improve his knowledge in arithmetic, which he studied in a desultory way on the long autumn evenings, having promised his father to do so.

Mr. Marston owned a dog which was not of much account, but the boys trained him with rare patience, and were confident he would prove valuable when they took him on the hunt.

By the time they were ready to start autumn was advanced, and Nick, who had carefully studied up the peculiarities of the animal, said he was afraid the bear had gone into some hollow tree or cave to take his winter's sleep.

"I don't think they do that till the weather gets colder," said Sam, who had once helped hunt bruin in the wilds of Tennessee, "and even in very cold weather I have seen their tracks in the snow; but if we can only find the tree or cave where he is hiding, why, that will just be splendid."

"Why so?"

"He is fat, lazy, and so sleepy that he don't fight much; but in the spring-time he is lean, hungry, and fierce, and then everybody must look out. There are so many chestnuts and hickory nuts in the woods now that he can get all he wants to eat without scaring the farmers by visiting them."

"The bear eats almost everything," said Nick, "but I don't believe he can make much of a meal off hickory nuts."

"Well, he has got a good thing of it anyway, here, there is so much food around him, and if he had only been smart enough to keep out of sight and never show himself he might have died of old age without being once disturbed by hunters."

"I ain't sure he won't die of old age as it is," said Nick, with a laugh; "for every one who went after him came back without the first glimpse. I guess they have all given up hope of shooting him, and I shouldn't wonder if we had to do the same."

But whether such was to be the result or not remained to be seen, and the boys were sure of plenty of sport in an all-day ramble through the woods.

During all this time Nick and Nellie were attending school, and they maintained their places in their studies, and were surpassed by none in the excellence of their deportment.

Nick rose early and helped his father with his work, and at night did his chores. With all this, he found opportunity to practice with the rifle and to prepare his lessons for the morrow, so that it need not be said he had little idle time on his hands.

On a bright Saturday morning in November, when the smoky haze of the delicious Indian summer overspread forest, stream, and country, Sam Harper came to the house of Nick Ribsam according to appointment.

His rifle was slung over his shoulder, and the dog, which they had christened Bowser, was at his heels. There was no school that day, and Mr. Ribsam, having satisfied himself of the ability of Nick to handle the rifle of his neighbor, had given him permission to go on a hunt for the bear which had so frightened Nellie a couple of months before.

The mother and daughter were a little anxious when the rosy-cheeked boy donned his heavy boots, pushed his trousers down the legs, and taking the long-barreled rifle from where it rested in the corner turned to kiss them good-by.

Mr. Ribsam seemed as cool and stolid as ever; but any one looking closely at him would have observed that he puffed his pipe a little oftener than was his wont, while his eye beamed more kindly upon his brave little boy.

"Look out, Nick, and don't be too venturesome," said the mother, as she pressed her lips to those of her only son.

"And remember that the bear is an awful big animal," said Nellie, "for I seen him."

The brother, who was in the act of leaning over his sister to kiss her, drew back with a reproving look.

"Why is it a girl can't talk without saying 'awful' in every sentence? I wish for variety's sake, Nellie, you and the rest of the girls would leave 'awful' out of one sentence in a hundred, and don't say 'I seen him,' for you know better than that, sister."

She hung her head and her eyes were growing misty, when Nick took the kiss with a laugh and moved to the door.

"There, there, good-by; you all act as if I was going to Africa to hunt lions and tigers."

Nellie snapped him up in a flash:

"There ain't any tigers in Africa, smarty!"

"You got me that time," laughed Nick; "where is father?"

"He went out of the door a minute ago; he is standing by the gate," said the mother, after a quick glance through the window.

Mr. Ribsam was leaning on the gate-post, as was a favorite custom of his, and the tobacco smoke ascended in clouds and rings, as though he was a locomotive tugging hard at a train, with the wheels continually slipping.

He looked at the boys without stirring or speaking, as they passed out the gate and gently closed it, so as not to jar the old gentleman leaning upon it.

When they had gone a rod or so, Mr. Ribsam called out:

"Nicholas!"

"Yes, sir!" answered the son, wheeling instantly.

The father took the long stem of his pipe from his mouth, emitted a blast of vapor, and then shut his eyes and flung his head backward with a quick flirt, which meant that his boy should come to him.

Nick obeyed with his usual promptness, and paused immediately in front of his parent, while Sam Harper stopped short and looked backward at the two, with the purpose of waiting until the interview ended.

The old gentleman meant his words for both, and he therefore used the English tongue as best he could, and spoke loud:

"Nicholas, bears ish shtrong amimals as nefer vos: they can squeeze in der ribs of a ox of dey tried, I dinks, so looks out dot de bears don't not squeeze mit you."

"I will take good care, you may depend."

"His claws am sharp and he has big jaws; look outs for dem, Nicholas!"

"You may be sure I will."

"And, Nicholas, ven you goes for to hunt bears you must helps one anoder; you hears?"

This was the all-important sentence the father had prepared himself to utter. It will be observed that it was in violation of his oft repeated creed, for it clearly called upon the boys to render mutual support should danger arise; and they would have been zanies had they not done so.

The father expected them to show that much sense, but he was impelled to impress the necessity of it: he meant them to understand that his declarations were subject to amendment under certain conditions.

Nick gave the pledge and stepped briskly up the road with Sam, while Bowser frolicked in the fields and road until they were fairly in the woods, when he frisked among the trees, sometimes starting up a squirrel or rabbit, which had no trouble in skurrying out of his reach.

As the bear when seen by Nellie was near Shark Creek, the boys agreed to follow the road to the bridge, descend into the bed of the stream, and then go downward toward the pond and finally off into the woods, where they intended to pass that day and probably the night and following day.

They had reached and passed the tree in which Nellie Ribsam took refuge two months before, when Nick suddenly exclaimed:

"Hallo, there is some one ahead of us!"

"It's the season for game and we shall find plenty of hunters in the wood," said Sam Harper, who, nevertheless, scanned the person with much interest.

The fact that the boys were following precisely in his footsteps raised the suggestion that perhaps he was engaged on the same business or sport, as it might be termed.

Our friends hastened their pace so as to overtake him, for his company might be desirable, or possibly it might be otherwise.

"Hallo, there!" called out Nick; "wait a minute!"

The individual thus hailed turned about, and looked back to see who it was that called.

As he did so his face was seen, and Nick Ribsam gave utterance to an expression of astonishment.



Chapter XIV.

A Recruit.


The stranger ahead of the two boys was Herbert Watrous, the city youth upon whom Nick had sat down so hard three years before.

He was unusually tall when visiting the country school, and during the intervening time he had continued to grow upward, until his height equaled that of an ordinary man. He was scarce fourteen years old, but he lacked very little of six feet in altitude.

He was correspondingly slim, so that he looked as if a smart blow on the back would snap him in two. He was arrayed in a most gorgeous hunting suit of green, with all the paraphernalia which the hunter from the city thinks necessary when he honors the country with a tramp for game.

Herbert, beyond question, was fitted out in fine style, and there was nothing lacking, except perhaps skill. He carried one of the finest of breech-loading rifles, which would have been very effective in the hands of a party who knew how to use it.

The face of the lad had not changed in expression to any extent since Nick Ribsam drove him into the earth, but there was some downy furze on his upper lip and chin, while his voice was of that squeaky and uncertain tone heard when "changing."

"Hallo! is that you?" was the rather superfluous question of Herbert, as he waited for the two boys to come up. He recognized Nick, but of course was a stranger to Sam Harper, to whom Nick introduced him, and there was a general shaking of hands all around.

Young Watrous glanced rather askance at his old school-mate, but there was such a cordial welcome on the part of the young "American of Dutch descent" that all reserve vanished.

A certain loftiness of manner and conceit of expression, however, were natural to Herbert, and he did not fail to look down, in a literal and figurative sense, upon the two hunters.

"That's a fine gun you have there, Herbert," said Nick, venturing to reach out his hand for it.

"Yes," answered Herbert, passing it to him rather gingerly, "be careful not to drop it."

The gun was a beautiful weapon, known as the long range "Creedmoor." It was a Remington, highly finished, and cost $125. It had a front sight, known as the wind-gauge, with the spirit-level, and with the vernier sight on the stock, which is raised from its flat position when the hunter wishes to shoot a long distance, and is graduated up to a thousand yards, carrying a 44 cartridge.

"That isn't of much account in this part of the world," said Sam Harper, passing the weapon back; "it's light enough, for I don't suppose it weighs more than six or seven pounds."

"It's just the thing for these woods," said Herbert, in his important manner, "for I calculate to bring down game a half mile away, if I happen to see it."

"And provided it will stand still and you can know the exact distance."

"I can tell that by my eye easily enough."

"You can't guess within two hundred yards of it, if your life depended on it."

"That remains to be seen."

"The first time you try it will prove it. I have seen them shoot with the telescopes, globe, and peep sights and all the new fangled notions, and they're good only for fancy shooting. You've got to use that breech-loader off-hand, just as I do, or it won't be worth a cent to you."

"I understand that a big black bear has been seen in the woods," said Herbert, in his loftiest style; "I've come to kill him."

Nick and Sam looked significantly at each other, and Nick said:

"That is what we are after; won't you join us?"

Instead of responding promptly, Herbert said:

"Well, I don't know as I have any objection to letting you go with me, though you must promise to do as I say."

Without giving this pledge, the two said they would render all the help they could, and the party moved on down the creek toward the pond.

"Have you a dog?" asked Nick of their new recruit.

"No, what do I want of a dog? He would only be a bother; you ought to send back that pumpkin of yours."

"We don't expect him to be of much help, except to find the track of the bear, if he is anywhere in the neighborhood -- there! do you hear that?"

At that moment Bowser, who had trotted into the woods ahead, gave utterance to a hoarse, resounding bay, which sounded as though his voice had also changed, for it ended in a dismal squeaking howl that made all laugh.

"He is on the track of something," said Nick in some excitement.

"A rabbit, I am sure," remarked Herbert, with a sneer.

The three started off at a rapid walk, which occasionally broke into a trot, and following the baying of the hound they turned to the right before reaching the big pond, and struck into the very heart of the woods.

Herbert was so much taller and lighter than his companions that he drew away from them once or twice, but was obliging enough to stop and wait.

Hurrying along in this headlong fashion they soon stopped, all pretty well out of breath.

Although Herbert had laughed at their tardiness, he was the most exhausted and the first one to wish to rest.



Chapter XV.

A Surprise.


All this time the baying of the hound continued, the sounds showing that he had circled and was approaching the boys, who were not a little astonished at the unexpected turn of affairs.

"That's a pretty dog," laughed Herbert; "he is making fools of us all."

"There isn't any need of that so far as you are concerned," retorted Nick, losing patience with the slurs of their companion. "You had better wait till you find out what it means before you condemn Bowser."

Herbert made no answer, for the dog was now so close that the interest of all was centered on his actions.

"My gracious, what a terrible racket he makes!" exclaimed Nick; "there must be something unusual to excite Bowser like that."

The dog was not heard for several minutes, but the crashing through the undergrowth sounded nearer and nearer, and, as Sam declared, showed that Bowser had steam up and was going for something.

Suddenly the bushes parted only a short ways from where the three wondering lads stood, and, instead of the hound, some kind of a wild animal came toward them on a dead run.

The group were too amazed to think of the guns they held, and only stared in mute wonder.

The game did not see them until within a hundred feet, when he whirled at right angles and plunged away with arrowy speed.

As he did so, he exposed his flank to the young hunters, who could not have been given a better opportunity to bring him down, for the throwing forward of the foreleg, opened his most vulnerable part to the bullet.

But none was sent after him; at that instant he was recognized as a fine buck deer, with branching antlers thrown back so that they seemed to rest on his spine, while his legs were flung straight in front and then backward, as he took his long graceful leaps.

The boys had set out to hunt a bear, and were astounded that, when they dared not hope they were anywhere in his vicinity, a splendid deer should spring up and dash by them.

Before they could give utterance to their amazement, Bowser came along with his nose to the ground and baying hoarsely.

Just as he turned to follow the deer, Herbert Watrous raised his breech-loader to his shoulder and fired point blank at him.

"What did you do that for?" demanded Sam Harper, striding threateningly toward him with his fist raised.

"Why -- why -- I declare! I thought it was the bear!" exclaimed the abashed Herbert; "I never dreamed it was the dog."

Sam was not disposed to believe this story, and he stood irresolute, strongly inclined to punish the city youth who had fired at his hound; but Nick compelled his angry friend to laugh by saying:

"You shouldn't be mad, Sam, for Bowser is safe so long as Herbert aims at him. I don't think he came within twenty feet. If he should hit him you can make up your mind it is an accident."

Herbert hardly knew how to answer this remark, for he saw that he had not done a very creditable thing, view it as he might, so he made a radical turn in the conversation.

"Who would have thought it, boys? We've got not only a bear, but a deer to hunt, and I say, may the best fellow win!"

And with this manly sentiment on his lips he broke into a rapid run after the buck and hound, the others following, forgetful of the little flurry a few minutes before.

It was not in the order of things that the lads should be able to make their way through the woods and undergrowth with anything like the speed of the fallow deer or dog. Hunters don't expect to overtake their game in anything like a fair chase when all are on foot, but resort to stratagem.

By stationing themselves so as to head off a deer, they secure the one shot which is all-sufficient. It would be counted an extremely good piece of fortune could they obtain such a fair target as has already been given the young hunters; and, having let it pass unimproved, they scarcely would have expected to be so favored again.

It was natural, therefore, that they should make a pell-mell rush after the deer and hound, and that they should keep going until, once more, they were forced to stop from exhaustion.

By this time the baying of Bowser came to them so faintly that it was plain he was a mile distant at the least, while there could be little doubt that the buck was much farther off.

"Well!" exclaimed the panting Herbert Watrous, "I can't say I see much fun in this; it's too much like chasing a railroad train."

"No," added Nick, "I don't see that there is any hope of running down the deer, who is more used to traveling than we are."

"Maybe he'll come round in a circle again," said Sam, "and we may have another chance to see him sail by, while not one of us raises his gun."

"I suppose we ought to understand something more about the habits of the deer, so that we would know what course he would be likely to take. We could then get there ahead of him and fire as soon as he gave us a chance."

"Well," added Sam, with a sigh, "he seems to have taken the route we were going to follow to hunt the bear, so we may as well tramp along. We may get a glimpse of a buffalo or elephant next."

The baying of the hound had ceased, and, though the boys often stopped and listened, they heard nothing more of it.

"I guess he has caught the deer," said Herbert, who showed a desire to speak well of Bowser since he had failed to shoot him, "and is waiting for us."

But Sam shook his head; he knew the canine too well to believe him capable of such an exploit as that.

"I don't think he ever ran down anything yet, unless it was a chicken or cat -- hallo!"

At that moment the subject of their conversation appeared on the scene, approaching as quietly as though the boys were sheep that he wished to surprise.

He slouched along with a lazy, tired gait, his tongue out, and dripping with perspiration, while he panted as though he had been on the severest chase of his life, which most likely was the fact.

He lay down at the feet of Sam Harper, and, stretching out his paws, rested his head between them as much as to say, "Gentlemen, I have had enough of this sport, and resign; you will now carry it on without my assistance."

"He is tired out, and I don't wonder," said Sam, stooping over and patting the head of the hound; "he ain't used to deer hunting, and don't know much more about it than do we."

"Then he don't know anything," was the truthful observation of Nick Ribsam.

"It's my opinion that it's best to give up hunting that particular deer until we learn a little more about the right way to do it."



Chapter XVI.

The Dinner In The Woods.


By this time it was close to the hour of noon, and the young hunters were hungry. They had brought no lunch with them, for that would have been an admission that they doubted their own ability to provide food for themselves in a country abounding with game.

Nick Ribsam had a paper of salt and pepper mixed, with which to season their dinner as soon as it should be secured.

The common red squirrels, or chickarees, were so plentiful that they were nearly always in sight, and, without moving from where they stood, the lads descried several running along the limbs of the trees.

"Let each of us shoot one," said Sam, walking forth to get a better aim at a fellow perched high on the branch of a large oak.

Slowly bringing his gun to his shoulder, he took careful aim, and the game came tumbling through the leaves to the ground, his head punctured by the cruel bullet. Bowser started at a lazy walk to bring the body in, but Sam stopped him and picked it up himself.

"I think I will take that one," said Herbert, indicating a squirrel which was nearer than the others. It was sitting in the crotch of a tree, nigh enough to be struck with a stone flung by a skillful thrower.

The other two watched his actions with some interest as he raised the handsome breech-loader. He took a long and deliberate aim, and gave a grunt the instant he pulled the trigger, and the sharp report broke the stillness of the woods.

Nick and Sam laughed, for the frightened rodent scampered up the tree and ran out upon a heavy branch, where he whisked from sight and then back again, chattering in such a lively fashion that it was plain he had suffered no inconvenience from the bullet sent after him.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" exclaimed the chagrined Herbert, "I don't understand how that came about."

"The squirrel doesn't seem to understand it, either," said Sam; "let's see whether you can do any worse, Nick."

"I'm going to try and bark him," remarked Nick, cocking his rifle and sighting at the little animal.

Before he could make his aim sure, the chickaree started to run along the limb, which was large and covered with thick, shaggy bark; but the muzzle of the weapon swerved slowly in a corresponding direction, and just as the game gathered itself to make a leap, the explosion came.

The others, who were watching the squirrel to note the result, saw several pieces of bark suddenly fly upward with such force that the rodent was hurled fully a foot above the limb, dropping like a wet rag at the feet of the lad, killed, without its skin being broken.

"That was a good shot!" exclaimed Sam Harper admiringly; "no hunter in the land could have barked him better than did you."

"What do you mean by barking a squirrel?" asked Herbert, who had never seen anything of the kind before.

"It is easy enough; all you have to do is to cut the bark right under the squirrel's body, so that the pieces fly upward with such force as to knock the life from him."

"That's the way I'm going to kill them after this."

"It is best to practice hitting them with the ball first," Nick suggested.

Herbert solemnly removed the shell of the cartridge from his breech-loader and replaced it with a fresh one, pretending not to hear the remark of Nick.

As the two squirrels were large and in excellent condition, it was thought they would afford enough dinner for the boys, who went some distance farther until they reached a small stream of clear, icy water, where they decided to make their fire.

While Nick and Herbert busied themselves gathering some dry twigs and sticks, Sam Harper, with his keen knife, skillfully skinned the chickarees, dressed them, and then holding them over the flame on green, forked sticks, they were soon cooked to a turn.

For a few minutes before they were ready, the odor of the broiling game so sharpened the appetites of the boys that Nick sprang up, and, hurrying out in the woods, shot another for Sam to dress and cook.

"Two ain't enough," he said in explanation, as he threw the last to his friend; "I can eat a couple myself, and Bowser looks sort of faint."

"The waste parts ought to be enough for him," said Sam, glancing at the hound, who had gulped down everything thrown him and was gazing wistfully for the next tid-bits that should fall to his share.

The clear, pure air, the vigorous exercise, and the rugged health of the boys gave them appetites scarcely less forceful than that of Bowser; and when Nick had carefully sprinkled the seasoning over the juicy, crisp flesh, and each, taking one of the squirrels in hand, began wrenching off the tender meat, he was sure he had never tasted such a delicious dinner in all his life.

Even Herbert Watrous, accustomed as he was to the delicacies and refinements of a city home, admitted that there was something about the meal which, washed down with clear, pure water, had a flavor surpassing anything of the kind he had ever known.

The causes why it tasted thus I have already stated.



Chapter XVII.

A Test Of Marksmanship.


The boys were so tired from their severe tramp, and the rest was so grateful after finishing their dinner, that they stayed where they were an hour longer. Then, realizing that nothing could be done by idleness, they slung their reloaded rifles over their shoulders, took another drink of water, and lazily made their way to higher ground.

"I have been thinking," said Nick, when they paused again, "that we will be more likely to learn something of the bear if we separate."

"For how long?" Herbert asked.

"Until night, or until we find him."

"But how can we find each other at night?"

"That can be fixed easily enough; if necessary, we can signal to each other, or we can pick out some landmark that can be seen a long ways off and gradually approach that as the sun goes down."

There was nothing brilliant in this proposition, but after some discussion it was agreed to by the others, and they began looking around for something which might serve them as a guide.

Directly to the north, the woods rose in a series of hills of no great elevation, but among them were numerous large rocks of limestone formation, some of them of such a light color that they could be seen a long distance.

"Right yonder," said Nick, pointing toward the largest, "is one which we cannot mistake; let's agree to meet there at nightfall and go into camp. If either one of us loses his reckoning he will fire his gun and the others will answer him, so there need be no danger at all."

"I don't see as there would be any danger if we failed to find each other before morning," said Sam; "we are not in a wild country where Indians will hunt for us."

"There ain't any danger," said Herbert, "only it will be a great deal more pleasant to spend the night together; you will feel safer by knowing that I am with you with my patent breech-loader."

"Yes," said Nick, "for by keeping close to you there won't be half as much likelihood of being hit when you fire at something else."

"I haven't tried yet," said Herbert; "my gun is a long-distance shooter: there's where I get my work in. Show me a mark a good long distance off and you'll open your eyes."

"Well, I declare, if that doesn't beat all!"

It was Sam Harper who uttered this exclamation. He had been gazing steadily at a broad, flat rock about a quarter of a mile distant to the northwest of them, and his words announced that he had made some important discovery.

The peculiar tone in which he spoke caused the others to turn toward him and ask the cause.

"Look at that yellowish white rock," he answered, pointing toward it, "and tell me whether that isn't a little ahead of anything yet."

One brief searching glance showed that the young man had sufficient cause for his excitement.

"Now I'll show you what my Creedmoor will do," said Herbert Watrous.

Standing on the top of the rock, so that his figure was thrown in clear relief against the tinted sky behind him, was the very buck they had been vainly chasing. He seemed to be looking back at the young hunters as though he disdained their prowess and defied them to renew their attempt to bring him down.

"That's my chance!" exclaimed Herbert, in excitement; "that's just my distance; get out of my way! give me room! now I'll show you what my Creedmoor will do, when aimed by a master of the art."

With great display and ceremony the youth prepared to give an exhibition of shooting like that shown at the international matches. The others stepped back, so as not to impede his movements, and he deliberately threw off his cap, got down on his back, raised the rear sight, crossed his feet and drew them half way up to his body, then rested the barrel of his gun on the support thus furnished between the knees, and with his left hand beneath his head, and turned so as to rest against the stock of his gun, while his right was crooked around with the finger lightly pressing the trigger, he was in the proper position to make a "crack shot."

The others watched his actions with the closest attention, only fearful that the deer would not keep his position long enough for Herbert to obtain the aim he wished.

The conditions could not have been more favorable; the buck being to the northwest, while the sun was high in the heavens, there was no confusion of vision from that cause. The smokiness of the atmosphere was so slight that it was scarcely perceptible at so brief a distance, while there was not the least breath of air stirring.

"I am afraid he will lose his chance if he waits too long," said Nick impatiently, in an undertone to Sam, who whispered back:

"The buck understands him and will wait."

It was evident that Mr. Herbert Watrous did not mean to spoil his aim by haste. Shutting one eye, he squinted carefully through his sights, lowering or raising the stock or barrel so as to shift the aim, until at last he had it elevated and pointed to suit him.

Sam watched the buck, while Nick kept his eye on the marksman, who was holding his breath, with his finger crowding the trigger harder and harder until the explosion came.

As before, Herbert uttered a grunt the instant the piece was discharged, and then, hastily clambering to his feet, he put on his cap and said with the utmost assurance:

"That bullet struck him in the chest and will be found buried in his body."

"He doesn't know you fired at him," said Sam Harper, as the buck, a moment later, turned about and walked out of sight.

"The deer doesn't fall at once, even if you drive the bullet through his heart. That buck may go a hundred yards or so, but he will then drop as if struck by lightning."

The confidence with which these words were uttered puzzled Nick and caused him to think that possibly the boaster was right after all, and he had made the shot he claimed.

The truth would probably be learned during the afternoon, for Nick meant to learn it for himself.

Now that they agreed to separate, it was decided that Herbert should keep straight along the route they had been following. Sam should diverge to the right, while Nick would swerve far enough to the left to pass the rock whereupon the buck stood at the time he was shot or rather shot at.

"I am bound to find out the truth," said Nick, with a shake of the head.

And so he did; but little did he dream of what was to happen to him during this search for the truth.



Chapter XVIII.

A Quail.


As the hound belonged to Sam Harper and showed a disposition to go with him, he was allowed to do so, the lad moving off to the right and Nick Ribsam to the left, as was agreed upon.

Nick had not his father's watch with him, but Herbert Watrous carried a handsome gold hunting-piece, which was now consulted and showed it was nearly two o'clock.

"The days are getting short," said Sam Harper, with a doubtful shake of the head; "that doesn't leave us more than three hours of daylight, and it is hardly worth while to part company."

"What's the odds?" laughed Nick, who was anxious to look for the deer; "we won't be far apart, as we may be to-morrow."

And, without waiting to discuss the question, he struck to the left with his strong step, the others following the courses already mentioned.

No afternoon could have been more charming, with the summer lingering and mellowing the approaching winter.

The faint, smoky haze of the atmosphere, the clear sky, the warm sun, the brilliant-hued vegetation in the woods, the faint cawing of crows in the distance, and the flight of birds overhead, looking like mathematical figures in India-ink gliding across the blue heavens, the delicious languor everywhere: all these were at their best, and he who was wandering through the rainbow-tinted forest, where the sleepy waters flowed, could well understand why it was the pioneers, like Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, and others, turned their backs on civilization, and, plunging into the wilderness, buried themselves for months from the sight of their fellow-men.

Sam Harper was moving quietly toward the north, when it seemed to him that a large leaf suddenly blew forward from beneath his feet and was carried swiftly over the ground, straight ahead and away from him.

Looking closely, he discovered that it was a plump quail which he had startled, and which was speeding from him. Although the bird has short legs it runs very swiftly, and it was gone almost before Sam identified it.

"Ah, if I could only get a shot at you," said the lad, his mouth fairly watering, "what a splendid supper you would make!"

The words were yet in his mouth, when a sudden whirring sound broke the air, and he caught a glimpse of a second quail flying like an arrow below the principal limbs.

Sam raised his rifle as quick as a flash, took aim as best he could, and fired. Even the great Dr. Carver would have missed under such circumstances, and the lad came nowhere near hitting the game.

So swift was the flight of the bird, that as soon as the trigger was pulled and Sam looked for it it had vanished. That man who handles the rifle must be wonderfully skillful to bring down one of those birds on the wing.

It is curious how the name of the common quail is disputed and varied. There are plenty who will insist that I should have called this bird a partridge, when, in point of fact, there is no true representative of the partridge in America.

The spruce partridge is the Canada grouse; the partridge of New England is the ruffed grouse; the partridge of the Middle and Southern States is the quail, of which several varieties are called partridges; while in Europe the birds which are called quails are in reality partridges.

Without tiring my readers by attempting anything like a scientific discussion of the question, I may say there are a dozen species of quails found in North and Central America and the West Indies, and Mr. Baird proposes that, as neither the name quail, partridge, nor pheasant is properly given to any American bird, the species to which I refer should be called the Bob White.

If this should be done, the smallest urchin will be able to recognize the species from its peculiar call.

Sam Harper would have been glad indeed if he could have secured one of these delicious birds for supper, but there was little prospect of doing so. The game looks so much like the brown and mottled leaves among which it searches for food, that a hunter would almost place his foot upon one without observing it, while the nest of the quail or partridge is almost as impossible to find as the remains of an elephant in Ceylon, where it is said no such remains have ever been discovered.

One of the lessons Sam had learned from his father was to reload his gun immediately after firing it, so as to be ready for any emergency. Accordingly, before stirring from his place, he threw out the shell from his breech-loader and replaced it with a new cartridge.

Just as he did so, he heard the report of a gun only a short distance to the left, at a point where Herbert Watrous should have been.

"He's scared up something," was the natural conclusion of Sam, who smiled as he added; "I wonder whether he could hit a bear a dozen feet off with that wonderful Remington of his. It's a good weapon, and I wish I owned one; but I wouldn't start out to hunt big game until I learned something about it."

The boy waited a minute, listening for some signal from his companion, but none was heard and he moved on again.

Sam, like many an amateur hunter, began to appreciate the value of a trained hunting dog. Bowser was not a pure-blooded hound; he was fat and he was faultily trained. He had stumbled upon the trail of the buck by accident and had plunged ahead in pursuit, until "pumped," when he seemed to lose all interest in the sport.

He now stayed close to Sam, continually looking up in his face as if to ask him when he was going to stop the nonsense and go back home.

He scarcely pricked his ears when the quail ran ahead of him, and paid no attention to the whirring made by the other. He had had all he wanted of that kind of amusement and showed no disposition to tire himself any further.



Chapter XIX.

An Unexpected Lesson.


As it was the height of the hunting season, the reports of guns were heard at varying distances through the woods, so that Sam could only judge when they were fired by his friends from their nearness to him.

He was well satisfied that the last shot was from the Remington of Herbert, while the one that preceded it a few minutes, he was convinced came from the muzzle-loader of Nick Ribsam, owned by Mr. Marston.

"The boys seem to have found something too do, but I don't believe they have seen anything of the bear -- hallo!"

His last exclamation was caused by his unexpected arrival at a clearing, in the center of which stood a log cabin, while the half acre surrounding it showed that it had been cultivated during the season to the highest extent.

There was that air of thrift and cleanliness about the place which told the lad that whoever lived within was industrious, frugal, and neat.

"That's a queer place to build a house," said Sam, as he surveyed the scene; "no one can earn a living there, and it must make a long walk to reach the neighborhood where work is to be had."

Prompted by a natural curiosity, Sam walked over the faintly marked path until he stepped upon the piece of hewed log, which answered for a porch, directly in front of the door.

Although the latch string hung invitingly out, he did not pull it, but knocked rather gently.

"Come in!" was called out in a female voice, and the boy immediately opened the door.

A pleasing, neatly-clad young woman was working with her dishes at a table, while a fat chub of a boy, about two years old, was playing on the floor with a couple of kittens.

The mother, as she evidently was, turned her head so as to face the visitor, nodded cheerily, bade him good afternoon, and told him to help himself to one of the chairs, whose bottoms were made of white mountain ash, as fine and pliable as silken ribbons.

Sam was naturally courteous, and, thanking the lady for her invitation, he sat down, placing his cap on his knee. He said he was out on a hunt with some friends, and coming upon the cabin thought he would make a call, and learn whether he could be of any service to the lady and her child.

The mother thanked him, and said that fortunately she was not in need of any help, as her husband was well and able to provide her with all she needed.

Without giving the conversation in detail, it may be said that Sam Harper learned a lesson, during his brief stay in that humble cabin, which will go with him through life: it was a lesson of cheerfulness and contentment, to which he often refers, and which makes him thankful that he was led to turn aside from his sport even for a short while.

The husband of the woman worked for a farmer who lived fully four miles away, on the northern edge of the woods, and who paid only scant wages. The employee walked the four miles out so as to reach the farm by seven o'clock in the morning, and he did not leave until six in the evening. He did this summer and winter, through storm and sunshine, and was happy.

He lived in the lonely log cabin, because his employer owned it and gave him the rent free. It had been erected by some wood-choppers several years before, and was left by them when through with their contract, so that it was nothing to any one who did not occupy it.

The young man, although now the embodiment of rugged health and strength, had lain on a bed of sickness for six months, during which he hovered between life and death. His wife never left his side during that time for more than a few minutes, and the physician was scarcely less faithful. At last the wasting fever vanished, and the husband and father came back to health and strength again.

But he was in debt to the extent of $200, and he and his wife determined on the most rigid economy until the last penny should be paid.

"If Fred keeps his health," said the cheery woman, "we shall be out of debt at the end of two years more. Won't you bring your friends and stay with us to-night?"

This invitation was given with great cordiality, and Sam would have been glad to accept it, but he declined, through consideration for the brave couple, who would certainly be put to inconvenience by entertaining three visitors.

Sam thanked her for her kindness, and, rising to go, drew back the door and remarked:

"I notice you have a good rifle over the mantle; I don't see how your husband can get much time to use it."

"He doesn't; it is I who shoot the game, which saves half the cost of food; but," added the plucky little woman, "there is one game which I am very anxious to bring down."

"What is that?"

"A bear."

"Do you know whether there are any in the woods?"

"There is one, and I think more. My husband has seen it twice, and he took the gun with him when going to work, in the hope of gaining a chance to shoot it; but, when I caught sight of it on the edge of the clearing, he thought it best to leave the rifle for me to use."

"Why are you so anxious to shoot the bear?" asked Sam.

"Well, it isn't a very pleasant neighbor, and I have to keep little Tommy in the house all the time for fear the brute will seize him. Then, beside that, the bear has carried off some of Mr. Bailey's (that's the man my husband works for) pigs, and has so frightened his family that Mr. Bailey said he would give us twenty dollars for the hide of every bear we brought him."

"I hope it may be your fortune to shoot all in the woods," said Sam, as he bade her good-day again, and passed out and across the clearing into the forest.

"That's about the bravest woman I ever saw," said the lad to himself, as he moved thoughtfully in the direction of the limestone-rock, where it was agreed the three should meet to spend the night; "she ought to win, and if this crowd of bear hunters succeed in bagging the old fellow we will present him to her."

The thought was a pleasing one to Sam, who walked a short way farther, when he added, with a grim smile, "But I don't think that bear will lose any night's sleep on account of being disturbed by this crowd."



Chapter XX.

Bowser Proves Himself Of Some Use.


Sam Harper saw, from the position of the sun in the heavens, that he had stayed longer than he intended to in the cabin, and the short afternoon was drawing to a close.

He therefore moved at a brisk walk for a quarter of a mile, Bowser trotting at his heels as though he thought such a laborious gait uncalled for; but, as the lad then observed that the large limestone was not far away, he slackened his pace, and sat down on a fallen tree to rest.

"This is a queer sort of a hunt," he said to himself, "and I don't see what chance there is of any one of us three doing anything at all. Bowser isn't worth a copper to hunt with; all there was in him expended itself when he chased the buck and let it get away from him -- hallo, Bowser, what's the matter with you?"

The hound just then began acting as though he felt the slighting remarks of his master, and meant to make him sorry therefor.

He uttered several sharp yelps and began circling around the fallen tree on which Sam was sitting. He went with what might be called a nervous gallop, frequently turning about and circumnavigating the lad and the log in the opposite direction.

All the time he kept up his barking and demonstrations, now and then running up to Sam, galloping several paces away, and then looking toward him and barking again with great vigor.

Sam watched his antics with amusement and interest.

"He acts as though he wanted me to follow him from this spot, though I cannot understand why he wants me to do that, since he is so lazy he would be glad to lie down and stay here till morning."

Studying the maneuvers of the hound, Sam became satisfied that the brute was seeking to draw him away from the fallen tree on which he was sitting.

The dog became more excited every minute. He trotted back and forth, running up to his young master and then darting off again, looking appealingly toward Sam, who finally saw that his actions meant something serious.

"I don't know why he wishes me to leave, but he has some reason for it, and I will try to find out."

Sam slowly rose from the fallen oak tree on which he was sitting, and as he did so his cap fairly lifted from his head with terror.

He caught the glint and scintillation in the sunlight of something on the ground on the other side of the trunk, and separated from him only by the breadth thereof, at the same instant that his ear detected the whirring rattle which told the fact that an immense rattlesnake had coiled itself therefor, and had just given its warning signal that it meant to strike.

Sam Harper never made such a quick leap in all his life as he did, when he bounded several feet from the log, with a yell as if the ground beneath him had become suddenly red-hot.

There is nothing on the broad earth which is held in such universal abhorrence as a snake, the sight of which sends a shiver of disgust and dread over nearly every one that looks upon it.

When Sam sat down on the fallen tree, he was probably almost near enough for the coiled crotalus to bury its fangs in him. It reared its head, and, without uttering its customary warning, most likely measured the intervening space with the purpose of striking.

The instinct of Bowser at this juncture told him of the peril of his master, and he began his demonstrations, intended to draw him away from the spot. At the same time, his barking, and trotting back and forth, diverted the attention of the rattlesnake to the hound, and thereby prevented him striking the unsuspicious boy.

It must have been, also, that during these few minutes the serpent vibrated his tail more than once, for the nature of the reptile leads him to do so; but the sound could not have been very loud, as it failed to attract the attention of Sam until he rose from the log and turned partly about.

The boy moved around the head of the fallen tree, so as to place himself on the same side with the rattlesnake, and then he spent a minute or two in contemplating him at that safe distance.

He was a large one, with sixteen rattles and a button. He lay coiled in several perfect rings, with his tail softly vibrating and his head thrown back, as if he expected his enemy to come nigh enough for him to bury his curved needle-like fangs in some portion of his body, injecting his poison, so deadly that nothing could have saved the boy from dying within a few minutes.

The first natural feeling which comes over one when he sees a crawling snake is to kill it, and Sam Harper did not wait long before yielding to his inclination.

Standing less than a rod distant, he brought his gun to his shoulder, and sighted at the head of the venomous reptile, which was held almost stationary, while the crimson tongue darted in and out as if it were a tiny spray of blood.

The aim was true, and the head was shattered as though the cartridge had exploded within it. The body made a few furious writhings and struggles, and then became still.

Sam viewed the ruin he had wrought for a minute or so, and then, appreciating the service his dog had wrought him, he turned and patted the animal.

"You're a fine dog, Bowser, and I forgive you for being good for nothing."



Chapter XXI.

Face To Face.


Herbert Watrous, when he separated from his companions on that balmy afternoon in Indian summer, assumed a loftiness of bearing which was far from genuine.

The fact was, he felt dissatisfied with himself, or rather with the rifle which his indulgent father had presented to him only a few weeks before.

"I don't like the way the thing behaves," he said, as he stopped to examine it; "father paid one hundred and twenty-five dollars for it, and it was warranted the best. It's pretty hard to hit a deer a quarter of a mile off, but I ought to have brought down that squirrel which was only a hundred feet distant."

He turned the weapon over and over in his hand, looked down the barrel, tried the hammer and trigger, carefully examined the wind-gauge and vernier rear-sights, but could not see that anything was out of order.

"I'm afraid it was my fault," he said, with a sigh, "but it will never do to let the boys know it. I'll insist that I struck the buck, though I'm afraid I didn't."

After going a little ways he noticed he was walking over a path which was not marked very distinctly; it was, in fact, the route which Mr. Fred Fowler, the industrious dweller in the log cabin, had worn for himself in going to and from his work.

"That's lucky," said the lad, "for it's much easier traveling over a path like that than tramping among the trees, where you have to walk twice as far as there is any need of -- confound it!"

This impatient remark was caused by a protruding branch, which just then caught Herbert under the chin and almost lifted him off his feet.

The boy was sensible enough to understand that his failure to display any good marksmanship was due to his own want of practice rather than to any fault of his piece.

"That Nick Ribsam can beat me out of my boots; I never heard of such a thing as 'barking' a squirrel till he showed me how it is done, and he used a gun that is older than himself. Well, Nick was always smarter than other boys; he is younger than I, and I have taken sparring lessons of the best teachers in the country, while he never heard of such a thing as science in using his fists; but he just sailed into me that day, and the first thing I knew he had me down, and was banging himself on me so hard that I have never got over the flattening out -- hallo!"

A gray squirrel, flirting its bushy tail, whisked across the path in front of him that moment, scampered up a hickory and perched itself near the top, where it offered the best chance for a shot that one could wish.

"Now I'll see what I can do," muttered Herbert, sighting at the saucy little fellow, who seemed to be ridiculing his purpose of reaching it with a bullet at such a height.

The young hunter aimed with great care, pressed the trigger, and, as the sharp report rang through the woods, the squirrel came tumbling to the ground, with its skull shattered.

Herbert Watrous was surprised and delighted, scarcely believing in his own success. He picked up the slain rodent and saw that its destruction had been caused by the bullet he fired.

"That's business," he exclaimed, with a thrill of pride; "but why couldn't I shoot that way when Nick and Sam were looking at me? I know how the thing is done now, and when we get together I'll give them some lessons in marksmanship."

He left the squirrel on the ground, but had not gone far when a new idea struck him and he came back, picked it up, and put it in his game-bag.

"If I show them a squirrel, they can't help believing that I shot him."

The serious question which Herbert had been discussing with himself, ever since being alone, was what he would do if he should happen to come upon the bear. He had not quite so much confidence in his gun as he had when he started out, though the shooting of the squirrel brought back considerable of his natural assurance.

The conclusion he reached was that it would be just as well if he and bruin did not meet. Excellent as was his Remington, it was not a repeating rifle, and he was afraid that one shot, even if well aimed, would not be enough.

"If I had a Henry, which shoots sixteen shots in sixteen seconds, I could fill him so full of lead that he couldn't run fast enough to overtake me if I didn't happen to kill him."

But the Henry, which he desired so much, was beyond his reach, and it was idle to wish for it.

Accordingly, he slung his gun over his shoulder in true sportsman style, and strode along the path until the greater part of the distance was passed, when, like his friends, he found a fallen tree at a convenient spot and sat down for a rest.

Herbert, in his luxurious home in the city, had become accustomed to irregular hours, so that it was now the most natural thing in the world for him to fall asleep and not open his eyes until he shivered with cold and it was growing dark around him.

He started up in no little surprise, and, recalling where he was, hastened along the path toward the camp.

"They'll be worried almost to death about me," was his thought, "and I shouldn't wonder if they start out to hunt me up. Ah!"

The reverberating report of a rifle came from the direction of the limestone rock, and he felt no doubt that it was meant as a signal to direct him.

Herbert replied by firing his own gun in the air and shouting that he was coming. He did not forget to place another cartridge in his rifle, for, truth to tell, he was a little nervous over this lonely tramp through the woods at such a late hour.

He listened, and heard the answering shout of Sam Harper, and, communication being thus established, Herbert held his peace and hastened forward as best he could in the faint moonlight.

"I hope I won't meet any sort of game now," was the wish of the lad, "for I am in a hurry to join the boys -- "

Could he believe his eyes!

He had hardly given expression to the wish, when a dark mass loomed up to sight directly ahead of him, and he plainly saw the gleam and glow of a pair of frightful eyes fixed upon him. He was sure, too, that he had heard the threatening growl of the monster, which might well believe he had the youngster in his power.

"It's the bear, as sure as I'm alive!" gasped Herbert. "There's no getting away from him! Heaven save me from missing, for if my gun fails me now, it is all over! He won't give me time to climb a tree, and I must shoot!"



Chapter XXII.

The "Vacant Chair."


It is hard to imagine a more trying situation than that of Master Herbert Watrous, who, while walking along a path in the woods, saw by the faint moonlight what he believed to be the figure of an enormous black bear, sitting on its haunches, and waiting for him to move either forward or backward before springing upon him.

He shuddered with fear, but, with a courage hardly to be expected in his case, he drew up his rifle, sighted as best he could, and fired point-blank at the brute, when no more than a rod separated the two.

It was impossible to miss, even with such an unsteady aim, and the lad had not a particle of doubt that he had hit him; but had he inflicted a mortal wound?

Without waiting an unnecessary second, Herbert flung out the shell of the cartridge and placed a new one in the breech. His hands trembled so that he could hardly keep from dropping it, but he succeeded better than would have been supposed.

Once more the gun was raised, and the leaden missile was buried in the dark object.

But it did not stir, and the amazed lad was transfixed. What did it mean?

"I'll give him another, and if that don't answer -- "

From out the gloom in front he discerned a figure advancing upon him, but a second glance showed that it was a man instead of a wild animal.

"Hallo, my friend? what are you firing at?"

The voice was such a cheery one that the courage of Herbert instantly came back, and it may be said that he was never gladder in all his life to see a person.

"Why, I thought that was a wild animal -- that is, a bear, in the path in front of me; what is it?"

The man laughed heartily.

"The path makes a little bend right there, so it is not in, but beside the path; it is an oak stump on which you have been wasting your lead."

"But those glaring eyes -- "

"That is fox-fire, which does look odd in the night-time."

"But I heard it growling."

"Be assured it was all imagination, my young friend; there is no bear or wild animal near us -- at least he hasn't shown himself yet."

"Well, I'm blamed glad to hear it, for there isn't much fun in hunting wild beasts when it is too dark to aim well: may I ask how it is you happen along here without a gun?"

"I live only a little ways off, and, if you will go back with me, I will be glad to entertain you over night."

"I'm obliged to you, but I have two friends who are expecting me, up by the rock yonder."

"I judged you belonged to the party, but there is only one of them there, unless the other has come since I left. The one named Harper, who called at my house this afternoon, is there, and has started his camp fire. He is impatient for the others to come in, and asked me to tell you, if we met, that he particularly wished you to 'hurry up your cakes' -- I suppose you know what that means."

"I do, and will bid you good-night."

They exchanged pleasant greetings, and separated, each to pursue his own way.

Herbert was anxious to join his friends; for the fact that he had fired into a stump, under the belief that it was a bear, was no proof that the dreaded quadruped was not somewhere in the neighborhood.

As the path, which he was able to keep without difficulty, led by the rock where the three lads were to meet, he had not gone far when he caught the starlike twinkle of a point of light, which told him he was not far from camp.

"Hallo, Sam, are you there?" called out Herbert, while yet a considerable distance off.

"Yes. What makes you so late?" was the impatient response and question.

Without pausing to reply, Herbert hurried forward and a few minutes later joined Sam Harper, who had a large fire going, and had broiled a squirrel and a rabbit, both of which were in fine condition.

"Where's Nick?" asked Sam, as soon as he saw the youth was alone.

"How should I know anything about him? I haven't seen him since we parted."

"It's mighty queer, any way you may look at it; Nick is always the most prompt to keep any bargain he made, and I haven't seen anything of him for hours. He ought to have been here the very first."

"Have you signaled to him?"

"I have fired off my gun, and shouted and whistled till my cheeks ache, and I haven't had the first show of an answer."

The manner in which these disheartening words were uttered showed that Sam Harper was ill at ease, not so much over the continued absence of Nick, as from his utter silence. It was fully understood by all, that, if anything happened to either one, he was to signal immediately to the others.

Neither Herbert nor Sam had heard Nick's rifle, though it might have been discharged without recognition by them.

Herbert had been asleep so long that he could have missed the report very readily, while Sam was so far from Nick that the sound of his gun could have been mistaken for that fired by some wandering hunter, unknown to either.

Every few minutes, Sam halloed or whistled, after Nick's favorite manner of signaling, and then the two bent their heads and listened for the answer, which came not.

The broiled game remained untasted, for Sam's appetite was suspended, and Herbert refused to eat while his companion was in such mental trouble.

"There's no use of talking," finally exclaimed Sam, unable to repress his uneasiness, "something has gone wrong with Nick, and I'm bound to find out what it is."



Chapter XXIII.

Hunting A Buck.


It will be remembered that when Nick Ribsam left his companions, early in the afternoon, it was with the resolution to find out whether the showy shot made by Herbert Watrous at the buck, had done the execution he claimed for it.

This forced him to make a much longer detour than did Sam Harper, and, as he was obliged to move with great caution, he found no time to sit down and rest or sleep.

The more he reflected on the exploit which Herbert attempted, the more did he doubt it.

"I suppose they hit a target a mile off, as Sam told me; but that is when they know the exact distance. No person can hit a deer a quarter of a mile away, unless he does it by chance. Herbert proved he can't shoot anything close to him, and it isn't likely he hit the deer by accident, for such accidents don't happen unless it's a person that you don't want to hurt."

But he had started out to find the truth of the matter, and it was in accordance with his disposition to do so, if it was possible.

Nick knew that if the buck which they had seen was anywhere in the neighborhood, it was necessary to proceed with extreme caution to avoid giving alarm. The wonder was that it had shown itself after the fright caused by the dog.

The drowsy autumn afternoon was well advanced when the boy saw, from his surroundings, that he was close to the spot where the deer stood when Herbert fired at it with his long-range rifle. There was the rock, but the animal was invisible.

Just beyond was an oak which had been upturned by some wrenching tornado or storm. The roots protruded upward and from the sides, the dirt still clinging to them, so that the bottom spread out like a fan.

The base of the trunk lay flat on the ground, but the branching limbs supported the top to that extent that it was raised five or six feet from the earth. Consequently, it sloped away in an incline from the crested summit to the base.

Such a sight is not unusual in any forest, for it is the general fashion of trees to fall that way; but Nick was struck by the evident fact that, although the oak was uprooted, as it is termed, yet enough connection with the ground remained to afford nourishment, and to keep life within it.

He started toward it, but had moved only a few steps when a slight rustling in the undergrowth arrested his attention. Stopping short he looked about him, and, with an amazement which can hardly be imagined, saw the buck within fifty feet of him.

He was in a clump of undergrowth, and was browsing on some tender shoots. His position was such that his side was toward Nick, who first caught sight of his antlers above the bushes: and it was a remarkable thing that he did not detect the approach of the young hunter, despite the caution he used.

The sight was so unexpected that Nick was taken aback, and had a spasm of that nervous affection which sometimes seizes the inexperienced hunter, and is known as "buck fever."

Knowing that the game would bound away with the speed of the wind the instant he scented danger, the lad brought up his rifle and pointed at him.

Poor Nick shook as if he had a chill; it was impossible to control his nerves; but, aiming as best he could, he fired. The deer was "hit hard," though not so hard as young Ribsam meant and most ardently desired.

Dropping the breech of his gun, Nick looked to see the result of his shot, and found it amazing to a startling degree.

The buck, which was a noble fellow, stopped browsing, and, with his head thrown high in air, looked around to learn where his assailant was. Catching sight of the staring lad, the animal emitted a furious sniff and charged upon him at full speed.

This is a most unusual thing for a deer to do, though many a hunter has been killed by a wounded buck or moose, who has turned upon and attacked him with the fury of a tiger.

"He turned on his heel and ran with might and main for the fallen tree."

Nick Ribsam thought it very singular, but he thought it very alarming as well, and, without waiting to watch matters further, he turned on his heel and ran with might and main for the fallen tree.

The lusty youngster was a good runner, but the buck made three times as much speed as he "went for him," with head lowered like a charging bull.

Nick had to think fast, but fast as he thought he couldn't see how the fallen oak was to offer him refuge against the fury of the animal, and, unless it did so, he was in a bad predicament.

It was impossible to reach any tree in time to climb out of reach, as Nellie did when pursued by the bear, and the highest portion of the prostrate trunk would not protect him from the antlers of the savage buck.

There was no use for the empty rifle as it seemed, and Nick was on the point of throwing it away, when it occurred to him that it might still serve as a weapon of defense.

"I will club it and see what can be done."



Chapter XXIV.

Hunted By A Buck.


Glancing over his shoulder, Nick Ribsam kept informed of the movements of his fierce foe, who was certainly carrying things with a hurricane rush.

Finding there was no getting away from him, Nick, just as he reached the fallen tree, whirled around and, grasping his rifle by the barrel, swung the stock back over his shoulder and poised himself for the blow, which he believed must decide his own fate.

The boy made a formidable-looking picture; but it was all lost on the buck, which did not halt nor slacken his pace.

It was a terrifying sight as he plunged toward the lad with lowered head and glowering front, for the deer was an exceptionally large and powerful one, and he meant to kill the individual that had sent the bullet into his side, and from which the red blood was already streaming.

It may be said just here, that Nick Ribsam no longer doubted the failure of the long-range shot of Herbert Watrous.

The imperiled lad drew a deep respiration, poised himself on his advanced foot, and, swinging to one side, with a view of avoiding the full force of the charge, he brought down the stock of his gun with the utmost strength he could command.

It descended with great power -- so far as a ten-year-old boy is concerned -- but it was not sufficient to throw the buck off his base nor to interfere with his plan of procedure.

He struck the lad with tremendous force, sending the gun flying from his grasp and knocking Nick fully a dozen feet. Never in all his life had the boy received such a terrific shock, which drove the breath from his body and sent him spinning, as it seemed, through twenty yards of space.

Poor Nick believed half his bones were broken and that he was mortally hurt; but the result of the charge was most extraordinary.

As the antlers of the buck struck him he was thrown like a limp dummy toward the fallen tree, and, in reality, his greatest peril was therefrom. Had he been driven with full momentum against the solid trunk, he would have been killed as if smitten by a lightning stroke.

But his feet were entangled in some way and he fell headlong, his forehead within a few inches of the bark, and his head itself was driven under the trunk, which at that point was perhaps a foot above the ground.

Instinctively the nearly senseless lad did the only thing that could save him. He crawled under the trunk, so that it stood like a roof over him.

His head was toward the base, and he pushed along until the lessening space would not permit him to go further.

Thus he lay parallel with the uprooted tree, his feet at a point where the bark almost touched his heels, the space growing less and less toward his shoulders, until the back of his head rested against the shaggy bark and his nose touched the leaves.

He had scarcely done this when he heard a thud at his elbow: it was made by the knife-like hoofs of the buck, who, rearing on his hind legs, gathered his two front ones close together and brought them down with such force that, had they fallen on the body of the lad, as was intended, they would have cut into him like the edge of a powerfully driven ax.

As it was, the shielding tree trunk prevented it, and, grazing the bark, they were driven into the yielding earth half a foot deep.

The buck immediately reared and repeated the terrible blow several times, missing the body of the lad by what may be called a hair's breadth.

The animal was in a fury, and, believing his foe was at his mercy, he showed him none.

Nick heard the first thump of the sharp hoofs as they cut their way into the earth, and then his head seemed to spin, as though he had been whirled around with inconceivable velocity; innumerable stars danced before his eyes, he felt as if shooting through space, and then consciousness left him.

The buck could know nothing of this, and, had he known it, his actions would not have been affected. He continued his rearing and plunging until he saw he was inflicting no injury. Then he stopped, backed off several paces, and, lowering his head, tried to dislodge the lad from his place of refuge.

But the breadth of his antlers prevented success, which would have placed Nick just where he could finish him. The oak barred his progress, stopping the head and horns when they were almost against the body.

Then the buck reared and struck again, trying all manner of maneuvers which his instinct suggested, but providentially none of them succeeded.

All this time Nick Ribsam, who had been so badly bruised, was oblivious of the efforts against his life. Had he possessed his faculties, he could not have done anything more for his protection than he did, by lying motionless, extended along and below the trunk of the oak.

But the lusty, rugged nature of the lad soon asserted itself, and he began rallying from the shock. A reaction gradually set in, and slowly his senses returned.

It was a considerable time, however, before he realized where he was and what had befallen him. His head was still ringing, as though the clangor of a hundred anvils were sounding in his ears, and, when he drew a deep breath, a pain, as if made by a knife, was in his side.

He listened, but heard nothing of his enemy. Then, with a great labor and more suffering, he pushed himself a few inches backward, so as to give some freedom to his body and to enable him to move his head.

Turning his face, he peered out on his right: the buck was not visible in that direction.

Then he did the same toward the left: his enemy was invisible on that side also.

"He is gone," said the lad to himself, still afraid to venture from the shielding trunk that had been the means of saving him from the fury of the enraged deer.

Nick believed he was close at hand, waiting for him to make a move that would give another chance to assault him.

After several more minutes, the lad hitched farther backward, so that he was able to raise his head a few inches. This extended his field of observation, and, with a feeling of inexpressible relief, he still failed to catch sight of the game.

"I guess he got discouraged and left," said Nick, startled at the evidences of the buck's wrath so near him.

Finally the lad backed clear out from under the tree, and climbed to his feet; it was climbing in every sense, for he nearly cried with pain several times, and, still fearful that he had been seriously injured, he examined himself as best he could.

A few minutes convinced him that none of his bones was broken, although he afterward declared that he suspected his head had been fractured.

He now looked about for his gun and found it within a short distance, much scratched by the hard treatment it had received, but without any real injury.

Throwing the weapon over his shoulder, he started in the direction of the appointed rendezvous, and, as he did so, observed that it was already grown dark in the woods. Night had come, and he had quite a long distance to walk.



Chapter XXV.

The Camp Fire.


But Nick Ribsam was full of grit, and, though every step he took caused him pain, he persevered with that grim resolution that was a part of his nature from his very birth.

After walking some distance he found the soreness and stiffness leaving him, and he straightened up with something of his natural vim and elasticity of spirits.

"There's one thing certain," he added, recalling his encounter with the buck, "I didn't have any one to help me out of that scrape, except the One who always helps him that helps himself; but I never wanted a friend more than then, and, if it hadn't been for that oak, it would have been the last of Nicholas Ribsam."

"There is another thing I have learned," he added, with that glimmer of humor which was sure to show itself, "I know considerable more than I did yesterday; I have a good idea of how it feels when a wounded buck raises you, and, after this, I won't shoot one of the creatures unless I'm sure of making a better shot than I did a while ago -- hallo!"

Well might he utter the last exclamation, for at that moment he came upon the dead body of the buck, lying as he had fallen on the earth, when at last he succumbed to the wound received at the hands of Nick himself.

The boy stopped to examine it, for he was much impressed by the discovery.

"That came very near ending in the death of us both: nothing but the oak saved me. I wonder whether I am going right."

He raised his head from his examination, and looked about him, but he was without the means of judging whether he was following the proper direction or not. When leaving the scene of his encounter with the deer, he had taken the course that seemed to be right, without pausing until he could make himself certain in the matter.

This is pretty sure, in a majority of cases, to lead one astray, but it so happened with Nick that he headed in a bee-line for the camp, where the impatient Sam Harper was awaiting him.

But the error came afterward: he toiled forward without any guide, and soon began to turn to the left, so that he was in reality moving on the circumference of a large circle, without suspecting how much he wandered from the true course.

This peculiar mistake is made by many who are lost in the wilderness, and is supposed to be due to the fact that everybody is either right or left handed, instead of being ambidextrous as we all ought to be.

One side of the body being stronger than the other, we unconsciously exert the limb on that side the most, and swerve from a straight line, unless we have something to direct in the shape of a landmark or guiding-post.

It was not until Nick had gone a long ways out of the right course that he suspected his error: the appearance of the camp fire which Sam Harper had kindled, was what led him to stop and make the best investigation he could.

There was little else he could appeal to, and he was in doubt as to whether that had not been kindled by some other party; but fortunately, while he was debating the matter, he caught the faint but distinct signal of his friend, who was on the point of starting out to look for him.

Nick replied, and in the course of half an hour had joined Sam and Herbert by the fire.

They were relieved beyond expression to see the figure of the sturdy little fellow, as he emerged from the gloom, and took his seat around the camp fire.

They noticed that he limped, and knew something unusual must have taken place to delay him. He had the most attentive of listeners when he related his dangerous encounter with the buck, which came so nigh ending his life.

But, happily, he had come out without any serious injury, and the lads attacked their supper with the keenest of appetites.

"The reason the buck did not kill you," said Herbert, "was because he was disabled by the wound I gave him."

"He was struck by one bullet only, and that one was mine," said Nick, who saw no sense in deferring to the absurd claims of the youth.

"Possibly not, but we shall have to examine his carcass to make sure of that."

"I don't believe we shall have much time to look after dead deer," said Sam, "for I believe we are in the neighborhood of the very bear we're looking for."

His friends turned toward him for an explanation of this remark, which was uttered with all seriousness.

"Bowser has been acting very queer for the last half-hour."

"I think he has acted queer all day," observed Nick.

"I did not consider him of much account until he saved me from the rattlesnake this afternoon; after that, I'm ready to believe he's got a good deal more sense than you are willing to think."

Then Sam told his story, and added that the hound had left the vicinity of the fire several times, and, going some distance in the woods, had come back, giving utterance to a peculiar whine. At the same time he looked up in the face of his master with much the same expression as he did when seeking to warn him of his danger from the poisonous serpent.

"There he goes now!" suddenly exclaimed Sam; "just watch him!"

Bowser had been stretched out near enough to the fire to receive much of its warmth, and appeared to be asleep. All at once he threw up his head and sniffed the air, as though he scented something; then he rose, with a low whine, and trotted straight out in the gloom.

The lads listened attentively for some sound from him, but all remained still. At the end of ten minutes he came trotting to view again, and walked straight up to his master, looked up in his face, wagging his tail, and whined again.

"You can depend on it," said Sam, "he has made some discovery, though I have no idea what it is."

"Let's follow him and find out."

It was Nick Ribsam who made the proposal; the others were inclined to hold back, but the plucky little fellow insisted, and it was agreed that Bowser's secret should be learned by keeping him company to the spot which he visited.



Chapter XXVI.

An Unexpected Attack.


The three boys had scarcely agreed to the proposition to follow the hound, when Bowser, as if he understood their intention, rose from the ground where he had been lying, close to the camp fire, looked sharply out in the gloom of the surrounding woods, and then moved along the same course he had taken several times before.

He did not trot, but walked with a deliberate gait, as if he felt the importance of being the leader of such a party.

"It must be a wild animal," said Sam, in an undertone, "or Bowser wouldn't act that way."

"It's the bear, of course; see that your guns are ready, and when you fire be sure you don't miss," warned Herbert.

An idea suddenly occurred to Nick Ribsam.

"All wild animals are afraid of fire: let's each take a torch to keep him off."

The others eagerly caught up a blazing brand and strode forward with more confidence than ever.

Herbert Watrous, who was sensible that he had not made such an exhibition before the others as he desired, placed himself at the head of the little company.

He hardly would have done this, had he not been certain that the flaming brands would act as a shield to keep away the wild animal, whatever its nature.

Each lad found it a little awkward to carry his loaded and cocked rifle in one hand and the flaming stick of wood in the other. It cannot be said there was any special difficulty in the task itself, but if a crisis came the boy would have to surrender one of his weapons.

The young hunters formed a picturesque group as they moved forward in Indian file, each holding a burning torch above his head and swinging it so as to keep the blaze going, while his gun was trailed in the other hand.

The hound Bowser was at the head, Herbert Watrous next, Sam Harper followed, and Nick Ribsam, who still limped slightly, brought up the rear.

The hound showed an intelligence which would have been surprising but for his action respecting the rattlesnake. He kept on a slow walk, so as not to leave his friends, and now and then looked at them, as if to make sure they were not trying to shrink from an important duty.

"Keep your torches going," called out Herbert, in a husky whisper, as he swung his own so vigorously that a large piece dropped off, and, falling on his foot, caused him to leap up with an exclamation of affright.

The fact was, they had gone no more than a hundred feet from the camp fire when Herbert began to feel that he had not shown enough care in picking out his torch, for the blaze was feeble, and, in spite of continued nursing, showed a tendency to collapse altogether.

"Keep close to me, boys," he said, waiting for Sam to come still nearer, "for I don't like the way this torch is behaving; I believe it is going out altogether, and I think I'll get a better -- "

"Look out! there he is now!" exclaimed Sam, in no little excitement.

As he uttered the warning words, Bowser turned squarely about and ran back to where his master had halted with the smoking torch, and crouched at his feet, whining and appealing for protection against some enemy.

Just then a savage sniff was heard, followed instantly by the sound of hoofs, as the unknown animal charged upon Herbert Watrous, who was whirling his half-expired torch around his head with such swiftness that it made a ring of fire, similar to those which all boys delight to look upon during the pyrotechnic displays on the Fourth of July.

Herbert was so impressed with the importance of this action, that he threw all his energy in it, stooping down and rising on his tip-toes with the motion of the torch, and grunting hard and with much regularity, as he always did when exerting himself with unusual vigor.

He caught the warning cry of Sam and the rattle of the hoofs at the same instant.

"Shoot him! Shoot him!" he shouted to his friends, who could not gain the view of the beast necessary to make the shot safe for Herbert himself.

The savage creature, from some reason, probably because the torch was less formidable, made for the city youth, who was not aware of his danger until too late.

The brute went directly between his outspread feet, and, lifting him on his back, carried him several paces, when Herbert, his gun, torch, and himself, mixed up in great confusion, rolled off backward, turning a partial somersault and landing solidly on his head, his gun going off in the confusion and adding to it.

Sam Harper threw down his torch, so as to use his rifle, but he saw Herbert's dilemma and waited the chance to shoot without danger of harming him; but the partial extinguishment of his own torch, and the total blotting out of Herbert's, rendered the risk still greater.

While he stood, with gun partly raised and hand on the trigger, Herbert rolled off, but Sam had not time to catch the fact when the beast shot between his legs, and he felt himself lifted off his feet and fairly whizzing through the air.

Nick Ribsam's torch was burning brightly and illuminated the whole scene. He was in a stooping position, holding his flaming brand so he could see everything, and he was laughing so hard that he could hardly keep from falling to the ground from weakness.

He had recognized the animal, which they had held in such terror, as a large hog that had doubtless wandered in the woods so long with his mates, eating the acorns and nuts fallen from the trees, that he was half wild and ready to attack any one who came near him.

The hog was a lank, bony fellow, with great strength and swiftness of gait, and, like his fiercer brother the wild boar of Europe, he possessed undoubted courage.

"Well, if that ain't the funniest sight I ever saw!" roared Nick, bending himself almost double with laughter; "we thought it was a bear, and I guess Herbert and Sam are sure it is a royal Bengal tiger or mad elephant -- "



Chapter XXVII.

Was It A Joke?


At that instant, Nick Ribsam felt himself suddenly lifted in air and spinning forward with great speed on the back of the vigorous hog, which plunged between his rather short legs.

The astounded lad instantly stopped laughing, and, dropping his gun and torch, grasped at something to sustain himself against the peril, the nature of which he could hardly guess.

The hog had struck him from the front, so that Nick was seated in reverse position on his back. The object which he grasped was the spiral tail of the animal, but, before he could make his grip certain, the porker swerved so suddenly to one side that Nick rolled off and bumped against a tree.

His body was not hurt to one half the extent that his feelings were, for he heard Sam Harper roaring with mirth, loud enough to be heard half a mile; and as Nick hastily clambered upon his feet, he was certain Herbert's cracked laugh was also rending the night air.

The porker, having made the round and paid his tribute to each member of the company in turn, whisked off into the woods, with a triumphant grunt, as if to say, "I guess you folks and your dog will let me alone now."

As soon as the boys found their guns, and restored two of the torches to a blaze, they looked at each other and gave way to their unrestrained mirth for several minutes before they could speak so as to be understood.

Never had a pompous expedition ended more ignobly: they had started out to attack a fierce black bear, and unexpectedly were overturned by a large-sized pig, which resented the interference with his slumber.

Some naturalists maintain that many animals possess a sense of the humorous, and it looked as though the sluggish Bowser enjoyed the joke as much as did the victims; for, when the latter made their way back to the camp fire, they saw the hound stretched out close to the warm blaze with his head between his paws and apparently asleep; but, watching him closely, he was seen to open one of his eyes, just a little ways, and, surveying them a minute, he closed it to open again a minute later.

No animal could have said more plainly:

"I've got the joke on you this time, boys, and I'm laughing so hard that I can't keep my eyes open."

"I tell you there is a good deal more in the heads of brutes than many of us think," said Nick Ribsam, after he had studied the actions of the hound; "I believe he wanted to make us believe there was some sort of game out there so as to play the fool with us."

"Do you think he foresaw the trick of the hog?" asked Herbert, who was rubbing his bruised elbows and knees.

"That would have been impossible, for we could not have foreseen it ourselves if we had arranged the joke; he simply meant to mislead us, and then we acted the fool for his amusement."

It looked very much as if Nick Ribsam was correct in his supposition, and that Bowser enjoyed even more than they the shrewd trick he had played on them.

"I suppose there are several hundred hogs wandering through the woods," said Nick, "picking up acorns and nuts that have fallen off the trees, and making a good living at it."

"Yes, lots of them have been running wild for weeks and months," added Sam, "and when their owners try to gather them in, there will be trouble, for it doesn't take hogs long to become savage."

"It didn't take that hog very long, I'm sure," observed Herbert, sitting down with care upon the ground.

"But how was it there was but one?" asked Sam.

"There wasn't need of any more than one," said Nick; "he had no trouble in doing as he pleased with us."

"But hogs go in droves, and you wouldn't be apt to find one of them by himself in the woods."

"There were others close by, for I am sure I heard them; but it is a little curious that they didn't attack us, for hogs don't know as much as dogs, and they had no reason to feel that one of their number was more than enough for us."

"I don't see the use in talking about it," remarked Herbert, who gently tipped his body to the other side, so as to rest differently on the ground; "I am sure I never was so upset in all my life."

"Nor were we," added Nick; "hogs are queer creatures; if a drove finds it is going to be attacked by an enemy, the boars will place themselves on the outside, with the sows and younger ones within, so as to offer the best resistance to the bear or whatever it is, and they will fight with great fury. In a wild state, they can run fast, and when the tusks of the boars get to be six or eight inches long, as they do in time, they are afraid of no animal in the woods."

"How is that?" asked Herbert, again shifting his position with great care, but feeling interested in what the lad was telling.

"I suppose because they haven't any reason to be afraid. With those frightful tusks curving upward from the lower jaw, and with a strength like Sampson in their necks, they can rip up a bear, a tiger, or any animal that dare attack them."

"I s'pose they're very strong, Nick?" continued Herbert.

"So strong, indeed, that one of the wild boars in Germany has run under the horse of a hunter, and, lifting both clear from the ground, trotted fifty yards with them, before the struggling animal could get himself loose."

Herbert looked fixedly at the narrator for a moment, then solemnly reached out his hand to Sam, for him to shake over the last astounding statement, which was altogether too much for him to credit.

Sam Harper grasped the hand and wabbled it once or twice, but said:

"It's as true as gospel, Herbert; I don't know anything about it myself, but when Nick Ribsam tells you anything for truth, you can make up your mind it is the truth and nothing else."

The friends lay for a long time by the camp fire, talking over the events of the day, while Nick Ribsam gave them many wonderful facts concerning the various wild animals found in different parts of the world. The lad read everything he could obtain relating to natural history, and his strong memory retained nearly all the facts.

But, as the night wore on, all three began to feel drowsy, and they made ready to sleep.

The arrangements for doing this were not so perfect as they could wish. Not one of them had anything like a blanket, and, though it was the time of the balmy Indian summer, the nights were quite cold.

There was an abundance of wood around them, and they gathered all they could possibly need. Then they heaped up a big lot of leaves and lay down as close to each other as possible.

This was the best that could be done; but it gave a great advantage to the one who lay in the middle, as the warmth of the others kept him comfortable, while they were forced to turn one side to the cold air.

By changing about, however, they got along quite well until past midnight, when the pile of leaves caught fire and caused them to leap to their feet with so much vigor that the outside ones got sufficiently warm to last till daylight.

The friends were glad enough when it began growing red in the east. They rose early, washed their hands and faces in the clear brook, which flowed near at hand, using their handkerchiefs for towels. Then a rabbit and couple of squirrels were shot, and, with the same wolf-like appetites, they made a nourishing and substantial meal.

The brook, from which they took a draught of clear, strengthening water, lay a short distance to the south of their camp, that is, between it and Shark Pond, which they passed the day before.

The three were standing by this stream, considering the best thing to be done to get on the track of the bear, when Sam Harper suddenly stopped talking and looked fixedly at a point a few yards away. Then he walked slowly to it, without removing his gaze, stooped down, and attentively scrutinized the ground.

Without speaking, he turned and beckoned to the others to approach.



Chapter XXVIII.

The Trail Of The Bear.


The boys did as directed, and, also stooping down, saw in the soft earth near the water the prints of the feet of a large animal, such tracks indeed as could have been made only by the bear.

All agreed that it was that much desired and yet dreaded animal, and that it was more than likely he had moved to the southward, so that in point of fact the hunters and hunted had exchanged relative positions.

Sam sternly directed the attention of Bowser to the trail, and ordered him to "look into the matter."

The hound sniffed the ground, ran back and forth several times, and then gazed up at his master, as if awaiting further orders.

"I won't stand any such nonsense as that," said his impatient master, grasping him by the baggy skin at the back of the neck and giving him several sharp blows with a switch.

Bowser yelped and kicked lustily, and, when released, placed his nose to the ground, emitted several more cries, and then trotted off, taking a direction leading almost directly back over the path Herbert had followed the day before.

"He's on the trail this time," said Sam, with restored admiration for the hound, "and if he does well, I'll consider him a great deal better hunting dog than he has shown himself yet."

In fact, Bowser acted as if anxious to redeem his tainted reputation, and, trotting quite briskly, was soon out of sight among the trees, the lads hurrying after him.

A few minutes later, the yelping of the hound ceased, but the young hunters kept up their pursuit, the fresh trail made by the dog being easily followed, as he turned over and rumpled the abundant leaves on the ground, so that it was plainly discernible.

"I wonder why he has stopped barking," said Sam.

"I guess he has got tired," was the rather original reply of Herbert, who was ready to give information, whether reliable or not.

"Bowser seems to have a way of doing things which is different from other dogs -- hallo! there he goes again."

The resounding cries of the hound echoed through the woods, seemingly at a distance of a half mile, and a little to the east of south.

"I guess he has treed him!" said Herbert, striking into a trot, the others doing the same, and very much doubting whether the odd dog had ever treed anything in his life.

A short run only was necessary, when, by stopping and listening, they learned that the hound was standing instead of running. If he had been a regular hunting dog, this fact would have proven that he had brought the game to bay.

As respecting Bowser, it was uncertain what it signified.

It did not take the lads long to hurry over the intervening space, when they came upon the hound, who was standing under a large red oak, looking up and barking with all the vigor he possessed.

"He has treed the bear, I do believe!" exclaimed Sam Harper, breaking ahead of the others in his excitement.

Nick Ribsam also thought the indications pointed that way.



Chapter XXIX.

"Help! Help!"


The belief that they were close upon the bear threw the boys into a flutter of excitement, and they walked slowly as they approached the tree, up which the hound was barking.

As has been stated, it was what was known as the red oak, very large, with branching limbs at no great distance from the ground.

"I see him! -- I see him!" whispered Herbert, just as he caught his foot in a root and pitched forward.

"Where?"

Herbert picked up his hat, muttered something impatient, and then looked upward again, and found he was mistaken.

"I thought that big knot up there was the bear," replied the city youth, in meeker tones.

The boys slowly circled about the tree again and again, back and forth, scrutinizing trunk, limbs, and twigs so closely that a cat could not have concealed itself from view.

The result was disheartening: there was no bear in sight.

"May be the trunk is hollow," suggested Sam, "and he has gone into a hole."

They struck against the bark, but the sound showed that the wood beneath was solid. Besides, an examination of the bark itself failed to bring to view the scratching and abrasion that would have been made by a bear in going up, and especially in coming down, the trunk.

Bowser, beyond all question, had been "barking up the wrong tree."

"You're a pretty hunting dog, ain't you?" sneered Sam Harper, addressing the canine; "come here, that I may give you another switching."

But Bowser wheeled about, and, taking the trail again, trotted to the southward, his nose close to the ground, while he bayed at intervals of a few seconds.

"The bear ain't far off, you can make up your mind to that," said Herbert, still all excitement; "if we keep close to the dog, we'll run upon the other pretty soon."

In fact, the youthful Watrous showed such an interest in the sport that he forgot the danger which always accompanies it. Had he stopped a minute or so to reflect, he would have seen that now was the time for the three to stick together, for never was there likely to be an occasion which would demonstrate more certainly that in union there is strength.

Forgetful of this, Herbert sped forward so fast that in a brief while he vanished from view.

Nick shouted to him not to hasten so fast, but the young gentleman was not to be checked in that style, and he kept up his flight with undiminished speed.

"Let him go, then," said Nick, dropping down to a rapid walk, in which Sam joined him; "his legs are so long that he can outrun us both."

"Which is a good thing."

"Why so?"

"As soon as he catches sight of the bear, he will turn about and run with might and main."

"I'm not so sure of that," remarked Nick, who began to think there was more in Herbert than they had suspected.

"He is so anxious to get the animal that he doesn't know the risk he is running. The fight you had with the buck yesterday shows what a more harmless animal will do when he turns to fight the hunter."

"But Herbert will be likely to wait till we come up to him if he sees the bear."

"There's no telling what such a fellow will do when he loses his head; the only chance for him is that we may be so close that we can turn in and help him."

"Then we had better hurry."

Thereupon the two broke into a run again, which they kept up till pretty well tired out.

They could hear Bowser baying at no great distance, and, consequently, were sure that Herbert himself was not far off.

"If we three come upon him we ought to be able to kill him without much risk to ourselves -- that is, if we use any sort of care in taking aim."

"We must try and do that -- hark!"

At that instant they were startled by the sharp report of a rifle, the distance and direction leaving no doubt that it was fired by Herbert Watrous.

Sam and Nick fairly turned pale, and something like a feeling of envy came over them at the belief that Herbert, after all his boasting, had succeeded in bringing down the royal game without their help.

The shot was fired so close that, as they hastened forward again, they expected to come upon the hunter and his game every minute.

"Hallo! what does that mean?"

The question was caused by the sudden appearance of Bowser, who was limping toward them in a panic of terror. At every leap he uttered a yelp, which was of pain and fear.

The boys stopped, and the hound, running up, crouched down at their feet, whining and moaning.

"He is hurt!" said Sam, who noticed that he was bleeding from a wound in the shoulder, where the claws of some animal had struck him with great force.

"It was done by the bear," said Nick, "and he hit Bowser a hard blow; I shouldn't wonder if it kills him."

Sam stooped over the dog and tried to soothe him by patting and speaking kind words.

"He is badly hurt, but I hope he isn't going to die. Poor fellow! we have been unjust to him; he's a good deal braver dog than we gave him credit for."

They were still patting and soothing the wounded hound, when the report of Herbert's rifle was heard again. Sam and Nick started up and stared in the direction whence the sound came.

"He has got the bear -- "

Just then the voice of Herbert was heard ringing through the forest arches:

"Quick! quick! help! help! the bear has got me! Hurry up, boys, or I'm a goner!"

The lads dashed forward, excited and fearful they would be too late.

The voice of the imperiled hunter rang out again.

"Quick! quick! the bear has got me sure! Hurry boys, hurry, for pity's sake!"

The next instant Sam and Nick came upon an extraordinary scene.



Chapter XXX.

A Friend In Need.


Herbert Watrous had been set upon by a huge bear, and, throwing aside his Creedmoor, had run with might and main for a large stump, behind which he took refuge. Had he climbed a sapling, he would have been safe, but he was too flustered to think of that.

Dodging behind this shelter he squatted down, hoping that his enemy did not notice where he had gone; but, when he heard the brute lumbering after him, he hastily shifted his quarters to the other side of the stump. While doing so, he emitted the ringing cries for help which brought his friends in such haste to his rescue.

The situation would have been laughable but for its element of peril. Darting to the side of the stump opposite to that of the bear, Herbert would drop his head, and then instantly pop up again, like a jack-in-the-box, to see what the brute was doing. The latter, it may be said, kept things moving.

When Herbert lowered his head and yelled, his voice had a muffled sound, as though it came from a distance, but when he shot up in sight, his cries were clear and distinct.

The beast, although heavy and awkward of movement, managed to move around the stump and to reverse his course with such facility that there can be little doubt that he would have caught the lad, had not his friends been so prompt to rush to his help.

Sam and Nick felt no disposition to laugh; indeed, they were so impressed by the danger that, without exercising the care they would have done any other time, and which they meant to show when talking of the matter a few minutes before, they raised their guns together and fired.

Although the aim was not as deliberate as it should have been, yet both bullets struck the bear, though neither inflicted a mortal wound.

The brute stopped short in his circular pursuit, looked confusedly about him for a second or two, and then made straight for the lads who had fired upon him, just as the buck did in the case of Nick Ribsam.

"Scatter and climb a tree!" called out Nick, who saw they had no chance to reload.

Now was the time for Herbert to recover, and reload his gun and to take another shot at the brute, so as to draw him off from his hot pursuit of the others; but the panic-stricken youth could not realize that the danger was removed, and that his terrible foe was bestowing his attention elsewhere. He continued calling for help in a louder voice than before, believing that every minute would be his last.

Sam Harper whirled about to make for a sapling, but caught his foot in an obstruction and fell violently to the ground. Nick was so alarmed that he stopped to help him up.

"I'm all right," said Sam, "look out for yourself!"

But Nick could not desert him, until assured he was not mangled by the fall, and by that time the bear was too close for them to escape by climbing a tree.

It looked as if it would go ill with one at least (for no gun in the party was loaded, and the brute was almost upon them), when most providentially, but unexpectedly, the report of another rifle broke upon their ear, and the bullet reached the heart of the monstrous beast, who reared himself on his haunches and used his paws as though trying to draw out the splinters which he imagined were thrust into his body.

Then he swerved to one side, sagged heavily to the ground, and then it was plain that all was over.

"Are any of you hurt?"

It was the voice of the plucky Mrs. Fowler, who hurried forward with anxious face, the smoking rifle in her hands.

Herbert was still peering from behind the stump and shouting himself hoarse, with no thought of what had taken place within the last few minutes. By and by, however, after he had been called to, he comprehended the facts and came forth, when a general explanation followed.

Although Herbert would not admit it, there was no doubt that of the two shots which he fired at the bear only one touched him, and that only to a sufficient extent to graze his body and to draw his attention to the young hunter.

Herbert then dropped his gun and made for the stump, which was not a secure refuge.

This took place so near the cabin-home of Mrs. Fowler that she heard the cries for help, and, taking down her rifle, hurried to the spot, arriving just in time to save the other lads from serious danger, if not from death.

The boys overwhelmed the brave woman with thanks, and though she modestly disclaimed her right to the bear -- expressing her belief that the two shots they had fired were fatal -- they would not listen to it, but they turned to, skinned the animal, and presented the hide to her, regretting that they had not several others, that her husband might collect twenty dollars apiece from Mr. Bailey, his employer.

"This isn't the only bear in the woods," said she, thanking them for their kindness; "and some of you will see another before long. But this will do for to-day."

They thought so, too; and, swinging their hats in the air, bade her good-by and started homeward.

Sam Harper proposed that they should go out of their path to examine the carcass of the deer, so as to learn whether the shot of Herbert took effect; but that young gentleman was frank enough to admit, after his experience, that it was impossible he had come anywhere near hitting the buck. Accordingly, they continued homeward, Herbert going back to the city a few days afterward to find out, if he could, why his gun so often failed to hit the object he aimed at.



Chapter XXXI.

The "Dark Day" Of September, 1881.


The summer during which Nicholas Ribsam attained the age of twelve years was viewed with dismal forebodings by many people, for the reason that a celebrated weather prophet had foretold that it would be unusually rainy, cold, and wet.

As a consequence, it proved to be the driest known in years. Days, weeks, and even months passed without a drop of rain falling from the brassy sky, and the fine powdery dust permeated everywhere. The weather prophet lost caste, but he persisted in announcing rain, knowing that he had only to stick to it long enough to hit it in the course of time.

As the autumn approached and the drought continued over a vast extent of territory, the forest fires raged in different parts of the country. All day and night immense volumes of smoke and vapor hung over the land, and the appearance of the sun was so peculiar as to cause alarm on the part of those who were superstitious.

There came a "dark day," like that of the 19th of May, 1780, which overspread New England, and was most marked in Massachusetts. The Connecticut Legislature was in session, and the belief was so universal that the last awful day had come that the motion was made to adjourn. Then, as the graphic Quaker poet says:

All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice The intolerable hush. "This well may be The Day of Judgment which the world awaits; But be it so or not, I only know My present duty, and my Lord's command To occupy till He come. So at the post Where He has set me in His providence, I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face --  No faithless servant frightened from my task, But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls; And, therefore, with all reverence, I would say, Let God do His work, we will see to ours. Bring in the candles." And they brought them in.

Tuesday, September 7, 1881, was a day very similar to the memorable one of a century ago. A strange, greenish-yellow pall overspread the heavens, and so darkened the light of the sun that lamps and gas were lighted, schools and factories closed, and multitudes of the ignorant and superstitious believed that the Day of Judgment had come.

Everything looked changed and unnatural. The faces of people on the streets were ghastly, the gas jets in the stores, instead of showing yellow, were as white and clear as the electric lights, and thousands of the sect known as Second Adventists gathered in their places of worship and confidently awaited the appearing of the Lord.

The "dark day" was more wonderful in the country. The leaves and withering foliage assumed a most singular tint of green, changing, like that of the grass, to a brownish hue; fowls went to roost, and the animal creation must have been greatly mystified by a phenomenon such as they had never witnessed before.

A curious feature of this luminous haze was that it cast no shadow. It was as light under the trees as away from them, the whole unnatural appearance of things most likely being due to the immense forest fires which were raging in many parts of the country.

It was during the summer, I repeat, in which Nick Ribsam reached the age of twelve years, that so many forest fires raged, and it was in the autumn of the same year that he saw the famous dark day, so similar to that of September, 1881; in fact, it could not have resembled it more closely, for I may as well state it was that very day to which I refer.

"Nick," said his father, on that September morning, addressing his boy in Dutch, "I promised to pay James Bradley one hundred dollars to-day before three o'clock."

"Yes, sir," responded the boy, who knew that the debt would be paid on time.

"He was to come here to our house to get it, but he sent me word last night that he would be much obliged if I would send it to him at Martin's store in Dunbarton, as he is obliged to be there all day. I like to accommodate any one, and I will therefore send you to take it to him."

"Yes, sir; I am ready to go whenever you want me to do so."

Dunbarton, as has been stated, was a village nine miles away, and the principal grocery store in the place was kept by Jacob Martin. It was there that Nick was to take the one hundred dollars which was to be handed to James Bradley, to whom his father owed it.

It was like a holiday for Nick to take such a drive, and he was glad when his father made known his wishes.

"Harness up the mare to the fall-top and drive over; you ought to be back early in the afternoon."

"I will, if nothing happens to prevent."

Just then rosy-faced Nellie came out to feed the chickens. As the fowls flocked toward her, some perching on her shoulders, head, and wherever they could find a resting-place, she scattered the golden grains of corn with a deft and lavish hand.

Her father looked at the cheeks as red as apples and the eyes glowing with health, and, dropping into English, said with a sigh and shake of the head:

"I dinks dot Nellie looks some bale."

He meant to say pale, and Nick laughed.

"I don't think she is very sick; she ate more breakfast than I did this morning."

"Dot ish so, but I dinks dot I leafes her go mit you to Dunbarton, if she can shpare her moder."

Mr. Ribsam meant all right, and when his wishes were made known to Nellie she was delighted; her mother was glad to give her the privilege of an excursion, for she was an industrious little girl, and, furthermore, there were some purchases to be made both for the mother and daughter, which Nellie could attend to better than could any boy, no matter how intelligent.

The famous "dark day" of 1881 prevailed principally in New England and the State of New York; but it was noticed further south, especially in some of the wooded portions of Pennsylvania, though in the larger part of the commonwealth it attracted no great attention.

It was between seven and eight o'clock when the four-wheeled carriage with the single seat, and which vehicle is known as a "fall top" in some sections of the country, was driven from the humble home of the Ribsams, with the brother and sister seated in it.

As they approached the scene of Nellie's adventure with the bear, they naturally talked about it, while Nick again related his own thrilling experience, when the animal was shot by Mrs. Fowler, just in the nick of time.

Shark Creek had suffered so much from the long continued drought that it was no more than one fourth its usual volume; but the pond below was not much diminished in size, as it did not flow off except when at a certain height.

The brother and sister did not speak of the peculiar appearance of the atmosphere until nearly to the bridge. There had been a great deal of smoke floating over the country for several days, but there was nothing to cause any fear on the part of those who lived near the large stretches of timber.

As the darkness increased, however, Nick said:

"It must be caused by the thick smoke; but I don't think it will last, and when we reach Dunbarton that will be the end of it."

"It won't make any difference," said Nellie, "unless it gets so dark we can't see the way."

"No fear of that."

But when at last they emerged from the woods, and shortly after entered the village, the impressive gloom was deeper than ever. The villagers were awed by the unnatural appearance of nature, and were standing in groups looking at the sky and talking in undertones.

Many were frightened, and not a few hurried to their homes, terrified with the belief that the last awful day, when the heavens shall be burned up as a scroll and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, was at hand.

Ah, had it been the final Judgment Day, how many of us would have had our houses in order for the coming of the angel of the Lord?

Nick Ribsam sprang out of the carriage, helped Nellie to alight, and went into the store of Mr. Martin, where James Bradley was found awaiting him. The money was handed over, a receipt taken, the horse fed, during which Nellie attended to the errand on which she was sent, and, an hour later, the mare was given water, and brother and sister started homeward, little dreaming of what awaited them.



Chapter XXXII.

The Burning Forest.


"It is growing darker all the time."

"So it seems; I never saw anything like it."

"Maybe it is really night, Nick, and we have lost our reckoning. Isn't there any way by which the world might swing out of its -- what do you call it?"

"Orbit, I suppose, you mean; there may be such a way, but from what I have studied, when it does do that there will be more of a disturbance than simple darkness like this."

These words were exchanged between brother and sister after they had penetrated the woods a considerable distance on their return home. It had become like night around them, except that, as has been shown, the gloom was of that peculiar lurid nature which can hardly be described, and can never be forgotten by those who saw it.

Even Nick Ribsam was impressed. It could not have been otherwise, for any one would have been lacking in natural sensibility had he failed to be awed by the singular sight. It can scarcely be said that the lad was frightened, although there came over him a yearning feeling that he might hurry home so the family could all be together, if the awful calamity -- whatever it might be -- should descend.

It was different with the sister Nellie; her nature was more impressible, and it was only by a strong effort that she kept her self-control so long. As she peeped furtively out from the carriage, she looked at the woods, penetrated by the strange haze, which perhaps took on a more striking appearance in an autumnal forest like that, than anywhere else.

"Nick, I believe it's the Last Day that has come."

The lad turned toward his sister, who was sitting far back in her seat, as though trying to shut out the scene which had such a fascination for her.

The face of the girl wore such a ghastly color, that Nick could not wonder at her fright, but he shook his head. He felt he was the man now, and it would not do for him to show any weakness.

"It isn't the Judgment Day, Nellie; for, according to the Bible, it will come in a different way than this. There are a good many things which are not understood by folks, and I suppose this must be one of them."

"I can smell burning wood," broke in the sister, leaning forward and snuffing the smoky air.

"I am sure I do, and that's what is making all this trouble."

"But suppose, Nick, these woods are on fire? How far is it back to where we entered them?"

"About three miles, and it is five to the open country ahead, where we leave them; but there is the creek, less than a mile ahead, so if we should find the woods burning, we can stop there till it is over."

The sister, however, had suggested a danger to the brother which alarmed him. The mare had been walking slowly, for it seemed more in harmony with the scene that she should do so. The driver now jerked the lines so sharply that she pricked up her ears and started off at a rapid gait, that is as the mare herself doubtless looked upon traveling.

The first real thrill of alarm came to the lad, when he recalled that if a fire should appear, he and his sister were in the worst possible position: there were three miles of forest behind and five in front.

The mare seemed to awaken to a sense of danger, for she threw up her head with unusual sprightliness, struck into a trot so rapid that Nick was a little frightened, lest in the gloom the carriage should come in contact with some obstruction which he could not detect in time.

"See there!"

As Nellie uttered the exclamation, she caught the arm of her brother and pointed ahead, but there was no need of her doing so, for he had seen the peril. The road immediately in front was filled with heavy smoke, which, as it rolled forward, caused them to cough almost to the strangulation point. At the same time, a crimson streak of flame shot in and out of the murky vapor, like the flashing of lightning: the fire was burning immediately in front and it would not do to go further.

Nick stopped the horse, and, half rising and bending forward, peered into the suffocating vapor. Then he turned and looked behind him, in which direction Nellie was also gazing.

"How is it there?" he asked.

"There is plenty of smoke, but I see no fire."

"Then we must go back."

The road was quite narrow, though there was room for two teams to pass each other, and Nick turned the frightened mare as quickly as he could; she was so nervous and fidgety that it was hard work to control her, but she was headed toward Dunbarton, after some difficulty, and as soon as the rein was given her, away she went at a spanking trot.

But neither the brother nor sister was relieved of fear, for the smoke grew denser every minute, and Nick might well ask himself whether he would be able to pass the three miles before he could reach the safety of the open country.

The question was answered much sooner than he anticipated. The sharp crackling was heard, and they caught glimpses of the fiery tongues leaping in and out among the dried leaves and vegetation on either hand. Suddenly the flames seemed to meet in front in such a rushing, roaring volume that it was vain to think of pushing any further in the face of it.

"Oh, Nick," moaned Nellie, shrinking close to him, "we are going to be burned alive!"

"It does look bad, Nellie, but we mustn't give up yet; one thing is certain, it won't do to try to reach Dunbarton to-day."

"But we can't go homeward."

"It doesn't look so bad that way as it does toward Dunbarton: we must try one of the roads, and I would rather work toward home than away from it."

Nick was busy while talking; he saw that the mare was becoming panic-stricken, and it required all his strength and firmness to keep her from breaking away from him.

"O Nick," moaned Nellie, "we are going to be burned alive."

By using the whip, he managed to turn her again in the road, and then he struck her sharply with the lash.

"Nellie, catch hold of my arm," he said to her, feeling that even if everything came out in the best form, a severe struggle was before them.

The mare sniffed, and, glancing to her right and left, gave a whinny of terror as she dropped into her swiftest trot, which, a minute after, she changed to a gallop; but Nick brought her down instantly to her more natural gait.

Nellie slipped her arm under the elbow of her brother, and then clasped her two hands, so as to hold fast for the shock which she believed would soon come.

A large branch had fallen across the road, and Nick did not catch sight of it until too late to check the flying mare. The carriage seemed to bound fully a foot into the air, and an ominous wrench told the driver that it had suffered material damage.

But there was no time to stop and examine; the terrified horse sprang into a gallop again, and this time Nick did not restrain her.

There was smoke all around them; the air was hot and suffocating; they could hear the crackling of flames, and now and then the crimson flash through the murky vapor showed that a frightful forest fire was raging on every hand.

Still the mare kept forward at the same swift gallop, and Nick knew that more than once she felt the blistering heat on her haunches. It is a strange peculiarity of the horse, which often shows a wonderful degree of intelligence, that he generally loses his wits when caught in a conflagration. Instead of running away from the flames he often charges among them, and there remains, fighting those who are trying to save him.

Very probably the mare would have acted similarly in the instance of which I am speaking had the circumstances permitted it; but there was fire all about her, and the temptation was as strong, therefore, in one direction as another.

Nick kept his self-possession. He knew by the desperate energy with which Nellie clung to his arm that she was helpless, and that every minute they were likely to plunge headlong into and among the roaring flames.

He could not guide the mare, which was now controlled by her own instinctive desire to escape a danger which was on every hand. He merely sought to direct her, so far as possible, in the hope that he might save the carriage from being dashed to pieces.

When he saw the flames meeting across the road he shouted to Nellie to hold her breath, and he did the same, until they had swept through the fiery, strangling ring, and were able to catch a mouthful of the smoky and scorching atmosphere beyond.



Chapter XXXIII.

Through The Fire.


It was hard to remain cool when surrounded by such peril as were Nick and Nellie Ribsam but the sturdy lad acquitted himself like a hero.

His belief was that all the woods were not on fire -- that is, the entire tract was not burning at once, and that, as a consequence, if he could break through the flaming circle in which he was caught, he could place himself and sister in front of the danger, so to speak, and then they would be able to run away from it altogether.

If such were the case, it followed that just then speed was the most important of all things, and for that reason he kept the mare on her sweeping gallop, at the imminent risk of dashing the carriage to pieces every minute.

He was glad that he did not meet any vehicles, for it not only showed that no one else in the neighborhood was placed in the same extremity as were he and his sister, but it lessened the danger of collision.

Nick thought it was all over with them, when a fiery serpent, as it seemed, darted across from one side of the road to the other, directly in front. It was at the height of five or six feet, and coiling itself about a dry pine it shot horizontally toward another pine, wrapped with a flaming girdle, which sent out a line of fire to meet it, like the intense blaze seen when a blow-pipe is used.

It was a curious manifestation, and it would be hard to explain it, for, though a strong wind was blowing, that would not account for the fact that the two tongues of fire, as they really were, met each other in this fashion across the road, for of a necessity they extended themselves in opposite directions.

They did not burn steadily, but whisked back and forth, just as it may be imagined two serpents would have done who saw the fugitives coming, and, making ready, said by their actions, "Thus far, but no farther."

To Nick Ribsam it looked like the flaming sword of Hazael, sweeping across the highway; but it would never do to hesitate, and the mare galloped straight on. The fiery serpents darted angrily at each other, but the head of the horse glided beneath and the boy caught a hot blast as he shot by.

"Where is the bridge?" shouted Nellie, who could see nothing, and who clung more desperately than ever to the supporting arm of her brother.

"It must be close at hand -- there it is!"

So it was, indeed, but the fire was ahead of them; the whole structure was one mass of flames, roaring and crackling with fury.

The scene that followed was a dreadful one: the sight of the furnace-like structure set the mare wild, and she broke into a dead run toward the blazing mass of kindling wood, determined to plunge headlong into it.

Nick Ribsam rose to his feet, and bent back with might and main, but he might as well have tried to check a runaway locomotive: the mare took the bit in her teeth and was beyond control.

With a presence of mind which did him credit, Nick wrenched her to one side, while she was at the height of this mad flight, so that the hub of the fore wheel struck a tree at the side of the road, checking the vehicle so abruptly that both traces snapped as if they were ribbons, and the mare continued her gallop in the direction of the bridge.

The momentum of Nellie threw her violently against the dashboard, while Nick, before he could let go the reins, was jerked out the carriage, and, lighting on his feet, ran a dozen steps ere he could check himself and free his hands from the reins.

He stopped almost on the edge of the creek, and caught one glimpse of the mare as she bounded out of sight into the smoke and flames, and was gone forever.

The lad felt a pang of sorrow for the foolish beast, who stood as good a chance of saving herself as he, had she but used a tithe of common sense; but there was no time for mourning, and he ran back to the vehicle, where Nellie was crouching, and crying violently.

"Why, Nellie, I am ashamed of you!" said her brother, reprovingly. "Is it going to mend matters to sit down and cry?"

"But how can I help it, Nick?" she asked, rubbing her red eyes with her apron and trying to check herself; "I don't see how you can keep from crying yourself!"

"I'm glad I ain't such a ninny as you, and when I get home I am going to tell father and mother."

"You needn't be so smart," said Nellie, beginning to fire up under the reproof of her brother; "you haven't got home yet."

"And mighty little chance I would stand of ever getting there if I should sit down like you and begin to blubber. Come out of the carriage and go with me."

Nellie's face was very red and there were tears on her cheeks, her countenance wearing a strange appearance in the lurid haze around them.

The girl did not make any objection, for she could not do otherwise than lean on the strong arm of her brother, who never seemed to lose his head over anything. Every minute or so a distressing feeling came over them -- such a feeling as we can imagine would be ours were we suddenly to find ourselves shut in a room where the air was so impure we could not breathe it.

There was a gasping, hurried inhalation of the strangling hot smoke -- a coughing and filling of the eyes with tears, and then a frantic rush of several steps, during which the breath was held until a chance to get a mouthful of fresh air was gained.

It was useless to turn back. The children were in the very heart of the wood, and the conflagration was raging so furiously on both sides, and in front and rear, that it was impossible to escape in either direction.

But for the timely arrival at the edge of the creek they must have perished a few minutes later, and they could not feel certain as yet that even water would save them.

The creek was so low, that when they hurriedly picked their way down the bank to it, Nick could have taken Nellie on his back and carried her across without wetting her feet; but there was nothing to be gained by doing so, as the fire was burning as fiercely on one side as on the other.

The conflagration must stop when it should reach the margin of the stream, and Nick drew a sigh of relief, feeling that they were safe.

"We will wait here till the fire is done burning," said he, standing with the hand of his sister in his own, while he gazed about him on the extraordinary scene.

The day had been quite warm, and Nick and Nellie, pausing on the bank of the shrunken creek, began to find themselves exceedingly uncomfortable; for not only was there a great increase of heat, but the smoke was too heavy to be breathed without great pain and irritation to the lungs.

"It looks as if we are to be strangled to death, after all," Nick said, "for it is hard to breathe now, and it is growing worse every minute."

"Let's go up by the pond: it isn't far away."

"It must be as bad there as anywhere else, but we shall die if we stay here."

There seemed little choice in the matter, but one of the impossibilities is for a boy or girl to stand still when suffering, and the suggestion of Nellie was acted upon at once.

She had released the arm of Nick, who started up the right bank, she following close behind him. The walking was easy, for the creek had receded from the greater portion of the bed it usually occupied, and that had become hardened by long exposure to the heat of the sun.

It was not far to the pond of which I have spoken, and which occupied an extent of an acre, or perhaps more. The place was a favorite with the boys of the neighborhood, and some of the most delightful swims Nick Ribsam had ever enjoyed were in that sheet of water.

The water was cold, clear, and deep in many places. What more tempting resort for a tired, thirsty and overheated lad can be imagined especially when he knows that it will be a piece of disobedience for him to go there?

"That's the place," he exclaimed, hastening his footsteps; "when we get there, we'll have a chance to breathe."

"Hurry up, then, Nick, for I can't stand this much longer."



Chapter XXXIV.

Calling In Vain.


The distress of the brother and sister became greater every minute. They walked hurriedly along the bank of the creek, their path through the gloom illuminated now and then by the flashes of fire which shot through the strangling volumes of vapor. Nick, more than likely, would have gone astray but for his familiarity with the neighborhood.

It seemed to him as if the smoke, heavy, dense, sulphurous and suffocating, caused by the burning forest, was driven toward the bed of the stream, where it was pressed down by the weight from above, until it was the utmost he and Nellie could do to inhale enough of the contaminated air to sustain life.

They hurried and struggled forward as best they could, and at last caught the glimmer of the broad expanse of water, which presented itself in the light of a haven of refuge to them.

It was a most welcome relief indeed, for they were now assured of one thing -- they could not die the frightful death that overtook the poor mare. This broad expanse of cool, refreshing water could not burn up, no matter how fervent the heat that might envelop its shores. Its cool depths offered a refreshing refuge, such as can hardly be understood by one who is not suffering similarly.

But it was rather curious that the boy and girl had endured more from the suffocating vapor than from the fire itself. Looking down at their garments, they were surprised to find them scorched in several places, and Nellie gave just the faintest scream when a pungent odor directed her gaze to a large hole burning in her dress.

Nick glanced around, and, understanding what the matter was, called rather sharply:

"Pinch it out!"

She was already doing so, and she asked:

"Why don't you pinch out that fire on your coat?"

Just then her brother jumped into the air and shouted, "Oh -- ouch!" for the burning sleeve had gone through the shirt and reached the bare skin. He whipped off his coat in a twinkling, dipped it hastily into the water, doing the same with his right elbow, the element which extinguished the smoking garment being very grateful to the scorched limb.

"Nellie," said he, "just cast your eye over me, and let me know whether there are any more fires going."

He made up his mind that if she reported other conflagrations breaking out, he would subdue them in a lump by taking a header in the pond, whose shore they reached at that moment. But Nellie said he was in no danger so far as she could see, of immediate combustion and when she came to examine her own garments they were also free from the same peril.

"Now, what shall we do that we have got here?" she asked, as, after walking a few steps, he came to a stop.

"Wait, and see how things are coming out," he answered. "I begin to feel tired, so suppose we sit down and rest ourselves."

The moment this was done, both uttered an exclamation of pleasure; for the relief from the distressing smoke was so great that it was as if they had emerged into the open country, where there was none of it at all.

"Why did we not think of this before?" said Nick; "we ought to have known that smoke doesn't keep close to the ground."

The atmosphere was not clear by any means, but the change was so marked that it appeared more than pure, and they sat several minutes gratefully inhaling that from which it seemed they had been shut off for many hours.

But their rejoicing was too soon; for, though it may be true that in a burning building the surest place in which to gain enough air to support life is close to the floor, yet there can be so much of the strangling vapor that it will penetrate everywhere.

Less than five minutes had passed, when a volume of smoke swept over and enveloped them, so dense that it was like the darkness of Egypt, that could be felt, and the suffering of the brother and sister was pitiful.

"Put your face close to the water," called out Nick, as well as he could do from coughing and strangling.

At the same moment, their fevered cheeks touched the cold, refreshing surface, and something of relief was experienced.

"It won't do to stay here," said Nick, a moment later.

"But where can we go?"

"Out in the pond; there's a better chance to breathe there than along shore."

"But I can't swim, Nick."

"What of that? I can, and I'll take care of you; but there is plenty of wood and we can make a raft. That reminds me that there was a raft here last week, when Sam Harper and I had a swim: I wonder where it can be. Help me to look for it."

They moved slowly along the margin of the pond, peering through the gloom as best they could, but seeing nothing of the support on which they now placed so much hope.

Nick Ribsam, however, did not fail to notice one thing -- it was becoming hotter every minute and they could not wait much longer before entering the water in very self-defense.

They pushed bravely on, and when the circuit of Shark Pond was half completed, reached a point where the thick vapor lifted, or, more properly, it had not yet descended, and they stopped to rest themselves again.

"Well," exclaimed Nick, with a sigh, "some folks would call this fun, but I don't see where it comes in."

"I don't see how any one could find fun in such suffering; but, Nick, you will have to make a raft."

"I believe you are right; there isn't much chance to fasten these dry logs together, and I haven't time to build one that will hold us both."

"What will you do?"

"I will place you on it, and I'll swim along-side --  -- "

"There's the raft! I see it! I see it!"

Nellie sprang to her feet and pointed out on the pond where, through the smoky gloom, the outlines of the half dozen logs, which Nick and several of his playmates had bound together with withes, when frolicking in the water, were seen.

The lad threw off his hat, vest, shoes, and stockings, so that only his shirt and trousers remained, and then took a header, his whole being thrilling with pleasure as the cold water closed around him.

"Take care of my clothes!" he called to Nellie, "and I'll bring the raft over to you."

As there was no immediate hurry, the situation of his sister being quite comfortable, the lad could not resist the temptation to disport himself awhile in the cool, refreshing element. He sank until his bare feet touched the pebbly bottom, and then shot upward with a bound; then he went over backward, floundered, and tumbled about like a porpoise.

"Nick," called his sister, "you had better hurry and get that raft, for I cannot see it now."

This startled the lad, but when he found he could not see Nellie either, he understood that it was on account of the overshadowing gloom that had fallen still lower; at the same time the disturbance of the atmosphere had caused a strong wind to blow across the pond, and it was doubtless this which had started the mass of pine logs from the land, and was now bearing it away from where it lay when discovered by the girl.

"Are you comfortable there?" called out Nick to his sister.

"Yes, but don't wait too long, for it is growing warm, and I think the fire is close to me."

The lad felt he had done wrong in idling his time, and he bent all his energies toward swimming to the raft, which, under any circumstances could not be far off.

As it was, Nick was amazed to find it necessary to go a considerable ways before he caught sight of the familiar pile of logs floating buoyantly on the water, but he speedily reached them, and, drawing himself on top, hunted for the long pole that he had used so many times in navigating the pond.

But it was not there, and he sank back into the water, and, holding on with his hands, used his feet vigorously to propel the raft toward the bank, where he had left his loved sister but a short time before.

"I'll soon be there, Nellie," he called; "are you all right?"

This was a curious question to ask, though it was natural, perhaps, for any boy, under similar circumstances, but Nick felt a pang of fear when he repeated the call and did not receive any answer.

He put forth all the energy at his command, and steadily pushed the float toward land. Now and then, while doing so, he shouted to his sister, without hearing any reply.

"Can it be anything has happened to her?" he asked himself several times as he peered through the gloom, unable to catch the outlines of brave little Nellie.



Chapter XXXV.

What Frightened Nellie.


Nick Ribsam thought not of himself, in his anxiety for his sister. He had left her but a few brief minutes before, sitting on the shore of the lake, and now when he returned she was missing.

He had called to her repeatedly without receiving any answer, and when he looked about him in the smoke and gloom, he could see nothing of her loved figure.

He noticed that it was very hot where he stood, and there could be no doubt that the flames were advancing in that direction. His dread was that Nellie had lost her wits in the presence of the new danger, and had run blindly into the burning woods where there could be no escape for her.

"Nellie! Nellie!" he shouted in agonized tones; "Where are you? Why don't you answer me?"

He thought he heard something like a faint response, but it was not repeated, and poor Nick was half distracted. For the first time since entering the burning forest he lost his self-control, and not doubting that his sister was somewhere close at hand, he dashed among the trees, still calling to her at the height of his voice.

He had gone but a short distance when he was brought face to face with such a fierce blast of flame that he was forced to turn and run back to the water's edge, where he stopped for a minute or two gasping for breath.

This repulse served to give him time to collect his wits, and he tried hard to decide what was best to do, for he was resolved never to leave that place until he learned the fate of Nellie.

"She had good sense," he added to himself, "and she would not have done such a foolish thing. She has gone to some other spot along the shore and is waiting for me."

Possibly this was so, but it did not explain the curious fact that all the calls of Nick remained unanswered. The space inclosing the pond was so slight that his voice must have penetrated every portion of it, and it did seem that if she were in any place safe for her to be, she could not fail to hear him.

Nick found a long branch, which answered for a pole with which to guide the raft, and stepping on it he began pushing it along shore as rapidly as he could, looking into the gloom about him and often pronouncing the name of his sister. His heart sank within him when this continued several minutes, and half the circuit of the pond was completed without bringing him the first evidence of the whereabouts of Nellie.

Finally he paused, wearied and distressed beyond description.

The darkness of night rested on Shark Pond and the surrounding woods. The murky volumes of smoke seemed to shut out all light, excepting when the tongues of fire shot through them. The wind blew a gale, stirring the water into tiny waves, and the roaring of the fire through the woods, the sound of trees crashing to the earth, and the millions of sparks, with blazing bits of wood, were carried a great distance through the air. Some of these flaming brands fell on the raft on which Nick Ribsam stood, and they continually dropped hissing into the water around him.

The problem was, how the children had escaped thus far; and as the sturdy lad stood out on the pond with the long limb grasped in his hand, staring around him, he could not but wonder how it was he had been preserved after driving directly into the forest when it was literally aflame from one end to the other.

But these thoughts were only for the moment; he had left Nellie, not expecting to be out of her sight, much less beyond her hearing, and she had vanished as mysteriously as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up.

And yet he could not believe she was lost. She had proven that she was not the weak girl to do anything rashly, or to sit down and fold her hands and make no attempt to save herself. Something more than the general danger which impended over both must have arisen, during that brief period, to drive her from her post.

"Nellie! Nellie!" he called again, shoving the pole vigorously against the bottom of the pond.

He was sure he heard the faint response this time, and so distinctly that he caught the direction; it was from a point on the shore very nearly opposite where he had left her.

"I hear you," he called back, working the unwieldy float toward the spot; "I'll soon be there."

The distance was not great and it took but a few minutes to approach quite close to the land, where, with a delight which can scarcely be imagined, he saw Nellie standing close to the water's edge, beckoning him to make all haste.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, as he forced the craft close to her.

"No," she answered, with a strange laugh, "but I thought my last moment had come."

"Didn't you hear me call you?"

"Of course I did; any one within a mile could hear you."

"Why then didn't you answer me?"

"I was afraid to."

"Afraid of what?"

"Didn't you see him?" was the puzzling question of Nellie in return, as she stepped carefully upon the raft, helped by the extended hand of her brother.

"Nellie, stop talking in puzzles," said Nick; "I was so scared about you that I won't get over it for a week; I called to, and hunted for you, and you say you heard me; you must have known how frightened I was, and yet you stood still and never made any answer, except a minute ago, when I just managed to hear you. If you think it is right, I don't -- that's all."

He turned away offended, when she said:

"Forgive me, Nick; but I was afraid to answer you."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of that bear -- you must have seen him," was the astonishing answer of the girl.

Nellie then told her story: she was standing on the shore awaiting the return of her brother, when she was terrified almost out of senses by the appearance of a large black bear, which was evidently driven out of the burning forest by the flames.

He did not seem to notice the girl, but when he began lumbering toward her, as if seeking a good spot where he might enter the pond, Nellie did not stay on the order of her going, but fled from the new peril, hardly conscious of what direction she took. She knew better than to venture among the blazing trees from which she and her brother had had such a narrow escape, and she sped forward around the lake until she reached a point nearly opposite. On the way she never looked behind her once, certain as she was that the creature was ready to seize and devour her.

She was sure she heard him crashing almost upon her heels; but when she paused, and finally turned her frightened looks backward, nothing of the brute was to be seen, and she did not know what had become of him.

"That's the other bear which Mrs. Fowler saw, and which she told Sam Harper, Herbert Watrous, and me, we would see some time or other."

"But that was almost two years ago."

"I know that; don't you suppose a bear will keep that long? This one has known enough to stay out of sight until the fire has forced him from his hiding-place."

After Nellie had heard her brother call to her, she was fearful that if she answered she would betray herself to the brute, who would instantly make for her; so she held her peace, even though she saw nothing of the bear, and venturing on a rather feeble answer when the tones of Nick told how much apprehension he was suffering over his failure to find her.

Now that the two were on the raft, which was shoved out in the deep water, something like confidence came back to her, and she was willing to talk about the beast.

"I can't imagine what has become of him," said the brother, after her story was told; "from what I have heard and read, the bear is not afraid of water, and they often go in to bathe, just like us boys, for the fun of the thing. I don't see why he should have waited when he had the fire to urge him on."

"Maybe he is swimming around the lake now," whispered Nellie, looking over as much of the surface as was visible through the hot smoke.

"I shouldn't be surprised, though it is odd that I did not see him," said Nick, pressing his pole against the bottom; "he is not far off, you may depend."

"There! didn't you hear him?" asked Nellie, a moment later, as something like the grunt of a huge hog alarmed both brother and sister.



Chapter XXXVI.

An Unwelcome Passenger.


A second time a loud snort was heard, as though some large animal were blowing the water from his nostrils, and at the same instant Nick and Nellie caught sight of the huge snout of the bear coming through the water toward them.

He was making directly for the raft beyond all question.

"By jingo, this raft wasn't built to carry bears!" exclaimed the startled lad, who used the pole with all the strength of which he was master; but, unfortunately, the bottom of the pond was composed of slippery rocks in many places, and the blunt end of the crooked limb slid along the upper surface of one of these so quickly that Nick dropped on his side and came within a hair's breadth of rolling overboard.

But he was up again like a flash, and toiling with might and main.

Rafts as generally constructed, are not capable of much speed, and though Nick Ribsam got out all there was in the one which he had managed, it was not to be expected that he could compare with the velocity of a strong, healthy bear.

"He's coming, Nick! Oh, he will catch us sure!" exclaimed the sorely frightened Nellie, edging so far away that she, too, was in danger of going over.

"I know he is," replied the sturdy lad, working hard with the guiding pole, "and I think he can beat us. Do you stay where you are, and don't try to get any further off or you will be drowned. I'll bang him over the head if he tries to climb on here and ride with us."

Such was the purpose of the beast, beyond question; and, approaching fast, only a brief time elapsed ere his huge snout was shoved against the logs, his big paws, dripping with wet, flapped out from below the surface and both rested on the raft, which sank so low that Nellie screamed and Nick turned pale.

Determined to keep off such an undesirable passenger, the lad raised the stick in his hand and brought it down with all his strength on the head of the bear, which acted as though unaware that he was struck.

Nick repeated the blows, that would have settled the business for a less formidable animal but it was plain that brain did not consider the matter a serious one. Having secured a rest for his paws, his whole body was supported in the water, and the beast, which was no doubt very tired, simply ceased all effort, and floated with the wind.

"Why don't you knock him off?" asked Nellie, impatiently.

"Because I ain't strong enough, I suppose; he's the toughest customer I ever got hold of, or seemed to have a good chance to get hold of me."

"I've a great notion to dig out his eyes myself."

"If you try it, it will be the last bear you ever scratch; look at those paws! did you ever see such nails? didn't you hear them rattle against the logs when he struck them?"

"Suppose he tries to climb upon the raft," ventured Nellie, trying to edge still further away, "what will become of us?"

"The raft won't hold him; he'll sink it, and we'll have to get along as best we can; but, Nellie, he acts to me as though he is satisfied with being where he is, and he won't disturb us so long as we let him alone."

"But you struck him several hard blows."

"He's forgotten all about it, if he ever knew it. I guess he has had a pretty lively run to reach the pond in time to save his hide, and now that he is in the water, he will stay there a good while."

There was a likelihood that Nick was right, and that the bear wanted nothing more than a rest; and yet the possibility that he would soon try to draw his entire body upon the raft prevented the brother and sister from having any peace of mind.

When this singular tableau had lasted several minutes, it was discovered that the wind was carrying the raft, with its incubus, toward the western shore again, and Nick, afraid that if they all landed together, the bear might seize the occasion to make a supper off of them, reached the pole over the side, and began working the logs to the middle of the pond.

During this performance the brute never stirred. His head, shoulders and paws were out of the water, the principal bulk of his body being beneath, and he seemed contented to be navigated about the small lake in any fashion the proprietor of the raft deemed best.

When considerable time had passed without his offering to destroy them, the boy and girl were able to view the beast with feelings of less alarm. They looked at the large head, pig-like snout, round, dark eyes, and could well understand the terror which an unarmed person feels on meeting one of them in the woods.

But so long as bruin remained there, so long was he a threat; and Nick was trying hard to think of some plan by which to get rid of him.

He had tested beating him, but with no success, while he ran the risk of exciting him to a dangerous degree of savagery if he should persist in it. The boy had no weapon about him, unless his jack-knife should be counted as such, and nothing could be accomplished with that. He asked himself whether it were possible to dive under the raft and give him two or three vigorous thrusts with the implement; but, fortunately, the lad had too much sense to undertake anything of that sort, which, more than likely, would have resulted in the destruction of himself and sister.

There really seemed no way open for the young hero to do anything at all, except to follow the advice of his father: "Do all you can for yourself and then leave the rest to Providence."

"If I could think of anything," said he to Nellie, "I would do it, but we shall have to wait."

"Maybe when he is rested he will swim off and go ashore."

"I wish he would; but it seems to me that he has got a look in his eye, which says that pretty soon he will try to enjoy a little more of the raft than he now does: and when he undertakes it, you can make up your mind, Nellie, that there will be a row."

"Why not let the raft drift close to land, so as to give him a chance to get off?" she asked.

"Suppose he doesn't take the chance, which he has now; no, we'll wait awhile and see what he thinks about it."

So soon as they could feel anything like relief from watching the passenger, the brother and sister looked at the scene around them, which was enough to strike any one with awe.

The murky vapor was pouring across the water; burning leaves, sticks, and large branches of wood seemed to be carried almost horizontally on the wind, while the blazing forest roared like the ocean when swept by the monsoon.

Whether the memorable dark day of 1881 still overspread the earth beyond, the two had no means of knowing; but they did know and feel that they were enveloped in an awful night, illumined only by the burning forests about them.

Should the bear fail to harm them, they might well ask themselves the question, when would they be able to leave the water, in which they had taken refuge. It was not likely they would be forced to keep to the raft itself very long, but, after stepping foot on shore, they would be surrounded, if not by the burning forest itself, by its embers, which would render traveling perilous for days to come.

Altogether, it will be seen that the situation of the two was as unpleasant -- if, not absolutely dangerous -- as it could well be.

Nick was on the point, more than once, of following the advice of his sister, -- to allow the raft to be carried by the wind against the shore, with the hope that the bear, when his hind legs should touch bottom, would take himself off; but he was afraid to do so, for it seemed to him that when the brute should be relieved of the necessity of looking after himself, he would turn and look after the boy and girl too closely for their safety.

The very danger, however, that was dreaded more than all others, came when least expected.

Nick had worked the unwieldy craft out in the pond again and had sat down beside Nellie, when, with one of his startling sniffs, the bear made a plunge, which heaved half of his body out of the water and lifted it upon the raft.

As Nick Ribsam had previously remarked, the structure was not built for the accommodation of such passengers, and it began sinking, as the unwonted weight bore it down.

"Don't be scared," said he to his sister; "maybe it's the best thing that could happen; put your hands on my shoulders and keep cool, and we'll swim out yet."



Chapter XXXVII.

A Brave Struggle.


It was a trying ordeal for little Nellie Ribsam; but she met it with the courage and coolness of her brother. She could not swim a stroke, and, under heaven, everything depended on him. If she should lose her self-control, as would be the case with nine tenths of the girls of her age placed in a similar situation she was likely to drown both herself and her brother.

But so long as she obeyed instructions, and the bear did not interfere, they were safe. She placed her hands on the shoulders of Nick, as he told her to do, and he struck out with his powerful stroke, which he could keep up for an hour if need be.

The difficulty of the situation was deepened tenfold by the anxiety to know what the bear meant to do. He had it in his power to overtake both, and it would have been a trifling matter for him to "dispose" of them in a twinkling: one or two strokes of his immense paw were sufficient.

It was the aim of Nick, therefore, to get away as speedily as possible; and he exerted himself to the utmost, glancing continually over his shoulder, as did the sorely frightened Nellie, who could not avoid a half gasping scream as the waters closed about her to her chin.

But bruin seemed to be absorbed in the management of the raft, which, in fact, was more than he could manage. It was all well enough, so long as it only half supported him; but when he came to lift his huge bulk out of the water the buoyancy of the float was overcome, and it went down.

The bear did not seem to understand it: a moment before he was resting upon a mass of logs, and now, when he looked around, they were invisible, and he was compelled to swim to support himself. He therefore struck out with a loud splash, and had scarcely done so when the light pine logs popped up again like so much cork.

The brute turned around and dropped both paws upon them. Finding they kept afloat, he was too foolish to be content, but repeated his performance, and, as a consequence, speedily found himself pawing the water again to keep his own head above the surface.

This second failure seemed to disgust him, and he paid no further attention to the logs, but headed for the shore, which was so close at hand that he reached it in a minute or two.

This proceeding on the part of the bear, it will be understood, was of great benefit to the brother and sister, who improved it to the utmost. It occupied a brief time, during which Nick swam strongly and steadily, and before the brute was master of the situation Nick's feet touched bottom, and, taking the hand of Nellie in his own, they walked ashore.

"Where is he?" asked the girl, the moment their feet rested on dry land.

"He isn't far off," replied Nick, "and I don't think he cares to disturb us, but I would rather keep him at a distance."

It may be set down as certain that Nick and Nellie were never in such serious peril from the beast as they believed. The bear was of the ordinary black kind, found in the Middle States, which is not particularly savage, and often passes a person without offering him harm.

It is only when the hunter and his dogs assail the brute, or when he is driven by hunger, that he will boldly attack a person.

Besides this, the animal of which I am speaking, had, no doubt, been routed out of his lair in the woods by the approach of the fire, and it was the most he could do to reach the pond in time to save himself. This accounted for his excessive fatigue, which made him loth to enter the water, where he knew he must swim, and which caused him, after entering it, immediately to make for the raft, that he might avail himself of its support.

He had no purpose of molesting the children, and was too indolent to resent the insignificant attack made upon him by Nick with the stick.

But it was not to be supposed that the boy and girl could feel any assurance on this point, and their fright was such as would have come to any older person placed as they were.

It was only through the protection of a wonderful Providence that they had escaped thus far from the fate of hundreds who, in different parts of the country, fell victims to the innumerable forest fires.

When the two emerged from the water, they saw nothing of the bear that had caused them so much disquietude. He had probably headed for the other side of the pond, and was now shut out from view by the volume of smoke which intervened.

"He'll be here after us," said the alarmed Nellie, whose nervousness was excusable; "and I wish you would hurry away."

"I don't think there is any need to be scared, after all," replied her brother; "the bear has all he can do to look after himself, without bothering us."

The fugitives were in a pitiable plight. Nellie's garments were soaked by the water through which she had passed, but the heavy heat of the air prevented her suffering from cold, though the clinging garments caused her to feel ill at ease; and, like her tidy mother, she longed to be at home, that she might change them for clean, dry ones.

When Nick found they had to leave the raft, he caught up his shoes, with the stockings stuffed in them, and, hastily tying the strings together, slung them around his neck. He did not forget, in the excitement of the moment, that they were indispensable.

But there was no way of saving coat, vest and hat, without running more risk than any one ought to run, and the lad let them go, hoping that, possibly, he might recover them after a time.

He had scarcely set his feet upon the ground, when he took them off again. The earth was baking hot to the water's edge, and a live ember, which the ashes concealed from sight, was revealed when the bare foot was placed upon it.

Nick cooled his blistering toes, and then, as quick as possible, drew on his wet shoes and stockings.

"I would be in a pretty fix if barefoot," said he, "I wouldn't have been able to walk home through these woods for a week or less."

It was plain to be seen that the fury of the conflagration had spent itself, so far as it affected this portion of the wood. That tornado of the flame, which swept everything before it, had leaped across the pond, and was speeding onward until it should die out from want of fuel.

In its path was the blackness of desolation. The trees were still burning, but it was in a smoldering, smoking way, with blazing branches here and there, dropping piecemeal to the ground. The flames, which charged forward as they do through the dry prairie grass, had passed by, and the brother and sister had now the opportunity to attempt to reach home.

But it would be hard to overestimate the distress caused by the atmosphere which the forest fires left behind them. There are many gases and vapors which we cannot breathe; but the trouble about smoke is that although we can manage to get along with it when it is not too dense, it is excessively irritating to the lungs.

Several minutes passed, during which little trouble was experienced, and then the two were forced to cough and gasp until they almost sank to the ground from exhaustion. Occasionally the vapor would lift, and, floating away, leave the air below comparatively pure, and then the black and blue atmosphere, heavy with impurities, would descend and wrap them about as with a garment.

"There's one thing sure," said Nick, when he found himself able to speak with some degree of comfort.

"What is that?" asked his sister.

"This will gradually get better and better."

"I don't see how it can get any worse," was the truthful answer of Nellie, who felt as though she had stood all she could bear.

Since the danger of being caught in the flames was gone, the two were at liberty to venture in any direction they chose.

"We'll make the start, any way!" said Nick, with his old resolution of manner; "keep close to me, and, if you see any new bears, don't run into the woods to hide without saying something to me."



Chapter XXXVIII.

Bear And Forbear.


"See here," said Nick Ribsam, stopping suddenly, after taking only a few steps, "I don't like this idea of going home and leaving so many of my clothes behind. That's a good coat and vest, and the hat is my Sunday one."

"You ain't going back to get them, Nick, when the bear is waiting for you!" exclaimed the sister; "if you do, I just think you haven't got any sense at all -- now there! that's all there is about that."

This was a severe denunciation, but it did not deter the lad from turning directly about and hurrying to the spot where he had landed, when forced to help Nellie ashore.

A strong breeze was still blowing, so that the craft, whether the bear was clinging to it or not, would be sure to come to land again. Nick did not know that the animal had left it, and he was not foolish enough to invite the beast to assail him.

The logs, relieved from their burden, were floating over the surface, and the lad caught sight of them but a short distance off, steadily approaching the shore.

"The raft must have gone under with the coat, vest, and hat," he said, watching the floating mass, "and I should think my clothes would have been lost; but there is something on the logs that looks like my coat and vest. It would be odd if they had kept their place."

Naturally, the whole attention of Nick was absorbed in this matter; and, when he found that the wind was carrying the raft and its freight toward another point, he moved along the margin so as to anticipate its arrival.

As he did so, like the renowned Captain John Smith when pursued by Powhatan's warriors, he paid no attention to where his feet led him. He was studying the raft, as best he could through the smoky darkness, and, knowing the shore as well as he did, he saw no need of looking downward.

All at once his feet struck a large, soft mass, and, before he could check himself, he pitched headlong over it, as though it were a bale of cloth in his path. The nimble boy was on his feet like a flash, and, quick as he was, he was not a moment too soon.

He had caught the ominous growl, and he knew the bear had got in his way again, as it had persisted in doing before.

It did seem singular that the boy and bruin should meet so often, and it may be that the animal, that was resting himself, lost patience over such persecution, for he raised his huge body and made for the frightened boy.

It was an alarming situation for the latter, who did not lose his presence of mind. He knew much of the nature of the animal, though he had never before been brought face to face in this fashion with a wild one.

Desperate as was the haste with which Nick Ribsam fled, he did not forget to run directly away from his sister, so as to prevent her becoming involved in this new danger.

Nor did the lad make any outcry, that could only have resulted in frightening her, but he simply devoted all his energy to getting away from his pursuer, whose whole savage nature seemed to have been aroused by the last disturbance.

Who shall not say that bruin did not identify the youngster as the one that had rapped him so smartly over the snout when he was seeking a resting-place on the raft? If such were the fact, it cannot be wondered that the beast pursued the fellow with such persistency.

Nick Ribsam was considered a rapid runner by his playmates, but it took only a minute or two for him to find out he was no match for his pursuer, who, starting only a short distance to the rear, was overhauling him "hand-over-hand."

The boy hoped that the scorching earth would keep the beast from chasing him with too much ardor, but it did not; and, as there was no other recourse, he ran to a sapling, up which he climbed with the celerity of a monkey.

Even as it was, it was within a second of being too late. The bear was so close that, rising on his haunches, he reached his paws and grasped the lowermost foot of Nick, whose hair fairly rose on end, as he thought for the moment that he was going to be dragged down into the crushing embrace of the dreaded animal.

But, fortunately, the shoe pulled off, and, before the bear could understand it, the supple lad was perched above his reach and looking down upon him.

"Well," said Nick, with a sigh, "this is considerably more than I counted on. I didn't think, from the way you acted in the water, that you were anything but a big coward; but I'm thankful enough you didn't get your claws on me."

The huge creature examined the shoe carefully and, finding there was no boy in it, dropped it to the ground, and, sitting on his haunches, again looked longingly upward at the fellow perched just above his reach, as though he understood what a choice dinner he would afford a bruin of his size.

When he ran out his red tongue and licked his inky snout, Nick could not help laughing.

"Not just yet, old fellow; I'd rather stay here two or three days than come down to you."

When some minutes had passed, Nick began to feel that the situation had nothing funny in it at all. What more likely than that the beast, having made up his mind to take the next meal off a plump boy, would stay there until that same boy would be unable to keep his perch any longer, and would drop of his own accord, like a ripe apple.

The question was a serious one indeed, and while the lad was trying hard to determine what was best to do, he heard Nellie calling to him. She, too, was becoming impatient over the long separation and was coming to find out what it meant.

Nick shouted back for her not to approach, explaining that he was up a tree with a bear watching him, and that if she came any nearer the animal would be sure to change his attention to her.

This was enough to keep any one at a respectful distance, but, when Nellie Ribsam heard the alarming announcement, she was determined on one thing: she would see for herself what sort of a picture was made by a boy up a tree with a black bear watching him as the one watched her two years before.

Nick having warned her against coming any nigher, it followed that the temptation to do so was irresistible.

The lifting of the smoke had let in some sunlight, and it did not take her long to reach a position from which she could look on the interesting scene.

"Nick! Nick!" she called, in a guarded voice, not intended for the ears of the bear.

The boy, alarmed for his sister's safety, turned toward the quarter whence it came, and saw the white face peering from behind the trunk of a tree no more than a hundred feet distant. He instantly gesticulated for her to keep out of sight.

"You have done a silly thing, Nellie," said he, impatiently; "the bear is sure to see you, and if he does, it will be the last of you."

"But I don't mean he shall see me," said the brave but not very prudent girl; "if he looks around, why I'll dodge my head back -- My gracious! he's looking now!"

And Nellie threw her head so far from the side around which she was peeping, that, if the bear had looked sharp, he would have detected the somewhat bedraggled hat on the other side of the charred trunk.

Nick called to her to be more careful, as he plainly discerned her hat, and the head-gear vanished.

The lad's fear was now on account of his sister, for he knew that so long as he himself could maintain his position in the tree, so long was he safe. The bear species cannot climb trees whose trunks are so small that their claws meet around them, and although this brute scratched at the sapling as though he meditated an attempt, yet he made none, but sat still, looking wistfully upward, and probably hopeful that the boy perched there would soon come down.

"Keep yourself out of sight!" called Nick to Nellie, "for you can't do anything to help me."

The girl understood this, and she began to believe, with Nick, that she had done an exceedingly foolish thing in venturing into the bear's field of vision in this fashion.

And what was to be the end of this singular and most uncomfortable condition of affairs?



Chapter XXXIX.

Conclusion.


For a half hour the situation remained unchanged. Nick Ribsam kept his perch in the branches of the sapling, and, before the end of the time named, he found the seat becoming so uncomfortable that he was sure he could not bear it much longer.

The narrow limb on which he rested, while he held himself in place by grasping the sapling itself, seemed to grow narrower and sharper, while his own weight increased, until he believed it would be preferable to let go and hang on with his hands.

It was not much better with Nellie, who had awakened to such a sense of her position that she did not dare to do more than peep out from where she stood, at rare intervals, quickly drawing back her head lest the savage animal should see her.

The bear himself showed a patience which was astonishing, and was like that of the Esquimau, who never stirs a muscle for hour after hour, while sitting beside the air-hole in the ice, waiting for the seal to show his nose above the surface.

Bruin moved more slightly now and then, but went no more than a dozen yards from the tree, and seemed never to take his eyes from his victim for more than a second or two.

During these trying minutes, the smoke sometimes filled the air scarcely less than before and the eyes of the brother and sister smarted and stung and shed tears, and their lungs became sore from continual coughing, rendered the more distressing in the case of Nellie, who was obliged to suppress the noise by cramming her handkerchief in her mouth.

But during the same period, the wits of Nick Ribsam were not idle. He had thought of sending Nellie home to bring her father to his assistance, but he was restrained by the fear that the bear would detect her, and, even if she should get away, he doubted whether she would be able to find her way through the woods to the open country beyond.

Here and there the trees were burning, and the dry limbs lay on the ground, giving out the red glow of smoldering embers, or sending out little twists of smoke to join the enormous mass of vapor which hung like a pall over so many square miles of country.

Nellie, for the twentieth time, leaned her head forward and looked out from behind the tree trunk that sheltered her. She saw the bear sitting on his haunches some twenty feet away, looking steadily upward, as though he were a charred stump, which could never change its posture or position. Nick rested uneasily on the narrow limb, when he made a movement which the quick-witted girl knew at once meant that he had resolved on trying to do something for himself.

Carefully freeing his legs from the branch, he lowered himself so that he hung by his hands, within ten feet of the ground. Hanging only a second or two, he let go and dropped lightly upon his feet.

The whole thing took less than a minute, but the bear had observed it almost as quickly as did Nellie, and the minute the lad struck the ground the beast was lumbering toward him.

Poor, terrified Nellie screamed and ran from behind the tree, certain that it was all over with her brave brother; but the latter did not despair by any means. With astonishing celerity, he dashed to where a large pine branch lay on the ground, burned in two; and catching up one of the pieces, which was so hot that it scorched his fingers, he whirled it about with such quickness that the glowing end made one steady, even wheel of fire about his head. He recalled his experience in the woods two years before when hunting the other bear.

While doing this, bruin was advancing rapidly on the boy, who kept circling the torch until the beast was within ten feet, by which time the stick was blazing as though it were a pine knot.

Then, with a boyish shout, Nick extended his arm at full length, pointing the flaming torch straight at the head of his foe, as though he held a Damascus sword of needle-like sharpness which he meant to drive through the iron skull, and he strode directly at the beast with the step of a conqueror.

Every animal, wild or domestic, dreads fire, and this strange attack was more than the bear could stand. Without the least attention to dignity, he turned about and swung off toward the lake, doubtless of the opinion that there alone he could find safety from the element that drove him thither in the first place.

Nick shouted and broke into a run, and the bear did the same! Just under the tree, the lad stopped and put on his shoe, which had been somewhat damaged by the claws of the brute. Then, being well shod and in no further danger from the animal, on which he had turned the tables so unexpectedly, Nick joined his sister, still carrying his torch as a precaution in the event of bruin's changing his mind and making after him.

But there was no danger of anything of the kind, and the bear was not seen to look behind him, even to learn whether the pursuit was kept up.

"I guess I will give over my hunt for the rest of my clothes till some better time," said Nick, once more taking the hand of Nellie and starting up the bank of the stream which fed the pond, toward the bridge that had burned some time before.

By carefully picking their path they reached it without mishap, being on the southern side, so that it was not necessary to ford it in order to continue the road homeward.

The structure was an ordinary one, consisting of a single uncovered span, so that its loss was not serious, except on account of the inconvenience it would cause.

The two stood several minutes looking upon the ruins, that were not very extensive, but their chief interest centered around the carcass of the mare lying at the bottom of the creek, where it had floated against the shore.

The children were naturally attached to the animal, and there were tears in their eyes, when, with a deep sigh, they turned away and climbed up the steep bank to the level of the road and started for home.

They had reason to doubt their ability to force their way through the several miles of forest remaining between them and the open country beyond, but they were resolved to do their utmost, for they dreaded staying any longer in the section where they had suffered and escaped so much.

As has been stated, the fury of the conflagration had expended itself, and there was nothing to be feared from the scorching flames, which had confronted and endangered them shortly after they entered the woods, on their return.

The road was strewn with burning debris, and many a time they were forced to stop, in doubt whether they could get by the obstruction but some way always opened: they would find a point where it could be leaped, or they would flank it by a little circuit through the woods themselves.

In this manner they toiled on until half the distance was passed, when they were brought to a stand-still by a discovery which took away their breath for the time.

They saw the ruins of something which they did not recognize until they drew near, when they discovered that an ordinary farmer's wagon, with its two horses, had been burned. Little more than the iron work of the body was left, and the animals seemed to have gone down side by side, where they lay burned and burst open by the flames, that were less merciful to them than to the brother and sister who had made such a gallant fight for life.

The sight was sad enough, but it was rendered tenfold more so by the figure of the driver, only a few rods distant. When his team gave out he had probably leaped to the ground and started to run from the fire, but was overtaken and perished miserably.

"How thankful we ought to be!" said Nellie, in a subdued voice, as they moved forward again.

"So I am," was the fervent response of Nick, whose heart was melted with pity for the unfortunate stranger, and with thankfulness that he and Nellie had been selected by Heaven for such a signal display of mercy.

They were in constant dread of coming upon similar scenes, but they were spared the sight, and, at the end of about an hour from the time of leaving the bridge, they emerged into the open country, where they were near their own home.

The afternoon was pretty well gone, and the sky still wore that impressive appearance which we all remember well; but it was not so marked as a short time before, and was rapidly passing away.

There was a great deal of smoke drifting and floating through the air, but it caused less inconvenience and annoyance than it did when they fled to the pond for safety.

The children gave another expression of their gratitude, and then hastened toward the humble home, which was, indeed, the dearest spot on earth to them.

The parents were full of anxiety, though they hoped that Nick had seen the danger, and had stayed in Dunbarton with horse and carriage.

But the couple stood at the gate, shading their eyes, and looking yearningly down the road, in the hope of catching sight of the loved forms of the brave children.

When they saw and recognized the figures, they rushed forth to meet them, with swelling hearts. Father and mother pressed them to their breasts, and the eyes of all were streaming with tears, for of Nick and Nellie might it not be said -- "For these, my children, were dead, and are alive again: they were lost, and they are found?"

When Nick had told the whole wonderful story, the father took his hand and said in his native tongue:

"My boy, I have taught you that God helps them that help themselves. I am glad that at no time, so far as I can gather, did you despair. You and Nellie have been tried by fire, and have come out as pure gold. Heaven be praised for its mercies. The lesson you have learned will go with you through life. Never despair, but press onward and upward, and the reward shall be yours at last."

And what did the good man say but that which our own beloved and mourned poet has so beautifully limned in lines that shall be as immortal as his own fragrant deeds and revered memory?

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

<eob>

Grace Harlowe's Golden Summer

By

Jessie Graham Flower, A. M.



Chapter I

A Song Of Golden Summer


"Now, David, you know that I know that you don't know what I know. Therefore, if I know that you don't know what I know you don't know, it's very plain to be seen that either you or I know very little. Now, which of us is a know-nothing? Don't be afraid to confess. Remember, we are your friends." Hippy Wingate beamed benevolently upon his victim, bland expectation written on his plump face.

"No real friend of mine would ever take such cowardly advantage of the English language," was David Nesbit's scathing retort. "I'll leave it to Grace if I'm not right."

"There, Grace. At last you have an opportunity to strike for the right. I believe in striking a valiant blow for the right --  -- "

"So do I," cut in Reddy Brooks decisively. "There is no time like the present. There couldn't be a better place. Away out here in this sequestered spot no one will hear your frenzied yells for help." Reddy rose determinedly from the steps of the old Omnibus House and made a nimble spring toward the loquacious prattler.

"Never touched me," was wafted defiantly back, as Hippy Wingate skilfully eluded Reddy's avenging hand and disappeared around the protecting corner of the one-time hostelry. The old Omnibus House had ever been his refuge when put to flight by his long-suffering companions.

"You might have known it," shrugged Nora Wingate with an indifference which marked long association with the verbose refugee. "In about three minutes you'll hear a frantic voice calling on me for protection. Don't say a word, any of you, but just listen."

A sudden silence, broken only by a soft chuckle from the abused David, descended on the seven young people occupying the worn stone steps.

"No-ra!" From the rear of the old house a plaintive voice sent up this anguished plea for succor.

"What did I tell you?" Nora's elaborate air of indifference vanished in a dimpling smile that was reflected on the faces of the group. No one said a word; neither did Nora rise to the noble duty of rescuer.

"All alone, all alone! By the wayside she has left me, And no other's love I'll be; For to-night I am deserted; Nora has forgotten me!"

intoned a mournful voice, flagrantly off the key.

"For to-night you are a nuisance, you mean," was Reddy Brooks' shouted correction. "I'll rescue you."

"Oh, my!" came Hippy's horrified accents, as Reddy Brooks leaped to his feet and dived toward the sheltering shadow that concealed the self-made outcast.

"Isn't it a lovely evening, David? Have you noticed it?" A fat, beaming face was cautiously thrust forth round a corner opposite to that from which the call for help had so recently emanated. A plump body still more cautiously followed the face. It was evident that Hippy considered David the lesser of two evils. "May I sit by you, Anne? I have always had a great deal of faith in you." Hippy became ingratiating. "I'm sorry I can't say as much for certain other persons whose names I courteously refrain from bringing into the discussion." Without waiting for the requested permission, Hippy crowded himself onto the small space which Anne, seated at one end of the top step, obligingly made for him, and calmly awaited the return of his pursuer.

"Oh, what's the use!" jibed the disgruntled avenger, when, strolling back to the steps, he beheld the nimble object of his pursuit waiting for him with a wide grin.

"Thus one is always brought to recognize the futility of revenge," murmured Hippy with sad gentleness. "Let us agree to forget the bitter past, Reddy, and turn our faces toward the glorious future. I might also add that it doesn't pay to take up another's grievances. After all I didn't actually accuse David of being a know-nothing. I merely asked him about it. However, I take it all back. David may know a great deal more than appears on the surface."

"I decline to rise to the bait," laughed David. "I came out here to enjoy myself; not to squabble. It's our last evening together until we all gather home again to see Grace and Tom take the highway of matrimony. Let's make the most of it."

Those who have faithfully followed Grace Harlowe through the eventful phases of her high school and college life are equally well acquainted with the other seven members of the Eight Originals. In "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School," and "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School," were recorded the countless interesting sayings and doings of these eight highly congenial friends. Later, when Grace had been graduated from Oakdale High School to continue her education at Overton College, accompanied by her friends, Anne Pierson and Miriam Nesbit, the devoted little band had remained unswerving in their allegiance to one another.

Once she had become a freshman at Overton College, Grace's equable disposition and love of fair play had attracted equally loyal allegiance to her standard. In "Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year At Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Return To Overton Campus" and "Grace Harlowe's Problem," will be found a minute record of the principal happenings which made her college years memorable.

Absorbed in what she had firmly believed to be her destined work, Grace had long and obstinately shut love from her life, only to find at last that even her beloved work could not forever crowd it out. Seeing clearly, after months of doubt, she had cheerfully resigned her position as manager of Harlowe House to prepare for the more important position in life which early September was to bring her.

"It doesn't seem possible that we've had the blessed chance to be together for two whole weeks." Grace's eyes had grown dreamy. "I can't really believe that I've been back in Oakdale that long. It seems not more than two evenings ago that we held a reunion at our Fairy Godmother's and -- " She paused, a little flush rising to her cheeks.

"And you and Tom told us the good news," supplemented Nora mischievously.

"I hadn't intended to say that, but never mind," laughed Grace. "It ceased to be a secret on that night. While I am on the subject I might as well add that until yesterday we couldn't make up our minds regarding our wedding day. But it's all settled now. Every one of you must be sure to be with us on the evening of September tenth."

"'Must' is the word," broke in Tom Gray, his eyes resting fondly on the slender, radiant-faced girl beside him. "We can't start on the great adventure without the blessing of this happy band."

"Rest assured, Thomas, we'll be there," averred Hippy. "Having comported myself with dignity at my own and several other weddings, I shall hail yours with the greatest of joy."

"Which means that I shall be obliged to keep a watchful eye on you every moment," translated Nora, her blue eyes twinkling.

"I'll help you, Nora," volunteered Reddy. "I haven't yet forgiven your wayward husband for the unkind remarks he made about my hair on my wedding day."

"I don't remember them," retorted Hippy, unabashed. "I've made so many remarks at so many different times about those same flaming, crimson locks that it would take a long while to sort out the dates. But there's nothing like trying. Let me see. The first occasion on which I chanced to note --  -- "

"Now see what you've done." David Nesbit fixed the unfortunate Reddy with a severe eye.

"I see," was Reddy's grim comment. Picking up the idle mandolin that he had hastily deposited on Jessica's lap when he made his vengeful dash upon Hippy, he strummed it lightly. "Why lug a mandolin along if no one intends to sing?" he asked pointedly, ignoring Hippy's disrespectful reminiscences.

"Oh, very well." Promptly foregoing the will to gather data concerning Reddy's too-oft maligned Titian locks, Hippy began a lively warbling which had nothing in common with the tinkling melody of the mandolin. As a result the patient instrument immediately ceased its complaining tinkle. Hippy, however, lilted on, undisturbed, for a matter of five seconds, when a chorus of threatening protests warned him to cease.

"Do be good," admonished Nora, laughing in spite of herself. "Either sing prettily or don't try to sing at all."

"Madam, it is not necessary for me to try to sing. Song and I are one. Let me give you an illustration. Name a ditty best suited to my voice and I will prove myself."

"I can't recall one," discouraged Nora.

"Silent singing would suit you best," grumbled Reddy. "You could make your lips do the deed without damaging any one else's ear drums."

"I'll try it," amiably agreed the noisy soloist. "Just watch me." He proceeded to indulge in a series of labial contortions that a dumb man would have envied, and which had a most hilarious effect upon those whom he had lately persecuted with raucous sound. Rudely requested to desist from even this newly discovered pastime, he subsided with a frantic signalling to the effect that he had actually been stricken dumb.

"It's too good to be true," exclaimed the relieved Reddy, laying fresh hold on the mandolin. "While we have peace, sing for us, Nora. We ought to make the most of this unexpected opportunity."

"Give us that song you used to sing about Golden Summer," begged Jessica. "Don't you remember, that was one of the first pieces Reddy learned to play on the mandolin? I haven't heard it in ages. I'd love to hear Nora sing it again."

"Yes, sing it, Nora." Grace added her plea. "I don't believe I've ever heard it. It will be very appropriate to the occasion."

"Wait a minute until I think how it goes." Reddy began a reflective strumming, bringing back, bit by bit, a plaintive little air that carried a subdued heart throb. "I've got it," he nodded. "Go ahead, Nora."

Her hands loosely clasped, Nora's clear, high voice, which Grace always declared "had tears in it," took up the song of Jessica's fancy to the subdued accompaniment of the mandolin.

"Golden Summer's in the land! Hark! Her call soars high and sweet. Hedge-rows flow'r at her command; Roses spring beneath her feet. Skies grow azure; life beats strong; Nature listens to adore; Thrilling at the siren's song, Yields her wond'rous treasured store. Precious fabrics of her loom Clothe her darling of the year; Wealth of sunshine; breath of bloom; Cloudless days, so fair, so dear.

"Golden Summer's voice is stilled --  Autumn chants a requiem low. Gone the days with rapture filled. Life's a-throbbing, sad and slow. Skies grow hazy; sunshine wanes, Vivid green fast turns to brown; Here and there along the lanes, Flames the sumac's lonely crown. Sings the voice of Mem'ry now, 'Cleave to Love -- lest it depart; Bind remembrance on thy brow, Cherish Summer in thy heart.'"

"I don't like that song at all." As the last haunting cadence died away, the dumb man came into energetic speech.

"Why not, Hippy? I think it is beautiful." Grace turned surprised eyes on the stout protestant.

"It gives me the creeps," he declared shortly and with unmistakable earnestness. "The first verse is all very nice. Summer is a golden time, etc. But why remind us that fall is coming?" He had now resumed his old, bantering tone. "I prefer to have summer three hundred and sixty-five days in the year. I don't like murky skies, worn-out grass, skeleton hedge-rows, muddy lanes, lonesome sumacs and cold winds. As for winter, lead me away from it. I absolutely refuse to carry summer about in so useful an organ as my heart, when it's ten below zero and the water pipes are all frozen up."

"That is because you have no sentiment," challenged Reddy. Whereupon the divine power of song was at once swallowed up in a fresh burst of argument as futile as it was laughable. It was ended by tactful Anne, who was always supremely useful when called upon to arbitrate such important matters. The relative merits of "Golden Summer" having been successfully decided and laid to rest, Nora again lifted up her voice in a selection infinitely more to her liege lord's liking. Then followed an old-fashioned song in which every one took part, filling the quiet moonlit night with sweetest harmony.

"It's half-past ten, children," reminded David, as striking a match he consulted his watch. "Anne, Jessica, Reddy, and I are due to catch early trains to-morrow morning. Anne and I mustn't miss ours. We promised Miriam we'd surely be with her to-morrow night."

"Anne, don't forget to tell Miriam not to dare do any shopping until Mother and I arrive in New York," reminded Grace. "She promised to wait for me, so that we could do our shopping together. I've written her about it, but I wish you'd emphasize the fact for me."

"I will," promised Anne. "I know she will wait for you, though. She told me she intended to."

With knowledge of the coming parting so near, the little company grew a trifle less merry as they strolled home across the familiar fields in the moonlight. Though Hippy had been the only one to confess it, the plaintive melody of Nora's song of Golden Summer haunted them. With summer at high tide in each heart, it was, as Hippy had remarked, not quite pleasant to be reminded even tunefully that life holds the inevitable autumn.

"I really believe Hippy meant what he said about that song," Tom remarked meditatively to Grace.

"Were you thinking of that, too?" A faint, almost melancholy smile flickered about Grace's lips as she asked the question. "It seemed to me he was in earnest."

"I almost wish Nora hadn't sung it," returned Tom with unexpected bluntness. "I went through such a long, dreary winter before my Golden Summer came. Now I wish it to stay with me forever. I'd like our lives from this moment on always to be one long, continued Golden Summer like the last two weeks. I can't bear to think that it might ever be otherwise."

"'Perfect love casteth out fear,'" quoted Grace softly. "It's the only true safeguard against the ills of life. After all, there's a note of triumph in the ending of that song. With love to light us on our way, it can't help but be always Golden Summer in our hearts."



Chapter II

The House Behind The World


"How many letters for me, Bridget?" trilled Grace Harlowe as she raced across the lawn to the front steps with the reckless enthusiasm of a small boy. A glimpse of the postman's retreating back had brought her scurrying from the garden to collect her own.

"Sure and it's a deal of mail ye be always gettin', Miss Grace," commented Bridget proudly, as she handed the eager-faced questioner a small stack of letters that brought a sparkle of pleasant anticipation to Grace's gray eyes.

"More than I deserve, I am sorry to say. I'm by no means a perfect correspondent. Thank you, Bridget." With a bright little nod, Grace skipped joyfully up the steps and made harbor in the big porch swing. "I'll read them as they come," she decided, "then each one will be a fresh surprise. Hello! Here's Miriam first of all. That means Anne delivered my message." Hastily tearing open the envelope, Grace drew forth a single sheet of thick white paper and read:

"Dear Grace:

"How I wish I could suddenly drop in on you this morning for a long talk. There is so much I should like to tell you which I haven't time to write. Anne, the faithful, delivered your message. Don't worry about my not waiting for you. I won't buy even a paper of pins without your august sanction and approval. I am anxiously looking forward to seeing you. So are Kathleen, Anne, Arline and Mabel Ashe.

"Elfreda is with me. She is a never-failing joy, and to quote her pet phrase, 'I can see' that there will be a vast amount of celebrating done when you arrive. Please forgive me for not writing much this time. I am expecting Everett and his sister at any moment. We are going to motor down to their home on Long Island for the day. I have decided to put in the time usefully until they have arrived. Hence this fragmentary epistle. Kindly note my laudable promptness as a correspondent and fall in line. With much love,

"As always,

"Miriam."

"I'll reply this very morning," nobly resolved Grace. "Oh!" She gave a gleeful chuckle as she recognized a dear, familiar script. "It's from Emma, good old friend." The chuckle continued as she perused the flowery salutation:

"Most Gracious And Estimable Grace:

"Having made a triumphal return to the humble habitation of the Deans, of whom I am which, I now derive a most excruciating pleasure in taking up my sadly neglected pen to inform you that I am well and hope you are the same. By this time you are no doubt mourning me as hopelessly lost in the wilds of darkest Deanery. Such is not the case. Though I have wandered disconsolately about my childhood haunts and camped out despondently under the fruitful pear-tree in our back yard, which, so far as I can remember, has never boasted of a single solitary pear, I am by no means lost. In fact, I am really beginning to feel quite at home. But how I miss you! Living in a 'Graceless' world is a cross even to a person of my excellent and amiable qualities.

"There's a grain of comfort in store, thank goodness. Before many weeks the Sempers will congregate together somewhere for a glorious reunion. Elfreda has written me that you are soon to be in New York City. I suppose the momentous question of 'Where shall we reunite?' will be decided then."

Grace read on through page after page of the long letter, written in Emma's most humorous vein. Finishing it at last, she gathered the closely written sheets together with a happy little sigh. Good-natured, fun-loving Emma Dean occupied a foremost place in her affections. Grace wondered sometimes if the bond between them did not stretch as tightly even as that between herself and Anne. Emma had been and always would be the perfect comrade.

"You're next, Mabel," she murmured as she scanned the third envelope on the scarcely depleted pile. "I suppose you are going to tell me that --  -- "

The loud purr of an automobile stopping before the house left Mabel's message still unread. Depositing her wealth of correspondence on the seat of the swing, Grace tripped down the steps and on down the walk.

"Good morning, dear Fairy Godmother," she greeted hospitably. "Good morning, Tom. Something nice is going to happen. I can read it in your faces."

"That depends on whatever your conception of 'nice' may be," returned Tom mysteriously. Slipping from the driver's seat, he caught her outstretched hand in both his own, his gray eyes alive with the light of a joyful anticipation which Grace had been quick to catch.

"Good morning, my dear," called Mrs. Gray from the car. "Run in the house and get your hat. We are bound on a most mysterious mission. You are the third person needed to carry it out."

"I'll be with you in a moment." Turning, Grace hastened up the walk to the house, wondering mightily what lay in store for her. "Mrs. Gray and Tom are waiting outside for me in the automobile, Mother," she announced, appearing suddenly on the shady back porch, where her mother sat quietly hemstitching a table cloth for Grace's Hope Chest. "Come out and see them."

Smiling to herself, Mrs. Harlowe laid aside her labor of love and followed her daughter's impetuous lead. Catching up her broad-brimmed Panama hat from the hall rack, Grace placed it on her head without stopping to consult the hall mirror. Linking her arm in her mother's, she towed her gently along toward the automobile to meet the unexpected arrivals.

"Won't you come with us, Mrs. Harlowe?" invited Mrs. Gray. The two women exchanged not only greetings but significant smiles as well.

"Thank you; not this morning. I prefer to leave Grace to you and Tom." Again her eyes met those of the older woman with the same enigmatic smile.

"There is mystery in the very air," declared Grace gayly. "I can tell by the way you two are exchanging eye-signals. Whatever the great secret is, Mother knows it. Now don't you?" she challenged, her affectionate gaze resting on Mrs. Harlowe.

"I'll answer that question when you come back," parried her mother.

"I'll hold you to your word," came the retort. Dropping a soft kiss on her mother's pink cheek, Grace accepted Tom's hand and stepped into the tonneau of the waiting automobile.

"Whither away, good prince?" she called mischievously to Tom as the machine glided down the street.

"That's a secret, curious princess. Wait and you will see," flung back Tom teasingly.

"Of course I'm curious," calmly admitted Grace, as she settled back in her seat. "Who wouldn't be? I wouldn't have let you tell me, though, if you had tried. I am quite ready to wait and see what happens."

Nevertheless, as they spun along the smooth road in the summer sunshine, Grace cast more than one speculative glance about her, trying to glean some faint hint of their destination. Although conversation went on briskly between herself and her Fairy Godmother, her keen eyes lost no detail that might possibly furnish her with a clue.

"We'll have to leave the car here and walk a little way," announced Tom, when half an hour later, after traveling the highway that skirted Upton Wood, he slowed down in a shady spot on the other side of the short stretch of forest.

"Very well," came Mrs. Gray's placid voice from the tonneau. "I shall not leave the car, Tom. You may do the honors."

"Come on, Grace." Leaving the driver's seat, Tom opened the door of the tonneau and stretched forth an inviting hand.

"I know where we are going," she cried triumphantly, as she accepted the proffered assistance. "We are going to take a look at Upton Heights. How nice! I haven't seen the quaint old place since I came home from college. You know I've always loved it and wished I owned it. It's such a wonderful forest retreat. When I was a little girl, I used to love to play that the world ended there. I always called it the House Behind the World."

Further mysterious and affectionate eye-signals were flashed between Mrs. Gray and Tom as Grace made this fervent speech. "Come and look at it again," said Tom briefly. There was a touch of exultation in his even tones.

Hand in hand, like two children, the youthful pair swung gayly along the narrow path that led from the highway to picturesque Upton Heights. Nearing it, they became suddenly silent in the face of its undeniable claim to beauty. Dazzlingly white against the magnificent trees which surrounded it, it stood in the middle of a grassy plateau that rolled gently down to the woodland path in long sloping green terraces.

"How beautiful it looks!" Grace gazed almost reverently at the rambling old house with its wide, high-pillared verandas. It was like some gracious, stately person whose very watchword was hospitality, she thought. Built more than a century before, by a long-since departed Upton, it had not been used as a residence by his descendants. Due to a clause of command in the original owner's will, it had ever afterward been sedulously kept in repair. To her beauty-loving soul, it now seemed to have taken on a new lease of life. The house itself rejoiced in a fresh white luster and the grounds showed recent care.

"It was nice in you to bring me here, Tom," she again said. "You knew I loved this old place, didn't you?"

"Yes. Suppose we go closer to it," suggested Tom, drawing her gently forward.

Her hand still in his, Grace allowed him to conduct her to the flight of white stone steps set in the terrace. They led upward to the wide flagstone walk which in turn stretched levelly up to meet the spacious veranda.

"Shut your eyes," directed Tom, when they had mounted the steps to the veranda floor. His terse direction contained a touch of repressed excitement which informed Grace that the surprise was at hand. But what it might be she had not the remotest suspicion.

Obediently her long lashes swept her cheeks in compliance with love's command.

Dropping her hand, Tom approached the massive front door. There was a curious clicking sound, like the turn of a key in a lock, then Tom was back at her side. His hand again caught one of her own. Again he drew her forward. There was a slight tremor in his voice as he said:

"Open your eyes, Princess, and enter your castle."

Her veiling eye-lids lifting, Grace found herself on the threshold of Upton Heights, peering wonderingly into the dim reception hall with its huge fireplace, beam ceiling and curving Colonial staircase.

"It's a splendid surprise, Tom!" she exclaimed warmly. "I've always wished to see the inside of this wonderful place. How in the world did you ever manage to get the key to it?"

Tom smiled very tenderly into the eager face so near his own. "You've missed the biggest part of the surprise, Grace," he answered. "Don't you understand yet why we came out here? Do you think I would invite a royal princess to enter her castle if it weren't really her very own?"

"You don't mean -- you can't mean -- Oh, Tom!" Grace drew a quick, ecstatic breath that was half sob. A vagrant breeze set the leaves of the sentinel trees to sighing their approval as they looked down on the little tableau of human happiness.

"It is your very own House Behind the World, dear," Tom assured her. "Our future home. It is the gift of our Fairy Godmother to both of us. She purchased it of Robert Upton the day after we came from Overton. She had spoken of it to Mr. Upton long ago and was only waiting for the good news of our engagement. She knew how much you had always cared about it."

"We must go straight down to the automobile and make her come back with us," was Grace's happy cry. "I am so anxious to explore our marvelous new possession. But we must have our Fairy Godmother with us. I can't really believe yet that anything so glorious has happened to ordinary me. It's more than a surprise. It's a positive miracle. My own beautiful House Behind the World! But I know an even better name for it. It's not one I thought of myself. That glory belongs to Kathleen West. You know, Tom, she once wrote an allegorical play. We produced it when I was in my senior year at Overton. I played the part of Loyalheart who leaves Haven Home to go into the Land of College. When first it began to dawn upon me that you meant this wonder to be my very own, it came to me like a flash that it was more than the House Behind the World. Don't you see, Tom? It's really and truly, Haven Home!"



Chapter III

For Auld Lang Syne


"And so, having ended her pilgrimage through the Land of College, Loyalheart is going back to Haven Home," said Kathleen West softly.

"You're a very lucky Loyalheart," was J. Elfreda Briggs' brisk comment. "Not every one who goes adventuring into strange lands finds the home of her chee-ildhood an interesting place to settle down in. Now take Fairview, for instance. I wouldn't go trotting back there on a cut-rate excursion, let alone making a pilgrimage to the sacred, I mean scared, spot. That's the way it looks, you know; as though it had once tried to grow and then been frightened out of it. I never was so glad in all my life as when Pa said we'd kiss that town good-bye. I could see that I'd never make my everlasting fortune there as a lawyer."

"You mean lawyeress, according to the Dean vocabulary," reminded Arline Thayer with a giggle.

"What is life without Emma Dean?" smiled Anne Nesbit. "I wish she were here to-night."

"I wrote her, asking her to pay me a visit while you girls were here," stated Arline, "but she wrote back voluminous and ridiculous thanks and said the reunion was about as much as she could manage."

"That reminds me," broke in Elfreda, in business-like tones, "where are we going to hold the reunion this year and at what time? Not much of July is left us. August will scud by like a flash and then -- Well, Grace can tell you why September won't be a strictly popular time for a reunion. Sara and Julia Emerson want us to have it at their camp in the Adirondacks. That's rather a long distance for Emma to come. You know she lives farther away than the rest of us. Why can't you come down to Wildwood again? I am nothing if not hospitable."

"But it's my turn, now, J. Elfreda," protested Arline. "Why can't you come here?"

"What's the use in taking turns?" propounded Elfreda sturdily. "I am an extremely selfish person who never bothers about such little things as mere 'taking turns.' Now that four of you girls have your faces set toward wedding rings, it's high time something was done to console me. There! Resist that argument if you can. Am I a credit to my profession, or am I not?"

"You are," chorused five laughing voices.

Several days had elapsed since Grace Harlowe had accompanied Tom Gray and his aunt on the mysterious mission that had brought her Haven Home. Following that memorable morning, the delightful events of which had offered such signal proof of the adoration of her dear ones, Grace had moved about as one lost in a maze of quiet happiness. Every now and then her mind would halt suddenly in the perusal of the blessings that were hers to wonder almost wistfully if it were not all too beautiful, too dear, to last.

Sometimes she marveled that, after so long and persistently keeping love out of her busy life, she should have at length come into its purest realization. Once the very thought of it had irked and distressed her. Now she experienced a sense of deep surprise that she had been so blind. Her Golden Summer had indeed descended upon her in all its radiant glory. She rejoiced in the long peaceful mornings spent with her mother on the vine-clad veranda, or in the clematis-wreathed summer house at the end of the garden. They were busy mornings, too, filled with the joy of preparing the countless dainty odds and ends, so necessary to her trousseau. Their hands never idle, they talked long and earnestly of the things which lay nearest their hearts, and a strange peace, which Grace's naturally restless temperament had never before known, enveloped her like a mantle.

Though anxious to meet her friends again in New York City, Grace had sighed with genuine regret at leaving this new-found peace and departing from Oakdale on the most momentous shopping tour she had ever before set out to make. She and her mother had gone directly to the home of the Nesbits, where a most cordial welcome awaited them. Two days had passed since their arrival. It was now the evening of the second day and the five girls whose fortunes had been so firmly linked together at Overton College, by a series of happenings grave and gay, were paying a brief, overnight visit to Arline Thayer at her home in East Orange.

"Thank you." Elfreda bowed at the unanimous response. "As an esteemed representative of the law and a forlorn bachelor girl, I really think my plea deserves some small consideration. I might also add that I could see you were all anxious to come to Wildwood. I appreciate your delicate opposition." Elfreda grinned boyishly. "Now that we've decided where, we'd better decide when the reunion is to be."

"We didn't decide where, did we?" tantalized Miriam. "We only decided that you were a distinguished lawyeress."

"Having once admired me, can you refuse my humble request?" retorted Elfreda, with a sentimental rolling of her round blue eyes.

"Let's put her out of her misery," proposed Miriam. "Wildwood for me, Elfreda, provided the rest are pleased. How about you, Arline? As an almost-wed are you willing to sacrifice your reunion claim to Elfreda?"

"Of course." Arline made genial response. A peculiar look shot into her pretty eyes, however, as she nervously began to turn the jeweled pledge of engagement that decked her ring finger. She seemed about to break into further speech, then set her red lips with decision and remained silent.

Seated beside her on a willow settee, which they had occupied together since repairing to the veranda after dinner, Grace alone noticed Arline's sharply drawn brows and the sudden ominous tightening of her baby mouth. She wondered vaguely what it might mean. Surely Arline was not angry because Elfreda had begged for the privilege of holding the reunion at Wildwood. She was of too sunny a disposition to become thus disturbed by such trifles. She had always been far more ready to give than take. Grace now recalled that even in the midst of Arline's joy at seeing her, there had been a hauntingly wistful look in the dainty little girl's blue eyes.

Under cover of Kathleen West's lively account of a big story which she had run to earth after a week's assiduous pursuit, Grace's kindly hand found Arline's.

"What is the matter, Daffydowndilly?" she asked just above a whisper. "You don't appear to be quite your usual cheerful self."

"You noticed, then?" counter-questioned Arline in an equally guarded tone. "I'm glad you did. Still, I was going to tell you, anyway. Wait until later. I have arranged for you to room with me to-night. Then I'll tell you all. But not now. No one else must know."

With a soft pressure that betokened loyal sympathy, Grace released Arline's little hand and turned her attention to Kathleen, who was holding her small audience spellbound by a recital of the very audacity of her deeds as a star reporter.

"Won't you miss all that when winter comes and you cease to be Kathleen West?" questioned Anne, a trifle anxiously. She too had had to decide between publicity and love. "You've lived in a whirl of exciting happenings so long that settling down for good will seem rather tame."

"I shall love it." Kathleen's sharp black eyes glowed with intensity. "Trailing news is all right for a few years, but I'd hate to go on with it forever. There are so many things I'd like to do that I've never had the time to dream of doing. I'm going to keep on writing, just the same as ever. Neither Gerald nor I care to begin making a home just yet. We shall board and write in the evenings together. You see he is the literary editor of Crawford's Magazine now. That means that we can spend our evenings together. We are going to collaborate on a play and, oh, we have planned to do lots of things. I imagine we shall carry out some of our plans in time. We have already collaborated on several magazine stories and worked them out beautifully. You see, neither of us is jealous of the other's work. If we were, then I'd prefer to stay Kathleen West."

"You are fortunate," remarked Arline almost bitterly. Again a shadow crossed her face which Grace alone noted.

"I decline to share my successes with any mere man," asserted Elfreda grandly. "Not that I have been what you might call entirely slighted. Wait until I tell you the sad story of my one love affair."

"This is vastly interesting," mused Miriam.

"Tell us about it this minute." Arline brightened visibly. Elfreda's promised tale of tragedy was sure to turn out comedy.

"Let me see," began Elfreda with a fine air of reminiscence. "We met last year in a corridor of the law school, I was making a wild rush down and he was making an equally wild rush up. Result, we collided. Just like that," Elfreda brought her hands smartly together to illustrate the force of that momentous collision. "I wasn't overcome with joy at this slam-bang introduction. I had seen him often from afar and never admired him. He was at least three inches shorter than yours truly, had a snub nose and freckles. All of which was not romantic.

"That was the beginning; but not the ending. The next time I met him, he claimed beaming acquaintance. After that he pursued me madly. He was always bobbing up in the most unexpected places. It gave me a feeling of being haunted. At first I bore it like a martyr. I hated to hurt his feelings. After a while it began to get on my nerves. About that time he began to make sentimental remarks. I carefully explained that I did not believe in love. That only made matters worse. He rolled his eyes and vowed that he would convince me. Then he began sending me letters and love lyrics. The lyrics were so original they were positively weird.

"But in my darkest hour of oppression I stumbled upon a remedy. I happened to remember a girl who was an art student. I also remembered that she was terribly sentimental. So I dragged my pursuer along with me to a water-color exhibition that I knew she expected to attend. They met. I perpetrated the introduction. It turned out even better than I had dared to hope. The funny part of it was that both of them were afraid I'd be angry. The deeper they fell in love, the harder they tried to keep it from me. After a while Charles, that was my perfidious idol's name, came to me with a long face and confessed. I suppose his conscience troubled him. He told me that he had made a terrible mistake in thinking himself in love with me. I humbly agreed with him that he had. He assured me that he now knew that he could never have been happy with me. Before he got through explaining, it struck me as being so funny that I laughed in his face. Now he doesn't speak to me. Neither does the girl. She evidently believes that she snatched away my last chance."

The cheerful smile Elfreda turned on her amused listeners as she ended her recital was hardly an indication of deep sorrow for her double loss.

"That reminds me of Emma Dean's one romance," smiled Grace. "I shan't tell you about it. Wait until we have the reunion and I'll ask her to dig up her sentimental past for your benefit."

"I hope I can arrange my vacation so that I can attend the reunion, too," sighed Kathleen. "As Patience Eliot and I have been invited to be the Sempers' guests of honor, naturally I don't care to miss it."

"Can you get away from the paper at any time during August?" asked Anne thoughtfully.

"Yes; but only for a week," Kathleen spoke regretfully.

"Then let us decide upon the time now," proposed Miriam. "I am sorry to be a kill-joy, but one week will have to be my limit this year. I wish I could spare two, but it's impossible."

"I intended to speak of that," nodded Elfreda. "I'd love to have you girls with me longer but I know that most of you are cramped for time. So I'll be magnanimous and say, 'thank you for small favors.'"

The subject of the reunion thus renewed, it was decided to hold it during the second week in August, and the six friends began an avid planning for it. From that the conversation drifted back to Overton College, always a fruitful topic for discussion. It was truly a heart-to-heart talk. Because of the perfect fellowship that existed among them, they could look back and speak frankly not only of their lighter hours, but also of the graver moments when the struggle to reach their aims had seemed well-nigh impossible.

Half-past eleven o'clock found them still lingering on the veranda, the incessant murmur of their busy voices proclaiming their mutual satisfaction in being together once more. When at last a voluble procession wended its way upstairs to bed, the usual amount of visiting between rooms was carried on with the old-time fervor of college days.

"It's exactly like old times," declared Elfreda to Miriam. "Here we are, you and I, rooming together again just as we did at Overton. Sometimes when I stop to think that those days are gone for good and all, it gives me the blues. I can't realize that you, Miriam Nesbit, and Grace Harlowe, too, are actually grown-up and getting ready to be married. Why it seems only yesterday since I was the verdant freshman who invited herself to room with you and kept you in hot water for a whole year because she didn't know enough to behave like a human being."

"What about the Elfreda Briggs who proved herself the most loyal friend and roommate one could ever hope to have?" demanded Miriam, laying a friendly hand on Elfreda's shoulder.

"Oh, I had to get in line," returned Elfreda with a flashing affectionate glance that belied her brusque words. "I could see that the way I had started out wouldn't take me far. You and Grace made me over."

"Yet, if it hadn't been for Grace I would have stayed a hateful, conceited snob all my days," returned Miriam soberly. "There isn't one of us who doesn't owe her a debt of gratitude that we can never hope to repay. If happiness is the certain reward of good works, then Grace Harlowe ought never to know an unhappy moment."

Miriam spoke with a certainty born of her deep regard for Grace. To her it seemed that naught save the brightest of futures could come to her friend. Yet happiness is at best a fragile, evanescent thing.



Chapter IV

"To Thine Own Self Be True"


"Well, Daffydowndilly, what is on your mind?" began Grace when the last gay good-night had sounded and Arline had closed the door of her dainty blue and white room.

"Let's get comfy first. I can talk a great deal better." Arline began a listless unfastening of her fluffy lingerie frock, her eyes fixed moodily on Grace.

"All right." Grace had already divested herself of her gown of soft white China silk and was now seated before the dressing table energetically brushing her wealth of golden brown hair.

Nothing more was said until, with a little fluttering sigh, Arline had curled up like a kitten at Grace's feet, her golden head resting against her friend's knee. Smiling tenderly down on her, Grace could not help noting how utterly like a tired child she looked in her baby-blue negligee. "Now is the time for all good Sempers and true to come to the aid of their comrades," she encouraged with a smile.

"Grace," Arline lifted solemn blue eyes, "have you ever for one minute been sorry that you gave up your work for -- for -- the sake of -- love?"

"No." Grace shook a decided head. Inwardly she wondered a little at the question. "It took me a long time to come to a decision, though," she added frankly.

"Would you mind telling me about it?" Arline flushed as she made the request. "Please don't think me prying, but -- " She hesitated. "Well, I have a strong reason for asking. It would help me, I think, if you cared to give me your confidence."

For a moment Grace made no response. Aside from her most intimate Oakdale friends and Emma Dean she had never divulged to any one else the story of that last year of struggle against love which had ended in her unconditional surrender to it. To her it was as something bitter-sweet, to be locked in her memory for all time. Yet the wistfulness of Arline's appeal touched her deeply.

"I am willing to tell you about it," she said slowly. "You know, of course, that Tom Gray and I had known each other almost from childhood. We grew up together as good comrades. We were always together during vacations with our six other friends. His aunt, Mrs. Gray, whom you know, was fond of having us with her. It never entered my head that Tom cared for me in more than a friendly way, until I came home from Overton at the end of my junior year. When I began to understand that he really loved me, I didn't like it at all. As I grew older I liked the idea still less. I wanted to work; not marry Tom. He asked me to marry him the next winter, but I said 'no,' After that I kept on saying 'no,' and last winter we threshed the matter out soon after Anne's wedding.

"I felt very well pleased with myself for a while. Then things went wrong at Overton and Tom joined a naturalist on an expedition to South America. Right then it came to me that I had suddenly met with a dreadful loss. I tried to make myself believe that I didn't care. While I was at home during the Easter vacation I woke up. But it was too late. I went back to Overton, but I wasn't happy. He had often told me that there would come a time when not even my work could crowd out love. I knew that the time had come. I had had some trouble with Miss Wharton, the dean, and expecting to be asked to resign my position at Harlowe House. I resigned of my own accord. It was Kathleen West who straightened out that tangle for me. She sent for Miss Wilder, who happened to be coming home just at that time. My resignation wasn't accepted, and I would perhaps have gone on for another year at Overton, but -- " Grace paused, her fine face grew tender. "Tom came back," she continued, a faint tremor in her even tones, "and so I gladly gave up my work for love. That's the whole story. I never expected to tell it to any one. Somehow it has always been sacred to me. I couldn't bear to talk of it, even to Mother."

"It's a wonderful story. When I asked you about giving up work for love, I never dreamed that you had gone through with any such struggle. I feel as though I've intruded on very private property. But just knowing about it has comforted me." Arline raised her head from Grace's knee with sudden energy. "It's this way, Grace. I have almost decided to break my engagement."

"Why, Arline Thayer!" Amazement was written on Grace's features. "I am sorry to hear that. Until to-night I had thought of you as being absolutely happy."

"I'm not. I'm dreadfully unhappy." Arline drew a quick, almost sobbing breath. "You've never met Stanley Forde, my fiancé, so you don't know how handsome he is and how nice he can be -- if he chooses. But he's turning out a -- a -- well, a kind of tyrant. He doesn't like me to do settlement work. I've always thought he wasn't very highly pleased over it, but he never said a word until the other night. Even then he didn't say much. But, as Elfreda says, 'I can see' that if I marry him he's going to say more about it afterward. Then we'll quarrel and that would be dreadful. I could never endure it. You know how I hate quarrels. At college I never had anything to say to or do with the girls who were trouble-makers. What am I to do, Grace? Break my engagement while there is still time or -- or -- " Arline subsided with a little sob.

"Poor Daffydowndilly." Bending, Grace wound her arms about the dainty, child-like figure. "It's a hard problem -- hard because I suppose you must care a great deal for him."

"I think I must love him, or I wouldn't wish to marry him," came the muffled reply. "Still I won't give up my work. Those poor settlement children need me. He can't understand that. He knows nothing of what it means to be terribly poor. He doesn't like the idea of my coming into such close contact with them. It doesn't hurt me and it helps them," ended Arline piteously.

"One who knows you well should understand that you are doing worthy work," returned Grace gravely. "Still if I were you I would not act too hastily. It seems to me that you ought to come to a frank understanding of the matter with your fiancé at once."

"And if he refuses to allow me -- " broke in Arline quickly.

"Then you must decide within yourself whether he is worth the sacrifice," Grace answered with deep positiveness. Privately she did not consider that a young man, who took it upon himself to interfere with an enterprise which benefited many and harmed none, was quite worthy of her generous little comrade. "It's like this, Arline. You must be true to yourself, no matter what it may cost you. Even your fiancé's love won't make up for having failed some one else in order to keep it. What does your father think of it?"

"Oh, he doesn't know," came the quick response. "He is very fond of Stanley. He is pleased with our engagement. Still he has always been interested in my work. But I'd rather fight it out alone. If I were some day to go to him and say, 'I have broken my engagement,' he would be dreadfully disappointed, but not angry. That's just the trouble. I've always done exactly as I pleased. It's hard now to think of doing what some one else dictates. Sometimes I feel that I love Stanley a great deal; then again I feel differently about it. I'm really in a terrible muddle. I wish I were just Daffydowndilly back at good old Overton again."

"I wouldn't stay in a muddle then," advised practical Grace. "I'd settle matters once and for all, and whichever way I might decide, I'd make myself believe that it was for the best. But first of all I'd be very sure that love was love." She had reached the wise conclusion that true love and Arline were as yet strangers.

"I can't say anything to Stanley just now. He's in Oregon and won't be back until the last of August. I don't care to write him. I must wait until I see him. But I shall think over all you've said and try very hard to be true to myself." Arline rose and standing beside Grace slid a loving arm about her neck. "I knew you could help me," she said. "I feel ever so much better. Now I mustn't keep you any longer. Thank you, Loyalheart. You've been very sweet to poor, muddled Daffydowndilly."

"You are a dear child and deserve the best that life can give you." Grace returned the gentle embrace with a tenderness that bespoke unutterable regard. It hurt her to know that gay, light-hearted Arline Thayer who had always appeared to slip through life so smoothly, should have run against an ugly snag.

Long after they had said good-night, Grace lay looking out at the calm moonlight and pondering over the great changes that less than a year had brought her. Her own happiness so complete, she longed for the whole world to be happy with her. Her ever-ready sympathy went out to all those in it whose difficult love-problems tended toward renunciation. She wished whole-heartedly that she might waken to the sunlight of a day when she could say joyfully and with supreme truth: "All's right with the world."



Chapter V

Flying In The Face Of Superstition


"Oh, mother, isn't it nice to be home again?" Grace Harlowe dropped into her favorite chair and surveyed the familiar living-room with the same glad appreciation she would have bestowed upon a long-lost friend. "I've loved being with the girls; but, after all, home is best. I'm fortunate in that I am going to live so near to you. If Tom goes back to the Forestry Department this winter, I'm afraid I shall leave Haven Home more than once to take care of itself and come trotting back to you. It will be dreadfully lonely there with Tom away. Not that it isn't the most beautiful place in the world, but then, you are you, and I can't do without you."

"I have been obliged to give you up the greater part of the last six years. I suppose I ought to feel resigned to it by this time." Mrs. Harlowe's smile hinted at wistfulness. "I am glad to be home again, too. I hope we haven't forgotten to buy every single thing you need. I imagine your wedding gown will come to-day. Let me see. It was to have been finished the day we left New York. We've been home two days. Yes, I think we may expect it to-day, or not later than to-morrow. There's the doorbell ringing now. Perhaps it's the expressman."

Springing to her feet, Grace hurried to the door. "Here's your expressman," she laughed, as she reappeared, her arm linked in that of Nora Wingate.

"Good morning, Nora," greeted Mrs. Harlowe. Rising, she advanced to Nora, kissing her with evident affection. "We were wondering what had become of you. We haven't seen you since we came home."

"Hippy and I went away for the week end. We returned only this morning. I was anxious to see you both, also Grace's wedding finery, so I came over bright and early."

"We brought it all back with us, except my wedding gown, Nora. I'm expecting that at almost any moment. I'm anxious to try on the whole outfit. Then I'll know how I'm going to look as a bride."

"Oh, you mustn't do that!" exclaimed Nora in horrified tones. "It's dreadfully unlucky. Didn't you know it?"

"I am not superstitious," laughed Grace. "I fail to see why trying on one's wedding gown beforehand should bring bad luck. I am surely going to do it when it comes, just to prove the fallacy of the superstition."

"I wish you wouldn't." Nora's dark brows met in a troubled frown. "Perhaps it is foolish in me to feel like that about it. But I do. I suppose it's because I'm Irish. The daughters of Erin have always been a superstitious lot. Don't ever tell Hippy that I admitted even that much. He would tease me for a week about it."

"It shall remain a dark secret," gayly assured Grace. "As it is, I may continue to consider myself as lucky till the gown puts in an appearance. After that, look out for trouble. You'd better stay to luncheon to-day, Nora, so as to be here when the great trying-on moment dawns."

"Thank you. I will." Nora's lately-clouded face brightened. "I'll leave Hippy to lunch in solitary state. I'll telephone him to that effect. It will teach him to appreciate his blessings." Nora dimpled roguishly as she tripped to the hall to acquaint Hippy with the fell prospect in store for him. She returned to the living-room with the mirthful information: "He says he resigns himself to his fate, but that he will prepare for my triumphal home-coming this evening. That means he will do something ridiculous. The last time I left him to his own folly, he decorated the dining-room with all sorts of absurd signs -- 'What is home without the Irish?' 'In memory of my late lamented guardian,' and 'Not gone for good, but merely gadding.'" Nora giggled as she recounted these pleasant tokens of welcome.

"You and Hippy will never grow up," Mrs. Harlowe declared indulgently. "You play at keeping house like two children."

"I think it's lovely," nodded Grace. "When I start on my pilgrimage I'm not going to think that I shall ever grow into a staid, stately married person. I'm going to keep the spirit of youth alive until I'm old and gray-headed. Did I dream it, Nora, or did I see you lay your work bag on the hall settee? I hope it's a reality. These are busy times, you know. I'm a hard-working individual. So is Mother. If I see someone else blissfully idle it has a bad effect upon me."

"Don't worry, I brought my work. I am still in the throes of that lunch cloth I'm embroidering for Miriam. I've a lot to do to it yet before it's finished, so I can't afford to be idle, either."

Repairing to the summer house, the three women fell to work with commendable energy on their self-imposed tasks. It was a glorious midsummer morning and the picturesque pagoda at the foot of the garden proved an ideal retreat. Despite her sturdy declaration that she could not afford to be idle, more than once Grace's embroidery dropped from her hands as her gray eyes dreamily drank in the beauty of the riotously-blooming garden of old-fashioned flowers, the close-clipped, tree-decked lawn and the thousand and one details that made her childhood's home seem daily dearer now that she was so soon to leave it.

"Wake up, Grace," playfully admonished her mother, her eyes chancing to rest on her daughter's rapt face. "If my ears do not deceive me, I think I heard the doorbell. Perhaps it is the expressman."

"I hope it is." Hastily dropping her embroidery to the rustic bench on which she was seated, Grace rose and set off in a hurry toward the not-far-distant house. It was several minutes before she returned, her radiant face registered the news that the long-looked-for express package had materialized.

"At last!" was her jubilant cry when half way across the lawn. "No more work for me until after luncheon. Come up to the house, both of you. The grand try-on is about to begin. We'll just have time for it before luncheon. Kindly go to the living-room and obtain front seats for the performance." Having delivered this merry injunction, Grace turned and went back to the house.

Laying aside their work in obedience to the prospective bride's command, Mrs. Harlowe and Nora proceeded in leisurely fashion to the house, there to await Grace's pleasure.

"Go on into the living-room, Nora," said Mrs. Harlowe as they stepped into the hall. "I must see Bridget about luncheon. I'll return directly."

Left to herself, Nora went over to the piano. Her fingers wandering lightly over the keys, almost unconsciously she dropped into the plaintive prelude of Tosti's "Good-bye." Why that particularly pathetic farewell to summer and love should have occurred to her at such a time she did not know. Whether it had been superinduced by her rooted superstition against Grace's determination to try on her wedding gown beforehand, or whether her emotional temperament had sensed the stirring of far-off things, Nora could not explain.

Very softly she sang the mournful words of the first verse. She was about to go on with the second when, Mrs. Harlowe appearing in the living-room, Nora swung about on the piano stool.

"Finish your song, Nora," begged Mrs. Harlowe. "I am very fond of the 'Good-bye.' It is distinctly melancholy, but beautiful. To me, all Tosti's songs are wonderful. The 'Venetian Song' and the 'Serenata' are both exquisite. It seems a pity that the more modern composers have given us so little that is really worth while."

"I know it. Still we have Chaminade and Nevin and De Bussy. Some of De Bussy's tone poems are marvels. I love 'La Lettre' and 'La Muette.'"

"I don't think I have ever heard either of them," returned Mrs. Harlowe. "I know very little of the modern music of the French school."

"I'll sing 'La Lettre' for you." Nora faced the piano to render the exquisite inspiration of the noted French composer. "Before I sing it," she added, turning her head toward Mrs. Harlowe, "I had better try to tell you something about it. It is about a letter somebody writes to a loved one, late in the night when everything is absolutely silent in the house. Roughly translated it begins, 'I write to you, and the lamp listens.' Both the words and the music make one feel as though the bond between the two persons was so strong that they could almost communicate one with the other by thought. That is really the idea De Bussy has tried to convey in his music and one can't help but understand it. He brings it out strongly in the last part of the song where the writer of the letter says: 'Half dreaming, I wonder: Is it I who write to thee, or thou to me?' Then it ends with a distant clock striking the hour. Listen and you'll hear it."

Listener and singer both intent on the song, neither heard the bride-to-be descending the stairs. Not wishing to interrupt them, Grace paused behind the portieres that draped the wide doorway into the living-room until Nora should finish. With her, "La Lettre" had always been a favorite song. Long afterward, when the shadow of the unexpected hung darkly over her, she recalled that significant moment of waiting.

"It is undeniably perfect," was Mrs. Harlowe's appreciative comment when the last note, representing the striking of the distant clock, had died away. "I had no idea --  -- "

"Oh, Grace!" Nora's glance had suddenly strayed to the slender, white-robed figure that was making a sedate advance into the living-room. Whirling mischievously she played a few bars of "Mendelsohn's Wedding March," then sprang from the piano stool and ran forward with outstretched hands. "You are truly magnificent!" she breathed impulsively.

Mrs. Harlowe had also risen. Was this radiant young woman in lustrous white satin, whose changeful face looked out so sweetly from the softly flowing bridal veil, the same little Grace Harlowe who had not so very long ago romped her tom-boyish way through childhood? A mist rose to her eyes, soft with brooding mother love, as she walked forward and took Grace gently in her arms.

For an instant the three women remained wrapped in a kind of triangular embrace. Then Mrs. Harlowe released her daughter with a fond, "Walk across the room, Grace, so that we can get the full effect of your grandeur."

"It's a darling gown," praised Nora. "I like it ever so much better than Jessica's, Anne's or mine. I can't blame you for wanting to dress up in it beforehand. I take back all my croaking. Here's hoping good luck will roost permanently on your doorstep."

"It ought to," was Grace's fervent response, "with everyone so perfectly sweet to me and with all the trouble that Mother is taking to give me pleasure. I feel as though --  -- "

The reverberating peal of the door bell cut Grace's words short. "Don't answer it until I am out of sight!" she exclaimed, scurrying nimbly toward the hall. A flash of white on the stairs and she was gone.

"Good morning, Mother mine. Is Grace here?" Tom Gray's impetuous inquiry betokened strong excitement.

"Good morning, Tom. Come in. Grace has just vanished up the stairs. I'll let her tell you why she left us in such a hurry." Mrs. Harlowe smilingly ushered Tom into the living-room. "Nora, you can play hostess. I will go and tell Grace that Tom is here."

"Thank you." Tom cast a grateful look after Mrs. Harlowe's retreating back. Following Nora into the living-room he seated himself nervously on the davenport, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

Nora eyed him in sober speculation. She would have liked to inquire into the nature of his excitement. Courtesy forbidding her to do so, she indulged only in commonplaces to which Tom replied almost absently. It was evident that something remarkable must have happened to thus upset Tom's equanimity. The sound of Grace's light feet on the stairs was a matter of relief to her. Excusing herself to the impatient lover, she left the room, wondering if, after all, there could be a remote possibility that her prediction of ill luck was about to be fulfilled.



Chapter VI

The Shadow


"But why must you go, Tom?" Grace's tones rang with nervous dread. "Can't some one else adjust matters satisfactorily?"

"No." Tom's reply was freighted with gloom. "I understand those men up there and can get along better with them than a new superintendent could. It wouldn't be worth while hiring one. Mr. Mackenzie isn't dangerously ill. He'll be about again in two or three weeks. But it needs some one who understands Aunt Rose's affairs to look after them properly, even for that short period of time. If it weren't almost tragic, it would be funny. Here I am bound heart and soul to the work of preserving forests. Now duty calls me to handle a crowd of men whose business it is to cut down forests. It isn't very pleasant to contemplate. To me trees are almost as much alive as human beings. Worse still, I hate to leave you, Grace. It's not so very long until the tenth of September, either, and we've so many plans to carry out yet at Haven Home."

"I know it." Grace's admission contained resignation. With duty thus obstinately confronting Tom, she felt that she had no right to discourage the performance of it. "I don't wish you to go," she faltered, "but I can't help knowing that you are right. You owe it to your aunt. She comes first. She's been both father and mother to you, and I'm glad you are the one to help her now."

"Aunt Rose doesn't want me to go," returned Tom quickly. "She's afraid something dreadful may happen to me. I don't anticipate any such thing. I'm too good a woodsman to feel concerned about myself. After that strenuous expedition to South America, this will be child's play. It's leaving you that I don't like."

Grace did not reply for a moment. Secretly she, too, was echoing Mrs. Gray's fears. With the day of their marriage so near, she could not bear even to dwell on the dire possibility of any occurrence which might wreck her Golden Summer. Bravely thrusting aside such a contingency she said with grave sweetness: "I should be a pretty poor sort of comrade if I were to fly in the face of your duty. It's hard, of course, Tom, but I can say truthfully that I wish you to go. I shall try not to be sad over it, or worry. After all, it's only for two or three weeks. One week of that time I shall be at Elfreda's attending the Semper's reunion. As for Haven Home, you attended to the really important things to be done there while I was in New York City. Most of the furniture is there now. Ever so many of the smaller things yet to be done, I can do or have done. My trousseau is attended to, so I'll have time to make daily pilgrimages to our forest retreat."

"I've thought of all that, too. I knew you'd wish to finish the work at Haven Home. The touring car or my roadster are always at your service to take you there. You know you love to drive the roadster. It's already as much yours as mine. You can always take one of your girl friends with you. It's bully in you to be so brave about it. It helps me more than I can say." Tom caught Grace's hands in a loving, steadfast clasp.

For an hour or more they sat side by side on the davenport, each sturdily trying to conceal the blow which the unlooked-for swing in Mrs. Gray's business affairs had dealt them. Tom's chief cause for sorrow was in the fact that he must leave the girl he adored, even for so brief an interval of time. Grace's sadness, which she sternly concealed from him, lay far deeper. Though Tom was scarcely concerned for his own welfare, she was filled with a thousand vague alarms as to the disasters which might perhaps overtake him. Not so long since, in speaking of the vast lumber region in a northern state where his aunt possessed important holdings, he had told her of the troubles that frequently ensued by reason of lawless timber thieves. Then, too, the camp for which he was bound was large and comprised a rough element of men. From Tom himself she had learned that the Scotch superintendent, Alec Mackenzie, was obliged to rule them with an iron hand. During his enforced absence from them, discipline was sure to grow lax. She wondered whether even resolute Tom Gray could ably contend with the difficult situation.

Yet she kept all this to herself. It was her place to encourage, not discourage. If unbounded faith in Tom could help work the wonder of carrying him safely through his mission and home again to her, then she would bestow that faith ungrudgingly. Hers was too fine and steadfast a nature to quail at the first obstacle that rose to impede her highway of happiness. "Loyalheart" she had been christened and "Loyalheart" she would remain to the end of her days.

"When must you go, Tom?" she questioned at last. Both had thus far been sedulously side-stepping direct reference to their moment of parting.

"I ought to go this afternoon." Tom's voice registered his hearty regret as he made this response. "I can wait until to-morrow if you say so, Grace. I'd rather you'd decide it. Of course, you know I'd prefer to put over going until to-morrow. It's only --  -- "

"I understand," came faintly from Grace. "You'd better go to-day. Tom. It will be even harder for both of us to wait another day before saying good-bye. Besides," she added, making a valiant effort to be cheerful, "the sooner you go, the sooner you will return. You may find that you won't have to stay there as long as you imagine."

"You're a true comrade, Loyalheart." Since the day when Grace had named their future residence Haven Home, at the same time telling Tom of the college play in which she had taken part, he had fallen into the habit of calling her Loyalheart. "That Miss West had the right idea about you," had been his tender criticism. "There isn't another name in the whole world that could possibly suit you so well."

"I hope always to be a good comrade," returned Grace, a faint color stealing into her lately-paling cheeks. "It's a pretty hard contract always to live up to, though. While everything is lovely, it's not hard. When things go wrong, it is. It reminds me of a poem I once read that began, 'It's easy enough to be pleasant when life flows by like a song.' I can't remember any more of it, except that it conveyed the thought that the only persons who are really worth while are the ones who can keep on being pleasant even when everything in their lives goes wrong. So we ought to try to smile over this little hardship and look at it as being just one of the vicissitudes that life is bound to bring us."

"But I don't like to see hardship and vicissitudes creeping into our Golden Summer," protested Tom, not quite satisfied to adjust himself to Grace's more optimistic view of the situation. "I'm selfish about it, I'm afraid. When, after a long dark winter, a man is suddenly turned loose in the sunshine, he is naturally anxious to stay there. Just because I'm saying that, I don't mean that I would dream of failing Aunt Rose. I'd go even if it meant we'd have to put off our marriage a few weeks longer."

"And I would wish you to go," agreed Grace earnestly. "I am glad you said that. If, when you get to the camp, you find that you will have to stay quite a while, we can put off our wedding until the last of September. Only a few of our closest friends know that we have set the date for the tenth of September, so we needn't feel in the least embarrassed if we find it necessary to change it."

"Oh, I'll be back before the last of August," was Tom's confident prediction. "That will give us plenty of time to make all our arrangements. And now I must go, Grace. I have a good deal to do before train time. I'll leave Oakdale on that 4.30 express. I'll drive over here for you in the roadster. I'd like just you to see me off on my journey. Aunt Rose will understand when I tell her. Then if you will, you can drive the roadster back to our garage."

Devoted Love Shone in Her Clear Gray Eyes.

"I will," acquiesced Grace briefly. A swift rush of unbidden emotion brought her very near to tears. Accompanying Tom to the door, she watched him wistfully down the walk. She was forcibly reminded of a day, belonging to the past, when she had seen him go down that same walk, and, as she then believed, out of her life. On that dark rainy afternoon of the long ago she had felt only pity as she gazed after his retreating form. She had gone into the house and cried bitterly, out of sheer sorrow of the hurt which she had inflicted upon her childhood's friend. Now all was changed. Devoted love shone through the windows of the clear gray eyes that followed Tom Gray's tall, broad-shouldered figure, as he swung through the gate and down the street. And, as she stood there in the doorway, the triumphant knowledge that she loved and was loved in return swept away her inclination to tears. Even the shadow of separation could not dim the glory of the summer that lived in her heart.



Chapter VII

The Veiled Prophetess Of Destiny


"But is Emma really coming, Elfreda?" questioned Sara Emerson anxiously. "She wrote us that she would surely be here."

Seven eager faces reflected the anxiety in Sara's tones as she made this inquiry. The first day of the Semper Fidelis week of reunion was well on its way toward sunset. Of the original members, six had descended upon the Briggs' spacious cottage to keep Elfreda company. With them had come Kathleen West and Patience Eliot, the guests of honor. Five members were still among the missing. Marian Cummings, Gertrude Wells, Elsie Wilton and Ruth Denton had been unable to grace the occasion with their presence. Ruth's inability to attend lay in the fact that she was with her father in Nevada. This had been a great cross to her chum, Arline Thayer. The others had also mourned the distance that separated her from them. But even the absence of these four paled almost into insignificance beside the disappointing knowledge that the fifth missing member, jovial Emma Dean, had not yet appeared.

"She will be here," announced Elfreda positively. "I know she will. Don't worry about it. She will no doubt come to the surface when you least expect it. She wouldn't miss the reunion for a good deal."

"But she'll miss having dinner on the lawn this evening and seeing that wonderful gypsy fortune teller you have hunted up for the occasion," was Julia Emerson's regretful cry. "Where did you find her, Elfreda? Can she really tell fortunes?"

"She can," Elfreda asserted with solemn positiveness. "Wait and see. Where I found her is a secret for to-night. Perhaps if you are good, I'll tell you all about her to-morrow."

"But to-morrow never comes," reminded Patience Eliot. "You'd better tell us now."

"Can't do it." Elfreda beamed mysteriously on the Emerson twins. "Curb your curiosity, twins. Wait patiently and the future shall unfold itself to you as an open book. I wouldn't make a bad fortune teller myself," she added humorously. "That's the way they usually talk."

"I am so disappointed at not seeing Emma here, too," sighed Grace Harlowe. "It seems ages since we said good-bye to each other at Overton. You don't suppose anything has happened to her, do you, Elfreda?"

"Of course not. Take my word for it, she'll be here before we are a day older. There, that finishes the decorations." Elfreda triumphantly fastened into place the last of a quantity of Chinese lanterns that she and her friends had been stringing about the grounds, viewing the work with a sigh of satisfaction. "These won't give much light, but they'll look pretty. The electric light will have to do the real illuminating act. The table looks sweet, doesn't it?"

Several voices sent up laudatory affirmations. Though the Sempers had arrived only that morning they had entered heart and soul soul into Elfreda's plan for a dinner on the lawn that evening, with the added treat of communing with a real fortune-teller afterward. In order to give the mysterious sooth-sayer a proper setting, a veritable grotto had been arranged for her inside a small summer house at one end of the lawn, on which the light would shine only faintly, thereby according her the eerie environment so necessary to one whose business it is to foretell the future.

Luncheon over, the Sempers had wandered in and out of one another's rooms, exchanging confidences and reminiscences, while a wholesale unpacking of their effects went on. Later Elfreda had marshalled them to the lawn, where their tongues continued to wag busily as they strung the many-colored lanterns on every available bush, or between such trees as could be easily put into use.

"We'd better be thinking about getting dressed for the evening," reminded Miriam Nesbit, consulting her wrist watch. "It is after six o'clock."

"I hope it gets dark early," commented Elfreda, with a reflective squint at the sky. "It will be more fun to have dinner then. Still I don't care to let the august Sempers starve while we are waiting for night to come."

"Oh, have dinner late," chorused several voices. "It will be ever so much more fun."

"I think so, too," nodded Grace. "We'll be good and hungry then and enjoy it even better for the waiting."

"You hear the counsel of honorable Semper Harlowe," stated Elfreda automatically. "Those in favor please respond in the usual manner by saying 'aye.' Contrary 'no.' I am delighted to find you of one mind," she added, with a beaming smile, as no dissenting voice arose. "You shall be amply rewarded for such noble self-sacrifice."

"Elfreda has something special on her mind," remarked Miriam Nesbit to Anne, as they strolled toward the house to don evening gowns. "She's planning some sort of ridiculous surprise. I can see it in her eye. I wonder -- " Miriam stopped short and laughed.

"What?" asked Anne quickly. "I hadn't noticed anything specially mysterious in her manner. She always did love to be mystifying."

"I won't say what I think is going to happen. If it happens, though, I'll tell you if I guessed right." Miriam continued to smile to herself. Encountering Elfreda on the veranda, her black eyes flashed the stout girl a mischievous message which the latter immediately caught.

"I can see that you know a few things," challenged Elfreda, drawing her aside. "On your honor as my benefactor and roommate, keep them to yourself," she charged, just above a whisper.

"I am a safe receptacle for dark secrets," Miriam laughingly assured her in equally guarded fashion.

"I'm afraid I made a serious mistake in rooming with you so long. You know altogether too much about me," retorted Elfreda waggishly. "I might have known you'd guess. Never mind. Some others won't."

Owing to the fact that the sun had obligingly finished his daily pilgrimage behind a flock of gray clouds that banked themselves in the west, a fairly early twilight descended. A timid new moon, that was scheduled in the almanac to rise early, also covered itself with glory by not appearing at all, thereby signally helping along Elfreda's cause. When at eight o'clock the nine representatives of Semper Fidelis seated themselves at the tastefully decorated festal board, which occupied a position of central importance on the grassy lawn, they had no reason to complain of too much natural light. Through the dense summer darkness that had now closed in about them, softly-glowing lanterns winked their many-colored eyes. The main illumination, however, was due to two good-sized electric lights, each suspended from its own particular post at opposite sides of the grounds. These Elfreda had thoughtfully swathed in thin flowered silk, which modifying their glare, gave them the same Oriental effect as that of the lanterns.

The nine young women made a pretty picture as they gathered about the table, the delicate hues of their evening frocks lending additional beauty to the scene. From out each young face shone the joy of reunion. Whatever the future might ordain for them in the way of trials, for one week at least they had laid strong hold on happiness.

Having nobly postponed dinner for purely artistic reasons, they were now decidedly hungry. They, therefore, devoted themselves whole-heartedly to the substantial meal, comprising several delectable courses which were deftly served to them by two maids who had long been fixtures in the Briggs' household, and whose smiling faces indicated their pleasure in ministering to Elfreda's guests. It was a signally merry repast, eaten to an accompaniment of gay badinage and rippling laughter. Their college days now but a memory, it partook of the nature of a rollicking spread, rather than of that of a formal dinner party, and they reveled in thus being able to call forth once more a fleeting repetition of their former jollifications.

"You are a truly hospitable lawyeress, J. Elfreda," lauded Kathleen West, as, dessert removed, they lingered at the table over their coffee, served in quaint Japanese cups that were the pride of J. Elfreda's heart. "I can see that you haven't lost the will to garner things Japanese. These cups are exquisite."

"I am inordinately proud of them," returned Elfreda, looking gratified. "Laura Atkins' father presented me with a real Japanese tea-set that he bought especially for me the last time he was in Japan. They are old enough to have a history, too. I couldn't resist parading them to-night in honor of the Sempers."

"Tell us about them, Elfreda," begged Patience Eliot. "I love to hear --  -- "

Patience never finished stating what she loved to hear. A sharp little exclamation of "Look!" from Arline Thayer set all eyes gazing in the direction of her indexing finger. Out of the darkness and into the swaying gleam of the lanterns a black-robed figure, bent double with the weight of years, hobbled its weird way toward the diners. From a voluminous sable sleeve, a long thin hand projected itself, the wiry fingers clutching a tall staff. The shifting glow of the lanterns played fantastically upon the apparition's veiled head as, step by step, it drew slowly nearer. An audible sigh of amazement, mingled with dread of the unknown, swept the little company. Added to the unexpected materialization of the seeress was the surprise of her costume. Fancy had pictured her to them as the usual gypsy, garbed in a rainbow of lively colors. This sinister vision, the cast of whose features a long black veil entirely concealed, seemed to be a creation of the very darkness itself. If pure uncanniness indicated occult power, then this veiled prophetess of destiny must surely be an adept in her art.



Chapter VIII

Unveiling The Prophetess


"'Tis the Veiled Prophetess of Destiny," declaimed Elfreda with dramatic intensity. "Excuse me, girls. I must conduct her to her grotto. If she is not received with respectful ceremony, she is likely to hobble off to other fields and leave us in the lurch. After all the pains I've taken to insure her presence, I should hate to disappoint you at the last minute."

"Where on earth did J. Elfreda manage to find her?" questioned Julia Emerson. Distinct awe pervaded her tones.

Their gaze fixed upon the distinguished seeress, whom Elfreda was solicitously piloting across the lawn to the grotto, no one answered Julia's question. In fact, only one of their number was prepared to reply to the query. Having taken the vow of silence, Miriam Nesbit's tranquilly-composed features offered no sign of the significant knowledge that lay behind them.

"Who will be the first to consult Amarna, the Seeress of the Seven Veils?" intoned the now-returning Elfreda in solemn, sing-song accents. Very practically she added: "I just now took the trouble to find out her name."

"Can she tell the past?" quizzed Sara Emerson skeptically.

"She can. To Amarna the past is a freshly written page. From her occult vision nothing lies hidden. Let me lead you to her." Elfreda crooked an inviting arm.

With a joyful giggle Sara rose. Accepting the proffered guidance to the seat of the all-wise Amarna, she proceeded to hustle her amiable conductor over the grass toward the grotto at a most indecorous rate of speed, born of her ardent determination to test the mettle of the Seeress of the Seven Veils.

"Go ahead." Releasing Sara's arm, Elfreda gave her a gentle shove toward the grotto and retired into a discreet patch of darkness to chuckle unobserved.

"Stand where you are. I am Amarna," piped a thin, reedy voice. Sara obediently came to a halt in the opening to the grotto and faced a black-draped dais on which the illustrious prophetess reposed. In the chastened yellow glow, cast by an enormous lantern hung directly over where she now paused, Sara was plainly visible to the uncanny figure on its perch. On the contrary, as Amarna sat well in the shadow, her face still hidden behind her veil, she greatly resembled a huge black blot. "You are not the only child in your father's house," continued the high voice. "You have a sister who is your very counterpart. Both saw the light on the same day, March the seventh."

The seeress went on with a detailed narration of various past events in Sara's life which caused her eyes to grow round with wonder. The subsequent prediction of a most remarkable future, in which fate had apparently decreed that she should never marry but end her days as a successful conductor of an art needle-work emporium, sent her scurrying back to her friends divided between wonder of the mysterious being's power to depict the past and disgust at the prospect of such a hum-drum future.

"Do let me interview her next," pleaded Julia Emerson. "But first I shall run up to my room and get my scarf. If Amarna can swathe her distinguished features, so can I. Then she won't know I'm a twin. I must say she seems better at reading the past than predicting the future. I don't see how she could tell a single thing about you, Sara, when you just stood still there. Fortune-tellers generally ask to look at one's palm." Having delivered herself of this wise opinion, Julia flitted off to the house to secure the disguising scarf.

"I defy you to pick me out as a twin," was her merry challenge, when returning to the group on the lawn she wound her long chiffon scarf twice about her head. "Thank goodness, Sarah and I never dress alike. You'll have to lead me, J. Elfreda Briggs. I can see, of course; but rather dimly."

Elfreda again performed the kindly office of conductor, leaving Julia in precisely the same spot where Sara had lately stood.

"The eyes of Amarna cannot be deceived," calmly reproved the black shape on the dais. "They see behind the flimsy veil and deep into your thoughts. Your face is as the face of her who so lately sought me. The bond of sisterhood stretches between you. That which is invisible to the naked eye is visible to me. The road of the past winds clear and white before me. Now I perceive that you --  -- "

The result of Amarna's mystic meanderings down the road of the past were never revealed. Tardily gifted with a most remarkable power of second sight, Julia suddenly swooped down upon the weird Seeress of the Seven Veils, emitting a gleeful shout. "You villain!" she chuckled, as she caught the unfortunate sooth-sayer by the shoulders and administered a playful shaking. Still firmly clutching her victim, she raised her voice in a clear call of, "Girls, come here this instant!"

Having heard Julia's first wild shout, an investigating committee of curious girls was already bearing down upon the grotto.

"Here's your Seeress!" laughed Julia. With a triumphant sweep of the arm, she pulled aside the swathing black veil, to disclose the mirthful features of Emma Dean, minus her glasses.

"Emma Dean!" went up the lusty cry from at least six surprised Sempers. Elfreda and Miriam, however, had guessed the import of Julia's shrill summons before running to the scene with the others.

"You ridiculous fraud!" exclaimed Sara Emerson, hugging Emma with bearish enthusiasm. "No wonder you knew so much about my past and so little of my future. And I never even suspected you."

"I'm next," declared Grace as she wrapped fond arms about the recently age-bent figure which had miraculously recovered youth within a space of three minutes. Emma was lovingly embraced by each girl in turn amid much voluble greeting and accompanying laughter.

"The way of the seeress is hard," she commented humorously as she finished the removal of her veil, which the astute Julia had begun. "No more gloomy, ghostly grottos for Emily Elizabeth. Let the past and the future take care care of itself. Hurrah for the glorious present! I hope you giddy, gorgeous creatures can appreciate my noble, self-sacrificing spirit. While you have been engaged in wearing your costliest raiment and eating up a delectable dinner, I've been obliged to lurk like a criminal in J. Elfreda's room, attired in somber, sable weeds."

"But when did you arrive, Emma?" asked Arline. "Of course we know now that you and Elfreda perpetrated this dark but delightful plot. How you managed to slip into the cottage without any of us seeing you is a greater mystery than the Seeress of the Seven Veils could ever hope to be."

"Oh, it was all planned beforehand," explained Emma cheerfully. "While you loyal Sempers were out on the lawn this afternoon, stringing lanterns, I was shut up in a third-story room peering owlishly down at you through the shutters. I arrived here this morning, about an hour before the rest of you. Kind and hospitable hostess that she seems to be, I grieve to relate that I had hardly paid my respects to Mrs. Briggs when J. Elfreda shut me up in that same third-story chamber with my breakfast and left me to pine while she went gayly gallivanting down to the train to meet you. When I have a little time I shall write a book and entitle it, 'Locked Up for the Day; or All in the Name of Friendship.'"

Emma beamed languishingly upon her listeners in order better to impress them with her unfaltering loyalty to their interests. "In order to clear my jailer of any unjust aspersions which unkind persons may cast upon her, I might also add that she brought me some luncheon. As for my dinner, I had finished it before you began yours. So you see, she at least kept me in a well-nourished condition."

"Now we can be perfectly happy!" exulted Grace. "You are the last touch needed to complete the reunion."

"I am always a blessing," returned Emma modestly. "To-night I happened to be one in disguise. But I yearn to cast aside my sable robes of prophesy and emerge from my room in gala garments. Lead me to my trunk, J. Elfreda. The night is yet young and I'm anxious to make the most of it."

"I never once thought of Emma Dean in connection with Elfreda's fortune-teller," confessed Kathleen West ruefully. "I am afraid I'm losing my nose for news."

"Neither did I," admitted Anne. "But you guessed it, didn't you, Miriam?" Recalling the latter's inspiration of that afternoon, Anne turned to her sister-in-law.

"Yes. It flashed across me all of a sudden. You know Elfreda said Emma might descend upon us when we least expected her. That's what set me to thinking."

"I ought to have guessed," mourned Sara Emerson. "All the glory of the discovery goes to my twin sister. How did you find her out, Julia?"

"It was what she said. You know how funny Emma is. When we were at Overton she was forever saying 'Now I perceive.' The minute I heard it to-night I began to perceive, too."

When presently Emma joined her friends on the lawn, all traces of the fabled Seeress of the Seven Veils had vanished. In a simple white evening frock, eye-glasses firmly astride her nose, she was her usual jolly self. Although Grace Harlowe was undoubtedly the best-loved member of Semper Fidelis, Emma held an individual place in their hearts. Wherever she walked, fun and laughter followed at her heels. Grace was their inspiration to noble deeds; Emma their spirit of good cheer. One and all they gathered about her and marshalled her to the veranda where a hilarious hour ensued, followed by a concerted invasion on the living-room, where they proceeded to entertain Mr. and Mrs. Briggs, who had tactfully declined to intrude upon the dinner party, with an evening of the old, familiar stunts with which they had so often lightened their student days at Overton College.

It was well after midnight when, by common consent, the will to retire for the night claimed them. Knowing the deep regard that existed between Grace and Emma, Elfreda had arranged matters so that they might room together. Although Anne was Grace's oldest friend, she had cheerfully resigned her claim on Grace to Emma for the week.

"Well, Gracious, how is everything?" were Emma's first words when at last they had shut themselves in their room for the night. "I can't begin to tell you how dreadfully I've missed you. It gives me the blues every time I think of Overton next year without you. But I know you are happy, and that's at least one consolation."

"It's a mutual miss, Emma," assured Grace. "I have thought of you a great deal and wished you were with me at home. Aside from not being able to have my dearest friends with me all the time, my happiness has been so complete this summer that I feel as though I ought to walk very softly, for fear of losing some part of it."

"I understand. It's always so. One wonders if it's even wise to mention it for fear of breaking the spell," mused Emma. "I suppose the best way to do is to plod steadily along and not think much about anything but the day's events. By the way, are you very sleepy?"

Grace shook her head. "Not a bit. On the contrary, I'm wide awake."

"Then let's doff our festival garb, clothe our magnificent selves in kimonos and have a talking-bee," proposed Emma joyfully. "I'll give you a faithful account of affairs in darkest Deanery, if you will agree to furnish me with an equally detailed account of Harloweville doings. Is it a go?"

"It is," acceded Grace with equal heartiness.

A little later, seated Turk fashion on Grace's bed, the two tried comrades indulged in one of the protracted talks that had invariably ended their day's work when together at Harlowe House. It was an extremely confidential session, yet there was one bit of information which Grace could not find it in her heart to divulge. Though it had been over a week since she had said good-bye to Tom Gray, aside from a brief letter written to her on the train just before his arrival at a little town some miles from the lumber camp, she had received no further communication from him. Within herself she argued that she had really no cause for alarm. No doubt Tom had been too busy to write. Perhaps he had written her, but, due to the isolation of the camp, had encountered difficulty in mailing a letter to her. She would have liked to put the situation before Emma, yet loyalty to love forbade her to speak of it even to this trusted friend.



Chapter IX

The Meaning Of Semper Fidelis


Father Time has an unfortunate habit of scudding along at a tremendously rapid pace over the delightful roads of life. It is only when the ways are rough and stony that he is prone to lag and linger. To the reunionists the prospect of a week spent together had offered limitless possibilities. Once that coveted period of time had become theirs, it proceeded to vanish in an alarming fashion. On Monday they had congratulated themselves and one another that six glorious days were still theirs. By Wednesday they had begun to mourn that only four were left them.

Life at the Briggs' cottage offered a ceaseless succession of wholesome pleasures. Early morning invariably found the reunionists strengthening their acquaintance with the ocean. Breakfast over, a bathing suit procession to the nearby beach became the usual order of things. They spent long sunny hours playing about in the surf, or stretched at ease on the white sand, exchanging an apparently exhaustless flow of light-hearted conversation relating to almost everything under the sun. Imbued with tireless energy, their afternoons brought them fresh entertainment in the way of long automobile rides to various points of interest, followed by jolly little teas or dinners along the way. The annual excursion to Picnic Hollow, which claimed the greater part of a whole day, was also a memorable occasion. Evening, however, usually overtook them at the cottage. By common consent they tabooed the more formal social entertainment which the various hostelries at Wildwood offered. Only on one occasion did they diverge from their clannish programme in order to attend an informal hop given by Elfreda's friend, Madge Morton, at her father's cottage.

During their stay at the Briggs' cottage the previous summer, they had been given the opportunity of meeting this charming young girl. Shortly after their arrival she had come over from the Morton cottage to pay them a friendly call. Greatly attracted to her, on first meeting they had greeted her warmly and invited her to share their good times.

Madge and Grace had a bond in common in that while Grace was preparing to be married to Tom Gray, Madge was trying to decide whether or not she should pledge herself to marry Tom Curtis. Before the week ended she had confided her problem to Grace and the two girls discussed the subject long and earnestly. Yet despite such friendly counsel as Grace felt privileged to give, Madge could come to no definite decision.

Though five days of smiling sunshine had added immeasurably to the welfare of the devoted company, Saturday morning dawned gray and threatening. Before breakfast was over the ominous prediction of storm was fulfilled. Amid reverberating peals of thunder, heavy raindrops began to fall. They were merely the prelude to a furious downpour which descended in silvery sheets, and fairly overflowed the discouraged landscape. A strong wind rose, lashing the leaden expanse of sea into a white-capped fury quite foreign to its hitherto deceitfully dimpled aspect.

"It's a horrible day," conceded Elfreda Briggs gloomily. "We can't do any of the things we've planned. No bathing, no motor trip, either, unless this deluge stops, which doesn't seem likely."

"Oh, it may clear up," comforted Emma Dean. "I've seen worse days than this suddenly brace up and smile. Let's possess our souls in patience. Incidental to the process we might restore the shattered faith of some of our deluded correspondents. During the past six days it has pained me to observe the postman arrive, full-handed, to turn away, alas, empty-handed. I ask you as man to man -- why this thusness? Now that we are about to depart, it might be well to apprise our neglected families of the fact."

"Emma, you are a noble woman," declared Miriam with deep conviction. "I may not have noticed it before, but better late than never. I move that we organize a writing school in the living-room for the purpose of squaring ourselves with our too-trusting families and friends."

"What's the use in writing home now?" demanded Julia Emerson. "Sara and I would get there almost as soon as our letters. We have to go to-morrow, you know."

"I know." Emma held her handkerchief ostentatiously to her eyes. "Never mind. You may write to me. You know I have always admired your nice vertical handwriting. It takes me back to my first-reader days."

"Sorry I can't oblige you," giggled Julia, "but I'm not in the mood for letter writing. I'm going to pack my trunk and send it to the station before Sara has a chance to stuff half of her belongings into it."

"Such sisterly devotion," murmured Emma.

"Oh, I don't mind," was Sara's cheerful comment. "I've already packed my sweater and two dresses in Julia's trunk. You'd better leave them there, Julia, I haven't an inch of room left in my trunk to squeeze them into. It is already jammed so full that you'll have to sit on the lid when I get ready to lock it."

"Stung!" was Julia's inelegant comment. "This is what comes of being a twin. I think I'd better hurry and gobble up the small trunk space that is left me; otherwise I may have to carry a large part of my wardrobe home in a bundle." Dread of such a contingency sent her fleeing up the stairs in hot pursuit of her own welfare, oblivious to the pleasantries which Emma and Sara called after her as she ran.

Seated around the long library table in the living-room, the correspondence party made an attractive picture as, with earnest faces, they bent themselves to the arduous task of letter-writing. With the exception of Grace, all present were soon hard at work. One hand resting lightly on a sheet of the monogrammed paper which Elfreda had provided in profusion, with her other hand Grace nervously gripped her fountain pen. Should she or should she not write to Tom? Although she owed the usual amount of letters to various correspondents, she now thought only of writing to the man for whose strange silence she could not account. It was Tom's place to write her. She had answered his first letter. Yet she could not believe that carelessness was responsible for his silence. Something must have happened to him. But what? She knitted her brows in an agony of indecision, then giving her pen an energetic shake that betokened definite purpose, she began:

"Dear Tom:

"It is now over a week since last I heard from you. What --  -- "

The loud ring of the doorbell caused her to break off abruptly the sentence she had begun. With that curious intuition which sometimes manifests itself unbidden, she was seized with the startled conviction that the bell had conveyed the news of an arrival important to herself. Listening with an anxiety she could not yet understand, she heard a man's deep tones raised in inquiry. Then came the lighter voice of the maid who had answered the door. Then --  -- 

"Miss Harlowe," the maid had entered the living-room and addressed her, "there's a special delivery letter come for you. Will you please sign for it?"

"Thank you, Alice." Grace sprang to her feet and hurried into the hall. The messenger handed her a letter and shoved his book toward her, indicating the place for her signature. Hastily signing and returning the book, Grace dismissed the man, and sank to the oak settee in the hall, her heart thumping wildly. She had already recognized the handwriting on the envelope, not as Tom's familiar flowing hand, but as the spidery, wavering script of Mrs. Gray. With trembling fingers she tore open the envelope and read:

"Dear Grace:

"Have you heard from Tom? I am dreadfully worried. I have only received the one letter from him of which you already know. It is not in the least like him to thus put off writing me. He knew before he went that I should be uneasy about him, and promised faithfully to write me every other day. For the sake of your anxious and bewildered Fairy Godmother, will you come to me as soon as possible, if you have not heard from him? If so, then telegraph me to that effect and I shall rest easier. I have put off writing you from day to day, in the hope that I might receive news of my boy, and also because I could not bear to spoil your pleasure. But as it is now Friday and you will receive this on Saturday, I know that if you have received no word from him, you will not mind coming home a day earlier than you had planned. Once we are together again, we can decide on some method of action. Thus far I have done nothing. Believe me, my dear, only my great anxiety compels me to ask you to make this sacrifice.

"Yours lovingly,

"Rose Gray."

The letter sliding from her nerveless fingers, Grace saw her surroundings through a swirling mist. For a moment or two she yielded to the terror that clutched at her heart. Her sturdy nature reasserting itself, she rose, recovered the letter and walked slowly into the living-room.

"Girls," she said, her voice a trifle unsteady, "I must leave you at once. I -- Mrs. Gray needs me and has sent for me. I am sorry I can't tell you the reason. I am sure you will understand that I am giving you as much of my confidence as I can." She paused, her gray eyes looking utter affection on the startled group about the table. "I want you to promise to finish the reunion just as happily as though I were with you. Later, perhaps I can tell you what I mayn't tell you now. It is not yet eleven o'clock, so I am sure I can catch the noon express."

Grace's remarkable announcement drove the business of letter-writing to the winds. A bevy of sympathetic girls gathered about her, sending up a concerted lament. Yet none ventured to inquire into the cause of her departure, or to ask her to reconsider her decision to depart at once. Loyal to the core, her wish was their law. Each eagerly offered her services in behalf of the love they bore her. Torn though she was by the shock of this new sorrow, Grace could not help thinking as she stood there, how gloriously worthy were these staunch comrades to bear the name Semper Fidelis.



Chapter X

The Shadow Deepens


"Oh, Fairy Godmother, what does it mean?" The tall, slender girl, who had been obsequiously ushered into Mrs. Gray's stately, old-fashioned house on Chapel Hill, darted down the hall and straight into a pair of arms outstretched to receive her.

"I -- don't -- know -- my dear. I wish I -- " Mrs. Gray's broken utterance ended in a sob, as she laid her silvery head on Grace's breast. Until that moment she had remained calm. The sight of one who was equally enveloped in the shadow that had dropped down upon her, proved too much for her. Clinging to Grace, she sobbed heart-brokenly.

"There, there, dear Fairy Godmother. You mustn't cry so!" Grace's own voice was husky with emotion. "You have me with you now to comfort you. Cheer up. I am sure that everything will turn out all right. It's -- dreadful -- of course -- not -- to hear from Tom," Grace faltered briefly, "but I -- we must keep thinking he is safe and well and that we may receive a letter from him at any minute. I didn't wait to go home. I knew you needed me, so I came straight from the train here. Mother doesn't even know yet that I am in town. Come into the library and sit down in your own favorite chair." Bravely stifling her own heavy anxiety, Grace wrapped an affectionate arm about the dainty little old lady and drew her into the long room which had been the scene of so many of their confidential talks.

"There you are!" she nodded, striving to smile. "Just a moment until I get rid of my hat and coat and I'll curl up on the floor at your feet. Then we can talk things over and find out what's to be done."

"You are a dear good child," quavered Mrs. Gray. Under the white glow of the electric lamp, her Dresden-shepherdess face looked pinched and wan. Fear and uncertainty had robbed her small features of that look of perennial youth which so individualized her. "It was thoughtful in you to telegraph me that you were coming. I knew then that you hadn't heard from Tom, but I knew, too, that you would soon be here."

"I hated to telegraph you, knowing you'd worry even more. Still it seemed best." Now ensconced at Mrs. Gray's feet, Grace possessed herself of the older woman's hand. "Please feel that whatever you may ask of me, I will cheerfully try to perform it."

"I don't know which way to turn," was the distracted answer. "I had so hoped that you would be able to tell me that Tom was safe in camp. It's a rather delicate matter, my child. Coming as it does so near your wedding day, it is very necessary that Tom should be located at once. I've already written Mr. Mackenzie about Tom, but as yet he has not answered my letter. Something dreadful has happened to my poor boy. I feel it."

Grace privately agreed with her, yet she would not say so. She knew as well as did Mrs. Gray that only actual mishap would have caused Tom to fail in his duty to his aunt and to herself. "I think we had better telegraph Mr. Mackenzie," she suggested, her voice ringing with new-born purpose. "Then -- if he knows nothing of Tom's whereabouts we had better organize a search. First of all we must know if he reached the camp. If not -- " Grace stopped, overmastered for an instant by a silent spasm of dread that cut lines of pain in her fine face.

"I don't like to send a telegram from Oakdale," demurred Mrs. Gray. "These small town operators are not always to be trusted. If the story were to creep about that Tom Gray had disappeared, so shortly before his wedding day, it would be very painful for both you and me. I could, of course, consult a private investigator in New York, yet I shrink from doing so until I know definitely that Tom has disappeared. It is such an intimate, personal matter. I don't fancy turning it over even to my lawyer. You can understand that."

"Yes." Grace had grown very pale at the possibility of the tender romance of her Golden Summer being held up even to the little world of Oakdale as a subject for gossip and possibly harsh criticism. Seized with a blessed thought she said: "There is one person at least whom I think we ought to take into our confidence. That person is David Nesbit. He and Tom have always been like brothers. He will help us. I'll write him now, before I go home, and ask him to telegraph Mr. Mackenzie. A telegram sent from New York will never give cause for gossip here."

Rising to seek her traveling bag which she had deposited in the hall, she hastily rummaged in it for her fountain pen. The sight of Mrs. Gray's pitiful face had completely aroused her to the need for prompt action. Re-entering the library she approached the massive writing table with the quick assured step, so characteristic of the brave spirit with which she had always faced adversity. From a drawer of the table she selected note paper and an envelope to match and seating herself, prepared to plunge intrepidly into the writing of the most difficult letter she had ever been called upon to pen.

"Dear David:" she wrote, then groped about in her mind for the words which would best convey to Tom's chum the sorry message she was fated to deliver. It was not a long letter, yet she knew that the recipient would read between the lines and fully comprehend the serious situation which confronted herself and Mrs. Gray. When she had finished writing it and signed her name, she next devoted her attention to the wording of a telegram to Mr. Mackenzie, setting it down on a separate sheet of paper.

"Please read them, Fairy Godmother," she requested, tendering the fruits of her painful effort to Mrs. Gray.

"You are right in believing David to be the best possible confidant," sighed the old lady as she returned the letter and telegraphic message to Grace. "We can rely on him absolutely."

"I must go now. It is after nine o'clock. I will hurry to the nearest drug store for a special delivery stamp and mail the letter at once. I wish I might stay with you longer, but I feel as though I ought to go home. You don't mind if I tell Mother and Father? It is within their right to know."

"Of course it is," readily agreed Mrs. Gray. "I only deferred telling them until I had talked with you, Grace. I can't begin to tell you how much having you here has comforted me. I feel a trifle more cheerful already. Perhaps, after all, we have been running out to meet calamity. To-morrow may bring us word that Tom is safe and well." Rising from her chair, Mrs. Gray embraced Grace tenderly.

"I hope so." Forcing herself to smile encouragingly down at the wan little figure beside her, Grace bent and kissed the old lady's cheek. For a moment the two clung together, their mutual devotion deepened by their common sorrow. Gently disengaging herself from Mrs. Gray's arms, Grace donned her hat and coat and, with a last fond word of cheer, soberly sought the door and stepped out into the starlit night.

Alone with her sorrow, her late attempt at cheerfulness fell away from her like a cloak. Deep dejection settled down upon her as she walked down Chapel Hill toward home. The very beauty of the fragrant, starry night hurt her. She wondered if those some far-off stars, twinkling so remotely aloft, held the knowledge of Tom Gray for which she mournfully yearned. Why had this dreadful uncertainty intruded itself into the very heart of her Golden Summer? Had she boasted of her happiness only to see it snatched rudely from her life? Suppose Tom were never to return? Suppose even the knowledge of his fate were to be denied her? Over and over again she had read in the newspapers of the strange disappearances of persons, the mystery of which defied solution. The horror of her gloomy apprehensions sent a chill to her heart that caused it for an instant to stand still, or so it seemed to her.

"I mustn't think of such frightful things," she breathed. "Tom is all right. I must make myself believe it. Now is the time to be brave; to go on steadily without faltering. Tom will come back to me. Wherever he is or whatever has happened to him, he will come back. I know it."



Chapter XI

Postponing Happiness


But Tom Gray did not come back. Neither by word nor sign did those who feverishly awaited news of him receive even the faintest intimation of his whereabouts. Added to the heavy strain that Mrs. Gray and Grace were laboring under, they were destined to grapple with the question: Why had David Nesbit not responded to their plea for assistance? After three weary days of waiting, Grace wrote to Miriam Nesbit asking if David were in New York City. Miriam's prompt reply stated that business had called David to Chicago. She expected that he would return to New York that very day. The information brought the comforting assurance that once the letter had come into his possession David would not fail them.

On the evening following the receipt of Miriam's letter, an anxious-eyed young man swung off the eight o'clock train into Oakdale, and hailing a taxicab was whirled away from the station toward the Harlowe's home.

"David!" was all Grace could find words for, when, entering the living-room, her girlhood friend sprang forward to meet her with outstretched hand of sympathy.

"I'm more sorry than I can say, Grace," David burst forth, as, motioning him to a chair, Grace sat down opposite him. "I was delayed in Chicago and didn't reach New York until this morning. My mail wasn't forwarded to me, so I didn't get your letter until then. I sent your telegram to Mr. Mackenzie, then caught the first train for Oakdale. Did you get my wire?"

"Yes. I've been anxiously watching for you. It's dreadful -- David." Grace's voice trailed away into a stifled sob. Brave as she had tried to be, David's belated presence was almost too much for her composure.

"I should say it was." David looked utter concern over the sad errand that had brought him to Grace. "Tell me everything, Grace. I must know the facts if I am to be of real service to you."

Fighting for self-control, Grace narrated briefly the little she knew concerning Tom's strange disappearance. "Mrs. Gray had written Mr. Mackenzie about Tom before I wrote you. I explained to you in my letter that he was ill. That was Tom's reason for going away up there to that dreadful camp. Mr. Mackenzie writes that Tom never arrived. He was very much upset over it as he had been depending upon Tom to look after things until he was well again. Poor Aunt Rose is nearly distracted. She has put the matter in the hands of a private investigator. He hasn't had time to reach the camp yet so, of course, we haven't heard from him. Fairy Godmother has forbidden him to telegraph her at Oakdale. She is afraid some one may find out about Tom and gossip." The sickness of hope deferred lay in Grace's eyes as she finished speaking.

"I'm going up to that camp, Grace," announced David with strong determination. "I'll catch the next train for New York and arrange my business to-morrow morning. By afternoon I'll be on the way to Tom. If he is to be found, I shall find him. Who is the man Mrs. Gray has engaged to clear up the mystery?"

Grace named a man whose professional standing in his particular field ranked high.

"A very clever man," commented David. "He ought to do something toward straightening out this snarl."

"We can only hope that he will," was Grace's sad response. "Excuse me, David, until I call Mother. She is so anxious to see you. Then we had better go to Aunt Rose. You will find her greatly changed. This trouble has aged her. She looks 'years old,' rather than 'years young.' That wonderful spirit of youth has deserted her. It could hardly be otherwise."

"Poor little Fairy Godmother!" sympathized David. "It's a shame that trouble like this had to come when all three of you were so happy. I can't make myself believe that it is good old Tom who's among the missing. A sturdy, fearless fellow like him can usually be trusted to take care of himself anywhere. Why, he's tramped all over this country and never met with any accident that I can remember. You and I know that something serious has happened this time, though. Tom would never neglect those he cares for, even in the most trifling matters."

"I am sure of that. Still it's good to hear you say what I know to be true. Nothing could shake my faith in Tom. It is absolute." Grace spoke with the frank simplicity of perfect love and trust.

During the short walk that lay between the Harlowe's residence and that of Mrs. Gray, David cast more than one covert but admiring glance at the tall, slender girl at his side who bore her difficulties with such signal sweetness and courage. "What a splendid girl Grace is," was his thought. Looking back on their earlier days of comradeship, he recalled gratefully what a power for good she had always been. She had valiantly steered Anne through the breakers that more than once had threatened engulfment. Through Grace, his own sister, Miriam had been shown the way to sincerity and well-doing. Mabel Allison, Ruth Denton, Eleanor Savelli and countless other girls owed the greatest joys that had come to them to this high-principled, impulsive, kindly girl who had lavishly scattered the flowers of generosity and good-will along the pathway of life. Now, at last, there was something which he could do for Grace. David vowed within himself to leave no stone unturned which might be the means of restoring to her the happiness which she so richly merited.

The visit to Mrs. Gray proved a severe trial to both young people. Her usual optimistic viewpoint had long since deserted her, leaving her a wan little ghost of the vivacious Fairy Godmother who had once entered so merrily into the doings of her Christmas children. A fixed air of melancholy had dropped down on her which even David's hearty assurances that Tom would soon be found failed to lift.

"If any one can find Tom it will be you, David," was the nearest approach toward hopefulness which she could muster.

"I'll find him, never fear," predicted David with an air of cheerful certainty that brought faint smiles to both women's somber faces. "I must leave you soon, though, in order to make that late train for New York. Before I go, I'll devise a secret code so that I can telegraph you here at Oakdale if anything good comes to pass."

Grace supplying him with pencil and paper, David jotted down several sentences which he was most likely to need in sending messages, then substituted different words to be used in place of the originals. This bit of thoughtfulness on his part was eminently cheering, and when soon afterward he took hasty leave of Grace and Mrs. Gray the latter appeared to be in a less lugubrious frame of mind.

After he had gone, Grace followed Mrs. Gray into the library, the old lady's favorite room in the big house, and, drawing a chair opposite to that of her near-aunt, began rather hesitatingly, "Now that David has left us, there are several things, dear Fairy Godmother, that I must say to you. They are mainly about -- our wedding day. Only the Eight Originals and a few of the 'Sempers' know that the time was actually set for the tenth of September. They are all intimate friends, tried and true. I think it is only right that I should explain matters to them. Not one of them would break a confidence.

"If I am not married to Tom on the tenth, naturally they will wonder. It would be dreadful for me to have to say to any one of them, 'I can't explain why the wedding must be postponed.' They love me and I love them. We've always shared our joys and sorrows. It doesn't seem fair to leave them in the dark. Naturally it will hurt me a great deal to explain, but it will hurt me far more not to. I have talked with Mother and Father about it. They both feel that the decision must rest with you. It's too bad to bother you with this new perplexity, but I must know one way or the other. I can't endure the suspense."

At the beginning of Grace's earnest plea that her closest friends be put into possession of the knowledge that Tom Gray was among the missing, his aunt's delicate face showed unmistakable signs of disapproval. Swept along by the girl's fervent earnest words, Mrs. Gray felt her brief abhorrence of the idea vanish in an overwhelming flood of admiration for the dauntless spirit in which Grace bore the torturing dread that had been thrust upon her.

"You make me feel ashamed of myself, Grace," she faltered. "While I've been nursing my own selfish grief you have been putting aside your sorrow to think of others. After all, you have more at stake than I. My life has been practically lived, while yours is only at its dawn. I have known the bitterness of losing those I loved. It should have taught me to face the future more courageously. When you spoke just now of letting others know of our trouble, it seemed for a moment as though I could never consent to it. But I have changed my mind. It would not be fair either to you or my poor boy, wherever he may be, to place you in a false position. I have only one stipulation. Wait a little longer before telling your friends of this dreadful disruption of our plans. If within the next three days we have not heard from Mr. Blaisdell, the investigator, then write to your friends and let them know the exact circumstances."

"It breaks my heart to hear you say such things of yourself," was Grace's passionate cry. Springing to her feet she knelt before the older woman and wrapped two shielding arms about her. "You've always thought of others. I won't let you say that you are selfish, or that your life has been almost lived. You've been as brave as a lion ever since this terrible trouble came to us. You have just as much at stake as I. We must stand together, even more firmly than before, waiting and hoping that all will be well. Before Tom went away he often said that he hoped our life together would always be one long Golden Summer. I'm not going to let winter overtake me now when my Golden Summer's hardly begun. This is just a brief cloud that hides the sun. It will pass and we'll all be happy together again. Just because our plans have all gone awry is no sign that they always will. Postponing our wedding day doesn't mean saying good-bye to happiness. It's only a brief postponement of happiness, too."



Chapter XII

The Better Part


Although Grace had so sturdily asserted her claim on happiness, nevertheless she quailed secretly before the ordeal of writing to her friends regarding the change in her plans. Long she pondered before committing the gloomy information to paper. More than one anguished tear fell from her eyes as she relentlessly pursued her difficult task. Not so very long ago she had fondly dreamed of the time when she should happily send to those she loved the summons to come to her on her wedding day. But the pile of envelopes which eventually found their way to the nearest mail-box contained news of a vastly different character.

True to her promise she had conscientiously waited for the word from Mr. Blaisdell which Mrs. Gray had anticipated. At the end of three days of suspense she had sought her Fairy Godmother only to meet with a letter from the investigator which sent hope to the winds. In it he stated that aside from the station master at the lonely little railway station, he had encountered no one who recalled seeing a young man of the description of Tom Gray. He had learned from the former that Tom had halted him to inquire the way to the camp and to ascertain if he could obtain any means of conveyance on that day. As it was then four o'clock in the afternoon and no one from the camp had met the train, the station master had warned him that a storm was coming and advised him to wait over until the following morning, offering Tom the hospitality of his own home. The young man had politely declined his offer, saying that he must reach the camp that night and would walk. He had said good-bye and swung off toward the dense growth of forest that rose behind the straggling hamlet, and nothing further had been seen or heard of him.

Further inquiry at the camp, which Mr. Blaisdell had experienced considerable difficulty in reaching, had developed the alarming news that no such person as Tom Gray had been seen in that vicinity. He had gleaned, however, that the station master's prediction of bad weather had been verified and that a particularly heavy windstorm had swept that region early in the evening of the day on which he had talked with the young man. Torrents of rain had fallen and trees had been broken down and uprooted. It was possible that Tom had lost his way and been killed by a falling tree. Blaisdell did not believe this, however, as neither a dead nor injured man had been found by the various search parties of lumber men who had been sent out to cover the surrounding territory. So far as possible the search had been conducted with the utmost secrecy. He had not divulged Tom's name. As the camp was in an out of the way place, peopled by a taciturn set of men who asked few questions, it was not likely that any news would travel farther than its limits.

The day following the receipt of this letter brought a telegraphic notification from David Nesbit to the effect that he had reached the lumber camp and was about to start on his search for his chum. With this small consolation, the patient, tortured souls who awaited news of their lost one were forced to be content.

Hard as it had been to write to her trusty comrades, it was infinitely harder for Grace to receive the messages of sympathy and love which poured in upon her. Yet on the heels of her distress came one letter which, despite the gravity of her present situation, moved Grace to half-hearted laughter. On opening an envelope addressed to herself in Arline Thayer's unmistakable script, Grace was mildly astonished to read:

"Dear Stanley:

"After our talk last evening I am quite certain that I could never be happy as your wife. It has shown me clearly that our aims and viewpoints are so entirely different that it would be useless even to dream of spending the remainder of our lives together. It is hard to write this, but I feel that no matter what it may cost me I must be true to myself. I am therefore returning your ring and letters by express. You may do as you think best in regard to returning the letters I have written you.

"With a sincere wish for your future happiness,

"Yours sincerely,

"Arline Thayer."

Tardily realizing that she had unwittingly perused a communication not intended for her eyes, Grace lost no time in writing an apologetic letter to Arline in which she enclosed the fateful missive of rejection. How Arline had come to mail it to her was a matter for speculation.

But she had only set eyes on the beginning of a drama as she was soon destined to learn. Late the next afternoon, while seated on the front veranda with her mother, she viewed with mingled emotions a taxicab which had come to a full stop before the house. Out of it stepped a small, golden-haired young woman whose smart pongee traveling coat and bulging leather bag proclaimed that she had come from afar.

"Arline Thayer!" cried Grace, running down the steps to meet the newcomer as she passed through the gateway. "Why, Daffydowndilly! This is a surprise! You are the last person I had dreamed of seeing." Grace caught the dainty little girl in a warm embrace.

"I know I should have telegraphed you," apologized Arline, "but -- well -- I didn't. I made up my mind all in an instant to come to you, and here I am. Ever since I received your letter you've been constantly in my thoughts. I replied at once. Of course you received it?"

"Let me take your luggage, Daffydowndilly." Grace evaded Arline's implied interrogation for the moment. "Come and pay your respects to Mother, then we'll go upstairs to your room and you can rest a little before dinner. You must be very tired after your long ride. Then, too, we can exchange confidences. I have something to say to you about the letter you just mentioned." Grace could not refrain from smiling a little. She suspected that Arline had made a mistake, the precise result of which was yet to be revealed.

"What is the matter, Grace?" was Arline's quick question. She had instantly detected the unusual in her friend's enigmatic smile and evasive speech.

Their progress to the veranda, where Mrs. Harlowe waited to greet the unexpected but heartily-welcome arrival, prevented Grace's reply. It was not until Arline had been ushered into one of the large, airy upper chambers which Grace took so much pleasure in reserving for the use of her frequent guests, that the former again repeated her question in tones of deepening anxiety.

"I will tell you when you have made yourself comfortable," stipulated Grace. Assisting Arline in removing her hat and coat, she applied herself assiduously to the comfort of her friend.

"You are a truly ideal hostess, Grace," was Arline's tribute as she finally settled herself in a deep willow chair. "Now I am ready to hear what you have been keeping from me."

"You asked me if I had received your letter," began Grace as she dropped into a nearby chair. "Yesterday morning I did receive a letter you wrote, but it was not for me. The envelope was addressed to me, but the letter -- I read it before I realized that I hadn't that right -- was written to Mr. Stanley Forde. I wrote you an apology, enclosed the other letter with it and mailed them to you."

"Oh!" Arline gave a horrified gasp. "How perfectly dreadful! How in the world did I happen to make such a mistake! This is awful!"

"Then you wrote to me at the same time and confused the two letters? I was afraid of that. But it doesn't matter to me if it doesn't to you." Grace tried to put on an air of kindly unconcern. Secretly it saddened her a trifle to know that a stranger had received even an inkling of her private affairs. Undoubtedly Arline's letter to herself had contained an expression of sympathy which could not fail to put Mr. Stanley Forde in possession of certain painful facts relating to her own trouble.

"But it matters a great deal!" exclaimed Arline, flushing deeply. "In that letter to you I said that I could never be thankful enough that I had had such a wonderful talk with you. I said, too, that you had made me see things in a different light and that I knew now that what I had believed was love wasn't love at all. Worse still, I said that if it had not been for you I would never have had the courage to break my engagement, but would have failed to be true to myself. Now, Stanley has that letter!" Arline made a despairing gesture. "I don't care what he thinks about me, but what will he think about you?"

Grace was not prepared to answer this pertinent question from the jilted Stanley's viewpoint. Personally she had a disagreeably clear idea of what he was quite likely to think. Yet she was too sturdily honest by nature to regret the advice she had given Arline in good faith. "I am sorry this has happened," she returned slowly, "but I am not sorry for what I said to you. I meant it. I would have said as much to Mr. Forde had an occasion risen which demanded plain speaking."

"You are Loyalheart, through and through," came impulsively from Arline. "You would stand by your colors to the death. I couldn't blame you if you were terribly angry with me for mixing you up so miserably in my affairs. I should have been more careful, but I was dreadfully upset when I wrote those letters. You see, Stanley came to my home on the evening of the day he returned from Oregon. As you know, I had decided to have a plain talk with him. It began pleasantly enough, but before it ended we were both very angry. He declared point-blank that after we were married I would positively have to give up my settlement work. He said a great many hateful, sneering things about the poor people I've been trying to help. I was going to give him back his ring then, but I remembered what you advised about not being too hasty. So I told him I wouldn't discuss the subject with him any more that evening.

"After that he was very pleasant. I suppose he thought he had won me over to his point of view. When he had gone I sat for a long time on the veranda thinking hard. Then I went upstairs to my room and wrote him, breaking our engagement. Of course I cried a little. I was so unhappy. Then I thought of you and felt like writing you about it. After I had written both letters, I read them over; first the one to him, then yours. It was after midnight and I was so tired. I suppose that is how I happened to make the mistake of putting your address on his letter and vice versa. He will be simply furious. I only hope that he doesn't write you a hateful letter. If he writes to me, I'll send the letter back unopened. You'd better do the same."

"No; I couldn't do that. It is perfectly proper for you to do so, but it would appear cowardly on my part. Let us hope he doesn't bother to write me. Does he know my surname and where I live?"

"Yes; I've told him of you a great many times. I wish now that I hadn't. I am sure he will write you. It's a shame. I came to Oakdale to comfort you and be comforted. Now I've landed both of us in a nice muddle." Arline lifted a pair of mournful blue eyes to Grace.

In the presence of impending tragedy a sudden sense of the ridiculous swept the two girls. Their eyes meeting, they began to laugh. It was the first genuine mirth that had stirred Grace Harlowe since the day on which she had left the Briggs' cottage to return to Oakdale.

"One ought not laugh over such a serious matter," apologized Arline, with a half hysterical chuckle. "But I can't help thinking how surprised you must have been to receive that letter to Stanley, and how wrathful he must be by this time."

"I'd rather laugh over it than cry," smiled Grace. "Don't worry, Daffydowndilly. I'm not afraid of any letter that Mr. Stanley Forde may choose to send me. You had better write him another letter at once, though, and explain matters. You owe him that, at least."

"I will," sighed Arline. "There's just one thing more I have to say. I shall never, never fall in love again. It's fatal to one's peace of mind. Now that I've fallen out of love, I feel about a hundred years younger. I'm going to be a nice, kind, spinster and found a home for poor children."

Grace smiled at this naïve announcement. She was unselfishly glad that Arline could thus lightly cast her burden from her dainty shoulders. Perhaps she, too, would have known greater content, had love not entered her heart. Yet in the same instant she put away the thought as unworthy of herself. Come what might she was intensely sure that she had chosen the better part.



Chapter XIII

An Innocent Meddler


Arline Thayer had entered Grace's home life at a moment when the latter most needed the inspiring companionship of an intimate friend. Quickly recovering from her own woes, it was borne upon Arline that she must exert herself to the utmost to cheer up the girl who had never failed her. The blithsome joy of living which, formerly, Grace had seemed to radiate had entirely disappeared. Although she went about the house, feigning desperately to maintain a cheerful attitude, a subdued air of wistfulness clung to her that filled Arline with a fierce resentment against the circumstances that had risen so unexpectedly to rob Grace of her happiness. She frequently wondered how it was possible for Grace to keep up so bravely in the face of such crushing adversity. Given the same sinister conditions, Arline admitted inwardly that she could never have maintained the remarkable composure which Grace daily exhibited.

She was thinking of this when, on the afternoon of her third day's sojourn with the Harlowes, the two young women had just left Haven Home behind them, Grace having asked Arline to accompany her on one of her frequent pilgrimages to her beautiful House Behind the World. Usually it was Nora Wingate who went with her. Occasionally Mrs. Harlowe bore her daughter company.

Grace never visited Haven Home empty-handed. Always she carried some new treasure designed by herself or her friends to adorn the stately habitation in which she felt sure that some day would indeed mean Haven Home to herself and Tom. Before he had left her to make the journey that had resulted in his complete disappearance, she had promised him that the finishing labors at Haven Home should go steadily forward. Those who knew her most intimately could readily testify that she was unfalteringly keeping her word. In moments of darkest depression she wondered from whence came the strength that enabled her to go on with these visits, each in itself a separate agony. She had been plunged for a moment in one of these painful reveries when Arline asked with an inflection of wonderment, "How can you be so brave, Grace?"

"I'm not very brave," she answered, her eyes wistful. "Not so brave as I wish I were. I have to struggle continually to make myself believe that whatever happens must be for the best. I often feel bitter and resentful and wonder why this sorrow should have been visited upon me rather than on some one else. Of course, that is wrong. No one ought to wish their troubles shifted to other folks' shoulders. Thousands of persons have greater griefs than I. Take Aunt Rose, for instance, who lost her husband and daughter so many years ago. Tom was the light of her life; her greatest pride. Think what she is suffering! We had such high hopes that David Nesbit would find Tom. Yet, thus far, he hasn't met with even a clue. Poor little Fairy Godmother says she has only one thing for which to be thankful. No one in Oakdale knows about Tom, barring a few trusted friends. She had been in constant fear lest the newspaper reporters should get hold of it. Of course it would be a severe shock to her to pick up some day a paper and read, 'Mysterious Disappearance of Tom Gray,' or 'Young Man Mysteriously Disappears on the Eve of His Wedding Day,' or some cruel scarehead of the kind. I don't quite know how I should feel about it."

"But suppose he never came back," cut in Arline, her usual tact deserting her. "Forgive me, Grace," she added penitently. "I should not have said that."

"Why not?" Only the sudden tightening of her lips betrayed that Arline's thoughtless inquiry had struck home. "I faced that long ago. If we continue to be without news of him, sooner or later his disappearance must become known. But Aunt Rose prefers to keep it secret as long as possible. Her constant prayer is that he will return before any such thing comes to pass. Sometimes I think it would be better if it were generally known. I hate secrecy."

During the drive to Mrs. Gray's, both girls were unusually silent. After leaving the roadster in the Gray garage, they went up to the house to spend an hour with the lonely old lady, whose pitiful efforts to be cheerfully hospitable cut them both to the heart. Promising to come again on the following day they left her, the forlorn little chatelaine of a big house, grown oppresively empty since robbed of Tom's genial presence.

As they neared Grace's home, both glimpsed in the same instant a taxicab standing in the street directly opposite to the house.

"That taxicab is from the station!" exclaimed Grace. "Hurry, Arline, it may be -- " She broke off short, her heart thumping madly. She dared not voice the hope that perhaps her weary waiting was over.

Arriving on the veranda, Grace made a hasty entrance through the open hall door. Pausing in the hall, deep masculine tones, issuing from the drawing room, caused her to speed toward the sound, Arline at her heels. The voice was not Tom's, yet her first wild conjecture as she viewed the stranger seated in a chair near the door, was that he might be Mr. Blaisdell, the investigator, with news of Tom.

A faint cry of, "Stanley Forde!" from Arline sent over her a sickening wave of disappointment. As they entered, the young man rose, looking the reverse of amiable as he stepped forward, grim purpose in every feature. Ignoring Grace he addressed himself to Arline with the stiff rebuke:

"I have been waiting for you for some time."

"I did not expect you." Arline's blue eyes flashed forth her displeasure. Merely touching the hand he offered her, she said, "Mr. Forde, this is my friend, Grace Harlowe."

The young man acknowledged the introduction with an ironical smile in which Grace read trouble ahead for herself. She met him with a frank, kindly courtesy that betrayed nothing of her inner mind. Personally, she was not impressed in his favor.

"You will pardon my leaving you, Mr. Forde?" Mrs. Harlowe had also risen. She now addressed the young man with a distant politeness which Grace recognized as disapproval. From Arline she had learned of the broken engagement. It seemed evident that she also had not been favorably impressed with her guest's ex-fiancé.

"Certainly. Very pleased to have met you," bowed the unwelcome caller. Again Grace caught faint sarcasm in the speech.

Hardly had Mrs. Harlowe disappeared when he turned to Grace, his heavy brows meeting in a decided frown. "I believe I am indebted to you, Miss Harlowe, for a great disappointment which has recently come to me. Your unkind interference has caused Arline to reconsider her promise to become my wife. It is fortunate that she made the mistake of sending the letter she wrote you to me. It has put me in complete possession of the facts of the case. I --  -- "

"You have no right to come here uninvited and insult Grace Harlowe in her own house," cut in Arline in a low, furious voice. "You shall not accuse her of interfering. I won't allow it. It is --  -- "

"Please allow Mr. Forde to say whatever he wishes, Arline." Grace's interruption came with gentle dignity. Her gaze resting untroubled on the angry man, she said: "I had no wish to interfere in your affairs, Mr. Forde."

"Then why did you do it?" came the bitter retort. "What grudge could you possibly have against a man you had never even met?"

"None whatever," was the soft answer.

"But you interfered. This letter proves as much." Triumphantly he jerked the misdirected letter from a coat pocket.

Grace was silent. She did not wish to say that Arline had appealed to her for advice, neither was she anxious to remain in the room as a third party.

"I'll tell you the reason," volunteered Arline sharply. "I asked Grace's advice." Her pretty face pale with resentment, Arline poured forth a rapid outline of her talk with Grace. "That's the reason," she ended. "If you had met me fairly when I tried to talk to you about my work this would never have happened. I am glad now that it has. I don't love you and never have truly loved you. I am glad to be free. I shall never marry any one. All men are hateful! Now I wish you to go away, and never, never speak to me again as long as you live!"

But the unpleasant interview continued for another ten minutes despite Arline's pointed dismissal. Mr. Stanley Forde could not forgive Grace for what he rudely termed her "meddling." The idolized son of a too-adoring, snobbish mother, he had nothing in common with Grace's high ideals. Though she explained to him gently that she had only advised Arline to choose whichever course seemed wisest, remembering only that nothing counted so much as being true to herself, her lofty precepts merely tended further to infuriate him.

"You are one of those empty-headed idealists who go about creating disturbances for sensible persons," was the scathing criticism he delivered the moment she ceased speaking. "You will regret this interference in my affairs. Now that you know my opinion of you, will you kindly leave us? I wish to talk privately with Arline."

"I don't wish to talk to you at all," flared Arline hotly. "Please don't leave me, Grace. Whatever Mr. Forde has to say he must say in your presence."

"I am sorry, Arline, but I must ask you to excuse me from remaining longer in the room. Mr. Forde has come a long way to see you. I think you should grant his request for a private talk with you. Good afternoon, Mr. Forde. I regret that you should have so entirely misunderstood my motives." The finality of her words robbed the disagreeable caller of a ready reply. Before he could rally a further relay of rude sarcasm to his aid, Grace had left the room.

If it is indeed true that actions speak louder than words, the distinctly belligerent manner in which, ten minutes later, Mr. Stanley Forde stormed down the walk to the waiting taxicab, gave glaring proof of the dire result of his untimely call. From the garden, where Grace had fled to recover from the irritation of having been so grossly misunderstood, she saw the boorish young man depart. Privately she marveled that Arline should have so deceived herself in regard to her feelings for him. He was undoubtedly handsome, yet his regular features indicated a certain lack of strength and nobility which she thought totally marred his claim to good looks. His large black eyes had a trick of narrowing unpleasantly, and the set of his mouth betokened tyranny.

Her sympathy going out to Arline, she passed slowly among the winding garden paths, lined with colorful summer flowers, and entered the house. The sight of a pathetic little figure crumpled in a disconsolate heap on a broad settee aroused her pity afresh.

"Don't cry, Daffydowndilly," she soothed, sitting down beside her. "He isn't worth it. You were wise in breaking your engagement. Some day real love will come knocking at your door. You were never intended to be a sedate spinster and live out your days in single blessedness. I'm sorry for Mr. Forde. He loves you, I think. But not in the unselfish way you deserve to be adored."

Grace paused, her hand straying gently over the curly head against her shoulder. All of a sudden she felt very aged and very tired. The unpleasant scene with Arline's disgruntled suitor had shaken her severely. She was living out the Golden Summer, that had promised so much, in a fashion far different from the glorious realization of it for which she and Tom had hoped and planned. Yet she had been mercifully spared the pain of beholding a cherished ideal shatter itself at her feet. God had granted her the priceless boon of a true man's true love. Though she and Tom had but briefly glimpsed their Golden Summer, the remembrance of his unselfish devotion would keep it alive forever.



Chapter XIV

The Beginning Of The End


Two days elapsed, following the call of the belligerent Stanley Forde, before Arline ended her visit to Grace. Once she had departed, Grace missed her sorely. Her coming had been a timely break in the now sad routine which Grace daily pursued. Many of her Oakdale acquaintances and friends were still vacationing at the seashore or in the mountains. Had they been at home, she would not have sought them for companionship. Aside from the many hours she spent with Mrs. Gray, she clung desperately to Nora and Hippy Wingate. Even jovial Hippy was considerably less lively than of yore. His affection for Tom Gray was only second to his devoted friendship for Reddy Brooks, who had been his childhood's chum. Among the four young men, Tom, David, Hippy and Reddy, an ideal comradeship had ever existed, unfaltering and unchangeable. Tom's sudden and still unexplained removal had cast a pall over the remaining trio that was likely to linger indefinitely.

On the afternoon of the next day after Arline's departure, a highly-excited young man, whose plump, genial face wore an expression of angry concern, hurried up the walk to the Harlowe's veranda.

"Why, Hippy Wingate, what are you doing here so early?" demanded Nora, from the porch swing. "You can't have your dinner yet. It's only four o'clock. When you're invited to six o'clock dinner you mustn't arrive two hours beforehand. Didn't you know that?" This wifely counsel was accompanied by a teasing smile that belied its harshness.

"Don't pay any attention to her, Hippy," called Grace mischievously. "Come up on the veranda where it's nice and cool. I give you permission to sit in the porch swing beside the haughty Mrs. Wingate. Better still, I'll bring you some fruit lemonade and a whole plate of those fat little chocolate cakes you like so much."

"Now I hope you understand at last how much other people appreciate me," rebuked Hippy, as he plumped himself down in the swing with an energy that set it swaying wildly. "I shan't give you a single cake."

"I don't want any. I've had four already. I hope you understand that you've made me prick my finger," retorted Nora, dropping her embroidery to hold up the injured member for inspection.

"Too bad," mourned Hippy, applying the familiar remedy of the devoted. "Did you really lacerate your itty bitty finger? I don't see any signs of it."

"Only the blind can't see," flung back Nora. "All joking aside, what brought you here so early?"

Hippy cast an uneasy glance toward the doorway through which Grace had just vanished. "This," he returned soberly. Unfolding a New York City newspaper, he pointed to a black headline which read, "Young Man Mysteriously Disappears."

Nora drew a sharp breath of dismay as her startled glance traveled down the column. "Where -- how -- " she stammered.

"I don't know." Hippy glared savagely at the offending newspaper. "I've got to show it to Grace," he deplored. "I'd rather be shot. Some one broke a confidence. It's outrageous in who ever broke it."

"I should say so," agreed Nora. "You'd better -- Here she comes now."

Grace stepped into view, carrying a quaint Japanese tray laden with delectable cheer. In her crisp dotted swiss gown of white, her sensitive face a trifle thinner than of yore, she looked hardly older than in her freshman days at high school. "Here you are, weary wanderer," she said gayly. "Eat, drink and be merry."

"Here You Are, Weary Wanderer," She Said Gayly.

Hippy groaned inwardly as he sprang from the swing to relieve her of the tray. "Grace," he began with grave affection, "I have something not in the least pleasant to tell you. I don't --  -- "

"About Tom?" Grace's question rang out sharply on the drowsy air.

"It's not bad news of him," Hippy hastily assured, "but it's about him."

"Then tell me quickly." Grace braced herself for the shock, her gray eyes riveted on Hippy.

"Here it is." Hippy handed her the fateful newspaper. "I wanted to be the first to let you know it," he added in sympathetic apology. "I am afraid some one has played you false."

Grace focused her gaze on the flaring headline. Sinking into the nearest porch chair she read on, apparently lost to her surroundings. Raising her eyes at last from the printed sheet she astonished both Hippy and Nora with a quiet, "I am glad of this."

"Glad?" rose the inquiring chorus.

"Yes; glad. During the last two weeks I've felt very queer about keeping Tom's disappearance a secret. At first I dreaded to have any one know, on account of Fairy Godmother's horror of gossip and on my own account, too. She was afraid that some malicious person might start the story that he had purposely dropped out of sight. We know that could not be so, yet others might not share our belief in him. But lately I've been seeing matters differently. So long as the affair is kept a secret, he will never be found. With the news of his disappearance spread abroad by the newspapers, some one may come to light who has seen him or heard of him in some way. I am going to try to regard the public as friends who would like to help us all they can."

"I think you are right about that," emphasized Hippy. "You are true blue, Grace. You have carried yourself through this nightmare summer like a soldier and a gentleman. That's the highest praise I can offer. No wonder you annexed the name 'Loyalheart' at college."

"Grace, have you any idea who furnished the copy for this?" Nora pointed a disapproving finger at the newspaper. "Do you -- that is -- do you suppose one of the girls -- I thought -- perhaps --  -- "

"No, Kathleen West would never break her word." Grace smiled whimsically. "You were thinking of her?"

"Yes; I knew she was connected with a newspaper," admitted Nora, coloring.

"None of the girls to whom I wrote about Tom had anything to do with this. I trust them as fully as I trust you. This information found its way into the newspapers through a different channel."

"Then you know who -- " began Nora.

"Yes, I know," Across Grace's brain flashed the vision of an angry face, lighted by two narrowing black eyes. She mentally heard a threatening voice predict vindictively, "You will regret this interference in my affairs." The misdirected letter had again created trouble. She recalled having feared this when Arline had explained her blunder in confusing the two letters. Undoubtedly in writing to Grace, Daffydowndilly had mentioned Tom Gray's name and, in expressing her sympathy, had practically gone over the information contained in Grace's letter to her regarding the postponement of her marriage.

"I should like to tell you, children," she continued, "but I can't, because the telling would involve a certain person whose confidence I hold. I will say this much. It was petty spite which prompted the deed." Grace's lips curved in faint scorn. Stanley Forde was truly a person of small soul and less honor. Such despicable retaliation against a woman was the last touch needed to prove his unfitness to protect the welfare of loyal little Daffydowndilly.

"Oh, don't think of us," hastily assured Hippy. "We wouldn't listen to you if you tried to tell us. We understand. All the more credit to you for behaving like a clam. That's a compliment. Perhaps I had better explain. You notice I didn't say you looked like a clam." Hippy tried to infuse a little humor into the situation.

Grace flashed him an amused smile. "'I thank the gods for a saving sense of humor,'" she quoted. Her face instantly sobering she said: "We ought to see Aunt Rose at once about this newspaper affair. Perhaps the three of us ought to go up to her house before dinner. We shall have time."

"Are you sure you would rather not go alone?" Nora put the question in her usual direct fashion.

"No; I wish you and Hippy to go with me. But first, Hippy, you must eat your cakes and drink your lemonade." Grace picked up the well-filled tray which Hippy had temporarily set aside and held it out to him. "Don't let this queer new turn in my affairs drive away your desire for cakes."

"You are the eighth wonder, Grace. If the universe were to turn upside down I believe you'd forget your own jolts and fly to the rescue of the other human nine-pins." Hippy looked his admiration of Grace's sturdy stand under the buffets of misfortune. "I will eat every last one of these alluring tidbits and drink two glasses of lemonade just to show you that I know hospitality when I meet it on a veranda."

"See that you do. Now excuse me. I must show this newspaper to Mother. When I come back we'd better go to see Fairy Godmother."

The confidential session between mother and daughter lasted not more than ten minutes, yet before it ended Grace crept silently into the shelter of her mother's arms to shed a few tears on her all-comforting shoulder. It was not the printed article relating to Tom which prompted them. It was poignant sorrow for his long unexplained absence from her that brought brief faltering.

When she returned to the veranda, where Hippy was busy with the last of the cakes and his second glass of lemonade, her sensitive features bore no sign of her moment of weakness.

"I have kept my vow." Hippy pointed significantly to the empty plate. "Nothing remains but a few discouraged crumbs." Suddenly changing his light tone, he raised his glass of lemonade and said with solemn intensity: "Here's to Tom Gray; a speedy and safe return. I can't help feeling that it will be so."

"Thank you, Hippy." The faint color in Grace's cheeks deepened. A gleam of new hope kindled in her eyes. "You said a while ago that you wondered at my being so calm about Tom. I can't be anything else, because I never allow myself to think that he won't come back. If I did, I'd be utterly miserable. You thought this article in the newspaper might hurt me. Two weeks ago it would have done so. But now! Somehow it seems to me to be the first definite link in the chain that stretches between him and me. It's the beginning of the end, and just as surely as I stand here I believe something good will come of it."



Chapter XV

Merely A Looker-On


The three bearers of the news, which they had reason to believe would prove so disturbing to Mrs. Gray, were doomed to disappointment. They reached her home on Chapel Hill only to find that she had been summoned early that afternoon to the bedside of an old friend who was very ill, and would not return until late in the evening.

Grace was relieved at being thus able to postpone the detailing of the disagreeable news. She was in a quandary regarding loyalty to Arline and loyalty to her Fairy Godmother. She was of the opinion, however, that it was the latter's right to know all, even at the expense of breaking the confidence Arline had reposed in her. She had little doubt that Arline would not object to such an action on her part, yet such was her nature that she found it difficult to accept this view of the subject.

After Hippy and Nora had gone home that evening she wrote a long letter to Arline, setting the matter frankly before her. She knew that before the letter reached her friend, she would have already told all to Mrs. Gray. Still she reflected that she had at least behaved fairly.

But the following morning brought with it the knowledge that Arline had already taken the initiative. Special delivery was responsible for a letter from an incensed Daffydowndilly, which fairly sputtered with indignation. Grace was obliged to smile as seeking its contents she saw:

"Dearest Grace:

"That horrible, hateful old Stanley Forde is the most despicable person in the whole world. I was simply furious when I read that article about your fiancé, Tom Gray. I called Stanley on the telephone and accused him of giving the story to the newspapers. Of course I knew in a minute it was he. I remembered all I had said in that letter to you which I sent him by mistake. He actually laughed and said that he did it to pay you for meddling. I told him he would be held responsible for giving the story to that newspaper, but he said that as long as it was true, as he could prove by my letter, that the editor of the newspaper had a perfect right to use it if he wished. He pointed out that it was nothing against Mr. Gray's character and therefore legitimate news.

"Then he had the unspeakable temerity to ask me if he might call on me. You can imagine what I said. Thank goodness and you that I found him out in time. I would be happier with a blind, deaf and dumb man who couldn't walk than to be married to such a person. I am so angry. I have written another letter to dear Mrs. Gray explaining the whole thing. She was so sweet to me when in Oakdale that I felt it my duty to tell her everything. Will you go to her and explain even more fully? You can fill in any gaps which my letter to her may contain. Tell her every single thing about me. I wish her to know it. I am sending her letter by special delivery also. Must hurry and post both letters, so I will close. Write to me soon.

"Faithfully,

"Daffydowndilly Thayer

("To the end of the chapter.")

Grace laid down this energetic communication with a faintly glad sigh. This snarl at least had righted itself. Suppose it were an omen? "The beginning of the end," she had said. It was a little thing, but in some indefinable fashion her heart grew lighter. As Arline's letter had come to her in time of need, perhaps out of the vast unknown would come some sign of or from the lost one.

Her straight brows arched themselves in surprise as she devoted herself to the reading of a letter from Miriam Nesbit.

"Beloved Loyalheart:

"Can you, your father and mother come to New York City at once? Everett and I are to be married on Friday evening at eight o'clock, then take a night train for California. So my well-laid plans for a grand wedding the last of October will have to end in mere announcement cards. But I'll explain. You know I told you of those wonderful open-air performances of Greek plays that have been going on at a spot not far from Ravenwood, the motion picture studio where Everett and Anne filmed Hamlet and Macbeth. To go back to the Greek plays -- they will end next week. They have proved so successful that the management wishes to follow them with a series of Shakesperian performances, as they have had requests for them from all sides. To come directly to the point, the stellar honors have been offered Everett, therefore I am about to sacrifice pomp and ceremony on the altar of true love.

"We are to be married in the Little Church Around the Corner where so many professionals have taken their sacred vows. Only my nearest and dearest are to be there. There will be neither a best man nor a bridesmaid and I shall be married in a traveling gown and turn my cherished trousseau into prosaic wardrobe. Even my wedding gown will have to be used afterward, minus the veil, of course, as an evening frock. I have telegraphed David and hope he can come. If he does, he will go back to his search the day after my marriage. Poor Loyalheart, I cannot write you all I feel for you. I'll try to tell you when I see you. Don't disappoint me. I cannot bear to think of going on this new pilgrimage without your being present to wish me godspeed. With my dearest love and sympathy,

"Miriam."

"P. S. I hope Fairy Godmother will come, too. I have written her."

As Grace read the signature, the letter fluttered to the floor unheeded. Her generous soul rejoiced at Miriam's happiness, yet never before had the gloom of her own situation struck her so sharply. One by one her trusted comrades were placing their lives in the care of the chosen men of their hearts. Only a little while before she had been of them all perhaps the most buoyant. Her engagement to Tom, after months of harrowing indecision, had always been a matter of reverent wonder to her. She had looked eagerly forward to attending Miriam's wedding. Now she dreaded the thought. She felt that she could have better borne with attending an elaborate and formal wedding than to mingle with the intimate few who would be present at the Little Church Around the Corner. Yet she had no choice in the matter.

Seeking her mother, Grace gave her Miriam's letter. A short consultation in which it was decided that Grace must represent her family at Miriam's wedding, and she was speeding upstairs to pack a steamer trunk. The mere glance at a huge cedar chest in which reposed her own wedding gown sent a chill to her heart. Listlessly she made her preparations for the flitting. She would take the noon train which would reach New York at nine o'clock that evening, provided her Fairy Godmother should decide not to go to the wedding. Should she do so, then they would probably wait until the following morning. At all events she would be ready.

Her labor of packing accomplished, Grace set off for her interview with Mrs. Gray. She found the lonely old lady raised to the nth power of indignation over the deplorable newspaper notice. Anger at that "detestable Forde person" had electrified her into a semblance of her formerly vivacious self. Grace was delighted at the change, but had considerable difficulty in reconciling her wrathful Fairy Godmother to her own point of view.

"I dare say you may be right, child," she reluctantly conceded, after Grace had held forth at length. "That villainous young man may possibly have done us a good turn, unawares. It was sweet in little Arline to write me so beautifully. What a narrow escape she has had, to be sure! If Tom were anything like this miserable man, Forde, I should not care whether or not he ever came back. The publicity of this has upset my nerves completely. We shall have to weather it, I suppose, now that the mischief is done."

"I am glad you can look at it in that light," was Grace's earnest response. "Are you going to New York to see Miriam married, dear?"

"Bless me, I had quite forgotten Miriam's wedding. When is it to be?"

"Then you haven't received her letter!" Grace cried out in dismay.

"I haven't looked at any of my mail, except this letter from Arline. It was first on the pile. Jane gave me the newspaper when I returned last night. She had already seen the article about Tom. Would you mind sorting the mail? Miriam's letter is probably among the others. I have tried to pay special attention to my mail since my poor boy vanished, for fear of missing something I ought to know. But this morning my mind was on Arline's letter and that newspaper. I think I shall have to engage a secretary. You know I've never had one since Anne gave up the position."

Grace, whose fingers and eyes had been busy while Mrs. Gray talked, held up a square white envelope. "Here is Miriam's letter."

"I think we had better go to-day," decided Mrs. Gray, when at her request Grace had read her Miriam's letter. "This is Wednesday. That will give us two days with the Nesbits. As it is only half-past ten we can catch that 12.30 train, provided you are ready. Ring for Jane. She can quickly pack whatever I need to take with me. It is lucky that I bought Miriam's wedding gift some time ago. I really think this little trip will benefit me, though the very idea of attending a wedding gives me the horrors. Still Miriam is one of my adopted children. I hope David can come. I am anxious to talk with him. Strange that he can find out nothing about Tom."

Roused from the listless apathy which had so persistently preyed upon her, Mrs. Gray rattled on with a new and surprising cheerfulness which delighted Grace. Perhaps this was another link in the invisible chain. The sudden upheaval of Miriam's plans for a magnificent wedding had at least benefited one person. Then, too, they would perhaps see David and learn more definitely of the territory which Tom had invaded to his sorrow.

Waiting only long enough to see Mrs. Gray deep in her preparations for the coming journey, Grace hurried home to don a traveling gown, say a fond farewell to her mother and leave a loving good-bye message for her father. A telephone call left with her mother for her during her absence informed her that Nora had heard from Miriam, too. She and Hippy would take the evening train for New York.

"We are rallying to Miriam's standard," Grace declared with a flash of her former enthusiasm, when her mother had repeated Nora's message. "If Jessica and Reddy can manage the trip, then -- " She stopped, the smile faded from her face. She had been about to say that the Eight Originals would all be there. Turning abruptly she walked from the living-room, the sentence unfinished. For a brief instant she had forgotten that unless the unknown suddenly yielded up its prey, one loved face would be missing from the Eight Originals.



Chapter XVI

J. Elfreda's Master Stroke


As the twilight of a perfect September day deepened into purple night, a little company of persons crossed the threshold of the quaint Little Church Around the Corner. Though few in number it was a gathering strongly fortified by warm affection. The several passers-by who chanced to see this small procession enter the unpretentious sanctuary had no difficulty in divining their purpose or singling out the chief participants in the affair. The face of the beautiful, dark-eyed girl, gowned in a smart tailored coat suit of brown, wore the shy radiance of a bride. The tall, distinguished-looking man who accompanied her was easily identified as the happy party of the second part.

Though destiny had taken an unexpected hand in Miriam Nesbit's wedding plans, she was perhaps better satisfied to make her vows of life-long devotion in the presence of only those she had known best. Miss Southard, Mrs. Nesbit, David, Anne, Grace, Hippy, Nora and Mrs. Gray were present, as Miriam's nearest, and undoubtedly her dearest. Second in her regard were J. Elfreda Briggs, Arline Thayer, Kathleen West and Mabel Ashe, whose residence in or near New York made their attendance possible. Greatly to the regret of all concerned, Jessica and Reddy had been unable to come to the wedding. Though a decided air of informality permeated the little assemblage, the always impressive ceremony of marriage had never seemed more sacred to the chosen few. At Miriam's earnest request they grouped themselves about her, a fond guard, while the minister, Everett Southard's comrade of long standing, spoke the simple, beautiful words that linked two lives together, "for better or for worse, through good and evil report."

From the moment she entered the Little Church until, the ceremony over, she found herself being helped into the Nesbits' automobile, Grace was as one in a dream. She had noted in absent wonder the play of more than one handkerchief as her friends wiped away the furtive tears that are always as sure to fall in the presence of a great happiness, as when the occasion is one of grief. But she had no tears to shed. Weeks of silent suffering had bereft her of that relief. Her sensitive face grew a trifle more wistful as she listened to the sonorous voice intoning the sacred words, but her brooding gray eyes remained dry. She alone knew the agony of dull pain which clutched persistently at her heart.

During the ceremony more than one pair of sympathetic eyes strayed from Miriam and Everett Southard to the slender, white-clad girly whose grave, sweet mouth and unfaltering glance told of a strength that came from within. In the thick of the congratulations which followed, there was not one of those who adored Grace who did not yearn to turn to her and comfort her. Yet her very composure made consolation impossible. They realized that she was sufficient unto herself.

On the way to the station, where the Southards were to entrain almost immediately for the West, she talked in her usual cheerful strain to Mrs. Nesbit, Mrs. Gray and Elfreda Briggs, who shared an automobile with her. David and Anne were in the Southards' limousine with Miss Southard and the newly wedded pair, while the other members of the party had followed in a larger automobile. Secretly, Grace and Mrs. Gray were longing to talk with David Nesbit. He had arrived from the north only an hour before the wedding, thus giving them no chance for an interview. Both were imbued with but one thought and that thought centered on Tom Gray.

When the last hearty words of good will and farewell had been said and the train bearing the Southards westward had chugged out of the station, Grace was still obliged to possess her soul in patience while the remainder of the wedding party, minus the chief participants, repaired to the Nesbits' home for an informal supper in honor of the occasion. During its progress, however, she and David managed to exchange a few words regarding Tom. David had canvassed the region of the camp as thoroughly as was possible during the time he had been North, but thus far he had met with no clue to Tom's whereabouts.

It was after eleven o'clock when Hippy, Nora, Anne, David, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Nesbit, Grace and Elfreda Briggs, whom Grace had begged to remain with her, settled themselves in the library to hear David's account of his northern explorations.

"I am all broken up because I have no news for you," he began. "Good old Tom's disappearance is the most baffling problem I've ever dealt with. Blaisdell is completely discouraged. He and I have tramped through those woods for days from daylight until dark. So far as we know, no one saw Tom after he left the village. I found one little boy who insists that he saw Tom that day, but he saw him just before he entered the woods, so that doesn't help much. But I won't give up. I shall have to remain in New York for a day, then I am going back to stay until I find him."

"Mr. Blaisdell has written me that he must go to Cincinnati for a week or two," sighed Mrs. Gray. "A case he was working on, before he took up mine, needs his immediate attention."

"Yes; he told me," nodded David. "He is a splendid man, but he's handicapped in Tom's case by not being a thorough-going woodsman. His work has lain a great deal in large cities. If one of us had disappeared in such a wild region, instead of Tom, I'd say the very man to do the trailing would be Tom Gray himself. What I can't understand is how an expert woodsman like Tom could come to grief in the wilds."

"Tom was always venturesome and reckless of danger," replied Mrs. Gray with an ominous shake of her head. "I wish he had gone into some commercial enterprise rather than to have become interested in forestry. You know that the station master told him a storm was brewing, but he paid no attention to the warning."

"That storm was the cause of Tom's vanishing," broke in Grace almost dramatically. "I've always felt it. It made him lose his way, then --  -- Who knows what happened then?"

"I wish I could go with you, David," declared Hippy earnestly. "I would, too, if I weren't tied up with a law suit which an irate traction company is waging against the city of Oakdale. Although I am not a woodsman, still I know the difference between a tree and a stump, and during my long and useful career I have killed numbers of slimy, slithery snakes."

"At least, that's something to be proud of," lauded Elfreda Briggs, favoring Hippy with an amused smile. The stout young man's remarks were quite in accord with her own distinct sense of humor. Hitherto she had listened without comment, absorbing all she heard and mentally appraising it in her shrewd fashion. She had chosen to break into the conversation at that moment because of an idea that was slowly taking shape in her fertile brain.

"I suppose," she continued nonchalantly, "that as David has just said, it takes a woodsman to trail a woodsman." Her round eyes fastened themselves on Grace. Knowing Elfreda as she did, Grace flashed the speaker a curiously startled glance. Something of signal import to her was about to fall from Elfreda's lips.

"I was just thinking of the story of Ruth Denton's father and old Jean, the hunter, who used to live in Upton Wood. Don't you remember, you told me about how he was hurt and Mr. Denton nursed him back to health! You told me, too, that this same Jean had hunted all over the United States and Canada. There's a woodsman for you! If he's still in Oakdale, why don't you ask him to go and look for Tom?" Elfreda leaned back in her chair, well pleased with herself. The expressions mirrored on her friends' faces told her that she had scored.

"Why did we never think of Jean before?" wondered Grace in a hushed voice.

"Good old Jean!" Hippy sprang to his feet and performed a joyful dance about the room. "Why, of course he's the very man!"

"It was unforgivably stupid in me never to have thought of Jean," admitted David, looking deep disgust at his own defection.

"The reason none of us thought of Jean was because I made such a point of keeping Tom's disappearance a secret," acknowledged Mrs. Gray ruefully. "Did Grace tell you that a New York newspaper had published an account of it?"

"Miriam sent me a copy of the newspaper," returned David. "Who gave out the news?"

Mrs. Gray cast an interrogatory glance toward Grace, who met it with an assuring smile. "It's all right, Aunt Rose," she nodded. "I have Arline's permission to answer. She wishes me to tell anyone whom I think ought to know it. She said so to-day." With this explanation Grace continued: "I wrote Arline about the postponement of my marriage to Tom. She answered, but confused her letter with another which she had written to someone else. That person proved unfriendly to both of us, and so the mystery of poor Tom came into print."

"So that's the way it happened," mused David. Delicacy forbade him to ask further questions. He understood, as did the others, that Grace's explanation had been purposely sketchy. "Personally, I'm not sorry it's now generally known. It may be the means of bringing Tom into the land of the living again. I don't mean that I think he's dead. I can't and won't think that."

"Nor I," Grace cried out sharply. "I've never let myself believe that for an instant. We ought to give Elfreda special vote of grateful thanks for suggesting Jean. That was a master stroke."

Grace's suggestion brought out a volley of acclamation in Elfreda's direction.

"Oh, forget it," she muttered, unconsciously relapsing into her old-time use of slang. "Old Jean just happened to pop into my head. That's all."

"Just the same, it takes an outsider to show the Oakdalites a few things," warmly accorded Hippy. "I am proud to claim you as a colleague, Elfreda. Some day we may yet grapple together with the intricacies of the law. 'Wingate and Briggs, Lawyer and Lawyeress. Daring Deeds Perpetrated While You Wait,' would look nice on a sign."

"I can see that you are making fun of a poor defenseless lawyeress," retorted Elfreda good-humoredly. "Don't you think so, Mrs. Nesbit? You've been listening to all of us without saying a word. Now we'd like to hear your views on whether or not Wingate and Briggs, etc., would set the world on fire as a law firm."

"I have little doubt of the glorious future of such a combination," agreed Mrs. Nesbit, smiling. There was an absent look in her eyes, however. Her thoughts had been traveling persistently into the past as she sat listening to the interesting discussion over the missing Tom. Was it possible that Miriam, her little girl of yesterday, had actually stepped out on the highway of married life? And Grace Harlowe, the care-free torn-boy who had run races and flown kites with David, was now a tragic-eyed young woman from whose hand fate had roughly snatched the cup of happiness. There were Nora and Hippy, too, a veritable Darby and Joan, despite their love for playful squabbling. Could it be that these alert, self-reliant young men and women were once the children who had romped and frisked about on her lawn, or played house under the tall hollyhocks in the garden?

"You are tired out, Mrs. Nesbit," suggested Grace with concern. She had noted the brooding light in the older woman's gentle face and quickly attributed the cause. "I think it is time to sound taps. We can continue our session in the morning, can't we, Fairy Godmother?"

"Yes. I am not nearly as young as I wish I were. This trouble about Tom has made me realize it," returned Mrs. Gray somberly. "But Elfreda has given us a valuable piece of advice. I am inclined to hope with Grace that we have reached the beginning of the end of our weary waiting."

"I've a favor to ask of you," stated Elfreda mysteriously, when, a little later, she and Grace entered the sleeping room which they were to occupy together.

"It is granted." Grace passed an affectionate arm about Elfreda's plump shoulders.

"All right. I don't need to ask, then. I'll just remark that I'm going home with you to Oakdale."

"Elfreda!" Grace brought both arms into play in an energetic hug of the stout girl. "Will you truly come home with me!"

"I will," asserted Elfreda.

"But what about your work?"

"Let the law take its course -- without me," was the unconcerned response. "I wouldn't miss seeing old Jean for anything. But that's not my reason for inviting myself to go home with you. I can see that you need a comforter. Do I get the job?"

"You do," laughed Grace, but the laugh ended in a sob against Elfreda's shoulder. It had been a trying day for poor Loyalheart and the inevitable reaction had set in. "You -- understand -- don't -- you?" she murmured brokenly.

"Yes; I know how brave you've been to-day." Elfreda's soothing tones were a trifle unsteady, as she added in tender whimsicality, "I could see."



Chapter XVII

Fate


Returned to Oakdale, Grace's first step was toward finding Jean, whose long residence in the snug cabin in Upton Wood had made him seem like a part of the forest itself. Greatly to her dismay, old Jean was not to be found. Nora, Hippy, Elfreda and herself made a trip to the cabin only to find it locked. On a bit of paper tacked to the door, appeared the laboriously written notice: "Gone way June 2. Come back som day."

It was a tragic downfall to the new hope that Grace had been confidently nursing, and it took all the fortitude she could summon to recover even in a measure from her bitter disappointment. Where to look for Jean she had not the remotest notion. She knew only too well that "som day" was quite likely to mean next winter. Jean was one of those rare persons who can follow the dictates of his own pleasure. The whole woodland universe was his to roam at will. His life-long communion with Nature had taught him to supply his simple wants with the ease with which the prehistoric denizens of the forest had attended to theirs, and life was to him one glorious succession of light-hearted wayfaring.

Every now and then, however, he would descend upon his lonely cabin, laden with the spoils of the chase, which found a ready market in Oakdale. After one of these jaunts he was always sure to find plenty of work awaiting him, for aside from his prowess as a hunter, he was a veritable Jack of all trades whose services were always in keen demand.

J. Elfreda Briggs was also downcast over the fact that her suggestion could not be immediately carried out. Determined not to be balked, she asked Grace's permission to mail "personals" addressed to Jean to a number of newspapers published in various large cities of the United States. But these notices brought no reply from the old hunter, who, it seemed, had vanished from the busy world as completely as had Tom Gray.

In the meantime the Wingates, Elfreda and Grace made it a point to institute a vigorous inquiry throughout Oakdale, in the hope of finding someone who could give them some definite information regarding where Jean had gone. From several persons who had talked with the old hunter before his departure, they learned only that he had announced his intention to go away on a long expedition, but had neglected to state what part of the country he intended to traverse.

Contrary to Mrs. Gray's and her own expectation that the news of Tom's unexplained dropping-out of his own particular world of friends and acquaintances would create disturbing gossip, Grace was supremely touched by the sympathetic loyalty of her townspeople. Until visited by adversity, she had never even suspected that she ranked so high in their esteem. Each day brought her some fresh proof of consideration and sympathy from the good-hearted residents of the little city of her birth. Not one slighting or detrimental comment against either herself or Tom came to her ears. It was as though the entire populace had risen to her standard in the name of friendship. She was now wholly content that the sad affair was no longer a secret.

Yet even the undivided consideration of her townspeople could not serve to throw a ray of light on the mystery. It was now the latter part of September and not a word of encouragement had come from David Nesbit, who had returned to the lumber country to pursue his lonely search until Mr. Blaisdell should again join him. True, David kept the anxious watchers fully informed of his movements, but the burden of his messages was always, "Nothing new about poor Tom has come to light."

During these days of dreary uncertainty, Elfreda proved herself a comforter indeed. Although a week had elapsed since she had taken up her residence under the Harlowe's hospitable roof, she calmly announced her intention to stay on and await developments. Her repeated cheery assertion, "Everything will come out all right yet," did much to help Grace maintain the hopeful stand she had forced herself to take. She could hardly bear to have Elfreda out of her sight, so greatly had she come to rely on her. On the other hand, Elfreda was supremely satisfied with her rôle of guardian angel. She regarded Grace as the direct inspiration to every good deed she had ever performed, and humbly congratulated herself on being for once granted an opportunity to make some small return for the countless favors she had received at Grace's hands.

To Elfreda herself, however, it appeared that she had been able to do very little. This thought was troubling her one hazy autumn afternoon as the two girls silently ascended the steps to Haven Home, whither they had walked through Upton Wood, to spend an hour or two. Elfreda was not fond of these frequent visits to the House Behind the World. They were invariably fraught with melancholy. Grace was always fairly cheerful at the start, yet the moment her gray eyes glimpsed Haven Home the old, wistful shadow crept into them.

Once inside the stately old house, her depression became even more apparent. Haven Home was now in complete order, even to the little personal touches which greatly enhanced the beauty of the tasteful furnishings. The color schemes for the various rooms had been decided upon by Tom and Grace during those first happy hours of possession. How energetically they had entered into even the smallest details, and how enthusiastically they had engrossed themselves with the joyful labor of planning the arrangement of the furniture and the countless appointments. Both had agreed that everything in the house should signify comfort rather than elegance, in order that, when the last triumphant touch had been given to it, Haven Home should be a home indeed.

To carry on bravely the work which she and Tom had begun had been an excruciating torture to Grace, made endurable only by the thought that at least she was fulfilling Tom's wishes. She was ever urged on to her sorrowful task by the one consolation that when the blessed day of Tom's return dawned, and she believed that it must, he would find that she had been loyal to his interests. She had not sat down to mourn, her hands idle. She had faithfully labored to make their dream of home come true. Though the winter of sorrow held her in its icy grip, the Golden Summer of love still bloomed fresh and fragrant in her heart.

"I don't think you ought to come here so much, Grace." Elfreda's matter-of-fact tones roused Grace from the somber reverie which had obsessed her as she stood in the center of the living-room, her absent gaze on a painting which Tom had especially fancied. It represented a young man in the dress of a cavalier and a beautiful girl in a simple high-waisted gown of white, strolling through a field of starry daisies. On both faces was the rapt expression of complete absorption that betokened the knowledge of their great love for each other. Looming up, a trifle in their rear, a gigantic black-robed figure, with a terrifying face, was hurrying, with great strides, across the blossoming meadow to overtake the absorbed pair. One had only to glance at the painting to realize that in simply naming it "Fate" the artist had rightly suited the legend to his conception.

"Why not?" asked Grace, her attention still on the painting.

"Because it's not good for you," protested Elfreda sturdily. "It isn't as though the house needed your attention. It's in perfect order and the prettiest, most comfortable place I ever set foot in. You've done everything here that can be done. Now if I were you I'd hold up my right hand and swear not to come here again until I stepped over the threshold with Tom Gray. Every time, after we pay our respects to Haven Home, you go away from it with the expression in your eyes of an early Christian martyr going to the stake. Not that you ever complain. If you went around weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth, I'd be better satisfied. But you don't. Your face simply takes on a hurt, despairing look that makes me sick at heart."

"I know it isn't good for me to come here," was Grace's frank admission. "Each time I say, 'This must be the last,' and yet somehow I can't stay away. My whole heart is bound up in Haven Home. It's the most wonderful and at the same time the saddest place in the world to me. And this picture! It fascinates me. When Tom and I chose it, we didn't dream that Fate was hurrying to overtake us."

"I'd turn it toward the wall," counseled Elfreda gruffly. "It's beautiful, but it gives me the creeps. It upsets you more than anything else in this house. Every time you come here, I've noticed you go straight to it. I can see that it's a Jonah. Do you give me leave to do the reversing act?" Elfreda grinned boyishly, yet her round blue eyes were purposeful. It would have given her infinite pleasure to summarily bundle the offending painting into Upton Wood, leaving it to the mercy of the elements.

"You may turn it toward the wall if you like." Grace sighed as she tore her gaze from the painting. "It's rather heavy, though, and you will have a hard time reaching up to it."

"Oh, that's nothing. There's a step ladder on the back porch. I noticed it the last time we were over here." Elfreda hurried from the room to wrest the ladder from its lowly haunt. Returning she set it in place before the painting and climbed the four steps to the top with joyful alacrity.

Grace followed the movements of her energetic companion with moody interest. She was glad yet sorry to watch the change Elfreda was about to make.

"I can't reverse it up here," grumbled Elfreda. "I'm afraid of dropping it. I'll have to get down from the ladder with it, then turn it around."

Carefully descending, she laid the so-called Jonah face down on the top step of the ladder, paused for an instant before completing her task.

"Oh, look!" Grace cried out, staring hard at the back of the picture. Standing out on it in letters of blue a single sentence had been pencilled.

Elfreda peered curiously at the writing. "True love laughs at Fate," she read. "That's odd! Who in the world wrote that?"

"It was Tom." Grace drew a long breath. "Seeing his writing gave me a queer thrill for a minute. It was just as though out of the silence he had suddenly spoken. Then I remembered. When the painting was unwrapped we stood looking at it. Tom had a blue pencil in one hand. He had been checking off a list of our belongings. I said that the painting was beautiful but sinister, and that I hoped that no such terrible figure of Fate would ever overtake us. Tom laughed and said he would put a spell on the picture. So he took the blue pencil and scribbled that sentence on the back of it. Then he hung it on the wall. I never recalled the incident until this moment. I'm glad you suggested reversing 'Fate,' Elfreda. I'd rather have it so. The very sight of his handwriting is a comfort."

"It's an omen," Elfreda declared solemnly, her plump face alive with superstition. "Yes, sir; it's an omen. I can see that it's a fore-runner of good luck."



Chapter XVIII

A Gleam Of Hope


Inspirited by Elfreda's emphatic prediction of good fortune, Grace left Haven Home in a livelier frame of mind than she had exhibited when entering the house. As they strolled down the walk she was further cheered by the sight of a single, half-opened rose, flaunting its crimson but lonely glory from a late-blooming bush. Elfreda, who was bent on lightening Grace's mood, soberly assured her that it was merely another lucky sign. Carefully plucking the fragrant token of good fortune, Grace breathed a prayer that this might indeed be true.

Tackling her rôle of comforter with a will, Elfreda enlivened the walk home with numerous accounts of signs and wonders which had visited friends and acquaintances of hers as heralds of great good fortune. "Of course, I'm only telling you what I've heard," she said humorously. "I can't say that I've ever had any direct manifestations that good luck was signaling to me. Once I went to a bazaar and paid a dollar for the privilege of drawing a number from a hat. I had a hunch that I'd win something. I also had my eye on a hand-painted chocolate pot, but my lucky number drew a toy velocipede instead. Still I was lucky to draw anything. Then another time I found a horseshoe in the road. I hung it over the front door and next day it fell down on Pa's head when he was coming into the house. That was a very unlucky day for me." Elfreda giggled reminiscently. "Pa raged like a lion. He declared I did it purposely and pitched the horseshoe into the street. I let it stay there. I wasn't much impressed with its lucky qualities. Just the same it didn't cure me of my belief in signs."

Grace's ready laughter held a merry note that was intensely gratifying to the narrator of the tragic horseshoe episode. She had succeeded even better than she had expected, was Elfreda's reflection. Then, too, the unexpected sight of Tom Gray's handwriting on the back of the painting, coupled with the finding of the rose, had brought a look of new animation to Grace's too-calm features.

"I am afraid I shall have to take back my promise not to go to Haven Home again soon," was Grace's half apologetic comment as the two emerged from Upton Wood upon the highway that wound its way from the outskirts of Oakdale through the open country beyond the town. "I feel now as though I wanted to go there often, just to read Tom's message. I like to think of it as a message. Strange that I never recalled the incident until to-day."

"It was not intended that you should," maintained Elfreda. "As for taking back your promise, you never really made one. If I were you, though, I'd stay away from that house as long as I could. But if I found that I was determined to go there, then I'd go."

"That is very wise and elastic counsel," asserted Grace. "It can be stretched to cover all my moods and yearnings."

Arm in arm, the two friends swung briskly along the highway, following it until they reached the wide tree-lined street in which the Harlowe residence stood. When within a short distance of the house, their glance became simultaneously fixed on two childish forms racing toward them at full speed.

"Here come Elizabeth and Anna May Angerell." An indulgent smile curved Grace's lips. "They have spied us from afar. They are the dearest little girls. I can't begin to tell you what a comfort they've been to me this summer. They're such joyous youngsters. They fairly bubble with happiness. What a wonderful estate childhood is, Elfreda. Yet we never realize it until long after it has passed away. I've often wished I could go back and live it over, even for one day."

"I'd rather be grown up," disagreed Elfreda. "I never had a very good time when I was little, because I was always grieving over being a prize fat child. The way of the baby elephant is pretty thorny. Well, well!" she exclaimed playfully as the two little girls, laughing gleefully, ended their run by flinging themselves ecstatically upon herself and Grace. "What's the meaning of this onslaught? If we hadn't been very large, sturdy persons we might have tumbled over like nine-pins."

"We saw you coming away up the street," joyfully announced Anna May. "We just had to run. We've been watching at our gate for you quite a while."

"There's company come to see you, Miss Harlowe," burst forth Elizabeth excitedly. "You can never guess who. It's somebody you've known for a long time, but it's somebody you don't see very often. We aren't going to tell you who's on the porch. We want you to be surprised. Do hurry as fast as ever you can, for the person is anxious to see you."

"We thought we'd tell you the minute we saw you, and then we thought it would be more fun not to," explained Anna May wriggling with enjoyment of the great secret.

Elfreda and Grace exchanged lightning glances as they quickened their pace, a devoted worshipper hanging to an arm of each. Could Elfreda's prophesy of good fortune have been thus so quickly fulfilled?

"It's not Mr. Gray." Elizabeth had remembered that long ago Grace had answered her eager inquiry for "nice Mr. Tom" by saying that he had gone on a journey from which he might return at any time. She had remembered, too, how sad her dear Miss Grace had looked when she told her. When the two children had posted themselves at the gate to watch for Grace, Elizabeth had remarked confidentially to Anna May, "If Mr. Gray was sitting on the porch waiting for Miss Harlowe, we couldn't surprise her. We'd just tell her straight out. We wouldn't want to make her guess that, would we?" And Anna May had replied: "No, siree. We ought to tell her the first thing that it's not him, so that she won't look disappointed when she sees who the company is."

The startled light that had leaped into Grace's eyes died as Elizabeth frankly excluded Tom's name from the guessing contest. She inwardly rebuked herself for thus clutching at every straw which the wind blew in her direction. On catching a first glimpse of the veranda, she cried out sharply. Relaxing her light hold on Elfreda's arm and dropping Elizabeth's hand, she darted to the gate, slammed it behind her and raced up the walk to the steps, an animated flash of blue on the autumn landscape.

"Jean!" she almost shouted. "Where, oh, where did you come from?" The next instant she held one of the hunter's rough hands in both hers, half laughing, half crying.

"Mam'selle Grace, it is of a truth the great 'appiness to see you," was the old man's sincere greeting, his small black eyes shining with feeling. "Jean has come far. Long way," he waved a comprehensive hand toward the west. "I come because I hav' learn that you hav' the trouble."

"But how long have you been in Oakdale and who told you about Tom?" questioned Grace anxiously. "We have gone to your cabin in Upton Wood several times, in the hope that you had returned. The first time we went we saw the sign on the door."

"I put him there," nodded Jean, "because I go 'way for long time. Many weeks I stay in Canada. Only to-day I come back. Then --  -- "

"Did some one in Oakdale tell you Tom was missing?" interrogated Grace, cutting almost impatiently into Jean's narrative.

"No, Mam'selle. Only I hav' speak the bon jour to my frien's as I come through the town. Some days have pass since firs' I see this." Jean pulled a newspaper from a pocket of his weather-stained coat. Spreading it open and laboriously perusing the first page, he tendered it to Grace, pointing out a column in it.

Grace needed but to glance at it to recognize it as a copy of the newspaper recording Tom Gray's disappearance, which Hippy had brought her. "How did you ever happen to come across this, Jean?" Her query held a note of positive awe.

"It is of a truth strange," admitted Jean. "W'en I stay long time in Canada I come back to this country to Minnesota. I go to Duluth, w'ere I hav' ol' frien'. I spen' two days by him an' talk about many t'ings w'ich 'appen to us long ago w'en we hunt together. He tell me about a young man who come up north an' get los'. Nobody can fin'. He show me this paper an' say, 'W'en I read this I t'ink you, Jean, can fin' this young man, because you great hunter.' Then I look an' see the young man is M'sieu' Tom, an' the paper is ol' one. So I leave my pack skins wit' my frien' and come here quick on the train, because I know Mam'selle Grace will tell all. Then I go fin' M'sieu' Tom," ended Jean, wagging his gray head with deep determination.

"Talk about miracles!" burst forth Elfreda Briggs. "It's the most remarkable thing I ever knew to happen." Elfreda had lost no time in overtaking Grace on the veranda. The Angerell children had not followed, however. They had trotted on home, well satisfied with the result of their mission.

"It is truly marvelous. And to think that Mother isn't at home this afternoon to hear it. It was splendid in you to wait here for me, Jean." Grace turned a glowing face toward the old hunter. "As for your going to find Tom, I am sure that you will find him. I was so amazed at seeing you, I forgot to introduce you to my friend Miss Briggs. She knows all about you, already."

Elfreda extended a prompt hand of welcome to the intrepid old trapper, who grasped it warmly, saying: "The frien's of Mam'selle Grace are also the frien's of ol' Jean."

"Jean, before I tell you all I know about Tom's disappearance, I think it would be better for the three of us to go on to Mrs. Gray's home and talk things over. She will be so glad to see you. She has suffered dreadfully. We have all suffered. But I feel now as though at last the light had begun to break."



Chapter XIX

The Letter


"And that is all the information that we can give you about Tom, Jean." Grace sighed as she ended the recital of barren facts relating to the vanishing of the man she loved.

"It is very scant information on which to proceed," deplored Mrs. Gray. "I confess that I made a mistake in keeping our trouble a secret. Since that newspaper spread the news abroad I have done my best to amend the error. I have seen to it that the sheriff of the county in which the camp is located took up the matter. I have also offered a large reward for the finding of Tom, or the positive proof that he is dead." Her voice dropped despairingly on the last word.

"Be of the brav' heart," responded Jean confidently. "I hav' the feeling that it is for me to find the los' M'sieu' Tom. I hav' travel many times over the country w'ere he get los' an' I know it, every tree an' stone. It is a wil' place, an' the men up there know not'ing but cut down trees. Very t'ick in the 'aid." Jean tapped his gray head significantly, better to demonstrate the vast stupidity of lumbermen in general.

"M'sieu' David is one fine young man, but he not know the big woods lak' ol' Jean. The ot'er man, he also not know." Jean shrugged his broad shoulders. "If all Jean's life he stay in cities, it would be so wit' him."

"But Jean, have you any idea of what might have happened to Tom?" entreated Mrs. Gray.

Again Jean shrugged. "Many t'ings might 'appen. P'r'aps he lose the way in storm an' get hurt; mebbe he die. P'r'aps timber t'ieves get him an' shut him up somew'ere way off hid. Of a truth, Jean cannot tell. But I go hunt for M'sieu' Tom an' fin' out. Then I tell." Jean seemed determined to impress upon his hearers that he would "fin'" Tom Gray.

"When can you start north, Jean?" Grace waited breathlessly for the answer.

"Soon; to-morrow," came the quick assurance. "First I go to my cabin to mak' ready. In the morning I come here early an' say the au revoir. Then I go an' fin' M'sieu' Tom. You are satisfy?" His shrewd black eyes sought the approval of the trio of tense faces bent earnestly upon him.

"We are more than satisfied." Impulsively Mrs. Gray stretched forth a little blue-veined hand. Somewhat to that estimable woman's astonishment old Jean bent and with true Gallic chivalry raised it lightly to his lips. "I am honor that you trust," he said simply.

Looking on, Grace was immeasurably touched by the woodsman's quaintly respectful act of deference toward her Fairy Godmother. Her romantic fancy transformed rugged old Jean into a gallant knight about to fare forth on a dangerous errand.

"You are a true Frenchman, Jean," smiled the pleased old lady. "A lifetime spent in roughing it hasn't robbed you of inherent chivalry. Did you know that Miss Briggs remembered you from hearsay and was the first one to suggest that you would be the very person to hunt for Tom?"

"Mam'selle Grace has said," affirmed Jean. Turning to Elfreda he continued almost humbly, "Mam'selle, I hav' only to be grateful to you that you hav' remember me. Of a certainty, I shall not forget."

Jean lingered for a little further talk, then departed for his cabin, with many quaint bobbing bows. But he left behind him an atmosphere of revivified hope.

"We must go, too, J. Elfreda," reminded Grace, a distinct ring of cheerfulness in her accents. "This is Bridget's afternoon out and I promised Mother that I'd see that neither you or I starved. Father won't be home for dinner to-night, either, so we shall dine in lonely state. Mother went to spend the day with friends in Carrollton, and Father is to go to their house to dinner to-night and bring Mother home," Grace explained to Mrs. Gray.

"Then you had better stay with me," advised Mrs. Gray. "Left to yourselves I haven't the slightest doubt that you will talk much and eat little. Besides, I know that the mere mention of hot waffles and honey will make Elfreda linger. Stay, and we'll have an old-fashioned supper."

"I couldn't be so cruel as to tear Elfreda away from such bliss," laughed Grace. The stout girl's predeliction for waffles was known to all her intimate friends.

"How did you know my pet weakness?" Elfreda's round eyes grew rounder with well-simulated surprise. "Did Grace tell you? Grace, I'm amazed to think you would thus betray my fatal waffle hunger, even to Mrs. Gray." Noting the old lady's increasing rise of good spirits, Elfreda purposely pretended ignorance with a view of keeping up the sudden access of cheer which Jean's visit had diffused.

"Don't you remember that morning you came to Wayne Hall for breakfast and asked anxiously if there would be waffles?" teased Mrs. Gray. "It was at the time Grace and I went to Overton to set Harlowe House to rights."

"Oh, yes! So it was." Elfreda looked owlishly innocent. "That was the time you got my waffle number. It seems a long while since then, doesn't it, Grace?"

"Yes." An absent gleam flickered in Grace's eyes, causing Elfreda to wish she had not asked the question. It was replaced almost instantly by a glint of pure amusement. Memories of Overton invariably brought back Emma Dean. Merely to think of Emma meant to smile. "I wonder what Emma's doing to-night," she said irrelevantly. "She must be back at Overton by this time, wrestling with the management of Harlowe House."

"We ought to make her a flying visit," proposed Elfreda, well pleased with this sudden turn in the conversation.

"I'd love to see her," agreed Grace, "but --  -- " She hesitated. "I shouldn't care to go away from home now. After Jean goes north we are likely to hear news almost any day. You see, I have pinned my faith on his ability to accomplish miracles."

"Well, we can wait a week or so and see," declared Elfreda. "If things stay just the same and we hear nothing of interest from him, we can leave Overton on Saturday, spend Sunday with Emma and come back to Oakdale on Monday."

"I think it would do you good to see Emma, Grace," approved Mrs. Gray with a touch of her old decision. "We can do nothing but hope, pray and wait. Your trip to New York to see Miriam married was on the whole depressing. Emma will put new life into you. She's such a comical, delightful girl. Now that our case is at last in competent hands, we must make a special effort to be cheerful. I've failed sadly this summer in practicing what I am preaching. Now I intend to try to make up for it. But if I am to make good my promise to Elfreda to feed her on waffles, I must tell Margaret to make them."

Left to themselves, the two girls conversed softly together regarding the change the advent of old Jean had wrought in their hostess. When an hour later the trio gathered in the morning room, unanimously chosen as a supper room by reason of its cosiness, the sense of oppression which had formerly held them captive had been marvelously lightened by hope. Later the three spent a quiet evening together in the library, and it was eleven o'clock when Grace and Elfreda turned their steps homeward.

To her father and mother, who had reached home ahead of her, Grace recounted the details of Jean's visit. They received the glad tidings with a joy second only to her own.

Another hour slipped swiftly by before the household retired, and it was half-past twelve o'clock before Grace bade Elfreda good-night and softly closed the door of her room. Alone with her own thoughts, she curled up on a cushioned window seat and gazed meditatively out upon the still autumn night. Through the open window a soft wind caressingly touched her rapt face. It sighed through the trees, sending an occasional leaf to earth with a faint protesting rustle. Overhead the stars twinkled serenely down upon her, as though in tantalizing possession of the answer to the question that lay behind her musing eyes.

In close communion with the night, Grace lived over again those first rare days of her Golden Summer. The present swept aside, the past confronted her in sharpest outline. Her mind dwelt on the evening when the Eight Originals had strolled to the old Omnibus House and Nora had sung the song of Golden Summer. She could almost hear Tom say, "I'd like our lives, from this moment on, always to be one long, continued Golden Summer." She wondered if the very utterance of the wish had broken the spell. Then came the remembrance of those dear hours of preparation at Haven Home. Again she could fancy herself coming down the stairs in her wedding gown and pausing to listen as Nora sang "La Lettre."

Here her musings broke off abruptly. With the memory of "The Letter," a sudden tender resolve took possession of her. To-morrow Jean would start on his search. Very well, he should not go empty-handed. She would write a letter to Tom. When Jean found him, her letter should bridge the gap of distance between them.

Rising from the window seat she sought her desk. Seated before it, she took up her pen and laid a sheet of paper in place. Once she had begun to write it was as though an unseen power guided her to inspiration. She wondered if somewhere under the stars Tom Gray was seeking, at the same time, to send her a message. Never before had she been so thoroughly imbued with the mystical impression of his nearness to her. It was not a long letter, yet somehow she had managed exactly to convey the meaning she had intended. As she was finishing it, she heard the distant chime of the grandfather's clock downstairs, striking the half hour, and she smiled tenderly as the words of Nora's song returned to her. "I wonder: 'Is it I who write to thee, or thou to me?'"



Chapter XX

The Last Chance


Despite her midnight vigil, Grace rose before seven o'clock the next morning. On the previous afternoon Jean had stated that he would come early to Mrs. Gray's the following morning to bid them farewell before starting on his search for Tom. Eight o'clock found herself and Elfreda Briggs walking rapidly up Chapel Hill. They found the old hunter had stolen a march on them, however. When they entered the library he was already there, in earnest conversation with Mrs. Gray.

"I hav' wait for you," he said, after bidding them a quaint bon jour. "But now the time grow short. The train, she run at nine o'clock. It is now that we must say the au revoir. Not long an' I see the camp and M'sieu' David. It is good that you hav' telegraph the young man. Ol' Jean will do his best. Le bon Dieu will do the rest." The hunter reverently crossed himself.

"I have a letter for you, Jean, to give to Tom." Grace was wearing her most hopeful face as she gave the cherished letter into the old man's keeping. "When you have found Tom, and I know that you will, tell him that I am waiting for him and give -- him -- this -- letter."

"When You Have Found Tom, Give Him This Letter."

"It shall be of a sacred trust," Jean assured, crossing himself again. "Be of the brav' heart, Mam'selle. For you and M'sieu' Tom the 'appiness is near. Now it is time to go."

Warmly shaking hands with the two for whom he was about to "do his best," Jean turned to Elfreda and offered his hand with: "I am the lucky man to hav' meet such good frien' to Mam'selle Grace."

"Thank you, Jean." Elfreda colored with pleasure at the sincere tribute. "Some day, when Tom Gray has been found and you are back again in Oakdale, we'll pay a visit to your cabin. Then I'll tell you what a splendid friend Grace Harlowe has been to me."

"It shall be as Mam'selle says," responded Jean gallantly. Accompanied as far as the veranda by the three women, Jean made his final adieus and strode down the pebbled drive to the gate, a sturdy, purposeful figure, despite his years. To the three who watched him almost out of sight, the determined set of his broad shoulders in itself seemed to presage the success of his mission.

"It was certainly nice in Jean to say what he did to me about my being your friend," was Elfreda's abrupt comment when, after saying good-bye to Mrs. Gray, the two young women started down Chapel Hill toward home. "It was the highest compliment that he could pay me. If there had been time I'd have liked to tell him a few of the reasons for it. I guess he would have understood then that I had special cause to be loyal to you. I don't mean by that that anybody would have to have special cause to be your friend. One would only have to meet you once, Grace Harlowe, to know that your friendship would be the kind worth having. That is, if one had any sense. That time I plumped myself down in your seat when we were bound for Overton College to begin our freshman year, I was too much wrapped up in myself to know how lucky I was. Isn't it queer, though, how things like that are often the means by which we begin the staunchest friendships?"

"Yes, it is strange. If we hadn't met on the train that day in that way, you might have decided to go to another boarding place instead of taking up with Mrs. Elwood's offer to you to share Miriam's room. Then, very likely, we might never have become well acquainted. There were ever so many girls at Overton College during the six years that I spent there, whom I never came to know really well." Grace looked regretful.

"But they all knew you," was the staunch retort. "You are as much of an institution there now as Harlowe House is. Your name has become a household word at Overton College. Emma and I were speaking of that very thing at the reunion. She said that if she were manager of Harlowe House for the next twenty years she'd never come to be known as well there as you were in the time you spent at Overton."

"Emma is a wily old flatterer and so are you," laughed Grace. "Just because you girls like me you think the whole world ought to fall in line and worship me." Her bantering tone changing to seriousness she continued, "Not that I don't appreciate your affection, and love you with all my heart for it. Neither of you ever stops to think how much credit you both deserve. Sometimes I wonder what I ever did to bring me so many true friends. I never properly realized their worth until this summer. Living in the shadow has taught me a great deal.

"The very fact that all my friends have stood by me so firmly has made me see that I owe it to them to be strong and steadfast through all. It has taught me, too, that I can't afford to be selfish. When Tom first went away I used to think that, if he never came back, there wouldn't be anything worth living for, ever again. But it came to me by degrees that such a viewpoint was utterly selfish; that I had a great deal to live for. Father and Mother, first of all; then Mrs. Gray and my friends. So I made up my mind that if worse came to worst, I would devote myself to them more than ever and thus try to make up for my own loss."

"Of course you would," agreed Elfreda, with a ready tenderness that arose from the emotion that had welled up within her at Grace's unconscious revelation of unselfishness. "No one knows that better than I know it."

"I wonder what the postman has brought us this morning?" Grace had decided that it was high time to lead the talk away from herself. She had spoken to Elfreda with utter frankness of her inner resolve, yet she could not bear to continue longer on the subject. It presented too vividly the possibility of Tom's non-return, and she had schooled herself not to dwell upon such a contingency.

"We'll soon know." They were now within a short distance of the Harlowe's home. "I hope Ma hasn't decided that I ought to go back to law school and written me to that effect," grumbled Elfreda. "Now I am here, I'd like to keep on being here until --  -- " She paused.

"Until we hear good news," finished Grace softly. "I wish you would stay with me as long as you can, Elfreda. When the good news comes, I'd like you to be here to share it."

"Oh, I'll stay," assured Elfreda, "provided I can win Ma over to my views. It will be the same as using my powers of eloquence to convince a doubtful jury that the prisoner is innocent. There is nothing like practice," she reminded, her wide, boyish grin in mischievous evidence.

"Have we a heavy mail this morning, Mother?" was Grace's eager inquiry as she and Elfreda came up the front steps to the veranda. Established in a wide-armed rocking chair, her eyes busy with the reading of her own mail, Mrs. Harlowe looked up smilingly as she said, "Heavy enough to keep you both busy for a while. I didn't count your letters. They are on the library table in the living-room. I sorted them into two piles. Elfreda's was the highest."

"Thank you, dear." Blowing a gay little kiss to her mother, Grace made for the living-room, with Elfreda close behind her.

"I ought to receive a few dozen letters," commented Elfreda. "Nearly every one of my correspondents have been lagging and languishing." Running hastily over the stack of letters bearing her name, she separated one of them from the rest. "Here's the letter from Ma. Now we'll see whether its back to law school for J. Elfreda."

"Oh, here's one from Miriam." Having been equally busy with her own mail, Grace drew up a chair before the table. Slipping into it she soon became absorbed in what Miriam had written her.

Seated opposite her, Elfreda perused the letter from her mother with the anxious eye of one about to receive sentence. In the middle of it she uttered a cluck of satisfaction. "Excuse me for interrupting you, but I just wanted to tell you that Ma is a wingless angel. I don't have to do the convincing act at all. She says I may stay with you until I either wear out my welcome or get ready to come home. Isn't that a glorious message? Hooray!" Elfreda waved her maternal parent's unexpected missive of leniency on high.

"Glorious indeed." Finishing the short but interesting letter from Miriam, Grace shoved it across the table to Elfreda. "Read it," she commanded. "I know Miriam would be willing that you should. As her roommate of long standing you are entitled to special privileges."

"Thank you." Elfreda pounced upon the proffered letter with avidity, while Grace continued with her own correspondence. Counting her letters over, she found she had received nine. As was her usual custom, she had begun with the top one, which was from Miriam, and read them in the order in which they were stacked. Elfreda on the contrary, scattered broadcast on the table the whole ten letters she had received. She picked and chose with the air of a connoisseur, keeping up a running fire of ridiculous remarks between letters, that moved Grace to frequent laughter, but did not distract her attention to any degree from her own affairs. She had become too familiar with Elfreda's always entertaining methods of doing things to be other than amused by them.

The contents of her own mail filled her with a quiet joy. One and all, so far as she had read, her friends breathed undying friendship and deep devotion to herself. There was a long letter from Eleanor Savelli, who was summering in Colorado with her father and aunt. It held the glad tidings that Miss Nevin and herself intended to come to Oakdale for the winter. Her father's concert tour would soon begin. She did not expect to travel with him that winter. She was anxious to come back to "Heartsease" for a long rest. Much in the letter was of a deeply sympathetic nature, relating to Grace's misfortune. She begged Grace to inform her at once should matters take a happier turn and hoped before long to be with her.

There was also a letter from Mabel Allison confiding the news of her engagement to Arnold Evans. She was very happy, she declared. Formal announcement of her betrothal to Arnold had not yet been made, but Grace would soon receive a card to that effect. Mabel Ashe wrote much sympathy, her letter fairly bristling with her lovable, vivid personality. She ended with the jubilant news that she had sold the novel on which she had worked so long and patiently to complete, to a well-known book publishing firm. She had named it, "the Guardian of the Flame." She styled it as "the story of a woman's heart," and her publishers believed it would be very successful.

The Emerson twins sent her a funny little epistle, in which they had taken turns in the writing of its many paragraphs. It had evidently been gotten up with a view to cheering her and she read between the lines the kindliness which had prompted the joint authors to the deed. Jessica and Anne came next with loving letters that proved how completely one they were with her in spirit. A colorful account of the doings of the Harlowe House girls at Overton College as set down by Evelyn Ward brought a smile of pleasure to Grace's face.

One of the two remaining envelopes bore Arline's mark. Grace's smile deepened as she opened it and saw:

"Dearest Loyalheart:

"You owe me a letter, but never mind. I am of a patient and forgiving disposition, so I'll overlook it. I have a very funny bit of news to write. Stanley Forde, the hateful old tyrant, has gone and engaged himself to be married again. Just like that! Don't think this is a case of sour grapes. I am de-lighted. I am sorry for the poor party of the second part, though. I know her well. She is a pretty but foolish young person who was in love with Stanley ages before he became betrothed to me. Of course he did it to spite Daffydowndilly, but I'm not a bit 'spited.' I feel as though I ought to go to the girl in the case and tell her what I know about him. But it's useless to think of doing so."

Arline devoted further space to affectionate inquiry regarding Grace's troubles and ended with the naïve announcement:

"The other day I met a perfectly delightful young man at a dinner dance. He is as much interested in settlement work as I am, and is as nice as Stanley Forde is horrid. To-morrow he and Father and I are going to motor out to the fresh air home Father founded. He is anxious to see what we have done. Isn't that sweet in him? I do hope appearances aren't deceitful. I'll tell you more about him after I have met him a few more times. It's not wise, you know, to rush into friendships.

"With much love. You owe me two letters.

"Cautiously,

"Daffydowndilly."

The last letter on the pile was from Emma Dean. Hastily running over the first page, Grace laughed outright. "Listen to this, Elfreda," she commanded, her eyes dancing.

"Dearest And Best-Loved Gracious:

"Hark to the lamentations of a Dean from darkest Deanery, now transported to the Grace-haunted region of Overton! When first I set foot in this desolate waste, my primary impulse was to lift my venerable voice in a piercing wail of anguish. Only my overwhelming respect for the powers which sit sternly in Overton Hall, and a well-founded fear that I might be bundled off the campus to some fell institution for the demented, prompted me to refrain from howling. But the desire to howl still lingers, and some fine day I shall meander moodily to Hunter's Rock and there, upon its lonely height, startle the murmuring river below with my frantic cries. I shall stand well back from the edge of that perilous platform, however, as I have no malicious desire to deprive Overton of the best teacher in English Overton ever had, known to the English-speaking world as Emily Elizabeth Dean, who has now become a manageress (see Dean Vocabulary).

"Confidentially speaking, I should not have minded so much leaving darkest Deanery for this Grace-less wilderness if it had not been for the thought that your dear face would be missing in the picture. Do not rashly misjudge me by jumping to the conclusion that I parted with joy from the estimable Deans of whom I am which. Bitterly did I regret leaving my sorrowing parents. It was not lack of filial devotion to them that made me yearn for Overton. A terrible shadow, or rather several shadows, had hovered over hapless Deanery for a week before I packed my belongings and fled. Our humble home had been turned over to an aggregation of ruthless individuals who paint houses for a living. Darkest Deanery was once a timid shade of brown that grew even more retiring with years. Now it is a dazzling white, with still more dazzling gray trimmings. I can never forget that harmonious combination of gray and white, as I have annexed copious samples of it to most of my meager wardrobe.

"If only I had had the forethought to design a simple burlap costume with bag-like lines, and putting away false pride, worn it on all occasions during that last sad week at home, I should not now be spending my leisure hours experimenting to discover the most efficacious paint eradicator on the market. Every time I hopefully remove a prized garment from my trunk, I am confronted by the unhappy recollection that darkest Deanery has been freshly painted. It's positively maddening!

"Knowing my fatal leaning toward the absent-minded, you can put two and two together. They don't make four. They make 'paint.' Oh, the supreme tragedy of that week! How well I remember the afternoon when I sat down confidingly on the freshly-furbished porch rail in my best pongee dress. I was about to go to a luncheon. I went, but was late. There was a reason. By the time the front porch became a sticky, glistening wonder, I thoughtfully dropped my nice seal handbag in the middle of it. The irate painter remonstrated. Not because I had ruined my cherished possession, but because of the horrifying blank left where paint had lately flaunted itself. By the time it had dawned upon me that the back entrance to the house was the entrance for me, it had also become a trap for the unwary. There were frequent other accidental collisions with the aforesaid paint, all equally disastrous to poor me. Some of them were known to me at the time; some were among the things that were revealed thereafter. I began to feel that the whole vast universe was chiefly composed of paint. So I fled to the greater ill of an Overton without Grace Harlowe.

"As I have suffered deeply and shall continue to suffer until I can look my modest wardrobe in the face and say, 'presentable at last,' I am certain that I deserve a special boon of consolation. In plain English, to which I still cling, despite the fact that I dream of some day establishing a marvelous vocabulary of my own, won't you and Elfreda come to Overton to see me, if only for a day? I have thought things over carefully before asking you. It is not entirely selfishness that prompts the request. I think it would cheer you to come again for a visit to Harlowe House. Though I have replaced you as manager, I can never replace you in the hearts of the girls here. I understand why you may not wish to come. As always, my heart goes out to you. If you write 'no' as an answer, I shall accept it in the best possible spirit. But if you feel that you can drop in on me, even for a day, then I shall surely shriek with joy, right here at Harlowe House, and abide by the consequences. I have written Elfreda, too. If both letters reach you at the same time, and I shall mail them together, then you can shake hands and congratulate yourselves that you have both been invited.

"Yours hopefully,

"Emma."

"I'd love to go." Grace hesitated. "Do you think it would be disloyal in me to leave Oakdale now, even for a day? I thought it over seriously before I went to Miriam's wedding. That was really a duty, you know. But since Jean has taken up Tom's case, it seems as though I am likely to hear something important within a few days."

"You mustn't be too sure," counseled Elfreda wisely. "You might be disappointed. It may take even Jean a long time to find out anything. I'm not saying that to be cruel."

"You don't need to tell me that. I know I mustn't expect too much, even of Jean. Yet I can't help thinking that if he doesn't find Tom, no one else ever will."



Chapter XXI

The Call Of The Elf's Horn


Jean, however, had no intention of failing those who so strongly relied upon him. He approached his difficult task with a confidence in his own powers which long years of the free, independent life of the great outdoors had given him. He knew the secrets of the wilderness as few men knew them. He had little doubt that much which had remained obscure to those already engaged in the search for Tom Gray would be made clear to him. Alone in the world, Jean had long since come to regard the Eight Originals as "his folks." Of the four girls, Grace Harlowe had always been his favorite. Of the four boys, Tom Gray had held first place in his heart. The young man's frank, delightful personality, coupled with his intense love of Nature, had served signally to endear him to the old hunter.

As Jean had reverently assured Grace, it was indeed, to him, a sacred mission on which he was now setting forth, and he longed impatiently for the moment to come when he might leave the narrow confines of the railway train and set foot in the little village nearest to the lumber camp. Mrs. Gray had insisted on providing him liberally with the funds she deemed necessary for the continuance of the search. Jean had stoutly protested against this liberality. Overruled, he had given in somewhat reluctantly, consoling himself with the thought that when M'sieu' Tom was found he would give back the greater part of the money which had been thus thrust upon him. His sturdy soul rose in revolt at the very idea of tucking himself away in a Pullman berth, even for a night. Such cubby-holes were not for him, he disdainfully reflected. He preferred to sit up all night and amuse himself by watching the fleeting, indistinct landscape through which the train was pursuing its steady run toward the vast northern region that jealously concealed the mystery of Tom Gray's fate.

As he had already informed Grace and Mrs. Gray, the territory for which he was bound was to him a fairly familiar one. True he had not hunted in it for several years, although once or twice he had skirted it in making his slow, deliberate marches to and from Canada. He assured himself that naturally he would discover some changes in the heavy forest growth, stretching for many miles north and west of the lumber camp for which Tom Gray had headed. Yet Jean was not in the least dismayed by the magnitude of his task. More than once he had served as tracer of persons lost in the trackless wildernesses. More than once he had wandered about in the dense, pathless forests, a lost man.

While the train sped through the moonless night, Jean's sharp eyes were trained on the weird, shadowy outlines into which darkness turns the most commonplace objects. His nimble brain, however, was busily sorting out the scant details that had been furnished him regarding Tom Gray, with a view toward evolving a theory on which he might proceed. His own good sense informed him that he could not even make a guess regarding what had befallen his young friend until he had reached the lumber camp and himself surveyed the situation.

Seven o'clock the next evening saw the intrepid old man hurriedly collecting his few belongings, preparatory to making a welcome end to the long, tiresome ride in the train. Mrs. Gray had already telegraphed David Nesbit to be on hand at the dingy little station to meet him. The train rolled into it, puffing and clanging a noisy protest against the indignity of being obliged to stay its flight, even momentarily, before the scattered collection of frame dwellings dignified by the name of village. Hardly had it jolted itself to a reluctant stop before Jean made a hurried exit, to peer searchingly about the station platform for David Nesbit.

"Just the man I'm looking for," sounded a hearty voice behind him. Whirling, he uttered a glad cry as he reached for David's outstretched hand. "I'm certainly glad to see you, Jean."

"It is of a 'appiness to see you, M'sieu' David." Jean's weather-beaten face registered his joy.

"Come with me, Jean. There's an apology for a hotel not far from the station. We'd better stay there to-night, then start for the lumber camp early to-morrow morning. It's a long hike, but I know you'd rather walk than ride. Once we've had some supper, I can tell you what little I know of this part of the country. Have you ever been up here before?"

"Yep; 'bout five year ago, mebbe. I hunt up here a long winter. I know him." Jean indicated the forest beyond the village with a wide sweep of his arm. "Once, twice, after, I pass by him w'en I go an' come from Canada."

"Then you do know something about it? I'm mighty glad to hear that. But tell me about Oakdale and how you happened to pop up there just when we needed you most. Grace wrote me that she had tried to find you, but that you'd gone away."

On the way to the hotel which David had mentioned, Jean recounted in his broken phraseology all that had happened to him since his return to Oakdale, while David listened and commented on the strange manner in which the news of Tom's misfortune had been brought before the old hunter. Over a plain but palatable supper Jean continued his narrative to the point where he had landed on the station platform. "An' now the hunt begin," he nodded. "To-morrow we get up 'fore it is light, then we go to camp. All 'long way I look an' remember w'at I see. After that you show me w'ere you go hunt. After that we fin' new places far away. We hunt till we fin' M'sieu' Tom."

"That's the idea," applauded David. "I think we'd better turn in early at that. You must be dead tired. I know you don't like railway traveling. Did you take a sleeper here?"

"I don't lak' him," shrugged Jean. "I sit up all night. In the woods never I am tired, but in the train, yes. It will be good to rest."

After supper the two lingered for a while in the little room. Anxious to get the benefit of a good night's rest preparatory to their long tramp of the morning, it was not long before they climbed the narrow stairs to their rooms.

Five o'clock the next morning saw them eating a hasty breakfast, served by a drowsy-eyed girl. After David had stowed into a knapsack an ample luncheon for the two, and slung the knapsack across one shoulder, the little search party went forth and soon left the village behind them for the rough road that marked the beginning of their long jaunt through the forest. Having traversed it many times since his advent into that territory, David was well posted, yet he knew it no better than did Jean. The sturdy old man seemed familiar with every phase of that section. Now and again as they progressed he retailed some interesting bit of history relative to his own wanderings therein.

Noon found them more than half way to their destination, and by four o'clock they reached the camp, where Jean was introduced to Mr. Mackenzie, who had recovered from his illness and returned to his duties as overseer.

Jean discovered in the rugged Scotchman a person quite after his own heart. Previous to meeting the overseer, he had confided to David that he intended to make use of the tent which his young friend had stored with Mr. Mackenzie, and sleep out of doors. By the time supper was over, however, he was quite willing to accept the sleeping accommodations which David had made for him at the Scotchman's house.

Seated around a deep, open fireplace, in which a fire burned cheerfully, the three men gravely discussed the details of the proposed search. Mr. Mackenzie was of the opinion that it would be better to blaze new trails rather than to waste time in traveling over the ground which David and his men had so thoroughly covered. But Jean obstinately stuck to his own viewpoint and insisted on re-traveling that territory. For three days the old hunter led the young man on strenuous hikes that began with dawn and ended long after dark. During that time Jean conducted David into all sorts of forest nooks and crannies that the latter had not even glimpsed when searching about with the men of the camp. Yet never did they observe the slightest sign of the object of their search.

At the end of the week, Jean announced his resolve to invade an especially wild and lonely stretch of forest to the west. "To-morrow morning we start," he declared. "We go mebbe twenty-five, mebbe fifty mile, mebbe more. Mebbe gone a week."

"But Tom could never have gone so far away in so short a time," reminded David. "Besides, when last seen he was headed directly north."

Jean shrugged. "Mebbe he lose his way. Mebbe travel all night in storm in wrong direction. Then --  -- " Again Jean's square shoulders went into eloquent play. "Anyway we go wes'," he stubbornly maintained.

The evening of another day saw them wending their difficult way westward, according to Jean's plan. Surrounded by a particularly dense and rugged stretch of forest growth they rolled up in their blankets and slept under a great tree. Jean assured David that they had come not more than fifteen miles, due to the difficulty they had encountered in forcing their way through the endless undergrowth, though the young man felt sure they had traveled fifty.

"I couldn't get those fellows from the camp to come over here for love nor money," remarked David the next morning, as he and Jean fried their bacon and made coffee over the fire. "They say that a wild man was once seen somewhere in this range of forest. I guess it's all talk, though. Mr. Mackenzie never saw him. He says it's a story made up by timber thieves to keep people away."

Old Jean looked reflective. "Once I know wil' man," he remarked. "First time I see him, jus' lak' any man. He great, big man; long black hair, an' strong; very strong. 'Bout six foot, three inch. He live in little cabin, 'bout hundred mile from here, wit' his son. Every year they go Canada an' hunt. Then come back and sell skins. My, how that man love that son! One day storm come an' tree fall on son. Kill him dead. Then the father go wil'; crazy in the 'aid. All his black hair turn white. After that I never see him again. Mebbe dead, too."

"I hope nothing like that happened to good old Tom." David shuddered. "Jean, honestly, do you think we'll ever find the boy?"

"Le bon Dieu know," Jean crossed himself reverently.

"I don't think much of the sheriff up here," continued David. "He simply laid down on his job after the first week or two. After Mrs. Gray had offered a reward he made quite a lot of fuss. But it all died out quickly. Blaisdell's done his best, but this isn't his kind of a job. Half a dozen so-called woodsmen up here have tried their hand at it, too. I spoke to the sheriff about this very piece of woods that we've invaded, but he claimed he'd gone all over the ground. I don't believe it, though. He gave me to understand that he thought the whole affair was very queer. He even asked me if Mrs. Gray wasn't holding back something. He hinted that she and Tom might have quarreled over family matters and that Tom was keeping out of sight on purpose to worry her. I reminded him that Tom had come up here to help Mr. Mackenzie out and told him a few things about Tom that ought to have changed his opinion. But I don't think he believed me. He's a bull-headed kind of fellow that would never admit himself in the wrong," ended David in disgust.

"I hav' seen many such," commented Jean soberly. "Anyhow we are here. W'en we hav' finish the breakfast then we start again. Mebbe some good come to-day."

"I hope so." David's voice sounded a trifle weary. It was hard indeed to meet with such continued discouragement.

Breakfast finished, the seekers again took up their quest. Noon found them not more than three miles away from the spot where they had breakfasted. The necessity of halting frequently to inspect some especially tangled bit of undergrowth or suspicious looking covert large enough to conceal the body of a man, made their progress painfully slow. Toward the middle of the afternoon, a cold rain set in, thereby adding to the discomforts of their march. Although it was early October, the great trees above their heads were partially stripped of their foliage, thus offering them little protection from the unceasing drizzle.

"This is awful, Jean!" exclaimed David Nesbit, as two hours later, drenched to the skin, the wayfarers huddled together under a giant oak tree to consider the situation. "We ought to try to find some sort of shelter for the night. It will soon be dark and we can't go on then. Have you any idea where we are?"

"Yep; this place 'bout eighteen mile from camp," Jean nodded confidently. "'Bout mile mebbe little more to little valley. In valley is the little cabin. I know him. Somebody say this cabin hav' haunt. Somebody kill 'nother man once who liv' there. Then nobody ever go near because dead man walk aroun' there at night. Cabin mebbe not there now. Anyhow we see, because we know dead man can't walk aroun'."

"Lead me to the cabin. The dead man may walk around there all he likes, provided he doesn't object to our sheltering with him," declared David with grim humor.

Floundering through dense growths of impeding bushes and crackling underbrush, their feet sinking into a thick carpet of soggy, fallen leaves, the two at last reached the top of a steep, rocky elevation. From there, in the fast fading light, they could look down into a narrow valley, formed by the precipitous slant of two hills.

"I see him." Jean pointed triumphantly to a tiny hut, seemingly wedged into the upper end of the valley. In the October twilight the outlines of the shack were just visible.

"It's going to be some work to get down there," observed David, doubtfully eyeing the uninviting prospect before them.

"Up there, not very far, it is easy," assured Jean. "You follow me, then wait. I go ahead an' fin' the way." The indefatigable old hunter took the lead, plodding along with the same energy that had characterized the beginning of his day's tramp. Sturdy though he was, David soon found himself well in the rear of the tireless old man, and it was not long until he lost sight of him in the fast falling darkness.

Peering anxiously ahead, David flashed the small electric searchlight he carried in an effort to discern Jean. Fearing lest he might become lost from Jean entirely, he returned it to a coat pocket, cupped his hands to his mouth and emitted a peculiar trumpet-like call, known as the Elf's Horn, which Tom Gray himself had taught him. Twice he sounded it, before he had the satisfaction of hearing Jean answer him, repeating it several times.

Guided by the sound, and with the aid of his searchlight, David stumbled his hurried way toward Jean, who had now halted to wait for his young friend.

"Jean, you old rascal, I thought I'd lost you for good and all," laughed David as he brought up at the hunter's side. "You mustn't expect too much of a tenderfoot, you know. I'm ashamed to admit it, but --  -- "

David's laughing admission was never finished. Over the monotonous complaint of the rain rose a sound which made their hearts stand still. From the very depths of the narrow valley floated up to them that unmistakable trumpet call, the Elf's Horn.



Chapter XXII

Out Of The Valley


"Did you hear that, Jean?" David's voice sunk to a sibilant whisper. He was trembling violently as he asked the question.

For answer, Jean raised shaking hands to his mouth. Again the call of the Elf's Horn shrilled above the murmuring rain, and again, this time clearer and louder, came the answer.

"Le bon Dieu hav' hear!" came the hunter's reverent exclamation. Stopping only to make the sign of the cross, the old man plunged down the perilous steep, David Nesbit at his heels. How they had come safely into the valley, neither was afterward able to explain, nor did they stop to remark it, once they had descended. Both men were intent only on reaching the spot from whence had emanated that blessed call.

"There's only one person up here who could answer that call, Jean." David's tones were vibrant with emotion. "It's Tom Gray! I know it, and he's in that hut."

Stumbling desperately on in the greater darkness of the valley, they reached the hut at last.

"Tom!" shouted David at the top of his lungs. "Tom Gray! Are you there?"

"Yes," sounded the unbelievable reply from within the hut. "Is that you, David! I was sure of it when I heard the Elf's Horn and answered the call. I knew you'd come for me some day."

"Yes, old fellow; it's David," rang out the triumphant cry. "Thank God, you are alive! Jean is with me."

"Le bon Dieu hav' hear," was Jean's muttered repetition, as the two men made a concerted dash upon the shack, in a wild effort to locate the door. Finding it by the aid of their flashlights, they made a determined onslaught upon it, but it stubbornly resisted their importuning hands.

"Hello, Jean! It's too good to be true. I might have known I could count on you, though," came the welcome salutation from within. More anxiously Tom Gray added: "You'll have to break the door down, if you can. It's locked from the outside. He carries the key. Hurry or he may come back." Tom's voice quivered with dread.

David groaned. His mind on this unexpected obstacle, which now confronted them, he did not stop to consider who the mysterious "he" in the problem might be. Tom's very tones indicated the hovering near of some great danger. "Isn't there a window in the cabin? Can't you climb out of it?" he shouted desperately. Inwardly he marveled that stalwart Tom Gray should be caught in such a trap.

"There are two windows, or rather holes in the cabin, but they are too high up. I can't reach them. My leg was broken and it's not strong enough yet to risk such a climb." This response was made in despairing tones.

At the mention of windows, Jean had begun to circle the cabin. Turning his flashlight on the strong-timbered walls of the hut, he soon made out one of those windows. "M'sieu' David," he called, "come. You will lif' me an' I will clim' in this hole. Then we 'urry an' get M'sieu' Tom out, mebbe." Jean's "mebbe" indicated uncertainty. The situation did not look hopeful and there was evidently no time for questions regarding the how, when and why of the affair.

Helped by David, Jean's sinewy fingers soon clutched the lower part of the primitive window. Being thin and wiry, he had no difficulty in drawing himself up to it. With the skill of an acrobat he swung one leg over the opening. The task of drawing himself through was much harder to accomplish. But the will to do so was paramount. Emitting a jubilant shout of accomplishment, he dropped, landing lightly on the cabin floor.

Before he could bring his searchlight into play, an indistinct form had seized him in a feeble but affectionate grip. "Jean -- good -- old Jean!" Tom's broken utterance held a sob of relief and thankfulness.

"Oh, M'sieu' Tom," Jean's own voice overran with emotion, "is it of a truth that we hav' fin' you at las'?" Tears of joy were rolling down his weather-beaten cheeks, as he added with sublime faith, "Le bon Dieu hav' hear!"

In the overwhelming joy of reunion all else was for the moment forgotten. David's stentorian tones asking, "Are you all right, Jean?" brought back swift realization of the situation. "Can't you manage between the two of you to do something to that door? I'll help all I can from this side."

"Yes; all right," returned Jean. Then to Tom: "Hav' you not then the axe, to chop him into splinter'? This very queer way to fin' you, M'sieu' Tom. But now we not stop to ask question, we 'urry, get you out. Go 'way an' then talk. It is to see that you are the prisoner."

"Prisoner!" Tom's exclamation vibrated with bitterness. "You can't believe what I've been through. You're right about hurrying to get me out. There's no time to be lost. No, there's neither an axe or a hatchet here. He's too cunning for that. But in one corner of the room is a heavy iron bar. It hasn't done me any good. I've been too weak to use it. Is your rifle outside, Jean? If he should come back before we can get away, you'll need it. Two sturdy men and one poor excuse like myself couldn't handle him. He's the strongest fellow I ever saw." His voice rising he called warning to David. "Keep a sharp watch, old man. If you see or hear anyone coming, give us the signal."

"I'm on the job," floated back David's reassuring response.

"Show to me the bar," ordered Jean with the brevity of one whose mind is set on swift action.

Without replying, Tom limped a straight course in the dark to a corner of the one-room shack. "I've looked at that bar so often and so longingly I could find my way to it if I were blind," he commented with grim wistfulness. "There's not much else in the room, except a bench and a bough bed."

Following at his heels, Jean used one hand to train his light on the bar. Soon the other hand had fastened itself firmly around it. "He very strong," was his terse observation. "If you will 'old the light, I try him." Raising his voice he shouted, "M'sieu' David, we hav' foun' very strong piec' iron. Now we try smash open the door. You stan' by, ready. Then soon we go 'way from here with M'sieu' Tom."

Limping ahead of the old hunter, Tom flashed the searchlight directly on the heavy door. "There's the door, Jean," he said, his tones thrilling with new hope. "Wait a minute until I limp out of your way. I'm not going to risk further accident. Now; go ahead and strike hard!"

Jean needed no second bidding. Resolutely gripping the bar, he raised it on high and dealt the stubborn obstruction to Tom's freedom a reverberating blow. Three times he brought it down upon the opposing portal. Half a dozen more swings of the bar and splinters began to fly from it.

Outside the shack, David Nesbit's eyes and ears were busy obeying Tom's warning instructions. Whom Tom feared and why he was afraid, his chum had not the remotest idea. Every crashing blow which Jean dealt the door, sent a thrill of joy to David's heart. He would have liked to shout his jubilation, but refrained for fear his friends within the shack would misinterpret his loud rejoicing as a danger signal.

For at least fifteen minutes Jean continued to batter the door, resting briefly at intervals. At the end of that time, he had demolished it sufficiently to make room for a man to crawl through. To break it down completely would have taken too much precious time.

"It -- is -- don'!" he panted at length. "Now we go 'way soon. First I try him. If still you hav' the coat an' 'at, M'sieu' Tom, put him on; but 'urry."

"I've already done so," assured Tom with fervor. "It's lucky for me that lunatic didn't see fit to hide my clothes."

Jean pricked up his ears at the word "lunatic," but said nothing. "Careful," he cautioned solicitously, as Tom, essaying to make his exit from the hut, drew back, uttering a faint moan of pain. "It is for me to 'elp you." Secretly marveling at Tom's light weight, Jean lifted him in his arms. Bidding him straighten his legs, Jean called to David to stand by to receive his burden. Then the old hunter passed him through the opening to David as though Tom had been a bag of meal. Hastily scrambling through after him, Jean was just in time to witness the affecting meeting which took place between the two young men. Tom's first words after greeting David were: "Tell me quickly, how are Grace and Aunt Rose?" And in the darkness no one saw the flood of emotion that mastered Tom Gray as he learned the deep, abiding belief of his loved ones that he would return.

Though the night lay black around them, the rain had ceased falling. Directing the rays of his searchlight on Tom, David gave a horrified gasp at the sight of his chum's pale, emaciated features.

"I don't look much like myself, do I?" asked the prisoner with a short laugh. "The fact is, I don't know just how I do look, but I guess it's pretty bad."

"But how in the world did you ever come to be --  -- " began David.

"No time for talk now," broke in Jean. "We mus' 'urry, an' get way off from here. You can walk a little, M'sieu' Tom? Not far? We 'elp you. There is easy way out of valley."

Yet it was not an easy matter, even with the combined force of the two men, to conduct Tom Gray out of the valley in which he had spent so many weary, hopeless weeks. His left leg, which had been broken above the knee, was far from strong. It was only within the past week that he had been able to limp painfully about the narrow confines of his jail. Once outdoors, the darkness of the night and the roughness of treacherous, rock-strewn ground made progress barely possible. Neither did Jean nor David dare to undertake carrying him. Burdened with Tom, a single misstep on the part of either was likely to prove disastrous to all three.

"We mus' tak' the chance," declared Jean gravely to David, when at last the arduous ascent from the valley had been stumblingly accomplished. "'Bout four mile 'way we caché the t'ings. Only I hav' the rifle an' the blanket of us two, an' M'sieu' David hav' the knapsack. In that we hav' the supper. We go little furder. W'en we fin' the big rock, we lie on it the blanket, an' on him we lie M'sieu' Tom. Then, you an' me, we stay up an' watch. W'en morning com', then we mak' litter an' carry M'sieu' Tom. I hav' hear him speak of wil' man. If wil' man com', Jean will be ready to shoot at him the rifle. You are satisfy?"

"I don't see that we can very well do differently," was David's rueful reply. "At least we shall have a chance to find out from Tom just what has happened to him."

"No; M'sieu' David." Jean shook a respectful but decided head. "For to-night we mus' say no much. M'sieu' Tom is too tire' to talk. Also we mus' keep the quiet. No much nois'; no fire to cook the supper. The ear of a wil' man hear far off. It is good if we miss him. You hav' hear M'sieu' Tom say the wil' man is very strong. Jean is not 'fraid. But many year he hunt, an' never shoot the rifle at any man. Now he pray le bon Dieu that he never may hav' it to do."



Chapter XXIII

The Strange Story


Jean's fervent declaration that he prayed never to be obliged to use his rifle against a human being may have acted as a potent charm against evil. At any rate, the welcome light of a gray October morning saw the little company still undisturbed by any unpleasant intruder. It had been a strenuous night for the three men, yet daylight found them signally cheerful and alert. The long weary vigil that David and Jean had kept, the greater part of it standing on their feet, was a watch of pure affection. The object of their solicitude had been hardly more comfortable. The cold, rain-beaten rock on which Jean had spread his own and David's blankets was a poor couch at best. But to Tom it represented the freedom he had despaired of ever again attaining, and he was more than satisfied with his makeshift bed. Worn out by his recent exertion, he had fallen asleep directly after they had eaten supper. He awakened at daybreak declaring that he felt refreshed and much stronger.

As soon as the first indications of dawn appeared in the still-cloudy sky, Jean was about and stirring. As they devoured the few sandwiches they had left, he gravely urged the necessity of starting at once for the spot where he had cachéd their supplies. Among these supplies was a coil of thin, tough rope which Jean proposed should serve in the construction of a litter on which to carry Tom. Once that important detail had been attended to, they would be able to proceed much faster toward Mr. Mackenzie's camp.

Again old Jean had insisted that Tom must postpone the telling of his story until they were well on the way to camp. "You talk now, you get tire', M'sieu' Tom," he said with a solemn wagging of his gray head. "We know wil' man have shut you up an' keep you hid for long time. It is enough to know. We are satisfy." Privately Jean was alive with curiosity regarding the mysterious "wil' man," yet his duty to Tom came first and he did not intend to slight it in any particular.

The hike to the cachéd supplies was painful for Tom Gray, yet he limped along uncomplainingly, part of the time supported by Jean's ready arm; then again helped over the rough spots by David. Though they had set forth with the dawn, it was after mid-day when they reached their goal. Almost immediately after they arrived, Jean scoured the vicinity for enough dry wood to build a fire. Once a blaze was well started David prepared the simple meal, while the intrepid old man turned his attention to the construction of the litter. Armed with a hatchet he hacked sufficient boughs from the trees with which to make it, and went at his task with a will.

He left his task only long enough to snatch a hasty bite, then returned to it, his wiry fingers fairly flying as he worked. When completed, the litter would be a rude affair at best, made somewhat more comfortable by the folded blankets which covered it. Tom, meanwhile, was rejoicing openly over his coffee and crisp fried bacon. "It's the first square meal I've had for over a week," he declared. "If you only knew -- but I'll have to wait to tell you. Won't I, Jean?" He called this last to Jean, who was putting the finishing touches to the litter.

"It is for M'sieu' Tom's own good that I mak' the reques'," replied Jean. "But for this, that you min' what ol' Jean tell you, I will give you the rewar'." His shrewd black eyes very tender, Jean fumbled in an inner pocket of his rough coat. Drawing forth Grace's letter he rose and tendered it to the astonished young man.

"Now him is done," Jean referred, not to Tom, but to the finished means for Tom's transportation. "I go, put 'way the t'ings till we com' after, som' day." With this pointed assertion, Jean promptly made good his word. David followed him with alacrity, leaving Tom alone with his unexpected treasure. Despite Jean's frequent admonitions that they "mus' 'urry," it was fully fifteen minutes before either he or David returned to the wan, but happy-faced figure by the fire. Man-like, not one of the three made any allusion to the letter which was now tucked away in one of Tom's coat pockets. Jean and David had seen the light of a great joy flame up in their comrade's gray eyes, and in the old hunter's vernacular, they were "satisfy."

Having again cachéd their few effects, with the exception of Jean's trusty rifle, Tom was soon established on the litter and the hike was again renewed. Difficult as it had been for David and Jean to make their way to the point in the woods which they had just left, the return was a trebly laborious journey. The approach of night found them not yet halfway to the lumber camp. They had calculated that the increased supplies in David's knapsack would furnish them with supper, leaving a comfortable allowance for breakfast the next day. By starting again at daylight the following morning they hoped to reach camp before the middle of the next afternoon. As they drew nearer to the camp they knew they would find the road less difficult.

"We hav' not done bad," congratulated Jean when, at twilight, they halted to prepare supper. "We hav' meet no one that hav' the wish to 'arm us. M'sieu' Tom he get better all the time. Mebbe now because he get better an' we so near camp, after supper he tell about wil' man. Then we turn in; go to sleep quick, an' to-morrow we are safe."

"You are right, Jean. I am getting better every minute, thanks to you fellows. Since I have your permission at last to talk about myself, I'll tell you what I've been crazy to say ever since I heard the call of the Elf's Horn and you found me." Tom gave an involuntary sigh as the events of the past few weeks came to his mind.

Supper was somewhat hastily disposed of. Both David and Jean were as anxious to hear Tom Gray's story, as the latter was to tell it. Self-denial in this respect had been hard to practice. Yet all three had acquitted themselves with credit. Seated on a log, with his friends on either side of him, Tom started his strange narrative with:

"At the very beginning I'll say that I'm primarily to blame for my own troubles. The afternoon I landed in that little village nearest to the camp, I had made up my mind to get to camp that same day. When I found I couldn't get any kind of conveyance to take me there, I decided to walk. The station master warned me that a big storm was coming, but I thought I could make the trip before it came. The sky didn't look very threatening to me.

"He was a better weather prophet than I, for I hadn't gone two miles when the storm broke. And such a storm! It was a terror! At first it was a gale of wind, and maybe it didn't hit the trees, though. The way they came crashing down made me sick at heart. You know how I feel about trees. That I might get hurt didn't bother me half so much as to see the way those magnificent old wonders were being demolished.

"Though it was summer it grew pretty dark in the woods and, for the first time I ever remember, I lost my way, I didn't know it just then. I thought I was going north, when all the time I must have been going west. I didn't want to stop. I thought I would be courting just as much chance of getting hit by a falling tree if I stood still as if I kept on going. Besides I was anxious to reach the camp. I had been following a narrow trail, as well as I could under the circumstances, and I supposed I was still on it. It was not until long afterward that I realized that I had made a mistake.

"Well, I plodded along for hours thinking I'd soon reach the camp. It was then pitch dark and raining hard. I was beginning to tire, too. I wasn't in the least worried about not finding the camp. I knew, of course, by that time that I was lost, but I knew, too, I'd be all right when morning came. What bothered me was to hunt some place where I could get out of the rain and spend the night. But I couldn't find even an overhanging rock, though I kept my pocket searchlight going constantly.

"The last time I turned it on my watch I saw it was ten o 'clock. After that -- well here comes the queerest story you ever heard. I was stumbling along in the dark, when all of a sudden the ground seemed to disappear under my very feet. I felt myself falling. I don't suppose it was more than ten feet, but it seemed a mile. I struck something hard, all in a heap. After that I didn't remember anything until I opened my eyes, groaning terribly. It was just getting daylight. I was lying at the bottom of a gorge. Bending over me was the most terrifying person I had ever seen in all my forest wanderings. It was a man and he was a regular giant. He had a head of long snow-white hair and a long white beard that made him look like Father Time. But his face was young, almost child-like, except his eyes. They were big and black and wild. When he saw my eyes were open he gave a kind of leap into the air and shouted at the top of his lungs: 'He is alive again! My son has come back!'

"Before I could say a word he stooped and grabbed me up in his arms. As my left leg hurt me terribly, I knew it must be broken. I groaned and tried to tell him, but he hung me over his shoulder as though I were a feather and went crashing through the woods. I fainted with pain and didn't come to myself again for quite a while. We were still traveling along as though the fellow had on seven league boots. The pain in my leg became even worse and I fainted again. When I came to myself the second time, the sun was shining down through the trees. I was lying on the ground and this crazy fellow -- I was sure by that time that he was crazy -- was circling around me, muttering and laughing to himself.

"I tried again to talk to him, but I was suffering too much to do more than mumble. I don't know how long we'd been there. I suppose he'd only stopped to rest, for before long he hoisted me over his shoulder again and away we went. Quite a while after that we struck that little valley where the hut stands. He carried me into the shack and laid me on the floor. I hadn't the least idea of what he was going to do, and I was too sick to care. I knew he was crazy and that I could expect almost anything to happen. What really happened was the biggest kind of a surprise. He undressed me with the greatest gentleness and then examined my broken leg, and afterward set it and fixed it up with the skill of a doctor, in spite of the fact that he had no conveniences to help him. You can imagine how I suffered during the process. I groaned a good deal and he must have really sympathized with me, for he crooned and lamented over me all the time he was doing it. He kept calling me his dear son and said over and over, 'God has given you back to me at last.'

"Then he went out of the hut and came back after a while with a forest of balsam boughs. He made me a bough bed in one corner of the room, spread a blanket over it and laid me on it. After that he rummaged around the place and fished out an iron kettle from a heap of stuff in a corner. Then he took it and went out of the shack, and I heard him lock the door after him. He was gone a long time, several hours, I presume. When he returned he hunted up a battered tin dish and went out again. Pretty soon he came back with part of a cooked rabbit and some broth. And I was glad to get it.

"Matters ran along in about that way for some days. I tried at first to keep track of them, but I was in so much pain that I soon lost count. It wasn't physical pain alone, either. I went almost crazy myself wondering what Grace and Aunt Rose would think at not hearing from me. I knew that as soon as they realized that I had disappeared, they would send some one to find me. I hadn't the least idea of where I was. I still supposed that I wasn't far from the lumber camp and expected any moment to see a search party descend on the hut. I soon found that I couldn't expect any help from my host. He was crazy as a loon and besides he had a fixed idea that I was a son of his who had evidently been supposed to be dead for several years and had now come to life again in the woods. I tried once to explain to him that I wasn't his son, but it made him so angry that I was afraid to say anything more about it for fear he'd finish me. He wouldn't talk much. When he did say anything it was absolutely without sense. But he'd sit on the floor beside my bed by the hour, and stare at me out of his wild black eyes. He was good to me, though. He fed me and took care of me in a way that surprised me.

"Twice he left me for a whole day and a night. When he came back he brought a lot of provisions with him. He had quite a bit of money in notes in the shack. He kept it in a box under a board in the floor and almost every day he'd go there to look at it. He never counted it. He'd lift the board, haul out the box, pat the roll of bills, croon over it, and stuff it back again. One thing kept me thinking we were near to the camp was the provisions he brought in. How he managed to get them without getting himself locked up was a mystery to me.

"As my leg began to get better, he began to grow less careful of me. Knowing that I couldn't possibly get away, he would set food and water beside my bed, lock me in the cabin -- he never failed to do that -- and go away for three or four days at a stretch, sometimes longer. Often I used to be faint with hunger before he'd come back. On one of those jaunts somebody must have seen him, for he came tearing into the hut late one night saying, 'I am afraid they saw me! I hid in the woods until dark for fear they would follow me. They must not see me nor find out where I live. If they do, they will try to take you away again and then tell me you are dead. They would not believe that you have come to life again. If they ever come I will kill them.'

"After that he stayed in or near the shack for days. He was so upset for fear someone would find me that instead of going around as usual without saying much, he would talk all the time. He was cunning enough not to talk loudly, though. He had a glimmer of sense even if he was crazy, for he kept his voice down to a mutter. I dare say my broken leg would have healed a good deal faster, if he had gone on giving me as good care as he gave me at first. He wasn't anxious for me to get well. He used to say, 'When you can walk again, you will have to stay shut up just the same. If you go into the woods, they will see you and take you away.'

"Privately I made up my mind that as soon as I was well enough I wouldn't wait for 'them' to 'take me away'; I'd go of my own accord. But I had to be careful. As I've already told you he was a giant. He was at least six feet three and strong as a gorilla. I often used to wonder who he was and all about him. One day, about a week before you came, I thought I'd try my damaged leg to see if I could use it. He was off on one of his jaunts or I wouldn't have dared to try it. I found I could hobble about a little and just for curiosity I lifted up the board in the floor, not because I wanted to count his money, but to see what else he kept in the little old-fashioned box he always took it from. All I found besides the money was a battered photograph of a little boy. On the back of it was written in a round, childish hand: 'To my father. You little son, Wallace Lindsey, twelve years old.' I suppose it must have been --  -- "

Old Jean interrupted Tom's recital with a sudden ringing cry of, "It is the wil' man! He hav' the name Lindsey. You remember, M'sieu' David, I hav' tell you 'bout him!" In his excitement Jean leaped from the log, Tom and David viewing him in amazement. "But w'en I hav' see his son, he big man lak' his father."

"What do you know of him, Jean!" Tom's question was freighted with eagerness. "It's evident you must know something."

"Do you mean, Jean, that you think this fellow is the one you were telling me of?" demanded David skeptically.

"It is the sam'," almost shouted the hunter. "I hav' know the name when I hear it, but never could I remember. But I think he dead long time, because after his son who he hav' love much get kill by tree, he turn to wil' man an' run 'way to Canada, an' no one know after where he hav' gone. Of a truth we hav' done well not to meet him. No wonder you say 'urry an' get away, M'sieu' Tom."

"Yes, I knew the danger if you didn't," returned Tom. "He had been gone three days when you came and I was expecting him back at almost any minute. Now I understand why he called me his dear son. How we managed to dodge him is a miracle."

"Finding you was a miracle!" was David's reverent exclamation. "I feel as though I'd been living in a nightmare and just awakened from it."

"Le bon Dieu never forget the one' he lov'," nodded Jean positively. "An' he hav' lov' Mam'selle Grace an' M'sieu' Tom much or we never fin' the M'sieu'." Jean made his usual sign of reverence for the Supreme Being in which his faith was firmly grounded. "Now we mak' ready to spen' another night outdoors. Jean will watch while his frien's sleep. To-morrow an' we see the camp. Then, M'sieu' David, it is for you to go to the village an' sen' the message that we hav' not fail, to those who watch an' wait."

Late the following afternoon the overseer of the lumber camp received the surprise of his life. The sight of two exhausted, weather-beaten men who toiled painfully into his front yard, bearing a rude litter on which reclined a third man, sent the amazed Scotchman racing joyfully to meet them. A little later Tom Gray was surrounded by the comforts which had so long been denied him. After a hearty meal and a brief rest, David Nesbit set off for the village on the overseer's horse to telegraph to Grace Harlowe and Mrs. Gray the glorious news that Tom Gray had been found and would soon be restored to them.

But David had also another equally important commission to execute which directly concerned Jean's "wil' man." After sending the two telegrams he went at once to the home of the county sheriff, who lived in the village. Completely disgusted with the lax manner in which the sheriff had conducted the search, David reported to him the finding of Tom, with a scathing arraignment which the inefficient official accepted in scowling silence. Convinced by David's rebuke that it was high time to redeem himself, he agreed to send out a posse of men the very next day to cover the western stretch of forest in which the demented man had managed to keep himself so cleverly concealed.

It may be said here that the sheriff kept his word. For two weeks the hunters of the unfortunate man scoured the forest to find him. Due to the wildness of the region they had great difficulty in locating the place of Tom Gray's imprisonment. Once discovered, they found the hut empty. A guard was posted around it, but the fearsome tenant never returned. It was not until almost a year afterward that those whose lives fate had briefly linked with his, read in a newspaper a lengthy account of his capture in a town a long distance from the territory surrounding the lumber camp. The news that he had been placed in an asylum for the insane was a matter of relief to all concerned.

*    *    *    *    *

On the very afternoon that Tom Gray was carried into the overseer's yard Grace Harlowe and J. Elfreda Briggs were making arrangements to leave Oakdale for a brief visit to Emma Dean at Overton College. They had planned to depart for Overton on the nine o'clock train the next morning, little dreaming of the remarkable upheaval that was soon to take place in their plans. Having waited long and patiently for news from the north Grace was feeling the suspense most keenly. She had expected so much from Jean that with each day's dawn the struggle to maintain a hopeful aspect grew more difficult. It was now over two weeks since Jean had departed from Oakdale, and aside from two brief letters from David, written during the first week of the renewed search for Tom Gray, she had heard nothing further from him. From Jean she had not expected to receive a letter. It had been agreed beforehand that David should do the letter-writing.

Despite her efforts at concealment, her deep depression now began to stamp itself so strongly upon her sensitive features, that Elfreda Briggs had again pleaded with her to consider paying a brief visit to Emma Dean. Fond as she was of Emma, Grace's heart was not in the proposed trip to Overton. She finally made reluctant consent, merely to please the girl who had stood by her so staunchly.

It was therefore a most mournful Loyalheart who listlessly packed a traveling bag, preparatory to the next morning's journey. Long after the house was quiet for the night, she lay awake, debating with herself whether or not it were wise to go to Overton. Morning found her still undecided. When at half-past eight o'clock she and Elfreda descended the stairs, luggage in hand, she experienced a wild desire to refuse flatly to go. The thought that the taxicab ordered to convey them to the station was probably on its way to the house, brought her a remorseful reflection that she had no right to back out at the last moment, thus disappointing Elfreda.

"What's the matter with that taxicab, I wonder?" grumbled the latter. Standing beside Grace on the veranda, she was engaged in peering frowningly down the street. "When I make up my mind to go, I want to go. If that driver loiters along the way until he makes us miss our train, he'll hear what I have to say about it. The idea of him being so late --  -- "

"Oh!" A sharp cry from Grace, whose gray eyes had been pensively staring up the street, put an abrupt end to Elfreda's remark. Coming down the street toward the house a bicycle appeared ridden by a youngster in the uniform of a messenger from a world-known telegraph company. Where was he going? Was the telegraphic communication he bore for her? Grace cried out again as she saw him stop before the gate and dismount.

Before he was fairly through the gate a lithe figure had darted down the steps toward him. Halfway up the walk they met. "Telegram for you, Miss Harlowe," announced the boy cheerily. "Sign here, please." Handing her a stub of a pencil, he held the book. With a shaking hand she managed to trace her name. As he turned and went down the walk whistling shrilly, Grace stared at the yellow envelope, hardly daring to open it.

In the same instant she felt Elfreda Briggs' reassuring arm about her. From the veranda the stout girl "could see" and had acted accordingly.

With a quick gasping breath Grace tore open the envelope, her trembling fingers fumbling at its contents. Then the world seemed suddenly to recede, leaving her alone with the unbelievable information: "Tom found. O.K. Sends love. Coming home Tuesday. Will wire train. David."



Chapter XXIV

The Noon Of Golden Summer


It was high noon on a gloriously sunshiny Indian summer day in November; one of the last fond concessions of Mother Nature to those who still mourn her departed "darling of the year." In a stately church on Chapel Hill, Golden Summer was at high noon in two hearts. To Tom Gray and Grace Harlowe, as they knelt for a moment before the altar, preparatory to taking their vows of eternal constancy and devotion, the world held but those two.

In the sweet silence that pervaded the overflowing church, the two young voices rang out clearly as they repeated their solemn pledges. Unflinchingly they had weathered their winter of despair. It was eminently fitting that happiness should now flood their loyal souls. Among the large assemblage that had gathered to witness the welding of that holy bond, there was not one person who did not rejoice with Grace and Tom.

Over a month had passed since that memorable October evening when Tom Gray, looking but a shadow of his formerly robust self, had set foot on the platform of the Oakdale station to receive the fervent welcome of those whose lives and interests were centered in his own. As his arrival had been kept a secret, few by-standers were at the station when he arrived. After the first rush of greeting had spent itself, he was affectionately conducted to Mrs. Gray's limousine with herself, the Wingates, Grace, David and Jean as a bodyguard. Though still weak, three days of rest had done much for him. Whatever he still lacked in mere physical strength, he was the same buoyant, cheerful Tom, with only a slight limp in his walk, and a touch of haunting wistfulness in his gray eyes as a reminder of his terrible experience.

At home once more and surrounded by every luxury and with every consideration that those who loved him could offer, health came back with a rush. His rugged constitution had stood him in good stead during those dark days in the sequestered hut, and by the first of November he was quite himself again.

During the days of his rapid convalescence, the earlier-interrupted wedding plans went steadily forward. The bitterness of loss had doubly endeared Grace and Tom to each other. Out of the ashes of suffering, affection had put forth a new growth which to them seemed completely to dwarf their love of previous days. In proportion to the sorrow which had been hers when she wrote to her comrades regarding the postponement of her marriage was the supreme joy she experienced in writing them of Tom's return. With Tom at home and entirely well again, she felt that she could this time defy fate in setting her wedding day for the sixteenth of November.

And now the day had dawned, perfect in its autumnal beauty. Though the trees were bare of leaves, the Oakdale gardens and lawns still flaunted a few late-blooming, rich-hued chrysanthemums. Perhaps it was because of the dark season of suspense through which she and Tom had passed that Grace declared herself for the cheerful daintiness of a pink and white wedding. In contradistinction to the weddings of her chums, who with the exception of Miriam Nesbit had each been accompanied to the altar by a bevy of bridesmaids, Grace announced that she wished the services of only a maid of honor and two flower girls. Nor did any one complain when her choice of bridal attendant fell upon J. Elfreda Briggs. As for the latter, she was in the seventh heaven of delight and wondered humbly how it had all happened. Anna May and Elizabeth Angerell felt equally proud and delighted to have been chosen by dear Miss Harlowe as flower girls.

As the greater part of the townspeople of Oakdale were desirous of seeing Grace Harlowe and Tom Gray married, Grace rather reluctantly decided in favor of a church wedding. Privately she would have preferred being married in her own home, but this she kept strictly to herself. There was also another secret which she and Tom sedulously guarded. It related to where they intended to go on their honeymoon. Only Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe and Mrs. Gray had shared their confidence regarding their purposed destination, and their elders proved themselves to be good secret-keepers. Withholding this bit of information was in the nature of a whim on Grace's part, and though she and Tom were daily besieged with questions by their friends, no one had any serious thought of spoiling Grace's little surprise by endeavoring to pry it from her smiling lips.

Apart from the Six Originals and her many intimate Oakdale friends of school and later days, countless others gathered from far and near to be on hand for the great day. The Semper Fidelis girls had journeyed to Oakdale to a member. Judge Putnam and his sister, Mrs. Gibson, Mrs. Allison and Mabel, Arnold Evans, the Southards, Eleanor Savelli, her father and her aunt, Miss Nevin, had all congregated to do her honor. Even Professor Morton and Miss Wilder were among those present. Mrs. Gray insisted on making herself responsible for the appearance of the Harlowe House girls, who received special permission from Professor Morton to attend the great event in a body.

Kathleen West, Laura Atkins, Mabel Ashe and Patience Eliot came to the wedding, as did Madge Morton and the Meadow-brook Girls. In fact, Oakdale had the air of a town holding a convention, and it would not have been surprising to many had the streets of the little city suddenly burst forth in gay decorations. As for wedding gifts, their name was legion, and Grace laughingly declared herself to be hopelessly embarrassed by the number of beautiful and costly offerings which poured in upon her.

Perhaps she was most deeply touched, however, by the arrival of a wonderful set of martin furs, sent her by Jean. The old hunter occupied a front seat in the church, at Tom's and Grace's earnest request, his rugged face glowing with proud happiness as he watched the two young people united in marriage. The ceremony over, Tom's first act after saluting his bride, embracing his aunt and newly acquired mother-in-law and grasping the hand of Mr. Harlowe, was to beckon Jean to him. "You come next, Jean. You gave me my happiness," were words which the old hunter treasured to the end of his life.

"For once I hav' the honor to salut' Mam'selle Grace," smiled the old man as he gripped Tom's hand. Then he kissed the radiant girl lightly on both cheeks, after the fashion of his nation. To him she would always be Mam'selle Grace.

Due to the flood of congratulations which constantly poured in upon the newly-weds, it was some time before they left the church to enter a waiting automobile which was to convey them to the Harlowes' home.

In order not to slight anyone, an elaborate reception had been arranged to take place there after the performance of the ceremony. The reception began shortly after the bridal pair reached the house, yet it was past five o'clock when the numerous guests had departed with the exception of a few of Grace's close friends, who stayed to see herself and Tom depart on their honeymoon.

"At last the mystery of 'Where lies honeymoon land?' is about to be solved," proclaimed Hippy, in a loud, jubilant voice. Occupying the center of the spacious flower-decked living-room he beamed benevolently on the company of young folks who had tarried at the Harlowes' to learn that very thing. Gathered there were six of the Eight Originals, Miriam, Everett Southard and Miss Southard, the Savellis and Miss Nevin, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Nesbit, old Jean, Kathleen West and Patience Eliot, Mabel Ashe, Laura Atkins and the Semper Fidelis girls. Despite the goodly size of the room it was a trifle more than well-filled by those who waited till Grace and Tom should reappear to say good-bye before starting on their trip. The latter had briefly absented himself to go on a mysterious errand to his aunt's home, which they guessed had something to do with the secret.

They had been waiting together perhaps twenty minutes, when Hippy launched his loud, cheerful remark, for which he was laughingly taken to task by Nora.

"Why should I not announce that the momentous time is at hand?" he demanded in a purposely grieved voice. "I am merely voicing the sentiments of the multitude. Look at their eager, wistful faces and dare to say I am not right."

"For once I'll stand by you," conceded Reddy graciously. "I never expected to do it, but the unexpected sometimes happens." He sidled nearer to Hippy as he spoke.

"Is that a threat?" flung back Hippy, taking several cautious steps away from the approaching Reddy.

"It depends --  -- " began Reddy.

He did not finish his speech. The sound of approaching feet on the stairs turned the eyes of every one toward the wide doorway. A ripple of fond surprise circled the room, as Grace descended the last step to be met by Tom Gray. Into the room, hand in hand, stepped two veritable foresters. In his suit of brown corduroy, with his high-laced tan boots, Tom looked as though he were about to start on one of the long hikes in which he so delighted. Attired in a trim suit of hunter's green that reached a trifle below a pair of high-laced boots, the counterpart of Tom's, except that they were small and dainty, a hat of soft green velour upon her golden brown hair, Grace was a true forest maid.

An instant and they were surrounded by an eager, buzzing throng. Their very appearance told its own story. Knowing them so well, those present understood the meaning of their unusual attire. For half an hour the two lingered among these friends who were so loth to part with them. Then the grandfather's clock in the hall sent out its ringing chime of six o'clock. Tom and Grace exchanged affectionate glances. "It is time to say good-bye." Grace's clear voice wavered a little on the last word. "But when the last good-bye has been said, won't you please all of you see us as far as the gate?"

A unanimous assent went up from every throat as their dear ones hemmed in the two foresters to offer them heartfelt good wishes and exchange final good-byes. Heading a smiling procession to the gate, Tom and Grace paused to say a last word of farewell to Mrs. Gray and Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe, who had followed directly behind them. Grace's final caress was reserved for her mother. For an instant the two clung fondly to each other, then, accepting Tom's hand, Grace Harlowe passed through the gateway of her first home to begin her pilgrimage to a second that awaited her beyond Upton Wood.

The brooding tenderness that lighted Mrs. Harlowe's eyes was reflected in those of the silent group that stood watching the two figures as, side by side, they swung bravely up the quiet street in the last warm rays of the setting sun. An eloquent silence reigned as the intent watchers followed the progress of the foresters up the street to the point of disappearance. It was broken by Kathleen West. Out of the love she bore Grace Harlowe she had christened Grace, "Loyalheart." It seemed only natural that she should be the one to speak the epilogue to this little drama of human love and happiness. Clearly and sweetly it fell on the still evening air: "Having ended her pilgrimage in the Land of College, Loyalheart has gone to Haven Home."

<eob>

The Motor Girls

By

Margaret Penrose



Chapter I

Cora And Her Car


"Now you've got it, what are you going to do with it?" asked Jack Kimball, with a most significant smile at his sister Cora.

"Do with it?" repeated the girl, looking at her questioner in surprise; then she added, with a fine attempt at sarcasm: "Why, I'm going to have Jim break it up for kindling wood. It will make such a lovely blaze on the library hearth. I have always loved blazing autos."

"Now, sis," objected the tall, handsome boy, as he swung his arm about the almost equally tall, and even handsomer girl, "don't get mad."

"Oh, I'm not in the least angry."

"Um! Maybe not. Put I honestly thought -- well, maybe you would like some of the boys to give you a lesson or two in driving the new car. There's Wally, you know. Ahem! I thought perhaps Wally -- "

"Walter can run a machine -- I'm perfectly willing to grant you that, Jack. But this is my machine, and I intend to run it."

The girl stepped over to a window and looked out. There, on the driveway, stood a new automobile. Four-cylindered, sliding-gear transmission, three speeds forward and reverse, long-wheel base, new ignition system, and all sorts of other things mentioned in the catalogue. Besides, it was a beautiful maroon color, and the leather cushions matched. Cora looked at it with admiration in her eyes.

An hour, before, Jack Kimball and his chum Walter Pennington, had brought the car from the garage to the house, following Mrs. Kimball's implicit instructions that the new machine should not be driven an unnecessary block between the sales-rooms and the Kimball home.

"The car must come to Cora on the eve of her birthday," Jack's mother had stipulated to him, "and I want it to come to her brand new, with the tires nice and white. Hers must be the first ride in it."

So it was, after "digesting her surprise," as she expressed it, and spending the intervening hour in admiring the beautiful machine, climbing in and out of it, testing the levers, turning the steering wheel, and seeing Jack start the engine, that Cora was able to leave it and enter the house.

"It's -- it's just perfect;" she said, with a longing look back at the car.

"Yes, and isn't it a shame mother won't let you go out in it to-night?" spoke Jack as he joined his sister at the window. "If they had only unpacked it a little earlier -- it's too bad not to have a run in it while it's fresh. But," he concluded with a sigh, "I suppose I'll have to push it back in the shed."

"Yes," assented Cora, also sighing. "But mother must be humored, and if she insists that I shall not take a trial spin after dark, I'll simply have to wait until daylight. Jack, you're a dear! I know perfectly well that you influenced mother to give me this," and Cora brushed her flushed a cheek against Jack's bronzed face.

"Well, I know a little sister when I see one," replied the lad; "and though she may want to drive a motor-car, she's all right, for all that," and Jack rather awkwardly slipped his arm around his sister's waist again, for she did seem a "little sister" to him, even if she was considered quite a young lady by others.

"Girls coming up to-night?" asked Jack after a pause, during which they both had been silently admiring the car and its graceful lines.

"I don't know," replied Cora. "They haven't heard about my new auto, or they'd be sure to come."

"Let's run over and tell them," proposed Jack.

Cora thought for a moment. She had plans for the evening, but they did not include Jack.

She said finally: "I have to write a few letters -- acknowledging some birthday gifts. Don't wait for me if you intend to go over to Walter's. You might call at the Robinsons', however, to fetch me; say at half-past nine."

"Oh, then I'm not to see Bess or Belle -- or -- well, there are plenty of other girls just as keen on ice cream sodas as those mentioned," and he pretended to leave the room, as if his feelings had been hurt.

"Now; you know, Jack, I always want you with me, but -- "

"But just to-night you don't. All right, little sister. After me running that machine up from the garage for you, and not even scraping the tires; after me -- even kissing you! Fie! fie! little girl. Some day you may want another machine -- or a kiss -- "

"Children, children," called Mrs. Kimball, "are you coming to dinner? And are you going to put that machine in the shed before dark, Jack?"

"Both -- both, mum! We were just discussing a discussion about the -- the machine, girls and ice cream sodas."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed his mother with a laugh. "Come to dinner, do. But, Jack, run the machine in first, please."

The car was put under a shed attached to the barn, Cora looking enviously at Jack as he manipulated the levers and wheels, she sitting on the seat beside him, on the short run up the driveway. She would not venture to operate it herself in such cramped quarters.

"There!" exclaimed Cora as Jack locked the shed door. "I hope nobody steals it to-night. Did you take out the plug, Jack?"

"Here you are," and he handed her the brass affair that formed the connection for the ignition system, and without which the car could not be run. "Put it under your pillow, sis," he added. "Maybe you'll have a gasolene dream."

They went into the house, where dinner was waiting for them. The meal was a simple one, although the means of the little family were ample for a most elaborate affair. But Mrs. Kimball preferred the elegance of simplicity.

Mrs. Grace Kimball was a wealthy widow, a member of one of the oldest and best known families in Chelton, which was a New England town, not far from the New York boundary. Her husband had been Joseph Kimball, a man of simple tastes and sterling principles. When he had to leave her, with the two children, he said as he was passing away:

"Grace, I know you will bring them up rightly -- plainly and honestly."

Plain in character, upright and fair, the two children had grown, but, in personality, nothing could make either Jack or Cora Kimball "plain." They were just simply splendid.

"Then I can't take out the machine to-night, mother dear?" asked Cora after dinner.

"Not to-night, daughter. I know you can run a car, but this is a new one, and I would feel better to have you give it a test run in daylight. You must get the man at the garage to show you all about it. Do you like it very much, Cora?"

"Like it! Oh, mother, I perfectly love it! I can scarcely believe it is all mine -- that Jack has no mortgage on it and that it's my very own."

"I don't know about that," put in Jack. "A fine car like that is rather a dangerous thing for a handsome young lady of seventeen summers, and some incidental winters, to go sporting about in. Some one else may get a mortgage on it, and want to foreclose."

"Now, I don't tease you, Jack," objected his, sister, "and a girl has just as much right to tease a boy as a boy has to tease a girl."

"Goodness me! You don't call that teasing, do you? The girls have all the rights now. But help yourself! I'm not particular. Did you say I was to call at the Robinsons' at nine?"

"No, nine-thirty."

"Oh, exactly. Well, I'll try to be there. You might make it a point not to be waiting on the drive for me. A fellow wants to get a look at a girl like Bess once in a while -- just for practice, you know."

"Oh, Jack!"

"Oh, Cora! What's the matter?"

"You're horrid!"

"All right. Then I'm going off and read a horrible tale about pirates, and walking the plank, and all that. I'll be on hand at the time and place mentioned. Hoping this will find you well, remain, yours very truly, Jack." And he hurried out of the room amid the laughter of his mother and sister.

"What a boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Kimball.

It was a pleasant, summer evening, and when Cora hurried down the avenue toward the Robinson home, she actually seemed to have wings. For she was not running, and her pace could hardly be called walking.

Her tall, straight figure was clad in a simple linen gown. She had need to disregard frills now, for she was a motor girl.

"Oh, come on, and don't ask a single question!" she exclaimed as the Robinson twins -- Bess and Belle -- hastened to meet her in response to her ring. "Come on! We must go over to the garage, quick! I've got a new machine, and I've got to learn all about it."

She had to pause for breath, and Belle managed to say

"Cora! A new machine! All for yourself! Oh, you dear! Who gave it to you?"

"Why Jack found it," Cora laughed. "It was running along the street, you know, and he lassoed it. It was going like mad, but he whirled the lash of his riding-whip about it and -- and -- "

"Now, Cora, dear!" and Belle dropped her voice to one of aggrieved tones. "You know what I meant."

"Of course I do, girly; but hurry -- do! I want the man at the garage to teach me all about my new machine. I call it the Whirlwind.' You know it's different from Jack's small runabout, and there are several new points to be posted on. I want to be all ready, so that when we go out to-morrow morning we can surprise the boys."

"Oh, how perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Bess.

Delighted and excited, the three girls hurried over the railroad hill, on a short cut to the garage.

"Do you think he'll show you?" asked Bess. "He might want you to hire a chauffeur."

"Well, we'll see," responded Cora. "If we can manage to find a nice, agreeable, elderly gentleman -- the story-book kind of machinist, you know. I fancy he will be sufficiently interested -- ahem! well, you know -- " and she finished with a little laugh; in which her chums joined.

They had reached the small door of the office of the garage. A notice on the glass directed them to "Push."

Cora put both hands to the portal, and it swung back. She almost stumbled into the room.

"We would like to see some one who will teach us how to run an auto," she began. "I know something of one, but I have a new kind."

The three girls drew back.

"A nice, agreeable, elderly gentleman!" whispered Belle to Cora.

Cora could not repress a smile.

Instead of the "story-book machinist," a handsome young lad stood before them, smiling at their discomfiture.

"What is it?" he asked in a pleasant voice, and Cora noticed how white and even his teeth were.

"We -- er -- I -- that is, we -- I want to learn some points about my new car," she stammered. "It's a -- "

"I understand," replied the handsome chap. "I will be very glad to show you. Just step this way, please," and, with a little bow, he motioned to them to follow him into the semi-dark machine shop back of the office.



Chapter II

The Dash Of The Whirlwind


When Jack Kimball called at the Robinson home that same evening, at precisely nine-thirty, he found three very much agitated young ladies. Bess, or, to be more exact, Elizabeth Robinson, the brown-haired, "plump" girl -- she who was known as the "big" Robinson girl -- was positively out of breath, while her twin sister, Isabel, usually called Belle, too slim to puff and too thin to "fluster," was fanning herself with a very dainty lace handkerchief.

Cora paced up and down the piazza, in the true athletic way of cooling off.

"Why the wherefore?" asked Jack, surprised at the excitement so plainly shown, in spite of the girls' attempts to hide it.

"Oh, just a race," replied Cora indifferently.

"Out in the dark?" 'persisted Jack.

"Only across the hill," went on Cora, while Bess giggled threateningly.

"Seems to me you took a queer time to race," remarked the lad with a sly wink at Isabel. "Who won out?"

"Oh, Cora, of course," answered Isabel. "She won -- in and out."

"Oh, I don't know," spoke Jack's sister. "You didn't do half badly, Belle."

"Oh, I was laughing so I couldn't run."

"Cora said you were coming for her," put in Bess with a smile.

Jack seemed disappointed that the subject was mentioned.

"Yes," he said. "She was very particular to specify the time. It's nine-thirty now, but I'm in no hurry," and he looked about for a chair.

"But I am," insisted Cora.

"Well, then," added Jack a bit stiffly, "if you're ready, suppose we run along. Or, have you had enough running for this evening?"

"Plenty. But I really must go, girls. Be sure and be ready in the morning for -- well, you know what," and she finished with a laugh. "We want the Chelton folks -- "

"To sit up and take notice, I suppose," put in Jack quickly. "Pardon the slang, ladies, but sometimes slang seems to fit where nothing else will."

The twins managed to whisper a word or two into Cora's ear as she said good-night and left with her brother.

They had had such a splendid time at the garage. It was the run back home, over the railroad embankment, that had caused all their flurry and excitement. And, though they had not left the auto salesrooms until five minutes before the time Cora had appointed for her brother to meet her, they had actually managed to reach home before Jack called, so that he could have no suspicion of their visit to the garage.

Paul Hastings, the young man whom they had encountered on their visit to the automobile place, had proved a most interesting youth -- he appeared to know many things besides the good and bad points of the average car.

Mr. and Mrs. Perry Robinson, parents of the Robinson twins, happened to be out that evening, so that, even to them, the visit to the garage was a profound secret, and there was no need of making any explanations.

That night, in her sleep, Elizabeth was heard to mutter "The clutch! Throw in the clutch!"

And Isabel actually answered, also in dream language:

"Jam down the brake!"

But Cora, across the fields, in her own cool, out-of-doors sleeping apartment, built on a broad porch, did not dream. She just slumbered.

It was a delightful morning in early June, and the air seemed sprinkled with scented dew, when Cora Kimball drove up to the Robinson home in her new automobile.

"Come on! Come on!" she called as she stopped at the curb and, tooted the horn. "Hurry! I want to overtake Walter. He and Jack have just gone out!"

"Oh, of course, you want to overtake Walter," answered Isabel, with the emphasis on "Walter."

"Well, never mind about that, but do come," urged Cora. "What do you think of my car?" she asked as the girls hastened to her. "Isn't it a beauty?"

She handled the machine with considerable skill, for she had had some practice on Jack's car.

"Think of it!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "Why, it's simply beyond thoughts; it's -- overwhelming!"

"A perfect dream," agreed Belle. "Aren't you the lucky girl, though!"

"Guess I am," admitted Cora. "See, I can start it without cranking"; and to prove it, when the engine was quiet, she threw forward the spark lever, shifted the gasolene one a trifle, and the motor began to throb and hum rapidly.

"Good!" cried Isabel.

"Paul told me about it," went on Cora. "The Paul, you know. He said when a charge of gas is in one of the cylinders all you have to do is to send a spark to the cylinder, and -- "

"It didn't take you long to learn," complimented Bess, while Isabel said:

"Paul -- er -- is he -- "

"Yes, he is," admitted Cora with a laugh. "The youth of the garage."

"Well, I don't remember a thing he said," confessed Elizabeth; "but Paul -- who could forget Paul? Didn't he have nice teeth?"

"And so polite," added Belle.

"Wasn't he just splendid?" concluded Cora. "And such a number of things that he told me. But come on, get in," and she slowed down the motor somewhat, while, removing a pair of buckskin gloves from her long, tapering hands, she produced a small, dainty handkerchief and rubbed a spot of black grease from her aristocratic nose.

"Got that when I was oiling the rear wheels," she explained.

The twins entered the tonneau, neither of them caring to risk riding on the front seat just yet.

Cora speeded the motor up a bit, glanced behind to see that the tonneau door was securely fastened, and then pulled the speed lever and threw in the clutch. The car started forward as smoothly as if Paul himself were at the wheel.

Elizabeth's hand flew to her hat, which tilted backward in the wind. They had not yet secured their motor "togs," and regulation hats were so difficult to manage.

"Oh, isn't this glorious!" cried Isabel.

"Every one is looking at us," announced Elizabeth.

"Now I wonder which road Jack and Walter took?" said Cora as she swung the car around a curve in good style. "I heard Jack say he was going for some fishing-tackle."

"Perhaps they went to Arden," ventured Isabel.

"Maybe. Well, we'll take a nice little spin down the turnpike," decided Cora as she threw in the high gear, the cogs grinding on each other rather alarmingly.

"Gracious! What's that?" asked Elizabeth.

"Only the gears," replied Cora calmly. "I hope I didn't strip them, but I might have done that changing a little better. I wasn't quite quick enough."

The car was going rather fast now.

"Don't put on quite so much speed," begged Isabel. "I'm so -- "

"Now please don't say you're nervous," interrupted Cora.

"But I am."

"Well, you needn't be. I know how to run the car."

"Of course, since Paul showed her," put in Elizabeth.

The speed was a trifle too fast for an inexperienced hand at the wheel, but Cora grasped the wooden circlet firmly, and with a keen look ahead prepared for the descent of a rather steep hill.

Coming up the grade were a number of autos, containing Chelton folks, who had been to the depot with early city commuters. Chelton was a great place for commuters and autos.

"Please don't put on any more speed, Cora," again begged Isabel, leaning over toward the front seat. "This is such a steep hill."

"All right, I won't," and Cora placed her foot more firmly on the brake pedal, while she was ready to grasp the emergency lever quickly, in case anything happened.

"Oh, there's Ida!" suddenly cried Elizabeth as a small runabout loomed up in front of them.

"And Sid Wilcox. I wonder what she finds interesting in that -- that lazy chap?"

"A companion -- that's all," replied her sister. "I think Ida is about as unenergetic a girl as I ever knew."

"Funny thing," said Cora, speaking loudly enough to be heard above the noise of the motor, "how she manages to keep going. She rides as often in Sid's car as if -- well, as if she was his own sister."

"Oftener than most sisters," added Belle significantly.

"They have just left her friend, who was on from New City, at the depot," said Bess. "It's quite handy to have a chum with a motor-car -- even if it does happen to be a chap like Sid."

"Well, I guess Ida's harmless, even if she is jealous," said Cora. "I do believe that's all that ails Ida -- just plain jealousy."

"Maybe," assented Isabel.

They rode along for some time, coasting down the steeper parts of the hill, and running easily where there was a level stretch. They were now approaching the worst part of the descent. From this point there was quite a steep slant to the level highway, which the railroad crossed at grade, and approached on a curve.

There was a long-drawn, shrill whistle.

"What's that?" exclaimed Elizabeth.

"The train!" cried Isabel. "Oh, the train! Cora, the train is coming!"

"I hear it," spoke Cora calmly, but she pressed her foot down harder on the brake pedal, and tried to use the compression of the cylinders as a retarding force, as Paul had showed her.

"Can't you slow up?" pleaded Elizabeth. There was a note of alarm in her voice.

"I'm -- I'm trying to!" almost shouted Cora, as she exerted more strength on the brake lever. "I've done all I know, now, but but we don't seem to be stopping!"

She spoke the last words in a curiously quiet voice.

"Put on the brakes!" called Bess.

"They are on!" said Cora fiercely.

"Oh, Cora!" screamed Isabel. "I see the train! There at the foot of the hill! We'll run into it! I'm going to jump! We can't stop!"

"Sit still!" commanded Cora energetically.

Elizabeth covered her face with her hands. She shrank back into her seat. Her sister leaned up against her. Below could be heard the puffing of the train. Then the engineer, seeing the auto rushing down to destruction, blew shrieking whistles, as if that could help.

Cora was frantically pulling on the brake lever. Her face was now white with fear, but even in the midst of this terror she felt a curious calmness. It was just as if she were looking at some picture of the scene. She thought she was miles and miles away. Her foot was pressed down so hard on the brake pedal that it felt as if her shoe would burst off.

But the car slid along, nearer and nearer the track, along which the train was thundering -- rushing to meet the auto-to annihilate it.

"Stop! Stop!" screamed Isabel. "Stop!" She rose in her seat.

"Sit down!" commanded Cora.

"But stop!" pleaded Isabel. "We'll all be killed! Stop! Oh, Cora, stop!"

"I'm trying to!" was the grim reply. "But -- I can't the brake -- the brake is jammed!"

The last words came out jerkily, for Cora was pulling on the brake handle with all her force.

Nearer and nearer sounded the approaching train. The auto was sliding down the hill with ever-increasing speed, but Cora never let go her hold of the steering wheel.

Once more she tried to pull the brake lever. It would not come back another notch. The engineer of the train was blowing more frantic signals. He leaned from his cab window and motioned the auto back. He even seemed to be shouting to them.

Cora braced both feet against the brake pedal.

She took a firmer grasp of the wheel. The seams of her new gloves were starting from the strain. There was a desperate look on her face.

"Oh, we'll be killed! We'll be killed!" screamed Isabel. "We can't get across in time!"

She leaned over, and fell into her sister's arms, while Cora, with a keen glance to either side, stiffened in her seat. There was a bare chance of safety.



Chapter III

A Sudden Acquaintance


Despite the tense moment of anxiety, the almost certainty that the auto would crash into the train, Cora's quick eye had seen something that she hoped would enable her to avert the accident.

She knew that she could not stop the machine in time, by any means at her command. There was but one other thing to do. That was to steer to one side.

To the left there was a solid stone wall. To dash into that would mean almost as horrible an accident as if she collided with the train. To the right there was a field, but it was fenced in, and between it and the road was a little miry, brook.

In some places the brook widened almost into a pond. The bottom was treacherous, and to steer into it meant to sink down deeply into the mud. To run into the fence might mean that one of the rails would become entangled in the mechanism of the motor, tearing it all to pieces. Or one of the long pieces of wood might even impale the occupants of the car.

Cora's eyes swept down the length of the barrier with a flash.

There was just what she wanted! A gap in the fence!

She could go through that in safety. But suppose the machine was brought to too sudden a stop in the mud? They would all be thrown out and perhaps injured. But it was the only thing to do.

With a firm grasp of the wheel Cora sent the auto from the road.

Elizabeth screamed as she felt the swaying of the car. She had to hold her sister from being tossed but, for Isabel was incapable of taking care of herself.

Straight for the field rushed the car, the engineer of the train now tooting his whistle as if in gladness at the narrow escape.

Splash!

The auto fairly dived into the brook, and gradually slackened speed. Right toward a clump of willow trees it surged, throwing a spray of water in advance. Then it became stationary in the middle of a spot where the brook widened into a pond.

Cora was dimly conscious of a figure on the opposite bank of the stream. A figure of a young man, with a fishing-pole in his hands. She saw a spray of water, cast up by the auto, drench him. She even heard him cry out, but at that moment she gave him not a thought.

Everything centered on her narrow escape, the condition of her two chums, and, last, but not least, whether her new auto had been damaged.

Cora leaned over the side and looked at the water flowing past the mud guards.

"Safe!" she exclaimed. "I -- I thought we were doomed, girls. Didn't you?"

"Doomed?" echoed Elizabeth. "I never want to go through that experience again."

"Me either," added Cora fervently. "Has Belle fainted?"

"I'm afraid so."

Cora leaned over, scooped some water up in her hand, and dashed it into the white face of the girl. Isabel opened her eyes.

"Are we -- are we -- " she gasped.

"We're all right, you little goose," said Cora with a laugh, though her voice trembled and her hands shook. "I guess it wasn't nearly as dangerous as it looked."

"It was bad enough," spoke Elizabeth.

"Anyhow, the auto stopped," went on Cora. "Don't you see where we are? In the middle of Campbell's Pond. And we won't have to swim out, either. It's not very deep. But, Bess, you look like a sheet, and Belle, you seem like -- "

"A pillow-case, with the pillow out," added Isabel with a wan smile. "I never was so glad to get a ducking in all my life."

"And I guess we're not the only ones who got a ducking," said Cora as she shook some drops from her hair.

"Why?" inquired Bess.

"Look!" and Cora pointed across the pond. A very much drenched figure was standing up. The man with the fishing-pole was wiping the water from his face. He looked at the girls in the auto.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "I should think we did give him a ducking!"

"I'm awfully sorry, but -- but we couldn't help it," said Cora, standing up and looking at the young man.

He approached closer, began wading out into the pond toward the auto. The water was not very deep, hardly up to his knees. Cora found herself wondering how he had managed to fish in it.

He was very good-looking, each of the girls was thinking to herself.

"Can't I help you?" he asked, smiling broadly, in spite of the mud and water splashed all over him. There was actually a little globule of mud on the end of his nose. He seemed as much amused over his own predicament as he was over that of the motor girls. "Do you need any help?" he went on.

"I'm sure I -- er -- that is, I hardly know," stammered Cora. She was not altogether certain about the state of the auto. "I'm afraid we've been very -- very impolite -- to splash water, and -- er -- mud all over you," she added.

"Not at all -- not at all," he assured her. "I never saw a better -- a better turn, so to speak. You are very plucky, if I may be permitted to say so. I -- er -- I almost said my prayers when I saw you racing down toward the train. Then I saw you turn in here. But what happened that you couldn't stop before?"

"The brake," replied Cora. "It refused to work. This is a new car -- our first trip, in fact."

"Oh, I see," replied the young man. "Well, I know a little about cars. Perhaps I can run her out for you. Just let me try."

Cora shifted over to the other side, leaving the wheel free. The young fisherman cranked up, from a very insecure and muddy footing in the middle of the pond. There came a welcome "Chug! chug! chug!"

The auto was all right, after all.

The young man climbed in. The spot of mud was still on his nose, and Cora felt an insane desire to laugh. But she nobly restrained it. He took the wheel and threw in the low speed gear. There was a grinding sound, the Whirlwind seemed to shiver and shake, and then it began to move. A few seconds later, after running slowly through the pond, it ran up the soft bank, and, under the skilful touch of the stranger, came to a stop in a grassy meadow.

"There!" exclaimed the young man. "I guess you're all right now. But let me look at that brake. Perhaps I can fix it."

Then it occurred to Cora that she might attempt to introduce her friends and herself. The twins had not yet spoken a word to the fisherman.

The same thought "wave" must have surged into the stranger's brain, for he said:

"My name is Foster -- Edward Foster," and he raised his wet cap. "I was just trying to kill time by fishing, but it was a cruelty to time. I don't believe a fish ever saw this pond."

"Mr. Foster, my name is -- er -- Kimball -- Cora, Kimball," said the owner of the auto, imitating the young man's masculine style of introduction, "and these are my friends, the Misses Robinson."

The young man bowed twice, once for each of the twins. Mr. Foster had a most attractive manner -- that was instantly decided by the three girls.

"I know your brother," he remarked to Cora. "Jack Kimball, of Exmouth College."

"Oh, yes, of course. I've heard Jack speak of you, I'm sure."

"Yes, he was on our team -- "

"Oh, you are the great football player," interrupted Elizabeth. She made no secret of her admiration for "great football players."

"Not exactly great," answered Mr. Foster, "but I have played some. My interest in sports has rather kept me away from society. That accounts for me not being better acquainted in Chelton, or perhaps -- "

"Hello there!" came a hail from the road.

"Jack and Walter!" exclaimed Cora, as at that moment another machine came along and drew up alongside the fence which separated the highway from the meadow. "Now, won't they laugh at us!"

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed the mud-bespattered young fellow. "If that isn't Jack! And Walter Pennington is with him!"

"What's up?" called Jack, leaping from the car and running across the meadow, after a quick climb over the fence.

"A great deal is up," said Cora.

"Well -- Ed Foster! Where in the world did you come from?" Jack added as he saw the young man about to alight from Cora's car.

"From the ditch," was Ed's laughing answer, as he looked down at his splattered garments. "I just got but in time to -- "

"Never mind -- shake!" interrupted Jack, extending his hand. "When I was a youngster, and our big Newfoundland dog came out With the stick from the pond -- "

"Now! now!" cautioned Ed. "I may be big, and I may have just crawled from the pond, but I deny the stick."

"I'm sure we would have been here forever if Mr. Foster hadn't -- " began Cora.

"Been here first," interrupted Jack. "That's all very well, sis. But I told you so! A brand-new, spick-and-span car like this! And to run it into a muddy ditch!"

"Indeed!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "We were almost killed! Cora just saved our lives!"

"Mercy me!" cried Walter, who had left the car and joined Jack. "Now, Cora," he added mockingly, "when you start out to save lives, why don't you give a fellow the tip? There's nothing I do so love as to see lives saved -- especially nice young ladies," and he made a low bow.

"Oh, you may laugh," said Cora somewhat indignantly, "but I don't want anything like it to happen again. The brake would not work, and -- "

"The train was just in front of us, and we were running right in it," put in Isabel, her voice far from steady, and her face still very white.

At this point Ed insisted upon telling the whole story, and he described the plight of the motor girls so graphically that both Jack and Walter were compelled to admit that Cora did indeed know how to drive a car in an emergency, and that she had acted most wisely.

"Good for you, sis!" exclaimed Jack, when the story Was finished. "I could not have done better myself."

"Such praise is praise indeed," spoke Ed with a laugh.

He went around back to look at the brake, and found what had caused the trouble. A loose nut had fallen between the brake band and the wheel hub, and prevented the band from tightening. The trouble was soon remedied, and the brake put in working order.

"There -- you are all ready for the road now," remarked Ed.

"Thank you -- very much," said Cora quietly, but there was a world of meaning in her tones.

Ed looked into her eyes rather longer than perhaps was necessary.

"Come on; get in with us, Ed," invited Jack. "Haven't seen you in an age. Let's hear about the Detroit team."

"Oh, I'm -- I'm too dirty to get in the car, I'm afraid," objected Ed, with a glance at the mud spots that were now turning to light-gray polka-dots on his clothes, in the strong sunlight.

"Nonsense!" cried Jack heartily. "Come along. Walter will drive for Cora, in case she is nervous. It needs a strong wrist in this soft ground."

"Oh, yes! Do please steer for us," begged the still trembling Isabel. "I'd feel so much safer -- "

"Well, I like that!" cried Corm with a light laugh. "Is that the way you treat me, after having saved your life?"

"But it was you-who -- who almost ran us into the train, Cora," answered Isabel, giving her friend a little pinch on her now rosy cheek. "So you see it was your duty to save us."

"Well, I did it," replied Cora, glad that she had come out of the affair with such flying colors.

Walter took Ed's place at the steering wheel of the Whirlwind, and the fisherman seated himself beside Jack. Then Walter ran Cora's car out of the mire of the meadow and into the road, the three girls remaining in the machine.

"I suppose if the young ladies hadn't run you down we wouldn't have seen you the entire summer," said Jack to Ed as he ran the smaller machine along behind the touring car.

"Oh, indeed you would," answered Ed. "I really intended looking you up in a day or two. You see, I have been very busy. What are you laughing at? Because I said I was busy? Well, I guess I have the busiest kind of business on hand. Say, let me whisper," and he leaned over confidentially, though there was no need for it, as the other auto was some distance ahead. "I'm going into finance."

"Finance?"

"Yes. Stocks -- bonds -- and so on, you know. Bank stocks. Think of that, Jack, my boy!"

"Good for you! Three cheers for the bank stock!" exclaimed Jack in a half whisper. "In the new bank, I suppose?"

"The correct supposition," answered Ed. "I have been invited to subscribe for some of the new issue of stock, and I've decided to. I'm going over to get it in a day or two. I'm to pay partly in cash, and turn over to them some of my bonds and other negotiable securities that I inherited from father, who was a banker, you know. I think I am making a good investment."

"Not a bit of doubt about it," said Jack. "I wish I had the chance."

"I hear that Sid Wilcox wanted to get some of the stock, Jack," went on Ed. "He comes of age soon, and he will have some cash to invest. But, somehow, there's a prejudice against Sid. He has not been asked to take stock, though the directors rectors know he has money."

"Well, I guess the trouble is he can't be depended on. He'd be peddling the stock all over the State, or putting it up for doubtful transactions, and I guess the directors wouldn't like that. He's a reckless sort. I shouldn't mind his fits of crankiness, if he would only leave girls out. But when he goes in for some kind of mischief harmless in itself, he invariably brings some girl into it, and she has to suffer in the scrape with him. It's not right of Sid. But -- speaking of angels -- there he is now."

Jack's runabout, called the Get There, had been climbing the hill back of the Whirlwind, and both machines were now on a level stretch of road and approaching Fisher's store -- an "emporium," as the sign called it, and a place where one could get anything from a watch to a shoestring, if old Jared Fisher only knew that it was wanted before he went to town.

It so happened, however, by some strange intervention of providence, that he never did know in time. But, at any rate, you could always get soda water -- the kind that comes in the "push-in-the-cork bottles," and that was something.

As the two autos drew up, the occupants beheld, standing on the steps of the store, Sidney Wilcox and Ida Giles. Jack halted his car behind the Whirlwind.

"Hello there!" called out Ed. "Seems to me I'm bound to meet all my friends to-day. How are you, Sid?"

Ed leaped from Jack's car and up the steps to greet Sid.

"Oh, I'm so-so," was the rather drawling answer. "But what's the matter with you? Been clamming?"

"Not exactly," replied Ed, glancing down at the mud spots; "but I caught something, just the same."

"So I see," responded Sid, chuckling at his wit. "Pity to take it all, though. You should have left some for the turtles. They like mud."

Jack, who followed Ed, said something in conventional greeting to Ida. But the girl with Sid never turned her head to look in the direction of the Whirlwind. Cora remarked on this in a low voice to Isabel and Elizabeth.

"I hear that you are going in for -- er -- Wall Street," said Sid to Ed in rather a sarcastic voice.

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. No chance for a lamb like me in Wall Street. It's too much of a losing game."

"Oh, I don't know," drawled Sid. "A fellow might make good, and then do -- well, better."

Ed glanced at Jack. How did Sid know about Ed's plan to take stock in the new bank? That was a question that each youth flashed to the other.

There was something unpleasant in the manner of Sidney Wilcox. All in the party seemed to feel it. And as far as the girls were concerned, they noticed much of the same manner in Ida, though Jack and Ed were not quite so critical. As for Walter, he did not seem to be giving Ida a thought. But it is doubtful if she was so indifferent toward him. Still, she would not look in his direction while Cora and her two chums were with him.

Corn walked slowly up the broad store steps; Bess and Belle following.

"I'm simply choked," said Cora with a laugh. "I never had such a thirsty run."

Ida seemed very much interested in the distant landscape.

"The roads are awfully dry," she murmured.

"And so am I," added Elizabeth as she followed her sister and Cora into the store. Walter and Jack trailed in after them, while Ed stayed for a moment outside with Ida and Sid. The latter did not introduce Ed to Ida. It was a habit Sid had, of never presenting his young men chums to his "girl," unless he could not avoid it. Ida, perhaps, knew this, and she strolled to the other end of the porch.

"How'd you make out in your exams?" asked Ed of Sid, for the latter attended college with Jack. That is, he was in his study class, though not in the same grade socially.

"Oh, pretty fair. I cut most of 'em. I finish next year, and I don't intend to get gray hairs over any exams now."

"You cut 'em?" repeated Ed.

"Sure," and Sid started toward his car, Ida following. "So long."

"Well, you're not going away mad, are you?" asked Ed with a laugh, wondering the while over the identity of the striking-looking girl whom Sid so obviously refrained from introducing to him.

"Oh, not's so's you could notice it," was Sid's answer as he began to tuck the dust robe over Ida's lap.

Then Sid cranked up his car, which he had named the Streak, though it didn't always live up to the name, and soon he and the girl were out of sight around a turn in the road.

"Humph!" exclaimed Ed as he entered the store. "I wonder where he heard about my plan to take -- bank stock? I wish he didn't know of it. And I also wonder who that pretty girl was?" For Ida was pretty, in spite of her reddish hair and her rather jealous disposition, which was reflected in her face.

Ed shook his head. He was puzzled over something.



Chapter IV

Twenty Thousand Dollars


"Say, Jack," remarked Ed a few days later, when the two were sprawled beside a brook, with rod and reel, "I believe I'll have to get better acquainted with the young folks out here. Honestly, I feel wobbly when I get to talking to them. I've been out of touch with them so long that I'm afraid I'll ask after some dead and gone aunt or uncle, or for some brother that has been in trouble and isn't spoken of any more in polite society. For instance, who is Ida -- Ida Giles? You know -- the girl who was with Sid? He introduced me to her last night."

"Oh, Ida -- why -- she's -- just Ida. That's all. But that's a good idea of yours. I was thinking myself that you ought to begin studying up the blue-book of Chelton society. Now, as to Ida, the red-haired girl -- "

"Not really red," corrected Ed slowly, "but that bright, carroty shade -- so deliciously like lobster a la -- "

"Oh, pardon me," and Jack assumed an affected manner. "Of course, Ida's hair is not really red -- not merely -- carroty is the very word needed. Well, she is the daughter of the Reverend Mrs. Giles. Don't you remember the woman who always scolded us for everything? Wouldn't let us even so much as take a turnip. And she wore such pious-looking spectacles that we dubbed her Reverend Mrs. Giles. Well, she still is Ida's mother."

"Then I don't blame Ida a bit. I'd be Ida myself if I was brought up as she's been, though I suppose her mother means all right. It's curious what queer manners some people have. But I dare say we all have our own faults."

"And, with all of them, I hope the girls love us still -- even Ida," added Jack quickly.

"Now, those others -- the beautiful Robinson twins," pursued Ed.

"Oh, yes. Well, Bess and Belle are certainly the real thing in girls -- right up to the minute. Besides, they have an immensely rich papa. You've heard of him -- Perry Robinson, the railroad king?"

"Oh, yes. And their mother, if one may be permitted to ask?"

"Certainly, fair sir -- Their mother is a wonderfully handsome woman, in a statuesque sort of way. Very dignified, and all that. Now, the twins are worth while."

"Exactly so," answered Ed. "Now I think -- "

He stopped suddenly, and quickly jerked up his rod, but not quite speedily enough, for he had the pleasure of seeing a fish slip wrigglingly off the hook.

"Biggest one to-day," he murmured as he adjusted some fresh bait. "Now, as to the Robinson twins. The only fault I have to find with them, from my limited acquaintance, is that they are not evenly divided. Bess is -- er -- well, not to be too delicate about it -- too fat -- "

"No, no, I beg of you!" exclaimed Jack. "Don't use that word. Say too much adiposed."

"Sounds like indisposed," murmured Ed; "but let it go at that. Bess is too much adiposed, and Belle -- "

"Well?"

"She is too un-adiposed, if you like it better. Not to put to fine a point upon it, as Mr. Snagsby used to say -- she's too thin."

"Not faults in either of them beyond repair," commented Jack. "Cora is very keen about them. Thinks they're the best ever. She is very much interested in them."

"How about Jack?" teased Ed. "He might have a perfectly pardonable interest in being Interested in the twins -- solely on his sister's account, however -- solely an the part of his sister."

"Um!" murmured Jack. "That's neither here nor there. To carry it a little further, and still discussing the twins, there is Ed Foster, who is always at college when he is not fishing. He has money to burn, and so he's going to set fire to some of it by entrusting it to the New City Bank.

"Not quite money to burn," said Ed as he carefully threw out the baited hook again. "I've about twenty thousand dollars that came from father's estate, and it is stipulated that it must be most carefully secured. I think the new bank a good investment. But as for that being a drawing-card in my favor, why look to yourself. Here's Jack Kimball," went on Ed, "the best musician at Exmouth. The girls' pet, and, altogether, a very nice boy. I believe that's all -- no, hold on. I never said a word about your weakness for chicken potpie, although you did appropriate my dish the last day at college."

"I was hungry," pleaded Jack. "But I thank you for your considerate description. Do you think that you now have the Chelton folks to rights?"

"We haven't touched on Walter Pennington. He seems to be the whole thing with the girls," and Ed did not try to disguise his tone of sarcasm.

"Oh, yes -- Walter," said Jack. "Oh, Walter's all right. He seems to have more time to spend fussing around the girls than the rest of us have."

"Is that it?" asked Ed. "I thought it was the other way about. That the girls had more time for Walter than for the rest of us."

"I don't pretend to understand you," remarked Jack, pulling up quickly and looking in disgust at his empty hook. "But if you want anything -- why, go in and win, as Priscilla said to John Alden. You can beat Walter -- you're handsomer."

"Drop that!" cried Ed, looking for a clod of earth to throw at Jack. Then he ran his fingers through his thick, black hair. He was handsome, but he did not like it "cast up to him."

"Oh, I don't know," he murmured after a pause. "Walter has a way with him. Girls 'perfectly love' that uncertain shade of hair. It's capable of being made over to suit -- "

"Knocking!" cried Jack. "You're knocking! I'll tell Walter. You called him a -- "

"A first-rate chap, and I mean it!" insisted Ed warmly. "That's just what I think of Walter Pennington."

"Well, you know what I've always thought of him," and Jack was equally enthusiastic. "Walter is the kind of a fellow that will keep without canning."

"Meaning some others won't -- such as Sid, for example?"

"Well, he's very 'close' sometimes, so to speak. At least very hard to understand. But let's talk about something else. When do you go over to the bank, to stand and deliver your good cash, bonds and securities for their stock?"

"This very afternoon, may it please the court. And, by the same token, I should be getting home now. Hope we won't meet anyone, or they might ask, as Sid did, if I'd been clamming. I can't seem to keep out of the mud."

They gathered up their fishing paraphernalia and walked out to the highway.

"Are you and your money going over in the machine?" asked Jack.

"Certainly. Why not? Henry Porter is going to loan me his runabout."

"Oh, I suppose it's all right, but it's a lot of money to carry with you alone -- twenty thousand dollars."

"And to hear you talk I might suspect that you had designs on it. I guess I'll get over to New City with it safe and sound. I hardly think I need a bodyguard."

"Humph! Maybe not. I guess you'll be all right."

"Your sister seems much interested in motoring," remarked Ed as they trudged along.

"Oh, yes, sis is just wild about it. She learned to run my car, and then began teasing for one of her own. We a were waiting for her seventeenth birthday to give it to her -- mother and I -- "

"Oh, I suppose you paid for part of it," remarked Ed with a laugh.

"No; but I ran it up from the garage for her. It's a fine, up-to-date car, and now that sis has it she's as happy as a kitten lapping up sweet cream."

"And she's as plucky as -- um -- what shall I say? I never saw any one manage a car better than she did the day the brake wouldn't work and they nearly ran into the train. I declare, when I saw her dive through that gap in the fence and steer toward me through the pond, I felt like yelling. I was almost frozen stiff. Couldn't do a thing but look on."

"And sis thawed you out with a mud bath," said Jack. "Oh, Cora's all right, even if I am her brother."

"She certainly is a star, if I may be pardoned the expression. Well, here's where I'm going to leave you. I've got to stop at the post-office. People have gotten into the habit lately, and a mean habit it is, of mailing me bills about the first of the month. One would think they might let a fellow have a vacation from that sort of thing once in a while."

"Oh, I get mine, too. And this month they're rather heavier than usual, as it's Cora's birthday."

"There's Sid," suddenly remarked Ed, pointing down the road to where Sidney Wilcox was coming around a turn, walking slowly.

"Yes, and I guess he gets his bills, too."

"Likely," admitted Ed. "He seems to have one now, and it doesn't appear to please him," for Sid was intently studying a sheet of paper as he walked along. He turned back and looked up the road.

"Who's he looking for?"' asked Jack.

"Give it up. No, I don't, either. There she is. It's Ida Giles."

Sidney waited for the girl to come up to him. Then he put the sheet of paper in his pocket, and the two walked along together until they came abreast of Ed and Jack. Sid nodded, which salutation was returned by the two fishermen. Ida made a slight motion with her head, which might or might not have been taken for a bow. Then the two passed on.

"My, but they're rushing it pretty fast!" commented Jack.

"Oh, Sid owns a nice little car -- built for two," spoke Ed. "That makes it worth while for her."

"Yes, Ida does get in a lot of runs."

Jack turned to look at the girl. She was rather becomingly dressed in a dark-blue gingham sailor suit. Her red hair seemed fairly to blaze in the summer sunlight. Her companion slouched along in that indifferent way common to many youths of neutral temperaments -- nothing much decided about them save their dislike for hard facts.

Ed and Jack had now reached the beginning of the sidewalk leading into town. They noticed a torn envelope lying on the flags. It was, as they could see, addressed to Sidney Wilcox, and in one corner was the imprint of an auto firm, which made the style of car that Sid drove. The fishermen smiled at each other, but made no remark. Perhaps the envelope had contained a bill.

"I may take a spin out on the road this afternoon," said Jack at parting. "Cora and the twins are going out, and we have promised to trail along after them."

"We?" questioned Ed.

"Yes. Walter and I, of course."

"Oh, of course -- Walter."

"Jealous!" called Jack. "But cheer up. Perhaps we shall meet' you, and you'll have a chance."

"Oh, I'll be too busy with the cash, I'm afraid. But, at any rate, give my regards to your sister."

"Surest thing you know. How about the twins?"

"Well -- er -- never mind."

"All right. Say, Ed, come over to dinner some night. I want mother to meet you."

"All right, I will."

Ed turned away. He seemed unusually thoughtful. Was it Jack's remark about carrying so much money, unprotected, along the highway that caused it? It was a large sum -- twenty thousand dollars. But he was strong enough to take care of himself. Besides, he would have his revolver with him. He decided on this, though at first it had not occurred to him.

Then he laughed aloud at his worriment and his prospective precautions. Who ever heard of any one being robbed on the road from Chelton to New City?



Chapter Y


An Impromptu Race

"All ready!"

It was Cora who spoke. She and her chums, the Robinson twins, and a fourth girl, were about to start out for the afternoon run Jack had mentioned. The fourth girl was Mary Downs, a little millinery model and helper, to whom Cora had promised a ride in the new car. It was Mary's initial spin, and, as Cora cranked up, the young girl, with the queer, deep-set eyes, and the long, oval face so dear to the hearts of model-hunters, fairly quivered with anticipation.

"Are you all right, Mary?" asked Cora with a reassuring smile.

"Oh, yes," replied the girl with a happy little laugh. "This is -- just glorious!"

"Wait just a minute," begged Bess. "I want to tie my hat on more securely. I do hope we get our auto bonnets soon."

"Madam said they would be finished to-day," remarked Mary. "They are very pretty, I think." Madam Julia was Mary's employer.

"Chug! chug!" sounded from the motor as it speeded up, momentarily, drowning all conversation. Then, as Cora climbed in and adjusted the throttle and shifted the spark lever, she let in the clutch, and the car rolled gently away.

"Where were the boys to meet us?" asked Belle.

"At the turnpike junction," replied Cora as she deftly threw in the high speed gear, and that without the terrific grinding of the cogs that betrays the inexperienced hand. The Whirlwind leaped forward, and the girls clutched their hats. "Jack promised he wouldn't be a minute late," went on Cora as she turned out to avoid a rut.

"Jack usually is on time," murmured Isabel. She almost lisped, yet the more you heard it the more you thought it was but a pretty little catch in her voice -- in the accent -- after the manner of babies, who seem to defer all they have to say to their listener. Every one loved Isabel.

"Oh, you think so, do you?" asked her sister. "Jack never makes any mistakes apparent to Belle," she added with an arch glance at Cora, with whom she was riding on the front seat.

"Never mind," murmured Belle.

Mary listened to the talk with evident pleasure. She was not accustomed to this sort of perfectly frank jokes.

"There they are!" suddenly cried Cora as the Get There swerved into sight around the corner.

Jack, who was at the wheel of his car, with Walter beside him, swung in close to his sister's machine.

"All right?" asked Jack, looking critically at Cora as she slowed up the big car, and noting her firm grip of the steering wheel.

"Fine and dandy!" exclaimed the girl, with the expression that makes that sort of slang a parody rather than a convenience.

"And if there aren't Sid and Ida!" exclaimed Belle. "Seems to me we run into them wherever we go."

"As long as it's only metaphorically and not mechanically speaking, it's all right," observed Walter.

The yellow Streak glided smoothly along.

"Quite a parade," remarked Jack.

"Let's make it a race," suggested Cora, her dark eyes flashing in anticipation.

Jack glanced at Walter. The relations between him and Sid were rather strained. As for Ida -- well, Ida was credited with "running after Walter," and the sentiment of lads toward such girls is too well known to need describing.

"Oh, yes! Do let us race!" chimed in Bess. "It would be such fun!"

"All right," agreed Jack. "That is, if Sid is, willing."

"Will you race, Sidney?" called Cora, before the occupants of the yellow car had had time to greet the others.

"Yes, certainly," he assented. "I would like nothing better."

"Then we'll have to handicap the girls," suggested Walter. "They have by far the fastest machine."

"But it's brand new," objected Cora, "and isn't tuned up yet, as the two runabouts are. Besides, look who we are -- girls."

"Very charming ones, I'm sure," said Sid quickly, but, somehow, his voice did not ring true.

"Handicap," spoke Walter. "I suppose it's right, but you see -- er -- we fellows could -- " He was floundering about for a way of saying that the girls should not be penalized by giving the drivers of the two runabouts a start. For, in spite of their small size and less power the runabouts were speedy cars. It seemed as if Walter did not want to take the obviously fair advantage due him.

"Oh, no," declared Cora. "We'll let you handicap us all you wish. We are willing to test the Whirlwind on its merits."

"I should think so," sneered Ida, and then she turned disdainfully away, as if the landscape held more of interest for her than did the details of a race.

"Who is that forward girl?" asked quiet Mary of Bess.

"Ida Giles," was the whispered reply.

"She looked at me as if I did not belong in a motor car," went on the little milliner, with that quick perception acquired by business experience.

"Well, she doesn't belong in the one she's in," retorted Bess kindly. "I guess you imagine she meant something like that. Ida is not really mean. She is merely thoughtless."

"That's the very meanest kind of meanness," insisted Mary, "for, when folks do a thing through thoughtlessness they do not know enough to be careful next time."

Bess smiled to assure Mary that the milliner's model was on an equal footing with the girls in the Whirlwind, at all events.

"Line up!" called Jack. "Get ready for the race. We'll not insist on a handicap for you, Cora."

Sid sent his car directly to the middle of the road, the very best place.

"Better let the touring car go there," suggested Walter in as even a tone as he could command. "It will need lots of room, and the road's not very wide."

"That's right," added Jack. "A runabout can go on either side, then."

"I don't know," began Sid. "Cora ought to beat, and yet with two fellows driving against her -- "

"Oh, if it's a matter of girls," almost sneered Ida, "I'll drive the Streak."

"Good idea!" hurriedly spoke Jack. "That will 'make the match even. Suppose we take a girl to drive our car, Walter?"

Walter glanced rather ruefully at his companion.

"Why -- er -- yes," he drawled. "Suppose we take -- "

"Bess," finished Jack, quickly. "She knows considerable about a car, and she's driven this one."

Somehow, the idea of having Bess as a rival to Ida suggested fun to Jack.

"Now we have it," went on Cora's brother, as Bess alighted from the Whirlwind and entered the Get There. "Are we all ready?"

"Where's Walter going?" asked Cora, for he had given up his seat to Jack, who moved to make room for Bess. Mary, Cora and Belle were in the touring car.

"I guess I'd better get into the big machine,", decided Walter. "Three such pretty girls in it all alone are an unequal division of beauty and talent -- the last for myself, of course."

He moved toward the Whirlwind. Ida frowned. She had rather hoped to have matters so arranged that Walter would be with her. Cora saw the frown and laughed merrily as Walter slipped into the seat beside her.

"I suppose you think you are going to do the mascoting for this car," she said.

"At your service, mademoiselle," replied Walter, trying to bow, a politeness rather difficult of accomplishment in a small seat. "Do anything you like, but don't run me into the ditch. My watch is deadly afraid of ditches."

Then Cora introduced Mary, the little model blushing refreshingly.

Walter made a mental note of Mary's eyes, and the soft tints, like the bloom of a peach, in her cheeks. The two other girls were not slow to observe his interest. It was odd, thought Cora, how boys go in for the romantic sort -- and models!

"All ready?" called Jack again.

Ida shook her head. She looked critically at the clutch lever, from her seat at the wheel, which Sid had relinquished to her. The lever was not properly adjusted, and she called her companion's attention to it.

Sid shifted it, and then Walter called from his seat beside Cora.

"All ready here!"

"It's about time," murmured Jack, jokingly.

The cars, which had been cranked, were "chug-chugging" away, and vibrating with the speed of the unleashed motors. Three clutch pedals were released, and the three cars moved forward. There was a grinding of gears, as Ida threw in a higher speed. Her hand and ear were not quite true, but to the surprise of the others her car darted ahead. It was speedier than had been thought.

It was a beautifully clear road, and the machines were now fairly flying along it. Bess clung desperately to the wooden rim of the steering wheel of Jack's car.

"Keep her straight," he cautioned. "Don't work so hard at it. An auto is like a horse -- a light, firm touch is what it needs."

"Um!" murmured Bess. She was afraid to open her mouth lest she should lose her breath in the wind.

"Look out for that wagon!" Walter suddenly called to Cora.

A clumsy vehicle was some distance in advance, and seemed to be standing still, so slow was the movement. Ida was nearer to it than the others, and as she passed it she swung safely to one side, giving several disconcerting blasts on the horn as she did so. She was proving herself a good driver.

Somehow Bess had managed to distance the big car and had swung to second place. Cora thought she had her machine going at full speed, but either it had not "warmed up" yet, or she was not properly feeding the gasolene, and had not correctly adjusted the sparking device.

Just as Cora was about to pass the wagon, which feat Bess had now safely negotiated, the old man driving it seemed to awaken from a nap. He appeared to remember something he had forgotten and pulled his horses to one side -- the wrong side -- toward Cora's car, which was rushing right at him! The Whirlwind was almost upon the wagon!

"Mercy!" screamed. Mary. "We'll be smashed!"

"Steady!" called Cora, though her face went white.

Walter reached over, as if to take the wheel from the girl. She stopped him by a shake of her head, and then braced herself for what was coming. She screamed at the top of her fresh, clear voice:

"Stop! stop! Don't turn! stop!"

The farmer heard just in time. He fairly pulled the horses back on their haunches, and the wagon came to a stop. There was barely room for the auto to get past, but Cora managed it.

"Oh!" sighed Mary in thankfulness. "Wasn't that awful?"

"A narrow escape," assented Isabel. "But not as bad as the other one was. You should have seen that! We're safe now."

The Whirlwind careened along the road, from the shelving gutter back into the middle of the highway.

"Why didn't you let me take the wheel?" asked Walter, looking at Cora in a strange sort of way.

"I couldn't seem to let go," she said with a nervous little laugh. "I knew, of course, that you could run it more safely than I could, but somehow I couldn't seem to let go. My fingers appeared to be glued to the wheel."

"I certainly could not have done better," admitted Walter. "But I thought I might help you. Look at Ida, though! She is going like grim death."

"If she doesn't encounter another farmer she may be all right," said Cora. "But I wonder why I don't go faster. Oh, no wonder. I'm on second speed. I forgot to throw in the high gear. Here it goes. Now watch me pass them."

She advanced the lever, and the car shot forward. It was going at a greatly increased speed, and easily passed Bess and Jack.

"Here's where we leave you," called Cora.

"It's about time," replied Jack. "I thought something was wrong with you.

"Third gear," answered Cora. "Forgot I had it." Her voice floated back on the wind.

With a merry shout she turned on more gasolene and advanced the spark. She was almost up to Ida.

The race was to end at a bridge, which was only a few rods ahead.

"Careful," cautioned Walter to the fair driver beside him. She was making some rather reckless curves.

"I'm all right," declared Cora.

"I'm sure we'll win," exclaimed Mary.

The Whirlwind was now close to Sid's car. He heard it coming and looked around. Then he caught the steering wheel from Ida, leaning over to reach it.

"Foul!" shouted Walter. "That's not allowed!"

"Never mind!" panted Cora. "I'm not afraid to let him steer. I can beat him!"

Jack stood up in his machine. He was angry, and showed it in his face.

"Stop, sis," he called to Cora. "The race is yours. Don't pass him."

"She can't!" retorted Sid.

"Oh, I'm afraid!" gasped Bess, beside Jack. "He's steering right in front of her to cut her off. He won't turn out."

Then, as if realizing that the race would be counted lost to them for Sid's violation of the rules, Ida tried to displace the hands of her, companion from the wheel.

"Let me steer!" she exclaimed. "I want to! Let me, Sid!"

"No!" he answered angrily. "I'm going to run it now."

The car was swaying from side to side because of the erratic motion imparted to it, due to the struggle between Sid and Ida to gain possession of the wooden circlet.

"Let me take it! I want to beat her!" spoke Ida in a tense whisper, and Sid, with a queer look at her, nodded.

He released his grip of the wheel, and again Ida took it in a firm grasp. But the change was not skillfully enough made, and the next moment the Streak cut diagonally across the road, right in front of the Whirlwind.

"Oh!" screamed Cora, in spite of herself, and Bess and Mary added their frightened cries. Cora swung the wheel as far to the right as it would go. There was a grinding sound as she threw on the emergency brake, and the powerful clutch of it held the rear wheels in so firm a grip that the big rubber tires fairly slid along the road.

"Sid," cried Ida, "they'll collide with us! Do something! Do it quick!"

He stood up and tried to take Ida's hands from the wheel again, but she seemed to have lost her head. The big car was still careening toward them, though the brakes were slowing it up. Then Ida, with a flash of instinct, did the only thing possible. Instead of putting on brakes and trying to stop, she pressed the accelerator pedal, and the little car shot forward at a momentarily increased speed. Between them Ida and Sid managed to steer it into a ditch, and brought up with a crash against a fence, splintering the rails. Ida, with more force than she thought she possessed, jammed on the brakes, and the Streak, with a groan and a jar, came to a stop.

Then there came a jolt, a ripping sound, and Cora's big, four-cylindered machine banged into the Streak, for, in spite of all Cora and Walter could do, the Whirlwind could not be stopped in time.

But, fortunately, the damage to the large car was not great, for as she saw that a collision was inevitable, Cora had quickly shifted the wheel, and but a glancing blow had been struck. A mud guard was torn from the Whirlwind. Only Cora's plucky driving, and her emergency stop, had prevented a worse accident.

"Well," remarked Sid in a strange voice, "we're alive, at any rate."

"Yes," added Bess sharply, "and no thanks to somebody, either."

"If you mean me -- " began Sid, the color flaming into his face.

"Look at your radiator!" suddenly exclaimed Walter. "It's sprung a leak!"

A stream of water, trickling down from the front of the Streak testified to this. A piece of the broken fence rail had jammed into the radiator, puncturing several coils and bending others out of place.

"No more go in her," observed Sid ruefully. "We'll have to be towed back home."

"Is your car damaged much, Cora?" asked Walter, for the girl had leaped out and was critically examining the auto.

"Only the mud guard," she replied as she reached up to the steering wheel, touched the levers and shut off the engine.



Chapter VI

Getting A Tow


For a few minutes every one seemed to be talking at once, and there was considerable confusion. Sid and Ida came in for a number of rather angry glances, for the mishap seemed to be due entirely to their thoughtless conduct, and that their runabout had been the most damaged did not appear to lessen their offense.

Walter took the wheel of the Whirlwind, which Cora gladly relinquished to him, and soon had the car out of the ditch and upon the highway. The Streak, of course, could not move under its own power for more than a short distance, as the water had all leaked out of the radiator, and, there being none to cool the cylinders, to operate it was to invite disaster. Jack and Bess had alighted from the Get There. Jack was very angry.

"Nice way to race!" he exclaimed. "I've got a good mind to -- do something to you, Sid Wilcox!"

"Oh, you have, eh?" sneered Sid. "Well, I don't know but what I might like to take it out of you for your sister cutting so close across my course. I guess I'm the one to get mad."

"You sneak! She did nothing of the sort!" cried Jack.

"Oh, Jack! Please don't!" begged his sister. "If it was my fault, I'm ready to apologize."

"Your fault!" exclaimed Walter. "It wasn't your fault at all. It was -- er -- well, Sid and Ida were to blame."

"That's the way it looked to me," declared Cora.

Ida stared at Jack's sister for a moment, and then, with an open sneer on her face, turned deliberately away.

"Oh, I'm so glad we escaped, anyhow!" ejaculated Mary Downes. Her voice attracted Sid's attention. He had not noticed the little work girl before. At first he appeared to scowl, and then he smiled most pleasantly. The action was not lost upon Belle, though Cora, puzzling over Ida's manner, had not seen it.

"Come on, get in, girls," called Walter from his seat in the touring car. "No use standing there in the sun."

"You've got to tow me," ordered Sid in a peremptory manner.

"Got to?" repeated Walter, with a curious inflection.

"Hush!" whispered Cora. "Let's do it, Walter. Jack is so angry at him that I'm afraid something will happen."

"Very well. Just as you say," replied Walter gallantly.

Jack turned away in disgust. He was evidently trying hard to keep his temper under control.

"That he and Ida should deliberately endanger the lives of several people, to say nothing of their own risk, seems past belief," Jack murmured to Walter. "I've a good mind to teach him a much-deserved lesson. We ought to leave him to walk home."

"Oh, I do dislike rows!" exclaimed Cora, and she whispered in Jack's ear: "Don't bother with him, Bud. He isn't worth it."

"You're right about that," was the response, and the lad looked affectionately at his sister. She had gotten over the momentary fright, and there was now a pretty flush on her face. "I'll overlook it this time, sis," went on Jack. "Perhaps he'll get his lesson later -- without me having to give it to him."

"Aren't some of you going to tow me?" asked Sid rather disconsolately. "I can't run my car the way it is."

"Don't ask any favors of them," Cora heard Ida whisper to Sid. "We'll walk."

"I will not," he answered sharply. "I'm not going to leave my car here. Will you give me a tow, Cora?" he asked. "Seeing that you made me smash -- "

"She did not!" cried Jack. "And if you say so you're -- "

"Jack!" exclaimed his sister.

"Well, he knows it was his own fault," concluded Jack, not wishing to accuse Ida.

Sid looked a bit worried.

"We'll tow you," said Cora simply.

"Thank you," responded Sid.

"Got a rope?" asked Walter.

"Here's one," answered the owner of the Streak, producing a strong rope from the rear of his runabout.

"Looks as if you were in the habit of getting towed," remarked Walter.

"Yes. I've had bad luck with this car."

Sid and Walter were soon busy arranging the two cars, so that the big auto would tow the disabled one.

"I want the boys to separate," whispered Cora to Bess. "I'm so Afraid Jack and Sid will quarrel."

"Not if they keep as far apart as they are now," was the answer, for Jack had gotten back into his own car, and was looking on. Ida, too, seemed to keep herself at a distance from the other girls.

"Well, I guess that will hold," remarked Walter as he put the last knot in the rope.

"Here comes Ed Foster!" suddenly exclaimed Jack as the puffing of an auto was heard and a machine came in sight. "Now I guess we're all here. Hello, Ed!"

"Hello, yourself," replied Ed. "Well, what's up now? Somebody turned turtle?"

"No, but somebody's turned -- " began Jack, on the point of saying something uncomplimentary about Sid, but Cora interrupted him.

"We had a race, and this is how I -- that is, we -- won it," she said with a laugh.

Ed stepped out of his car and walked to where Sid's silent machine stood.

"Radiator, eh?" he questioned. "A bad break."

"That's what. Cora collided with me -- but it was partly my fault," added Sid quickly for jack's benefit.

"And look at my nice, new mud guard," spoke Cora. "See how it hangs down, like a dog's broken leg. Isn't it a shame? I guess we'll have to tear it off, so we can run."

"Let me look at it," suggested Ed. "Maybe I can spring it back into place."

"I never thought of that," -- remarked Walter.

Ed was searching in his tool-box, and presently drew out some strong string.

"I never go without a bit of cord, a knife and some pins for just such emergencies as these," he said with a laugh. "I never know when I may be shipwrecked on a desert island."

Ed skillfully sprung the guard back, and as one of the rivets was torn out, he lashed the protector into place. It was only a temporary repair, but it would protect the occupants of the car from a shower of dust or mud.

"There," said Ed finally. "I guess that will answer. The road ahead is pretty muddy. Too much moisture from a sprinkling-cart, I guess. I caught some of it."

Cora turned to see if everything was in readiness for a start, and was surprised to find Mary in close conversation with Ida. Both girls and Sid were in a group an the other side of the Whirlwind. And another thing Cora noticed was that the faces of both Ida and Mary were unusually flushed.

"That's rather odd -- that Mary and Ida should get so chummy," murmured Cora. "Sid must have introduced them to each other:"

A moment later Ida looked over, and seeing Cora watching her, she quickly turned away and walked over to where Ed was locking up his toolbox. She placed her hand on the seat of his small auto and began talking to him.

"I hear you are going into business," Cora heard Ida say.

"Well, not exactly business," replied Ed. "I'm going to have some interest in the bank at New City."

"Oh, yes. I heard about it."

"Say, Ed, have you all that -- " began Jack, and then he stopped quickly. He had been on the point of asking Ed if he had with him the twenty thousand dollars in cash and negotiable securities, but he quickly reflected that such a question was not a proper one to ask on a public road.

"Got what?" inquired Ed with a laugh, but at the same time Cora saw him frown slightly at her brother.

"I meant to say, have you any of those fish with you that we caught last time?" asked Jack, laughing rather uneasily.

"Yes, I have them," replied Ed, which was his way of replying to Jack's implied question.

"Going over to New City?" asked Sid, coming around from an inspection of the broken radiator.

"Yes; I've some business over there, and as it's getting late I'll have to hurry. I'll bid you all good-by. Hope you get safely home."

Ed jumped into his car, which he had quickly cranked up, and called a general farewell.

"So long," answered Jack.

"Come on," called Walter, as Ed's car puffed out of sight. "We'll have a load to pull now, Cora."

"Perhaps I had better get in with Jack and Bess," remarked Belle. "We can manage it -- if we squeeze some."

Then she blushed, and everybody laughed.

"The more the merrier," replied Jack. "I think it will be a good idea, though. We'll get home quicker than Cora and her tow will."

Belle climbed into the Get There. This left Cora alone with Walter in the big car. Ida and Sid stood on the ground, apparently waiting for an invitation to get in somewhere.

"I'll have to steer my car," said Sid. "You had better get in Cora's machine, Ida, for it's no fun riding in a towed auto."

"Yes, do come in here," said Cora quickly, but Ida hung back and looked miserably unhappy.

"Come on," and Walter added his invitation. "I'm going to be the 'shuffler,' and I may as well have something worth while to 'shuffle' while I'm at it."

Ida smiled at this. It was evident that she could not resist after this appeal -- especially as it came from Walter, who found much favor in her eyes.

Ida climbed into the big car nimbly enough, and sat on the thick cushions in the roomy tonneau beside Mary.

"I guess she'd rather be in front," remarked Bess in a whisper to Belle, but she took care that Jack should not hear.

Walter started Cora's car off, and Sid's followed, with himself at the wheel, looking very glum. Jack brought up in the rear with the pretty twins.

The Whirlwind easily towed the weight of the disabled runabout, and the autoists were soon approaching town.

"Let me out at the post-office, please," begged Mary of Cora, as they rolled through the village streets. "I had better not let madam see me out riding."

"Why, she gave you permission, didn't she?" asked Cora in surprise.

"But I would rather get out here," insisted Mary, not answering the question directly.

"If you'll cast me loose, I'll run my machine in this shop," suddenly called Sid, as they passed a rather tumble-down shack on a side street.

"But you're not going to let old Smith tinker with it, are you?" asked Walter.

"Oh, I don't know what I'll do with it!" snapped Sid. "May as well leave it here as anywhere else."

Smith's place was a second-rate blacksmith shop, while at Chelton Center, a little farther on, there was a fine garage -- Newton's -- the one at which Cora and the twins had met the handsome machinist.

"Why don't you take it to Newton's?" asked Cora. "We'll go there with you. I -- er -- , I know the machinist there."

"I prefer to leave it here," said Sid shortly. "Stop, please, and I'll loosen the rope."

"Oh!" exclaimed Cora shortly. She could not understand Sid. Walter stopped her car, and before it had come to a full halt Sid was detaching the tow rope. Mary took this chance to alight from the Whirlwind, as they were not far from the post-office, and Ida followed her. Sid cranked up for the short run into the blacksmith shop. Ida and Mary were walking down the street together.

"Go ahead!" Sid called to Walter.

"Oh, you're welcome," replied Walter sarcastically. "Not the least trouble, thank you. Glad at any time -- "

Sid shot at him an angry glance over his shoulder.

"I'd like to know who had a better right to haul me out of the ditch?" he said sneeringly.

Jack, with the twins, had run on. As Walter started Cora's machine off again, they saw a man coming out of the smithy. He helped Sid push the car in, and then stood talking with him in a friendly sort of fashion. The man's clothing was unkempt, and his general appearance anything but prepossessing.

"Who's that?" asked Cora.

"Him, you mean?" inquired Walter. "Oh, that's Lem Gildy. Or just plain Lem, if you like that better."

"What does he do?"

"Nothing. Easily said. Yet I've heard it remarked that he'd do anything for money."

"Curious that Sid should be on such friendly terms with such a character."

"Rather," remarked Walter, and he turned to see Sid pointing at the big car, while Lem Gildy was nodding his head as if assenting to something.



Chapter VII

Twenty Thousand Dollars Lost


Edward Foster, as he ran his machine along the country road toward New City, where he was to transact his business at the bank, was thinking of many things. And not all of them were connected with the large sum of money and the bonds which he was to exchange for stock. A certain bright-eyed girl figured largely in his reveries.

"Guess I'd better put on a little more speed," he said to himself. "It's going to take some time to get this all straightened out, and I don't like to have such a large sum with me on the road."

He speeded up his car, and was soon on the outskirts of the city, where he had to go slower, threading his way in and out among many vehicles.

He reached the bank shortly before noon, was greeted by the president and the secretary, who were expecting him, and was shown into a private office.

"Well, we have the stock all ready for you," said the president genially. It was not every day that his bank disposed of such a large block. "I trust you will find it a good investment."

"I believe I will," replied Ed as he reached his hand in his inner pocket to take out the wallet that contained the money and bonds. "I looked into -- "

He stopped suddenly. A blank look came over his face. Hurriedly he felt in another pocket. Then he began a rapid search through his clothes.

"What's the matter?" asked the secretary. "Did you mislay your valuables?"

"Yes -- no -- I don't see -- " murmured Ed. All the while he was making a frantic search. His face paled. The bank officials looked anxiously on.

"Can't you find it?" inquired the president.

"I've either lost my wallet, -- or it's been stolen!" burst out Ed desperately.

"How could it have been stolen?" asked the secretary.

"I don't know," was the answer. "I don't see how it could have been, as, from the time it was in my pocket until now, I did not leave my auto -- "

He stopped quickly. The memory of the scene alongside the road, where the machines had collided, came back to him with vivid distinctness. He had alighted there, and -- 

He pursued his reflections no further, but hurriedly got up from the chair.

"I must go back at once," he said. "I will make a search. I think I know where the loss may have taken place."

"Or the theft," suggested the president.

"No," said Ed slowly, "I don't believe it was a theft."

"Shall we send for a detective? Will you take one of our porters or a watchman with you?" asked the secretary.

"No; I think I'll make a search myself, first, thank you. And please don't tell the police -- yet. I may have dropped it. I'll let you know as soon -- as soon as I go to a certain place and look. There is time enough to notify the authorities afterward. I'll telephone you if I don't find it, and then I'll tell the police in Chelton. But I must hurry."

"Yes; you had better lose no time," advised the president.

"The thief -- if there, was one -- could easily dispose of those securities. As for the money -- ?"

"He would have no trouble in spending that," finished Ed. "Yes, I'll go back at once."

He hurried out to his auto, and was soon speeding back over the road on which he had come. He reached the spot where the auto collision had occurred, and where he had helped fix Cora's machine. Jumping from the car he looked carefully over the ground, but could find no trace of the missing wallet, containing the equivalent of twenty thousand dollars.

"I must hurry to tell the police," he murmured as he urged his machine forward at top speed. A little later Cora and Walter, who had returned to Chelton, saw Ed standing on the steps of the police station.

"Why!" Cora exclaimed to Walter in some surprise, "I thought Ed was in New City, attending to that bank business."

"He ought to be," commented Walter. Then, noting Ed's white face, he added: "Something's happened!"

A moment later Jack, who had left the Robinson twins at their home, drove up in his runabout, and stopped it beside his sister's larger car. He, too, saw Ed Foster's white face.

"What's the matter, Ed?" he called quickly. "Are you hurt?"

"No," was the answer, and the voice was strained.

"But something has happened," insisted Cora as she alighted from her car and started up the steps of the police station.

"Yes," he said, and his voice trembled, "something has happened."

"What?" asked Jack.

"I've lost twenty thousand dollars -- or -- else it has been stolen!"

"Twenty thousand dollars!" cried Jack. "The money you were taking to the bank?"

Ed nodded.

"Where?" was Jack's next question.

"That's what I don't know. If I did I'd go get it."

"But if it was stolen -- " began Cora.

"The thief is far enough away from here now," finished Ed, trying to smile. "However, I think I lost it near where the collision took place. I just came from there to report the matter to the police."

"But how could you lose it?" asked Cora, taking off her heavy driving gloves and fanning her face with them.

"I don't know, unless when I leaned over to fix the mud guard of your auto the wallet may have slipped from my pocket. But I've looked every inch about that spot," and then Ed related how he had come to miss the money and securities.

"Oh, we must go back and help you look!" exclaimed Cora quickly. "Of course we will, won't we, Jack -- Walter?"

"Sure," replied her brother, and Walter gravely nodded. He was trying to recall every incident of the happenings after the collision.

"We'll go right away," went on Cora. "Crank up, Walter. Few persons go over that road in the afternoon, and maybe we can find it."

"Oh, I assure you that it's useless," declared Ed. "I am only waiting here to report the matter to Chief Jenkins, and then I'm going to telephone the officials at the bank in New City, as I promised I would."

"Can't you stop payment?" asked Jack.

"Not on the money, and not very easily on the negotiable securities. That's the unfortunate part of it. If it had been a check I could."

"Queer, I almost had a premonition that something might happen to that twenty thousand," said Jack slowly. "Though I suppose if I say that it makes it look bad for me," he added with a smile.

"Oh, no," Ed answered, seriously enough. "Of course not."

"Come on; let's hurry back," suggested Cora. She re-entered the car, which shook from the running of the ungeared motor that Walter had started for her.

"Really, Cora," began Ed, "it is useless for you to take the trouble to go back and hunt for it, though I'm sure it's very kind -- "

"It's no trouble at all."

"But have you been home to dinner?" asked Ed.

"No. Walter and I stopped at a little wayside restaurant and had lunch. Come on, we'll hurry back to the place where the collision took place. I'm sure we'll find the wallet. I'm very lucky that way."

"Let me wish you the best of luck," said Ed with an attempt at gallantry. "I'd go with you, only I must give the chief all the particulars, in case it's stolen, you know. Then I must telephone to the bank."

"That's all right," put in Jack. "Go ahead. We'll make a hunt for that small fortune. Can I do anything for you here?"

"No, thanks. I think not. You are going to have a useless errand, though, I fear, but I appreciate what you are doing for me."

"Come on -- hurry!" cried Cora, all impatient to be off, and then, when Walter climbed in beside her and Jack sent his car off, following the big machine of his sister, Ed disappeared behind the door of the police station.



Chapter VIII

A Vain Search


"Here's where the collision occurred!" exclaimed Cora a little later, when her car and Jack's, having been sent at a fast speed down the road, came to a halt, and she directed her brother's attention to the spot.

"No, this isn't it," objected Walter. "It's farther on. It's right near an old stump, don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes," answered Cora as she sent her car ahead again. "This is where we nearly ran into the wagon. I'm so excited I can't think straight."

"Well, be sure you steer straight!" cried Jack from the rear. "I don't want to run into you. Better let Walter take the wheel."

"Indeed, I'll do nothing of the sort!" cried Cora, laughing. "With all due respect to you, Walter, of course," she added with a bright look up into the face of her companion. "But don't you think I can manage my machine pretty well?"

"More than pretty and more than well," was her escort's reply. "Jack is a base defamer of your ability."

"Oh, you had to say that, Walt!" cried Jack, the irrepressible. "Push on. We want to get that money before some one walks off with it."

They were soon at the spot, where many tracks in the road showed that there the collision had taken place. Here was where Ed had alighted to fix Cora's car. His small machine had on a set of peculiar tires, and the impressions and indentations of the rubber shoes, which were new, were plainly, visible in the road.

Stopping their machines alongside the highway, the three young people began a careful search of the dusty stretch. They went over every inch of the ground, particularly in the vicinity of the place where Ed had stopped to fix the broken mud guard. But there was no sign of the pocketbook.

"Maybe it was dropped farther back," suggested Jack.

"Well, we'll try there," assented Cora, and for ten minutes they walked up and down the road, some distance back from the place where Ed had alighted.

"Now try farther on," was Walter's suggestion, and they did this.

But all to no purpose. They were not rewarded by the welcome sight of a brown leather wallet, bulging with riches.

"It's no use," said Jack.

"Oh, let's try a little longer," begged Cora.

"Well, if he dropped it before he got here, or after he left, we might as well make the entire trip to New City, and then reverse and go to Chelton," went on Jack. "And we can't look over every inch of all the distance."

"We can drive along slowly," was Cora's idea. "The wallet is so large that it could easily be seen. It's too bad we haven't Sid and Ida along to help hunt for it. And the Robinson girls, and Mary. The more eyes, the better. I'll go on to New City, if you'll make a search on the road from here to Chelton, Jack."

"Oh, I don't know as it would do any good."

"It won't do any harm," said Walter. "That is, if Cora isn't too tired."

"Oh, I should love to go. I can't get enough of my new car. Will you come, Walter?"

"Of course."

"Then, Jack, you go back to Chelton and keep a lookout on both sides of the road."

"Hard to do that with one pair of eyes," was her brother's reply. "I wish I had some one to ride with me. But go ahead; I'll do the best I can."

"It would be a good plan," assented Cora, "to have a person with you. If you could pick up some one -- "

"Or run across somebody," added Jack with a grin.

"No, Jack, I'm serious. Don't joke. Even a stranger would do. Some man -- "

"Here comes a man now!" exclaimed Walter as an individual came in sight around a bend in the road. The man was not very well dressed.

"I don't like his looks," said Jack in a low voice. "He seems like a tramp."

"I don't blame you for not liking his looks," interrupted Walter. "That's Lem Gildy."

"The man we saw talking to Sid when he ran his auto into the blacksmith shop?" asked Cora.

Walter nodded.

"Humph!" mused Jack. "I don't exactly fancy telling Lem Gildy about a pocketbook containing twenty thousand dollars lying alongside the road. He might not admit that he saw it if he happened to spy it while with me, and later on he might come back and pick it up."

"Well, don't tell him what you're looking for," suggested Cora with ready wit. "Just say it's -- er -- a -- er -- "

"Say it's a lady's pocketbook," put in Walter, "and then he'll know it's got everything in it but money. That's playing a safety with a vengeance."

"Oh, so that's your opinion of us, is it?" asked Cora quickly. "But, after all, Jack, I think it's the best plan to ask him to ride back with you, and have him watch one side of the road. Of course, he's rather dirty -- I mean his clothes -- and it's not nice to sit alongside of him, but -- "

"Oh, I don't mind clean dirt," interrupted Jack. "It's only garden soil on Lem's clothes. He does odd jobs, you know."

"Not very often," added Walter. "But go ahead, Jack. He's coming nearer. I don't believe you can do better than ask him to ride back to Chelton with you. Needn't be too specific about what's in the pocketbook. But two pairs of eyes are better than one, you know."

"All right," assented Jack. "Here goes."

Lem Gildy was shuffling along the road. He was a particularly unprepossessing man, with a reddish growth of whiskers which he never seemed to take the trouble to shave off, and they stuck out like so many bristles in a half-worn toothbrush.

His teeth were yellow, and his habit of chewing tobacco was not to be commended. In short, he was a "shiftless" character, and nice persons had very little to do with him.

"Hello, Lem!" called Jack pleasantly.

"Hello," was the rather surly answer, and Lem shot a suspicious glance at Jack. It was not often that the young and wealthy Jack Kimball condescended to speak to Lem Gildy, and Lem realized it.

"Want a ride?" went on Jack, trying to make his voice sound natural.

"Don't look as if you was goin' my way," replied Lem with a grin. Then he turned his gaze on Cora, and the beautiful girl could not repress a shudder as she felt the bold glance of the man.

"Oh, I'm going to turn around," declared Jack. "I'm going back to Chelton. That's where you're headed for, I take it?"

"Sure. That's where I'm goin', and I'm tired, too. I've had a long walk this mornin', and -- "

"Are you working in the blacksmith shop?" asked Walter quietly.

"No. What made you think that?" asked Lem quickly. "If you think -- "

Then he stopped suddenly. An indignant look, that Lem had assumed, faded from his face. "No, I wasn't workin' there," he went on. "I -- er -- I just stopped in to see about gettin' a piece of iron."

"Well, do you want to ride back with me?" asked Jack, who wondered at Walter's question.

"That's what I do, if you're goin' my way."

"Yes, I'll turn around in a minute. Go ahead, Cora and Walter. Get back as soon as you can."

Jack cranked up his car, got in, and, running in a half circle, steered it to where Lem was standing.

"I ain't much in the habit of ridin' in these here kind of wagons," remarked Lem with a smirk. "I hope nothin' happens t' us."

"I guess nothing will. But, Lem, I'm not going to give you a ride for nothing," said Jack.

The man drew back suspiciously. He had expected something like this, his manner seemed to say.

"I ain't got any money," he whined.

"No, it's not money," went on Jack. "I only want you to help me look for something."

"Look for Suthin'?"

"Yes; along the road."

"What's the matter? Lose part of your autymobil?"

"No; it's a pocketbook -- a wallet."

"A wallet?" exclaimed Lem, with such suddenness that Jack started.

"Yes," cried the lad. "You don't mean to say you found it?"

Lem seemed agitated. He shuffled his feet in the dust.

"Me find a pocketbook?" he said at length with a short laugh. "Well, I guess not. I ain't in the habit of findin' such things as that. What kind was it, and what was in it?"

"It was a long one of brown leather," replied Jack, describing Ed's pocketbook and ignoring the question of what was in it. "A friend of mine dropped it along here, and we're helping him hunt for it. My sister and Mr. Pennington are going to look in one direction, and you and I'll look in the other."

Jack tried to make his voice sound friendly, but it was difficult work.

"You'll look on one side of the road, and I'll keep watch on the other," he went on.

"All right; I'm agreeable," said Lem with a leer. "I don't believe we'll find it, though -- I ain't never very lucky."

He got into the auto beside Jack, and the two started off slowly. Cora and Walter also started, and the search for the missing twenty thousand dollars was continued.

Jack and Lem did not talk much on the way back. Lem Gildy was not an accomplished conversationalist, and Jack was too anxious to find the wallet to care for the distraction of talk. Several times he thought he saw the pocketbook, but each time it was a flat stone or a clod of dirt that misled him.

They reached Chelton, and Lem asked to be set down in a secluded street.

"Why?" asked Jack curiously.

"Because if some of me chums saw me ridin' in a swell wagon like this they'd never speak to me again," and Lem grinned and showed all his yellow teeth. "I was afraid we wouldn't find that pocketbook," he added.

"Well, maybe Cora will," said Jack.

"Yes," said Lem slowly, "maybe she will -- or some one else will."

His tone was so peculiar that Jack asked quickly:

"What do you mean, Lem?"

"Oh, nothin'," and the fellow assumed an injured air. "Only if a pocketbook is lost, some one's bound to find it, ain't they?"

"I suppose so," assented Jack, and as he drove his car through the streets of Chelton, after the unsuccessful search, he found himself vainly puzzling over Lem's strange manner.

Then, as he was turning a corner, Jack caught sight of Ed.

"Hey!" he called.

Ed turned. There was a momentary look of hope on his face.

"Did you -- " he began.

Jack sadly shook his head.



Chapter IX

Finding The Wallet


"No luck, eh?" went on Ed as he approached Jack.

"No; that is, Lem and I didn't have any."

"Lem -- do you mean to say Lem Gildy?"

"Now, don't get nervous. I didn't tell him it was your pocketbook that was lost. You see, I had to have some one keep watch on one side of the road while I looked on the other, and he was the only one available."

Then Jack related the details of the search.

"I'm glad Lem doesn't know about it," went on Ed. "I heard to-day that he and Sid Wilcox have been seen together several times lately, and I'm not quite ready to have my loss made public -- especially to Sid."

"Maybe Cora and Walter will have better luck," suggested Jack hopefully. "We won't hear from them for some time, though. Did you 'phone to the bank in New City?"

"Yes. I told them I couldn't get any trace of the wallet here, and, as you know, I have already notified the Chelton police. They have been making a quiet search about town, but I fear it will be hopeless."

"The bank people didn't say it had been turned in there, by any chance, did they?"

"No such good fortune," and Ed laughed uneasily. "Well, I'm going home now to get a list of the bonds and their numbers, as well as the numbers of the big bills. The police say they will want them when they send out a general alarm."

"But I thought you said you didn't want it generally known."

"I don't, until I have made a thorough search at home. It is barely possible that I took up the wrong wallet by mistake when I rushed out this morning. I have two that look exactly alike. I may have picked up the empty one, shoved it into my pocket, and lost that one. The one containing the bonds and cash may still be at my house. I am hurrying there to see. If I don't find it, the police are to send out a general alarm."

"I hope you find it."

"So do I. It means a big loss to me -- almost my entire fortune gone. I don't know what I am going to do."

"Let's hope for the best," spoke Jack as cheerfully as possible, but there was a dubious look on his face as he watched Ed turn in the direction of his home.

But Ed found that he had made no mistake in the wallets. The empty one was safely in his room, but the one containing the twenty thousand dollars was -- as he had feared -- lost. He communicated this fact to the police, and soon the chief had ordered some handbills printed, describing the pocketbook and the contents, and offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the cash and bonds, Ed having agreed to pay this amount and ask no questions.

"Ha!" exclaimed Lem Gildy that night as one of the hastily printed bills came into his possession, "so this is the wallet they are lookin' for, eh? Twenty thousand dollars! But I knowed it all the while. As if Jack Kimball an' his sister could fool me! But I'll bleed him -- that's what I'll do. I'll make him whack up -- or -- or I'll tell!" and Lem chuckled to himself, while there was a dangerous look on his mean face.

The search conducted by Cora and Walter was, as might be guessed, as unsuccessful as the one undertaken by Jack and Lem. Cora and Walter looked carefully over the whole length of the road to New City, but saw nothing of the wallet, and came back disconsolate in the auto.

"Poor Ed!" remarked Walter. "It's tough luck!"

"Yes, I wish we could have found it for him," agreed Cora as she skillfully drove the car through the Chelton streets at dusk. "I'm beginning to believe that it was stolen."

"I think so myself," added Walter. "But if he had it when he was fixing your car, and he missed it directly after he left our crowd -- "

He hesitated a moment, then continued:

"Well, maybe he thinks that some of us may have -- "

"Better not jump at conclusions," cautioned Cora, and at this Walter alighted near the street that led to his home.

"I won't," he promised Cora with a laugh as she sent the car ahead. She was anxious to reach home and learn the details of Jack's search, though she and Walter knew, from an inquiry they had made at the bank in New City, that it had not been successful.

That night nothing was so important a topic of conversation in Chelton as the loss of the twenty thousand dollars. Speculation was rife, and opinion was equally divided on the question of whether it had been lost or stolen, or both, for that it might have been stolen after it was lost was possible.

Ed consulted some business friends, but they could give him little help. He was advised to hire private detectives, and said he would do so, in case the police of New City or Chelton could do nothing.

It was two days after the loss of the money and bonds that Cora, with her inseparable friends, the Robinson twins, and Walter, whom she had picked up on the road, were out for a ride. They took the turnpike, as it was the smoothest highway.

"We may meet Jack along here," said Cora as she turned out to avoid a large rock.

"Yes?" -- asked Elizabeth, and she tried to keep down the eagerness in her voice.

"Yes; he's gone over to see about a concert his mandolin club is going to give, and he said he might bring a couple of the members back with him to stay a few days."

"College lads?" asked Bess with a laugh.

"Surely," replied Cora; "and charming ones, too, I gathered from Jack's talk."

"Must be some of the Never Sleep members," spoke Walter.

"Never Sleep members?" repeated Elizabeth.

"Yes; I belong. We call ourselves that because we used to be up at all hours. Some of the boys play in Jack's mandolin club."

"I hope we meet them!" exclaimed Bess frankly. "I'm dying for some music."

"Let me sing and save your life," proposed Walter.

"With pleasure," answered Bess, making a little gesture of surprise. "But I didn't know you sang."

"Only to save life," replied Waiter. "But," he added, "if I'm not mistaken that sounds like Jack's car."

"It is," declared Cora, who was getting to be an expert on the puffing sounds of autos. "There he is!" she exclaimed as Jack's runabout came in sight. "And it's pretty well crowded, too."

It was, for in the car, which would barely hold three, Jack had managed to squeeze four -- three lads besides himself.

"Hello, sis!" he called as he caught sight of Cora. "You're just in time. Take one of these brutes out of here, will you? My springs are breaking."

"I'll go!" cried one lad as he caught sight of the Robinson twins.

"No, I saw 'em first!" exclaimed another.

"You did not! It's my turn to ride in a decent car," said the third.

"Now, just for that you will all three get in Cora's car, and I'll take the Misses Robinson in with me," declared Jack.

There was laughter at this, and Jack introduced his mandolin club friends to Cora and the twins.

"Seriously, though, sis, you'll have to take one or two of 'em," went on Jack. "Here, Diddick, you and Parks go in the big car. I want to talk to Youmans about the concert we're going to have."

Diddick and Parks gladly made the exchange into the larger car, while Youmans tried to look as if he liked to remain with Jack. But it was hard work to imagine it when he glanced across at the pretty twins and Cora.

"Hold on a minute," exclaimed Walter as he noticed that one of the rear tires of the touring car was flat. "We can't go on like this, Cora. That left tire will have to be pumped up."

"And you've got good muscles to do it, too, Walter," urged Diddick, smiling mischievously.

"We'll all help," volunteered Parks. "Come on!"

Diddick, Walter and Parks alighted. Walter stepped to the tool-box to get out the pump and the lifting-jack. As he was about to take them out he started back excitedly.

"Hurt yourself?" asked Cora, who was looking over the side of the car.

Walter shook his head. His face was strangely white as he spoke in a husky voice:

"The wallet! Ed Foster's wallet in the tool box -- here -- see!"

He held the pocketbook up to view.

"Where -- where did you get it?" gasped Cora.

"In -- in -- your -- tool -- box!"

"What?"

The girl's voice was shrill, and there was a tremor in her tones. Cora fairly leaped out beside him. She was staring at the brown leather wallet the wallet that had contained the twenty thousand dollars.

"How on earth -- " she began.

She reached out her hand for the pocketbook. Walter gave it to her. She raised up the flap, and uttered but a single word:

"Empty!"

The limp wallet fell from her hand to the ground. Cora's face turned strangely white, and she began swaying, as does a tree that a woodsman has nearly cut through.

A moment later the overwrought girl staggered and almost fell into Walter's arms.



Chapter X

Suspicions


"Hello!" cried Jack, springing forward to his sister's aid. "I never knew Cora to do that before. Is she hurt, Walt?"

"No; only shocked, I guess."

"Help her into the car and put her on the rear seat," directed Belle.

"No; keep her head up," advised Bess.

"Somebody get water!" exclaimed Diddick, turning around in a circle to look for a spring.

Jack was rubbing his sister's hands, while Walter held her in a reclining position.

"There's a spring over by that tree," spoke Walter. "One of you get some water."

"I will -- in my hat!" answered Parks, starting off on a run.

"Here's a cup," called Elizabeth, producing a collapsible one from a pocket in the tonneau of the touring car.

The lad took it, and came hurrying back with it half full of liquid, having spilled the rest on his hasty trip. Jack managed to get a little between Cora's lips, and it revived her. She opened her eyes, noted that Walter was holding her, and her face flushed slightly.

"I'm -- I'm all right now," she declared as she tried to stand upright.

"Better get in the car and sit down," advised Jack.

She assented, and rather limply got into the tonneau of her machine. She drank some more water, and presently was herself again.

"How silly of me to nearly faint," she said with a wan smile. "But when I saw the pocketbook -- empty -- it was enough -- "

"I should say so," interrupted Belle. "Who would ever have thought of finding it in your toolbox, Cora?"

The words seemed fraught with strange import.

"Was it really in the tool-box, Walter?" Cora asked.

"On top of the tire pump and the lifting-jack," replied Walter.

"And empty -- that's the queer part of it," commented Belle. "I guess that's what shocked you as much as anything, Cora. Now, if it had had the twenty thousand dollars in it -- "

"It's strange that the wallet should have been there -- in my tool-box -- at all," murmured Cora.

"It certainly is," added Jack. "What can it mean -- to find it in Cora's car?"

"Is this the one Ed Foster lost?" asked Diddick. "We heard something about it."

"The same one," answered Walter as he picked the wallet from the road where it had fallen. "See, it has his name on it."

"I feel creepy -- almost as if something supernatural had put it into my tool-box," said Cora in a curiously quiet voice.

"More likely some unnatural person did it," spoke Jack quickly. "Yet who in the world would do it? If I had seen -- "

He stopped suddenly, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"And it was on top of the pump and jack," mused Cora, after a quick look at her brother. "I haven't used the pump since -- let me see -- "

"Since the day of the collision -- the day when the pocketbook was lost," interrupted jack. "You pumped up a tire just before the race, so that the pocketbook must have been placed there right after the robbery."

"Or loss," added Walter. "Some one may have found the wallet, taken out the money and bonds, and then thrown the empty pocketbook away."

"That some one threw it in a curious place," remarked Elizabeth dryly.

"Indeed, they did," observed Cora. "It looks -- "

She hesitated.

"Oh, you might as well say it -- before some one else does," put in Jack. "It looks mighty suspicious, Cora."

There was a vindictive air about him. He seemed to challenge an accusation against his sister.

"I'm sure there was no need to say that," spoke Walter. "It may be a mere -- er -- "

"Coincidence," finished Cora.

"A queer coincidence," quoth Jack. "Incidentally, some one got the money, all right. We must hurry home and tell Ed."

"I wonder what he'll think?" asked Cora.

"What can he think?" demanded her brother. "Only that some one found or stole his wallet and threw the empty pocketbook into your tool-box."

"And I found it," added Walter. "Which might mean -- "

He, too, hesitated.

"Well, what?" asked Jack.

"That I put it there, and only pretended to find it," finished Walter with a laugh.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cora. "But come, let's hurry back to Chelton. I want to be the first to tell Ed."

"Do you feel all right?" asked Jack anxiously.

"Oh, yes. Very well. I never fainted before, that I remember."

"Yes, you did. Once when you burned your hand on the stove," corrected Jack.

"Oh, that was a good while ago."

There was a period of silence.

"Well, as long as I started to pump up the tire I suppose I may as well finish," remarked Walter, as he took out the jack and raised the wheel.

It was rather a quiet company of young people who made their way back to Chelton in the two autos a little later. The gay members of the mandolin club had little to say, and when they did attempt a pleasantry the laughter was soon over. Every once in a while some one would refer to the discovery of the empty wallet.

"The next thing to find," remarked jack, with a trace of bitterness in his tones, "is the person with the cash and the bonds."

"Maybe they're in -- the tool -- box of your car," said Diddick jestingly. "It may run in the family -- "

Then he was conscious that he had made rather a bad "break," and he subsided, while every one tried to talk at once to cover it up. Jack laughed uneasily, and Cora seemed annoyed.

One thought was running through the mind of both Cora and her brother. Who could it have been who tried to injure her in this way by throwing suspicion on her, and what could have been their motive?

She tried to reason certain things out. She went over in detail, while Walter was driving her car for her, every incident that she could remember in connection with the collision and the subsequent loss of the money.

She speculated on the actions of every one. Mary's desire to leave the car at the post-office and not go back to her shop was odd, Cora thought, though her employer had given Mary permission to go for a ride with such well-paying customers as the Kimballs and the Robinson twins. Next Cora tried to analyze Sid's actions, also those of Ida, and she even found herself wondering at Sid's seeming intimacy with Lem Gildy. But it all came to nothing. There was still that unanswered question: "Who took the money from the wallet?"

That the same person did so who had placed the empty pocketbook in the tool-box seemed evident.

Jack and Cora went together to tell Ed. Walter wanted to accompany them, but Cora insisted that she be allowed to tell the story first.

"Later Ed may want to question you," she declared.

The three members of the mandolin club were left at the Kimball home until Cora and Jack returned.

Ed at first was much startled by the news. Then he opened the wallet.

"They didn't leave anything," he said slowly.

"Is that all you want to remark?" asked Jack.

"All? Why, of course. What else can I say?"

"Well, don't you think -- not to put too fine a point upon it -- that it looks suspicious?"

"For whom?"

"Us -- Cora," said Jack bluntly.

"Look here," began Ed fiercely; "if it wasn't you who said that -- say -- look here -- Oh, what nonsense! I hope, Cora, that you haven't for one moment thought that I would have the least suspicion against you."

"I -- er -- I -- of course I didn't," she finished quickly. "Only Jack thought it looked queer."

"How foolish!" exclaimed Ed. "Why, it would be the easiest thing in the world for the thief to throw the empty pocketbook into your tool-box as the car was passing him in the street. The box isn't kept locked, is it?"

"No; not always."

"Then that's how it happened. The thief is around Chelton -- that's evident. In order to divert suspicion he -- "

"Or she," interrupted Jack with a smile.

"Yes, or she, if you like -- he or she opened the box when your car was halted momentarily in the street, and dropped the wallet in. It's as simple as can be."

"But not so simple to find the thief," retorted Jack.

"Indeed not," agreed Ed with a rueful smile. "But I'll give the police this clue. It's a good one, I should think."

"And if they want to arrest me -- why, I'll be at home," declared Cora with a laugh. "Would you like to see Walter?"

"No; you have told me all that is necessary."

Cora and Jack made a quick run back home, while Ed, went to communicate to the police the latest clue.

That evening, when Jack, Cora and the three college lads went down to the post-office, Cora happened to look in the window of the millinery shop where Mary Downs was employed. She was surprised to see on the big plate glass a sign: "Apprentice Wanted."

"That's odd," she mused. "I didn't suppose that Madam Julia could use two apprentices. I wonder if Mary has been discharged -- for taking that ride with me. I must inquire."

The mail was late, and as the young people waited for it to be sorted they heard in the crowd talk indicating that the news of the finding of the empty wallet was known. Ed had told the police, and several reporters had also heard of the matter.

"Well, it's a very strange and romantic affair," remarked Angelina Bott, a sentimental sort of girl, to her chum, Alice Haven. "It would make quite a story."

"For the detectives -- yes," assented Alice. Then, speaking so loudly that Cora could not help but hear, she added: "I guess hiders make the best finders, after all."

Cora's face turned red. Jack, with an angry retort on his lips, stepped forward, but his sister laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"Don't, Jack," she begged.

"But it's as good as saying you took it."

"I know; but -- but, Jack, there will be more or less of -- suspicion."

Jack swallowed a lump in his throat. He glared at Alice Haven, who looked coldly at him and then turned away.

Just then the windows were opened, indicating that the mail was sorted, and there was a rush on the part of the waiting crowd. Alice and Angelina were swallowed up in it.

Cora, with bitterness in her heart, turned aside. There were tears in her eyes, and she did not want Jack to see them.

As she looked down a corridor of the post-office, she saw a stooping figure hurrying along. It was that of Sid Wilcox. And from another corridor, crossing the main one, came a girl, who joined him.

The girl was Ida Giles, and as Cora watched them she saw Sid hand Ida something that showed white in the gleam of an incandescent lamp. It was evidently a letter.



Chapter XI

Motoring Outfits


For days following the loss of the money and the finding of the empty pocketbook every possible clue was followed up, both by the police of New City and Chelton, and by many detectives, who were lured on by the offered reward of five hundred dollars.

Nor were suspicious tongues idle. If Cora was not openly accused, it was because she had a brother who would vigorously defend her. Nor did the Robinson girls altogether escape, though it was generally hinted, in the case of all the young ladies, that they might have hidden the money "just for fun," and when they saw what excitement it caused they were afraid to return it.

"As if that was a joke," said Cora, when she heard this version.

Of course, the boys who took part in the race had to answer numerous questions for the police, but at the end of a week, which was an unpleasant one for all concerned, the detectives were as far off the track as ever. Sid and Ida had their share of the "third degree" of police questioning in a mild form, and though Sid was at first indignant and refused to answer questions, he finally gave in. There was an unofficial verdict of "not guilty" in the case of all, and Ed's little fortune seemed likely never to be found.

When, about two weeks after the loss, Cora took a hundred-dollar bill to the bank to get it changed, and the teller looked at it rather longer than seemed necessary, Jack, who was with his sister, asked:

"What's the matter? Isn't that good?" He betrayed some feeling, for the finger of suspicion seemed pointing at his family from every person he met.

"Why -- I hope it's good," was the smiling answer. "If it isn't I have lost faith in the government printing office."

"My grandmother gave it to me for my birthday," explained Cora. "I haven't had time to spend it since getting my auto. No one ever questioned a bill of hers before."

"Neither have I questioned it," declared the teller. "I was merely making a note of the number. We have instructions to take a memorandum of all bills of large denomination. I was merely doing that."

"Since when was that rule in effect?" asked Jack.

"Since the Foster robbery."

Jack started. Then he remembered that in Ed's wallet were bills of large denomination.

"Suspicion even here," he muttered to Cora as they went out.

"Hush, Jack, dear," she said softly. "Some folks will hear you."

"Well, I don't care if they do. It's fierce -- the way people believe that you -- and I -- had a hand in that robbery."

"Never mind," replied his sister. "Oh," she added quickly, "there are the Robinson girls outside," and she hurried down the bank steps. The two sisters were walking slowly along, and from a certain air about Bess it was evident that she had something important to tell Cora.

"Any news of the -- robbery?" Bess asked Jack.

"Not that I know of," he answered rather gloomily. "The trouble is that so many of those who might be able to throw additional light on it are away. Sid has gone -- no one seems to know where -- Ida is away visiting, and we haven't been able to find that old farmer that got his team in the way of the race. Ed remembers passing him on the road, and he spoke to him, but even that wouldn't account for how the wallet got in Cora's car."

"No," said Elizabeth with a sigh. "But where are you going, Cora?"

"Around to Madam Julia's. I went in the bank to get grandmother's hundred-dollar bill broken, so I could pay for my things at madam's. I suppose they are done by this time. Won't you girls come with me?"

"Yes," added Jack, "and speaking of hundred dollar bills, what do you suppose that bank teller did? He -- "

"Jack, dear," spoke Cora softly, and her brother subsided.

"Do come," she urged the twins: "It will be such fun to see me try on my motor togs."

"Wait until we tell you something!" burst out Belle. "We have -- "

"A surprise for you," interrupted Bess.

"A brand-new -- " started in Belle.

"Motor car," finished Bess triumphantly.

"That is, we're going to get it," added her sister.

"Father has promised it to us;" supplemented Bess.

"Oh, isn't that splendid!" exclaimed Cora. "I'm so glad! This is a surprise. Now we'll all be motor girls."

"Yes," added Belle; "and mother said we could go this afternoon and select some motor things for ourselves at madam's. Isn't that just too sweet of her?"

"Lovely!" cried Cora, giving the twins a little hug in turn.

"Here, quit that in public. Want to make a fellow jealous?" demanded Jack.

"Oh -- you -- " began Belle with an arch look at Cora's brother.

"Now we're going to take a preliminary look at things with you, Cora," said Bess. "I'm just dying to get a certain bonnet that I saw in the window."

"Toot-toot! Farewell!" cried Jack, as he puffed in imitation of an auto and turned up the street.

"Do you know," began Cora as soon as her brother was safely out of sight, "speaking of that robbery, I have been thinking lately how strange it was that Ida, Mary and Sid should have been talking so seriously behind my car when I happened to look around and see them. Mary's face flushed, and Ida immediately walked away."

"Is that so?" demanded Bess.

"Yes, and I have been puzzling over it for some time."

"I overheard some of the things they said," declared Belle. "I think Sid was trying to get Mary and Ida to promise to go out for a ride with him that evening. Ida refused, and Mary -- well, I didn't hear just what she said -- but it wasn't no, I'm sure."

"But they all three looked so -- so guilty," went on Cora. "It was exactly as if they didn't want to be discovered."

"Maybe Sid was ashamed to be seen asking Mary to go for a ride. You know, he's reported to be well off, and Mary -- well, she's a dear, sweet little girl, but she works for a living, and you know what a fellow like Sid thinks of working girls."

"I thought I heard Sid saying something about hiring a machine to take them out in," went on Belle.

"Well, maybe we'll get a chance to ask Mary about it when we get to madam's," said Cora. "She'll be sent in to help us try on our things."

They were soon in front of the shop with the big' glass front -- the only real, big glass front in Chelton -- and behind the plate was displayed a single hat -- a creation -- as Madam Julia described it. Madam Julia was very exclusive.

The door-boy, a dapper little colored chap, in an exceedingly tight-fitting suit of blue, with innumerable brass buttons on it, in double rows in front, in triple rows behind, and in single rows on sleeves, opened the portal for the young ladies, bowing low as he did so.

"I guess this is Mary coming now," said Cora in a low voice as she heard some one approaching from behind the silken draperies that separated part of the shop.

But the three customers looked up in surprise when a strange young girl appeared through the parted curtains.

"Miss Kimball," said Cora, announcing her own name, for she had an appointment.

"Oh, yes," was the girl's answer. "I will tell madam."

"Where is Mary?" whispered Bess.

"That accounts for the sign I saw," spoke Cora, telling her chums of the notice that an apprentice was wanted. "Mary must have been discharged. Madam would never keep two -- in Chelton."

Madam Julia, as she was always called, entered with a swish of skirts and leaving a trail of French instructions behind her in the work-room -- instructions to her employees as to the trimming on this "effect" and the reshaping of that "creation."

"Ah, yes, Mees Kimball," she began. "I am all in readiness -- but -- pardon -- zat Marie -- she haf left me -- in such hastiness -- I am all at what you call ze ocean -- how you express it?"

With a pretty little motion of her hands she looked appealingly at Cora.

"You mean all at sea, madam."

"Ah, yes! At sea! How comprehensive! Ze sea is always troubled, and so am I. Zat Marie she left me so suddenness -- I know not where are all my things -- I depend so much on her -- "

"Has Miss Downs left?" Cora could not refrain from asking.

"Ha! Yes! Zat is eet. Precisely. So quickly she go away an' leaf me. She does not think much about it, perhaps, but I am too busy to be so annoyed. Just some relation not well -- indisposition, maybe -- well -- voila! she is gone -- it was not so in my time that a girl must leaf her trade and depart with such quickness -- run away. Louise! Louse! Come instantly and for me find zat motor chapeau for Mademoiselle Kimball."

Her voice rose to a shrill call.

"Quick!" she called, and then came a string of French. "I must not be kept waiting -- eet was already packed -- "

Louise, who had replaced Mary Downs, found the bonnet Cora had ordered, and handed it to her mistress. Cora took her place before a mirror, and madam began patting the motor cap hood affectionately over the girl's black tresses.

"It will suit you to perfection!" exclaimed the French woman. "You have ze hair beautiful. Zere!" She brushed the hood down over Cora's ears. "Zat is ze way. Do not wear a motor hood as if it was a tiara! Zat is of a hatefulness! Such bad taste! Voila -- what is it zat you Americans say? -- ze fitness of zings. Yes, zat is what I mean."

The hood certainly looked well on Cora. Bess and Belle nodded their approval. It was of the old-fashioned Shaker type, of delicate pongee silk, and showed off to advantage Cora's black, wavy fair, as it fell softly about her temples.

"Es eet not becoming?" demanded madam, and then she became profuse in her native tongue. "Zat -- what you call Shaker -- eet is ze prettiest -- so chic -- voila!" and once more she patted it on Cora's head.

Cora was very well pleased with it. Then the mask was brought out. This was a simple affair -- Cora only wanted such things as were practical. The mask, which had been specially designed to suit the girl, was nothing more than a piece of veiling, with the goggles set in. The veil was secured to the hood by a simple shirr string of elastic.

Madam slipped it over Cora's face.

"Zere!" the milliner exclaimed.

"Lovely!" declared Bess.

"Very beautiful!" added Belle.

Louise, the little girl helper, gave a wonder look of admiration. Louise had well-trained eyes.

"Would you know me?" asked Cora with a little laugh.

"Never!" replied Bess. "Won't it be splendid? Suppose we all get things alike? Then we can travel -- incog!"

"Oh, jolly!" cried Belle. "Just fancy Walter asking me to have soda, and he thinking I'm some one else!"

Cora laughed merrily at Belle's joke. Walter's preference for Cora was no secret.

"How about my cloak?" asked Cora.

"Not quite ready," replied madam. "You see, zat naughty Marie, leaving me so -- "

"Did you say some of her relatives were ill?" ventured Bess.

"I believe so. Some aunt, away in some far place. Marie is gone to her."

Louise took the mask and hood from Cora and flitted away with them beyond the silk curtains. There was to be a stitch taken here, and a little, tacking up was needed there. The veil was to be a bit closer, the milliner explained.

Next Madam Julia turned to the twins.

"My friends wish to see about some motor things, also," remarked Cora. "What would you think of having them all alike -- for us there?"

This brought on such a discussion, madam talking more in French than English, and Belle was kept busy translating for her sister.

The madam preferred giving the young ladies such hoods and cloaks as would best suit their complexions. Bess should have a brown one -- just running to the shade of her hair, but not quite reaching it, and Belle needed a dark blue -- for only a true blond can wear dark blue and not look old in it.

So madam explained. But the twins would not decide, after all, until their mother could be consulted, so the order was not definitely placed.

When they were about to leave, and madam had vanished behind the silken draperies, Bess turned to one of the hat sticks, upon which rested a most conspicuous piece of headgear.

"Oh, look at that!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it awful?"

"It certainly is ridiculous!" chimed in Belle, taking the motor hood, for such it was, off the support and holding it up for inspection.

"That's certainly what madam calls a 'creation,'" said Cora.

"Who in the world would ever wear that?" asked Bess with a laugh.

"I expected to," unexpectedly replied a voice behind them. The three girls turned quickly to confront Ida Giles. She had come in so quietly that they had not heard her. Cora, Belle and Bess looked dumfounded.

"And perhaps in the future," went on Ida in icy tones, "it would be just as well to leave another person's hat alone."

"I beg your pardon," Cora managed to say, "We -- er -- we were just -- interested in motor hoods."

"And making fun of mine!" snapped Ida.

Louise had entered to attend to the new customer. Ida turned to her:

"I wish to see Madam Julia!" she exclaimed. Outside Bess burst into her full, hearty laugh.

Then the three motor girls made their escape.

"I thought I would choke in there!" she exclaimed.

"Lucky for you that Ida didn't take a hand in, helping you out in the choking process," remarked Cora. "She looked as if she would like to have done it."

"But what in the world do you suppose she wants with a motor hood?" asked Belle.

"To ride with Sid, of course," answered Cora.

"But his machine is out of order, and he as much as said that he didn't intend to get it fixed right away," persisted Belle.

"Maybe he's going to get a new one," ventured Cora.

"I don't see how he can," replied Belie. "I heard father say he was dreadfully in debt. His folks had some dealings with father, I believe, about advancing him some money that is to come to him when he is a certain age, but it won't be for some time yet. They had to have some to pay his debts."

"You ought not to repeat that, Belle," cautioned Bess. "You know father would be displeased if he knew you had spoken of his private affairs."

"Well, I'm sure it will go no further -- with Cora," retorted Belle. "I wouldn't mention it to any one else."

"Of course, I'll not repeat it," promised Cora. "But what do you think about Mary leaving so suddenly?"

"I don't know what to think," replied Bess. "It looks odd, to say the least. What reason would she have for leaving town so-well, mysteriously, to put it mildly?"

"Of course, it may be a mere coincidence," went on Cora, "but in connection with her talk with Ida and Sid -- well, I have often noticed that matters conspire to 'look strange' whenever there is a chance of making complications."



Chapter XII

A Race Against Time


It was a few days after the visit to Madam Julia that Cora was out alone in the Whirlwind. She had been feeling very unhappy over the loss of Ed's money and the suspicion that naturally attached to her on account of the finding of the empty wallet in her car. She could not dismiss the matter from her mind.

But Ed Foster had done everything in his power to make her feel that she was in no wise concerned. He had called and taken dinner with Jack, and had announced that, as far as he could see, he feared he would have to charge the money and bonds up to profit and loss.

"Principally loss," he remarked with a rueful smile. "I don't believe those detectives will ever get it."

Jack had offered to go with his sister when she announced that she was about to take a run in her car, but, with a little nod of thanks, she declined his company.

"It's a beautiful morning," she said, "and I want to take a good, long ride by myself, Jack. I want to -- think. I feel that the air will do me more good than anything else."

Her mother had gone into town, and once his offer was refused, Jack took a book and declared that he was going to try to work off some of his college conditions. The Robinson girls were at their music lessons, Cora knew, so he would not call for them. Thus she started off alone.

Down the turnpike she steered the big machine, confident in her ability to manage it. There were few autos out, and the highway was almost deserted. Her pretty Shaker hood, which had lately come home from Madam Julia's, was unbound, and the loose, chiffon strings flew out in the wind like long-legged birds. Turning into a broad avenue, Cora realized that she was on the road leading to the garage where she had met Paul Hastings, the handsome chauffeur who had given her such valuable information about her car.

"I must see about getting the mud guard fixed," she reflected, for the temporary brace that Ed had made, though it had kept the affair in place until the day previous had now come loose. "And this is a good time to have it attended to," thought the girl.

Paul Hastings was in the little front office. He smiled pleasantly at the flushed girl as she told her needs, but somehow he seemed dejected -- as if something had happened. Even Cora, comparative stranger that she was to him, could not help inquiring the cause of his trouble.

"Is -- is there anything the matter?" she asked hesitatingly.

"Oh -- not much. Only I -- er -- I have just ex experienced quite a loss, and it makes me -- blue."

"That's too bad!"

"Yes," he went on. "I had an opportunity of getting a first-class position, but another fellow got ahead of me."

"How's that?"

"Well, you see, a firm in New City needs a manager. I have good backing, and was almost certain of the place. But another fellow had just as good a chance, and it was a question of who got there first. I was delayed here and missed the only train that would bring me there on time. He caught it, and is now on his way there. He'll get the place and I -- won't."

"But why don't you take a machine and go there? You can do it as quickly as the train can."

"Take a machine?" he repeated. "I wouldn't dare. I'd be sure to lose my place here, and might not get the other. I haven't a car in the place I would dare risk taking out on the road. The owners are too particular about them, and I can't blame them, either."

Cora thought for a moment. A daring plan came into her mind.

"Let me take you," she suggested.

"Oh, indeed, I would not think of such a thing. I should not have mentioned my troubles to you. But they were so -- so much to me that I didn't realize what I was doing. But let me look at your car."

He soon adjusted the broken bolt of the mud guard, and announced that it was now as good as new.

"But why won't you go in the Whirlwind?" demanded the girl. "I am only out on a little pleasure spin, and I would be very glad indeed to take you to New City. Besides, I'd like to race with the train," she went on with sparkling eyes. "I know I could beat it."

Paul looked interested.

"I guess you could," he said. "It would be a good chance, anyhow."

"Come on, then! Don't waste a moment. Let's try it."

Paul called his assistant, a young lad, and gave him instructions about some cars, and what to do if certain customers came in. It was not a busy part of the day, and he could leave without causing any complications. Then he slipped into his long, linen coat and stepped into Cora's car.

"I'm afraid this is an imposition," he declared, taking the steering wheel, a sort of unconscious habit he had. Then he bethought himself. "Oh, but I suppose you'll drive," he added quickly, shifting over, rather abashed at having taken his place in the driver's seat without being asked. "You see, I'm so accustomed to being here."

"I believe I will drive," answered Cora. "I have great faith in the obedience of my machine. It knows my hand."

"I shouldn't wonder," agreed the young, man. "I do believe that motor-cars can almost be made to think -- under the guidance of very gentle but sure hands."

Paul looked very handsome, Cora thought. He was the type she always admired -- a youth with a bronze complexion -- a straight, athletic figure, almost classic, Cora decided. He cranked up for her, re-entered the car, and they rolled from the garage. Once out on the country road Cora threw in the high gear and fed the gasolene with a judicious hand, controlling the spark admirably.

"A fine machine!" exclaimed Paul, noting how perfect was the rhythm of action as it thrilled out beneath them.

"There are friends of mine," said Cora suddenly as a runabout, containing two young then, came into sight. Ed Foster and Walter Pennington raised their caps as they dashed by, but they did not go so quickly but that Cora noticed an expression of surprise on their faces.

"Oh, yes, I know them also," remarked Paul. "I've had that machine in the garage."

"I wonder where they are going?" went on Cora. She also found herself wondering if Walter and Ed were surprised to see her out alone with a professional chauffeur. It was the first time her conduct in taking Paul with her came forcibly to her mind. Then, with an independence of spirit that characterized her, she decided she had no apology or explanation to make.

"It's hard to say where any person in an auto is going," replied Paul pleasantly, "and sometimes almost as hard to say when they'll get there."

"That young man on the right is the one who recently lost twenty thousand dollars," observed the girl as she changed to second speed to take a troublesome little hill.

"So I understand. And wasn't there some mystery connected with it?"

"Indeed, there was. You know, they found the empty wallet in the tool-box of my car."

"Yes, so I heard. Quite remarkable. But can't the detectives find out who stole the money and hid the pocketbook there?"

Cora was grateful for the neat way he put that, to avoid referring to the suspicions that had been cast on her and on her friends.

"The police don't appear able to do anything," was her answer. "It does seem very strange."

"Have they inquired of all the people who were on hand at the time of the robbery -- or loss -- when, I understand, it was very likely that the empty wallet was put in your tool-box?"

"Oh, yes, they have questioned all of us -- and I can tell you that they were not any too polite about it, either. I thought I would never get over their quizzing."

"Well, I suppose they have to be sharp," remarked Paul. "But I've not yet explained to you the reason why I am in such a hurry and the nature of the position I am after. You see, a firm in New City advertised for a chauffeur to drive their machine across the country in a big race. I replied, and was as good as engaged. I expected to go over this morning, but some one told me that Sid Wilcox had taken the early train and was going to beat me out -- It's a case of first come -- get the job, you see."

"Sidney Wilcox!" exclaimed Cora in astonishment.

"Yes. You know him, of course. It seems that he wants to make the trip, and is willing to run the machine without pay. I can't afford to do that, and that gives him an advantage over me. If Sid gets there first, and offers to do it for nothing, it means that they'll take him."

"Well, he'll not get there first!" exclaimed Cora very determinedly.

Suddenly they both heard the distant whistle of the train. "There she is!" cried Paul; and a little later they caught sight of the cars, flying over the track.

"We're too late," said Paul.

"Not yet," answered Cora. "We can take a shorter route, even if they can go faster than we can."

She was already running on third speed, and the motor was taking about all the gasolene it could use. She adjusted the spark to give the best service, and now, as an additional means of inducing speed, she cut out the muffler. The explosions of the motor played a tattoo on the dusty road.

"I'm going to turn here!" cried Cora as she swung around a corner. "Look out!"

Paul needed no warning, for he was an expert autoist. The machine skidded a bit and tilted somewhat, but was soon flying down the straight, level stretch.

"I cannot understand why Sid Wilcox wants to run in a cross-country race -- and for nothing," said Cora.

"Because he knows I want the place. He hates me and wants to make trouble for me."

"Is that so? Then we have a double reason for beating him. And I think we'll do it. His train has to wait for the accommodation to pass it at the junction. We'll gain on him there."

"That's so."

"What time is it now?" Cora asked as, with hands firmly gripping the wheel, she leaned forward to peer down the road. She could neither see nor hear the train now.

"It's nine-fifty-five," replied the chauffeur. "The train is due at New City at ten-fifteen."

"Twenty minutes yet. I'm sure we can make it."

Cora made that declaration with her cheeks flushing and her bright eyes ablaze with excitement.

"Won't you, let me take the wheel?" asked Paul. "I am afraid that this heavy driving is too much for you."

"Oh, no, indeed! This is my race, you know. I want to beat him."

She looked at Paul frankly.

"Very well. Only don't distress yourself too much -- on my account."

"Don't worry. I love this. At what place in New City do you wish to go?"

"Directly in the center, next to the bank. The office of the Whitehall Motor Company."

"Then we'll take this road," decided the girl. "I'm sure it cuts through a park, and will bring us out right at the center of the city."

"It does, and it's the nearest way. You're getting to be quite a driver."

"I mean to be. Hark, there's the train again!"

"Yes, and we're ahead of it!" exclaimed Paul as he caught sight of the cars. "We've gained on them!"

"But they're going down grade, and we have a hill to climb," spoke Cora a little despairingly. But she would not give up. On and on rushed the car. There was but five minutes left, and the railroad; station was very close to the building where the automobile concern was located. Sid's chances were very good -- Paul's not quite so much so.

"We'll have to be a little careful now," Paul reminded her as they swung around a curve. "We'll have to go slow through the city."

"Yes, but I have been counting on that. We still have a few minutes. Oh, isn't it a pity that a motor isn't like a horse? When you get a machine going just so fast it can't go any faster, but a horse can always be depended on for a spurt."

"Yes," answered Paul quietly. He was busy thinking.

"How many minutes lift now?" asked Cora.

"Two," was the grim answer.

With keen eyes, that took note of every obstruction or vehicle that might block her, Cora drove her car on. Around corners, and through busy streets she piloted it. They were but a block from the center of the town.

"There's the train," spoke Paul quietly as the engine pulled into the station.

"And we're at the building of the Whitehall auto concern!" exclaimed Cora triumphantly a few seconds later, as she guided the car up to the curb. "Hurry!" she called to Paul. As if he needed to be told that!

He leaped from the car and ran across the pavement to the office. As he entered the door Sid Wilcox, coming leisurely from the direction of the station, saw him. Sid started, and then, with a quick motion, hurried after Paul. But the chauffeur was ahead of him, and the door slammed shut in the face of the owner of the Streak.

Paul, thanks to Cora's aid, had won the race against time.

"Oh, I do hope he gets the place," she said as she stopped her engine and prepared to rest while Paul was within the office of the motor company.



Chapter XIII

The Stolen Ride


Cora was of a very independent character. She felt that she had done right, and she did not care who knew it. But, for all that, she could not help whispering to herself:

"I'm glad Sid didn't see me bringing Paul here. He evidently thought he had plenty of time. He didn't look my way, and, besides, I had my veil down." Sid had disappeared after Paul.

She decided that she would not wait in the main street for Paul, as he might be kept some time, but would spin through the park. She was about to start when Sid Wilcox reappeared. His face showed his anger, but at the sight of Cora in her car he called up a smile to his countenance.

"Why, good-morning," he said pleasantly, stepping up to the auto. "You look as though you had been speeding," for her face was flushed from the wind.

"A little," was her smiling response. She could afford to smile now.

"Waiting for some one?" he asked.

"Yes."

It was too late to start off now:

"I'm waiting, too. Suppose I get in and take a turn around the park with you? You've never invited me to try your new car."

Cora was surprised. She knew very well she had not asked him to ride in the Whirlwind, and she had no intention of doing so. She was about to reply, when Sid jumped in beside her.

"I see you're not going to ask me," he went on, "and, as I have no idea of losing the chance for a spin, I'll get in without an invitation."

With a quick motion he shoved over the spark lever and the motor started, for a charge had remained in one of the cylinders, obviating the necessity of cranking up.

"There, we're all ready to go," he said.

Cora was dumfounded. But she felt it would not do to make a vigorous protest in such a public place. For a moment her feelings threatened to master her. Then she regained control of herself, threw in the clutch and turned the car in the direction of the park. After all, it might be better to humor Sid.

"So you brought Paul Hastings over?" drawled the youth.

Then he had seen her, after all. Cora's precautions were useless.

She nodded coldly. She was offended by her companion's impertinent tone. She started to turn off the power and apply the brake. She would not ride with him.

"Oh, you needn't get mad," continued Sid quickly. "I did not mean to offend you, though if it had not been for you Paul would not have gotten here ahead of me. You're a plucky girl, as well as a pretty one."

Cora flashed an indignant look at him.

"I suppose you meant that for a compliment," she said, "but you don't quite understand the art. It requires a certain delicacy -- "

"Such as Paul Hastings might have," sneered Sid.

Cora felt that she could not bear with him a moment longer.

"I have a purchase to make here," she said with as much frigidness in her tones as she could call up. "I'll not ask you to wait," and she stopped the car in front of a dress-goods store.

"Oh, it's no trouble to wait."

"I'd rather you wouldn't."

"Well, I will." He was smiling now. "I never like to leave a young lady when she is in a -- temper."

Cora was positively angry. But again came that detestation of making a scene, which every well-bred girl feels, no matter how strong the provocation. She would make a purchase to gain time, and then turn back to the bank building.

She bought something she was in no need of, and prolonged the transaction to an interminable length, to the no small disgust of the salesgirl. When she got back to the machine, Sid was smiling more broadly than before.

He had taken her place at the wheel.

"You won't mind me driving as far as the bank building, will you?" he said. "I really must get a new car. I miss mine so much, and it's in bad shape since you -- er -- tried to smash me."

"I did nothing of the sort. It was your own fault."

"There, there," he said soothingly. "We mustn't quarrel."

Cora felt herself growing pale. She repressed a stinging reply, and without a word took a seat in the tonneau.

"Oh, so you won't sit beside me?" he asked as he started the car. "What makes you dislike me so, Cora? You and I used to pull a pretty good stroke, but lately you simply won't look at me."

"I don't dislike you. At least, I did not until this morning."

"Still angry," he taunted. "Now, I call that mean. Why do you go off riding with a common mechanic?"

"Mr. Hastings is a gentleman!" she flared back at him, like an explosion of one of the cylinders of her car. "He would never dream of acting as you are now, even if he is a common mechanic."

"No?"

His tone was tantalizing.

"Please turn this corner," she said icily. "I want to get back to the bank building."

"Oh, do you? Well, I'm in no hurry to. I can't seem to do any business there, or in the automobile place," and he flashed a meaning look at the girl. "Now we'll see, Miss Cora, who's going to have their own way. I'm driving this car."

He threw in the second speed gear, and the auto dashed forward through the city streets.

Had he suddenly gone mad? What was his object? He was heading for the turnpike road!

For a few moments Cora held her breath. Should she shout for help, no matter what happened?

Then the fact of her unfortunate entanglement with the missing money came to her mind.

Should she deliberately place herself in the position of another entanglement?

Sid Wilcox bent lower over the steering wheel and turned on more power.

"Paul Hastings rode out with you," he called over his shoulder to Cora, "and I'm going to ride back with you. Nothing like having a variety and being a popular young lady."

He was positively insulting.

"You are running away with my car!" exclaimed Cora, stung to desperation. "I shall have you arrested!"

"Oh, no, you won't!" he sneered. "That would not be at all pleasant -- for you!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Why? Because you might have to explain how that pocketbook got into your car. I heard last night that they were going to have another investigation on new lines."

"How dare you!" she cried. "But that has nothing to do with this. If you do not stop my car at once I shall call for help!"

"I dare you to!"

Did he know that she would not?

"Now, Cora, Cora," he simpered. "You must not do anything rash. Better let me have my little ride with you, and incidentally get ahead of my conceited rival, Paul Hastings. He may ride back in the car he is to drive across country, for he has probably done me out of that place. It will be a good chance for him to practice."

Sid's audacity was positively startling. Perhaps it would be best to let him have his own way. In fact, how could she help herself? He had the wheel, and was going at a fast rate of speed. She could not climb over to a front seat from the tonneau. If she should shout, who would hear her above the noise of the car? For Sid in mere spitefulness had cut out the muffler.

Cora sank back in utter disgust and despair. What ever would Paul Hastings think of her? What would Walter Pennington say? Whoever saw her, it would make talk. Besides, Paul had come to New City in his shop clothes concealed under his duster, a fitting enough suit in which to ride in an auto, but not if he had to go back in the train. Perhaps, she thought, he had not brought money enough with him, depending on her to take him back to Chelton.

And, above all, what would people think of Cora Kimball riding with Sidney Wilcox?

"This is glorious!" exulted the daring youth, "I have just been pining for a ride in this car, Cora, and, incidentally, I may as well admit that I have been pining for a talk with you. When have you heard from your friend, Miss Downs?"

He fairly shot the question at Cora.

"Miss Downs?" she said falteringly.

"Yes."

"I don't know that I ever hear from Mary Downs," was Cora's sharp reply.

"No?" His voice was queerly questioning. "Well, I want to say I think Mary a very slick little girl."

Cora could not mistake his intention. He wanted her to think that he believed Mary was not one of her set. By "slick" he probably meant to convey the idea that he considered the former milliner girl might be tricky.

"I am sorry Miss Downs is away," said Cora simply. "I intended to take her on a little run with me. She doesn't get many chances to go out in a car."

"No, I guess, not. But don't you think it -- er -- rather risky to take up with -- shop girls?"

"Shop girls? Why, any girl is a lady, no matter what her position, as long as she conducts herself like one. What do you mean by your insinuations?"

She almost detested herself for asking him this question, but she could not help it.

Sid laughed.

"What have you to say against her character?" demanded Cora again.

Sid seemed a bit uneasy. He had hardly expected to be pinned down so directly.

"Oh, of course," he finally answered, "if you feel that way about it, I -- er -- I suppose -- nothing. I only wished to caution you. That money matter is still in -- er -- well, let us say, in an awkward shape."

"Does Mary Downs know anything about it?" asked Cora directly, determined to face Sid down.

"I'm sure I don't know," he drawled. "But you know she was -- er -- there with the -- rest of us."



Chapter XIV

Just Cora And Paul


As if this had been the entire object of his peculiar actions, Sid suddenly stopped the car.

"This is as far as I care to go," he said. "I think I'll leave you now. I can't thank you enough for the ride," he added mockingly, and, with a bow that had much of irony in it, he walked down a side path of the park, into which he had directed the machine.

Cora did not answer him, but her look was sufficient to show what she thought. And in spite of her contempt she felt an overwhelming desire to question him about what he had said of Mary Downs.

Did Sid Wilcox know anything about the robbery?

That was a question Cora asked herself as she took her place at the wheel, just vacated by the unmannerly youth.

"He certainly acts as though he did," she reasoned to herself. "And why should he make such an insinuation against Mary?"

She found no answer to her question. Suddenly looking at her watch she noted that no train had departed from New City since she and Paul had reached there. She was yet in time to give, him a ride home as she had planned. Turning quickly she made the run back toward the bank building.

From behind a clump of bushes Sid Wilcox watched her.

"I wonder if you'll tell your brother?" he mused, "If you do there may be a row over my kidnaping you. But I couldn't help it. No, I don't think you will tell Jack. You don't want to see us -- quarrel."

He added the last word below his breath, and there was a mean smile on his face. As he turned to continue his walk he met a man coming in the opposite direction.

"Lem Gildy! What are you doing here?" he exclaimed.

"Why -- er -- I'm sort of lookin' for work."

"You -- work!" exclaimed Sid.

"Well, I heard you was goin' to take a trip across country, and I thought maybe you'd take me along. You and me's pals, ain't we?"

"Hush!" exclaimed Sid, as if afraid of someone hearing the man's words. "Don't you know better than to follow me?"

"Well, I heard you was comin' for a new job, an' I thought -- "

"You think entirely too much. Now you get hack to Chelton, and stay there. I may need you."

Lem's little, rat-like eyes gleamed.

"You'll pay me, won't you?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Well, I'm a little short now, an' -- "

Sid extended a bill, which the man took quickly.

"Now be off," ordered young Wilcox, "and don't ever follow me again."

He waited until Lem had shuffled off, and then he took a different path.

"He's getting altogether too familiar," said Sid to himself as he strolled along. "But I may find him useful."

Scarcely had Cora, driving her big car, turned into the turnpike leading from the park to New City, than she again encountered Ed Foster and Walter Pennington. She instantly realized that they would wonder why she did not stop, for Ed was slowing up his car. But she knew she could not get back to the bank building to meet Paul if she halted, so, with a smile, as comprehensive as she was able to make it, she sent the Whirlwind ahead at a fast speed. She noted the looks of surprise on the faces of her friends as she passed them.

"How ever will I be able to explain?" was the thought that flashed into Cora's mind. "Walter acted as if he wanted to say something -- perhaps something about the money. He looked as if he were pleased. Maybe he has some good news."

It took Cora but a short time to make the run back to the city. She turned her machine toward the depot, as she knew a train would shortly leave for Chelton, and she fancied Paul might try to get it. Reaching the station she saw his tall figure, clad in the linen duster, pacing up and down the platform. She was just in time.

"Did you think I ran away?" she asked as she skillfully turned the car up to the platform and stopped.

"Oh, no," he replied with a happy laugh. "I happened to see who got into the car, and I guessed that you were run away with."

"Wasn't it contemptible of him?" she asked, her fate flushing at the recollection of the ride. "But perhaps some day I may be able to make him realize it. He doesn't seem to -- now."

"No; he isn't that kind."

"I was afraid I wouldn't be in time to take you back, after your interview with the automobile people, and I fancied you had not come prepared for a train trip to Chelton."

"That's very kind of you. I'm sorry you took the trouble to return. You have put yourself out considerably on my account, I'm afraid."

"Indeed, I have not. I enjoyed it myself -- the ride, I mean -- er -- that is, the first ride," and she laughed nervously. "I'm glad we beat Sid. I fancy he acted as he did for revenge. But were you successful?"

"Very much so, thanks to you."

"Well, if you want to ride back with me, I'll be very glad to have you. I must get back in time for luncheon or mamma may worry."

"Well, we mustn't have that happen. I'll get right in," which he did, after cranking up the car for her, for not always could she stop it leaving a charge in one cylinder, so that it would start from the seat.

"I'm very glad you got the place," went on Cora as she steered out from among a tangle of other autos and carriages about the station.

"So am I. It means a great deal to me."

"And Sid was so disappointed. I could tell by his face, though he pretended not to be. But that's why he -- ran away with me -- or, rather, with my car."

"It would be difficult to understand all his reasons," declared Paul with a smile. "He may have had another, equally weighty."

"You mean -- "

Cora felt the warm blood mounting to her cheeks.

"I think he wanted to boast that he had ridden with you."

Paul was rather sorry he had said this, the moment after the words were uttered. Cora seemed much embarrassed. To give a new direction to her thoughts, Paul said:

"I want to tell you about my sister. It was on her account that I particularly wished to get this position. Hazel wants to go to college, and we couldn't afford to send her. Now, with the increase in salary which I shall get, it will be possible."

"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Cora. "What college is she going to?"

"I don't know yet. But she is very ambitious."

"I should judge that -- from knowing her brother."

"That's very nice of you," he said, and then both laughed.

"I'd like to meet your sister," Cora remarked; without thinking of all her words might imply.

"Would you?" he asked warmly. "I'll be glad to have you. I think she's a mighty fine girl."

"Won't you hate to leave her when you make the run across country?"

"Well, it isn't to start for a month, but I shall have to go to New City to get familiar with the new machine I am to drive. I'm not going away at once. I'll be in New City for some time."

"Oh," began Cora, "I'm glad -- "

She stopped, and again felt herself blushing. Her tone had been a little too warm. She realized that her evident pleasure and polite interest might be misinterpreted. It looked very much as if Cora was glad that Paul was not going away at once.

"Then your sister will not be deprived of your company just yet," she managed to say, and she seemed to be paying particular attention to the sparking lever.

"No," he replied. "Hazel and I are great friends -- chums, you might say. In fact, I've never had a boy friend with whom I was able to get along so well as I can with my sister."

"That's very nice. It's what Jack says about me. He and I are the best of friends. Of course, I'm very fond of the Robinson girls, but Jack comes first. You remember the pretty twins, I've no doubt?"

"Yes, indeed I do. I could not help thinking how very 'untwinly' they are for twins."

"Aren't they? But they are the dearest girls! And they are going to have a new car."

"Is that so? Do you happen to know what kind?"

Paul assumed his professional air.

"I believe it has not been decided yet. But they will most likely get it from the Whitehall Company. Would you like to turn in the order?"

"It would be quite a help for me to be able to sell a car now, so soon after taking a place with them. And the commission -- just as I am starting -- "

"I think I can manage it easily enough," she said quickly. "They are sure to consult Jack about it. Couldn't you come over to our house this evening, and -- "

Again she found herself stopping suddenly and blushing. It was rather awkward to ask a young man to call, particularly when one has never been properly introduced to him. If he were only acquainted with Jack, now . . .

Then Cora had a bright thought.

"You say you are acquainted with Walter Pennington?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Our folks and the Penningtons are old friends."

"Then we must fix up a plan -- er -- to be perfectly proper. Not that it makes any difference. First I want to meet your sister. After that I am going to give a small affair. I have been putting it off for some time -- it's a positive duty, but I've been so interested in my machine. There -- I have it! I think I'll give an auto affair."

"Great possibilities in it," observed Paul. "But please do not trouble yourself to get up one on account of myself or my sister, though I appreciate -- "

"Oh, no, indeed," Cora hastened to explain. "I am due to give one, anyhow, and it may as well be that. I will be doubly interested if there should happen to be a matter of business for you involved in it. The twins are in no great hurry about their car. When you can meet them properly, and I will arrange it, I am sure they will give you the order."

"That would be splendid. I can't thank you enough."

"Wait until you get the order," and she laughed, "Mother declares I have a positive faculty for business."

"I rather agree with her," said Paul with a smile, as his fair companion turned the machine into the main street of Chelton. "I really feel unable to properly thank you for what you have done for me to-day -- "

"Now, please," interrupted Cora. "I was amply repaid in beating Sid Wilcox. But I cannot understand why he wanted the position. Even your explanation will hardly account for his extraordinary conduct. Why should he want to run a car across country?"

"Well, it can't be because he is short of funds," said Paul frankly. "I'm positive of that. He took particular pains to display a roll of bills when he was in the auto office, and I think that did not favorably impress the manager, though I was practically sure of the place when he came in."

"Well, that's just like Sid Wilcox," and Cora shuddered. It was a reaction of the unpleasant ride she had been forced to take with him.

"I hope, Miss Kimball, that you will soon be able to meet my sister," said Paul after a little silence, during which the car had run along. They were near the Beachwood Road, at the end of which, in a little grove of trees, was Cora's home.

"Not on account of what you have done for me," he went on, "but because I am sure you and she would be good friends. Hazel is a fine girl, as I said before, and besides that -- " Paul stopped abruptly.

"Oh, I'm going to meet Hazel," declared Cora warmly as Paul alighted from the car. "I'll invite her to my affair. I am going to wake up folks around here. Do you know, we all seem to be terribly depressed since that money was -- lost."

"Yes, and I don't wonder at it. Twenty thousand dollars is a large sum. I'd call it a fortune. But, somehow, I feel sure that Mr. Foster will recover it. I wish I could help unravel the mystery. I would like to -- for more reasons than one."

What could he mean by that? His manner was very earnest. Cora glanced at him gratefully.

"Good-by," she said suddenly.

"Good-by," echoed Paul, and he turned up the street.



Chapter XV

Three Girls


Reflecting on her strange experience while in New City, seated late that same afternoon on the broad veranda of her handsome home, Cora had one gratifying thought. No one whom she knew had seen her while Sid Wilcox was in possession of her car -- and of her.

Feeling this assurance she decided not to mention to any one at home the fact of his having stolen the ride. She resolved to ask Paul to keep it a secret, and she knew he would. As for Sid himself, if he did boast of it, few would credit his story, for he did not bear a very good reputation for truth, and he was constantly getting into scrapes. Cora especially hoped Jack would not hear of the escapade.

Now Cora, who had been sitting in an easy chair, trying to read a book, decided to take the hammock for a change. She did not feel like reading.

She wore a simple frock of white muslin, and her hair was let down in a most becoming fashion, in long, loose braids, all combining to make her particularly girlish-looking.

Cora was taking what she called her "loll." This particular form of rest, she always declared, was the only sort a healthy girl could reasonably enjoy.

"When you rest, why, just rest," she used to say to Isabel Robinson, who, on account of her nervous temperament, had rather been overdone with "rest cure" ideas. Isabel delighted in such terms as "relaxation" and "siesta," while Cora reveled in her "loll."

A box of "deadly chocolates" -- that is what Isabel would have called them -- were at Cora's elbow, and she was just reaching for the tenth one, when Isabel herself, and her sister, sauntered along the path.

"Come on up, girls," called out Cora. "But please don't ask me to move. I'm in the most delicious heap."

"Exactly that!" exclaimed Isabel, who looked particularly pretty in a soft-blue summer gown, while Elizabeth was like some flower, in deep-pink muslin. "You do get into the most awful heaps, Cora, dear. But you never can rest without relaxing, and to do that -- "

"Belle!" exclaimed Cora, "that is precisely why you never rest -- you never relax your brain. You're always thinking of resting and not doing it."

Bess sank into a wicker chair and smothered the cushions. Bess was stout -- "when she sat down," as Cora expressed it.

"Got your car ordered yet?" asked the hostess, passing around the box of chocolates. Neither girl could resist them.

"Oh, no," answered Belle. "Poor papa is in the greatest muddle. Every one in New City seems to have the best car to sell, and, as he wants a good one, he doesn't know which one to select."

"Why not ask Jack?" suggested Cora. "He's had lots of experience."

"Just what I proposed," replied Belle. "You, know how queer poor, dear papa is. He really dislikes motors."

"Seen Ida lately?" asked Bess.

"Not a sight of her," answered Cora. "I was hoping you might bring some news -- not particularly about her, though, but some news. I am just pining for a real, choice bit."

She passed the chocolates again. Bess took one, but her sister shook her head.

"Well, as to news," remarked Bess, "we have heard that Sid Wilcox has a new machine."

This was news indeed, after what that youth had said to Cora that very day. Or had he been only fooling her?

"A new one," repeated Cora vaguely, trying to, gather her thoughts.

"Brand, spick -- span new," went on Bess. "We haven't seen it, you know, but we've heard that it is a beauty."

"What extravagance!" murmured Cora, -- still busily thinking. "His runabout isn't very old. I wonder where he gets all his money?"

"Don't you remember he said he had some to invest in the new issue of bank stock?" suggested Belle.

"But the bank wouldn't let him subscribe," added her sister.

"What did he do with his other car -- the one that was broken in the collision?" asked Cora.

"Maybe he -- pawned it," suggested Belle, who had rather vague ideas concerning pawnshops.

"Very likely he would if he could." This from Cora with a light laugh. "I guess Sid is very fond of a change -- and excitement." She thought of her experience with him.

"Even a change of girls," commented Belle.

"Aula Allen told me that he and Ida were 'on the outs.'"

"Indeed!" and Cora raised her pretty eyebrows. "I fancied he was too -- too convenient a friend for Ida to drop. But my dears, as our English teacher says, I have something more important to discuss than Ida Giles and Sidney Wilcox. I'm going to have a 'doings,' as I used to call them."

"Goody!" exclaimed Bess, helping herself to some more of the chocolates. "Make it a lawn party."

"Well, that's just what I want you to help me with. I know that Belle will want to make it a seance with relaxed robes and collapsed masks and relapsed -- "

"Oh, you're mean!" exclaimed the taunted one. "I'm not such a freak as that."

"Oh, no," drawled Bess.

"Cer-tain-ly not," added Cora in a teasing tone.

"Well, go on with your 'doings,'" insisted Belle. "I won't make a single suggestion."

"Not make them; but veto them," persisted Cora. "Well, then, never mind, sissy. You sometimes have splendid ideas, even if they are all sterilized."

"And when they are disclosed the sterilization gets away," put in Bess. "That's what mother's nurse declared when we tried on those aprons that come in air-tight packages. But now, Cora, let's have a lawn party."

"Wouldn't it be nicer to have an out-door play?" asked Belle, who had forgotten her resolution not to make a suggestion.

"Oh, dear! I suppose we'll have to have it in the afternoon, when our nurses can be with us," said Bess. "We're supposed to be such kiddies -- not out yet, and all that. It's detestable -- "

"Indeed," interrupted Cora, "mother says I may have an evening affair, and also out of doors, if I like. Since my last birthday I've been wonderfully grown up."

"Out of doors! And after dark!" cried Bess. "That's great!" and she clapped her hands. "Oh, let's have it a masked affair. I never have been to one in all my life, and I'm just dying to mask!"

"Now, girls, let's be serious," suggested Cora, "for I haven't any too much time to arrange this affair. We ought to have it in June, when we can depend on having a pleasant evening. Suppose we plan a masked mythology fete? Have a dark, green cavern, presided over by: er -- um -- let's see -- who was the gentleman who had charge of passing shades from earth to some place, and where did he pass 'em to?"

"You mean Charon," said Belle. "But, Cora Kimball, do you suppose we could make mythological frocks that would stand damp, night air? Of course, they would be comfortable."

"Oh, we'll manage somehow. At any rate, we'll have a masked 'doin',' that's settled."

"That's all that really counts," said Bess.

"Masks?" questioned Cora. "Just mask in order to be of some account? Not the blessed boys, and the jealous girls -- and the chances of pretending you mistake Jack for Walter -- and you say a lot of things you are just dying to say, and would not dare to say if you weren't masked. All that -- But hush! Here comes Jack!"

"Hello, girls," greeted her brother, and at the sight of Jack, Bess and Belle adjusted themselves in more conventional attitudes. "How are you all?" he went on. "Sis, here's a letter for you. I kept it in my hand all the way from the post-office so as not to forget to give it to you."

"Awfully kind of you, Jack."

Cora glanced at the postmark, and slipped the missive into the large, loose sleeve of her gown.

"Oh, you may read it," spoke Bess, smiling frankly at Jack. "We don't mind."

"Not in the least," came from Jack as he took a chair next to Isabel. "In fact, we would be glad to have you do so. Go ahead, sis. Help yourself," he went on pleasantly, dipping into the chocolate box.

"It will keep," said Cora quickly. "But, Jack, what's new? For mercy's sake, do tell us something new! Is there anything more about -- "

"Yes, a lot about it," and Jack anticipated his sister's question. "I hear that the sleuths have a straight tip. They told Ed this afternoon that they would have his money back inside of a -- "

"Oh, isn't that fine!" broke in Belle. "I have been so uncomfortable ever since that affair happened and they found the empty wallet in poor, dear Cora's car. It looked just as if we -- "

"Don't!" spoke Cora quickly in a low voice.

"It certainly was uncomfortable," put in Bess.

"Especially for Ed Foster," remarked Jack with a. significant grin as he took another chocolate. "Um -- um -- these are mighty fine, sis!"

"Oh, take them all!" cried Cora. "But tell us some more about it; do, Jack, please!"

"Yes. Do they really think they're on the right track?" asked Isabel.

"That's all I know about it," answered Jack calmly as he finished the last candy. "I heard the detectives had promised to get the money back inside of a week, and that's all. Maybe it was only talk. They have to say something for their pay, you know. But I almost forgot. There is another bit of news, girls."

"What?" they demanded in chorus.

"Ed says he knows who took the money."

As Jack made this announcement he looked around as indifferently as if he had made the most ordinary remark on the most commonplace subject.



Chapter XVI

Mary's Letter


For a moment there was silence. Then Cora asked:

"Who does he say took it?"

"That's just it," went on her brother. "He doesn't say."

"Does he know?"

"He declares he does."

"Then why won't he tell?"

"You can search me. I don't know. He hasn't even told the police, I understand. He merely made that remark to Walter, and I heard about it."

"Oh, Jack, are you sure that's all there is to it?" asked his sister.

"Sure. I'd tell you more if I knew."

At first they thought he was teasing, and the girls, with, all the wiles of which they were capable, besought him to explain, but he could not, and, finally, they accepted his word as final.

"Well, it's very strange," commented Cora. "I hope it will be all cleared up soon -- for all our sakes."

"So do I," joined in Belle.

Cora again referred to the proposed purchase of a car for the twins, and though they were disappointed that they could not have it at once, Cora was rather glad, as she felt it would be a chance for Paul to get the order. Jack was appealed to, and gave the two sisters so many points about autos that they declared they felt quite bewildered.

"Well, I think we'd better be leaving, Cora, dear," said Elizabeth at length, and the good-bys were said, with many whispered promises made to come over the next day to finish up the party plans.

"Cora," said Jack, when the pretty twins had gone down the path, "I want a chance to talk to you. You've been so busy of late that I haven't had an opportunity."

"In just a minute, Bud," interrupted his sister, feeling in her sleeve for the unread letter. "I must run upstairs for just a moment. Then I'll be right down."

"Yes, and then some one else will come in, and it will be the same thing over to-morrow. No, sis, you're not treating me right," and Jack's tone betrayed some grievance.

But Cora decided that she must read her letter, and she promised that she would soon return to the porch.

"I know it's from Mary Downs," she told herself as she glided up the stairs to the privacy of her oven room. "And I never could read it before any one."

She hastily tore open the envelope. Yes, the letter was signed with Mary's name, and it was dated from Silver Falls.

Cora's heart beat expectantly. She had hoped, ever since the day of the eventful ride, that Mary might be able to furnish some clue to the missing money. She was such an observing girl. Cora began to read the letter. It ran:


"MY DEAR MISS KIMBALL: I was so sorry to leave you without having a chance to thank you for the pleasant time you gave me, but I was called away unexpectedly that same afternoon. It would only bore you to hear all the details. I simply had to come here, and here I am still. It was most unfortunate, for Madam Julia will never forgive me, and even to her I dislike to tell the reason for the hurried trip. In fact, I think she would not understand it. Well, enough about that.

"I just want to thank you for the lovely time you gave me, and I am so sorry I cannot talk with you, for I have read of the loss of Mr. Foster's money, and surely it was a very strange thing to happen. If I had a chance I might be able to give you a clue but it would not be wise to write it. I expect to be back in Chelton soon, and then I will tell you what I think about it, for I know I can trust you.

"With kindest regards,

"Mary Downs.

"P.S. -- I was greatly surprised yesterday to meet Mr. Wilcox, or, rather, to see him pass in a new automobile. He did not see me. I did not want him to. M. D."


"Of all things!" exclaimed Cora, dropping the letter into her lap. "Just like every other girl on earth. Tells you what she wants you to know, but never says a word about what you want to find out. I've a good mind to let Jack read this letter. He might know what would be best to do."

Then she hesitated. Cora always did hesitate before taking an important step, just as she always stopped and looked around when leaving her room -- to see if she had forgotten anything, or if she had left it all right.

"But it does look strange," she reasoned. "Yet I would trust Mary. She has such an honest face. I will just tell Jack the whole thing."

Picking up the letter she hurried back to the porch.

There sat Walter Pennington and Ed Foster with her brother. Concealing one expression of surprise, and another of disappointment that Jack was not alone, Cora greeted the young men pleasantly and invited them in to dinner, an invitation which Jack, in his rough-and-ready fashion had given by asking his chums to stay to dine.

Mrs. Kimball was preparing for a little trip, and though very busy she warmly greeted her son's friends, and entertained them, as she knew so well how to.

"You young folks are so taken up with your motors," she said as she took her place at the head of the table, "that we older and less fortunate people scarcely get a chance to speak to you. Cora is so enthusiastic over her car and its swift motion that our maid declares she will soon turn into a bird and fly."

"A dove," whispered Walter, just loud enough to be heard by every one, but softly enough to disguise the platitude.

Cora laughed lightly. Walter had a very taking way of saying things. He seemed to know exactly how to be nice without being silly.

The dinner over, the young people went to the porch. Mary's letter was in Cora's belt, and the edge of the envelope, scratching her hand as she sat down reminded her of her anxiety concerning the contents. Should she tell all the boys? Ed ought to know, that was her first thought. Surely Jack ought to know of it, and, as for Walter -- well, he ought to know also, for he had found the empty pocketbook.

Ed was making some remark to Jack about the lost money. Cora listened to see if it had any reference to what her brother had told her that morning. She crushed the letter in her hands.

"I've just had a note," she began, "from my friend Mary Downs."

"What I From the pretty runaway?" exclaimed Jack. "So that letter was from her, eh? No wonder I didn't recognize the hand."

"She did not run away, Jack," objected his sister, and there was a warning note in her voice.

"Oh, no, of course not. But, anyway, she vas pretty. Wasn't she, boys?"

"A hummer!" declared Walter, adjusting a porch steamer chair for Cora.

"Well, if you want to hear about the letter -- " began the girl.

"Hear about it? Why, we want to read it for ourselves!" cried Jack, and he tried to take it from his sister's hand. Cora struggled to retain it, and finding that she was being bested, threw it over Jack's head to Walter. He grabbed it, and defied his chum to touch it.

"Now, easy, fellows," begged Ed in his quiet way. "If there happens to be news from Mistress Mary, though she be quite contrary, pray let us hear it."

"That's what I say," added Walter, handing Cora the missive. "Now, Jack, I'm going to stand on guard, and if you interfere again -- "

"Oh, go ahead. I'll get it, anyway, later, when sis is asleep."

"No, you'll not!" declared his sister. "But this is the news," she went on guardedly. "Mary intimates that she knows something about the money."

"Is that so?" cried Ed eagerly.

"Oh, every one is intimating that," declared Jack in some contempt. "Is that all? What we want is an intimation that makes good, eh, Ed?"

"Yes, I suppose so. But what does Mary say?" and he looked sharply at Cora.

"I think I had better read the letter," she said, "for, like all girls, or most of them, at least, she only hints at the most important statement."

"Go ahead," ordered Jack. "I'll listen and close my eyes to call up a picture of pretty Mary. She's pretty, she's witty, she's all a girl -- "

He began to sing.

Cora jumped up.

"If any one wants to hear this letter he has got to keep -- " she began.

"I'll be good," promised Jack contritely.

Walter gently slipped his arm around Cora's waist. Ed, towering above Walter, put his arm around his chum and Jack's sister. Jack managed to edge under her arm.

"Well, we're a happy family now," said Jack. "You may read the letter, Cora. We each have you all to ourselves."

With a quick move Cora freed herself.

"Oh, you might know she'd duck," pouted Jack, "just as we were getting comfortable. Keep your old letter. I won't listen to it now," and he moved away.

"I've forgotten something in my machine!" exclaimed Ed suddenly with a sly wink at Cora. "I'll just run and get it, if you'll excuse me."

Cora knew exactly what he intended to do. Quickly, as he came back in his runabout, she ran down the piazza steps, and was in the machine before either Walter or Jack realized what was taking place.

"Now I'll hear the letter without being interrupted!" exclaimed Ed as he put on speed and escaped with the laughing girl, who waved the missive above her head.



Chapter XVII

A Runaway Auto


When Cora finished reading Mary's letter to Ed, which did not take long, she looked up at him and asked:

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"I -- er -- I think -- would you mind very much if I didn't tell you what I think of it?" he answered her in turn.

"No," she said slowly; "not if you don't care to. But I thought perhaps -- Jack says you know who took the money," she finished hurriedly. She had wanted to get alone with Ed more to ask him this than to read Mary's letter to him.

Ed started.

"Jack said that?" he asked, obviously to gain time.

"Yes."

"I didn't exactly say, that. I said I had my suspicions. He must have misunderstood me."

"Very likely. Jack's rather impetuous. Then you don't know?"

"Not exactly."

"I'll not ask you whom you suspect," declared Cora, though it was hard work not to, for she had her share of curiosity, and she felt, in a measure, that suspicion for the robbery was upon her and her friends.

They were both rather sober after that, and following a short ride around quiet streets Ed brought her home. Walter and Jack were gone.

"Good-by," said Ed as he started away. "If I -- er -- if I make my suspicions a certainty I'll tell you before I do any one else."

"Will you -- really?"

"Yes."

When the Robinson girls called on Cora the next afternoon she had about completed her plans for the lawn fete. It was to be a novel affair, and almost all the eligible young folks of Chelton were to be invited.

"All," declared Cora, "except Sid Wilcox. He simply shall not come."

"But how can you leave him out?" questioned Bess. "Especially as you are going to ask Ida and others in that set."

"I simply will not have him," insisted Cora, "and I don't care what any one thinks about it. He is too -- too impertinent to be polite, and I will not run the risk of having him offend some one."

Secretly Cora was thinking of his last transgression, and it afforded her no small consolation to note that her particular friends had not heard of the stolen ride.

Belle, "relaxing" on the low divan in the library window, just where the sun could help her out on the rest theory, was too deeply buried in thought to make rash comment on Cora's decision. She wanted everything simply perfect, and to shape plans with such precision was no easy matter.

"Of course, -- you will ask the Sheldons," she finally venture.

"Of course," answered Cora. "But, Belle, we expected a more important remark after such forethought on your part."

"And the Winters," went on the serene one, not noticing the bit of sarcasm.

"Yes; and I have a new star," said Cora quickly. "Who ever do you imagine she can be?"

"I know," declared Bess. "She is Paul's sister."

"Who told you?" demanded Cora.

"Not a soul," Bess assured her; "but I saw you out in your car with her this morning. Isn't she nice."

"Very. But being nice is not her strongest point. She is -- brainy."

"O-h-h-h!" sighed Bess. "Then let's not take her up. Belle has brains enough for one town."

"But Hazel isn't that kind. Isn't that a pretty name?" demanded Cora quickly. "She has a different sort of brains. She is a student of nature -- biology and evolution, to be exact."

"Perhaps she could tell what makes Bess so -- so fat," suggested Belle with marked sarcasm.

"Or what makes you so thin," retaliated Bess.

"At any rate, she is a very sweet girl," declared Cora, "and I'm most anxious for you to meet her. At the same time I am afraid you will like her a lot better than you do me."

"Cora Kimball!" exclaimed Bess. "As if any one could be more likable than you -- to us!"

"Oh, I don't know," sighed Cora. "There's Jack."

"Well -- er -- he's nice -- just because he's your brother," replied Bess a bit awkwardly.

"Now for plans," said Cora suddenly, wishing to change the subject, as it was becoming too personal. "We must get the cards out to-morrow. Every one must be masked -- that's settled -- and we'll try to confine the characters to -- "

"The Roman period," interrupted Belle. "That will make it pretty."

"I wonder how the boys will take it?" asked Bess. "I shouldn't wonder if they all came as gladiators."

"Or some such character as Nero," added Belle.

"As long as they don't try to emulate him on his burning Rome affair," came from Cora.

"And every one must keep his or her costume a secret," went on Belle, who was nervous with enthusiasm. "I am not even going to let Bess know whit mine will be."

"All right, sister," replied Bess, glancing at her tiny, enameled watch; "but pray don't be too -- too spirituelle. That is, if there were any Roman spirits."

"There was Roman punch!" laughed Cora merrily. "I believe I would like to be Roman punch, if it's not too strong."

"And served up to -- " began Bess.

"The gentleman with whom she was riding yesterday afternoon," finished Belle. "The idea of a young lady going out motoring in a morning dress -- "

"Bareheaded," chimed in Bess, and a laugh followed.

"Come to think of it, girls," spoke Cora, making an effort to get back to the party, "I do not think we ought to confine this fete to any particular period. Suppose some one wants to be -- well, say, Priscilla -- and has been wanting to be Priscilla all her life."

"That's right," agreed Bess. "It's just like you, Cora, to think all around a thing. Yes, I vote for a masked fete. Any sort of a costume, so long as we are masked."

Belle also agreed that this would be a better plan than the one first proposed, and then the trio of girls busied themselves over the invitation list. There was no time to spare, as the "doings" must come off before Mrs. Kimball's trip to Bermuda, for which she was preparing.

"And you feel you must invite Ida?" asked Bess. "I am sure she is almost as certain to do something rude as Sid would be."

"Yes, we had better have her," declared Cora, putting down Ida's name on the long list. "Ida is not really mean -- she is rather unfortunate -- and I think, as she has been in Chelton so long it would be unkind to leave her out."

"I hardly think she will come," commented Belle. "She has been so -- so snippy lately."

"Well, we'll ask her, at any rate. And, now, don't forget, we are all to keep our costumes secret."

"Oh, won't it be jolly!" sang out Bess. "I can scarcely wait."

"And to think of having it after dark, without chaperons to look after us!" exclaimed Belle. "I doubt if some of the stiff girls will be allowed to come on that account."

"Then we'll have a better time without the stiffs," declared the young hostess. "I'm sure our patronesses are protection enough, and mother is going to delay her trip a few days on purpose to be on hand."

"Oh, of course," Belle hurried to explain, "I think it is just perfectly all right and delicious, but I was just speculating on the kind who may be jealous."

"And is Paul coming?" asked Bess. She was always so self-conscious when she asked a question like that.

"Why, of course," answered Cora, "and also his sister Hazel. I particularly like them both, and Jack, who has met Paul, agrees that he is a very nice young man."

"Expert opinion, I suppose," murmured Belle.

They talked in jolly mood for some time longer, and the twins were about to leave for home when a shout out in the street attracted their attention.

"What's that?" asked Cora, starting up.

"Runaway! Look out for the runaway!" the girls heard several persons shout.

"It's a horse running 'away," declared Belle. "Let's stay where it's safe -- up here."

But Cora had started down the path, and Bess followed her.

"It's a runaway motor -- a car!" exclaimed Cora as she caught sight of something flashing through the trees. It was a runabout, dashing along the avenue without a hand to guide it, and as it gathered speed it swerved from side to side.

"Why, it's Jack's car!" cried Cora as the auto flashed past her. "Can he be hurt? Where is he? 'Oh, Jack!"

She started to run, leaving Bess on the path.

"I must stop it!" thought Cora. "It may run into a person or a team and kill some one."

Before she thought of the uselessness of her act she found herself running down the street, along with a shouting crowd of men and boys. As if she could catch up to an auto!

She hardly knew what she was doing.

"Oh, can't some one stop it?" she cried. "Turn off the power! It must be stopped!"

"By Jove! That's a plucky chap!" exclaimed a stranger. "There! He's lost his hold! He'll be run over!"

A young man, who had made a daring attempt to stop the runabout, was seen to be slipping beneath the wheels. But as the car sped on he pulled himself up to the seat. He grasped the wheel just in time to prevent the car from running up on the sidewalk, and an instant later he had shut off the power and applied the brakes.

"Why, it's Ed Foster!" exclaimed Cora as she came up beside the halted runabout. "Oh, Ed, are you hurt? I'm so glad you stopped Jack's car. There might have been a bad accident."

"Oh, I'm all right. I nearly slipped out, though. How did it happen?"

"I don't know. We were sitting on our piazza when we heard the cry, and I saw the car speeding away."

"Where's Jack?"

"I don't know that, either. I'm afraid he's hurt."

"The car doesn't seem to be damaged," remarked a man who had been nearly run down.

The crowd, rather disappointed, on the whole, that no accident had happened, turned away. Cora got in Jack's car beside Ed, who started the machine back. They were met half way to the Kimball home by Paul Hastings.

"Any damage done?" he called out as soon as he saw them. He appeared very anxious.

"None, but it was a narrow squeak," answered Ed.

"Where's Jack?" asked Cora.

"We took him home."

"Oh, is he -- is he badly hurt?"

"No; only a sprained leg, I believe, and some bruises. The doctor is there."

"How did it happen?" asked Cora quickly.

"Why, Jack brought his machine to the garage to have a little repairing done. I had finished it, and he and I were in the office talking, when a fellow named Lem Gildy came along and threw in the clutch, starting the car off.'

"Jack saw him do it and ran out, trying to stop his runabout, but he wasn't quick enough, and was knocked down. I hurried out to pick him up, and I forgot all about the runaway car until I had taken Jack home. There was considerable excitement, as there was a brand-new car, a very expensive one, belonging to the Blends, in front of our garage, and the runabout nearly crashed into it. If it had, the new machine would have been wrecked."

"And what became of Lem Gildy?" asked Ed.

"Oh, he sneaked off, after whining out that he didn't mean any harm. But I think he did. He's a suspicious character."

"Hurry home. I want to see Jack," begged Cora.

Ed started Jack's runabout off again, after telling Paul what had happened down the street. The handsome young chauffeur said he would presently call at the house and inquire after Jack.

Cora found her brother in bed, where her mother had insisted that he go, though he declared he was not hurt much. Dr. Dearborn had examined him, and said he would be all right in a few days.

"Oh, weren't you awfully frightened, Cora?" asked Bess, who, with her sister, had remained at the Kimball home.

"Indeed I was, but I knew the car had to be stopped."

"And it was going some," added Ed.

"I can't see what motive Lem would have in starting the car," said Cora. "I never knew him to be malicious -- only worthless."

"I believe he planned this," declared Paul, who had just arrived.

"Why so?" asked Cora.

"Well, he's been hanging around the garage for several days past, and numbers of times I've ordered him away. I heard him asking one of the men, the other day, how to throw in a clutch on a car like Jack's, and that made me suspicious."

"But what could his object be?" asked Ed, rubbing one arm, that was strained from his exertion in stopping the car:

"I believe him to be in the pay of some one," declared Paul with flashing eyes, "and I believe his object was to get me into trouble. As I told you, there stood in front of the garage a valuable new car belonging to the Blends. Their chauffeur was about to take it out for a run. If Jack's car, started by Lem, had smashed into it I would have been blamed, for I ran the car out of the garage, for their chauffeur. Then I would have lost my position here, and probably would not get that new one in New City, for the garage people would have blacklisted me."

"Oh, mercy!" gasped Belle. "Wouldn't that have been dreadful!"

"Bad for me," admitted Paul with a smile. "But I'm sorry Jack was hurt."

"Thank goodness it's no worse!" exclaimed Cora. "But, Mr. Hastings, whom do you think paid Lem to do such a mean thing?"

"I'd rather not say," answered the young garage manager. "But I shall keep my ears and eyes open, and if I find out what I suspect to be true -- well, there'll be trouble for somebody."

He spoke with flashing eyes, and Cora looked at him admiringly.

"Well, since we know how your brother is, I think we'll be going, Cora," said Bess, and she and her sister took their departure, followed by Paul and Ed.

"I wonder why Lem Gildy did that?" asked Cora of herself as she went to her room that night. "Who is urging him on? Did he want to injure Jack, as well as make trouble for Paul? Well, I'll have to give up thinking of it now," she finished, "but, like Paul -- I suppose I ought to say Mr. Hastings -- I'm going to keep my eyes and ears on the alert, too."



Chapter XVIII

The Garden Fete


It was a perfect evening -- the very last of the perfect June days. Chelton lay like a contented babe in Nature's lap -- contented, but not asleep, for it was the evening of the masked garden fete.

The bright-colored lanterns throughout the spacious grounds of the Kimball home flickered like eager fireflies, and the splendid dancing platform, erected on the broad lawn, fairly glistened with its coat of wax under the strings of tiny electric lights that canopied the pavilion.

It was not deemed necessary to have any one at the gate. In Chelton there were not many strangers and suppose some urchins did enter, Cora said, it would be a pity to deny them a glimpse of the pretty sight.

A tall Antonio, in a garb of the most somber black, strolled about, hoping to find his Portia. Priscilla was there, in her collar and cap, but where was John Alden? Would the dainty little Bo-peep, who looked like a bisque doll, ever find her straying sheep?

Then motor "togs" -- a long linen duster, with a cap and goggles -- seemed a most convenient mask for so many young men, who were not vain enough to want to don doublet and hose.

But there were some courtiers, and they did look romantic. Perhaps that stout girl in the white Empire gown, with a baby cap on her head, and a rattler around her neck, might be Bess Robinson.

But the Winter girls were both stout -- as stout as Bess. Then that thin creature, so tall that she suggested a section of sugar cane (could she actually be in one piece), might be Belle. The Psyche knot at the back of her head, and the wreath of wild olive, certainly bespoke Belle.

What had Cora done? Whom had she impersonated? There were many who wished to know this, and there were so many pretty persons that very likely she might have taken a very simple character. Cora disliked too much trouble, where trouble did not seem to count.

That splendid figure of Liberty might be she. Or that indolent Cleopatra on the rustic bench under the white birch tree -- she made a pretty picture. But Cora would not pose as this one was doing. The vacant seat beside the girl was too glaring an invitation for Cora to offer. Perhaps she might be that suffragette, who went about demanding "Votes for women!" See! There she is now, holding up Marc Anthony!

A most attractive figure was Night or Luna. The coloring would have suited Cora -- the black hair and the silvery trimmings of the robe to represent the moon but it was not like Cora to seek the dark spots of the garden that her moonbeams might be the brighter. The boys had a certain fancy for moonlight -- hand made.

"I'll wager you are Bess," whispered a very handsome Adonis in a real Greek costume -- all but the pedestal.

"Yes," answered the girl with a titter. "As you please -- but, I pray you, fair sir, am I not a good milkmaid?"

"The best ever," replied Adonis. "Pray let us stroll in yonder meadow."

Slipping his hand into the bare arm of the milkmaid, Adonis drew the figure down a pith toward the small lake that was on one edge of the Kimball property.

"Now I have some one to talk to," he declared with evident satisfaction.

"Oh, is that all?" replied the maid in some contempt "I can't see just why I should fill in that way," and she arose from her seat at the water's edge. "Besides," she added, "I hate Greeks. They are so vain!" and with this she hurried after a girl in a nun's costume, who was walking along the path to the pavilion.

"Well!" exclaimed the disappointed youth, "that was hard luck. And just as I was going to say something nice, too. However, it'll keep, I suppose," and he followed the two figures -- the nun and the milkmaid -- toward the dancing platform.

A veritable Rosebud was bowing on the porch to the row of unmasked patronesses, several ladies of Mrs. Kimball's set, who had volunteered to help her receive.

The Rosebud wore a plaited garb of rose pink, with velvet petals about her waist, and green velvet leaves about her throat. The costume was so beautiful, and the figure so graceful, to say nothing of the natural rose perfume it exhaled, that every one stopped to admire.

The bell for the cotillion sounded, and when the ribbons were cast to the gentlemen it was the Greek Adonis who caught the blue end. He would lead.

For his partner he walked up to the saucy milkmaid, and claiming her by right, proudly marched with her on his arm back to the center of the platform.

A murmur of disapproval was heard. Why had he not chosen Cleopatra?

But Marc Anthony was eagerly waiting, and quickly sprang to the fair charmer's side. Antonio, the silent, strode over to the market woman -- the height of incongruity.

A clown somersaulted to the Rosebud.

Night hung back. She seemed particular with whom she danced, and when a very handsomely proportioned courtier stepped up to her she refused him with a toss of her head. A star fell from her black tresses, but the answer seemed final, and the courtier walked away.

Finally the music started, and the dancers with it. How delightful it was to be some one else! And how splendidly Adonis led! At each turn where the waltz varied the figures he effected a wonderful change of partners, and it usually happened just when he was saying something most interesting to the young lady.

But this afforded a splendid chance for coquetry -- a very pardonable affectation under a mask.

The little nun was creeping around the platform. She seemed like a dark spirit in the midst of such merrymaking, almost like a warning of a fate to come.

"Now!" the Rosebud heard her partner whisper as the nun passed. And the Rosebud had for a partner -- Antonio.

"Who?" Psyche heard the nun ask of the same Antonio. "Who is it to go to?"

Psyche wondered what it meant. With a quick move, at the signal for a change, Antonio was whirling off with the nun, and Psyche was left without a partner.

But a few moments later Antonio came back to her.

"I just wanted to see if I could make the little nun dance," he whispered, "and I did -- all the way off the platform, for she's gone."

"She is standing there by the side of Adonis," replied Psyche directly. "And she seems to be in the way."

"Soliciting alms," almost sneered Antonio. "That's her business, I suppose."

Psyche was glad when the waltz ended, and at the next figure she came in contact with Rosebud. It was to be a ladies' bouquet, and Rosebud made the centerpiece, with all the other pretty sprites in a circle about her. Then the boys, in an outer ring, threw their flower-chained hands into the inner circle, thus each capturing a pretty partner.

The milkmaid fell into Antonio's arms. He almost caught her up from the floor.

"Don't!" she objected as she felt his hands on her bare arm. "Your hands are -- are too damp. They'll take all the starch out of my sleeves."

"Sign of a warm heart," he answered as he led her away.

Adonis was with Rosebud. What a charming couple they made! And how perfectly they both danced!

Close beside them fluttered Night. She was with the clown and seemed to enjoy the contrast.

One of the most distinguished masculine figures was Hiawatha, the Indian lad. His face was made up with real skill, and his bow and quiver hung gracefully at his back as he strode about. He had not danced, but he was evidently having a most delightful time with the Moon figure and Buttercup.

At the intermission a general onslaught was made by the young men to penetrate the disguises worn by the ladies.

"Plagued awkward," complained Hiawatha when he had failed to ascertain who Luna was. "I might be making love to my own -- "

"Sister!" snapped the girl, laughing at the youth's discomfiture.

"But won't you tell me just this?" he pleaded. "Who on earth is the girl in the black robe -- the nun? See, there she goes off toward the lake with Antonio."

"How can I tell?" answered Luna. "But if you really want to know, suppose we follow them?"

"Great idea!" agreed the Indian. "There goes Rosebud and Adonis. My, but they are hitting the trail, if you will pardon the language of an early settler. Suppose we go around this way? Then we can have a full view of both pairs in this mystery."

"As you please," answered Luna with some condescension as they started toward the little lake.

"Shall we sit here?"

It was Adonis speaking to Rosebud. She sank down upon a rustic bench and instantly noticed a couple turn behind the spruce hedge.

They were both in black. It was Antonio and the nun.



Chapter XIX

A Strange Discovery


Adonis and Rosebud sat for a while at the side of the miniature lake, where the pretty little lights dimpled in the placid waters, and where now a score of merrymakers were clamoring for a ride in the tiny launch which Jack Kimball and his chums, Ed and Walter, had rigged up, in order to add picturesqueness to the fete.

"Don't you want to take a sail?" asked the Greek youth of his fair companion.

"Oh, no, indeed, thank you. I must leave that for the others."

"You must?" and he accented the last word, as if to penetrate her disguise by this act of deference to the "others."

"Oh, well," she answered hesitatingly, "I never did care much for sailing, to tell the truth -- especially in a -- tub. I prefer a place where there is at least room in which to dip my hands."

"Then let us walk," he suggested. "I am anxious to see all over the grounds. Aren't they splendid? Just see that cave formed by the cedars, back of the lighted path. I declare' this place looks like a real fairyland to-night."

"I am glad you like it," replied the girl. "I -- er -- " She clapped her dainty hand over her masked mouth. She was near to betraying her identity.

"Like it?" he repeated. "How could I do otherwise? But in all this human garden there is no fairer flower than -- Rosebud," and he brought her hand reverently to his lips.

"Oh! You -- you mustn't be too -- too gay!" she expostulated, but she laughed as she said it. "You know the patronesses have specified -- "

"There!" he exclaimed, interrupting her. "It's all right, Rosebud," and he tucked her arm within his own. "I will make love to the trees if it pleases you. But let us walk about the grounds. I am afraid the curtain will be suddenly rung down and leave us again just mortals."

Rosebud felt that it was, pretty -- very pretty. She was entirely satisfied with herself and her friends. Then Adonis -- wasn't he splendid? And how courteous -- almost like the brave knights of old.

They approached a spot gloomy with shadows.

From it they heard voices in a gentle murmur -- voices near what Adonis had called the cedar cave.

Involuntarily, at the sound of one voice, Rosebud pressed her companion's arm. She heard some one say:

"I must go home at once -- I am so frightened!"

There came an answering whisper, but it was in tones that indicated a youth pleading.

"I have -- I have done it," again came the girl's frightened whisper. "I did what you asked me to, and I don't see why you don't take me home."

There was almost a sob in her voice.

"What? Just when I'm having a fine time?" objected the other. "Why don't you want to stay? No one could have seen you drop it into -- -"

"Hush!" cautioned the girl desperately.

"Oh, you're just nervous -- that's all."

Rosebud felt that she should not hear any more, but she would either have to cross the path near the cave and allow the hidden ones to see her, or she must wait until they had come out, as, if she and her companion retreated now, they would make a noise on the gravel, and it would be heard. Adonis seemed to understand the situation, and whispered to his companion:

"Stay. They'll be gone in a moment." He drew her farther back into the shadows.

"If you don't take me home," continued the girl in the cedar cave, "I'll ask some one else to. I certainly shall not stay until supper and have to unmask. I dare not."

"Just as you like," was the cool response.

"And I risked it all for you -- spoiled my entire evening. I'll know better next time!"

"Well, I'm going to make it up to you," said her companion.

There was a movement of the cedars, and two figures emerged from amid the trees. They crossed the path. They were Antonio and the nun.

Rosebud drew Adonis farther back from the path. The others passed on without seeing them and at once began talking gaily, as if they had been merrymaking with the rest but Rosebud and Adonis detected the false note in their laughter. Adonis pressed the little warm hand on his sleeve.

"Do you know them?" he asked.

"I -- suspect them," she replied.

"So do I," he almost gasped, "and with good reason. I have just found something in my pocket."

"In your pocket?"

"Yes, quite a bulky package. I did not notice it until this moment."

"But how -- "

"Don't ask me how it got there. It's just -- there. I did not even know there was a pocket in this cloak I wore. Whoever put the package there was more clever than I."

"But what is it?"

"I'm going to look -- Cora."

"Cora? Then you know me -- Ed?"

"As you do me. Of course. Did you think you could deceive me?"

"I -- I hoped to. But the package -- what does, it contain?"

"We will look -- together."

He led her to a dangling electric light, drew, something from the folds of his cloak, and unwrapped the paper. Then he gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Ten thousand dollars of my missing bonds!" he whispered.

"Really, Ed?"

He extended them to her.

"Oh, Ed! I'm so glad!"

"So am I, yet I have been suspecting it."

"Suspecting it?"

"Yes. I may as well admit it, of late I have not worried about my loss. Recently I have been convinced that it would come back. And you see I was right."

"But this is only half of it."

"I know, but the rest will come. It is not so easy to return the cash."

"But who could have slipped it into your pocket?"

"Don't you know? Can't you guess -- after what we heard?"

"The -- the nun?"

"Exactly."

"And she is -- "

"That is a mystery -- as yet, but I have my suspicions. She brushed past me in a crowd, and I thought I felt her hand upon my velvet cloak, but as I never suspected the garment contained a pocket, I gave it no further thought. Had I the remotest idea -- what had happened there might have been a disturbance. But the talk we heard just now gave me a clue."

"Hush!" exclaimed Cora, and she shivered slightly in her rather thin costume. "Here come Paul and Belle. I have penetrated their disguises. Isn't Paul splendid as Marc Anthony? and Belle makes a perfectly classical Psyche."

"And Walter?" asked Ed with a veiled hint of jealousy in his tones.

"It was horrid of him to play the clown."

"But I like him best in some such humble role," spoke Ed.

"I wish you had not discovered me," went on Cora. "It would be such fun to hear things, and say things, in some other character than ourselves."

"But I could not find, even in the Rosebud, a fairer type than that of Jack's real sister," he replied gallantly.

"There's the supper gong!" exclaimed Cora; "and I must hurry away, as I have my duties to look after. Oh, but I'm so glad about the money. I wish it were all back. Are you going to make this public?"

"I don't know. We'll talk about it again."

"Well, run along now," commanded the girl with a pretty air of superiority. "Why don't you join in with that milkmaid and Pocahontas? They are charming -- both of them."

"I think I will just run along with -- Rosebud," he answered, and he drew her arm more firmly within his own as they advanced toward the fairy tables set about all over the lawn, where, as the repast was served, masks were suddenly taken off, and the merrymakers were treated to many surprises.

"Oh!" cried the pretty milkmaid to Hiawatha. "How could you -- Jack Kimball?"

"Oh!" answered Jack, who had quite recovered from his little auto accident. "Oh! How could you -- Bess? And you know perfectly well you did squeeze my hand -- once."

"Oh, you horrid boy, I did not!"

"Well, you may now, if you like," and he extended it, but Bess drew back.

"And to think," cried the beautiful Psyche, who was Belle Robinson, "that I have actually been -- "

"Letting a perfectly strange chap make love to you!" added Paul, helping her out, for Paul was Marc Anthony, and had spent considerable time with Belle.

"Oh!" cried the girl, recovering herself quickly. "Was that -- making -- love?" and she looked archly at him.

"I -- er -- I rather hoped it was," he replied grimly.

Night -- Hazel, you must know -- had been flitting around with Hiawatha and the clown, but toward the end the latter had attached himself to her, to the exclusion of the Indian youth, and now Walter Pennington, with a shake of his head which set all the foolish little bells to ringing, told Paul's sister how delighted he was to renew his acquaintance with her.

Adonis and Rosebud had a table directly under the umbrella tree.

"I must run in-doors for a second," Cora whispered to Ed when the ices were being passed. "I want to speak to Jack. I just saw him going in."

"May I come?"

"With me?"

"Yes. You see, those bonds are burning a hole in well, in my lace handkerchief, and I wish Jack would put them in the safe in the house."

"Why, certainly. Come along. But see, there is Antonio -- and the nun is not with him."

"Yes," spoke Ed. "I saw her go away with Priscilla."

"Priscilla?"

"Yes; and John Alden never spoke for himself."

"Priscilla," murmured Cora. "Do you know who she was?"

"No. Who?"

"Mary Downs."

"Mary -- why, I thought she was out of town."

"She was, but she came back to-day, and I helped her fix up a costume. And so the nun went off with her?"

Cora walked slowly toward the house, Ed following.



Chapter XX

The Aftermath


Ed Foster and Jack Kimball sat in the library of the latter's home until quite late that night -- long after the merrymakers had departed.

"If you suspect who put the bonds into your pocket," Jack was saying, "don't you think the easiest way to clear it up would be directly to accuse the suspect?"

"No," answered Ed, "for I feel that it will all come out shortly, without any unnecessary publicity. You see, the money and bonds may only have been -- er -- well, let's say borrowed. Just as many banks are robbed. Or the person who took it may have thought there was only a small sum in the wallet, and finding such a large one, probably became terribly frightened, and did not know what to do."

"Well, of course it's your affair," returned Jack and looked thoughtful, "but, in a measure, it affects my sister."

"It never did affect your sister, Jack, and never can. I am sorry about the wallet being found in her car, but there never was the most remote -- "

"Oh, I know, of course not, on your part. But others -- "

"No one ever really suspected her. And, what is more, I have it from her own lips that she would rather not have the guilty ones punished, for she thinks, as I do, that the money and bonds were not taken as a deliberate robbery."

"Well, what are you going to do -- wait?"

"Yes. I shall invest these bonds so they will be safe, and then let time do the rest. I do not think we shall have long to wait. They have been holding the bank stock for me, so I have not really suffered -- thus far."

"Well, you certainly are a cool one!" complimented Jack. "If I thought some one had my money -- some coward, as this person must be, to keep silent all this while -- I would never sleep until I had it back."

Ed smiled rather indulgently and indifferently.

"Well, you see," he went on, "I have gotten along so many years without the use of that twenty thousand dollars that I did not miss it when it was taken. Of course, I am losing interest on it, but I can easily make that up."

"Then suppose we retire?" suggested Jack, for Ed was to be his guest for the remainder of the night. "I am actually sweltering in these togs. Aren't you in a hurry to get back into yourself and be just Ed Foster?"

"No; I rather like being Adonis. I fancy I like him infinitely more than I cotton to that Foster chap," and he laughed.

"Well, you made a hit," complimented Jack.

"Thanks."

Ed stood up and surveyed himself in a pier glass. He laughed at the figure he presented, but there was a serious look upon his handsome face. Fancy Adonis being serious!

"You also made good, Jack," he said after a pause. "I don't know when I've seen a braver brave. Do you ever expect to get that stuff off your face in time to go back to college?"

"I guess it will wear off. If it doesn't I'll use gasolene from the auto tank, or take a steam bath at some lady beauty doctress's establishment." He rubbed his countenance vigorously with his handkerchief. "If it doesn't remove," he added, "I'll tell 'em I've got the jaundice."

"Did you see Sid this evening?" asked Ed.

"I thought I saw him, and then I wasn't sure. He wasn't invited. Whom do you think he was?"

"I -- well, I wouldn't be sure, either," answered Ed evasively. "I saw so many chaps about his size and build that it was hard to distinguish. Hastings was splendid, wasn't he? I like that fellow."

"So do I. He's perfectly square, and measures up all right. I managed to get the order for the Robinson twins' auto for him."

"You did?"

"Yes. You know, he is going to represent the Whitehall automobile concern from the first of the month, over in New City. Going to take one of their cars across country, you know. He was mighty pleased to get the order. It was Cora's idea, of course. She is just full of such ideas -- always thinking of other people."

"That's right. She never does lose a chance to do a fellow a good turn. I suppose she told you about the ride when she and Paul outdid Sidney Wilcox?"

"No; but Paul did. Wasn't that plucky of her?" and Jack beamed with admiration. "Cora has a lot more courage than have some fellows I know."

"Indeed she has," and Ed's voice was earnest.

The tall clock was chiming two when the young men left the library. They had so many things in common that they talked like two girls. Just as they passed the hall door they were startled by a quick step on the veranda.

"Hello! Who's that?" asked Jack, hurrying to the portal.

"It's me -- Paul Hastings," answered a voice outside, and as Jack swung open the door the young chauffeur, who was still in his costume, entered. He seemed greatly excited.

"I was afraid you'd be in bed," he panted, "and I ran until I'm all out of breath."

"But what's the matter?" asked Ed.

"Come on in and sit down," invited Jack. "We're not particular whether we go to bed or sit up the rest of the night. Come and join us. But has anything happened?"

"No; I -- I can't stay," and Paul leaned against the doorway. "But I found this in my coat pocket -- it's a diamond ring. I was nearly home when I discovered it. I thought some of the girls or ladies might be frantic over the loss, so I hurried back with it."

He handed over the sparkling object.

"Whew! That's a beauty!" exclaimed Jack. "A new one, too! Look, Ed! If that isn't an engagement ring I'll eat my war club! Now, what young lady, do you suppose, could have used our grounds, our hospitality and eaten of our swell supper with the malicious aforethought of becoming pledged to unite herself in the holy bonds of matrimony? Who could have done it? And then to lose the guarantee that goes with it! It's past belief!"

"It certainly is new," said Ed, critically examining the ring with its sparkling stone. "About a carat and a half, I should say. Never cost less than three hundred dollars. Whoever bought it must have plenty of cash. But how on earth did it get into your pocket, Paul?"

Ed was rapidly thinking of something that had happened to him that nigh.

"That's what gets me," replied Paul. "Of course, these costume rigs are full of holes and corners. A girl might have been dancing with me, and the ring may have slipped from her finger into my pocket. Perhaps it was too large for her, being new. But I did not notice that I danced with any one wearing it."

"Still, it might have happened that way," admitted Jack, "especially if she kept the stone turned in so no one, would see it. That's a trick they have."

"At any rate, she is sure to come back here for it," went on Paul, "and I wanted to save her any possible anxiety. I hope it belongs to some real nice girl, and if it does, don't forget to say that I found it. And you might add that I would be glad to receive a small reward in the shape of permission to show the aforesaid pretty girl the sights around here in the auto I am soon to run."

"All right," laughed Jack. "That would be some sort of reward. But, as for myself, I must confess I would prefer a smile of gratitude. Just fancy the girl receiving back her ring! Won't she flop over in a sheer state of collapse!"

"Have you looked inside the ring?" asked Ed. "There might be a name or initials in it."

"Never thought of it," admitted Paul. "Hazel, who was with me when I found it, made me hurry right back, and I didn't get a chance."

Jack lead the circlet, and holding it close to a drop-light, he peered closely at it.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "There are initials!"

"Whose?" asked Ed.

"'I.G.' Whose are they? 'I.G.' Why, of course. 'I.G.' -- Ida Giles! Whoever would have thought it? Ida Giles with an engagement ring!"

"And why not?" queried Ed. "Isn't Ida the bright-red, dashing sort? Lots of fellows would call her dashing, and, from what I have seen of her to-night, she certainly is bright."

"Well, of all things!" exclaimed Jack, who seemed unable to get over it. "And you're on her side, eh, Ed? Why, man, not a fellow in the whole of Chelton ever got through more than one dance with her -- except Sid Wilcox, and I can't see why he sticks to her."

"Then the Chelton fellows are slow," commented Ed as he critically examined the ring. "I think Ida is quite taking."

"Was she here to-night?" asked Paul.

"She was invited," replied Jack, "for I saw her name on one of the bids Cora sent out. But I did not have the pleasure of a personal interview with her this evening, and so I can't say whether she was here or not."

"Well," remarked Paul, moving toward the door, "I guess I'll be leaving again. Take care of the ring, Jack, and don't forget to give the lady who calls for it my regards. And say, Jack, please thank your sister for me for getting the order for that car for the Robinsons. I'm going after it to-morrow morning -- no, I mean this morning. It's after three o'clock now."

"Oh, I'm sure Cora was only too glad to be able to get you the chance."

"And thank you, also. I know the part you had in it."

"Oh, I didn't do anything. It was all Cora. Though of course Bess Robinson would deny me nothing," added Jack and laughed. "She thinks I'm simply perfect. I heard her tell Cora so," and Jack walked up and down in pretended self-admiration, while the others threatened to pick him up and toss him out into the cold moonlight, where they said he belonged in that particular state of lunacy.

"Ida's ring," mused Jack, after he had calmed down. "Just plain Ida. Now if it had only been Bess, Belle or -- Hazel."

"No, no!" protested Paul.

"Well, all right," assented Jack. "Ida's it is." He wrapped the ring carefully in paper and put it in his pocket. "I'll take the best of care of it, Paul, of course, and I'll also collect the reward for you, and hand it over personally. You can trust me for that. But I wonder why we haven't had some inquiries from Ida before this?"

"Maybe she is so unused to it that she hasn't missed it," suggested Ed.

"No girl is ever unused to her first engagement ring," declared Paul. "Well, I'm going. Goodnight."

"This finding of things in pockets is growing interesting," remarked Ed when the door had closed on Paul. "I wonder if any of the girls found valuables in their costumes?"

"Hardly," declared Jack. "No one could ever find their pockets to drop anything in. But I'll put this in the safe and mark it 'to be kept until called for.' Won't Cora and the other girls be surprised!" and he slammed the iron door shut, having, by an odd chance, dropped the diamond circlet into the very compartment that contained the bonds so strangely returned to Ed.



Chapter XXI

Real Motor Girls


Cora was up early the next morning, and went out alone for a spin in her car. She wanted to think over the happenings at the lawn fete, to recall various matters, and to try to straighten out some tangles that confused her. It was delightful to skim along the quiet road, the powerful motor of her car singing a song of speed and progress.

"I suppose Jack and Ed are sleeping yet," she said to herself, "though how Ed can, after the strange recovery of his bonds, is more than I can understand."

Ed was gone when she returned, and Jack seemed surprised to see his sister returning from an early morning run.

"I thought you'd sleep for hours yet," he said "I've got something to tell you."

"Is it about the bonds?"

"No, not exactly. Look at that!"

He held out the diamond ring.

"Jack!" she cried with a little catch in her voice. "You don't mean to tell me that's an engagement Ting?"

"That's exactly what it is."

"But for some girl -- "

"Of course it's for a girl," answered her brother, seeing that his sister was under a misapprehension, and not being able to resist the chance to tease her. "Of course it's for a girl. And -- "

"Oh! But Jack, what will mother say -- you becoming engaged -- "

"Who said I was engaged?" he asked. "Look inside and you'll see whose it is."

"Ida Giles!" cried Cora.

"Exactly. She lost it," and to end her increasing wonder, Jack told his sister the circumstances.

Cora wanted to go at once and return the ring to Ida, but Jack said:

"No, we'll wait for her to call. If she wants it very much she'll come."

"But why don't you want me to give it to her?"

"Well, I'll tell you some other time," and with that evasive answer Cora had to be content.

Several days passed, and Ida did not come, but Jack would not consent to Cora returning the ring to her. In the meanwhile the young people had discussed over and over again the beautiful fete given by Cora, though the finding of the bonds and the story of the ring was kept within a small, select circle. Ed Foster took the bonds to the bank and received for them part of the stock for which he had negotiated. The rest, he said, would be held for him.

"And I'm pretty sure I'll get the rest of my twenty thousand dollars back soon," he said. "At least, nearly all the cash."

Mrs. Kimball went to the city to prepare for her trip to Bermuda, and it was a few days later, when some of the recent excitement had worn off, that Cora began to feel a sense of loneliness stealing over her. Her mother seldom went away from home.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed as she sat in the library trying to be interested in a book. "I wish something -- "

Out on the driveway a triumphant "honk-honk!" drew her attention.

"I hope that's -- " she began, but she did not finish, for she saw the Robinson twins in a shining, new car, Bess at the wheel, as though she had been running one for months, and the sisters both attired in their becoming motoring costumes.

"Come on!" cried Bess as Cora leaned out of the window. "Get your car and we'll take a spin! Isn't ours a beauty?"

"Oh, isn't it!" cried Cora delightedly. "But I thought it wasn't to come for a week."

"We couldn't help deceiving you, Cora, dear," answered Belle. "But you see -- "

"And you can run it all alone?" interrupted Cora.

"Yes, all by our lonelies," answered Bess. "You see, we wanted to surprise you, so we didn't tell you exactly when it was coming. When it arrived we got Paul -- I mean Mr. Hastings, of course -- we got him to give us lessons along a quiet road, where we never met any one who knew us. And father is not a bit timid about us going out alone since Paul -- I mean -- "

"Never mind explaining," broke in Cora with a laugh.

"Well, since Paul showed us how to run it. Papa has taken a great notion to Paul," finished Bess with the suspicion of a blush.

"How about the daughter?" asked Cora gaily. "Of course, she would never take a notion to the same young man her father happened to favor."

"Oh, you horrid creature!" exclaimed Bess. "He did teach me beautifully, of course. But a girl may look at a chauffeur, I suppose, just as a cat may gaze at a crowned monarch."

"Oh, certainly," conceded Cora. "So you are really going out for a spin? I'll get ready and we'll go together: I was just wondering what I could do until dinner-time. Jack is out with some friends, and I was just plain lonesome."

"Put on your new costume," directed Belle. "We want people to look at us. Isn't it perfectly splendid to have a regular set of cars?"

"Yes. We ought to get up an auto show," agreed Cora as she hastened off to make ready for her ride.

They selected a quiet road. In spite of the shadows of the trees it was hot. The swift motion of the cars, however, relieved the humidity of the atmosphere in a measure.

"Which way?" asked Cora as they came to a turn.

"Down by the river," suggested Bess. "We haven't been out Woodbine way all summer. Let's go this afternoon."

"All right. I guess I'll let you set the pace," answered Cora as she held her car back and allowed Bess to take the lead, which the fair amateur motorist did gracefully and with no little skill.

They attracted some attention as they skimmed along in their new outfits and their new cars, And with their bright faces showing their happiness.

Many stopped to look and admire and could not but smile at the evident pleasure the motor girls were having.

"'Far from the maddening crowd,'" quoted Belle as they swung down the quiet river road. "But do be careful, Bess," she urged. "I know you understand as much about the car as I do, but I always feel that I ought to have a life preserver on when any mere girl -- including myself -- is at the helm of such a powerful craft."

Bess laughed and replied lightly. She had perfect confidence in her ability to guide the Flyaway, as they had christened the new car.

"Isn't it close?" called Cora as she tried to steer out of the way of a stone and failed, thereby receiving quite a jolt. "I'm afraid we're going to have rain before we get back -- a thunder shower, likely. It's sultry."

"Oh, I hope we don't have a storm," replied Bess. "I'll hate to get my new machine all splashed up with mud, to say nothing of spoiling our new auto suits."

"Then we had better not get too far out and away from shelter," suggested Cora. "There! Isn't that thunder?"

There was a low, distant rumbling.

"That or blasting," said Belle.

"It is thunder," was Cora's opinion. "I hope we can find some shelter."

"Shelter!" exclaimed Bess as she looked anxiously up at the gathering clouds. "How could we ever get the cars under any ordinary shelter?

"That's what I can't get used to about an auto -- the size of it. They're like houses to me, as big as all outdoors."

"I know of an old barn out this way, over toward Woodbine," went on Cora. "We would likely find that open, for when I went past there the other day they were getting ready to put the hay in."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Belle as the thunder sounded nearer and louder. "I wish we could get back home. Turn around, Bess., dear."

"I can't," declared her sister with a nervous little laugh. "The road is too narrow for me to make a turn in, and I haven't yet learned how to reverse well. We'll have to keep on until I get to a wide place."

"I don't want to do that!" objected Belle. "Let's stop the car, get out, and push it around. Surely we can do that. Don't go any farther."

"Yes, yes!" cried Cora. "Keep on. It's too late to turn back now. There! It's raining! Let me get ahead, and I'll show you the way-a short cut. I know how to get through that lane."

Her car shot ahead, the girl skillfully guiding it, and the twins timidly following, until, with many a twist and turn, Cora piloted them up a little hill to a big red barn, with the wide doors invitingly open.

"Drive right inside," called Cora, slowing down her car. "I guess no one will object, and we haven't any lights to put out, as the warning over the door of the garage says."

The rain was falling in torrents now, and before Cora could get the Whirlwind wholly within the shelter, and while yet the Flyaway was entirely out; the girls received quite a wetting. A moment later they were out of the storm in the barn, had stopped their cars, and shut off the engines.

"Suppose the owner doesn't like it?" suggested Belle.

"Well, we're in, anyway," declared Cora, "and I guess they won't put us out. But we must be careful. Don't let any gasolene or oil drip out. But I guess it won't, as both the cars are new."

No one but themselves seemed to be in the barn, which was odorous with new-mown hay, great mows of it being on either side of the broad floor on which the autos stood.

"There are some men coming," announced Bess, looking out through the big doors into a mist of rain.

"The haymakers," announced Cora. "They were getting in the crop, but the rain didn't let them finish. See how they're running."

"What shall we do when they come in?" inquired Belle, anxiety depicted on her face.

"Why, nothing, I should say," replied Cora. "There is plenty of room for them and us, I'm sure, even if our cars are rather large. We won't eat the men, and I hope they won't eat us."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Belle, but Bess laughed.

The first to reach the barn was a very tall farmer, of the type designated as lean and lanky. He was headed straight for the open doors, his head bent down to avoid the pelting drops, and he did not see the cars and the young ladies until he had nearly collided with Cora. Then he straightened up suddenly, and the look of astonishment on his face made Cora want to laugh, only she felt, under the circumstances, that she did not dare.

"Wa'al, I'll be gum-swizzled!" exclaimed the farmer. "What's this, anyhow? Auto-mobiles? As I live! Wa'al, I swan t' goodness! An' gals a-drivin' of 'em! Ho! ho! Wa'al, that's what I call rich -- yes, sir, rich!"

A fringe of curious haymakers gathered behind the one who had entered first.

"We only came in out of the rain," explained Cora, who was looking her prettiest in the confusion. "We hope we're not in the way."

"Oh, you're welcome," the man hastened to say. "As welcome as -- wa'al, a heap sight more welcome than this thunderstorm is. We calcalated t' git all th' hay in, but we didn't quite make out. We've got lots of room here, you see. There ain't another barn in all Woodbine that'd take a locomotive like that in it," and he walked around Cora's big car, eying it curiously.

"I knew you had a big barn," said Cora. "I saw it the other day; then, when the storm came, I remembered it, and so we intruded here."

"'Tain't no intrusion, nohow," declared the farmer. "I'm mighty glad of a chance t' git a look at them things close by, when they ain't movin' like a blue streak. My gal is jest daffy about 'em. She thinks it would be handy fer her an' me, but I ruther guess she'd git th' most rides outer it."

"They are very convenient when you want to get somewhere in a hurry," ventured Bess, who thought it time to come to Cora's aid in keeping up the conversation.

"Yes, I expect so; but you see th' trouble on a farm is that you ain't got much of any time t' go anywhere. Now, ef I had a machine like thet -- "

There came such a sharp crash of thunder and such a blinding flash of lightning simultaneously that the farmer's voice was silenced, and every one jumped.

"Oh, isn't that awful!" fairly screamed Belle, and instinctively she ran to the side of the tall, lanky man.

"Guess you're used t' bein' near yer pa in a thunderstorm," observed the farmer with a chuckle.

"I thought the barn was struck," said the girl with a shudder. "It would be terrible if it got on fire, with all this hay in it."

"That's what it would; but we're not worryin so much since we got th' new fire apparatus. We've had th' two hose carts for about three weeks now, an' though we've practiced with 'em we ain't never had no real fire. We've got a good water system, with high pressure, an' they can pump more when they need it. All we have t' do is run with those carts t' th' fire, an' attach th' hose t' th' hydrants. But th' funny part of it is that th' carts is so heavy they need hosses t' pull 'em, and we ain't got no reg'lar hosses yet. Have t' pull 'em by hand, I expect, an' it's goin' t' be hard work."

"Do you belong to the department?" asked Cora.

"You're right, I do."

"And is that part of your uniform?" she went on, pointing to some rubber coats and fire hats that hung on the side of the barn.

"Yep, that's what they be. Me an' my two sons. By jimminity crickets! that lightnin' certainly is sharp, though!"

Flash after flash of the glaring light came through the sheets of rain, and the thunder crashed and vibrated overhead, seeming to, shake the very earth.

"Where are your sons?" inquired Belle, wanting too do her share in the talk; but she waited until there came a lull in the storm.

"Over in th' south medder, two miles away," replied the man.

By this time several of the haymakers, seeing that the storm was likely to continue, and knowing that they could no more work that day, had donned heavy coats and departed, going down the road to the village. This left the farmer and one hired man in the barn.

"It certainly is rainin'," remarked the hired man as he looked out through the big doors.

At that instant there came a more terrific crash than any that had preceded it, and the whole place seemed a glare of intense light. Every one was stunned for a moment, and when they recovered their numbed senses, Cora, looking toward the farmhouse, saw a sheet of flame coming from the roof.

"Fire! fire!" she cried. "Your house is afire! It's been struck by lightning!"

"By gum! So it has!" yelled the man. "It's blazing, and my old mother is bedridden in it! Come on, Jake! We'll have t' git her out, anyhow. Now what good is our fire department with no hosses t' haul th' hose carts, an' all my animals away off! Sech luck! Th' men gone, too!"

He was rapidly shouting this as -- he ran from the barn.

"Where are the hose carts?" called Cora after him.

"In Si Appleby's barn! A mile away, an' it's a bad road." He pointed to the barn, for it was in sight down the hill.

"Is there a hydrant near your house?"

"Yes. But what good be they without hose?" returned the farmer. He was on the run, halfway to his burning house, the hired man after him.

"We'll bring up the hose carts!" cried Cora.

"We'll pull them with our autos! Come on, Bess -- Belle -- quick! We must get the hose here! Don't be afraid. Put on the rubber coats and the helmets. The rain can't get through them. The worst of the storm is over now. Oh, I hope they get that poor woman out!

"Hurry! hurry!" she cried as she cranked up her car. "Back your machine out! Reverse it! I'll follow! Let's see what the motor girls can do in an emergency!"



Chapter XXII

Ida Giles


Bess really surprised herself by the quickness with which she got her machine out of the barn. In the excitement the words of advice Paul had given her came back with force. In a few minutes the motor girls were rushing down the muddy roads, splashing through big puddles, but they themselves were kept from the drenching downpour by the firemen's heavy coats and helmets. They gave one look back at the burning house. The blaze had enveloped the entire roof.

"Oh, if we can only return in time!" cried Cora as she threw in the full speed forward.

Cora said afterward that they reached the barn in less than four minutes, but Bess declared they never went as fast as that. Mr. Appleby did not know what to make of three excited girls, in two panting automobiles, rushing up to him and demanding the fire apparatus, but -- he managed to understand what had happened, and why they wanted it.

"Tie the hose carts to the back of the autos with ropes!" cried Cora. "We can pull them up the hill. Are there any men around to help with the hose? If there are we'll take them to the fire in our cars."

"No, I guess not; but I'll send my boy for some help right away. There'll be lots of men in their houses 'count of the rain. I'll go with you."

Fortunately there was no need to hunt for ropes, as there were two long ones on the hose carts, and Mr. Appleby, working with speed, aided by the girls, soon had the apparatus attached.

The run back took longer, but it -- was made in good time, and Cora and Bess, at the wheels of their respective cars, guided them and the hose carts into the yard near the burning house.

The blaze was fiercer now, but it had not eaten down as far as it would have done had it not been for the heavy rain.

The farmer and his hired man had carried the bedridden woman out, placing her on a mattress in the carriage house.

"Attach the hose to the hydrants!" cried Mr. Appleby. "I'll turn on th' water."

"Who'll handle the nozzles?" asked the farmer.

"It'll take two men to each one, there's so much force to th' water."

"You an' I can handle one!" yelled Mr. Apple by, "an' your hired man."

"He can't manage th' other alone."

"Then we'll help!" called Cora. "Come on, girls!"

The lines were unreeled, attached to the hydrants, and were soon spurting water. Cora and Bess, for Belle declared herself too nervous to help, aided the hired man in holding one nozzle of the leaping, writhing hose, that seemed like some great snake as it squirmed under the pressure of the water. The farmer and Mr. Appleby managed the other.

The fire burned slowly, and the little force was really setting it under control when some men, summoned by young Appleby, arrived and relieved the girls. More lines of hose were run from the hydrants, each one of which could supply water to two, and the blaze was soon out, though the house had been considerably damaged.

"Well, if it hadn't been fer them young ladies and their machines, maybe you wouldn't have had any house, Frank," said Mr. Appleby to the farmer.

"That's right; and land knows I can't begin t' thank 'em. If ever they want a friend, all they've got to do is t' call on Frank Ettner -- -that's me."

He thrust out his rough hand, and Cora clasped -- or tried to -- the big palm in her own little one.

"I -- I don't know how to thank you!" he exclaimed fervently.

"We couldn't help doing it," said Cora, blushing, and then Mr. Ettner insisted on shaking her hand again, and also with Belle and Bess.

"Well, we certainly had an adventure!" exclaimed Cora as the motor girls were riding home after the shower had stopped. "Whatever will the boys say?"

"The boys will be very proud of you, Cora," declared Belle.

It was a few days after this when Cora was out alone in her car, trying to understand, among many other things, why Ida had not called for her ring.

"And why doesn't Jack let me take it to her?" she asked herself again. "I declare I can't understand Jack," and she shook her head.

Along the turnpike she guided her car, going on slow speed to more fully enjoy the odor of the wild honeysuckle which in tangled masses lined the roadside, mingling with the wild rose perfume that was wafted on the gentle breezes.

She came to a narrow place, where there was room but for one vehicle to pass at a time, and seeing a bunch of wild fern, Cora got out of the car to gather some. As she did so she heard a girl's voice pleading in alarmed tones:

"Let me pass! You must let me pass!"

"Not until I get some money out of you -- or somebody!" exclaimed the rough voice of a man.

"I tell you I haven't any money!"

"Well, you know who has. Come on, I want it."

There was a sound of breaking sticks, as if the man had taken a step nearer the girl. She retreated, and this brought her into view of Cora.

It was Ida Giles!

Cora leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the man. She was startled to see that he was that good-for-nothing Lem Gildy.

"Come on," growled Lem, "fork over some cash."

"I haven't any. Oh, please, Lem, let me pass!"

He took another step toward her with outstretched hands, and Ids shrank back. She screamed, but Lem only sneered.

"No one'll hear you," he said. "Come on, I must have money, or I'll tell some things I know."

Cora was hidden from the two by a screen of bushes, and on the dirt of the road, with her car running at low speed, they had not heard her.

Lem laid his hand on Ida's wrist.

"Let me alone!" she screamed. "Help! help!"

Cora saw a stout stick lying on the ground. With hardly a thought of what she was doing she caught it up and stepped forward.

"There's nobody here to help you," said Lem with a brutal chuckle.

"Yes, there is!" cried Cora in ringing tones. "Let go of her arm, Lem Gildy, or I'll strike you with this!" and the girl raised the stick over the rascal's head.

He hesitated a moment, still gripping Ida, who was on the verge of collapse. She looked at Cora with wonder and fear.

"Let go!" demanded Cora, taking a step nearer.

"Not for you!" answered Lem defiantly.

Cora brought the stick down with stinging force on his wrist. With a howl of pain he let go and advanced toward Cora, but she struck him aver the head with her weapon, and Ida, who had recovered her courage, catching up a heavy stone, made it a more even battle. With a muttered snarl Lem slunk away and disappeared in the underbrush. Cora felt herself trembling violently, but she kept control of herself.

"Oh, Cora!" sobbed Ida. "I believe I would have died if you had not come along. I was never afraid of Lem Gildy, and when I saw him following me along the road I never dreamed that he would molest me."

"What did he want?" asked Cora.

"Oh, it's all over that dreadful money! Mr. Foster's, you know."

Indeed, Cora was beginning to suspect that.

Sobbing like a child, Ida leaned on the arm that Cora held out to her, though as a matter of fact Cora was in need of assistance herself.

"Well, never mind," she said to Ida. "Just get in my car and we'll go right to your home. He was a perfectly horrid man, and should be punished. See what he did to Jack, starting off his car and injuring him. Now he tries to rob you."

"Not exactly rob, Cora. He says some one -- "

"Now don't go into details until you feel better. Come, get in the car with me," and Cora led Ida back to where the auto waited.

"Oh; Cora! I -- I can't get in your car with you -- I -- I can't accept any kindness from you -- after -- after what I've done. And to think that you should come to save me from him! I -- I feel like a -- a thief!"

"But you're not!" declared Cora stoutly.

"No, not exactly, but almost as bad. Oh, Cora, I -- I wish I could tell you, but I -- I daren't!" and again Ida sobbed hysterically.

"Well, Ida, dear, you don't have to tell me now -- maybe not at any time," spoke Cora soothingly as she placed her arm about the girl's waist. "Come along for a ride in the Whirlwind. That will settle your nerves."

"Where are you going?" asked Ida as she noticed they were not heading for Chelton.

"We'll go to New City, Ida," went on Cora with sudden resolve. "I want to ask you a question."

"Yes," spoke Ida nervously.

"Did you lose anything at my party?" and Cora's thoughts were on the diamond ring in the safe.

"No," replied Ida firmly.

"Didn't you, really?" insisted Cora, surprised that Ida would not admit ownership of the ring.

"I -- I didn't lose anything, Cora," and Cora wondered at the stress Ida placed on the word "lose."

"Well, I have a secret to tell you. Jack did not want me to speak of it, but I'm going to, for I'm just consumed with curiosity. Paul Hastings found a beautiful diamond ring in his pocket after the fete, and your initials were engraved in the gold."

Cora turned so as to look into Ida's face, and she could plainly see that a change came over her countenance.

"Paul Hastings found it?" murmured Ida. "The ring with my initials in?"

"Yes. Didn't you really lose it?"

For a moment Ida did not speak. She was biting her lips, and her fingers were nervously playing with the fringe on the lap robe.

"Cora," she exclaimed impulsively, "I have been mean -- hateful to you -- but -- you have not deserved it. Sid Wilcox told me he had you out riding, and he said you spoke of a lot of things about me -- "

"What!" cried Cora. "He dared to say that?"

"Yes; and people saw you out with him."

"So they might have; but the truth was he jumped into my car and ran away with it without my permission. That's how I came to be in the motor with him."

"He never told me that!" exclaimed Ida. "Well, that's just like him. Now I will tell you. It was he who forced that ring on me -- and I would not take it at first. But he made me. Then I determined to get rid of it. I did not lose it, but I slipped it into Walter Pennington's pocket. Oh, Cora! You know I -- I do like Walter, and I -- I thought if he saw that I wouldn't keep some one else's engagement ring that -- somehow -- he might send it back where it came from, and -- and -- "

Her tears interrupted her. Cora did not understand.

"You put it in Walter Pennington's pocket?" she repeated slowly. "Why, it was found in Paul Hastings' pocket."

"Wasn't Walter dressed up like Marc Anthony?" demanded Ida, ceasing her sobbing and looking up with wonder in her eyes.

"No. He was the clown. Paul was the Roman," and Cora began to see how some things had come about.

"That explains it," murmured Ida. "It was a mistake! And did that that ring actually have my initials in?"

"It is marked 'I.G.,'" said Cora. "We have been expecting you to call for it."

"Where is it now?"

"Home, in our safe."

"Then keep it there!" exclaimed Ida, a new determination in her voice.

"But we cannot keep it," objected Cora. "It is not mine nor Jack's. Why not give it back to Sid?"

"Neither is it his," went on Ida. "He gave it to me, and now I ask you to keep it -- in trust."

"I don't see how we can do that very well. The reason I mentioned it to you, against Jack's wish, was that I wanted to get rid of the responsibility of keeping it. Suppose it should be stolen? It is quite valuable."

"Well, I cannot take it," insisted Ida. "Mother would not allow me to have it in the house. Sid said it cost five hundred dollars."

"It is certainly a very valuable ring," admitted Cora. "But, Ida, if I were you I would give it back to Sid."

"Well, perhaps I shall -- some day. But oh, Cora, you cannot imagine what I have gone through with in the last month!" and Ida pressed her handkerchief to her swollen eyes.

"I am sorry," said Cora simply. "Can I help you, Ida?"

They had ridden through New City, and were back again in Chelton. Ida had asked to be let out at the post-office, and as Cora -- drew up in front of it for her to alight, Ida extended her hand, and the two girls looked into each other's eyes, each trying to read her neighbor's thoughts.

"Coca, you can help me, and I will soon ask you to do so," said Ida almost in a whisper; "but now -- I cannot tell you now," and she hurried out of the car.



Chapter XXIII

The Mystery Solved


Ida Giles had always been unpopular, and the kindness shown her by Cora Kimball, following opt the timely rescue of her from Lem Gildy, came to the unhappy girl like a revelation.

For the first time in her dissatisfied life Ida determined to do what her better nature prompted her to do, even at the risk of getting into trouble. She determined to clear up the mystery that had been hanging so heavily over the heads of Cora and her friends.

"I -- I don't care what Sid thinks -- or says," murmured Ida, "I'm done with him forever."

She hurried to a select bowling alley, where she was pretty sure she would find Sid. Within the little office in front one might buy confections or ice cream, and at the same time be able to look in on the alleys, where athletic young men were banging away at the pins. Ida sent in word by the clerk, and Sid came out at once when he heard who wished to speak to him. Ida was struck at his appearance. He looked thin and worn, but, more than that, worried.

"Sid," she began bravely, "you must come with me at once. I will aid you all I can, but we must go right over to the Kimballs', explain everything, and set matters right."

"What!" exclaimed the youth in an anxious whisper. "You mean confess?"

"Yes, that's just it."

"But -- but -- er -- I -- "

"I've promised to help you,", she said slowly. They were talking outside now, for the clerk had come back and was behind the showcase. "You must come, Sid, and tell everything. I will do my part. Besides, there is really nothing to confess, you know. You really didn't steal the money, but you must tell them -- tell Ed, Cora and all -- what you did with it -- and about the empty wallet."

"Oh, Ida, I never could do that!"

Sid's bravery -- his gay, sneering, bold manner -- were all gone. He was a craven -- weak. "You'll have to tell them," he added. "I'm going -- going away."

"That's just like you!" exclaimed Ida. "Leave me to shoulder all the shame. No, Sid Wilcox! I've risked enough for you! I'm done! If you don't go to the Kimballs' this very afternoon and tell everything, I shall go to the police and relate to them all that I know about the missing money, the bonds and the wallet. The detectives will be glad enough to get the reward."

Sid was really afraid now. His face was pale, and his voice shook as he answered:

"I'll -- I'll make it all good now. I have the money. Can't you -- can't you give it back to Ed, the way the bonds -- "

"No!"

"Not to help me out?"

"No!"

"But you promised -- "

"I promised too much! Will you tell everything, or -- "

There was a moment's silence. Sid was battling with his mean nature. Even yet he was trying to find a way of escape -- to discover some plan by which he could avoid the shame of making a humiliating confession.

"Well?" asked Ida, and there was a new ring in her voice.

"I -- I suppose I'll have to," spoke Sid in low tones.

"Come, then. I'll go with you."

An hour later Cora, Jack, Ed, Sid Wilcox and Ida Gales were seated in the library of the Kimball home. Sid was uneasy, and Ida's eyes showed that she had been weeping.

"Sid has something to tell you all," began Ida, "and so have I. I guess you know what it's about."

Cora nodded and smiled at Ida. Then she went over and stood beside the unhappy girl.

"I'll make a clean breast of if, fellows," began Sid hesitatingly. "I -- I really didn't mean to make so much trouble over it, but one thing went to another, and when I started there didn't seem to be any stopping place, or any way to get back.

"When Ed stooped over to fix the mud guard on Cora's car, that day of the race and the collision, the wallet dropped from his pocket into the soft dust of the road. I saw it and picked it up, intending first only to play a joke on him. Ida and Mary Downs saw me, and -- well, I don't know what they thought, but I only did it for fun."

"Queer fun," murmured Jack indignantly.

"I slipped out the money and bonds," went on Sid, "and then Ed turned toward me, and I didn't know what to do with the empty wallet. There was only one chance, and I took it. I dropped it in the tool-box of Cora's car. I was mean to do it, for I thought it might make a mix-up and add to the joke."

Jack murmured something inaudible, and Cora shot a warning glance at her brother.

"Yes, it was a poor joke," admitted Sid weakly, "but I've learned a lesson. I found out it was going to cost considerable to fix my car, and as I had some other -- er -- well, expenses to meet, I just used some of Ed's cash. I knew I could pay it back later.

"That is, I thought I could, but my folks shut down can my allowance, and when I missed getting that job which Paul Hastings got I was in a bad way. I didn't know where I was to get the cash to repay Ed, and I didn't dare say anything, for fear you'd have me arrested for stealing:

"Then I got mixed in with Lem Gildy. He saw me with a lot of cash, and he suspected something. The man is sharp, and one day he saw the numbers of one of the bank notes I had. He looked up the numbers which Ed gave the police, and it corresponded. Then he jumped to the conclusion that I had stolen the ten thousand dollars in cash, and the bonds. Nothing I could say about it being a joke could convince him. He began to bleed me for hush money, and I had to give it to him. Then I thought of a plan for getting him out of the way. I put him up to start Jack's car off, thinking he might be arrested for malicious mischief and put in jail, but I never dreamed you would be hurt, Jack. Honest, I didn't."

Jack did not answer.

"Well, that plan didn't work," went on Sid, "and Lem kept getting worse. Then I didn't know what Mary Downs might be up to, going away as she did. I believe she thought I really stole the money."

"She did," put in Cora. "She told me so; but her going away had nothing to do with it. A relative was taken suddenly ill, and she had to leave. She wrote me something about the robbery -- excuse me, I'll not call it a robbery now -- but Mary thought it was, and she imagined both Sid and Ida were guilty."

"I can't blame her much," murmured Ida unhappily.

"I have treated you very meanly, Ida," confessed Sid. "I made you keep my secret, and Lem found out -- at least, he thought he did -- that you were in with me."

"That's why he followed me and demanded money of me," spoke Ida. "I decided then that it must all come out, though I also decided that I would never again have anything to do with you, Sid Wilcox."

"Not even after -- " began the youth:

"No. Your -- your ring is -- here," and she, pointed to the safe.

Sid started.

"I wondered why you didn't wear it," he said: "Yes," he went on, "I have been mean to Ida, though I -- I did ask her to take the ring -- to -- to make up for it."

It was clear that he did care for the girl, as much as it was possible for a person of his selfish nature to care for any one.

"I -- I spent some of the money for the ring for Ida," he went on.

"Yes, and for that reason, as much as for any other -- because I knew you were only a shade removed from a thief -- I threw it away!" burst out Ida.

"When?" asked Sid, much astonished.

"The same night when, masked as a nun, I slipped back the bonds into Ed's pocket -- as you asked me to."

"So that's how they got there!" exclaimed Ed.

"Then, when Ida came and told me a little while ago about Lem," went on Sid after a pause, "I knew the game was up. He was getting desperate, and he's liable to send word to the police at any moment, accusing me, and I don't want to be arrested."

He seemed very anxious.

"Now here is your ten thousand dollars back," he said to Ed, handing him a roll of bills. "I managed to get from my folks the amount I had used, including the sum for the -- the diamond ring, and what I had to give Lem."

"What's become of him?" asked Jack.

"I guess he's skipped out," answered Sid. "After holding up Ida it won't be safe for him to linger too close to these parts."

"I should say not," commented Cora.

"Now, will you take this money, and -- and call it square?" asked Sid nervously.

"Hardly square," murmured Jack. "Look at the suspicions about my sister -- "

"Hush, Jack," pleaded Cora, looking at Ida, who was weeping.

"I think the best way will be to call the incident a closed one," decided Ed. "I'll take the money, and -- "

"What will you tell the police?" asked Jack.

"I'll tell them the money came back to me in a mysterious way."

"They may want to claim the reward."

"They can't. There is only one person who will get the reward, and she is -- "

He paused and walked over until he stood in front of Ida, who sat with bowed head.

"Miss Giles, it is due to you, more than to any, one, that this mystery is solved," he said: "Will you please accept the reward?" and he took some bills off the roll Sid had handed him.

"I couldn't oh, I couldn't!" she sobbed.

Ed looked embarrassed. Every one was under a strain. Jack went to the safe and took out the diamond ring.

"I guess that comes back to you," he said to Sid, "as long as you've made up to Ed the whole sum."

Sid took it hesitatingly. Then with a quick motion he stepped up to Ed.

"Here," he exclaimed, "this belongs to you."

"What for?"

"Interest on your money. It's more than the ring cost, maybe, considering the loss on the bank stock, but I'll make it up later."

"No," said Ed after a moment's thought "We'll call it settled."

He held the ring in his hand and went over to the weeping girl.

"Will you -- will you accept this for what you have done for me -- for all of us?" he asked gently.

Ida looked up through -- her tears. Then she shook her head.

"Let me give it to her," whispered Cora, and Ed handed over the sparkling gem.

"Take it from me, Ida," whispered Jack's sister. "Let it be a pledge of -- of whatever you like."

"A pledge from an up-to-date motor girl!" cried Jack gaily, and his words ended the strain that was on them all.

Sid slipped out, and Ida was led away by Cora. Then such talking as there was between Ed and Jack!

"Well, did you ever hear such a yarn?" asked Jack. "Did you suspect him, Ed?"

"Yes, but I thought his motive was a different one. I had an idea the strain would soon tell on him -- or Ida. I'm glad it's over."

"So am I!" exclaimed Cora, coming into the room, having parted from Ida. "Oh, I feel years younger!"

"Look out!" warned Ed. "You'll soon be a mere infant again if you keep on."

"I don't care!" she cried. "Come on out and take a long run in the Whirlwind. I want to get some of the cobwebs swept off my brain with a glorious breeze. Come, Jack -- Ed."

They went with her, each one happier than they had been in many days.

"Oh! There are Belle and Bess!" cried Cora. "I must tell them."

"Well," remarked Ed, when Cora and Belle had about talked themselves out, "I suppose you motor girls call that quite a series of adventures?"

"Indeed we do," answered Cora. "I don't know that I care to have any more just like them."

But, though no adventures just like those narrated here occurred to the motor girls, the possession of their new cars led them into a strange complication not long afterward, and the details of it will be set down in the next book of this series, to be entitled: "The Motor Girls on a Tour; or, Keeping a Strange Promise."

"Let's have a race!" cried Jack, who was handling the new car of the twins. "Come on, Cora, I challenge you."

"Not now, Jack, dear," replied his sister. "I just want to rest -- and think," and she slowed her car down and ran along a quiet country road, with Bess and Jack trailing in the rear.

<eob>

The Jungle Fugitives: A Tale Of Life And Adventure In India

By

Edward S. Ellis



Chapter I.

In The Spring Of 1857.

All through India, with its fanatical population five times as great as that of England, the rumblings of the coming uprising had been heard for months. The disaffection had been spreading and taking root. The emissaries of the arch-plotters had passed back and forth almost from end to end of the vast empire, with their messages of hatred and appeal. The people were assured that the "Inglese loge" were perfecting their insidious schemes for overthrowing their religion, and the faithful everywhere were called upon to crush the infidels in the dust. The evil seed fell upon the rankest of soil, and grew with a vigor and exuberance that threatened to strangle every other growth.

The plot, as agreed upon, was that a general uprising was to take place throughout India on the last day of May, 1857, but, as is often the case in such far-reaching schemes, the impatience of the mutineers precipitated the tremendous tragedy.

The first serious outbreak took place at Meerut on Sunday, May 10th, just three weeks previous to the time set for the general uprising. That town, with its population of about 40,000 at that time, lies thirty-two miles northeast from Delhi, which was to be the capital of the resurrected Mogul Empire. It was the precipitancy of this first revolt that prevented its fullest success. The intention was to kill every white man, woman and child in the place. Two regiments were clamorous for beginning the massacre, but the Eleventh Native Infantry held back so persistently that the others became enraged and fired a volley among them, killing a number. Thereupon the Eleventh announced themselves ready to take their part in the slaughter that was to free India from the execrated "Inglese loge."

Seeing now for the first time the real peril, the colonel of the Eleventh made an impassioned appeal to the regiment to stand by its colors and to take no part in the useless revolt. While he was speaking, a volley riddled his body, and he tumbled lifeless from his saddle. The Eleventh, however, covered the flight of the other officers, but helped to release a thousand prisoners, suffering punishment for various offenses, and then the hell fire burst forth.

The bungalows of the officers, the mess houses of the troops, and all the buildings between the native lines and Meerut were fired, and the whole became a roaring conflagration, whose glare at night was visible for miles.

When an appeal was made to the Emperor of Delhi by the troopers, he inquired their errand. The lacklustre eyes flashed with a light that had not been seen in them for years, the bowed form acquired new energy, and he gave orders to admit the troopers.

Their message was enough to fan into life the slumbering fires of ambition in the breast of a dying person.

He yielded to the dazzling dream. A throne of silver, laid away for years, was brought into the "hall of special audience," and the tottering form was helped to the seat, into which he sank and looked around upon his frenzied followers. Mohammed Suraj-oo-deen Shah Gezee was now the Great Mogul of India. A royal salute of twenty-one guns was fired by two troops of artillery from Meerut in front of the palace, and the wild multitudes again strained their throats. To the thunder of artillery, the strains of martial music and the shouting of the people, the gates of the palace were flung open, and Prince Mirza Mogul, with his brother, Prince Abu Beker, at the head of the royal bodyguard, rode forth, the king following in an open chariot, surrounded by his bodyguard.

With impressive slowness this strange procession made its way through the principal street, the populace becoming as frantic as so many ghost dancers. Finally a halt was made at the Juma Musjeed, the largest mosque in India, where the banner of the Prophet was unfurled and the Mogul Empire proclaimed.



Chapter II.

On An Afternoon.

Almost due east from Delhi Dr. Hugh Marlowe, a venerable American physician, had lived for more than twenty years. Since the death of his wife, six years previous to the Mutiny, he had dwelt alone with his only daughter, Mary, and their single servant, Mustad, a devout Mussulman. A portion of the time mentioned had been passed without the society of his beloved child, who spent several years in New England (where the physician himself was born and had received his education) at one of the fashionable schools.

Shortly after her graduation, Miss Marlowe met Jack Everson, fresh from Yale, and the acquaintance ripened into mutual love, though the filial affection of the young woman was too profound to permit her to form an engagement with the young man until the consent of her father was obtained, and he would not give that consent until he had met and conversed with the young gentleman face to face and taken his measure, as may be said.

"If he doesn't esteem you enough to make a little journey like the one from America to this country he isn't worth thinking about."

"But he will make the journey," said the blushing daughter, patting the bronzed cheek of the parent whom she idolized as much as he idolized her.

"Don't be to sure of that, my young lady; romantic young girls like you have altogether too much faith in the other sex."

"But he has started," she added with a sly smile.

"He has, eh? He will change his mind before he reaches here. How far has he got?"

"He was due in England many weeks ago."

"Well, well! How soon will he arrive here?"

"I think he is due now."

"Very probably, but his fancy will give out before he reaches this out-of-the-way place."

"I think not, papa."

"Of course not, of course not; I just told you that that is the way with all foolish girls like you."

The old gentleman had assumed a stern earnestness, and he added: "I tell you he will never show himself here! I know what I'm talking about."

"But he is here, papa; let me introduce you to Jack Everson, a physician like yourself."

All this time the smiling young man was standing directly behind the old doctor, who was lazily reclining in a hammock on the shaded lawn, smoking a cheroot, while his daughter sat on a camp stool, with one hand resting on the edge of the hammock, so as to permit her gently to sway it back and forth. As she spoke the tall, muscular American walked forward and extended his hand.

"Doctor, I am glad to make your acquaintance," he said, in his cheery way. The astonished physician came to an upright position like the clicking of the blade of a jackknife, and meeting the salutation, exclaimed:

"Well, I'll be hanged! I never knew a girl so full of nonsense and tricks as Mary. You are welcome, doctor, to my house; let me have a look at you!"

Jack Everson laughingly stepped hack a couple of paces and posed for inspection. The elder deliberately drew his spectacle case from his pocket, adjusted the glasses and coolly scrutinized the young man from head to foot.

"You'll do," he quietly remarked, removing his glasses and returning them to the morocco case; "now, if you'll be good enough to seat yourself, we'll talk over matters until dinner time. When did you arrive?"

Jack seated himself on the remaining camp stool, a few paces from the happy young lady, accepted a cheroot from his host, and the conversation became general. Like most Americans, when at home or travelling, Jack Everson kept his eyes and ears open. He heard at Calcutta, his starting point, at Benares, Allahabad, Cawnpore and other places, the whisperings of the uprising that was soon to come, and his alarm increased as he penetrated the country.

"Worse than all," he said gravely, speaking of his trip, "one of my bearers spoke English well, and quite an intimacy sprang up between us. Since his companions could not utter a word in our language, we conversed freely without being understood. He was reticent at first concerning the impending danger and professed to know nothing of it, but this forenoon be gave me to understand, in words that could not be mistaken, that the whole country would soon be aflame with insurrection."

"Did he offer any advice?" asked Dr. Marlowe, less impressed with the news than was his visitor or his daughter.

"He did; he said that the escape of myself and of your family could be secured only by leaving this place at the earliest moment possible."

"But whither can we go? We are hundreds of miles from the seacoast and should have to journey for weeks through a country swarming with enemies."

"I asked him that question, and his answer was that we should make for Nepaul."

"That is the province to the east of us. It is a mountainous country, a long way off, and hard to reach. Why should he advise us to go thither?"

"I questioned him, but he seemed to fear that his companions would grow suspicious over our conversation and he said nothing more. I thought he would add something definite when we came to separate, and, to loosen his tongue, I gave him an extra fee, but he added never a word, and, unless I am mistaken, regretted what he had already said."

"It seems to me," observed the daughter, "that the man knew it is impossible for us to get to the seacoast, and believed that by going further into the interior we should reach the people who are not affected by the insurrection. Wide as it may be, there must be many points that will not feel it."

"That is the true reason," said her parent, "but, confound it! I have lived in this spot for twenty years; the little town of Akwar lies near, and there is hardly a person in it who has not been my patient. I am known even in Meerut and Delhi, and I can hardly believe the mutineers, for such they seem to be, will harm me or my friends."

"You once told me," replied Mary, "that when an appeal was made to the religion of this people they knew no such thing as fear or mercy."

"And I told you the truth," said her father gravely. "But since we have weapons and plenty of ammunition, and know how to handle the firearms we shall not be led like lambs to the slaughter."

"That is true enough," said Jack, "but it will be of little avail, when our enemies are numbered by the hundred and perhaps the thousand."

"I take it, then, that you favor an abandonment of our home?"

"I do, and with the least possible delay."

"And you, my daughter, are you of the same mind?"

"I am," was the emphatic response.

"Then my decision is that we shall start for the interior and stay there until it is safe to show ourselves again among these people, provided it ever shall be safe."

"When shall you start?"

The parent looked at the sky.

"It is two or three hours to nightfall. We will set out early to-morrow morning before the sun is high in the sky."

"But will we not be more liable to discovery?" asked Jack.

"Not if we use care. I am familiar with the country for miles in every direction. We shall have to travel for the first two or three days through a thick jungle, and it is too dangerous work to undertake in the night-time. This, you know, is the land of the cobra and the tiger, not to mention a few other animals and reptiles equally unpleasant in their nature. Last night," continued the doctor, "I saw a glare in the sky off to the westward on the opposite side of the river in the direction of Meerut. I wonder what it meant?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Jack, "that explains something that the palanquin bearer said to me about there being so many Inglese where there are none to-day. I could not catch his meaning, though he mentioned Meerut. But he gave me to understand that it was not quite time yet for the uprising, which would come in a few weeks."

"Those things are apt to be precipitated. I have no doubt that the mutineers burned the city last night. If so, the main body will hurry to Delhi, which, being the ancient capital of the Mogul Empire, will become the new one. Some of the rebels may take it into their heads to come in this direction. What is the matter, Dr. Everson?"



Chapter III.

Yankee Marksmanship.

As Jack Everson was seated he faced the broad, sluggish Ganges, with the low, green banks beyond. He was looking over the water, in the rays of the declining sun, when he saw something that caused him to rise hastily from his seat and peer earnestly across the river toward the opposite shore. Observing his action, the doctor asked his question. Both he and his daughter, rising to their feet, gazed in the same direction. It was easy to see what had attracted the attention of their guest. A party of horsemen, fully twenty, if not more, in number, had approached the river and were now halted on the other side, looking across in the direction of Dr. Marlowe's home, as if debating the question of making it a visit.

"Let me get my glass," said Mary, starting toward the house, hardly a hundred feet distant.

"Allow me to bring it," interrupted Jack. "It is on one of the chairs on the veranda, and I want my rifle."

Taking the glass from him on his return, the young woman levelled it at the group of horsemen on the other side.

"I cannot make out who they are," she said, passing the glass to her father.

It took the parent but a few seconds to answer the question. One sweeping glance told him.

"They are Ghoojurs," he remarked, with as much calmness as he could assume.

"And who are Ghoojurs?" asked Jack Everson, less excited than his friends.

"They belong to the nomadic tribes which originally occupied India, and are among the worst wretches in the world. They are brigands and robbers, who are to be dreaded at all times. Now, if the revolt has broken out, they will be as merciless as tigers."

"It looks as if they intended to make us a visit, doctor?"

"Alas! there can be no earthly doubt of it."

"Let us hurry into the jungle," said Mary, her face paling with fear. "We have not a minute to waste."

"The advice is good, but before acting on it I should like to make an experiment."

During this brief interval Jack Everson had carefully examined his rifle to assure himself that it was in good condition.

"Heavens, man!" exclaimed Dr. Marlowe, "you are not going to try a shot at them?"

"That is my intention."

"They are a mile distant!"

"One of my medals was won for hitting a target at exactly that distance," replied Jack, continuing his preparations.

"It is impossible that you should succeed."

"But not impossible that I should try, so please don't bother the man at the wheel."

"They have ridden into the water," added the young woman, still nervous and excited.

"Which will serve to shorten the distance somewhat."

"Why not wait until they are halfway across; or, better still, not wait at all?" inquired the doctor.

Jack Everson made no reply, but, lying down on his back, he slightly separated his raised knees, and, by crossing his ankles, made a rest for the barrel of his rifle. The left arm was crooked under his head, so as to serve as a pillow or support, leaving the hand to steady the stock of his gun, while the right inclosed the trigger guard.

The horsemen, instead of riding side by side, were strung along in a line, with the leader several paces in advance and mounted on a rather large horse of a coal-black color. Directly behind him came one upon a bay, while a little further back rode another on a white steed. There could be no question that they were on their way to kill without mercy.

The situation was intensely trying to father and daughter. The whole party of Ghoojurs had entered the Ganges and were steadily approaching. The water was so shallow that it could be seen as it splashed about the bodies of the riders, who were talking and laughing, as if in anticipation of the enjoyment awaiting them. They preserved their single file, like so many American Indians in crossing a stream, and their last thought must have been of any possible danger that could threaten them from the three on the further bank.

The situation was becoming unbearable when the rifle cracked with a noise no louder than a Chinese cracker, and a faint puff of smoke curled upward from the muzzle of the weapon. At the same moment the Ghoojur at the front, on his black horse, flung up his arms and tumbled sideways into the water, which splashed over his animal's head. Frightened, the horse reared, pawed the air, and, whirling about, galloped back to the bank, sending the water flying in showers from his hoofs.

"Score me a bull's-eye!" called Jack Everson, who in his pleasure over his success, could not wait for the result.

"But see!" cried Mary, "you have only infuriated them. Oh! father, how can we save ourselves?"



Chapter IV.

Flight.

The success of the first shot gave Jack Everson self-confidence and he took less time in aiming the second, which was as unerring as the first. Another Ghoojur plunged off his horse and gave but a single struggle when he sank from sight in the shallow water.

"Another bull's-eye!" called Jack, proceeding to reload his piece. "I hope, doctor, you are keeping a correct score; I must have credit for all I do."

"Now for my distinguished friend on the milk-white steed," said Jack, proceeding to adjust his telescopic sight to that individual. "If they will send over the three horses it will give us one apiece."

But the Ghoojurs had had enough of this fearful business. They saw that some unaccountable fatality was at work and it was madness for them to remain. With never a suspicion of the truth they wheeled their animals about and sent them galloping for the bank which they had left a short time before full of hope and anticipation.

"I'm sorry for that," reflected Jack Everson, "for it mixes things and I can't pick out my man, but here goes."

In one sense, his opportunity was better than before; for, while he could not select his particular target, he had but to aim at the bunch to make sure of hitting somebody, which is precisely what he did.

The Ghoojur whom he punctured did not fall, for the reason that two of his friends reached out and prevented him. It was a piece of supererogation on their part, for when the party emerged from the Ganges upon dry land that fellow was of no further account.

Jack now showed more haste than before in reloading his weapon, fearing that the party would get beyond his reach before he could fire for the fourth time. Much to his regret, they did so, for though he made the shot, it was necessarily so hurried that it inflicted no injury, and the whole party galloped out of sight over the slight swell without showing any further concern for their companions left behind. Jack now rose to his feet with the question:

"What is my record, doctor?"

"Three bull's-eyes; your score is perfect."

"Hardly, for the last was a miss; however, three out of a possible four is pretty fair when the circumstances are considered. I suspect that that particular party is not likely to give us further trouble."

"No, they will not forget the lesson."

"If we can induce our enemies to make their approach by the same ford and when the sun is shining this will become truly amusing."

"But the Ghoojurs will not repeat that mistake. This affair has served another purpose," added the physician, "we must not delay our departure."

"Do you advise our going while it is night?"

"I advised the contrary a little while ago, but I confess I am afraid to stay in the house, even for a few hours. However, we will take our dinner there, gather a few belongings and then hurry off. We shall find some spot where it will be safe to pass the night, and where we are not likely to be molested, because no one will know where to find us."

All glanced in the direction of the other shore, and seeing nothing to cause misgiving moved to the house, a low, roomy structure, though of moderate proportions, with a broad veranda extending along two sides. It was time for the evening meal, and there was some surprise felt that Mustad, the servant, had not summoned them before.

This surprise turned to astonishment and alarm when it was discovered that Mustad was not in the house. No preparation had been made for dinner, and though his name was called several times in a loud voice, there was no response.

"He has left us," said the doctor.

"What does it mean?" asked Mary.

"It can have but one meaning: by some legerdemain, such as our own Indians show in telegraphing news from one mountain top to another, word has reached Mustad of what has taken place, and he has been called upon to join the faithful, and has been only too glad to do it."

"I should think he would have attempted to do us harm before going."

"He is too great a coward."

"But his fanaticism will make him reckless."

"When he gets among his friends then he will be among the worst."

"But, father, he was always meek and gentle and respectful."

"Those are the kind who become directly the opposite."

"Do you think he would harm us?"

"I have no doubt of it," was the reply of the doctor. "I know the breed; I have twice been the means of saving his life through my medicines, and Mary nursed him for three weeks when he was suffering from a fever."

"Yon may be doing him an injustice," ventured Jack Everson, to whom the judgment of his friend seemed bitter.

"I wish I could think so, but, Mary, if you can provide us with something in the way of food, Mr. Everson and I will get the things together that we are to take with us."

Dr. Marlowe wisely decided not to burden themselves with unnecessary luggage. Jack took from his trunk a few needed articles and stowed them into a travelling bag whose supporting strap could be flung over one shoulder. Though a physician himself, admitted to practice, he had brought none of his instruments with him, for the good reason that he saw no sense in doing so. Into the somewhat larger bag of the elder doctor were placed his most delicate instruments and several medical preparations, mostly the results of his experiments. They were too precious to be lost if there was any way of preserving them. Mary packed her articles in a small travelling bag, the strap of which she, too, flung over her shoulder, though Jack asked to be allowed to relieve her.

It was after the hurried meal had been eaten by lamplight that the three completed their preparations for departure. That to which they paid the most attention was their means of defense. Jack Everson had brought a plentiful supply of cartridges for his superb breechloader; and the belt was already secured around his body. Dr. Marlowe never allowed his supply of ammunition to run low, so that the two were well supplied in that respect.

Jack was pleased to find that the revolver belonging to Mary Marlowe was of the same calibre as his own, so that the cartridges could be used indiscriminately.

"I remember," he said to her, when the parent was just beyond hearing, "that you were quite skillful with your weapon."

"Not specially so, but what skill I gained is due to your tuition."

"Not so much to that as to the aptness of the pupil."

"Your remark is more gallant than true, but I hope I shall not be called upon to use this weapon as you used yours awhile ago."

"Such is my prayer, but if the necessity arises do not hesitate."

"Be assured I shall not," she replied, with a flash of her fine eyes and a compression of her lips.



Chapter V.

Companions In Flight.

Everything needed having been gathered, the lamps were extinguished, and with the physician in the lead, the three passed out of the front door to the veranda. The doctor decided to leave the door unfastened, since it was useless to secure it.

Suddenly, when the doctor was about to give the word to move, he saw a shadowy figure in the direction of the river.

"Sh!" he whispered; "it looks as if we had waited too long; some one is approaching. Be ready to use your gun or to retreat into the house if necessary to fight it out there."

"It is a white man," said the daughter in an undertone; "he may be a patient."

It was clear by this time that the stranger was not a native, for he was dressed in civilized costume and his gait was that of a European. He did not perceive the silent figures until within a few paces of the veranda, when he paused abruptly, as if startled.

"Good evening," he said in English. "Is this Dr. Marlowe?"

"It is; who are you?"

"My name is Anderson; I was looking for you."

"In what way can I serve you?"

"You have heard the news, I suppose," said the man, keeping his position, and looking up to the three, who were now all on the edge of the veranda; "the native soldiers at Meerut mutinied yesterday, killed most of their officers, plundered the city, slaying every white person they could find, after which most of them hurried to Delhi."

"You bring dreadful tidings; I had heard nothing definite, but suspected all that you have told me. Are you alone and why do you come to me?"

"I fled with my wife and two other families, Turner and Wharton, from the outskirts of Meerut as soon as there seemed a chance for us. We made our way to the river, found a boat and paddled to this place, for we had no sail and there was scarcely any wind."

"Where are your friends?"

"I left them by the edge of the river in the boat, promising to rejoin them in a few minutes."

"Have you no companions, but those you named?"

"None; my wife and I buried two children last Summer; Mr. Turner has none, and Mr. Wharton and his young wife were but recently married."

"You have not told me why you come to me?"

"Chiefly to warn you of your peril and to beseech you to fly before it is too late."

"I thank you very much for your solicitude; it was kind on the part of you and your friends, but it strikes me that one place is about as safe as another."

"We are so far from the large cities and the coast that it is useless to attempt to reach any of them. Our first aim was to get as far from Meerut as possible; then as we found ourselves approaching your home, it seemed to us there was a chance for our lives by pushing to the northward, into the wilder and less settled country, where the flames of the insurrection may not reach."

"Your sentiments are our own; you have been wonderfully fortunate in getting this far; my friends and I have seen enough to warn us to lose no time, and we were on the point of starting when I saw you."

"May I ask what course you intend to take?"

"I have lived here for twenty years, so that I am acquainted with the section. My intention was to follow a slightly travelled road, which, in fact, is little more than a bridle path, until several miles beyond Akwar, when we should come back to the main highway and keep to that for fifty or perhaps a hundred miles. By that time, we should be safe, if such a thing as safety is possible."

"Your plan is a good one, but is not mine better?"

"What is that?"

"I, too, am familiar with this part of the country; a stream empties into the Ganges just eastward of your house, hardly a half mile distant; it must have its source somewhere among the foothills of the Himalayas. At any rate, it is navigable for all of a hundred miles. It seems to me that when paddling up that stream at night, between the wooded banks, there will be less chance of being discovered by enemies than when travelling overland, as you contemplate."

"I am favorably impressed with your plan; do I understand you to invite us to join your party?"

"You are more than welcome; our boat will accommodate us all without crowding, but I regret to say we have but a single gun among us. That is mine, which I left with my friends against my return."

"We are well supplied in that respect; we accept your invitation with many thanks."

As the doctor spoke he stepped down from the veranda, followed by the others, and Mr. Anderson led the way across the lawn to the river, where his friends were awaiting his coming with many misgivings. A general introduction followed. A common danger makes friends of strangers, and in a few minutes all were as well acquainted as if they had known one another for days and weeks. Anderson and Turner were men in middle life, while Wharton was of about the same age as Jack Everson. They had lived for several years on the outskirts of Meerut, but it was young Wharton who discovered the impending peril, and it was due to him that the three families escaped the fate of hundreds of others on that woful night. The young wife and Mary Marlowe became intimate friends at once, while, as has been said, there was a hearty, genuine comradeship immediately established among all.

The boat was larger than Dr. Marlowe and his companions suspected. It was more than twenty feet in length, with a cabin at the stern, a place for a mast, though there was neither mast nor sail on board. Anderson had spoken of paddling to this point, when, had he spoken correctly, he would have said that no paddles were used, but that the craft was propelled by means of poles.



Chapter VI.

On The Ganges.

While all the members of the party were cheered by hope, none forgot that a dreadful peril impended. Enough time had passed since the revolt at Meerut for the news to spread even beyond the little town of Akwar, which was within a fourth of a mile of the home of Dr. Marlowe. He was aware that some of the most fanatical Mussulmans in all India lived there. The action of the servant Mustad, who owed his life to the father and child, was proof of what might be expected from these miscreants when swept off their feet by the delirium that was spreading with the frightful swiftness of a prairie fire.

Accordingly no time was lost. There was a hurried scrambling on board, the water fortunately being deep enough near shore to allow all to step upon the boat dry shod. The faint moon revealed the smooth surface of the Ganges for nearly a hundred yards from land, but the further shore was veiled in darkness. It was at this juncture that Miss Marlowe made an annoying discovery.

"Oh, papa, I have forgotten my pistol!"

"Wait and I'll soon get it," she added, starting to leap the short distance from the gunwale to land, but Jack Everson caught her arm.

"You must not think of it; tell me where you left the weapon and I'll bring it."

"I laid it on the table in the dining-room and in the hurry forgot it when we left."

Jack turned to his friends.

"Don't wait here," he said, aware of the nervousness of the whole party. "Push down stream, and I'll quickly overtake you."

Without waiting for further explanation, he leaped the slight space and started up the lawn on a loping trot. For convenience he left his rifle behind, but made sure that his revolver was in his hip pocket. He did not apprehend that he would need the weapon in the short time he expected to be absent, but if anything went awry it would be more useful than the rifle.

In that moment of profound stillness following the disappearance of the young man among the trees grouped about the lawn, the motionless people on the boat felt a thrill of terror at the unmistakable sound of oars from some point on the river not distant.

"Let us land and take refuge in your house," suggested young Wharton; "we cannot make a decent fight in this boat."

"We shall have a better chance than in the house," was the reply of the physician; "the bank of the river is shaded by trees a little further down; we must lose no time in getting there, and avoid the least noise."

There were two long poles belonging to the boat, one of which was grasped by Wharton, while Anderson swayed the other, the remainder watching their movements, which could not have been more skillful. Pressing the end against the bank, and afterwards against the clayey bottom, the craft speedily swung several rods from shore.

While the two men were thus employed, the others peered off in the gloom and listened for a repetition of the sounds that had frightened them a few minutes before. They were not heard again, nor could the straining vision detect anything of the dreaded object, which could not be far away. Not a person on board doubted that a number of their enemies were near and searching for them. Dr. Marlowe would have taken comfort from this fact had the circumstances been different; for the men who were hunting for him would go to his house, since it was there they must gain their first knowledge of his flight; but, as he viewed it, it was impossible that they should be wholly ignorant of the boat and its occupants, which must have made most of the distance before night closed in.

It followed, therefore, that if they were looking for the doctor and his family they were also looking for the boat and the fugitives it contained. The low-lying shore, with no trees fringing the bank, was the worst place for him and his friends, and he was in a fever of eagerness to reach the protecting shadows along shore. The nerves of all were keyed to the tensest point, when they caught the dim outlines of the overhanging growth, with the leafage as exuberant as it always is in a subtropical region at that season of the year. The men toiled with vigor and care, while the others glanced from the gloom of the river to the deeper gloom of the bank, which seemed to recede as they labored toward it. With a relief that cannot be imagined the bulky craft glided into the bank of deeper gloom, which so wrapped it about that it was invisible from any point more than a dozen yards distant.

It is inconceivable how a narrower escape could have come about, for the two men had hardly ceased poling, allowing the boat to move forward with the momentum already gained, when their enemies were discovered. Mary Marlowe's arm was interlocked with that of her father, when she nervously clutched it and whispered:

"Yonder is their boat!"

All saw the terrifying sight at the same moment. Almost opposite, and barely fifty yards out on the river, could be traced a moving shadow, the outlines of which showed a craft similarly shaped to their own, except that it was somewhat smaller and sat lower in the water. The men were too dimly seen for their number to be counted or their motions observed, but, as in the former instance, the sounds indicated that they were using paddles.

Since it was certain that the natives were searching for the fugitives in the boat under the shadows of the bank every one of the latter wondered that the pursuers remained out in the stream, when there was need of unimpeded vision. They half expected their enemies to turn to the left and come directly for them. But nothing of the kind took place. The craft headed down the river, the sound of the paddles so slight that only the closely listening ear could hear them, until it melted in the gloom and vanished from sight.

It was a vast relief for the moment, but little comfort could our friends take from the fact. Their enemies were not likely to go far, when they would suspect that something of the nature described had occurred, and they would return and grope along shore for their victims. So certain was Dr. Marlowe of this turn that he believed the wisest course was for the entire party to abandon the boat, and, as may be said, "take to the woods." They had the whole night before them, and, with his intimate knowledge of the roads, paths and trails of the country and jungles, he was confident of guiding them beyond danger and to some place where, when morning dawned, there would be little to fear in the way of discovery.

This course would have been taken except for the absence of Jack Everson. There was no way of apprising him of the change of plan, and, with his ignorance of the topography of their surroundings, he would be certain to go astray, and for any one in his situation, to go astray meant death.



Chapter VII.

An Unexpected Meeting.

Meanwhile, Mr. Jack Everson found matters exceedingly interesting.

When he informed his friends that he would rejoin them in the course of a few minutes the possibility of anything interfering with his promise did not occur to him. That danger threatened every member of the little company may be set down as self-evident, but what could happen to disturb him in the brief interval spent in running up the slope, dashing into the house and back again to the river's side?

Such were his thoughts as he entered the shadows and hurriedly approached the front veranda. Although he had reached this spot within the preceding twenty-four hours the evening meal and the preparations for flight had given him sufficient knowledge of the interior to remove all difficulty in going straight to the table in the dining-room and taking the forgotten revolver therefrom.

The first tingle of misgiving came to the young man when he was close to the porch and about to step upon it. He remembered that it was himself who had extinguished the lamp on the table as the three were about to pass into the hall and out of doors, but lo! a light was shining from that very room. What could it mean?

"That's deuced queer," he thought, coming to an abrupt halt; "I screwed down that lamp and blew into the chimney in the orthodox fashion, so it couldn't have been that I unconsciously left the wick burning."

At this juncture he made another significant discovery. The front door which he had seen Dr. Marlowe close was partly open. The inference was inevitable: some one was in the house. In the brief time that had passed one or more persons had entered and were busy at that moment in the interior. Perhaps they had been watching among the shadows on the outside for the occupants to leave the way open for them to pass within.

Prudence dictated that Jack Everson should not linger another moment. Indeed, he ought to have counted himself fortunate that he had made his discovery in time to save himself from running into a trap. He should return to his friends with the alarming news and help them in getting away with the utmost haste possible. But Jack did nothing of the sort.

The chief cause of his lingering was his desire to obtain the revolver belonging to Miss Marlowe. Recalling the paucity of firearms among the people on the boat he felt that a single weapon could be ill spared. But above and beyond this cold truth was a vague, shuddering suspicion, amounting to a belief, that the young woman would soon need that very weapon; that, without it she would become another of the unspeakable victims of the fiends who made the Sepoy Mutiny one of the most hideous blots that darken the pages of history. He compressed his lips and swore that the revolver should be recovered, if the thing were possible, failing in which he would compel her to take his own.

The first thing was to learn whether there was more than one person in the house and what business had brought them there. His own return was not expected, so that that advantage was in his favor. He stepped lightly upon the veranda and, like a burglar in his stocking feet, passed across the porch and pushed back the door far enough to admit him. This required but a few inches, and the hinges gave out not the slightest creak. The entrance to the dining-room was closed, so that all was darkness, but he plainly saw the yellow thread along the edges of the door, caused by the lamp in the room beyond.

Once within the hall he listened intently, but could not detect the slightest sound within the building. He had already drawn his revolver, and held it ready for instant use. Knowing the value of seconds, he began moving along the hall toward the door, which was only a few paces distant, and had passed half the space when a muttered execration escaped him, for his foot struck some object that was kicked the remaining length of the hall with a clatter that he verily believed must have been heard by his friends on the boat.

No use now for precaution. Determined to have the other weapon, but not unmindful of the peril involved, he strode the few remaining steps and hastily shoved open the door of the dining-room. If a foe was there with the revolver he was quite likely to hold it levelled at the intruder, because of which Jack, when he burst into the room, held his own weapon pointed, so as to prevent any enemy from "getting the drop" on him.

For one moment the young man believed it was all a mistake and that, despite the precaution taken upon leaving the house, he had not extinguished the lamp, whose wick had recovered its vigor, but the suspicion was hardly formed when he knew there was no foundation for it. In the first place no lamp ever acts that way, and, the front door having been closed, could not open of itself. More convincing than all was the fact that Mary Marlowe's revolver, which had brought him back, was missing.

Diagonally across the dining-room from where Jack Everson stood was the door leading to the rear of the house. This was open for three or four inches, and while searching the apartment with all the keenness of his powerful vision, he distinctly saw it move. The distance was no more than an inch, but he was not mistaken, and knew it had been drawn that much nearer shut. Since no air was stirring the conclusion was inevitable that some one was on the other side who was aware of the entrance of the American.

The position of the lamp on the table threw the crevice caused by the slight opening of the door in shadow, and all was blank darkness beyond. But, looking in that direction, Jack caught the gleam of a pair of eyes, peering from the gloom like the orbs of a jungle tiger gathering himself for a spring. Nothing could be seen but the glow of the eyes, that seemed to have something of the phosphorescence of the cat species, but he could not mistake the meaning of what he saw.

Jack had partly lowered his revolver, after the first glance around the room, but it now came to a level again with the suddenness of lightning and was pointed straight at the gleaming eyes, as he spoke in a low, deadly tone:

"Come forth or I'll send a bullet through your infernal brain!"

Never was man more fairly caught. In the language of the West, Jack Everson had the drop on him, and none could be more alive to the fact than the fellow who was thus taken at disadvantage. It was merited punishment for his foolhardiness in inviting his own discomfiture. At first the chances of the two were equal, but the white man was more alive to the situation.

The Asiatic showed his appreciation of the situation by stepping forward into the lamplight.

Incredible as it may seem, he not only held a pistol in his right hand, but it was half raised and pointed at Jack Everson.



Chapter VIII.

Mustad.

The East Indian who stood before Jack Everson, thoroughly cowed and submissive, was unusually tall, dark, and thin to emaciation. He wore a turban, a light linen jacket which encompassed his chest to below the waist, with a sash or girdle, loose flapping trousers and sandals. In the girdle at his waist was a long, formidable knife or yataghan, which he would have been glad to bury in the heart of the man who had thus brought him to his knees.

When Jack Everson demanded to know his identity the fellow replied in a low voice that was not lacking in a certain musical quality:

"Mustad!"

The young man half expected the answer.

"What business brings you here?"

"He is my master; I work for him. I have been to see my aged mother, who is very ill. I have just returned to serve my master."

"That is not true! You went away to bring some of your people to kill the doctor and his family."

"Sahib does Mustad great wrong," replied that individual in a grieved voice. "I love my master and my mistress. I am not ungrateful. I would give my life sooner than harm a hair of their heads. Where have they gone?"

It was the last question that removed all lingering doubt of the native's treachery. He had returned to bring about their overthrow, but knew not where to look for them. When he could ascertain whither they had fled he and his brother miscreants would be at their heels.

"Suppose I should tell you that they had gone to Meerut or Delhi?"

"Allah be praised!" exclaimed the other devoutly; "for then they will be safe."

"Is there no trouble in Meerut or Delhi?"

"What trouble can there be!" asked Mustad, with well-feigned simplicity. "It is in those cities that the missionaries and many of the Inglese live. They have lived there many years. What harm could befall them?"

By this time Jack Everson had lost all doubt of the perfidy of the man. He could not fail to know what had taken place within the preceding twenty-four hours in the cities named, and he lacked his usual cunning when he tried to deceive his questioner.

The young man saw that it was a waste of time to question Mustad. No reliance could be placed on anything he said.

"You will wait here, then, until Dr. Marlowe comes back?"

Mustad vigorously nodded his head and replied:

"I shall wait, and my eyes will be filled with tears until I see the good man and his child again. When will they come to their home?"

"Well, the best thing you can do is to wait here until you see them again."

As Jack made this remark he took a quick step forward and picked up the revolver. He did not pause to examine it, but was sure that none of the chambers had been discharged. Slipping the weapon into his coat pocket, and still grasping his own, he said:

"I think I shall go out on the veranda and await the return of the doctor."

As he made this remark he committed a mistake for which there was no excuse. Instead of backing out of the room he turned about and started through the open door into the hall. The walking cane against which he had once struck his foot still lay where he had kicked it, and he tripped over it a second time. The mishap, slight as it was, saved his life. As he stumbled in the gloom something whizzed like the rush of a cobra's head past his temple, nipping his hat and striking the opposite wall with force enough to kill two or three men. It was the yataghan of Mustad, who had drawn and hurled it with inconceivable quickness and with an aim so unerring that it would have brained the unsuspecting American but for his fortunate stumble.

The furious Jack whirled around with the purpose of sending a bullet through the brain of the wretch, but something like a shadow flitted through the lamplight while Jack was in the act of turning and, before he could secure any aim, the scoundrel had vanished. Determined not to be balked the young man let fly, and then, bounding across the room, snapped back the door, meaning to repeat the shot at the first glimpse of Mustad. But the latter was familiar with all the turnings of the house, while Jack knew nothing of that portion of the building. He could neither see nor hear anything, and did not deem it prudent to use the lamp to help in the search, though it was hard to retire from the field and leave the miscreant unpunished.

To do so, however, was the wiser course, and again he moved into the hall. This time he backed thither, though, since Mustad had no weapon, it was impossible that the attempt upon the young man's life should be repeated. The outer door was opened, and once more he stood on the veranda.

Before venturing across the lawn in the direction of the river he spent a minute or two in peering into the surrounding gloom and listening. He may have been mistaken, but he fancied he heard more than one person moving stealthily about in the house. Once he was sure he caught the sound of whispered words, so that the astounding fact was established that during the few minutes occupied in talking with Mustad he had a friend within instant call.

"All of which goes to prove that these people are cowards at heart," was the sage conclusion of Jack Everson. "They will throw away their lives for the sake of Islamism, and they will fight like wildcats if a man turns his back upon them; but when he stands face to face they are whipped curs."

Since there was no doubt that Mustad and his companions would be on the alert to note the course taken by Everson, so as to learn what had become of his friends, the young man saw the need of misleading them. He took care not to return to the river over his own trail. Instead of doing so he moved to the right, as if on his way to the nearby town of Akwar. When satisfied he was beyond range of the keen vision of those in the house of Dr. Marlowe he made an abrupt change, which led him toward the Ganges, forgetting, when he did so, that there might be natives in the vicinity who were not in the building at all.



Chapter IX.

Scouting.

Had Mr. Jack Everson spent a few years in Hindoostan he would not have made the blunders that we are obliged to record concerning his movements after parting from his friends on the boat. He had acquitted himself pluckily while in the house of the physician, but his escape from death at the hands of Mustad and his companion was providential and, under similar circumstances, was not likely to be repeated once in a thousand times.

Moreover, with his knowledge, already gained, of Asiatic cunning, he ought to have reflected that if two of their dusky enemies were within the house there were likely to be others in the immediate neighborhood. It looked as if Mustad had entered the dwelling expecting to find the physician there. He was prepared with an excuse for his abrupt departure and an explanation that would satisfy his indulgent master and mistress. Keeping his companion in the background the wretch could then complete his plans for turning the party over to the fury of their brother murderers, who probably were calmly waiting on the outside for the signal.

Nothing of all this, we repeat, entered the head of Jack until he had made the change in the course he was following and had passed down the slope to the river bank. His effort to mislead his enemies necessarily took him some distance above the point where he had left the boat, and he now set out to find his way to it. It was while he was engaged in doing so that he became aware that he was followed.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he muttered, coming to an abrupt stop; "it seems to me that these infernal imps are everywhere."

He had not seen any one, but a rustling, grating noise in the shadow of the nearest tree told him where the immediate danger lay. Believing that an unexpected course was best he wheeled and ran at full speed toward the tree, which contained a large number of dense, wide-spreading branches.

The result was surprising. Instead of one native, two leaped out from cover and ran away at full speed. They had been stealing after him, on the watch for a chance to bring him down by a blow in the back, when the tables were turned in this unexpected manner. Jack, therefore, had no hesitation in firing at the one on his right, and immediately after at his companion, whose superior speed had placed him considerably in advance. As a consequence, he missed the latter, while the first emitted a screech, leaped high in air and sprawled forward on his face as dead as Julius Caesar.

The fact that his pursuers were two in number led the young man to believe they were Mustad and his companion, whom he had heard in the house. A few minutes later he made another halt. He was able, despite the gloom, to identify the spot where he had left the boat, but it was not in sight.

"I told them not to wait for me, and they acted on my suggestion. They can't be far off, and I hope have run into no trouble."

The occurrences of the last quarter of an hour gave Jack a vivid idea of the increasing peril. The natives from the nearby town were hunting for the physician, his daughter and himself, all of whom had not left the house a minute too soon and now, while he paused on the shore of the river and listened, he too caught the sound that had filled his friends with dread. There were no noises from the jungles to the eastward, though at times the outcries are terrifying, and the shouts and shrieks of the mutineers and their victims at Meerut and Delhi were too far away to reach his ears, but he heard now and then the faint sound of paddles out on the stream.

"Anderson spoke of using paddles," reflected Jack, "but it was a misnomer, for they have none, and they would not have pushed so far out from shore when they knew I expected to return so soon. All that proves that a party of devils have also a boat and are hunting for the one in which our new friends are groping for safety."

This threatened to make a new complication, but the plain course for Jack was to keep along the shore of the river and press his search for the craft, which he was certain was not far off.

His experience had taught him the need of unceasing vigilance, and as he advanced, he scrutinized the ground in front and on every hand, like a scout stealing into a hostile camp. Within less time than he counted upon he saw the boat lying close to shore, where his friends were awaiting him. As soon as he recognized the craft he announced himself in a guarded undertone, to guard against any mistake, and the next moment clambered aboard, where, it need not be said, he was warmly welcomed.

After they had exchanged greetings the doctor asked:

"Did I not hear the report of your pistol a little while ago?"

"Inasmuch as I discharged it very probably you did."

Thereupon Jack told of what he had seen and done since leaving the boat to recover the pistol of Miss Marlowe. It was a story of deep interest to all, and his account of his meeting with the faithless Mustad deeply stirred his master.

"Despite my denunciation of the fellow I confess I had a lingering suspicion that I might have been mistaken; but all doubt now is removed. There is no native in all India to be more dreaded than he."

"I have a faint hope that it was he with whom I made my fourth bull's-eye," remarked Jack.

"Hardly likely. Probably there were two others skulking on the outside and waiting for a chance at us."

"But they had all the chance they could have asked at me."

"It may have been the doctor and his daughter whom they were the most eager to secure," suggested Mr. Turner.

"That is my belief," added Anderson.

"And mine, too," joined the doctor himself. "It seems to be a trait of our perverse human nature to hate with the deepest intensity those who have done us the greatest kindness."

This remark meant more to Jack Everson than to any one else, for he believed that it was the daughter who was the special object of the natives. That reminded him of the weapon he had secured.

"Here," he said, "take it before I forget to return it."

"You risked a good deal for my sake," she said gratefully, accepting the weapon, "and I cannot thank you sufficiently --  --  Well, I declare!"

She was in the act of placing the pistol in the pocket of her dress when she made the discovery that her weapon was already there. Jack Everson had taken Mustad's own property from him.



Chapter X.

Along Shore.

The curious incident served to lift for a brief time the oppression that rested upon all. The remarkable part of it was how Miss Marlowe could believe she had left her revolver in her home when it was in the pocket of her dress, where, it would seem, she ought to have felt it while walking across the lawn to the boat, even if she had forgotten to examine that most natural receptacle for it when she first missed the weapon.

"It is the most stupid thing I ever did," she declared. "I meant to keep it in my hand while coming from the house, and, awaking to the fact that it was not there, did not stop to examine my pocket. It is too bad."

"We have gained an additional means of defense," observed Mr. Turner, "and that may be decisive before we are through with this business."

Now that all were together again each was impatient to be on the move. Wharton and Turner began using the poles with the skill shown some time before, and once more the unwieldy craft swung slowly down the Ganges, with all on board alert for the first sign of their enemies. The women were advised to remain in the small cabin, where they would be safe against stealthy shots.

As the boat crept under the shadows along shore the spirits of all improved, for it seemed that with every rod placed behind, them the danger was diminished, and by and by would vanish altogether.

"That, however, cannot be," said the doctor to Jack Everson, as they sat a little apart from the rest, near the bow of the craft. "In truth, I see but one possible escape for this party."

"What is that?"

"I have already referred to it. It will take us weeks to reach Calcutta on the east or Bombay on the west, and between us and each of these points the hell fire will rage for months to come. To go south is equally suicidal, since it would take us into the heart of the insurrection. I repeat that there is but one thing to be done: that is to push northward, as I said, until we reach a people too far removed to be affected by this deviltry."

"To find a simple people where our knowledge of medicine will cause us to be looked upon as superior beings. I have discovered a remedy for the bite of a cobra which will stand one in good stead, should a native be bitten. They believe, you know, as does the rest of the world, that the bite of this serpent is certain death. But I have discovered a remedy, the necessary drugs of which I carry in this case," touching the leather case strapped to his back.

"Beyond all doubt. You have tested this remedy of yours?"

"I have, twice."

"Upon man or brute?"

"Upon both."



Chapter XI.

A Collision.

Although the two physicians were deeply interested in the question of toxicology they could not forget their situation and its perils. The craft had nearly completed its half mile to the mouth of the tributary which it was intended to ascend, when the polemen, pausing for a moment's rest, whispered that they heard the sound of paddles again.

"There they are!"

It was Jack Everson who uttered the exclamation, loud enough for all to hear. He pointed down stream as he spoke, and every one perceived the dreaded boat returning.

Although nearer at hand than before, it seemed to be following the course of the river, and there was hope that it would again pass without discovering the shrinking ones so near land.

When first observed the other boat was fifty yards out and not quite so far down stream. Moving against the current its progress was slower than before, but its advance was plainly perceptible. The craft of the white people had lost the momentum imparted by the poling, and was now controlled only by the current, which was so sluggish close to the land that the motion was hardly noticeable.

The hopes of our friends steadily rose until the other boat was almost directly abreast. It would seem that if the occupants intended attacking they would have veered inward before this, but there could be no assurance so long as they remained visible.

Every one started when the gaunt, sloping figure suddenly became upright at the prow of the boat and stood motionless. He had ceased using the pole that he had been plying with so much vigor. At the same moment the noise of the paddles ceased, proving that the men controlling them had also stopped work. What could it mean?

No one of the white people stirred or whispered. Could they have done so they would have checked the beating of their hearts through fear of being betrayed. Surely something had awakened the suspicion of the natives.

Suddenly some one spoke on board the craft. The voice was audible, but the doctor, who was a master of Hindoostanee, could not catch what was said. At the same instant a splash was heard, and the lank form bent over, as he pressed the long pole against the bottom of the river and resumed his slow walking toward the stern. The noise of paddles, too, was heard again. The craft had resumed its progress, and for an instant every one believed it was about to pass by. Then Jack Everson said:

"By heaven! they're coming for us!"

All saw that the boat was swinging around so as to head toward them.

"Into the cabin, quick!" commanded the doctor, and the women quickly scrambled out of sight, while the men lay down, so as to screen their bodies as much as possible.

"It won't do to let them come too near," added the physician. "Try to make every shot tell."

As he spoke he took the best aim he could and fired. Jack Everson was but a moment behind him, and Anderson discharged his gun almost simultaneously.



Chapter XII.

A White Man's Victory.

It was clear that the reception was a stunning surprise to the Asiatics in the other boat. In times of confusion and terror strong men often sit dazed and meekly submit to massacre when sturdy resistance would leave a far different tale to tell. Such was the case at Meerut, at Delhi, at Cawnpore, at Lucknow and scores of places where the human fiends revelled in massacre and crime.

But here, where evidently the same submissiveness was expected, the miscreants were fired upon before they had discharged a single shot themselves. Not only that, but the Caucasians kept the thing up. This was contrary to all rule and precedent.

If, however, the white men did not wait to be slain, neither did the dusky barbarians sit still and allow themselves to be shot down. They ceased paddling and appealed to their guns, whose bullets began whistling about the heads of the defenders in the other boat.

Who of our friends did it will never be known, but one of them perforated the gaunt scoundrel who, with his form bent over, was pushing the pole while he stalked the length of the boat, returning again to the prow to repeat the performance. The fellow emitted a screech like a wounded tiger and leaped several feet in air, coming down on the gunwale, over which he toppled into the water and was seen no more. It was the spirited defiance of the white men that told. Screening themselves as best they could they continued firing, Jack Everson occasionally adding a shot from his revolver by way of variety. The conformation of the other boat and its crowded condition prevented the natives from sheltering themselves as did those who were using them as targets. In short, the wretches were getting the worst of the business, and it did not take them long to learn the fact. Left without control, their boat began drifting with the current, which being stronger than along shore gradually carried it down stream and out of sight. So long, however, as it was visible its occupants continued firing, while the white people did still better, for they sent several shots after their enemies when they could see nothing and fired wholly by guess.

There could be no question that the promptness of Dr. Marlowe and the vigor of the resistance threw their foes into a sort of panic from which they did not recover until beyond range. They had been taught a lesson that they were sure to remember for a long time; though, when our friends came to think the matter over, after finding no one of them had been hurt, they could not escape the belief that the consequences were certain to be of the most serious nature to themselves, and in this conclusion, sad to say, they were not mistaken.



Chapter XIII.

Under The Bank.

A few minutes later an open space appeared in front of the boat. It was the month of the tributary flowing into the Ganges from the left or north, and was more than a hundred yards across. Since it was necessary to stem the current in order to take advantage of this refuge, the doctor contemplated it with misgiving, for the work of poling it up stream promised to be laborious. He had not forgotten his original plan of abandoning the boat and striking across the country on foot, taking advantage of the less-frequented roads and paths that were well known to him. He was relieved, however, to find the flow so languid that it was easy to make headway against it.

"I have never followed this stream far," he remarked, "and, therefore, have less knowledge of it than the rest of the country, but my impression is that it cannot serve us long."

"It will be time enough to leave the boat and take to the woods when we can go no further," said Jack Everson; "but we cannot get away from the main stream too soon."

This was self-evident. It was not likely that the natives after their decisive repulse would abandon their purpose of massacring the party, but they would be more guarded in what they did and probably secure reinforcements, an easy thing to do when the sanguinary wretches everywhere were thirsting for victims.

Jack had seized one of the poles, and he and young Wharton plied them with so much sturdiness that the heavy craft made better progress than at any time since it was used as a vehicle of safety. The course of the tributary was winding, and our friends had not gone far when they were shut out from the sight of any persons passing up and down the main river, even if close to the northern bank.

Would the natives suspect the course taken by the whites? That was the all-important question that must soon be answered. After searching up and down the Ganges without success, it was likely they would penetrate the stratagem and follow them, in which event the fugitives would be in a critical situation, since the straightness of the stream and the wooded shores would place them at much greater disadvantage than if they remained upon the Ganges.

When the boat had ascended the tributary for perhaps an eighth of a mile it was deemed safe to lessen the work of poling. Careful listening failed to detect any sound of pursuit, and there was ground for hoping that their enemies neither knew nor suspected what had been done.

Several facts had become apparent. The densely wooded shores offered excellent concealment. By running the boat beneath the dense branches and among the heavy vegetation the keenest-eyed Asiatics might pass up or down stream almost within arm's length without suspecting its presence. But the tributary had perceptibly narrowed and its current was swifter than at the mouth. All this pointed to the truth of what Dr. Marlowe suspected -- the stream could not serve them much further.

The night was now so far advanced that the women took the advice of their friends and withdrew to the cabin for slumber. Their quarters were cramped, but they made themselves fairly comfortable. The night was cooler than the day, but only sufficiently so to be pleasant. It was not deemed probable that anything would be seen of their enemies before the morrow, and perhaps not even then.

Dr. Marlowe insisted upon taking his turn in poling, but since there were four vigorous men without him, they would not consent. When two had toiled for an hour or more, they gave way to the other couple, and the progress thus continued without interruption, while the time slowly dragged along. The resting spells gave each the opportunity for sleep, thus husbanding their vigor for the morrow. Finding that there was nothing to which he could turn his hand, the physician reclined at the bow and soon joined the others in dreamland.

It was probably one o'clock when Jack Everson, who had been sleeping for nearly an hour, was awakened by a gentle shaking of his shoulder. Opening his eyes and looking up he saw Wharton bending over him.

"All right," remarked the American; "I'm ready for my turn," and he rose, yawning, to his feet.

"I think we had better rest until morning."

"Why?"

"The current has become so rapid that it is hard to make progress; this stream can't be of much further use to us."

It needed but a glance around in the gloom to see that it was as his friend had declared. The boat was so close to the left-hand shore that it was held motionless by Anderson at the bow, who gripped an overhanging branch, with one hand. The water rippled around the front of the craft, and when Jack dipped the end of one of the poles into the current it swept downward at a rate that astonished him.

"I esteem your advice good," he said, "but it will not do to leave the boat in sight."

With the help of the limbs and the use of the poles it was easy to force the craft under the bank, where it was screened from observation. Then it was secured in place against drifting and all work for the time was over.

Wharton and Jack Everson were the only persons awake. The women had been sleeping for several hours, while Anderson and Turner had long since joined the venerable doctor in the realms of unconsciousness. The two young men sat down where they could speak in low tones without being overheard.

"It won't do for all of us to sleep at the same time," remarked Jack; "the scoundrels may be creeping up stream after us."

"That is hardly possible; I am sure that for the present we are as safe as if in the heart of London."

"I cannot believe as you do; since I have just enjoyed an hour's sleep I will act as sentinel until daybreak. I can easily keep awake for the few hours that remain."

"As you think best, though I am sure it is an unnecessary precaution."

"We must not forget that there are perils from the jungle as well as from the river. There is no saying what wild beast may pay us a visit."

Inasmuch as Jack could not be dissuaded from his purpose, and Wharton began to suspect his friend was half right, the question was decided. Wharton stretched out on the deck, falling asleep almost immediately, and Jack thus found himself the only one with his senses at command and with the safety of the others dependent upon him.

He took his place near the cabin, where the women were slumbering, with his breechloader in hand. He was never more wide awake and was sure he would remain so for hours to come. Wharton had offered to divide the duty with him in acting as sentinel, but our hero preferred to keep the matter in his own hands. He was sure his friend did not realize the full peril of their situation.

The stillness was broken only by the peculiar cries in the jungle, which it may be said were never wholly silent. First on the right, then on the left, then from the front, and again from different points on both sides of the stream he heard the sounds, some faint and far away, with others alarmingly close. The hoarse snarl of the tiger, the finer cry of the leopard, the squawking of night birds, with other noises that he could not identify, were continually in the air. Had they been heard for the first time he would have been in a tremor of fear and nervousness; but man soon becomes accustomed to danger, and the nearest must come still nearer to cause his pulse an additional throb.

Jack Everson was sensible that through this medley of strange noises there was one sound that was continuous and never changing. So faint that at first he and Wharton failed to notice it, it now impressed itself too distinctly upon his consciousness for him to be mistaken. It was a low, steady hum or moaning, such as the traveller hears when miles inland from the ocean. He could not identify it, though he made several guesses, and was still speculating unsatisfactorily, when he received a startling reminder that there was a new peril at his very feet.

The first notice was a faint purring sound, as if made by a gigantic cat, accompanied by a rustling of the vegetation scarcely a dozen feet away. He instantly grasped his rifle with both hands and was alert. It was impossible to distinguish ordinary objects in the gloom, but suddenly two small circles glittered with a greenish light and the purring was succeeded by a low, cavernous growl. Then it all became clear to him: a royal Bengal tiger was stealing upon the boat and was probably gathering himself for a leap at that very moment.

Had all the occupants been asleep the frightful terror would have played sad havoc with them before they could defend themselves. As it was, it looked as if more than one fatality must follow his attack.

But for that phosphorescent gleam of the brute's eyes Jack Everson would not have been able to locate him, but the glow of the two objects defined the outlines and locality of the horrible thing as unmistakably as if the sun were overhead. The occasion was one in which everything depended upon promptness. The tiger was likely to shift his position and turn his head so that the eyes would fail to show.

Jack reflected that there probably were a number of spots in the anatomy of the jungle terror that were more vulnerable than others; that a well-aimed bullet might be instantly fatal in one, while able to inflict only a partial wound in another. Be that as it may, he was sure that a conical bullet driven between the eyes and through bone, muscle and brain by a rifle that could kill a man at the distance of a mile must do effective work when that brain was not a dozen feet distant from the muzzle of the weapon. At any rate, there was no time for inquiry and he did not hesitate.

Aiming for a point midway between the gleaming orbs he pressed the trigger. It takes a well-aimed weapon to kill a royal Bengal tiger, even at a short distance, but Jack's rifle was well aimed. The tiny sphere of lead darted through the brain and along the spinal marrow as if fired with the vicious energy of a charge of dynamite.

It so happened that the tiger was in the act of making his graceful but fearful leap that was to land him upon the breast of the young man, who had risen to his feet just before firing. The check at that instant produced a queer result, the like of which is not often seen. The shock of the bullet crashing into the head of the muscular beast at the instant he was calling into play his prodigious strength intensified that strength to a sudden and astonishing degree. The consequence was that the tiger, instead of making the leap he intended, made one twice as great and overshot the mark. From out the gloom the beautiful sinewy body, of which only a glimpse could be caught, emerged as if fired from the throat of a Columbiad and, curving over the shoulders of the man and the boat, dropped into the stream with a splash that sent the water flying in every direction.

Beyond the line of shadow, where the faint moonlight fell upon him, the tiger was seen to be a beast of extraordinary size. He emitted one rasping snarl while sailing through the air, but was already dead when he fell into the water, where it could not be seen he had made a struggle. The sinewy body dipped out of sight, bobbed up again and the next minute was swept beyond view by the rapid current.

Rather strangely, not one of the women was awakened by the report of the rifle so near them, and of the men Dr. Marlowe and Anderson were the only ones who rose to a sitting posture and anxiously inquired the cause of the firing.

"I discovered an animal prowling near the boat," replied Jack, who thought it well not to disturb them with the whole truth, "and I winged him."

"You are sure you killed him?" asked the doctor; "most likely it was a tiger."

"I am quite sure of that, and am just as sure that, considered strictly as a tiger, he is of no further account. I made another bull's-eye in his case."

"How many is that?" asked the physician, entering into the spirit of the jest.

"My fifth, counting only those that I am sure of."

"You are doing well; keep it up; let the good work go on," replied the elder, again adjusting himself for slumber, quite content to leave the valiant young American in charge of the boat and its occupants. Jack had it in mind to question him about that distant murmuring sound that puzzled him, but when ready to do so he discovered that the doctor was again asleep and he did not disturb him.

The fact that one denizen of the jungle had paid the boat a visit was ground for looking for a call from another. Jack remained, therefore, on the alert, and though under ordinary circumstances he would have fallen asleep he kept wide awake until the growing light in the sky told of the coming day. Before the sun was fairly above the horizon all were astir. They bathed faces and hands in the roiled water and greeted one another with thankfulness that the night had passed without harm to any member of the little company.

When the three men and their wives fled from Meerut they took with them enough food to last for several days. There is little excuse for people dying of starvation in any part of India, though sad to say it is only recently that thousands were swept away by famine. Fruit is abundant and little meat is necessary in hot countries. Before the morning meal was partaken of Jack Everson asked Dr. Marlowe to explain the cause of the low moaning noise that had been in his ears for moat of the night. The elder listened for a minute and replied:

"What I expected! We are very near the head of navigation; that sound comes from falls or rapids, above which we cannot go with this boat."

This announcement precipitated a discussion as to what was the best course to follow. The physician left no doubt of his sentiments.

"The devils will be prowling up this stream within a few hours; I should not be surprised if they are near us this moment; the boat is of no further use to us."

The three, Anderson, Turner and Wharton, did not agree with him. The craft had served them so well that they were unwilling to abandon it. They seemed to believe that it offered a much safer means of defense than they could find anywhere on land.

"But you cannot stay forever on it," protested the doctor impatiently.

"We do not expect to," replied Anderson; "we may decide to descend to the Ganges again, and continue down the river."

"Whither?"

"To Cawnpore or some point nearer."

The doctor was aghast.

"You mean to leap straight into the hornet's nest; those are the places, of all others, that must be avoided."

"It may be as you say, but I am hopeful that the English garrisons have been able to hold out against the mutineers."

"It is a woeful mistake, my friend; if you persist in it we must part company."



Chapter XIV.

The Sound Of Firing.

Jack Everson was hardly less impatient than the doctor over the obstinacy of their lately made friends. He reminded them that the physician had spent a score of years in that part of the world, with which he was so familiar that his judgment ought to outweigh theirs, but the argument was useless. They had decided to stick to the boat that had served them so well and could not be dissuaded. Their plan, as they had intimated, now that they found they could go little further up stream, was to descend to the Ganges, with a view of working their way down to some of the cities, where they hoped to find the English had succeeded in holding out against the mutineers.

Could this be done, and could such a haven be reached, all would be well, but the doctor assured them they were leaning upon a broken reed. When it became evident that all persuasions were useless the parties separated. A common peril had brought them near to one another and it was impossible that that they should part except as friends. All felt the solemnity of the hour. Each wife kissed and embraced Mary Marlowe, and like her shed tears at what they felt was probably the final parting, so far as this world was concerned. The men warmly shook hands and there was more than one tremulous voice when the three passed over the side of the boat and said farewell.

The latter walked some distance through the jungle, which was so dense that they were obliged to follow one of the numerous paths made by the animals in going to and coming from the water. The doctor, by virtue of his superior knowledge, took the lead, with his daughter close behind, and Jack Everson bringing up the rear. They were silent and thoughtful, for their spirits were oppressed by a deep gloom and the feeling that something dreadful impended.

Not far off the path which they were following expanded into a natural clearing two or three rods in extent. When they reached the spot the doctor halted and faced his companions.

"I now know where we are," he said in an undertone; "we have to follow this path a little way back, when we enter a hilly and rough country, where the jungle is more open. It is cut up by numerous trails like this, most of which have been made by the feet of wild animals, but one of them leads northward and finally enters a highway, which if followed far enough will land us in the Nepaul country."

"I assume from what you have said that it will not be safe to stick to this road?" said Jack.

"No; for two or three days while travelling over it we shall be in constant danger; our task will be to make our way over it without attracting the notice of any of our enemies who are scouring the country for us."

"Is the thing possible?"

"I should not undertake it did I not think so; the danger will threaten for probably a hundred miles, though growing steadily less as we proceed."

"Will it not be safer to do our travelling by night?" asked the daughter.

"That is what I mean to do after reaching the more plainly marked path, which connects with the highway. I see no risk in pushing through the jungle by day, since the only foes we are likely to encounter are four-footed ones. If we meet any such we must refrain from firing, since the reports of our guns will be sure to draw attention to us. I mean, of course," explained the doctor, "that our weapons are not to be appealed to unless there is no escape otherwise, as was the case with the tiger."

While he was speaking, Mary gave a faint gasp and caught his arm. She and Jack were facing the point toward which his back was turned. Seeing that it was something behind him that had startled both, the doctor turned his head. As if to emphasize the words just spoken, he saw an immense spotted leopard, motionless in the trail not more than fifty feet away. Evidently he was trotting to the stream, when he caught sight of the three persons, stopped short, raised his head and stared wonderingly at them.

The leopard shares the reputation of the tiger for deadly ferocity and daring. When more than 20,000 persons are killed in India every year by wild animals and serpents, it will be found that the leopard is one of the most active among these factors of death, and holds his own well up with the tiger.

Like the venomous serpent, the leopard had a terrible beauty all his own. As he stood with head raised, eyes glaring, mouth slightly parted and his long tail lashing his sides with a force that made the thumping against his glossy ribs plainly audible, his pose was perfect. What a picture he made!

The question that was to be quickly answered was whether the fearful brute would allow himself to be turned aside from the path and withdraw again into the jungle with his thirst unslaked. If he did he would not be molested; if he presumed to advance upon the party, whom he evidently held in slight fear, let him be prepared for the consequences!

Jack Everson fumbled his rifle and looked with sparkling eyes at the beast.

"What a chance for another bull's-eye!" he said, in a low voice. "I would take him right between and above his forelegs, where I should be sure of reaching his heart."

"Don't fire unless he advances to attack us," warned the elder.

It would be hard to say what induced the leopard to retreat, for, as has been said, he is one of the most dangerous denizens of the jungle; but, while our friends were expecting a charge from him, he wheeled about and trotted off.

"It looks as if he had learned something of your skill," remarked the doctor with a smile.

Again, while the words were in the mouth of the speaker, he was interrupted, this time in a more terrifying manner than before.

From the direction of the stream which they had left but a short time previous, and undoubtedly from the boat itself, came the reports of firearms. There were no shouts or outcries, but the firing was rapid and apparently made by gun and pistol.

"They have been attacked!" exclaimed Mary; "we must go to their help!"

She impulsively started along the path, but her father seized her arm and said sternly:

"Remain here! It is no place for you; Jack and I will do what we can."

Perhaps in the excitement of the moment the parent did not fully comprehend the danger of leaving his daughter alone in the jungle, even at so slight a distance and for so brief a time as he anticipated, with nothing but a revolver as a means of defence; but he and Jack Everson were eager to rush to the aid of their friends, and they hurried over the trail without even looking back at her.

The young man was slightly behind his companion and both broke into a loping trot. Each held his rifle in hand, on the alert to use it the instant the opportunity presented itself.

It will be borne in mind that the distance from the slight natural opening to the boat was short, and a few minutes sufficed for the two men to cover it; but a strange thing happened. The reports of firearms which had broken out with such suddenness ceased with the same abruptness, and the silence because of the contrast was tenfold more oppressive than before.

"What can that mean?" asked Jack, as his companion slackened his pace.

"It means that they are through!" replied the doctor, whose face was of deathly paleness. "My God! what have we escaped!"

"We shall soon know," replied Jack, catching the awful significance of the words; and then he added to himself:

"We may have escaped it, but for how long?"

A few rods further and they were at the side of the stream, and the boat loomed to view through the thick undergrowth and vegetation.



Chapter XV.

Gone!

Neither Jack Everson nor Dr. Marlowe forgot his own personal danger in hurrying to the help of their imperilled friends. If the two were too late to be of any assistance they were imminently likely to precipitate themselves into the same whirlpool of woe and death. They had slowed their gait to a walk as they neared the spot, and when they caught the dim outlines of the boat the two stood still.

So far as they could see there was no change in its surroundings. It was still moored against the bank, so close that any one could step aboard, but no sign of living person was visible on or about it. There was something so uncanny in it all that but for their mutual knowledge they would have doubted the evidence of their senses.

"I don't understand it," whispered Jack. "Suppose you stay here while I steal nigh enough to learn something that will help clear up the horrible mystery."

"You are running frightful risk," said the doctor; "I cannot advise you to try it."

"All the same, I shall do it."

Thus, it will be observed that the three persons composing the little party became separated from one another for greater or less distances. The daughter was waiting, two or three hundred yards away, for the return of her father and lover, while they had just parted company, though they expected to remain in sight of each other.

Dr. Marlowe stood in the path, partly sheltering himself behind a couple of tree trunks, but with his eyes fixed upon his young friend, who walked cautiously but unhesitatingly forward. Jack held his rifle in a trailing position at his side, his shoulders bent slightly forward, while he stepped lightly, his senses alert, like those of a scout entering the camp of an enemy. That he was running into great danger was self-evident, but he was determined not to turn back until he learned something of the strange occurrences.

Watching his young friend, the doctor saw him stop when at the side of the motionless boat. His profile showed first on one side and then, on the other, while he listened for the slightest sound that could give an atom of knowledge. Apparently the effort was useless, for the next moment he placed his left hand on the gunwale and vaulted lightly upon deck. He stood a few moments as if transfixed, then turning abruptly about leaped to the ground, and, breaking into a run, hurried back to his friend, who noticed that his face was more ghastly than before, while his eyes stared as if they still looked upon unutterable things.

"What is it?" asked the elder in a ghostly whisper.

"My God! don't ask me to tell!"

"You forget that we are both physicians."

"But not that we are human beings; thank Heaven forever that you did not look upon the sight my eyes saw a moment ago. Let it suffice, doctor, to say that of the three men and women to whom we bade good-bye within the past twenty minutes not one is alive! The fiends have been there."

Not the least singular fact connected with this hideous incident was that the devils who committed the unspeakable crime had vanished, so far as could be seen, as utterly as if the ground had opened beneath their feet and swallowed them. Two men had come back upon the scene within a few minutes after all this was done, and yet the doers were nowhere in sight. What was the meaning of their hasty departure?

It was unreasonable to think they had gone far. They must be in the vicinity. They must have noticed the absence of the doctor and his companions; doubtless they were looking for them along shore; possibly they had started over some of the trails and ere long would strike the one along which the three had fled.

"A wonderful Providence has preserved us thus far," said Jack Everson; "but it is too much to expect we shall emerge unscathed from this hell hole."

"I hope nothing will happen to Mary before we rejoin her."

"We shall be with her in a minute."

Nevertheless, a vague fear disturbed both. The parent was again leading, and he unconsciously hastened his footsteps. Only a slight distance beyond they came to the small opening where they had left her standing but a brief while before. Since the men had passed over the intervening distance to the river it was unlikely that anything had occurred to alarm the young woman, but there was no saying what might happen in those times and in that part of the world.

The real shock came to the parent when he turned in the trail and saw the open space but failed to observe his daughter. He hurried on without speaking, but Jack, directly behind him, had made the discovery, for a moment he was so breathless and dizzy that he barely saved himself from falling. His heart became lead, and the awful conviction got hold of him that the most woeful affliction of all had come upon them, and that his betrothed was lost irrecoverably.

But the sight of the anguish of the parent when he turned about and faintly gasped, "Where is my child?" brought the self-command of the young man back.

It was the despairing question wrung from the heart of the parent, with a grief that was no keener than that of Jack Everson himself. Here was another instance of the appalling suddenness with which tragedies began and were completed in this infernal country. A band of half a dozen was cut off within the space of a few minutes, and now, in still less time, a young woman vanished as if she had never been.

Jack did not dare trust his voice in the effort to speak, but when his eyes met those of the parent he shook his head, saying by the gesture:

"God have mercy, I cannot answer."

But strong men do not remain dazed and helpless in the presence of a shuddering calamity. If any one thing could be set down as certain it was that Miss Marlowe had left the place by fleeing deeper into the jungle. She could not have approached them without being observed: therefore they must seek her by taking the same direction.

The energy of the man more than threescore under the spur of his anguish was like that of the athlete of one-third of his years. He still led the way, and, after the brief halt under the fearful blow, he rallied and compelled Jack Everson to keep upon a trot to save himself from falling behind.

A hundred paces from the opening they reached a point where the trails forked. They stopped, the parent being the first to do so.

"Jack," said he, using the less formal name, for under the awful shadow they had drawn nearer to each other, "we can't afford to make any mistake."

"There shall be none if you tell me how to prevent it."

"She must have followed one of these paths, but who shall say which?"

He stooped over and peered at the ground. Within the dim hush of the jungle he was unable to discern the slightest disturbance of the earth.

"No use of that," said the doctor, reading his intention; "therefore we will separate; one of us will overtake them."

"Have you any idea of the identity of these devils?"

"I think they are Ghoojurs, but it makes no difference; Mussulmans and Hindoos are the same; each of us has a rifle and revolver; if you get sight of them don't wait to notify me; shoot to kill; you know how to do it."

"I shall shrink from nothing, but the case may be hopeless."

"If it is will you promise me one thing?" asked, the parent of the young man looking him in the eye.

"I do; what is the pledge?"

"That you point your gun at her?"



Chapter XVI.

A Shadowy Pursuit.

It was a fearful pledge to exact, but Jack Everson gave it without hesitation.

"You understand me; enough; let us lose no more time; I will turn to the right; good-bye; we are all in the hands of God."

There was not a tear in the eye of the parent. His heart might be torn by grief, but he was now the Roman from whose lips no murmuring was heard.

It seemed to Jack Everson that the strangeness of the incidents of the past hour had lifted him into a state of exaltation. He never felt calmer nor more self-possessed than when hurrying over the path, rifle in hand, revolver at his hip with the belief that there was not one chance in a thousand that he would ever again look upon the one who had won his heart when the two were on the other side of the world and for whose sake he was ready to go to the uttermost lengths of the earth.

His feeling was: "They have stolen her from us, but by the Eternal she shall cost them dear!"

There was no thought of what all this implied to himself. He did not care what the consequences were, so far as he was concerned. It came to be a legend among the men desperately defending their families and themselves during the horrors of the Sepoy mutiny, that in fighting the unspeakable fiends, the European should save a bullet apiece for his dear ones and one for himself.

Such was the resolve of the young American who was now making all haste to find his beloved and her captors, and settling down into that resolution he acted with the coolness of a veteran.

The first truth that impressed itself upon him was that the path which he was following steadily ascended, being quite steep in many places. This showed as a matter of course that he was attaining higher ground. He was not familiar enough with the country to know that he was approaching a steep ridge of hills, for the doctor had told him nothing of the fact, and the elevated section had been passed in the boat at night. He observed, too, that his course trended to the right, proving that he was penetrating deeper into the country.

"If the line that the doctor is following holds straight on we must approach each other, but his may turn more than mine -- confound it!"

He had reached a point where the paths forked again. Supposing he had been fortunate enough to take the right course at the beginning, how could he maintain it?

Swallowing his exasperation, he reflected coolly. The trail to the left was less travelled than the one which kept directly forward. He believed the Ghoojurs had kept to it possibly because there was less danger of pursuit. One fact was self-evident: nothing was to be gained by standing still, while there was a chance of accomplishing something by going on. With scarcely a minute's hesitation he advanced at a rapid stride over the more faintly marked course, peering in advance for a glimpse of his enemies.

Since the latter had not gained much start it would seem that he ought to be close upon them, always provided he was traveling in their actual footsteps. The ground continued rough and broken, but it had no effect on his progress. Something like a shadow whisked across the path in front at the moment of his passing round a turn. Some animal had caught sight of him, and, scared by the vision, had leaped into the jungle at the side. Whether it was a tiger, leopard, cheetah, wild boar or another brute he did not know or care. If it dared to dispute his way he would shoot.

He was pressing forward in this reckless, desperate fashion, when he dropped as if he had collided with a stone wall, and his heart almost ceased its beating. He had caught the faint report of a firearm. It came from a point on his right and sounded as if caused by a revolver, rather than a larger weapon. The thought that came to him was that it was the pistol of Mary Marlowe!

"She is at bay; she may have fired it at herself, and yet I do not think she would do that until some of the bullets had reached the wretches who have captured her. I am following the wrong path, for this one leads me away from her."

Without an instant's hesitation he turned and began his return on a loping trot. He was incensed with himself because of his mistake, and yet there was no reasonable cause for such feeling, but grief is as thoughtless as love, and he was stirred to the very depth of his soul by both. Reaching the last forking, he did not pause, but set out over the main trail.

In front of him towered a mass of rocks higher than any he had yet seen. The path wound about these, but instead of following it, he climbed to the highest part.

"I may gain sight of something from up there," was his thought as he pushed on, "that will be of some help."

And he did see something from the crest which fairly took away his breath.



Chapter XVII.

Almos.

Mary Marlowe was an obedient daughter, and when her father checked her move to go to the aid of the imperilled ones on the boat, and peremptorily ordered her to wait where she was, she obeyed without protest. She would have been glad to bear them company, but knew she would be more of a hindrance than a help.

It was less than five minutes after the disappearance of her father and betrothed when she was frightened by hearing a slight sound directly behind her in the path. Her thought naturally was that some wild animal was stealing upon her, but the first glance told a more dreadful story. Five men, who, from their ragged, scant attire, their dark complexion and wild expression of features, she knew to belong to the terrible bandits called Ghoojurs, had come upon her unnoticed, and pausing within a half dozen paces, were looking fixedly at her.

The sight was so startling that the young woman gasped and recoiled. She would have fled after her friends had not the leader made a gesture, accompanied by the command:

"Stay where you are or you shall be killed! I know you as the daughter of the doctor, and we seek you and him."

Each of the Ghoojurs carried a long, muzzle-loading gun, and every one had a yataghan thrust into a girdle around his waist, the weapon being a foot or more in length, and with a point of needle-like fineness. The leader spoke in Hindustani, which was as familiar to the young woman as her own tongue.

The young woman possessed quick wit. She could not doubt that the five, including Almos and Mustad, were now her deadly enemies. Whether they had taken part in the massacre of those left on the boat could not be conjectured, but the probabilities were the other way, since it would have been well-nigh impossible for them to reach their present position from the river without colliding with Dr. Marlowe and Jack Everson.

Mary showed her shrewdness by acting as if the two men were the friends they had always shown themselves when their former meetings took place.

"Why, Almos," she said, forcing a smile in which there was no pleasure, "we have not met before since you came to my home and my father gave you medicine that cured your illness. How do you do?"

And she had the courage to advance a step and offer her dainty hand, but the brute refused it. With a shake of his head he retreated a step and said:

"My caste will not allow me."

"But it allowed you to take drink and food from my hand and medicine from that of my father," she said, stung by the repulse.

"I did evil, for which Allah has pardoned me; the faithful have been summoned to drive the infidels from India; the followers of Islam have heard the call, and they are flocking to the banner of the Prophet from all parts of Hindostan; not one infidel shall be left in all the land."

During these few moments Mustad stood directly behind the leader, with a fixed grin in which there was a certain shamefacedness, for with all his fierce fanaticism he could not forget the gentle, sweet nature of the one who had become a prisoner nor the unvarying kindness he had received at her hands. True, the devil in his nature was roused, and there could be little question that he was acting as guide to these murderers while they hunted for the doctor and his family.

"And do you mean to help kill those who have been your friends, Mustad?" she asked, with her penetrating eyes fixed upon him.

Had the two been alone, it is possible the edge would have been taken off the response, but with four Ghoojurs at his elbow, and one of them the furious Almos, he dared not be behind them in savagery.

"This is a war for our deen; when we fight for that we know none but the followers of the Prophet! The Inglese loge stole our homes and our land from us! They have put lard on the cartridges of the Sepoys that the faithful may become unclean and be shut out of paradise! I hate them all! I have no friends among them! I shall never sheath my knife nor stay my hand while one remains alive in India."

"Let it be as you say," she calmly replied, seeing that it was useless to hold converse with the wretch.

Her wish was to keep the party where they were until Jack and her father could have time to return. Here would be an opportunity for the young man to make a few more bull's-eyes, but Almos was too wise to run the risk. He was not afraid to fight two men, even though not so well armed as they, but his wish was first to place the young woman beyond their reach -- for when the fight came it would be to the death.

"No harm shall come to you," said the leader in a gentler tone. "Walk forward over the path and we will guard you against harm."

"Whither do you intend to take me?" she asked, debating whether to obey or to make a fight then and there and force matters to an issue.

"To Akwar."

"Why there?"

"To place you among friends that your enemies may not reach you."

"Why not take me to my home?"

"It has been burned and the men are hiding among the trees that they may slay you when you and your father return."

After a moment's hesitation she obeyed, taking the path along which her parent soon after pressed in the desperate effort to recover her from her captors.



Chapter XVIII.

Doctor And Patient.

The bright wits of Miss Marlowe were active. Mustad took the lead along the path, she following next, while Almos, the leader of the Ghoojurs, and his three companions, brought up the rear. Like most of the trails through the Asiatic jungles, this was inclosed on each side by a growth of trees, undergrowth and matted vegetation of such density that it was next to impossible for any one to pick his way forward or backward except by keeping within the path itself. To step aside into the jungle would immediately involve one in so inextricable a tangle that he could move only with the greatest difficulty.

An attempt to escape, therefore, by darting to one side was not to be thought of, and she knew that her only hope lay with her absent friends. She was confident that they would speedily return, and, finding her gone, start in immediate pursuit. A collision between them and the Ghoojurs was imminent.

The latter acted as if their only interest lay in their prisoner. So far as she could judge no attention was paid to the rear, whence the danger of attack threatened. The place of Mustad, at the head, confirmed her suspicion that he had been playing the part of guide for the rest from the first.

She did not doubt that her home and its contents had been burned by the wretches, but under the circumstances the matter gave her little concern. She was inclined to believe that her captors meant to conduct her into the town of Akwar, nearby, and with her knowledge of the fanatical hatred of the population against all Christians she still hoped to find some friends there who would protect her from harm. And thus it was that she was not in the state of collapse or despair that might be supposed.

Suddenly a pistol was fired from some point at the rear beyond her captors, and out of sight. All the men instantly stopped, grasped their arms and looked back, the young woman doing the same. Her thought was: "That was father or Jack, but he did not hit any one; therefore, it wasn't Jack."

While the six were looking expectantly to the rear Dr. Marlowe, his face flushed, and his whole appearance, showing his intense excitement, came into sight. He was panting from his severe exertion, and raised his hand as a signal for the Ghoojurs to wait for him. It is probable that he would have received a shot, but for an interruption that was as unexpected as it was remarkable. Almos, the leader of the Ghoojurs, emitted a yell that could have been heard a half-mile away, and leaped several feet in the air, while his companions with exclamations of terror hastily recoiled from him.

"Great Allah! He has been bitten!" exclaimed the horrified Mustad, almost knocking the young woman off her feet in his rush towards his master; but one of the others had perceived the monstrous cobra, and, clubbing his gun, he beat the life out of it with one blow, before it could glide away into the jungle. It looked as if this part of the country was specially pestered by the dreadful reptiles.

Almos knew he was doomed. All hope had vanished, and, dropping to the ground, he bared his bronzed ankle, looked at the tiny points where the horrible poison had been injected into his system, and then, like the fatalist be was, he calmly folded his arms and waited for the last moment that was rushing upon him. He was a faithful follower of the Prophet and knew how to meet the inevitable that awaits us all. His companions, awed and silent, stood around, unable to say or do anything that could give him comfort. Miss Marlowe, after walking part way to the group, paused and looked at them and at her father, who was hurrying to the spot. She wondered that Almos had permitted the killing of the cobra, since the snake is looked upon as sacred in India, and few natives can be induced to injure one. The Ghoojurs probably slew it in the flurry of the moment.

Dr. Marlowe had heard the cry and noted the excitement, but did not suspect the cause until he drew near the spot. Then Mustad, familiar with the skill of the medical man, beckoned to him and said:

"Make haste, great sahib, Almos has been bitten by a snake; no one can save him but you."

The stricken chief, from his seat on the ground, looked up in the face of the white man, of whose wonderful skill he had received proof in his own self. The countenance of the Ghoojur was of ashen hue, and the yearning expression of his eyes told of the hope that had been kindled within his breast.

Now that the physician had dropped into what may be called his professional character, he was himself again. He set down the caba containing his instruments, and medicaments, adjusted his glasses, and stooping over, intently studied the wound made by the cobra. Then he drew out his watch, as if he were timing the pulse beats of a patient.

"It is one minute and a half since you were bitten," he said, still holding the timepiece in his hand, but looking into the face of Almos; "in three more minutes and a half no power but Allah can save you."

Catching the full meaning of these words, the Ghoojur leader quivered with suddenly renewed hope.

"Can you save me?" he asked in Hindustani.

"I have in there," replied the physician, tapping his caba with his long forefinger, "that which will render the bite of the snake as harmless as the peck of a bird that flies in the air, but barely three minutes remain in which to apply it."

"Then I beseech you, do not wait," said the eager Almos, shoving his foot towards the doctor; "great is the English doctor; be quick; why do you tarry?"

"Before I heal you," replied Dr. Marlowe, with maddening deliberation, "I must be paid my fee; I have attended you before and refused to accept what you offered, but now I demand payment before applying the remedy."

"You shall have it; name it, I beg you; all that I have shall be yours if you will save me, but haste, O great physician, haste!"

"It is strong, and will do its work well, if it be given the chance."

He next drew out a lancet, with its edge like a razor's. Almos breathlessly watched him, but when he expected the doctor to begin work, he leaned back and said:

"Why should I bring you back from death, when you are seeking the lives of my daughter and myself? The best thing I can do is to let you die, as you will do in two minutes and a half more," he added, looking again at his watch; "the venom of the cobra works fast and it will soon strike your heart."

"You promised to save me if I would pay you in advance.

"So I will."

"Name your fee; be quick with it!"

"It is that you and the rest of the Ghoojurs shall leave me and mine alone; that you shall depart at once; that you shall not attempt to follow, nor harm us in any way. Without that pledge on your part, I shall let you die like the dog that you are. What is your answer?"

"I promise; I promise!" exclaimed Almos, almost beside himself with excitement and renewed hope. "I will guide you through the jungle to a safe point, and will watch over you till all danger is gone."

"You have given me your promise, but you may break it; swear by the mantle of the Prophet, or I shall let you die."

"I swear by the mantle of the Prophet!" the Ghoojur chieftain fairly shrieked, "that I will do as I have promised! Quick, quick, or it will be too late!"

"You have made the most sacred vow that a Mussulman can make; I will test it by saving your life."



Chapter XIX.

Asiatic Honor.

One quick movement with the lancet made an incision across the red specks left by the fangs of the cobra, and into the opening he poured a teaspoonful of the yellowish fluid, which was so much like liquid fire and pepper that even the dusky scoundrel gasped with agony. Then he was made to open his mouth and swallow something from a large bottle, which, as regards strength and flavor, was a twin of that which was consuming his flesh.

All at once the countenance of the physician expanded with a beaming smile as he looked at his patient and said gently as if speaking to his own child:

"All danger is past, Almos."

From the abundance of rags which fluttered about his person, the doctor tore a piece and bandaged the wound. Then he said in a business-like tone:

"I am through; now you and the rest of you may go."

Almos hesitated.

"You have saved my life: is there nothing I can do for you?"

"I have just told you what to do -- leave?"

Probably there would have been less promptness in complying with the command had there been less in uttering it. As it was, Almos, without a word, motioned to the rest of his band, and led the way down the path in the direction of the stream, the four tramping after him like so many ragged phantoms.

Dr. Marlowe was more eager to leave the place than he would permit his child to know. He had no faith in Almos's promise, knowing that the Ghoojur chieftain would break his oath, which he and his brother fanatics did not consider binding when made to infidels, and the only hope, therefore, was for the fugitives to conceal themselves from the miscreants -- a thing which the physician's intimate knowledge of the country would enable him to do.

Footfalls sounded along the path over which the two had just come, and a minute later Almos, Mustad and their three companions emerged into the opening and approached the couple, one of whom suspected nothing until her father spoke.

"Well, Almos, what do you want?" demanded Dr. Marlowe, calmly looking up at the Ghoojur chieftain, as he paused in front of him and made a salaam.

"We have come for the infidel and his daughter; our deen commands us to put them to death."

"What does the oath you gave me a little while ago command you to do?"

"That was made to an infidel; it is not binding upon a true son of the Prophet."

"A true son of the devil!" exclaimed the physician, unable to repress his rage.

Turning to his daughter, he said:

"My child, you have a pistol; when they make a move, shoot; leave Almos to me and save your last bullet for yourself."

"The infidels shall be destroyed everywhere," said Almos; "none of the Inglese loge shall be left in India. The faithful have risen and they will crush them all, for so commands the Prophet --  -- "

Dr. Marlowe had placed his hand on the butt of his revolver at his hip, meaning to whip out the weapon and fire before the miscreant had finished his high-sounding tomfoolery. His daughter had also grasped hers, intending to obey to the letter the command of her parent, when the Ghoojur chieftain abruptly paused in his speech, staggered for a moment, and then sank to the ground like a bundle of rags, with the breath of life gone from his body.

The incident would have been as inexplicable to parent and child as to the Ghoojurs, had they not caught the faint, far-away report of a rifle, which, if heard by the bandits, was not associated by them with the startling thing that had taken place before their eyes. But the doctor and Mary knew the connection.

And about half-a-mile away, on the top of that huge rock, hot enough under the flaming sun to roast eggs, Jack Everson had assumed the same position that he held the afternoon before on the bank of the Ganges, when he checked the advance of the Ghoojur horsemen across the river. With the aid of the glasses, he had descried the forms of his beloved and her father when the bright eyes failed to detect his own. Then, when about to start to join them, he observed their visitors, and the glass again helped to identify them, after which he "proceeded to business."

The instant he made his aim sure he pulled the trigger, came to a sitting position, readjusted a cartridge, and placing the glasses to his eyes that he might see the more plainly, watched the result of his shot.

"By Jove; another bull's-eye!" he gleefully exclaimed, as he saw his man stagger and fall almost at the feet of Dr. Marlowe. "I don't know the gentleman's name, but a first-class obituary notice is in order. That makes six, and now for the seventh. I really hope the doctor is keeping score for me."

The professional eye of the physician saw where the pellet of lead had passed through the chest of Almos, but it was not observed by Mustad or the other Ghoojurs, who probably attributed it in some way to the bite of the cobra, in spite of the miraculous cure that seemed to have been wrought before their eyes. The three remained in the background, but the fall of the leader appeared to add flames to the hatred of Mustad, who, assuming the mantle of the fallen chieftain, stepped to the front.

"You shall not escape us!" he hissed; "all the Inglese loge shall die!"

"But before any more of them perish, you shall go to the infernal regions to keep company with the imp that has just gone thither."

The doctor had learned from the exhibition of the preceding afternoon the time required by Jack Everson to repeat his marvelous shots. He knew, therefore, about the moment when a second was due, and he decided to make its arrival as dramatic as possible.

"You stand almost on the same spot where stood Almos; he dropped dead before me, and," raising his hand impressively, "I command you to do the same."

Mustad obeyed.

Again the faint report swept across the extent of jungle, travelling with almost the same speed as the bullet, which, like its predecessor, bored through the dusky chest of the victim and lost itself in the vegetation beyond. Mustad gasped, convulsively clasped one hand to his breast, flung out both arms, groped blindly for an instant, and then slumped down as dead as one of the mummies of the Pyramids.

And the young American, still reclining on that gray, blistering rock, again rose to a sitting posture and clapped the glasses to his eyes to observe more clearly the result of his last trial at markmanship.

"That makes seven bull's-eyes!" was his delighted exclamation, "but I have done as well when the distance was twice as great. I must keep the number in mind, for it will be like the doctor to insist that I made but six out of a possible eight. I notice that three gentlemen are left and require attention."

With the same care as before, he lay back and drew bead on the group, but the next moment uttered an impatient exclamation and straightened up again.

"They have fled; only Mary and her father are left, and there's no call to send any bullets in their direction."

The fall of Mustad at the command of the wrathful physician was more than the other Ghoojurs could stand. Suspecting no connection between the almost inaudible reports and the terrifying incidents, they believed their only hope was in headlong flight. Without a word they dashed down the trail, quickly passing from sight, and were seen no more.

Meanwhile Jack Everson, finding no demand for long shooting, sprang from the rock and made all haste to the spot where he had recognized his friends, and where they awaited his coming with an anxiety that could not have been more intense. That others of their enemies were in the neighborhood was certain, and their vengeance could not be restrained or turned aside as had been that of the Ghoojurs. A collision between them and the fugitives must be fatal to the latter.

Great, therefore, was the delight of father and daughter when the brave fellow bounded into sight, his whole concern, as it seemed, being to learn whether the score kept by the doctor agreed with his own. When assured that it did, he announced that he was at the disposal of the venerable physician and his daughter.

The three pushed steadily toward Nepaul, cheered by the knowledge that with every mile passed their danger lessened. They were in great peril more than once. Twice they exchanged shots with marauding bands, and once their destruction seemed inevitable; but good fortune attended them, and at the end of a week they entered the wild, mountainous and sparsely-settled region, where at last all danger was at an end.

So it came about that when the young people took their final departure down the Ganges for Calcutta, thence to return to the United States, Dr. Marlowe went with them. He and his son-in-law formed a partnership in the practice of their profession, and it is only a few years since that the aged physician was laid to rest. He was full of years and honors, and willing to go, for he knew that the happiness of his daughter could be in no safer hands than those of Jack Everson.



Lost In The Woods.


Chapter I.

The Cabin In The Wood.

Harvey Bradley had been superintendent of the Rollo Mills not quite a year when, to his annoyance, the first strike in their history took place.

Young Bradley was a college graduate, a trained athlete, and a bright and ambitious man, whose father was president of the company in New York which owned the extensive mills. It was deemed best to have a direct representative of the corporation on the ground, and Harvey qualified himself for the responsible situation by a six-months' apprenticeship, during all of which he wrought as hard as any laborer in the establishment.

He made his home in the remote village of Bardstown, where the Rollo Mills had been built. He lived with his Aunt Maria, (who went all the way from New York with her favorite nephew that she might look after him), and his sister Dollie, only six years old. The plan was that she should stay until Christmas, when her father was to come and take her home. Aunt Maria, with the help of honest Maggie Murray, kept house for Harvey, who found his hands and brains fully occupied in looking after the interests of the Rollo Mills, which gave employment to two hundred men, women and children.

All went well with the young superintendent for some months after the assumption of his duties. He was alert, and surprised every one by his practical knowledge. He was stern and strict, and, after warning several negligent employes, discharged them. This did not help his popularity, but, so long as the directors were satisfied, Harvey cared for the opinion of no one else.

When dull times came, Superintendent Bradley scaled down the wages of all, including his own. The promise to restore them, as soon as business warranted the step, averted the threatened strike. Within a month the restoration took place, but every employe was required to work a half hour over time without additional pay.

A strike was averted for the time, but the friendly feeling and mutual confidence that ought to exist between the employer and the employed was destroyed. The latter kept at work, and the former felt that he had not sacrificed his dignity nor his discipline.

But the discontent increased. One day Hugh O'Hara, the chief foreman, and Thomas Hansell, one of the most influential of the workmen, called upon Mr. Bradley, and speaking for the employes, protested against the new arrangement. They said every man, woman and child was willing to work the extra half hour, but inasmuch as the need for such extra time indicated an improvement in business, they asked for the additional pay to which they were clearly entitled.

Harvey was looking for such protest and he was prepared. He said it was an error to think there was an improvement in business. While in one sense it might be true, yet the price of the manufactured goods had fallen so low that the mills really made less money than before. The wages that had been paid were better than were warranted by the state of trade. Now, when the employes were asked to help in a slight degree their employers who had done so much for them, they would not do so. O'Hara and Hansell, showing a wish to discuss the matter, the superintendent cut them short by saying that it was idle to talk further. He would not make any reduction in their time, nor would he pay any extra compensation.

That night 200 employes of the Rollo Mills quit work, with the intention of staying out until justice was done them. Harvey asserted that he would never yield; he would spend a few days in overhauling the machinery and in making a few needed repairs; then, if the employes chose, they could come back. All who did not do so would not be taken back afterwards. New hands would be engaged and in a short time the mills would be running the same as before.

O'Hara and Hansell warned the superintendent that serious trouble would follow any such course. While making no threat themselves, they told him that blood was likely to be shed. Harvey pooh-poohed and reminded them that a few men and children would make sorry show in fighting the whole state, for, in the event of interference by the strikers, he meant to appeal to the authorities.

The repairs needed at the mills were soon made. Steam was gotten up and the whistle called the hands to work. Only O'Hara and Hansell came forward. They explained that all would be glad to take their places if the superintendent would allow them a slight increase of pay for overwork. They had held a meeting and talked over the matter, and now abated a part of their first demand; they were willing to accept one-half rate for overtime.

The superintendent would not yield a jot. The most that he would consent to do was to wait until noon for them to go to work. The two men went away muttering threats; not one of the hands answered the second call to work.

Quite sure that such would be the result, Harvey had telegraphed to Carville, fifty miles away, for sixty men, to take the place of those who had quit work. He asked only for men, since it would have been unwise to bring women and children to become involved in difficulties.

By some means this step became known, and, as is always the case, it added fuel to the flames. Warning notices were sent to the superintendent that if the new hands went to work they would be attacked; Bradley himself was told to keep out of sight unless ready to come to the terms of the strikers. Even in his own home, he could not be guaranteed safety. His house as well as the mills would be burnt.

Harvey felt no special alarm because of these threats; he did not believe that those who made them dare carry them out. But that night the mills escaped destruction only by the vigilance of the extra watchmen. The same evening Aunt Maria was stopped on the village street and told that it was best she should lose no time in moving away with her little niece Dollie, since it was more than likely the innocent would suffer with the guilty. For the first time, Harvey understood the earnestness of the men; but he clung to his resolution all the same.

You can see how easily the trouble could have been ended. The employes had abated their first demand and were willing to compromise. Had Harvey spoken his honest thoughts, he would have said the men were right, or at any rate he ought to have agreed to their proposal to submit the dispute to arbitration; but he was too proud to yield.

"They will take it for weakness on my part," was his thought; "it will make an end of all system and open the way for demands that in the end will destroy the business."

The sixty new hands reached Bardstown and were about as numerous as the men who wrought in the mills before the strike. They looked like a determined band, who would be able to take care of themselves in the troubles that impended.

The arrivals were received with scowls by the old employes, who hooted and jeered them as they marched grimly to the mills. No blows were struck, though more than once an outbreak was imminent. It was too late in the day to begin work, but the new hands were shown through the establishment, with a view of familiarizing them to some extent with their new duties. Most of them had had some experience in the same kind of work, but there was enough ignorance to insure much vexation and loss.

The night that followed was so quiet that Harvey believed the strikers had been awed by his threat to appeal to the law and by the determined front of the new men.

"It's a dear lesson," he said to himself, "but they need it, and it is high time it was taught to them."

The next morning the whistle sent out its ear-splitting screech, whose echoes swung back and forth, like so many pendulums between the hills, but to the amazement of Harvey Bradley, not a person was seen coming toward the mills. The whistle called them again, and Hugh O'Hara and Tom Hansell strolled leisurely up the street to the office, where Mr. Bradley wonderingly awaited them.

"You'll have to blow that whistle a little louder," said O'Hara, with a tantalizing grin.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Those chaps all left town last night; they must be about forty miles away; you see we explained matters to them; I don't think, if I was you, I would feel bad about it; they believe they can get along better at Carville than at Bardstown."

For the first time since the trouble began, Harvey Bradley lost his temper. To be defied and taunted in this manner was more than he could bear. He vowed over again that not one of the strikers should do another day's work for him, even if he begged for it on his knees and he was starving. He at once telegraphed to Vining, fully one hundred miles away, where he knew there were many people idle, for one hundred men who would not only come, but stay. He preferred those who knew something about the business, but the first need was that the men would remain at their posts, and if necessary fight for their positions. He guaranteed larger wages than he had ever paid experienced hands, but he wanted no man who would not help hold the fort against all comers. The superintendent was on his mettle; he meant to win.

Having sent off this message, for which it cannot be denied, Harvey had every legal and moral warrant, he set out on a long tramp through the woods at the rear of Bardstown. It was a crisp autumn day, and the long brisk walk did him much good. The glow came to his cheeks, his blood was warmed, and his brain cleared by the invigorating exercise. So much indeed did he enjoy it that he kept it up until, to his surprise, he saw that it was growing dark, and he was several miles from home.

It was snowing, though not heavily. He walked fast, but, when night had fully come, paused with the uncomfortable discovery that he was hopelessly lost in the woods.

"Well, this is pleasant!" he exclaimed, looking around in vain for some landmark in the gloom. "I believe I shall have to spend the night out doors, though I seem to be following some sort of path."

He struck a match, shading it with his hand from the chilly wind, and stooped down. Yes; there was an unmistakable trail, and with renewed hope he hurried on, taking care not to stray to either side. Within the next ten minutes, to his delight, he caught the twinkle of a star-like point of light among the trees, a short distance ahead.

While making his way hopefully forward, Harvey became aware of a singular fact. The air around him was tainted with a peculiar odor, such as he had never met before. It was of a rank nature, and, while not agreeable, could not be said to be really unpleasant. It might have interested him more, but for his anxiety to reach the shelter which was now so near at hand.

Arriving at the cabin, he found the latch-string hanging out. A sharp pull, the door was swung inward and Harvey stepped into a small room, lit up by a crackling wood-fire on the hearth.

As he entered, two men who were smoking their pipes, looked up. The visitor could not hide his expression of surprise, for they were Hugh O'Hara and Thomas Hansell, the last persons in the world he wished to see.



Chapter II.

A Pointed Discussion.

Hugh O'Hara was in middle life. He was of Scotch descent, and, in his younger days, had received a fair education. Even now he spent much time over his books. He talked well, and was not without a certain grace of manner founded, no doubt, on his knowledge of human nature, which gave him great influence with others. It was this, as much as his skill, that made him the leading foreman at a time when a score of others had the right by seniority of service to the place.

But Hugh had dipped into the springs of learning just enough to have his ideas of right and wrong turned awry and to form a distaste for his lot that made his leadership dangerous. Besides, he had met with sorrows that deepened the shadows that lay across his pathway. In that little cabin he had seen a young wife close her eyes in death, and his only child, a sweet girl of five years, not long afterward was laid beside her mother. Many said that Hugh buried his heart with Jennie and had not been the same man since. He was reserved, except to one or two intimate friends. Shaggy, beetle-browed and unshaven, his looks were anything but pleasing to those who did not fully know him.

Tom Hansell was much the same kind of man, except that he lacked the book education of his companion and leader. He had strong impulses, and was ready to go to an extreme length in whatever direction he started, but he always needed a guiding spirit, and that he found in Hugh O'Hara.

The latter, after burying his child, moved into the village, saying that he never wanted to look again upon the cabin that had brought so much sorrow to him. Most people believed he could not be led to go near it, and yet on this blustery night he and Tom Hansell were seated in the structure without any companions except the well known hound Nero, and were smoking their pipes and plotting mischief.

Hugh and Tom were in their working clothes -- coarse trousers, shirts, and heavy shoes, without vest or coat. Their flabby caps lay on the floor behind them, and their tousled hair hung over their foreheads almost to their eyes. Tom had no side whiskers, but a heavy mustache and chin whiskers, while the face of Hugh was covered with a spiky black beard that stood out from his face as if each hair was charged with electricity.

Nero, the hound, raised his nose from between his paws and looked up at the visitor. Then, as if satisfied, he lowered his head and resumed his nap.

Bradley, as I have said, was angry with himself for walking into such a trap. It was not fear, but a deep dislike of the man who was the head and front of the trouble at the mills. He was the spokesman and leader of the strikers, and he was the real cause of the stoppage of the works. Harvey looked upon him as insolent and brutal, and he was sure that no circumstances could arise that would permit him to do a stroke of work in the Rollo Mills again.

"Good evening," said Harvey stiffly, "I did not expect to find you here."

Hansell nodded in reply to the salutation, but Hugh simply motioned with the hand that held the pipe toward a low stool standing near the middle of the apartment.

"Help yourself to a seat, Mr. Bradley; the presence of Tom and myself here is no odder than is your own."

"I suppose not," replied Harvey with a half-laugh, as he seated himself; "I started out for a walk to-day and went too far -- that is, so far that I lost my way. I had about made up my mind that I would have to sleep in the woods, when I caught the light from your window and made for it."

The glance that passed between Hugh and Tom -- sly as it was -- did not elude the eye of Harvey Bradley. He saw that his explanation was not believed, but he did not care; there was no love between him and them, and, had it not looked as if he held them in fear, he would have turned and walked away after stepping across the threshold. As it was, he meant to withdraw as soon as he could do it without seeming to be afraid.

"Is this the first time you have taken a walk up this way?" asked Hugh.

"The fact that I lost my way ought to answer that question; how far is it, please, to Bardstown?"

"An even mile by the path you came."

"But I didn't come by any path, except for a short distance in front of this place."

"Then how did you get here?"

"Is there no way of traveling through the woods except by the road that leads to your door?"

The conversation was between Harvey and Hugh alone. Tom was abashed in the presence of two such persons, and nothing could have led him to open his mouth unless appealed to by one or the other. Neither made any allusion to the strike. After the superintendent's rebuff, Hugh scorned to do so, while Harvey would have stultified himself had he invited any discussion. The repugnance between the two men was too strong for them calmly to debate any question. Besides Hugh and Tom were suspicious; they did not believe that the presence of the superintendent was accidental; there was a sinister meaning in it which boded ill for Hugh and his friends, and the former, therefore, was in a vicious mood.

With the conditions named, a wrangle may be set down as one of the certainties. But Harvey Bradley had defied the fury of half a hundred men, and he meant to teach this marplot his proper place. There was a threatening gleam in his eye, but he puffed a few seconds at his pipe, and then, glaring through the rank smoke that curled upward from his face said:

"There are a good many ways by which Hugh O'Hara's cabin can be found, but those who come on honest errands stick to the path."

"Which explains why the path is so little worn," was the reply of Harvey.

"Aye, and your feet have done mighty little to help the wearing of the same."

"If those who live in the cabin were honest themselves, they would not tremble every time the latch-string is pulled, nor would they be scared if they saw a visitor stop to snuff the air in this neighborhood."

This was an ill-timed remark, and Harvey regretted the words the moment they passed his lips. He saw Hugh and Tom glance at each other; but the words, having been spoken, could not be recalled, nor did the superintendent make any attempt to modify them. Before the others could answer, he added:

"I have heard it said that Hugh O'Hara held this place in such strong disfavor that nothing could lead him to spend a night here, yet he smokes his pipe and plots mischief as if the cabin is the one place in the world with which he is content."

These words were not soothing in their effect, nor did the speaker mean that they should be. Hugh was insolent, and the superintendent resented it.

The only proof of the rising anger in the breast of O'Hara was the vigorous puffing of his pipe. Tom, as I have said, was too awed to say anything at all.

"I am of age and free born," growled Hugh, looking into the glowing embers and speaking as if to himself; "where I go and what I do concerns no one but myself."

"Not so long as you go to the proper place and do only what is right," said Harvey, who, sitting back a few feet from the fire, looked calmly at the fellow whose rough profile was outlined against the fiery background behind him.

"Men interpret right according to their own ideas, and they seldom agree, but most people will pronounce that person the worst sort of knave who robs poor men of what they earn and looks upon them as he looks upon the beasts of the field -- worth only the amount of money they bring to him."



Chapter III.

Missing.

The conversation was taking a dangerous shape. Harvey saw that it would not do for him to stay. Both these men were fierce enough to fly at his throat. That little cabin in the woods was liable to become the scene of a tragedy unless he bridled his tongue or went away.

Disdaining to say so much as "good-night," he rose to his feet, opened the door, shut it behind him, and walked out in the blustery darkness.

"I would rather spend the night fighting tigers than to keep the company of such miscreants. But the new hands will be here in a few days, and the fellows will be taught a lesson which they will remember all their lives. I suppose I ought to pity their dupes, but they should have enough sense to see that these men are their worst enemies. It will be a bright day for the Rollo Mills and for Bardstown when they are well rid of them."

The superintendent did not pause to think where he was going when he stepped into the open air. The cold wind struck his face and a few fine particles touched his cheek. The sky had partly cleared, so that he could see the fine coating of snow around him, but after all, very little had fallen.

"If I can keep the path," he thought, "I will reach the village, but that is no easy matter -- ah! there it is again."

The peculiar odor that had mystified him before was in the air. He recalled that Hugh and Tom had made an allusion to it that he did not understand.

"It may come from their chimney and be caused by something burning; but I looked closely at the wood on the hearth and saw nothing else."

A natural impulse led him, after walking a few rods, to look behind him. He had heard nothing, but knowing the surly mood of the couple, he thought it probable they might follow him.

The door of the cabin, was drawn wide open and the form of a man stood out to view, as if stamped with ink on the flaming background made by the fire beyond. His lengthened shadow was thrown down the path almost to the feet of Harvey. The fellow no doubt was peering into the gloom and listening.

"I wonder whether they mean to dog me," said Harvey; "it will be an easy matter to do so, for they know every part of the wood, while I am a stranger. They are none too good to put me out of the way; it is such men who have no fear of the law, but they shall not take me unawares."

While still looking toward the cabin, all became dark again. The door was closed, but he could not be sure whether the man stood outside or within.

"If he means to do me harm he will soon be at my heels."

But the straining eyes could not catch the outlines of any one, and the only sound was the moaning wind among the bare branches.

"He has gone back into the house, but may come out again."

And so, while picking his way through the dim forests, you may be sure that Harvey Bradley looked behind him many times. It makes one shiver with dread to suspect that a foe is softly following him. Harvey had buttoned his pea jacket to his chin and he now turned up the collar, so that it touched his ears. His hands were shoved deep into the side pockets and the right one rested upon his revolver that he had withdrawn from its usual place at his hip. He was on the alert for whatever might come.

He was pleased with one fact: the path to which so many references were made, was so clearly marked that he found it easy to avoid going wrong.

"If I had had sense enough to take the right course when I first struck it, I would have been home by this time."

After turning around several times without seeing or hearing anything suspicious, he came to believe that however glad O'Hara and Hansell might be to do him harm, they lacked the courage, unless almost sure against detection.

"Hugh will stir up others to go forward, but he will take good care to protect himself."

The dull roar that he once fancied he heard when tramping aimlessly during the day, was now so distinct that he knew he must be near a stream. The path crossed it at no great distance.

Sure enough, he had only turned a bend and gone down a little slope when he reached the margin of a deep creek, fully twenty feet wide. It flowed smooth and dark at his feet, but the turmoil to the left showed that it tumbled over the rocks, not far away.

Harvey was anything but pleased, when he saw the bridge by which the stream had to be passed. It was merely the trunk of a tree, that lay with the base on the side where he stood, while the top rested on the other bank. Whoever had felled the tree had trimmed the trunk of its branches from base to top -- the result being more ornamental than useful, for the protuberances would have served to help the footing of a passenger. The trunk in the middle was no more than six inches in diameter, and being a little worn by the shoes that had trod its length, the footing was anything but secure. With the sprinkling of snow it was more treacherous than ever.

"Must I cross that?" Harvey said aloud, with a feeling akin to dismay.

"You can do so or swim, whichever you choose."

These words were spoken by a man standing on the other side, and who was about to step on the support, when he paused on seeing another on the point of doing the same from the opposite bank. In the dim light, Harvey saw him only indistinctly, but judged that he himself was recognized by the other.

"I suppose it's safe enough for those accustomed to it," said Harvey in reply, "but I prefer some other means; do you intend to use it?"

"That I do; I want no better; if you are afraid, get out of the way, for I am late."

Harvey moved to the right, and watched the other, who stepped upon the support and walked over with as much certainty as if treading a pavement on the street.

Harvey looked closely, and as the fellow came toward him, he recognized him as one of his former employes. He was Jack Hansell -- a brother of Tom, and like him a close associate of Hugh O'Hara, the leader.

"You are out late, Jack," remarked the superintendent, as the other left the log. To his surprise, Jack did not answer, but quickly disappeared up the path by which the superintendent had reached the spot.

"He is surly and ill-mannered, like all of them; no doubt he is on his way to the cabin to plot mischief with the others."

Since nothing was to be gained by waiting, Harvey now stepped on the trunk and began gingerly making his way across. It was a hard task, and just beyond the middle, he lost his balance. He was so far along, however, that a vigorous jump landed him on the other bank.

A little beyond he caught the twinkling lights of the village, and he hastened his steps, now that, as it may be said, home was in sight. He felt as if he was famishing, and the thought of the luscious supper awaiting his return, gave him such speed that he was soon at his own door.

Though it was late, he saw his aunt was astir, for the lights were burning brightly. Before he could utter the greeting on his tongue, he was terrified by the scared face of his relative.

"Why, aunt, what is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Oh, Harvey!" she wailed; "haven't you brought Dollie with you?"

"Dollie!" repeated the other; "I haven't seen her since I left home."

"Then you will never see her again," and, overcome by her terrible grief, the good woman sank into the nearest chair, covered her face with her apron and wept.

Harvey Bradley stood petrified. Bright-eyed Dollie, whom he had left a few hours before, rosy, happy, overflowing with bounding spirits, was gone, and the sobbing Aunt Maria declared she would never be seen again.

Stepping into the room, Harvey laid his hand on his aunt's shoulder and in a trembling voice said:

"Why, aunt, what does this mean? Are you in earnest? What has become of Dollie? Tell me, I beseech you."

"She is lost; she is lost! Oh, why did we ever bring her to this dreadful country? I wish none of us had ever seen it."

"But what about Dollie? Where is she? How long has she been gone? Compose yourself and tell."

It was not until he spoke sharply that the hysterical woman was able to make known that the child had been absent for hours, no one knew where. When she learned that noon that her big brother would not be back till night, Dollie had pouted because he had gone off without telling her. She was not sure she could ever forgive him. However, she ate her dinner, and soon after went out to play. Some hours later her aunt went to the door to call her, but she was not within sight or hearing. Maggie was sent to look for her, but soon came back with word that she could not be found.

The child had been seen a couple of hours before, running in the direction of the path that led into the mountains, as if she was fleeing from some one, Maggie had gone as far as she dared in quest of her, but her loudest shouts brought no reply and she returned.

The word brought by the servant, as may well be believed, filled the aunt with the wildest grief. Beyond all doubt, Dollie had formed a sudden resolve to hunt up her brother Harvey, who had gone away and left her at home. She had strayed so far into the mountains that she was lost. Fortunately, she was warmly dressed at the time, but exposed as she must be to the wintry winds and cold, she could not hold out until morning unless rescued very soon.

Harvey was stricken with an anguish such as he had never known before, but he knew that not a minute was to be lost. Dollie must be found at once or it would be too late. It added a poignancy to his woe to know that in coming down the mountain path, he must have passed close to her, who was in sore need of the help he was eager to give.

"Have you made no search for her?" he asked.

"I could not believe she would not come back until it began to grow dark. I thought she could not be far away; Maggie and I hunted through the village, inquiring of every one whom we saw; many of the people were kind, and two or three have gone to hunt for her; I started to do so, but did not go far, when I was sure she had come back while I was away, and I hurried home only to find she was not here."

"Are you sure any one is looking for her?"

"There are several."

"Well," said Harvey, impatient with the vacillation shown by his aunt, "I shall not come back until she is found."

His hand was on the knob of the door when his distressed relative sprang to her feet.

"Harvey;" she said in a wild, scared manner, "shall I tell you what I believe?"

"Of course."

"Dollie did not lose herself: some of those awful men did it."

"Do you mean the strikers?"

"Yes; they have taken her away to spite you."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the young man, passing out the door and striding up the single street that ran through the village.

But though unwilling to confess it to himself, the same shocking suspicion had come to him at the moment he learned that Dollie was lost. Could it be that some of the men, grown desperate in their resentment, had taken this means of mortally injuring him? Was there any person in the wide world who would harm an innocent child for the sake of hurting a strong man? Alas, such things had been done, and why should they not be done again? The words that he overheard between Hugh O'Hara and Tom Hansell proved them capable of dark deeds. Could it be that some of the hints thrown out by them during that brief interview in the cabin bore any relation to the disappearance of Dollie.

At the moment Harvey turned away from his own house it was his intention to rouse the village and to ask all to join in the hunt for the child, but a feeling of bitter resentment led him to change his purpose. No; they would rejoice over his sorrow; they would give him no aid, and, if they had had a hand in her taking off, they would do what they could to baffle him in his search. Slight as was his hope, he would push on alone.

"O'Hara and Hansell know all about it; I will search the neighborhood of the path all the way to their cabin and then compel them to tell what they know; if they refuse --  -- "

He shut his lips tight and walked faster than ever. He strove to fight back the tempestuous emotions that set his blood boiling. He was moved by a resolve that would stop at nothing; he would not believe that there was no hope; he knew he could force the miscreants to give up their secret, and had a hair of his little sister's head been harmed the punishment should be swift and terrible.

"When Dollie is found," he muttered, determined to believe she must be restored to him, "I will send her and Aunt Maria away, and then have it out with these fellows; I'll make them rue the day they began the fight."

These were dreadful thoughts, but there was excuse for them, his grief made him half frantic.

The path over which he believed Dollie had either strayed or been led or carried, entered the woods about a hundred yards from the village and gradually sloped and wound upward for a mile, when it passed the door of Hugh O'Hara's cabin and lost itself in the solitude beyond.

The sky had cleared still more during the interval since he came down the mountain side, and he could not only see the course clearly, but could distinguish objects several rods away, when the shadow of the overhanging trees did not shut out the light. But the season was so far along that few leaves were left on the limbs and it was easy, therefore, for him to keep the right course.

He had not gone far when he stopped and shouted the name of Dollie. The sound reached a long way, and he repeated the call several times, but only the dismal wind among the limbs gave answer.

Striding forward, he stood a few minutes later on the margin of the creek that was spanned by the fallen tree.

"She would not have dared to walk over," was his thought: "she must have been on this side, if she wandered off alone."

A moment later he added:

"No; for the very reason that it is dangerous, Dollie would run across; it would be no trouble for her to do so, and there is just enough peril to tempt her. Could she have fallen in?"

He looked at the dark water as it swept forward and shivered.

"Rivers and lakes and seas and streams are always thirsting for human life, and this may have seized her."

Tramping through the undergrowth that lined the bank he fought his way onward until he stood beside the rocks where the waters made a foaming cascade, as they dashed downward toward the mills far away.

"If she did fall in, she must be somewhere near this spot --  -- "

His heart seemed to stop beating. Surely that dark object, half submerged and lying against the edge of the bank, where the water made an eddy, must be her body. He ran thither and stooped down.

"Thank God," was his exclamation, after touching it with his hands, and finding it a piece of dark wood that had been carried there from the regions above.

Back he came to where the fallen tree spanned the creek, and hurried across. No snow was falling, but the earth was white with the thin coating that had filtered down hours before.

"Had it come earlier in the day," he thought, "it would help us to trace her, but now it will hide her footprints."

Hardly a score of steps from the creek his foot struck something soft, and he stooped down. Straightening up, he held a small hood in his hand, such as children wear in cold weather. Faint as was the light, he recognized it as Dollie's; he had seen her wear it many times.

"What can it mean?" he asked himself; "I must have stepped over or on that on my way down, but did not notice it. Yes, Dollie is on this side the stream, but where?"

Aye, that was the question. Once more he raised his voice and shouted with might and main, but as before no answer came back.

Harvey was now master of himself. He had recovered from the shock that at first almost took away his senses and he was able to think and act with his usual coolness. But with this, the belief that Hugh and Tom had something to do with the disappearance of Dollie grew until at times he was without any doubt at all. Occasionally, however, he wavered in his belief.

Thus it was that two theories offered themselves. The first was that Dollie had set out to find him and had wandered up the mountain path to some point above the bridge and then had strayed from it and become lost. Worn out, she had laid down and was at that moment asleep.

The corollary of this theory was that she had perished with cold, or would thus perish before daylight. True, she was well clad when she went out that afternoon to play, but her hood was gone and she could not escape the biting wind that pierced the heavy clothing of Harvey himself. Then, too, there was the danger from the wild beasts, of which he had had too late an experience to forget.

Should it prove that Dollie went off in the manner named, then Harvey made a great error in setting out alone to search for her. He ought to have roused the village, and, with the hundreds scouring the mountains, helped by torches and dogs, discovery could not be delayed long.

The other and darker theory was that she had been seen by some of his enemies as she went into the woods and had been coaxed to some out-of-the-way place, where her abductors meant to hold and use her as a means of bringing the superintendent to terms. All must have known that no method could be so effective as that.

It was hard to believe that the evil-minded men would go any further. Yet it was easy for them to do so; they could make way with a little child like her and have it seem that her death was caused by falling over the rocks or by some other accident that might easily come to her.

"O'Hara and Hansell must have known all about it when I was in their cabin. They were afraid to assail me in the cabin, for I was prepared, and the fear of the law kept them from following me after I left their place."

Harvey was thinking hard when he caught the well-known light, among the trees in the cabin.

"He, Tom and Jack, precious scamps all of them, are exulting over the sorrow they have caused, but they shall pay for it."

The latch-string had not yet been withdrawn. Harvey gave it a jerk, followed by a spiteful push that threw the door wide open. Disappointment awaited him. Neither Hugh nor Tom was there, but Jack, looking like a twin brother of Tom, was in the act of lighting the pipe that his relative had probably left for his use. He was alone, not even the hound being present.

Jack had partly risen to his feet to reach the pouch of tobacco on the short mantel above the fireplace. He paused and looked over his shoulder with a startled expression at the visitor who made such an emphatic entrance.

"Why -- why, Mr. Bradley," he stammered, "I didn't know it was you; will you take a seat?"

"Where are Hugh and Tom?"

"They went out some time ago."

"Where did they go?" demanded Harvey in an angry voice.

"Down to -- the -- that is, I don't know."

"Yes, you do know. I want no trifling; I will not stand it."

The fellow, though flustered at first, quickly regained his self-possession. He had evidently checked himself just in time to keep back some important knowledge.

"Where have they gone?" repeated the superintendent, bursting with impatience.

But Jack Hansell was himself again -- sullen and insolent as ever. He had an intense dislike of his employer -- a dislike that had deepened within the past few days. He slowly sat down and smoked a full minute before making reply to Harvey, who felt like throttling him.

"I told you I didn't know," he finally said, looking into the embers and speaking as if to the glowing coals.

"But you do know."

"So I do, but I know another thing as well, and that is that there ain't any reason why I should tell you if I don't choose to."

It took a great effort of the will for Harvey to hold himself from doing violence to the man who said he was not bound to tell what he preferred to keep to himself: but the superintendent saw that nothing could be gained by violence. The man who can keep cool during a dispute has ten-fold the advantage over one who does not restrain himself.

After all, Jack Hansell was of small account. It was O'Hara, his master, and mayhap his companion, whom Harvey Bradley must see. If Tom chose to tell the truth he could do so, but if he would not, no one could force him to say the words.

All this was clear to the young man, who, checking his anger, added in a lower tone:

"You are not bound to answer any question I ask you, even when you have no reason for your refusal, but you cannot decline to say when they are likely to be back."

"Yes, I can, for I don't know."

"I wish to see O'Hara on a matter of the first importance."

"But he may not want to see you, and I ain't the man to make things unpleasant for a friend."

"You certainly expect them back to-night, do you not?"

Jack smoked his pipe a few seconds before giving heed to this simple question. Then, turning slowly toward Harvey, who was still standing in the middle of the room, he said:

"You had better sit down, for you won't find Hugh and Tom any sooner by keeping your feet. What do you want to see 'em for?"

"That I can explain only to them, though it is Hugh whom I particularly want to meet."

The superintendent took the seat to which he was invited. It was the stool on which he sat when in the cabin before. It cost him a greater effort than can be explained to defer to this defiant fellow, who a few weeks or even days before would have cringed at his feet like a dog.

"That being the case," added Jack, between the puffs at his pipe, "why you'll have to wait till they come back. That may be inside of five minutes, and not for an hour; maybe," added Jack in the game exasperating manner, "that nothing will be seen of 'em till daylight. You see that since they have been cheated out of their work they have plenty of time to loaf through the country."

"Any man who is too lazy to work can find time to turn his hand to dishonest tricks," said the superintendent, meaning that the words should not be misunderstood.

"Sometimes the tricks that you call dishonest pay better than working for a superintendent who wants all the wages himself," was the impudent reply of Jack Hansell.

"That is the excuse of the man who is bad at heart and who prefers wrong to right. Our state prisons are full of that sort of people."

"Yes -- and there are a good many people that ought to be in prison that ain't there."

"I am sure no one is better qualified than you to speak on that matter."

"Except yourself."

It struck Harvey just then that he was doing an unworthy thing in holding such a conversation with any man. If he had anything of the kind to say, he ought to speak it openly. He now did so.

"There is not a particle of doubt, Jack Hansell, that you and your brother and Hugh O'Hara are engaged in business that ought to place you all behind the bars."

"If you think it safe to talk that way before Tom and Hugh you will now have the chance."

"I will be glad to tell them to their faces what I have told you."

"All right; there they come."

Footsteps and voices in such low tones were heard outside that it was clear the men brought important news with them. And such indeed proved to be the case.



Chapter IV.

The Search By Hugh And Tom.

Never did one person do another a greater injustice than did Harvey Bradley when he believed that either Hugh O'Hara or any one else had aught to do with the absence of his little sister Dollie. No men had a hand in the sad business, nor could any one have been led to harm a hair of her head. Had Harvey asked for help, no one in the village would have held back from doing all that could be done to restore the child to her friends.

The first news that came to Hugh O'Hara's cabin of the loss of the child was brought by Jack Hansell, who went thither on a far different errand. After a long talk on business, he gave the tidings, adding:

"I met him at the creek, but thought I wouldn't tell him, for it would do no good. I kept my eyes open for the gal, but seen nothing of her."

Hugh jerked the pipe from his mouth.

"What's that you are saying? The little girl lost?"

"That's it; she's been missing since noon; they think she come up the path and got lost in the mountains."

"Good gracious!" gasped Hugh, starting to his feet, "that is bad; do you know," he added, turning to Tom and speaking with a slight tremor, "that that little girl Dollie is about the age my Jennie was when she died?"

"I hadn't thought of that," replied Tom.

"And," continued Hugh, swallowing a lump in his throat, "she looks so much like Jennie that I've often felt as if I would give all I have -- which ain't much -- to hold the little one on my knee as I used to hold my baby. She is a sweet child and likes me; we've had many a talk together that no one beside us knows about. She's so gentle, so innocent, so good that it seems to me I see my own darling before me when she looks up in my face. Come, boys," he added, decisively, as he walked to the farther end of the room, picked up a lantern and lit the candle inside.

"Come where?" asked Tom, in amazement.

Hugh turned half angrily toward him.

"Do you think that I could rest while that child is lost in the mountains? Mr. Bradley hasn't acted right toward us and I bear him no good will, but this isn't he -- it's a little child -- she looks and acts like my Jennie, that's dead and gone."

"But, Hugh, you forget -- what about the place?"

"Let it go to the dogs for all I care! What does it amount to against the life of the little one? But we'll let Jack stay; if any of the boys come, send them out to help in the hunt; it'll do them more good than to break the law."

"Suppose some that are strangers come?" said Jack with a grin.

Hugh O'Hara gave a hollow laugh.

"Send them out, too, to help in the search; we'll be sure to find her when the whole country gets to work. If I was down in the village I would have every man, woman and child in the woods, and wouldn't let them eat or drink or sleep till she's found. Tom, there's no one that knows the woods better than we and Nero. Let's be off!"

The door was drawn inward, and Jack Hansell was left alone. He lit his pipe, smoked it out, refilled it and was in the act of refilling it, when Harvey Bradley came in -- as has been made known in another place. While the man sat smoking and alone in the cabin, he fell to brooding over the troubles at the mills. Thus it came to pass that his feelings were so bitter at the time the superintendent entered that he kept back every hint that the absent men were engaged in the most "honest" business in the world -- that is, they were looking for the missing child.

Meanwhile Hugh and Tom went at the task not only with zeal, but with a sagacity that gave promise of good results. As Hugh had said, they knew every foot of the mountains for miles, they were free from the flurry that at first ran away with the judgment of the superintendent, and they were used to prowling through the woods. Still further Nero had been trained to follow the faintest footprints.

"Now, Tom," said the leader, when they had walked a short ways, "we can't do anything till we get on the trail of the little one."

"What do you think has become of her?"

"She's somewhere in the woods asleep or dead, with the chances about even for either."

"Jack says she was seen coming up the mountain path early this afternoon."

"Well, she has kept to it till she has either slipped out of the path without knowing it or she has done it on purpose. She has strolled along until it became dark or she was tired. Then she has lain down on the leaves and gone to sleep. Nero, find the trail of the little girl."

"But," said Tom, "the night is so cold."

"So it is, but if the girl went out to play she was well clad, and, if she knew enough, she has crept under the lee of a rock or into the bushes, where the wind can't reach her. If she did the same, she hasn't frozen to death."

"But there are wild animals in these parts."

"I know that, and she would make a meal that any of them would be glad to get; we can only hope they didn't find her."

Just then Nero, who had been nosing the path in front, uttered a whine and turned aside. Hugh held up the lantern and saw that he had gone to the right. He was following a trail of some kind; whether it was that of the one whom they were seeking was to be learned. It would take a fine scent to trace the tiny footsteps under the carpet of snow, but such an exploit is not one-tenth as wonderful as that of the trained dogs in Georgia, which will stick to the track of a convict when it has been trampled upon by hundreds of others wearing similar dress and shoes, and will keep to it for miles by running parallel to the trail and at a distance of a hundred feet.

But in the latter case the canines have an advantage at the start; they are put upon the track or directed to hunt for it where it is known to exist; they are given a clew in some form.

The hound Nero was skilful in taking a scent, but his ability was not to be compared to that of the dogs to which I have referred, nor indeed was it necessary that it should be. But he had great intelligence, and acted as if he understood every word said to him by his master. He had saved Hugh and his friends many a time by giving warning from afar of the approach of strange parties. It may seem incredible that he should know what was wanted of him, but there is the best reason for saying he understood it all. Having no part of the little one's clothing to help, he was without the clew which would appear to be indispensable. His master, however, was satisfied the dog had struck the right trail.

"Stick to it, Nero," said Hugh, encouragingly, "not too fast, but be sure you're right."

Without pause, the two followed the dog, Hugh in front with lantern in hand. The woods were so cluttered with undergrowth that they could not go fast, seeing which Nero suited his pace to theirs. Now and then he ran ahead, as if impatient with the slow progress of the couple, and then he calmly awaited their approach.

"Hark!"

The single word "Dollie!" rang through the arches of the woods. They recognized the voice as that of the superintendent, who was hurrying over the path they had left, and who was not far away. In fact, Hugh held the lantern in front of him so as to hide its rays.

"I am sorry for him," he said, "but we don't want him with us."

"It cannot be," remarked Tom, after they had struggled further, "that she has gone as far as this; Nero must be off the track."

At this moment the dog emitted a low, baying whine that would have startled any one had he not known its meaning. It was the signal which the remarkable animal always gave when close to the end of a trail.

"We shall soon know the worst," said Hugh, crashing through the wood with such haste that Tom had to hurry almost into a trot to save himself from dropping behind.

The singular call of the dog was heard again. He wanted his friends to move faster. It came from a point slightly to the left.

"Here he is!" exclaimed Hugh, making a sharp turn and showing more excitement than at any time during the evening.

"I see him! There he stands!" added Tom, stumbling forward.

With his right hand Hugh raised the lantern above his head, so that its glare was taken from their eyes. The hound was close to a rock that rose some six or eight feet above the ground, and his nose was pointed toward the base of the black mass. At the same moment the men saw something dark and light mixed together, like a bundle of clothing. One bound and Hugh was on his knees, the lamp held even with his forehead while he peered downward and softly drew the clothing aside. Tom was also stooping low and leaning forward with bated breath.

There lay little Dollie Bradley, sleeping as sweetly as if nestling beside her big brother in the warm bed at home. She must have wandered through the woods until, worn out, she reached this spot. Then she had thrown herself on the earth beside the rock and had fallen asleep. Having lost her hood, her head was without any covering, except her own native hair, which was abundant. Besides, rugged people do not need to cover their heads while asleep, even in cold weather.

It was fortunate for Dollie that she was so warmly wrapped. One arm was doubled under her head, and the cheek that rested on it was pushed just enough out of shape to add to her picturesqueness. Her heavy coat having been buttoned around her body, kept its form and could not have been better arranged. The chubby legs were covered by thick stockings, and the feet were protected by heavy shoes. True, she ran much risk in lying upon the cold earth, with nothing between her and the ground, but there was hope that no serious harm would follow.

The rock not only kept off the wind, but screened her from the snow. It was almost certain that the little one had been asleep several hours.

Hugh gently examined the limbs and body to see whether there was any hurt. Her peaceful sleep ought to have satisfied him, but he was not content. Not a scratch, however, was found, though her clothing had suffered a good deal.

"Take the lantern," said he in a husky voice to his companion. Then, softly pushing his brawny arms under the dimpled form, he lifted it as tenderly as its mother could have done. Tom smoothed the clothing so as to cover the body as fully as possible. Hugh doffed his coarse cap and covered the mass of silken tresses that streamed over his shoulder.

Dollie muttered as a child will do when disturbed in its slumber, but, fitting her head to the changed position, she slept on as sweetly as ever.

"Now lead the way," added Hugh, "and be careful where you step."

Tom was only too glad to do his part. Nero, as happy as the others, walked in advance, in his dignified manner, now and then wagging his tail and whining with delight. None knew better than he the noble work he had done.

Tom used great care. When the bushes could not be avoided, Hugh shoved them aside with one hand, that they might not brush against the face resting so close to his own. Perhaps he held the velvety cheek nearer his shaggy beard than was needed, but who can chide him when his heart glowed with the sorrowful pleasure that came from the fancy that his own Jennie, whom he had so often pressed to his breast, was resting there again?

A tear dropped on the cheek of the little one. In that hour new resolves entered the heart of O'Hara. He had been sullen, discontented, and had long led a life that grieved his conscience.

By and by when they came back to the path they found the walking easier than before.

"Hugh," said Tom, stopping short and facing about, "ain't you tired of carryin' the kid? 'cause if you are, I'm ready to give you a lift."

"No; I wish I could carry her forever!"

All too soon the glimmer from the cabin window fell upon them, and they paused at the door to make sure the clothing of the child was arranged. They acted as if they were getting ready to go into the presence of company.

"I don't know as I've done right in not carrying her home," said Hugh, "but she has been out too long already in the night air; we'll take her in and keep her while you run down to the village and let the folks know she is safe."

"Is she still asleep?"

"Yes, hark! some of the boys seem to be inside," added Hugh, as the sound of voices came to them from within.

The door was pushed open and the two men and dog entered.

Harvey Bradley had risen to his feet, and for one second he stared angrily at the newcomers. You will recall that hot words had just passed between him and Jack Hansell, and both were in an ugly mood. Then Harvey quickly recognized the form in the arms of Hugh and rushed forward.

"Is she alive?"

"Aye, alive and without a scratch," replied Hugh, deftly taking the hat from the head of the little sleeper and placing her in the outstretched arms.

"How thankful I am," exclaimed Harvey, kissing the cold red cheeks over and over again, and pressing her to his heart; "yes -- she is well -- she was lost and is found -- she was dead and is alive again."

"What are you laughing at?" demanded Hugh, wiping his eyes and glaring savagely at Jack Hansell, who, with open mouth, was looking on in a bewildered way; "haven't you manners enough to know when gentlemen are present?"

Jack seemed to think that the only way to behave was by keeping his mouth closed. He shut his jaws with a click like that of a steel trap and never said a word.

Harvey Bradley sat down on the stool from which he had arisen, first drawing it closer to the fire, and unfastened the outer clothing of the little one. He saw that all was well with her. Then he looked up with moistened eyes and said in a tremulous voice:

"Hugh, tell me all about it."

The short story was soon told. The hardy fellow made light of what he had done, but the superintendent, who kept his eyes fixed on his face, saw the sparkle of tears that the speaker could not keep back. It was hard for any one of the three to believe that only a brief while before they were ready to fly at each other's throats. Harvey was melted not only by the rescue of his sister, but by the remembrance of the dreadful injustice done Hugh O'Hara and his friends, when he allowed himself to think they had taken part in the disappearance of Dollie, who, through all the talk, continued sleeping.

"I can never thank you for what you have done," said the superintendent, hardly able to master his emotion, "but I shall show you that the charge of ingratitude can never be laid at my door."

"That's all right," replied Hugh, in his off-hand fashion; "Tom and I are glad to do a turn like that; nobody could want to see any harm come to such a child, no matter how they might feel toward others related to her. Do you mean to take her home to-night?"

"Yes; her aunt is frantic with grief."

"But Tom can run down there quicker than you can with the little one."

"No doubt, but we shall feel better to have her with us. She seems to be well, and we can bundle her up warmly. There may, after all, be serious results from this exposure, and it is best that we should have her where we can give her every care."

And drawing the hood from his pocket he fixed it upon Dollie's head. She opened her eyes for a moment and mumbled something, but sank into sleep again. Harvey explained how it was he came to have the headgear with him.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Bradley," said O'Hara, shifting from one foot to another and as confused as a school-boy.

"Anything that you ask shall be granted, if it be in my power to grant it," replied Harvey with a fervor that could leave no doubt of his sincerity.

"It's a long distance to the village, and I will be glad if you will let me carry her."

He made as if he simply wished to assist the superintendent. The latter knew better, but he did not say so.

"I shall be glad to have your aid; you have had a rest for several days, and a little exercise like this won't hurt you."

Hugh brought forth his best coat and gathered it around Dollie, as if he was tucking her up in her trundle bed. Then Harvey placed her with much care in his arms and made sure they were fully prepared to go out doors.

The Hansell brothers quietly looked on during these proceedings. They felt that there was no special use for them, and therefore they kept in the background. The hound Nero showed much interest. He walked around Hugh and Harvey, whining and wagging his tail as if he thought his views ought to have some weight in the questions the couple were called upon to consider.

"Come, Nero," said his master, as he drew the door inward. The dog shot through like a flash and the tramp to the village was begun.

Hardly a word was spoken on the way, but when the house was reached Hugh handed his burden over to Harvey and, refusing to go in, started to move off. The superintendent put out his free hand.

"Hugh, I want you to come and see me to-morrow afternoon; will you do so?"

"I will. Good-night."

"Good-night."

Hugh O'Hara had walked but a short distance up the mountain path when he was caught in a driving snow-storm. He cared little for it, however, and reached the cabin in due time, there to perform a strange duty.



Chapter V.

A Little Child Shall Lead Them.

When Hugh O'Hara came to the door of Harvey Bradley, he was in his best dress -- the same that he wore to church on Sundays. Aunt Maria met him on the threshold, and, in tremulous tones, thanked him. Then she led the way to the back parlor, where the young superintendent awaited him. The moment he entered, there came a flash of sunshine and a merry exclamation, and with one bound, little Dollie (none the worse, apparently, for her adventure the night before) landed in the iron-like arms and kissed the shaggy-bearded fellow, who laughingly took a chair and held her a willing captive on his knee.

Harvey sat smiling and silent until the earthquake was over. Then, as his chief foreman looked toward him, he said:

"As I said last night, Hugh, the service you have done is beyond payment. You know what a storm set in just after Dollie was brought home, she never could have lived through that."

"It would have gone hard with her, I'm afraid," replied the embarrassed visitor; "does the little one feel no harm?"

"We observe nothing except a slight cold, which the doctor says is of no account. I have made up my mind to give to you, Hugh --  -- "

The latter raised his hand in protest. He could accept money for any service except that of befriending the blue-eyed darling on his knee.

"Never refer to that again."

Harvey laughed.

"I looked for something of the kind; I have a few words to add. I found out this morning that there was a mortgage of $600 against your little home in the village. I don't believe in mortgages, and that particular one has now no existence. If you see any way to help undo what I have done go ahead, but I beg you not to refuse another small present that I have prepared for you."

And Harvey turned as if about to take something from his desk, but stopped when he saw Hugh shake his head almost angrily.

"I would do a good deal to oblige you, Mr. Bradley, but you must not ask that. I would have been better pleased had you let the mortgage alone; my wife and little one are under the sod, and it matters nought to me whether I have a place to lay my head. But," he added with a faint smile, "what's done can't be undone, and, since you have asked me, I will drop the matter, but nothing more, I pray you, on the other subject."

"Hugh," said the superintendent, like one who braces himself for a duty that has its disagreeable as well as its pleasant features, "you know that I had sent to Vining for men to take the places of those who are on strike?"

"I heard something of the kind, sir."

"They were to start for Bardstown to-night and are due to-morrow."

"Yes, sir."

"I countermanded the order by telegraph this morning; not a man will come."

"Yes, sir."

"The whistle will blow to-morrow as usual, ten minutes before 7 o'clock, and I shall expect every one of you to be in place; I have agreed to your terms."

Hugh looked at the superintendent a moment and then asked a singular question:

"Is it because I found Dollie that you agree to our terms?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because, if that is the reason, I will not accept the terms, for you would be doing out of gratitude an act which your judgment condemned."

Harvey Bradley felt his respect for this man increase tenfold. Such manliness was worthy of all admiration. He hastened to add:

"There's where, I am glad to say, you are in error. Now you know as well as I do that in order to keep discipline the employer must insist upon his rights. If he were to give all that is asked his business would be destroyed. But, on the other hand, labor has rights as well as capital, and the two can never get along together until this truth is respected by both. In all disputes, there should be an interchange of views, a full statement of grievances by those who are dissatisfied, and a fair consideration of them by the party against whom they exist."

O'Hara was not afraid to look his employer in the face and say:

"That has been my opinion all along, Mr. Bradley, and had it been yours this lock-out would never have come."

"I admit it. You came to me from the employes and asked for a discussion of the differences between us. I thought you insolent, and refused to listen to you. Therein I did you all an injustice, for which I apologize."

"It gives me joy to hear you speak thus, Mr. Bradley."

"Seeing now my mistake, there is but the one course before me. I am convinced that in all cases of trouble like ours the court of first resort should be arbitration. The wish to be just is natural to every one, or at least to the majority of mankind. If the parties concerned cannot agree, they should appeal to those in whom both have confidence to bring about an agreement between them; that is according to the golden rule. Employer and employed, labor and capital, should be friends, and arbitration is the agent that shall bring about that happy state of things."

"But I do not see that there has been any arbitration in this dispute."

"But there has been all the same."

"Where is the arbitrator?"

"She sits on your knee wondering what all this talk means. I tell you, Hugh, there is a good deal more in those little heads than most people think. Yesterday morning, when Dollie sat in her high chair at the breakfast-table, she heard her aunt and me talking about the strike. Though she could not understand it all, she knew there was trouble between me and my employes. I was out of patience and used some sharp words. She listened for a few minutes while busy with her bread and milk, and then what do you think she said?"

"I am sure I have no idea," replied O'Hara, patting the head of the laughing child, "but whatever it was, it was something nice."

"She says, 'Brother Harvey, when I do anything wrong, you take me on your knee and talk to me and that makes me feel so bad that I never do that kind of wrong again. Why don't you take those bad men on your knee and talk to them, so they won't do so again?' I showed her that such an arrangement was hardly practicable, and then she fired her solid shot that pierced my ship between wind and water: 'Brother Harvey, maybe it's you that has done wrong; why don't you sit down on their knees and let them give you a talking to? Then you won't be bad any more."

Hugh and Harvey broke into laughter, during which Dollie, who had become tired of sitting still full two minutes, slid off O'Hara's knee and ran out of the room.

"We smile at the odd conceits of the little ones," continued Harvey, "but you know that the truest wisdom has come from the mouths of babes. I hushed her, but what she said set me thinking -- 'Why don't you let them give you a good talking to?' That was the very thing you had asked and I had refused. I set out to take a long walk, and was absent most of the day. Her question kept coming up to me, and I tried to drive it away. The effort made me angry and ended in a decision to be sterner than ever. I would not yield a point; I would import a body of men at large expense and keep them at work, just because I was too proud to undo what I knew was wrong.

"Still my conscience troubled me, but for all that I don't think I would have yielded. Pride, the greatest of all stumbling-blocks, was in my way. Reaching home, I learned that Dollie was lost; then, of course, every other thought went from my head. Nothing else could be done until she was found."

Harvey was about to tell his guest his suspicion that he had had a hand in the abduction of the child, but he was ashamed, and really there was no call for such a confession.

"Well, it was you who found her. I repeat that my debt to you can never be paid. And yet I do not believe that that obligation would have led me to yield, where I felt that a principle was at stake. It was the words of Dollie, spoken yesterday, that stuck to me. They kept me awake most of the night and played a part in the dreams that I had about her being lost in the woods and eaten up by panthers and all sorts of creatures. When I awoke this morning, the mists had cleared away. I saw my error, and fully made up my mind to do all I could to correct it. I went to the telegraph office before breakfast and sent a message to Vining countermanding the order for the men. Then I came back and had just finished my meal when a message was brought to my house. Odd, wasn't it?"

"I see nothing odd in a telegram for you."

"I mean in the telegram itself."

"I could not answer that unless I saw it."

"Of course," said Harvey with a laugh, wheeling about in his chair and picking up one of the yellow slips of paper which the Western Union furnishes its patrons gratis.

"There, read that," he added, passing it to Hugh O'Hara, who looked at it with no little curiosity.

It was dated in the city of New York and signed by Johnson W. Bradley, father of Harvey, and President of the Rollo Mills Company. This was the body of the telegram:

"Don't lose sight of the interests of your men. Before hiring other hands try arbitration."

"That is rather odd," said Hugh; leaning forward, so as to hand the telegram back to his employer, "but it is sound wisdom all the same."

"Undoubtedly; but are you convinced that I agree to your terms not because of gratitude, but because I believe them right?"

"I am satisfied," said Hugh; "have you sent the notice to the hands?"

"Yes. I wonder that you did not hear of it on the way here."

Hugh smiled.

"Of course I heard of it. I knew it long ago, but I did not know why you had decided to restore our time to what it was and to pay the same wages; that I have learned from yourself. And now that you have done your part so well," added Hugh, rising to leave, "I assure you that we shall do ours; we shall give you the best service we can. No one shall misinterpret your action or try to take advantage of it."

The superintendent was wise enough to avoid a mistake to which persons, placed as was he, are liable -- that is, he did not overdo his part. He was so happy over the return of his little sister that he was willing not only to give the old wages and time asked for by his employes, but he felt like adding to them. He meant to make the pay of O'Hara greater than before, but changed his purpose at the last moment.

Had he added to the pay of his chief foreman it would have changed the ratio between that and the wages of the others, unless theirs, too, was increased. In that event, a reproof was likely to come from the directors, and he would find it hard to retrace his steps.

Justice called for him to do just what he had done; it would be weak to do more. "Hugh," said he, also rising to his feet, "I am not quite through with you; I am now going to ask you to do me a favor."

"I guess it's safe to promise in advance that I will do it -- that is, of course, if it be in my power to do it."

"It is in your power. Last night, when I was in the woods near your cabin, I noticed a strange odor in the air; I could not imagine its cause, but I know now what it was."

"What was it?" asked O'Hara, turning crimson.

"You and some of your friends have been illicitly making whiskey. You have a distillery somewhere in the mountains, and, while working in the mills during the day, you have taken turns in running the still at night. I will not ask you to tell me how long you have been doing this, but you know as well as I that it is a crime."

The two men were silent a moment and then Hugh, without any appearance of agitation, said:

"You have spoken the truth; the still was not more than a hundred feet from the cabin, and caused the smell you noticed."

"How could you three attend to it when you were in the cabin?"

"Some one was generally close by. The pipe that carried off the fumes ran into the chimney of our cabin and mixed with the smoke. We took turns in looking after it. Tom and I had been there earlier in the evening, and Jack was to look in now and then against our coming back. But," added Hugh, "you said you had a favor to ask of me."

"So I have; I ask you to destroy that still, root and branch, and never take a hand in anything of the kind again."

"I cannot do that."

"Why not? You are engaged in breaking the laws of your country, for which there is a severe penalty. Now that you will have steady work, you cannot make the plea that would have been yours if the strike continued. Why can't you do as I ask you to do?"

"Because it has already been done. After I got back to the cabin last night, Tom and Jack and I went out and wound up the business. The worm has been thrown down the rocks, where it can never be found, the mash has been scattered to the four winds, and everything smashed to general flinders. It took us nearly to daylight to finish it, but we stuck to it till the job was done."

"I am delighted to hear that, what was the cause of all this?"

"I guess it must have been the little arbitrator," said O'Hara, with a smile; "they say that when a man does a bad act he feels like doing others. That may or may not be true, but I know that when a man does a good deed, the impulse to do more is awakened, and whatever good there is in him is strengthened. I have been a bad man; I grew desperate after the death of Jennie; but when I held your Dollie in my arms it seemed that some of her goodness found its way into my heart. I resolved with the help of heaven to be a better man. The first step toward becoming so was to stop the unlawful work in which I had been engaged only a short time.

"I thought that Tom and Jack would make trouble, but I didn't care, for I could manage them. To my surprise, however, they seemed to feel just as I did. So they fell to work with a will, and the job couldn't have been done more thoroughly. Now, if you will allow me to kiss Dollie, who has come back, I will bid you both good day."

Harvey Bradley shook hands with his visitor, during which he handed him a liberal sum of money for Tom Hansell, who had taken part in the search for Dollie. He sent naught to Jack, for he deserved none. Then he went with Hugh to the outer door, giving him a number of encouraging words on the way.

The whistle of the Rollo Mills never screeched more cheerily than it did the next morning, and there was never a happier band of employes than the 300, young and old, who took their places again in the works.

A short time afterward Harvey Bradley opened and furnished a room where the best of reading was given free to all who chose to accept the privilege. Still later in the season a night school was started, and the skilled teacher who took charge was liberally paid by the board of directors, who never made a better investment of money.

The interest shown by the superintendent in the welfare of his employes proved to be seed sowed in good ground. All wrought faithfully and well, and when on the 1st of January the balance sheet was made up, lo! the net profits of the Rollo Mills were greater than ever before.



In The Nick Of Time.

It may sound like slander for me to say that the elephant, which is admittedly one of the most intelligent members of the animal creation, is also one of the most vicious and treacherous. But it is a fact all the same. I have seen one of those beasts, that had been fed and treated with the greatest kindness for years by his keeper, turn upon him like a tiger, and, seizing him with that wonderful trunk of his, dash him to death before he could do more than utter a cry of protest and terror.

I have seen another, after waiting weeks for the opportunity, suddenly grasp an innocent person, and, kneeling upon him with his beam-like legs, knead him out of all semblance of humanity.

Columbus, who was the main attraction of Barnum's establishment some forty years ago, killed several keepers, and was likely to start on one of his terrible rampages at any moment. The giving away of a bridge in New England so injured him that he died, long before any of my young readers were born.

An elephant, fully as bad as Columbus, was Vladdok, who was brought to this country when quite young. A glimpse at his enormous ears told his African nativity at once, those from Asia and Ceylon having much smaller ears. He belonged to the old traveling circus of Blarcom & Burton, and made several journeys through our country in the days when those establishments found no use for the railways, but patiently plodded from town to town, delighting the hearts and eyes of our grandfathers and grandmothers when they were children just as we are now.

Vladdok had killed two keepers, besides badly wounding a couple of spectators in Memphis, when he yielded to one of his vicious moods. He had been fired upon and wounded more times than any one could remember, and Mr. Blarcom, who always traveled with his show, had been on the point more than once of ordering his destruction; but he was of such large size and possessed such extraordinary intelligence, that he constituted the main attraction of the exhibition and he hesitated, well aware that sooner or later, the wicked fellow would die "with his boots on."

It was after an afternoon performance in one of the Western States that Vladdok indulged in his last rampage. His sagacious keeper had come to understand the animal so well, that he knew the outbreak was coming. While Vladdok was unusually tractable and obedient, there was a dangerous glitter in his small eyes, and an occasional nervous movement of his head, which proved that he was only biding his time and waiting for the grand chance to present itself.

Fortunately, he did not rebel until after the exhibition was over, and the crowds had departed. Then, with a fierce trumpeting and one vast shiver of his enormous bulk, he made a dash which snapped his chains like so much whip-cord and went through the side of the tent as though it were cardboard.

On his wild charge, which set all the rest of the animals in a panic, he reached for his keeper, who with prodding spear and shouts, interposed himself in his path and tried to check him. But the man's inimitable dexterity and good fortune enabled him to dodge the beast and escape by a hair's breadth. The next minute, the elephant reached the public highway, down which he swung awkwardly but swiftly, on an excursion that was destined to be the most tragic in his whole career.

The first object on which he vented his wrath was a team of horses, driven by a farmer, whose wife was sitting beside him on the front seat. Neither they nor the team knew their danger until the avalanche of fury was upon them. The animals screamed in an agony of fright, and were rearing and plunging, when Vladdok grasped one with his trunk, lifted him in the air and dashed him to death. The other broke loose and plunged off at such headlong speed, that the elephant followed him only a few paces, when he turned to attack the man and woman.

But they were nowhere in sight, and, with a trumpet of disgust, he wheeled about, and turning from the highway, took to the woods.

The couple were saved by a singular occurrence. The violent rearing and backing of the horses overturned the wagon body, and the farmer and his better half were caught beneath it, before they could escape. They had sense enough to remain quiet, until the brute left, when they crept out, none the worse for their mishap.

"Consarn his pictur!" exclaimed the husband; "if that don't beat all creation! I allers said that circuses and shows was a burnin' shame, and now I know it; I'll make the owner of that elephant pay ten thousand dollars for the damage he done us, for he scart you and me so bad Betsy, that we'll never grow another inch."

Meanwhile, the runaway kept things moving. He knew his keeper and attendants were hot on his trail, and his sudden change of course was undoubtedly with a view of misleading them. It is hardly to be supposed that he expected to find any "game" in the woods, but nevertheless he did.

It so happened that Jack Norton and Billy Wiggins, a couple of boys not more than fourteen years of age, were engaged on a little hunt that same afternoon. The teachers had sent such bad reports home about them that their parents inflicted the most awful kind of punishment; they did not permit them to attend the circus, to which they had been looking forward for weeks. The father of Billy was specially stern, and forbade his hopeful to take his gun, when he joined Jack on a little hunting ramble in the woods. Mr. Norton felt some slight compunctions, when he noted how patiently his boy accepted his fate, and relented to that degree that he permitted him to take his rifle, though he knew there was little chance of his securing any game.

The boys had walked about a mile, and, coming to a fallen tree, sat down to rest awhile, for the day was warm and the gun which they had taken turns in carrying, was heavy.

"I guess this hunt ain't agoin' to amount to much," sighed Jack, as he leaned the rifle against the prostrate trunk, on which they were seated.

"Why not?" asked Billy.

"'Cause there ain't nothin' to hunt; I heerd Budge Jones say that when he was a boy, these woods used to be full of bears and deers and tigers and lions and giraffes and that sort of thing."

"Yes, and the folks were so mean they killed 'em all, but I've the idea, Jack, that maybe some of the lions or tigers has hid somewhere in the woods and we might find 'em."

"Golly! I don't know whether I'd want to find 'em or not," replied Jack, looking about him, with a scared expression.

"Why not? Hain't you got a gun?"

"Yes, but while I was killin' one the others might chaw me all to pieces; but if there was only one, I wouldn't care, if he was an elephant as big as a barn --  -- "

"My gracious! there he comes!"

A terrific crashing of the undergrowth caused both lads to glance affrightedly behind them, and there, sure enough, was Vladdok, the fearful elephant, almost upon them. They started to run, their courses so diverging that the beast was forced to select one and let the other alone for the moment. He fixed upon Billy Wiggins, who had taken barely twenty steps, when the trunk of the beast inclosed his waist and he was lifted, as if he was a feather from the ground, and the next instant he felt himself whizzing through space.

A marvelous providence saved him. Instead of dashing him against a tree, or upon the ground, the elephant, in one of his mad freaks, flung him from him as though he was a ball. He spun through the air, the leaves and limbs whizzing against his face and body, and instinctively clutching with both hands, succeeded in grasping enough branches to support the weight of his body and check his descent.

Then, when he collected his senses and stared around, he found that he was a dozen yards above the ground, with the elephant beneath, looking up, and apparently waiting for him to fall within his reach, that he might finish him.

"Not much," muttered Billy; "I'm going to stay here and I don't believe you know how to climb a tree. Helloa! how do you like that?"

Jack Norton had dashed only a few yards, when the terrified look he cast over his shoulder told him the elephant was giving his whole attention to Billy, and seemed to have forgotten all about him. Instantly he was filled with alarm for his young friend, and started back to the log to get his rifle, that neither had thought of in the panic.

As he knelt behind the fallen tree, to make his aim sure, he descried a queer object going through the limbs of a large oak, and did not identify it, until it lodged fast, as his friend Billy Wiggins.

Jack had no more idea of the fatal point at which to aim his weapon than you have, but knowing that he must do something, and, with a dread that the elephant after all, might succeed in climbing the oak and getting at his friend, he let fly.

Gordon Cumming himself could not have done better. The tiny bullet bored its way into the vast bulk, just back of the fore leg and went directly through the heart. The huge brute, as if conscious that he was mortally hurt, swung part way round, so as to face the point whence the shot had come. Catching sight of the kneeling youngster, with the muzzle of his rifle still smoking, he plunged toward him. He took a couple of steps, swayed to one side, moved uncertainly forward again, then stopped, tried to steady himself, and finally went over sideways, like a mountain, crashing the saplings and undergrowth near him, and snapping one of his magnificent tusks into splinters. He was dead.

When the boys fully comprehended what had taken place, they were not a little alarmed and puzzled, and started home, wondering whether their game was a descendant of the creatures that used to inhabit that section, or whether he was a visitor to these parts. They had not gone far, however, when they met the attaches of the menagerie and circus to whom they related what had occurred.

The proprietors were relieved on learning the whole truth, for there could be little doubt that the sudden ending of the career of Vladdok was the means of saving more than one person from death.

As for Jack Norton and Billy Wiggins, it was generally conceded that they spoke the truth, when they declared:

"Our fathers wouldn't let us go to the circus that afternoon, but I guess we had a bigger circus than any of you all to ourselves."



Lost In The South Sea.

Captain William Gooding was commander of the Tewksbury Sweet, of Portland, Maine, and was lost in the South Pacific in the spring of 1889. This fine American bark sailed from New Castle, New South Wales, on the 17th of March, bound for Hong Kong. Everything went well until the 9th of the following month, when she encountered a severe gale. Despite all that skillful seamanship could do, and in the face of the most strenuous exertions, she struck the dangerous Susanne Reef, near Poseat Island, one of the Caroline group of the South Sea.

The wreck was a total one. The vessel broke up rapidly, and seeing that nothing could be done, the captain and crew, numbering ten men in all, took to one of the boats, carrying with them only a single chronometer belonging to the ship. Even after entering the small boat they were still in great danger, and only succeeded after the utmost difficulty in reaching a small islet some miles to the southward. The storm was still raging so violently that the shelter was a most welcome one, though as there were no animals or vegetation, or even water upon the island, their stay of necessity could be only temporary. They had saved nothing to eat or drink, and to remain where they were meant a lingering death.

After several hours waiting, the tempest abated somewhat, and launching their boat once more, they rowed toward the main island.

"The end is likely to be the same in either case," remarked the captain to the second mate, George W. Harrison, as they approached the land.

"And why?" inquired the latter: "we shall find food and water there."

"True enough; but there are no fiercer savages on the South Sea than those of this island, and I have never heard that they were particularly friendly toward the crews of shipwrecked vessels."

"They may not discover us until we can signal some passing ship."

"There is no possibility of any such good fortune as that."

"Stranger things have happened, and -- "

"Does that look like it?" interrupted the captain in some excitement, pointing toward the island.

The sight that met the gaze of every one was startling. Fully thirty canoes, each filled with eight or ten natives, were putting off from shore and heading toward them. Several of the crew favored turning about, and putting to sea; but that would have been not only hopeless, but would have invited attack. Nothing is so encouraging to an enemy as flight on the part of his opponent. It impels him to greater exertions and gives him a bravery which otherwise he may not feel.

The savages, in their light, graceful craft, and with their great skill in manipulating them, would have overhauled the white men "hand over hand." There was a faint hope that by presenting a bold front, and acting as though they believed in the friendship of the savages that they might spare the unfortunates. At any rate, it was clear there was no choice but to go ahead, and the white men did so, rowing leisurely and calmly, though the chances in doing so were hastening their own doom.

There could be no mistaking the ardor of the ferocious natives. They paddled with might and main, and fully a dozen, in their eagerness, leaped into the sea and swam ahead of their canoes. They were magnificent swimmers, speeding through the water like so many dolphins. The Americans, even in their frightful peril, could not repress their admiration.

"Did you ever see anything like it?" asked first mate Watchman; "they are like so many sharks."

"They are indeed," was the significant response of Captain Gooding, "and I would like it better if they were real sharks."

"Here they are!"

Sure enough; they surrounded the boat in a twinkling, and shouting and screeching like so many demons, clambered over the gunwales until there was danger of swamping the craft.

Had our friends possessed firearms, they would have made a desperate resistance, and possibly might have beaten off their assailants; but, as it was, they acted the part of wisdom in offering no opposition to the presence or actions of their unwelcome visitors.

The latter proved that they meant business from the first, for hardly were they in the boat when they began stripping the officers and sailors of their property. When they ceased the men had nothing left but their undershirts, their despoilers flinging the garments into the canoes that now crowded around.

No more plunder being obtainable, the fleet headed for land, with their captives in anything but a cheerful frame of mind. The shore was lined with women and children, who answered the shouts of their friends in the boats by running back and forth, screeching and yelling and dancing, as if unable to restrain themselves until the arrival of their victims.

The sailors believed they would be speedily killed and eaten, the latter horror might have been escaped had they known, what they afterward learned, that the savages of those islands are not cannibals.

The poor fellows stepped from their boat upon the shore, where they were immediately environed by the fierce men, women and children, half naked, wild, boisterous, and seemingly impatient to rend them to pieces. The prisoners could do nothing but meekly await the next step in the tragedy.

It was during these trying moments that the sailors were astounded to hear, amid the babel of voices, several words spoken in English. Staring about them to learn the meaning of such a strange thing, they saw a man attired as were the others, that is with only a piece of cloth about his hips, whose complexion and features showed that he belonged to the same race with themselves.

He advanced in a cheery, hearty way, and shaking hands with the new arrivals, said:

"I think you did not expect to find me here."

"Indeed we did not," was the reply; "you appear to be an Englishman."

"So I am, and I am anxious to give you all the help I can, for your situation is anything but a desirable one."

"There can be no doubt of that. But how is it that you are here? Were you shipwrecked like ourselves?"

"No; I may say I was deserted. My name is Charles Irons, and I was left at Poseat by a trading vessel four years ago."

"How came that?"

"I was to act as the agent of a company of traders on the Cocoanut Islands. Well, the vessel left me, as I first told you, and that was the last of it. They forgot all about me, or more likely, did not care to keep their promise, for I have never seen anything of the vessel since."

"What an outrage!"

"It was, and there couldn't have been a more wretched person than I was for several months. I looked longingly out to sea for the ship that never came, and chafed like a man who is bound hand and foot. But," added the Englishman with a smile, "there is nothing like making the best of things. You can accustom yourself almost to anything if you will only make up your mind to do so. I was among these people and there was no help for it, so I decided to adopt their ways and become one of them."

"You decided when in Rome to do as the Romans do," suggested the captain, who, like his companions, was greatly cheered, not only by the presence and friendship of the Englishman, but by the fact that the savages, who watched the interview with interest, showed no disposition to interfere.

"That's it. There are a great many worse people in this world than these. They are not cannibals, as are many of their neighbors, and they have never harmed me."

"But what about us?" was the anxious inquiry.

The Englishman looked grave.

"I cannot say what their intentions are, but I am afraid they are bad. They have been used ill by some of the vessels that have stopped here, and are naturally suspicious of all white people. Then, too, they are revengeful, and like all barbarians are satisfied, if aggrieved against our race, to get their satisfaction out of any member of it, whether he is the one who injured them, or is entirely innocent."

"You seem to be regarded with high favor here."

"I am. I stand next to the chief in authority, so you see I have reason to believe I may be of some service to you. You may be sure that I shall leave no stone unturned to help you."

The captain and his companions gave expression to their deep gratitude, and Irons continued in his bluff, pleasant manner:

"I guess I am about as much a savage as any of them. If I hadn't been I never would have obtained any control over them. I have seven native wives, and find I am forgetting a great many details of civilization, while my desire to return home is growing less every day. After all, what difference does it make where you are? A man has only a few years to live, and as long as he is contented, he is a fool to rebel."

There may have been good philosophy in all this, and the captain did not attempt to gainsay it, but, all the same, it was hard for him to understand how any one could be so placed as to lose his yearning for his home and his native land.

It was several days afterward, when the captives had become somewhat accustomed to their surroundings, that Captain Gooding found he and his men were mixed in their reckoning.

"It is a question among us whether this is Thursday or Friday," said he, addressing Irons; "can you settle it for us?"

The Englishman looked at the captain in an odd way and replied:

"I haven't the remotest idea of what day in the week it is, nor what is the month. It seems four years ago that I was left here, but I am not sure of it. Will you please give me the year and month?"

"This is April, 1889."

The Englishman bent his head for a few minutes in deep thought. He was recalling the past, with its singular incidents of his career. When he looked up he said:

"Yes; it is four years and more since I was abandoned, and if you stay that long you will be content to remain all your lives."

The captain shook his head, and his eyes were dimmed as he replied:

"I never could forget the loved ones at home, Irons; I would prefer death at once to a lingering imprisonment here."

"Well, I am going to help you all to leave just as soon as it can be done. I understand how you feel, and sympathize with you."

The Englishman proved himself the most valuable kind of a friend. The authority which he possessed over these savage South Sea Islanders was stretched to the utmost, but he never hesitated to employ it. But for his presence the Americans would have been put to death within a few hours at most of their arrival on the mainland, and without his aid it would have been impossible for them ever to have gotten away.

When everything was in shape, Irons hired a canoe of the natives for the use of his friends. The craft was not large enough to contain all the party, and since all real peril had passed, there was no fear in following the course that had been agreed upon.

Captain Gooding, second mate Harrison; and one of the sailors left Poseat in the canoe, first mate Watchman and his six companions remaining on the island. This was ten days after the loss of the Tewksbury Sweet.

Captain Gooding and all the sailors were in the best of spirits, for they were confident that their wearisome captivity was substantially over. The three made their way from island to island, stopping at eight different points, sometimes for days, and even weeks. Finally they arrived at Ruk, where they found a missionary station, and received the most hospitable treatment.

The good men owned a boat abundantly large enough to carry twenty persons, and the captain asked its use with which to bring the rest of his crew from Poseat. This was asking more than would be supposed, for the missionaries told them that they were surrounded by hostile natives, who were liable to an outbreak at any hour, in which event the only means of escape the white men possessed was the boat.

The missionaries, however, gave their consent, and Captain Gooding, hoisting sail in the staunch centre-boarder, set sail for Poseat, where he safely arrived, without unnecessary delay. He found the first mate and his sailors well and in high spirits, though they were beginning to wonder whether their captain, like the friends of Irons, had not forgotten, and concluded to leave them to themselves.

No objection was offered to their departure, and bidding an affectionate good-by to the Englishman, who had proven the best kind of a friend, they returned to the missionary island. Two months later the missionary vessel, the Morning Star, arrived, and carried them all to Honolulu, which was reached in November. Thence Captain Gooding and a part of the crew were brought by the steamer Australia to San Francisco, from which point the captain made his way to his home in Yarmouth, where his family and friends welcomed him back as one risen from the dead, for they had long given up hope of ever seeing him again.



An Unpleasant Companion.

"Say, Jack, the shellbarks are droppin' thick down in Big Woods. What a chance for a fellow to lay up a bushel or two before the crowd gets down there in the morning."

"Wouldn't it, though, Ned!" I replied wistfully, for if there was anything I had a fondness for, it was shellbarks.

We were trudging home to our dinner, for Ned and I lived close to the schoolhouse, much to the envy of some less fortunate pupils who brought their noonday meal with them in tin pails. It was a late September Friday, and a soft golden haze lay on hillside and woodland, and the quail were whistling in the furrows; and, as Ned spoke, I could see in my mind's eye just how Big Woods would look that afternoon with the soft sunlight slanting through the trees, and glimmering on the quiet waters of the creek.

"Well, Jack, will you go?" said Ned abruptly.

"You mean will I play truant?" I asked, a little startled.

"Yes; there's no danger, Jack; we'll tell the teacher we had to stay home to cut corn."

At first, I resisted Ned's appeal. I had played truant once before, a long time ago, and the memory of the punishment that I received in the woodshed at home was still strongly impressed on my memory.

But this, I thought, was an exceptional case, I badly wanted a bushel or two of shellbarks, and I knew full well that, unless they were gathered that afternoon, they wouldn't be gathered at all; for bright and early the next morning all the boys in the neighborhood would be down in Big Woods, armed with clubs and baskets and sacks, and even the squirrels would stand a poor show after that invasion.

In our selfishness, we never thought that other people might have a fondness for shellbarks as well as ourselves. So, after a little more pleading on Ned's part, I gave in, and we agreed to meet down at the foot of our orchard, as soon as dinner was over, for Ned lived right across, on the next farm. In a corner of the barn, I found my old chestnut club, a hickory stave, well coiled with lead at the top. Shoving this under my jacket, so no prying eyes could see it, I joined Ned at the meeting-place, and off we went in high spirits for the Yellow-breeches.

It was a good mile to Big Woods, for we had to circle away down to Hake's Mill to get across the creek, but we felt well repaid for our trouble when we arrived there. The fallen nuts lay thick amid the dead leaves, and up on the half-naked trees the splitting hulls hung in clusters, willing to drop their burden at the least rustle of the breeze.

We heaped the shellbarks in great piles, ready to stow away in Ned's big wheat bag; and, when the ground was cleaned up pretty well, and the leaves had been thoroughly raked, we turned our attention to a close cluster of trees that stood close by the creek. These nuts were unusually large, and thin-shelled. The hulls were cracked apart, but very few nuts lay on the ground, so I hauled out my club, and drove it fairly into the heart of the tree. A shower of nuts came down, with a merry clatter that gladdened our hearts; but the club, striking the trunk of the tree, bounded sideways and lodged in the crotch of a limb overhanging the creek, some twenty or thirty feet above the water.

Here was a dilemma. I didn't want to lose that club, for it had done good service in past autumns, and had gone through a great many hairbreadth escapes.

If we tried to dislodge it by hurling sticks or stones, it would fall into the water, and just at that point the creek was very deep, and moreover, as popular tradition held, a treacherous undertow existed which would render the recovery of the club impossible.

"Climb the tree, Jack," said Ned; "that's your only chance."

I was always considered a pretty good climber, so, after a little hesitation (for this was an unusually difficult tree), I started up the slippery trunk, and, with Ned's friendly aid, pulled myself among the lower limbs.

It was an easy matter to reach the particular bough that I wanted, but then came the tug. I was half-inclined to give up the whole thing and go down to the ground, but Ned kept egging me on so confidently that I determined to go through with it.

Straddling the limb, I took a firm hold with both hands in front of me, for no other boughs were close enough to be grasped, and thus inch by inch I moved cautiously forward.

The branch creaked and groaned, and at last began to bend in such an alarming fashion that I stopped short.

There was the club, not four feet away now, and far below I could see the quiet waters of the creek, wrinkling the reflected foliage as a dropping nut or stray leaf rippled the surface.

"You're nearly there, now," cried Ned, with hearty encouragement; "just a little more, Jack, and you'll have it.

"But the limb will break," I called down.

"No, it won't," he insisted, "don't be afraid."

That settled it. I wasn't afraid, and Ned should know it.

I took a firmer grip on the bough, and slid forward half a foot.

Crack, crack, -- the big branch slowly began to split, and as I made a frantic effort to crawl back, a strange noise from the bushy part of the tree overhead turned my gaze upward.

It's a wonder my hair didn't turn white that very instant, for what I saw was a big, tawny wild-cat, with blazing eyes and quivering claws, crouched on a narrow limb. I knew the animal was going to spring, and I tried to shout as loudly as I could, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and the only sound I made was an odd cry that caused Ned to laugh, for he couldn't see what was the matter from where he stood.

Then like a streak the brute plumped down on my back, and with a tremendous splash, limb, wildcat, and myself went into the creek.

I heard Ned shout, as the water closed over me, and then everything became dark.

I rose to the surface terribly frightened, for, sad to relate, I had never learned to swim, and Ned could do very little in that direction. Instead of clutching at the empty air, as most drowning persons do, I caught hold of something substantial; and when the water was out of my eyes and out of my stomach, for I had swallowed about a pint, I saw that I was hanging to the bushy end of the broken limb. That was all very well, but the next thing I observed was not so pleasant, for six feet distant, on the thick part of the branch, sat the wild-cat, apparently none the worse for his fall. His sharp claws were driven into the bark, and he was calmly licking his dripping fur. Meanwhile the current was sweeping us down stream, and Ned was running along the bank in a sad state of fright and excitement. My back began to hurt pretty badly, and I discovered that my face was torn and bleeding in one or two places, though whether this was caused by the fall or by the wild-cat I did not know.

"Swim, Jack, let go and swim," shouted Ned, and then, remembering perhaps that I was unable to follow his instructions, he suddenly turned and ran back through the woods at the top of his speed, instead of making any effort to help me.

I was badly scared before, and now, when I saw, as I supposed, my last hope vanish, I began to shout for help as loudly as I could.

But at the very first cry the wild-cat lifted his head, and emitted a vicious snarl. As I howled louder than ever, he advanced a foot or two along the limb, ripping off the bark, and fixing his big glaring eyes savagely on my face.

I was terrified into silence, and, as soon as I ceased shouting, the brute stopped and coolly proceeded to lick his fur again.

Apparently, he did not object to my presence so long as I remained quiet. The worst of it was that my end of the branch was pretty far down in the water, and threatened every moment to carry me entirely under the surface.

In this precarious situation, I drifted down the creek, until the bend drew near that sweeps round to Hake's Mill. Here the country was a little more open, and a farmhouse came into sight over the brow of a hill.

There was a chance of rescue, and in spite of my previous experience, I decided to try it, for my limbs were becoming chilled, and I knew I could not hold on much longer.

"Help! Help!" I cried with might and main. No answer came back, but before I could shout a third time the wild-cat uttered a snarl, and began creeping toward me, inch by inch, and lashing the water fiercely with his tail. Lower and lower sank the branch, until my shoulders were submerged, and still the beast kept advancing.

I continued to shout, but no welcome voice responded, only empty echoes floating back from the hills.

Then I must have given up all hope, for I remember wondering vaguely what had become of Ned, and what they were doing in school, and whether my absence was noticed or not.

The cold water was rippling about my neck now, and the wild-cat was so close that I could note the horrible colors of the glaring eyes, and feel the hot breath in my face. I wondered how it would feel when those two rows of needle-like teeth met in my flesh; and then, before I could think any more, a deafening report filled my ears, and, through the cloud of smoke that rolled over the creek, the wild-cat bounded high in air, and fell into the water with a loud splash. That was all I remembered then. The next thing I knew, I was lying in a grassy hollow, alongside the creek, while Ned and an old farmer bent over me, and threw water in my face. Ned's desertion was explained. He had cut off the bend in the creek by running over the hill, and, accompanied by the farmer, who happened to be down in the woods hunting rabbits, they had arrived just in time to shoot the wild-cat and drag me out of the water. That was the last time I played truant. I didn't lose my share of the shellbarks, for Ned went down early the next morning and got them, but I did lose the chestnut club, and what was worse, in spite of my sore back, I spent a very unpleasant quarter of an hour out in the woodshed, just two days later, and Ned, I am happy to say, passed through the same edifying experience.



A Stirring Incident.

India is the home of the deadliest serpents and fiercest wild beasts on the globe. When it is stated that more than twenty thousand persons are killed annually by the snakes and animals of that country, some idea may be formed of its attractions in the way of a residence. To this should be added the fact that, during certain seasons, the climate is like that of Sahara itself. For days and nights the thermometer stands above one hundred degrees in the shade and in the city of Madras, unacclimated persons have died at midnight in their beds from apoplexy caused by the appalling temperature.

Among the venomous serpents of India, the cobra di capello holds foremost rank, though it is claimed that a still more deadly reptile has been found in the interior, and I believe the British Museum has one of these terrible creatures, whose bite brings death with the suddenness of the lightning stroke. However, the cobra has been known to strike two persons in instant succession, proving fatal to both within ten minutes of each other. It is hard to conceive of any serpent more venomously destructive than this.

On one of the flaming Sunday mornings, when there was not a cloud in the brazen skies, a well known missionary came home from early service and seated himself at the breakfast-table with his family. The door of the dining-room was open and the Teluga school-teacher was outside, when he became interested in a novel sight. A frog was hopping along the front veranda, with an immense cobra chasing it. The serpent struck at it repeatedly, but the fugitive, in its desperation, eluded each blow, giving utterance to pitiful cries, as a frog will do when pursued by a snake.

The end of the veranda reached, the frog leaped off, and the cobra dropped to the ground in hot pursuit, but a box, standing near, offered shelter. The creature scrambled beneath, just in time to avoid another swift blow of the reptile, which was unable to follow it. The cobra glided around the box, seeking some avenue by which to reach his victim, but, finding none, moved off in the grass and disappeared.

The teacher hurried into the dining-room, with the announcement of what he had seen. The missionary listened gravely and then inquired:

"Where is the cobra now?"

"I cannot tell, sir; he moved off among the flower-pots, but I do not know whither he went."

"It is not my practice to go shooting on Sunday," remarked the minister, "but it won't do to have that serpent where it is liable to bite one of us. He must have a hole somewhere near the flower-pots; please keep watch while I get my pistol."

The missionary always kept a loaded revolver for use when traveling through the jungle at night, and he speedily stepped out on the veranda, with the weapon in hand, and started to find the cobra.

Two large native flower-pots stood within a couple of yards of the veranda. Each contained a fragrant rose, of which the good man's wife was very fond. Every day she spent some time sprinkling them with water or removing the dead leaves, never suspecting what proved to be the fact that while thus employed, she continually moved about a spot where an immense cobra lay coiled.

An opening was discovered directly between the flower pots, partly concealed by the grass. It was about as thick as a man's wrist, and descended perpendicularly, expanding into a small chamber.

The minister called for a hand-mirror, and with little trouble threw the bright reflection of the sun into the hole, a little more than a foot deep, fully lighting up the interior.

The cobra was there! It lay motionless in a glistening coil, as if resting from its fruitless pursuit of the frog and brooding over its disappointment. It was an alarming sight, but the good man kept cool, and meant business from the start.

Taking a piece of broken wagon tire, he thrust it slantingly into the hole, to hold the serpent a prisoner, and shoving the muzzle of his revolver forward, he let fly.

Not the slightest motion followed. He had missed. He now gently turned the tire edgewise and fired again. A furious writhing followed, proving that the snake had been hit hard. The tire was instantly turned over flat to prevent its coming out. It struck fiercely at the iron, which in a minute was shifted on its edge again, and the missionary emptied the remaining chambers of his revolver down the hole. Then he turned up the tire once more, and allowed the hideous head to dart forth.

The minister had brought with him a pair of large hedge shears, with which he seized the protruding neck, drew out the snake and gave it a flirt toward the compound. He was so absorbed with his task that he had not noticed the crowd of men, women and children that had gathered to watch the results of his hunt. When they saw a huge cobra flying through the air toward them, there was a scampering and screaming, which might have been less had they known that the grip of the shears had dislocated the serpent's neck.

The good man did not forget that whenever you find one deadly serpent, another is quite certain to be close at hand. He had passed the wagon tire to the teacher, when he began pulling out the wounded cobra, and asked him to insert it again without an instant's delay. This was done, and returning with the hand-glass, the missionary once more conveyed the rays into the underground chamber.

Sure enough a second cobra was there, wriggling and squirming in a way to show that he had received some of the bullets intended for his companion. The revolver was reloaded and a fusillade opened, standing off a few paces, the marksman waited for the head to come forth that he might seize and draw it out as he had done with the other.

The wounded reptile continued its furious squirming and striking, but its head did not appear, until shot after shot had been fired. At last it showed itself, and was immediately gripped with the shears. Dropping the pistol, the missionary employed both hands in the effort, and running backward a few steps, the whole frightful length of the serpent was drawn out upon the ground.

Remembering their former experience, the crowd moved away, but the missionary spared them a second fright.

Both cobras being helpless, an examination was made of them. The second one showed the marks of fourteen pistol balls through his body, any three of which would have proved fatal, but he was still full of fight, and died while trying to strike the persons near him.

The serpents were now stretched out on the veranda and measured one of them five feet eleven inches long, and the other six feet two inches. The last is an extraordinary size, rarely seen even in the favorite haunts of the reptile. An investigation of their home left no doubt that they had been living for months right among the flower pots that were attended to daily, and within six feet of the veranda and twelve feet of the door of the missionary's study.

As for the frog that crawled under the box just in time to save himself, he was well and flourishing at the last accounts.



Cyclones And Tornadoes.

Science as yet has not been able to grasp the laws that govern cyclones. They seem to be the result of some intensely electric condition of the elements, which finds an expression in that form. Cyclones, until within a few years, meant those circular tempests encountered in the Pacific and Indian oceans. They are the most destructive of all storms, being far more deadly than monsoons and tornadoes.

All navigators, when caught in a cyclone know how to get out of it. They have only to sail at right angles to the wind, when they will either pass beyond the outer rim of the circular sweep, or reach the center, where the ocean is calm.

The diameters of the ocean cyclones range from fifty to five hundred or a thousand miles. Professor Douglas, of Ann Arbor University, entertains his friends now and then by manufacturing miniature cyclones. He first suspends a large copper plate by silken cords. The plate is heavily charged with electricity, which hangs below in a bag-like mass. He uses arsenious acid gas, which gives the electricity a greenish tint. That mass of electricity becomes a perfect little cyclone. It is funnel-shaped and spins around like a top. When he moves the plate over a table, his cyclone catches up pennies, pens, pith balls and other small articles, and scatters them in every direction.

Cyclones never touch the equator, though the ocean ones are rare outside the torrid one. They are caused by the meeting of contrary currents of winds, and are known under the names of hurricanes, typhoons, whirlwinds or tornadoes. Those terrifying outbursts which now and then cause so much destruction in our own country seem to be the concentration of the prodigious force of an immense ocean cyclone within a small space, which renders them resistless.

A writer in the N. Y. Herald gives some interesting facts regarding these scourges of the air. While the cyclone, as we have shown, may have a diameter of hundreds of miles, the track of a tornado is often limited to a few hundred feet, and rarely has the width of half a mile.

The cyclone carries with it a velocity of as much as 100 to 140 miles an hour. It sends a certain amount of warning ahead of its track, and the acceleration of the wind's speed at any given point, is gradual.

The tornado falls almost without notice, or rather the indications are often so similar to those of an ordinary thunderstorm that only a skilled and careful observer can detect the difference.

The phenomena and effects of cyclones in the West Indies have long been subjects of study and observation. As the center approaches a ship she is assaulted by wind of a terrible force and a sea that is almost indescribable. The water no longer runs in waves of regular onward motion, but leaps up in pyramids and peaks. The wind swirls and strikes until wherever there is a chance for vibration or flutter, even in tightly furled sails, the fabric soon gives way. I once saw a brig go drifting past us in a West Indies cyclone with everything furled and closely lashed with sea gaskets. We were in company nearly at the height of the storm, when the center was only a few miles away. There was a spot in the bunt of the foretopsail where the sail was not tightly stowed, and for several hours it had doubtless been fluttering under tremendous pressure. As I watched her a little white puff went out of the bunt of the topsail, and then the destruction of the sail was rapid. Long ribbons of canvas went slithering off as if a huge file had rasped the yard arm, and in a short time there was nothing left on the yard except the bolt ropes and the reef tackles. We could do nothing to help the crew, for it was doubtful whether we could keep off the reefs ourselves, and the brig passed out of sight to her certain doom.

The local tornado that so frequently plays havoc with property and life in the West is, like the cyclone, a revolving force, but it carries with it a variety of phenomena wholly distinct from those that accompany the larger storm. Many of the effects of one tornado are wholly absent in others, and the indications that in one case have been followed by a terrible disaster are not infrequently found at other times to presage merely a heavy thunder shower.

The freaks of a tornado are wholly unaccountable. In some cases not an object in its track will fail to feel its power for long distances; in other instances it will seem to act like a cannon-ball that plows up the earth on striking, then rises and strikes again, leaving the space between untouched. Sometimes it will go through a forest leveling the trees as though a gang of axemen had plied their tools on lines laid out by surveyors, nothing outside the track being touched; but again in similar windfalls there will be found occasional pockets scored in the forest growth jutting off the right line, like small lagoons opening into a flowing stream. These seem to have been caused by a sort of attendant whirlwind -- a baby offspring from the main monster, which, having sprung away from the chief disturbance, scoops a hole in the woods and then expires or rejoins the original movement.

I have seen one of the most violent and, so to speak, compressed of these storms, cut a road through thick woods so that at a distance the edges stood out clear and sharp against the sky as would those of a railway cutting through earth. Trees standing at the edge of the track had their branches clean swept one side while on the other there was no perceptible disturbance of the foliage.

Sometimes the tornado acts like an enormous scoop, catching up every movable thing and sweeping it miles away: and again it becomes a depositor, as if, tired of carrying so much dead weight, it dumped it upon the earth preparatory to grabbing up a new cargo. These effects are particularly noticeable in the tornado that goes by jumps. When it strikes and absorbs a mass of debris it seems to spring up again like a projectile that grazes the surface. For a space there will be a very high wind and some damage, but no such disaster as the tornado has previously wrought. Out of the clouds will come occasional heavy missiles and deluges of water. Then down goes the tornado again crashing and scattering by its own force and adding to its destructive power by a battery of timbers and other objects brought along from the previous impact. Relieved of these masses, it again gathers up miscellaneous movables and repeats its previous operation.

The force with which these objects strike is best seen when they fall outside of the tornado's path, since the work done by the missile is not then disturbed by the general destructive force of the storm. Thus, near Racine, Wis., I have known an ordinary fence rail, slightly sharpened on one end, to be driven against a young tree like a spear and pierce it several feet. The velocity of the rail must have been something enormous, or otherwise the rail would have glanced from such a round and elastic object.

Many of the settlers in the tornado districts of Southern Minnesota, Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska excavate a deep cellar beneath their houses and cover it with heavy timbers as a place of refuge for their families when a tornado threatens to strike them. While these dugouts are usually effective, they are not always so. There have been instances where families having only time to descend and not time enough to close the trap door have been exposed to the storm's full fury by the tornado getting into the opening and lifting off the whole roof after having first swept away the house above. Another pathetic case resulted in the death of a whole family by an extraordinary freak of the tornado. The storm first struck a large pond and swept up all the water in it. Its next plunge deposited this water on one of these dugouts, and the family were drowned like chipmunks in a hole.

Some of the western tornadoes are accompanied by electrical manifestations to an extent that has originated a belief in electricity as their cause. These disturbances are very marked in some cases, while in others they have not been noticed. In one tornado in Central Illinois electricity played very peculiar antics not only in the tornado's track, but also at some distance from it. In the ruined houses all the iron work was found to have been strongly magnetized, so that pokers, flatirons and other metal objects were found adhering to each other. Just off the tornado's track the same effects were noticed, and several persons experienced sharp electric shocks during the passage of the storm. Afterward it was found that the magnetic influence was so strong that clocks and watches were stopped and rendered wholly useless.

The scooping action of the tornado sometimes makes considerable changes in the topography of the country, as when it gathers up the water of a large pond or water course and makes a new pond or opens a new channel. At Wallingford the water in a pond of very large size was taken bodily from its bed, carried up a hill and dropped nearly in one mass, so that gullies and ravines were cut in every direction.

There is a divide in Northeastern Illinois between streams flowing into Lake Michigan and those running to the Mississippi. So level is a portion of the land on the summit, and so slight the elevation above the lake, that in wet seasons the surface-water seems almost as willing to go one way as the other; and on one occasion the upper streams of the Desplaines River were nearly permanently diverted toward the lake by a tornado that gathered up the water and scored the surface in its track toward the east.

Many are the stories told of the way in which objects are carried away by the wind and left in strange places. In one Illinois tornado two children and an infant were caught up. The dead bodies of the children were found only a few hundred feet distant, but the infant was picked up alive more than a mile away from the spot where the tornado swept the children up. An accordion that must have come a long distance -- for it was never claimed -- was found so entangled in the branches of a tree that it was alternately pulled apart and pressed together by the wind, thus creating such weird and uncanny music during a whole night that an already sufficiently scared settlement of negroes were kept in a state of frantic dismay until daylight revealed the cause.

In another case a farmer who followed the tornado's track in search of missing cattle was astonished to discover one of his cows lodged about twenty feet above the ground in the branches of a half-stripped maple.

"I allers knew that was an active heifer," he remarked, as he came in sight of her hanging over the slanting limb, "but I never allowed she could climb a tree."



Lost In A Blizzard.

If I were given my choice between a visit from a cyclone or a blizzard, I would unhesitatingly choose the former. True, there is no resisting its terrific power, and a man caught in its embrace is as helpless as a child when seized by a Bengal tiger; but there is a chance of escape, and the whole thing is over in a few minutes. You may be lifted into the air and dropped with only a few broken bones, or, by plunging into a "cyclone pit," the fury of the sky may glide harmlessly over your head; but in the case of a blizzard, however, let me tell you the one woeful experience of my life.

The snow fell steadily for two days and nights, and looking out from my home in western Kansas I saw that it lay fully three feet on a level. By a strange providence my wife, who had been my brave and faithful helper for several years, was away on a visit to her friends in Topeka, and my only companion was my servant Jack, a middle-aged African, who in his youth was a slave in Kentucky.

Things had not gone well with us of late. The grasshoppers and drought played the mischief with out crops, and it was a question with me for months whether the wisest course to take was not to throw up my hands, let everything go to the bow-wows and, in the dry-goods firm, that I knew was returning to St. Louis, resume my situation still open for me. A man hates to confess himself beaten, and I decided to remain where I was one more year. Then, if there was no improvement, I would turn my back on Kansas forever.

"Master Thomas," said Jack, as the dismal December afternoon drew to a close, "thar isn't a pound ob flour in de house. Shall I go to de village and get some?"

"No; I will go myself."

It was the sudden realization of the unutterable loneliness I would feel without any companion that led me to this rash declaration. The town was only a mile distant, but it would require hours to make the journey there and back, and I could not bear the thought of being without the society of any one for that time. I had read everything in the house; the single horse and cow I owned had been looked after, and there was absolutely nothing to do but to sit down before the scant fire, listen to the sifting of the snow against the window panes, and give way to gloomy reverie.

Anything was preferable to this, and it was with a feeling akin to relief that I added:

"I might do so had I not noticed this afternoon that he had gone lame."

"Better let de flour go, den, for de snow am too deep and de storm to heavy for you to tramp all de way to town and back again."

"No; while I haven't much fear of our starving, yet, if the snow-fall continues, we shall be in a bad way. I can carry twenty-five pounds without trouble, and will be back in a few hours; then the storm may rage as hard as it pleases, for all we care."

The preparations were quickly made, and, to shorten my story, I may say that, after a laborious tramp, I reached the village without mishap, bought my quarter of a hundred of flour, slung it over my shoulder, and started on my return.

By this time I had made several disquieting discoveries. The snow was falling faster than ever, the cold was increasing, a gale was blowing, and, under the circumstances, of course there was not a glimmer of light in the sky. My course was directly across the prairie, and in the event of my tracks being obliterated by the snow -- as was almost certain to be the case -- it was almost impossible for me to prevent myself from going astray.

My hope lay in Jack's promise that he would keep a bright light burning in the upper story to guide me on my course. On a clear night this light was visible from the village, but somehow or other I failed to take into account the state of the weather. The air was full of eddying flakes, which would render the headlight of a locomotive invisible a hundred yards distant. Strange that this important fact never occurred to me until I was fully a fourth of a mile from the village. Then, after looking in vain for the beacon light, the danger of my situation struck me, and I halted.

"I am certain to go wrong," I said to myself.

"It is out of my power to follow a direct course without something to serve as a compass. I will go back to the village and wait till morning."

Wheeling about in my tracks, I resumed my wearisome tramp through the heavy snow, and kept it up until I was certain I had travelled fully a fourth of a mile. Then when I paused a moment and gazed ahead and around, I was confronted by blank darkness on every hand. What a proof of a man's tendency to go wrong, that in aiming at a village of fifty dwellings, and only a fourth of a mile away, I had missed it altogether!

This discovery gave me my first thrill of real alarm. I shouted, but my voice fell dead in the snowy air. The gale was blowing more furiously than ever, and the cold was so intense that it penetrated my thick clothing and caused my teeth to rattle together!

"You can be of no use to me," I exclaimed, flinging away the small bag of flour. "The village can't be far off, and I will find it."

Determined to retain my self-possession, I made a careful calculation of the proper course to follow, and plunged into my work with more vigor than ever. I continually glanced up in quest of the flickering lights, and listened, in the hope of hearing some sound that could guide me, but nothing of the kind was seen or heard, and it was not long before the terrible truth burst upon me that I was lost.

Aye, and lost in a blizzard! The wind had risen almost to a hurricane; the cold cut through the thickest clothing, and the snow struck my face like the prick of millions of needles. I shouted again, but, convinced that it was a useless waste of strength, I soon ceased.

It was certain death to remain motionless, and almost equally fatal to push on; but there was a possibility that I might strike the right direction, and anything was preferable to remaining idle. And so, with a desperation akin to despair, I threw all the vigor at my command into my benumbed limbs, and bent every possible energy to the life and death task before me.

The sleet drove against my cheeks with such spiteful and penetrating fierceness that I could make no use of my eyes, I could only bend my head to the blast and labor through the snow, praying that Providence would guide my footsteps in the right direction.

I was plodding forward in this heavy, aimless fashion when I noticed that the violence of the gale was drifting the snow. Sometimes I would strike a space of several yards where it did not reach to my ankles. Then I would suddenly lurch into a wall that reached to my shoulders. After wallowing through this, I might strike a shallow portion again, where, while walking quite briskly, a windrow of snow would be hurled against my breast and face with such fury as to force me backward and off my feet.

Bracing myself, I waited until there was a sufficient lull in the blizzard for me to make some use of my eyes. I blinked and peered toward the different points of the compass, but without catching the first twinkle of light.

"I am lost -- lost -- " I moaned; "there is no help for me!"

An extraordinary collapse must have come over me, for my senses seemed to forsake me on the instant. I went down in the eddying, blinding snow, and knew no more.

At the moment of giving way I was less than a hundred yards from the easternmost house of the village. My despairing cry was heard, and hospitable hands carried me into the dwelling within a quarter of an hour after losing my consciousness. Intelligent and prompt treatment prevented any serious consequences, but the remembrance of that brief time exposed to the fury of the blizzard will remain with me to my dying day.



Throwing The Riata.

The skill shown by cattlemen in throwing the riata or lasso often approaches the marvelous. What is more wonderful than the duel described in the San Francisco Examiner, between Mexican vaqueros, in which the only weapons used were their riatas? The victor overcame the other by throwing his noose, so that his enemy's noose passed right through it, and the conqueror lassoed the other man's arms against his side and jerked him from his steed.

The despatch then went on to tell of the skill of the victorious riata man, and mentioned among other wonderful feats, his lassoing an antelope running at high speed 100 feet away. To make the test more extraordinary, the correspondent wrote that he would pick out one of the animal's feet and get the noose around that alone.

An Examiner reporter called on Louis Ohnimus, Superintendent of Woodward's Gardens, who wielded a riata for many years, and probably knows as much about throwing the lasso as any man on the coast, and asked him if the feats referred to were possible.

"The Mexican may have won the duel by lassoing his adversary, riata and all," was the answer. "It is not an uncommon thing for them to settle their differences by such a fight, and I have heard of the trick of ringing the other man's rope, but if that man can catch an antelope one hundred feet away, by the foot or any other way, he is a better riata man than I ever encountered. In the first place mighty few men are strong enough to throw a rope such a distance. Then an ordinary riata is only fourteen or sixteen yards long -- twenty yards is a very long one. So, you see, a forty-foot throw is a pretty good one."

He was asked to explain how to throw a lasso, and consented to do so.

"The first thing about this business," said Mr. Ohnimus, "is to have a perfect riata. If you have one perfectly stretched, oiled, and in a thoroughly good condition, you can throw well; if your rope is kinky or uneven, you will find it impossible to do accurate work."

"What do you consider a good riata?"

"Well, I can only tell you how a good one is made. First, the rawhide is cut in thin strips, as long as possible, and half tanned with the hair on. Then these strips are soaked and stretched over a block. Then they are braided into a rope, care being taken, of course, to pull the strands as tight as possible. When the riata is made it should be buried for a week, ten days, or even a fortnight, in the sand. It takes up moisture from the ground, without getting hard. Soaking it in water won't do, nor will anything else that I know of except, as I say, burying it. When the riata is resurrected it should again be left for a time stretched over a block, with a weight to hold it taut. Then the hair should be sandpapered off the outside, and when the riata is greased with mutton tallow and properly noosed it is ready for use. Every vaquero that pretends to take care of his apparatus will bury his riata and stretch it every six or eight months.

"A hair rope does not make a good riata. It is useful to stretch around camp at night to keep snakes away. For some reason snakes will not cross a hair rope.

"Now, as to throwing it:

"The riata, say, is hanging from the horn of the saddle -- not tied, but ready for use. No vaquero who understands his trade ties his rope to his saddle. He knows that his life may depend on his ability to let go of his rope in an instant, and he isn't going to chance killing himself or his horse. You see, the vaquero might be on a side hill, and a bull or steer he wishes to catch be on a trail below him, and the ground between them to be too steep to admit of his riding down to it. Now, suppose the noose, instead of catching around the horns of the steer, should circle his neck and draw down to his shoulders? Accidents are, of course, as likely to happen in catching cattle as in anything else, and give a bull such a hold and he could pull a house, let alone a mustang. That would be one case where it would be very handy to let go quickly. Then a man is likely to get his hand caught, and if he can't let his rope go free he is likely to lose a finger or two.

"Our vaquero is trotting along with his rope hanging at his saddle bow or fastened behind him. He sees a deer or whatever else he wants to catch, and grabs his rope with the left hand if he is a right-handed man, though a man to really excel in this business should be ambi-dextrous. A right-handed man can, under ordinary circumstances, rope a steer; but he has frequently to turn his horse to gain a good position. Now it sometimes happens that your horse is in a position where you can't turn; then it would be awkward, unless you could throw with either hand. I usually throw with my left hand, though I can use either.

"I take up the rope from the saddle bow, so."

He lifted his riata in his right hand. His little finger held the standing end of the rope, the third and middle finders supported the coil, and the noose dangled from his first finger, while his thumb steadied the whole rope and held it from slipping. The coils were not more than a foot or a foot and a half in diameter. The noose was the same size.

"That's a smaller noose than you would use on the range, is it not?"

"No," answered Mr. Ohnimus, "the vaquero never carries his noose long. If he did, it would be constantly getting tangled up in the horse's legs. He makes it larger when he swings it. But to get back to the process of lassoing. As our cowboy gets close to his quarry, he takes the noose in his lasso hand. I will use my left, as it is a trifle handier for me. He grips the rope, not too firmly, holding the standing part and the side of the noose about half the length of the loop away from the knot. That is to enable him to swing the noose so that it will fall open. If he holds it at the knot he will throw a long, narrow noose that is very likely to cross and kink.

"Meanwhile I, representing our cowboy, hold the remaining coils in my other hand, only changing the position of my forefinger so as to secure better control of the coils. Then comes the third maneuver -- enlarging the noose. Of course, you have to have a larger noose than one a foot in diameter to drop over a steer's horns forty feet away. The noose is enlarged by swinging the noose in your lasso hand until the centrifugal force pulls it out the size you wish (this is the reason you do not grasp it too firmly), letting go with the other hand, of course, as many coils as are necessary to make the noose the right size. Now you have the noose in the air you do not cease making it circle around your head until you let it go. When the noose has been let out to the right size the next trouble is to keep it open and to avoid entangling it in the brush or other surrounding obstructions. You keep it open, as I said, by holding the noose from quarter to half its length from the knot, and by a peculiar twist of the wrist that is only attainable by practice. To keep it clear of the brush is often a more difficult job, for the cowboy is not always in a clear place when he wants to throw his rope. Then it is that his judgment comes into play and determines whether his cast is a lost one or not. I have seen vaqueros swing a lasso swiftly almost in the midst of a thicket, and keep it clear without losing speed, and then let it drive straight as an arrow between two close trees and rope an object that could not pass where the noose had gone. Such skill, to be sure, comes only after long practice.

"Well, now we have got the noose circling about the vaquero's head, and the next thing is to let it fly. There is not much to describe about this part of throwing a riata, important though it may be. It is only incessant practice that will enable a man to make a certain cast. The main thing is to swing the rope just long enough -- neither so long as to give it a side-wise motion when you throw it, nor short enough to prevent its getting all the force you require. Then the riata man must throw at a particular limb or projection. This thing of tossing blindly at an object and trusting to luck that the animal will get into the rope somehow will not do. You must pick out your mark as carefully as if you were shooting at it, and then time it. A steer jumping along changes his position constantly as regards you. If you throw at his head high up the chances are that it will be away down when your rope reaches him, and you will overthrow. Now, if you pick out a foot you must reckon so that that foot will be off the ground when your rope reaches him. The noose does not travel like a bullet, and this element of time is most important.

"Of even more importance is it that the distances are gauged correctly. You remember I spoke about holding the coils lightly in two or three fingers. Well, that is done in order that as many coils as may be considered necessary may be let go. If you are wielding a riata you know that each of your coils is almost two feet or two and one half feet long. So if you want to lasso something twenty feet away you let go ten coils.

"As to letting go, you simply open your hand at the correct time and the rope slips off.

"But even after you have roped your steer your work is not over. Almost any animal can pull you from your horse, and to prevent this you must get your rope around the horn of your saddle. There is where you have to be quick. There are two ways of making this hitch that are used ordinarily. The one I prefer is simply to take two turns around the horn, taking care that the second turn comes lower and overlaps the other. No pull in the world could make that rope slip, while I can, simply by throwing off one turn, let it all slide off. This other fashion, which is really taking a 'half-inch' around the horn, holds just as fast, but you have to push the rope through to loosen it. You see, in making this sudden twist, a finger is very likely to get caught, and I have known many fingers being taken off before such a hitch could be unfastened.

"It is often advisable to take an extra twist around anything you have lassoed, and this is done by simply throwing a coil. Practice again is the only thing that can teach this.

"Now you have the whole theory of throwing a rope.

"There are four sorts of throws, but they are all made alike, only the position of the arm being different. They are the overthrow, the underthrow, the sidethrow, and the backthrow."

"Backthrow?"

"Yes, backthrow -- catching an object behind you -- something that you need not even see. That sounds difficult, does it? Well, you stand behind me and you can see it done."

The reporter took his station twenty feet behind Mr. Ohnimus, quite out of sight, of course. He swung the loop around his head, and, without turning, let it fly backward. It circled the newspaper man exactly, and by pulling it quickly Ohnimus had his arms pinioned to his side.

"Are there any more trick throws?" asked the reporter.

"Lots of them. I never put myself up as a crack riata man, and I am out of practice now, but I can lay the noose on the ground at my feet and kick it around your neck, or pick it off the ground from my horse and land it around you while the horse is going at full speed, and do lots of things like that, but none of them is any good. That backthrow has been used by the Mexican highwaymen to considerable advantage. You see, in that country the traveler always looks out for danger from the rear and is prepared for it, but when a pleasant horseman rides past him, playing with his riata, and wishing him 'Good-day' as he passes, he is likely to consider the danger as gone by, as well as the man. That has caused the death of a good many. The bandit gets the right distance ahead and then lassoes him as I did you. A touch of his spur jerks his victim from the saddle and that ends it."

"How is the lasso as a weapon of defence?"

"Good. A quick riata man can beat a fellow with a pistol at fairly close quarters."

"How?"

"Well, here is a pistol. Put it in your pocket and draw it on me as I come toward you."

The reporter did as he was directed. He had not raised the weapon when the noose was around his hand and the pistol was jerked a dozen feet.

"Try again, and tighter," said Ohnimus.

The reporter did so. The pistol was not jerked from his hand this time, but before he could snap it Ohnimus had thrown a coil around his neck and pulled his pistol hand up over his shoulder. In another instant a second coil was around the reporter's body, and both arms were fastened firmly to his sides. He could not move that pistol an inch. No clearer demonstration of the use of the lasso as a weapon of defence was possible.

"What is the most difficult animal, in your opinion, to catch with the lasso?" was asked.

"A sea lion," answered the rope thrower. "I have caught them off the southern coast. They go right through a noose. The only way to get them is to throw the rope around his neck and back of one flipper. A hog is hard to catch, too. He pulls his legs out of a noose without half trying, and you can't hold him by the neck or body. The only way is to get him like the sea lion -- back of one foreleg."



A Waterspout.

Doubtless many of my readers have heard of the dreadful encounters of vessels with waterspouts, when the ship escaped destruction by firing a cannon-ball into the waterspout, thus causing it to break apart.

Now these things are by no means such terrible objects as many believe. No doubt the vessels of the present day are larger and stronger than formerly, and perhaps waterspouts have become smaller. Be as it may, the people who go down to the sea in ships need give themselves no uneasiness about them, for really they amount to little.

The Slavonia, of the Hamburg line left Brunshausen, on the Elbe, on February 26 last, under the command of Capt. H. Schmidt. She had only two passengers. The weather was squally and the air full of mist when she reached the outer Banks, 900 miles from New York, shortly after sunrise on Sunday, March 16. The big vessel was heading west by north, when, at 7 o'clock, Second Mate Erichsen, who was on the bridge, saw emerge through the mist on the starboard side of the ship, at the distance of about a thousand feet, a towering column which united sea and sky. The column was in front of the ship to starboard, and was moving in a southeasterly direction, apparently at the rate of eight knots an hour.

Although the Slavonia was running 9 1/2 knots, the column seemed likely to pass in front of the steamship when their paths crossed. Accordingly Erichsen did not try to alter the course of the Slavonia; indeed, he would not have altered it had he known ship and spout were sure to meet, for he had encountered waterspouts before and wasn't afraid of them. All he did -- in fact, all he had time to do -- was to call Third Mate Lorentzen, also an expert in waterspouts.

On rushed the Slavonia, heading west by north: nearer came the waterspout, heading south by east. It soon became evident that the spout could not get by before the Slavonia reached it, and it was now too late to slow up -- indeed, a collision was manifestly unavoidable from the start. Lorentzen had scarcely reached the bridge when the watery Philistine was upon the Samson. It just hit the steamer's bows on the starboard side, as depicted in the second cut. A rushing noise accompanied the column, and the water foamed in its wake. Immediately above was a great black cloud from which clouds less dark descended to form a funnel, or inverted cone. The middle of the column was white, apparently because it contained snow.

The column's narrowest diameter was about twelve feet, while it was three times as broad as its base, which reproduced in water and inverted the cloud-formed funnel above. The whole column rotated with a spiral motion.

The waterspout, when it approached, took all the wind out of the fore-staysail of the steamship, which went blind, but the schooner-sail still kept full, and presently the fore-staysail filled again.

The Slavonia shook under the shock caused by contact with the column of water, but kept on her course none the worse for the collision. A few flakes of snow on her bow were the only evidence of the collision after the pillar of water had passed off to port.

While the vessel was uninjured, the waterspout soon showed signs that it had received its death-blow. As it sailed off to the southeast it parted in the middle, and the cone of water which formed its base and the cone of cloud which formed its top began to grow smaller by degrees. The waterspout was slowly but surely ceasing to be a waterspout when it disappeared from view in the misty distance some fifteen minutes or more from the time it was sighted.

The Slavonia's encounter with the waterspout took place in latitude 42 degrees 22 minutes north and longitude 52 degrees 35 minutes west. This is rather far north for waterspouts so early in the year. The waterspout crop is generally more plentiful when thunder and lightning are on top, which is in warmer weather. The temperature of the air at the time of the encounter was 37 degrees; water 54 degrees. It had been cold during the night, but grew warmer in the morning. The clouds which overspread the firmament were of the cumulus pattern.

Erichsen and Lorentzen have not only seen other waterspouts, but the first, when on a sailing vessel in the tropics, ran into the very middle of one with no worse result than to deluge the deck of the ship with water as a heavy shower would have done. He thinks an unusually large waterspout might possibly sink a very small vessel, say a pilot boat, but with a ship of ordinary size he considers bombarding a waterspout with cannon a waste of powder.



An Heroic Woman.

Every boy and girl should learn to swim. When one recalls how easily the art is acquired, and the many occasions that are liable to arise, we cannot but wonder that the accomplishment is so universally neglected by the other sex. It is pleasant to note, however, that swimming is growing to be popular among women, and the day is not far distant, when the majority of young ladies will become the rivals of their brothers in their ability to keep their heads above water.

Torres Strait separates Australia from Papua or New Guinea; and connects the Arafura Sea on the west, with the Coral Sea on the east. Its current is swift and the waters from time immemorial have been dangerous to navigation. It has been the scene of many shipwrecks, and it is only a few months since that the steamer Quetta was lost in those waters. One hundred and sixteen persons perished on that terrible night in the South Pacific, but among the survivors was Miss Lacy, whose experience was not only among the most interesting and thrilling ever recorded, but emphasizes the statement we have made at the opening of our sketch.

Miss Lacy says she was sitting in the saloon, engaged in writing a letter, the other ladies practicing for a concert which it was intended to give on shipboard. Everything was going along, merrily, and all were in high spirits, when, without the least warning, they were startled by a harsh, grating noise, the steamer rocked violently, and nearly every one was thrown into the wildest panic.

The confusion and shouts above showed that some fearful disaster had occurred. Instantly Miss Lacy made a rush for the deck to learn what it meant. Quick as were her movements, she found the ship was already sinking. Going aft was like climbing a steep hill, but she saw that one portion was high above water, and she struggled bravely to reach it. But, so rapidly did the Quetta go down that she had hardly gone forward, when the steamer was swallowed up in the furious waters.

That which followed is beyond description. In an instant, two hundred human beings were struggling frantically, shrieking in their terror for the help which was nowhere to be found, clutching each other, praying and drowning by the score.

Miss Lacy was caught in this fearful swirl, and was in imminent danger of being dragged down by those around her, who were crazed by the one wild, despairing hope of saving themselves, no matter at what cost. But she was a powerful swimmer, and retaining her self-command, she shook herself free of several who attempted to cling to her. The whirlpool caused by the sinking of the steamer pulled her beneath the water, but, with the same wonderful presence of mind she had shown from the first, she fought her way to the surface, and swam from the dangerous spot.

Finding herself her own mistress, and fully aware that her life now depended on her ability to swim, she removed all her superfluous clothing and moved hither and thither in the darkness, in the hope of coming upon some of the survivors.

It was about midnight, that she heard some one shout. The gloom was too powerful for her to distinguish anything, but she swam toward the point, whence the call issued, and came upon a raft, that had been hastily thrown together by the chief officer of the Quetta. Several persons were clinging to it, and she accepted the invitation to avail herself of the temporary refuge and give her weary limbs a rest.

The dismal hours wore slowly away, and at last the growing light in the eastern sky told that the longed-for day was breaking. As soon as the rays of the sun illumined the wild waste of waters, every eye scanned the ocean in quest of some sail; but on every side was the vast heavy sea, with no sign of life except on the little raft. It was water, water everywhere, with not a drop to drink nor a morsel of food to eat, and with no prospect of escaping a lingering death of the most distressing nature.

The discouraging feature of the situation to Miss Lacy was that their rude support was making no progress at all. They had no means of propelling it, and, had they possessed such means, no one knew what course to follow. It looked as if days and nights must be passed on the raft, until one by one the survivors succumbed or ended their sufferings by plunging into the sea which they had striven so hard to escape.

Far away, however, on the verge of the horizon, an object rose dimly to view, which, after carefully studying for some time, the shipwrecked people agreed was a small island, but, as we have stated, they were powerless to propel their craft thither, and could only gaze and sigh for the refuge that was as much beyond their reach, as though it were a thousand leagues distant.

"I am going to swim to it!" exclaimed Miss Lacy.

"Are you mad?" demanded the astonished chief-officer; "it is utterly impossible."

"I prefer to risk it rather than remain here."

"But it is much further off than it seems to be; these waters are full of sharks and you will never live to swim half the distance. Dismiss the idea at once."

"Good-by!"

And the brave woman took a header into the sea, and with a long graceful stroke, that compelled the admiration of every one of the amazed survivors, began swimming toward the supposed refuge.

But the chief-officer knew more about the difficulties in her way than she did. She grievously miscalculated the distance, and, though she was a swimmer of amazing skill and endurance, she began to believe she had undertaken a task beyond her power of accomplishment.

She swam directly toward the island, husbanding her strength like a wise person, but making steady progress, until before the afternoon was half gone, she knew she had placed many a long mile behind her. When she looked back she could see nothing of the raft and her friends, but as she rose on the crest of an immense swell, she plainly discerned the island. It still was in the verge of the horizon, and it was hard for her to see that she was apparently no nearer to it than when she started.

Besides this alarming fact, she was threatened by a still greater peril. As the chief-officer had warned her, the waters abounded with sharks, of the man-eating species, who were liable to dart forward and seize her at any moment; but, in recalling her extraordinary experience, Miss Lacy says that at no time did she feel any fear of them. She knew they were liable to discover her at any moment, but they did not, and fortunately indeed she escaped their ferocious jaws.

Her greatest suffering was from the blazing sun, whose rays shot downward upon her head with pitiless power. When she found her brain growing dizzy, she averted the danger of sunstroke by dropping or swimming for some distance below the surface. This always cooled or refreshed her, though she felt her face and neck blistering under the fierce rays.

In striving to recall her experience, Miss Lacy is unable to remember a large portion of the time she spent in the water. She believes she slept for several hours. What an extraordinary situation! Alone in the midst of the vast strait in the southern Pacific, surrounded by sharks, with no friendly sail in sight, and yet slumbering and unconscious.

Of course she was not swimming all this time. When she found herself growing weary, she floated on her back for long periods, then propelled herself first upon one side and then upon the other, and all the time the dim misty object in the distance remained as far away as ever. Finally, when she raised her head and looked for it, she was dismayed at being unable to detect it at all. It had vanished.

Then she knew that it had been an optical delusion from the first. There was no island or land in sight. She was alone on the vast deep.

But the heroic woman did not despair. After she had been in the water twenty hours altogether, and was in the last stage of exhaustion, she was picked up by a boat belonging to the search steamer Albatross. For several hours succeeding her rescue she was delirious, but it was not long before she was entirely herself, having given a signal proof of the value of swimming as a lady's accomplishment.



The Writing Found In A Bottle.

Let me assure the readers, at the beginning of this sketch, that it is strictly true in every particular. I have no ambition to shine as a writer of fiction, and, at the request of a number of friends acquainted with the remarkable circumstances, have sat down to relate, in a straightforward manner as is at my command; the part that I took in the history of the famous Buried Treasure.

Not the least singular part of this strange business was that, of the three individuals concerned two were boys, one being my son Frank (named for his father) and a playmate, Arthur Newman. The latter was thirteen years old, while Frank was only a few months his senior.

They were inseparable playmates from early childhood; and as we lived near a broad, deep inlet, which put in from the Atlantic, they learned to swim at the age of ten, and soon learned to manage a yacht as well as veterans. I was sometimes anxious because of their venturesome disposition, but although they frequently ventured outside, sometimes in very nasty weather, no accident ever befell them, and the parents of both boys gradually learned to dismiss all fear concerning them, under the belief that, as they grew older, they became better fitted to take care of themselves.

One day in March Frank told me that a suspicious brig had been standing off shore for the better part of a week, and he and Arthur had come to the conclusion that it was a pirate. I laughed heartily at their fancy, and assured them that the days of buccaneers and sea rovers were long since past, and they must dismiss all such absurd ideas from their minds.

The following week the Atlantic sea-board was devastated by one of the fiercest storms that had been known for years. Reports of wrecks and disasters to shipping reached us for several days after, and Frank remarked one evening at supper that he believed his suspected pirate was one of the unfortunate vessels that had gone down with all on board. I smiled at his words, but when I learned that the beach was strewn with wreckage, and that a great deal of it had washed into the inlet, I thought it probable that he was right, so far as the fate of the strange ship was concerned.

It was near the close of the month that my boy brought home a tightly corked bottle, which he and Arthur had found while cruising in the inlet. When he said that there was a piece of rolled paper inside, I felt enough curiosity to withdraw the stopper with the aid of a strong corkscrew, and to make an examination.

Sure enough there was a small roll of thick, vellum-like paper, on which, in a cramped hand, evidently written years before, was the following:

"Three feet under the Beacon Tree."

For a minute or two I was puzzled, and then, as if by inspiration, the whole truth burst upon me.

The Beacon Tree was the name of an immense poplar that stood near the mouth of the inlet. The fish-hawks had builded their nests in the forked tops for a half century. I remember hearing my father say it was struck by lightning long before and although its upper branches were shattered, and it had been as dead as a fence-post ever since, yet its immense size, great height, and peculiar, silver-like appearance caused it to become a prominent landmark to the vessels when approaching the coast, and long before I was born it gained the name of the Beacon Tree, by which title it was known to unnumbered hundreds of sailors and sea-faring men.

"There is a treasure buried under that tree," I said to Frank, suppressing my excitement so far as I could. "More than likely it was placed there by some freebooter a long time ago, and these people were awaiting a chance to dig it up."

"Maybe Captain Kidd buried it," suggested the boy.

"Possibly he did, for there is reason to believe that he hid a great deal of treasure along the Atlantic coast. Now, since Arthur was with you when you found this bottle, he has the same claim to the treasure that you have. We will not say anything to his father, and you must take particular care not to give a hint to a living soul. Go over and tell Arthur to come here this evening. I will furnish the shovels and lantern, and when we are sure that no one will see us, we will slip over to the Beacon Tree and dig."

I recall that I was never so absolutely sure of anything in my life as I was that valuable treasure lay buried under the old poplar. My wife, to whom I showed the little roll of paper, expressed a doubt, and smilingly hinted that perhaps I was too much impressed by that brilliant sketch of Edgar A. Poe called "The Gold Bug."

"Of course," I answered, "disappointment may await us, and I know these bottles picked up at sea are frequently frauds; but the age of the writing and the peculiar circumstances convince me that this is genuine. I am sure something will be found under the Beacon Tree."

Meantime Frank had hurried off to acquaint Arthur with the amazing discovery, and to warn him against dropping a hint to any one. My son soon returned with the word that his friend was "b'iling" with excitement, but alas! his parents were going to spend that evening with a neighbor, and since they would not be back until late, there was no possible way of his joining us.

The boys were not more disappointed than I, and the impulse was strong upon me to make the venture without the help of Arthur, meaning, of course that such a proceeding should not affect his share in the find; but it did not strike me that that would be exactly right, and Arthur was informed that we three would attend to the business the following evening.

I could not avoid strolling out to the Beacon Tree the next day. I did so in the most off-hand manner and with the most unconcerned expression I could assume; but had any one scrutinized my countenance, I am sure he would easily have detected the deep agitation under which I was laboring.

I was considerably disturbed, upon examining the immediate surroundings of the tree, to discover signs which looked as if some one had been digging there quite recently.

"The secret has become known and the treasure has been carried off," I gasped, with a rapidly throbbing heart.

Reflection, however, reassured me. No one had seen the writing in the bottle beside myself (though evidently it must have been known to others), and it was certain that if any person had succeeded in unearthing the hidden wealth, he would not have taken the trouble to hide all signs with such extreme care. Closer examination, too, convinced me there had been no digging about the tree at all. And yet I was mistaken.

We three reached the old poplar the next evening between ten and eleven o'clock. Arthur had escaped inquiry by slipping out of his bedroom window after bidding his parents good-night; and, inasmuch as the lantern which I carried was not lit until we arrived at the tree, we were confident of escaping attention. Still I watched sharply, and was greatly relieved to discover no persons abroad at that hour beside ourselves.

Since the treasure was located but three feet below the surface, in sandy soil, I brought only one shovel, while the boys watched me, one holding the lantern, and both casting furtive glances around to guard against eavesdroppers. It would be useless to deny my excitement. My heart at times throbbed painfully, and more than once I was on the point of ceasing until I could regain mastery of myself.

"Pop, you must be nearly deep enough," said Frank, in a guarded undertone.

"I'm pretty near to the place," I replied stopping a minute to draw my handkerchief across my perspiring forehead.

"I'm afraid there's somebody watching us," added Arthur.

"Where?" I asked in affright, staring around in the gloom.

"I thought I saw a man moving out yonder."

"Well, it's too late for him to interfere now," I said, compressing my lips and renewing my digging more determinedly than ever; "I carry a revolver with me, and I don't mean to be robbed."

The next moment my heart gave a great throb, for the shovel struck something hard.

"Hold the lantern down here, Frank, quick!" I commanded in a hoarse voice.

He obeyed, but to my disappointment the object proved to be a large stone.

"I guess it's under that," I whispered, stopping work for a moment.

"Pop, there's another piece of paper," said Frank.

I stooped over and picked it up. I saw that there was writing on it, and holding it up beside the lantern read:

"Dig three feet under the Beacon Tree and you will be an April fool."

Once again the truth flashed across me. The whole thing was a practical joke.

"Boys," said I, "what day of the month is this?"

They reflected a moment and answered:

"Why, it's the first of April."

"Let's go home," I added, stepping out of the excavation, "and here's a half a dollar apiece if you don't tell anybody about it."

As we moved mournfully away I was sure I heard a chuckling laugh somewhere near in the darkness, but the author of it was prudent enough to keep beyond reach.

It was not until three months afterward that I learned all the facts connected with the writing found in a bottle. My neighbor, the father of Arthur Newman, on whom I had played several jokes, adopted this means of retaliating on me. He took my son and his own into his confidence, and I am grieved to say that the young rascals were just as eager as he. When I proposed to make the search on the last day of March, my friend resorted to the subterfuge I have mentioned, so as to insure that it should not take place until the following evening, which was unquestionably appropriate for my first and last essay in digging for buried treasure.



That Hornet's Nest.

There was an indignation meeting of the boys at Bushville school, one sultry day in August. From stress of circumstances it was held at the noon recess, in the piece of woods back of the old stone building, and on the banks of the crystal stream in which the youngsters swam and revelled at morning, noon and night, during the long, delicious days of summer.

All the lads, not quite a score, belonging to the Bushville school, were present at the impromptu convention, but the proceedings were chiefly in charge of the lads, Tom Britt, Dick Culver and Fred Armstrong. There were but a few months' difference in their ages, none of which was more than fourteen years, but all were so much larger and older than the rest that they were looked up to as leaders in everything except study.

It cannot be denied that the three were indolent by nature, inclined to rebel at authority, and their enforced attendance at school was the affliction of their lives. They had given their teachers no end of trouble, and more than once had combined in open rebellion against their instructors. Tom's father was a trustee, and like the parents of many ill-trained youths, including those of Dick and Fred, he could see nothing wrong in the conduct of his son. As a consequence, discipline at times was set at naught in the Bushville institutions, and one of the best teachers ever employed by the district threw up his situation in disgust, and went off without waiting to collect his month's salary.

The successor of this gentleman was Mr. Lathrop, a young man barely turned twenty, with a beardless face, a mild blue eye, a gentle voice, and such a soft winning manner that the three leaders gave an involuntary sniff of contempt when they first saw him and agreed that he would not last more than a week at the most.

"We'll let up on him, for a few days," Tom explained to some of his friends, "so as to give him time to get acquainted. I b'lieve in letting every fellow have a show, but he's got to walk mighty straight between now and the end of this week," added the youth impressively; "I ain't in favor of standing any nonsense."

A nodding of heads by Dick and Fred showed that Tom had voiced their sentiments.

But, somehow or other, Mr. Lathrop was different from the teachers that had preceded him. He never spoke angrily or shouted, and his first act on entering the schoolroom was to break up the long tough hickory "gad" lying on his desk and to fling it out of the window. The next thing he did, after calling the school to order, was to tell the gaping, open-eyed children the most entertaining story to which they had ever listened. The anecdote had its moral too, for woven in and out and through its charming meshes was the woof of a life of heroic suffering, of trial and reward.

At its conclusion, the teacher said to the pupils that if they were studious and transgressed no rules, he would be glad to tell them another story the next day, if they would remain a few minutes after the hour of dismissal. The treat was such a rare one that all the girls and most of the boys resolved to earn the right to enjoy it.

"I'm going to hear the yarn, too," muttered Tom Britt, "for he knows how to tell 'em, but as for behaving myself that depends."

On the following afternoon, when five o'clock arrived (in those days most of the country schools opened at eight and closed at five, with an hour at noon, and not more than two weeks vacation in summer. I have attended school on more than one Saturday, Fourth of July and Christmas), the school was all expectation. When Mr. Lathrop saw the bright eyes turned eagerly toward him, a thrill of pleasure stirred his heart, for he felt that his was the hand to sow good seed, or this was the soil where it could be made to spring up and bear fruit a hundred fold.

"I am glad," said he, in his winning voice, "to know that you have done well and earned the right to hear the best story that I can tell. You have been studious, obedient and careful to break no rules, and I am sure that as we become better acquainted, we shall like each other and get on well together.

"I wish I could say you had all done well, but it grieves me to tell you, what you know, that one boy has neglected his lessons, been tardy or so indifferent to my wishes that it would not be right that he should be allowed to sit with the rest of you and listen to the incident I am about to relate. I refer to Thomas Britt. Thomas, you will please take your books and hat and go home."

The words came like a thunderclap. No one expected it, least of all the youth himself. Every eye was turned toward him and his face flushed scarlet. He quickly rallied from the daze into which he was thrown at first, and with his old swagger, looked at the teacher and replied with an insolence that was defiance itself:

"My father is trustee, and I've as much right here as you or any one else, and I'm going to stay till I'm ready to go home and you can't --  -- " but, before he had completed his defiant sentence, the slightly built teacher was at his side and had grasped the nape of his coat. It seemed to the lad, that an iron vise had caught his garment and a span of horses were pulling at him. He clutched desperately at everything within reach and spread his legs apart and curled up his toes in the effort to hook into something that would stay proceedings, but it was in vain. Out he came from the seat, and to the awed children who were looking on it seemed that his body was elongated to double its length during the process, -- and he was run through the open door, and his hat tossed after him. Then the teacher walked quietly back to his seat behind the desk on the platform, and without the slightest sign of flurry or mental disturbance, he told one of the sweetest and most delightful incidents to which his pupils had ever listened. He closed with the promise to give them another at the end of the week, if they continued in the good course on which they were so fairly started.

"He catched me foul," explained the indignant Tom Britt the following day in discussing his hurried exit from the schoolroom; "if he had only let me know he was coming, it would be him that dove out the door instead of me."

The sullen youth did not receive much sympathy at first, for Mr. Lathrop was steadily winning the affections of the pupils; but Dick and Fred rebelled at such quiet submission to authority, and acted so sullenly that they, too, were shut out from the privilege of listening to the next story related by the teacher to the rest of the school. It had been agreed among the three boys that they should refuse to depart when ordered to do so by the instructor, and that when he made a move toward them, they would assail him simultaneously and rout him "horse, foot and dragoons."

But the business was conducted with such a cyclone rush that the plan of campaign was entirely overturned. Before the rebels could combine, all three were out doors, so shaken up that they agreed that a new system of resistance would have to be adopted.

And thus it came about that at the noon recess, one day of the following week, the boys of Bushville school gathered in the cool shade of the woods to listen to the plan of the three malcontents for destroying the authority of the school. It was mainly curiosity on the part of the younger portion, who had little sympathy with the motives of the leaders and were quite sure they would meet with failure.

"I've made up my mind that I won't stand it," announced Tom, after the situation had been freely discussed; "no boy with any spirit will allow a teacher to run him out of school in the style he served me."

"What then made you let him do it?" asked little freckled-face Will Horton, from where he lay on the ground.

"Didn't I tell you he catched me foul?" demanded Tom, glaring at the urchin; "if I'd knowed what was coming things would have been different."

"Dick and Fred knowed he was coming for them," added Will, "for he walked clear across the schoolroom."

"You've got too much to say," retorted Dick Culver, angrily; "when we want your advice we'll ask for it."

"Well, boys, you had better make up your minds to behave yourselves and then there won't be any trouble," was the sensible advice of Jimmy Thompson, who had perched himself on a log, and was swinging his bare feet back and forth; "Mr. Lathrop is the best teacher we ever had and he suits the rest of us first rate."

"Of course he suits all boys that ha'n't any spirit," was the crushing response of the leader, "but I've a plan that'll teach him that me and Dick and Fred ain't that kind of chaps."

"How are you going to help yourself?"

After several mysterious hints and nods of the head, Tom revealed his stupendous scheme for bringing the teacher to terms.

"You know the big hornet's nest over in Bear Hollow?"

Inasmuch as there wasn't a boy in the crowd who hadn't shied stones at the object named (always without hitting it), no further information was necessary.

"Well, I'm going to put that nest in the teacher's desk, and when he comes in, takes his seat and raises the lid, won't there be music?"

The scheme was so prodigious that for a full half minute all stared open mouthed at their leader without speaking.

"The teacher never locks his desk at noon, so it will be easy enough to slip it in before he gets back."

"But when he opens the desk and the hornets sail out, what will become of us?" was the pertinent inquiry of Will Horton.

"Why the minute the things begin to swarm out I'll yell, and we'll all rush out doors."

"Won't the teacher do the same thing?"

"But he'll be the last and he'll catch it the worst. He'll be right among the critters, and they'll just go for him, so his head will swell up like a bushel basket and we'll have a week's vacation. By that time he'll learn how to treat us fellers."

"I am," was the proud reply; "come on and I'll show you."

As he spoke, Tom sprang to his feet and started on a trot toward Bear Hollow, with the others streaming after him.

It cannot be denied that the youth displayed considerable pluck and coolness when he came to the test. There hung the hornet's nest from the lower limb of an oak, so near the ground that it could be easily reached by one of the larger boys. It was gray in color and of enormous size. It resembled in shape an overgrown football or watermelon, pendant by one end. In some portions faint ridges were visible, like the prints left by tiny wavelets on the sand. Near the base was a circular opening about as large as an old-fashioned penny. This was the door of the hornets' residence, through which all the occupants came and went.

The boys halted at a safe distance, and even Tom paused a few minutes to make a reconnoissance before going nearer.

"You fellows stay here, and don't any of you throw stones or yell!" he said, in a guarded undertone; "for if them hornets find out what is up, they'll come swarming out by the million and sting us all to death."

The promise was readily made, and Tom went forward like a hero, the eyes of all of his playmates fixed upon him. It was noticed be carried a large silken handkerchief in his hand -- one that he had secured at home for this special purpose.

He advanced stealthily until within some ten feet, when he halted again. With his gaze centered on the gray, oblong object, he saw one of the dark insects suddenly crawl to view through the opening.

"I wonder if he suspects anything," thought Tom, half disposed to turn about and run; "no -- he's all right," he added, as the hornet spread his wings, and shot off like a bullet through the air.

Still intently watching the orifice, the boy moved softly forward until directly under the nest. Then, with the deliberation of a veteran, he deftly enfolded it with the large silk handkerchief, easily wrenched it loose from its support, tied the covering over the top so securely that not an inhabitant of the nest could possibly escape, and rejoined in triumph his companions.

"Now you'll see fun!" he exclaimed, as he led the whole party trooping in the direction of the schoolhouse; "keep mum, and don't tell any of the girls what's up."

It was a grand scheme and it looked as if there could be no hitch in it. What compunctions the other boys might have felt against the attempt to cause pain to their teacher were forgotten in the excitement of the coming sport.

The residents of the oblong home must have been surprised, to put it mildly, when they found the house swinging along, in the grasp of some great giant, themselves enveloped in gloom, and the only avenue of escape sealed up. They hummed, and buzzed and raised a tempest within, but it was in vain: they were prisoners and must remain such until the ogre chose to release them.

Everything seemed to join to help the young rebel. The girls were playing so far from the school building, that they gave no heed to the procession which passed into the structure. One glance told Tom that it was without an occupant, and he strode hastily to the desk, the others pausing near the door, ready to dash out in the event of disaster.

The desk was unlocked and Tom raised the lid. The nest was laid on its side, in the middle, but it was so big that he had to displace several books to make room for it. Then the knots were untied, the handkerchief flirted free, the lid lowered, and the deed was done.

Tom joined his companions with a radiant face. "Not a word," he cautioned, "be extra good this afternoon; even I'll try to behave myself for once, but we won't have to wait long."

"S'posin' them hornets lift the lid of the desk and come out before the teacher gets here?" suggested Will Horton.

"What are you talking about?" was the scornful question of Dick Culver; "how can a hornet raise the lid of a desk?"

"I don't mean that one will do it, but, if they all join together and put their shoulders to it, they'll lift more than you think."

But this contingency was too vague to be feared. A quarter of an hour later, Mr. Lathrop entered the building with his brisk step, bidding such children as he met a pleasant good afternoon, and hanging his hat on the peg in the wall behind his desk, rang the bell for the children to assemble, and took his seat in his chair on the platform.

The observant instructor quickly saw that something unusual was in the wind. There was a score of signs that he detected in the course of a few minutes, but he could have no idea what it all meant. He was on the alert, however, and did not remain long in suspense.

The first hint was the sound of loud and angry buzzing within his desk. While wondering what it meant, and in doubt whether to investigate, he observed a hornet emerging through the key-hole. Before it could shake itself free, he shoved him back with his key, which was inserted and turned about, so effectually blocking the opening, that the insects were held secure.

The teacher read the whole story, and it needed only a brief study of Tom Britt's actions to make sure that he was the guilty one.

Much to the disappointment of the boys, Mr. Lathrop seemed to find no occasion for opening his desk. It remained closed through the whole afternoon and, when the moment for dismissal arrived, the only one to remain was Tom Britt, who, while conducting himself fairly well, had made a bad failure with every recitation. His mind seemed to be too pre-occupied with some other matter to absorb book knowledge.

The boys loitered around the playground, waiting to see the end of it all. Tom sat with his hands supporting his head, and his elbow on the desk, morose, sullen and disappointed.

"I wonder if he suspects anything," he muttered; "I don't see how he can, for nobody told him. It's queer he has never opened his desk all the afternoon. I never knew him to do anything like that before -- Gracious alive!"

Just then Tom felt as if some one had jabbed a burning needle into his neck. Almost at the same instant came a similar dagger thrust on the top of his head, where he always wore his hair short. Uttering a gasp of affright, he leaped from his seat, with a score of fierce hornets buzzing about his ears. The terrified glance around the room showed that the teacher had slipped noiselessly out of the door, but, before doing so, he had raised the lid of his desk to its fullest extent.

The next moment Tom bounded through the door, striking at the insects that were doing painful execution about the exposed parts of his body. It was not until after a long run that he was entirely freed of them and was able to take an inventory of his wounds.

It was a lesson the lad never forgot. In the final contest between him and his teacher, he was conquered and he admitted it. Mr. Lathrop made a study of his character, and having proven himself physically his master, set out to acquire the moral conquest that was needed to complete the work. It need hardly be added that he succeeded, for he was a thoughtful, conscientious instructor of youth, who loved his work, and who toiled as one who knows that he must render an account of his stewardship to Him who is not only loving and merciful, but just.



A Young Hero.

Reuben Johnson leaned on his hoe, and, looking up at the sun, wondered whether, as in the Biblical story, it had not been stationary for several hours. He was sure it was never so long in descending to the horizon.

"Wake up, Rube," sharply called his Uncle Peter, smartly hoeing another row a few paces behind him, "doan be idlin' your time; de sun am foah hours high yit."

The nephew started and raised his implement, but stopped. He was staring at the corner of the fence just ahead, where sat the jug of cold water, with the Revolutionary musket leaning against the rails. The crows were so annoying that the double-loaded weapon was kept ready to be used against the pests when they ventured too near.

"See dar, uncle!" said Rube in a scared voice. The old man also ceased work, adjusted his iron-rimmed spectacles, and looked toward the fence.

Within a few feet of where the flint lock musket inclined against the rails, a yellow dog was trying to push his way through. Watching his efforts for a few minutes, the elder said:

"Rube, I wish we had de gun; dat dog ain't peaceable."

"He am mad; dis ain't de place fur us."

"Slip down to de fence and got de gun; dat's a good boy!"

"Gracious!" gasped the youth; "it am right dar by de dog."

"He won't notice you; run behind him and be quick 'bout it, or he'll chaw us bofe to def."

"He'll chaw me suah if I goes near him," was the reply of Rube, who felt little ardor for the task his relative urged upon him.

"Ain't it better dat one ob us should go dead, dan bofe should be obstinguished?" asked the uncle reproachfully.

"Dat 'pends which am de one to go dead; if it am me, it am better for you, but I don't see whar I'm to come in; 'spose you see wheder you can got de gun -- "

"Dar he comes!" whispered Uncle Pete.

Sure enough the cur, having twisted his body between the rails, began trotting toward the couple that were watching him with such interest.

There was good reason for fear, since the canine was afflicted with the rabies in the worst form. He showed no froth at the jaws, for animals thus affected do not, but his eyes were fiery, his mouth dry, the consuming fever burning up all moisture. He moaned as if in pain, his torture causing him to snap at everything in reach. He had bitten shrubbery, branches, wood and other objects, and now made for the persons with the purpose of using his teeth on them.

"Rube," said his uncle, "stand right whar you am! No use ob runnin', for he'll cotch you; when he gets nigh 'nough bang him wid your hoe; if dat don't fotch him, I'll gib him anoder whack and dat'll finish him suah."

Fate seemed to have ordered that the younger person should hold the van in the peril, though he was tempted to take his place by his relative, so that the attack of the dog should be met by both at the same instant. This promised to be effective, but the time was too brief to permit any plan of campaign.

The brute was already within a hundred yards of Rube, who, with his hoe drawn back, as though it were a club, tried to calm his nerves for the struggle. He would have fled, had he not known that that would draw pursuit to himself. He was inclined to urge his uncle to join him in a break for freedom, the two taking diverging routes. Since the canine could not chase both at the same time, such a course was certain to save one, but, inasmuch as the youth was at the front, he knew he must be the victim, and the prospect of a mad dog nipping at his heels, with fangs surcharged with one of the most fearful venoms known, was too terrifying to be borne. He, therefore, braced himself, and, with a certain dignity and courage, held his ground.

A dog suffering from the rabies often shows odd impulses. This one was within fifty feet of Rube, when he turned at right angles and trotted toward the other side of the cornfield.

"Now's your time, chile!" called Uncle Pete; "got de gun quick, and if he comes back we'll be ready for him."

It was the first suggestion that struck the nephew favorably, and he acted upon it at once. The dog might change his mind again and return to the attack, in which event no weapon could equal a loaded gun.

As Rube ran with his broad-brimmed hat flapping in his eyes, he kept glancing over his shoulder, to make sure the brute was not following him, while his uncle held his position, with his hoe grasped and his eye fixed on the animal, trotting between the hills of corn. He managed also to note the action of his nephew, who was making good time, and whose progress caused the hearts of the two to heat high with hope.

Had the fence ahead of the dog been open, doubtless he would have soon passed out of sight; but, as if recalling his trouble in entering the field, and possibly seeing his error in leaving two victims, he stopped only an instant in front of the rails, when he turned and came at a swifter gait than before, straight for Uncle Pete.

The latter stared a second or two and then shouted:

"Quick, Rube! he means me dis time!" And he dashed off, not to join his nephew, but to reach the side of the field opposite the nose of the animal.

By this time the youth had his hands on the smoothbore musket and his courage came back. He saw his uncle crashing over the hills, the picture of dismay, while the dog rapidly gained on him.

"Hey dar! hey dar!" shouted Rube, breaking into a run and trying to draw attention to himself. But the brute only sped the faster. He was near the middle of the procession, but gaining on the fugitive, who had thrown aside his hoe, flung his hat to the ground, and was making better progress than when he used to run races with the boys in his younger days.

The fence was near and he strained every nerve. It looked as if man and dog would reach it at the same moment, but the former put forth an extra spurt and arrived a pace or two ahead, with the cur at his heels.

Rube, however, was not far to the rear. Seeing the crisis had come, he stopped short, brought the musket to his shoulder, and, taking the best aim he could, let fly with the whole load that clogged several inches of the barrel.

He did not observe at the moment of pressing the trigger that his uncle and the dog were in line, but it could have made no difference, since the shot had to be made at that instant or not at all.

Just as the weapon was fired, Uncle Pete with a great bound cleared the fence, landing on his hands and knees; and, rolling over on his back, kicked the air with such vigor that his shoes flew off, one after the other, as if keeping time with his frenzied outcries.

The yellow cur was scared, as a shark is sometimes driven off by the loud splashing of a swimmer, and, though he leaped the fence, he wheeled again, and, without harming the man, ran down the highway toward the Woodvale school.

For a moment after firing, Rube Johnson believed he was killed. The flint shot a spark among the powder grains, there was a flash, a hiss, and then, as the fire worked its way to the charge inside, the explosion came and he toppled over, half stunned, with the gun flying a dozen feet away.

But his fear for his relative brought him to his feet, and he hurried to the old gentleman, who was climbing uncertainly to an upright posture.

"What's de matter?" asked Rube; "you ain't bit."

"I know dat; I warn't yellin' on dat 'count."

"What fur den?"

"You black rascal, you shot me instid ob de yaller dog."

"Lemme see," said Rube, turning his uncle round and scanning him from head to foot.

"I done pepper you purty well, uncle, but dare ain't any ob de slugs dat hit yer -- only de fine bird shot."

"How many ob dem?" was the rueful question.

"I don't tink dar's more dan five or six hundred; Aunt Jemimer can gib her spar time de next six weeks pickin' 'em out; she'll enj'y it, but dat shot ob mine scared off de mad dog, and yer oughter be tankful to me, uncle, all yer life."

It was recess at the Woodvale school, and the forty-odd boys and girls were having a merry time on the playgrounds, which included the broad highway. Within the building, Mr. Hobbs, the young teacher was busy "setting copies," his only companion just then being Tod Clymer, a pale-faced cripple, who, unable to take part in the sports of the other boys, preferred to stay within doors and con his lessons, in which he was always far in advance of the rest.

A strange confusion outside caused him to raise his head and look through the window near him.

"Oh, Mr. Hobbs," he said, "there's a mad dog!"

The teacher started up, and saw the yellow cur running about the grounds, snapping at the children, while a couple of boys had already raised the fearful cry, and there was a scattering in all directions. Although without any weapon, the instructor was on the point of hurrying out to the help of the children, when he observed the canine coming toward the outer door. He tried to close it in his face, but the brute was too quick and was inside before he could be stopped. He made for the second door, leading into the session-room, but, in this instance, the teacher slammed it shut just in time.

Instead of going out the dog slunk into the entry and crawled under a bench, so nearly behind the outer door that he was invisible to any one beyond.

"Mr. Hobbs," said Tod Clymer a moment later, "will you please help me out of the window?"

"I think you are safer here," replied the teacher, "for he cannot reach you, but you will not be able to get away from him outside."

"I want to leave, please, very much."

It was a strange request, and the teacher waited some minutes before complying, but the heart of the lame boy was so set upon it, that he finally assisted him to the window furthest from where the dog was crouching, gently lifted him down to the ground, and then passed his crutches to him.

"Now, Tod," said he kindly, "don't tarry a moment, for there's no saying how soon he will be outside again. The other children are away, but you cannot run like them."

"Thank you," replied Tod, who never forgot to be courteous, as he carefully adjusted the collars of his crutches under his shoulders.

Mr. Hobbs motioned from the window for several of the boys to keep off. With a natural curiosity, they were stealing closer to the building, in the hope of finding out what the rabid dog was doing.

The teacher, seeing his gestures were understood, turned back, when to his surprise, he noticed the top of Tom Clymer's straw hat, as it slowly rose and sank, moving along the front of the building toward the front door.

Instead of hurrying off, as he should have done, the lad was making his way toward the very spot where the dreadful animal was crouching.

"Why, Tod, what are you doing?" called Mr. Hobbs through the open window; "you will surely be bitten."

Instead of replying or heeding the words, the lad turned his pale face toward his friend and shook his head, as a warning for him to make no noise. Then he resumed his advance to the open outer door, doing so with great care and stealth, as if afraid of being heard by the brute.

The entrance to the old Woodvale school building was reached by two steps, consisting of the same number of broad high stones worn smooth by the feet of the hundreds of children that had trod them times without number. To make his way into the entry where the pupils hung their hats and bonnets on the double rows of pegs, Tod had to move slowly and carefully use his crutches. Being tipped with iron he could not set them down on the smooth stones without causing noise.

But he acted without hesitation. The teacher read his purpose and knew it was useless to try to check him. He leaned his head out of the window and held his breath, while he watched him.

Tod never faltered, though none could have understood the danger he ran better than he. He had a brother and sister among the children that had scattered in such haste before the snapping cur, and who were gathering again around the building despite the warning gesture of the teacher.

He could not know whether they had all escaped or not, but he was sure that if the dog came forth again, more than one of them must suffer, and in those days there was no Pasteur with his wonderful cure to whom the afflicted ones could be taken.

Tod did not tremble, though it seemed to him the brute must hear the tumultuous throbbing of his heart and rush forth. Puny as was his strength, he meant that, if he did so, he would steady himself on his one support, and grasping the other with both hands, strike the dog with might and main. It is doubtful whether the blow would have stunned the dog, for the little fellow's confidence in himself was greater than his bodily powers warranted.

At the moment he rested the end of the crutch on the smooth surface of the second stone, it slipped, and only by a strong wrench did he save himself from falling. The noise was heard by the animal, who was not six feet distant, and he emitted another moan, which can never be forgotten by those that have heard it.

Certain that the cur was about to rush forth, Tod steadied himself on the single crutch, and, reversing the other, held it firmly in his weak hands. He knew the shuffling sound was caused by the animal moving: uneasily about the entry, and it was strange he did not burst through the open door. But he did not do so, and, like a flash, the cripple shifted his weapon in place under his shoulder. Then, with the same coolness he had shown from the first, he reached his hand forward and grasped the latch.

The smart pull he gave, however, did not stir it. It resisted the effort, as though it was fastened in position. If such were the fact, his scheme was futile.

Setting down both crutches, Tod now leaned against the jamb to prevent himself from falling, seized the handle with both hands, and drew back suddenly and with all his might. This time the door yielded and was closed.

As it did so, the rabid animal flung himself against it with a violence that threatened to carry it off its hinges, but it remained firm and he was a prisoner.

"You are a hero!" called the teacher in a voice tremulous with suppressed emotion.

"I guess we've got him fast, but look out, Mr. Hobbs, that he doesn't reach you."

"I think there is little danger of that," said the other, looking anxiously at the inner door, "but we must get help to dispose of him before he can do further injury."

By this time, so many of the children had come back to the playgrounds that several of those living near were sent home for assistance. It quickly arrived; for Reuben Johnson and his uncle lost no time in spreading the news, and three young men, each with a loaded gun, appeared on the scene, eager to dispose of the dangerous animal. The latter was at such disadvantage that this was done without trouble or risk.

Providentially none of the children had been bitten, though more than one underwent a narrow escape. Such animals as had felt the fangs of the rabid cur were slain, and thus no harm resulted from the brief run of the brute.



Overreached.

Bushrod, or "Bush" Wyckoff was only twelve years old when he went to work for Zeph Ashton, who was not only a crusty farmer, but one of the meanest men in the country, and his wife was well fitted to be the life partner of such a parsimonious person.

They had no children of their own, and had felt the need for years of a willing, nimble-footed youngster to do the odd chores about the house, such as milking cows, cutting and bringing in wood, running of errands, and the scores of odd little jobs which are easy enough for boys, but sorely try the stiff and rheumatic limbs of a man in the decline of life.

Bush was a healthy little fellow -- not very strong for his years, but quick of movement, bright-witted, willing, and naturally a general favorite. The misfortunes which suddenly overtook his home roused the keenest sympathy of his neighbors. His father was a merchant in New York, who went to and from the metropolis each week day morning and evening, to his pleasant little home in New Jersey. One day his lifeless body was brought thither, and woe and desolation came to the happy home. He was killed in a railway accident.

The blow was a terrible one, and for weeks it seemed as if his stricken widow would follow him across the dark river; but her Christian fortitude and her great love for their only child sustained her in her awful grief, and she was even able to thank her Heavenly Father that her dear boy was spared to her.

But how true it is that misfortunes rarely come singly. Her husband had amassed a competency sufficient to provide comfortably for those left behind; but his confidence in his fellow-men was wofully betrayed. He was one of the bondsmen of a public official who made a hasty departure to Canada, one evening, leaving his business in such a shape that his securities were compelled to pay fifty thousand dollars. Two others were associated with Mr. Wyckoff, and with the aid of their tricky lawyers they managed matters so that four-fifths of the loss fell upon the estate of the deceased merchant.

The result swept it away as utterly as were the dwellings in the Johnstown Valley by the great flood. The widow and her boy left their home and moved into a little cottage, with barely enough left to keep the wolf of starvation from the door.

It was then that Bush showed the stuff of which he was made. He returned one afternoon and told his mother, in his off-hand way, that he had engaged to work through the summer months for Mr. Ashton, who not only agreed to pay him six dollars a month, but would allow him to remain at home over night, provided, of course, that he was there early each morning and stayed late enough each day to attend to all the chores.

The tears filled the eyes of the mother as she pressed her little boy to her heart, and comprehended his self-sacrificing nature.

"You are too young, my dear child, to do this; we have enough left to keep us awhile, and I would prefer that you wait until you are older and stronger."

"Why, mother, I am old enough and strong enough now to do all that Mr. Ashton wants me to do. He explained everything to me, and it won't be work at all, but just fun."

"Well, I hope you will find it so, but if he does not treat you kindly, you must not stay one day."

Bush never complained to his mother, but he did find precious little fun and plenty of the hardest kind of work. The miserly farmer bore down heavily on his young shoulders. He and his wife seemed to be continually finding extra labor for the lad. The little fellow was on hand each morning, in stormy as well as in clear weather, at daybreak, ready and willing to perform to the best of his ability whatever he was directed to do. Several times he became so weak and faint from the severe labor, that the frugal breakfast he had eaten at home proved insufficient, and he was compelled to ask for a few mouthfuls of food before the regular dinner hour arrived. Although he always remained late, he was never invited to stay to supper, Mr. Ashton's understanding being that the mid-day meal was the only one to which the lad was entitled.

But for his love for his mother, Bush would have given up more than once. His tasks were so severe and continuous that many a time he was hardly able to drag himself homeward. Every bone in his body seemed to ache, and neither his employer nor his wife ever uttered a pleasant or encouraging word.

But no word of murmuring fell from his lips. He resolutely held back all complaints, and crept away early to his couch under the plea that it was necessary in order to be up betimes. The mother's heart was distressed beyond expression, but she comforted herself with the fact that his term of service was drawing to a close, and he would soon have all the rest and play he wanted.

Bush allowed his wages to stand until the first of September, when his three months expired. He had counted on the pride and happiness that would be his when he walked into the house and tossed the whole eighteen dollars in his mother's lap. How her eyes would sparkle, and how proud he would be!

"Lemme see," said the skinflint, when settling day arrived; "I was to give you four dollars a month, warn't I?"

"It was six," replied Bush, respectfully.

"That warn't my understanding, but we'll let it go at that; I've allers been too gin'rous, and my heart's too big for my pocket. Lemme see."

He uttered the last words thoughtfully, as he took his small account-book from his pocket, and began figuring with the stub of a pencil. "Three months at six dollars will be eighteen dollars."

"Yes, sir; that's right."

"Don't interrupt me, young man," sternly remarked the farmer, frowning at him over his spectacles. "The full amount is eighteen dollars -- Kerrect -- L -- em -- m -- e see; you have et seven breakfasts here; at fifty cents apiece that is three dollars and a half. Then, l -- em -- m -- e see; you was late eleven times, and I've docked you twenty-five cents for each time; that makes two dollars and seventy-five cents."

Inasmuch as Bush's wages amounted hardly to twenty-five cents a day, it must be admitted that this was drawing it rather strong.

"L -- em -- m -- e see," continued Mr. Ashton, wetting the pencil stub between his lips, and resuming his figuring; "your board amounts to three dollars and a half; your loss of time to two seventy-five; that makes six and a quarter, which bein' took from eighteen dollars, leaves 'leven seventy-five. There you are!"

As he spoke, he extended his hand, picked up a small canvas bag from the top of his old-fashioned writing-desk, and tossed it to the dumfounded boy. The latter heard the coins inside jingle, as it fell in his lap, and, as soon as he could command his voice, he swallowed the lump in his throat, and faintly asked:

"Is that -- is that right, Mr. Ashton?"

"Count it and see for yourself," was the curt response.

This was not exactly what Bush meant, but he mechanically unfastened the cord around the throat of the little bag, tumbled the coins out in his hat and slowly counted them. They footed up exactly eleven dollars and seventy-five cents, proving that Mr. Ashton's figuring was altogether unnecessary, and that he had arranged the business beforehand.

While Bush was examining the coins, his heart gave a sudden quick throb. He repressed all signs of the excitement he felt, however.

"How do you find it?" asked the man, who had never removed his eyes from him, "Them coins have been in the house more'n fifty year -- that is, some of 'em have, but they're as good as if they's just from the mint, and bein' all coin, you can never lose anything by the bank bustin'."

"It is correct," said Bush.

"Ar' you satisfied?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then sign this receipt, and we're square."

The lad sat down at the desk and attached his name in a neat round hand to the declaration that he had received payment in full for his services from Mr. Zephaniah Ashton, up to the first of September of the current year.

"This is all mine, Mr. Ashton?"

"Of course -- what do you mean by axin' that?"

"Nothing; good-day."

"Good-day," grunted the miser, turning his back, as a hint for him to leave -- a hint which Bush did not need, for he was in a tumult of excitement.

"That is the queerest thing that ever happened," he said to himself when he reached the public highway, and began hurrying along the road in the direction of Newark. "If he had paid me my full wages I would have told him, but all these are mine, and I shall sell them; won't Professor Hartranft be delighted, but not half as much as mother and I will be."


That evening Mr. Ashton and his wife had just finished their supper when Professor Hartranft, a pleasant, refined-looking gentleman, knocked at their door.

"I wish to inquire," said he, after courteously saluting the couple, "whether you have any old coins in the house."

"No," was the surly response of the farmer, "we don't keep 'em."

"But you had quite a collection."

"I had 'leven dollars and seventy-five cents' worth, but I paid 'em out this mornin'."

"To a boy named Bushrod Wyckoff?"

"Yas."

"They were given to him unreservedly? -- that is, you renounce all claim upon them?"

"What the blazes ar' you drivin' at?" demanded the angry farmer. "I owed him 'leven dollars and seventy-five cents for wages, and I paid him purcisely that amount, and have his receipt in full. I'd like to know what business it is of yours anyway."

Now came the professor's triumph.

"Young Wyckoff called at my office this afternoon, and I bought a number of the coins from him."

"What!" exclaimed the amazed farmer, "you didn't pay him nothin' extra for that rusty old money, did you? You must be crazy."

"I did, and shall make a handsome thing of it. For instance, among the coins which you gave him was a copper penny, with a liberty cap, of 1793; I paid Bush three dollars for that; I gave him twenty-five dollars for a half dime coined in 1802; twenty dollars for a quarter dollar of 1827; the same sum for a half dollar, fillet head, of 1796; and, what caps all, five hundred dollars for a silver dollar of 1804. There are only five or six of the latter in existence, and I shall sell this specimen for at least eight hundred dollars. Mr. Ashton, sometimes a mean man overreaches himself, and it looks as though you had made a mistake. I bid you good-day, sir."

The numismatist spoke the truth; and when the miserly old farmer realized how completely he had turned the tables on himself, it is enough to say that his feelings may be "better imagined than described."



A Battle In The Air.

One of the most interesting towns I ever visited is New Braunfels, Texas. It was founded by a colony of Germans, and experienced the most distressing trials during its early days; but it is now a picture of thrift and industry. The cowboy who attempts to ride through New Braunfels, with his revolvers displayed, is promptly pulled off his mustang and compelled to pay a round fine for violating a city ordinance. If he undertakes to "kick," it won't help him a bit, and probably will increase the penalty imposed. Our German cousins propose to run that town to suit themselves, and they succeed quite well.

The rivers of Texas are subjected to violent rises, often as great as twenty feet in an hour or less. Such sudden floods play havoc with the bridges along the bank, but I noticed in riding into New Braunfels an ingenious arrangement of the wooden structure by which, no matter how high the stream may rise, the bridge accommodates itself, and floats on the surface, while securely held from being carried away by the current.

But I set out to tell you a true incident of what happened a few years since, to a bright, lively youngster, sixteen years old, who lives in New Braunfels, and is brimful of pluck. His name is Lee Hemingway; he is an orphan, and if his life is spared, he is certain to be heard from when he reaches man's estate.

Prof. McInery, the well-known naturalist, spent several weeks last spring in the neighborhood of New Braunfels, hunting ornithological specimens for his collection, and he offered fifty dollars to any one who would bring him an eagle's nest, with living eaglets or with eggs in it.

When Lee Hemingway learned of the offer, he determined to earn it. It was rather early in the season for our emblematical birds to hatch their young, but, by carefully watching a pair, he succeeded in finding where their nest was made. It was on the summit of an almost insurmountable bowlder, rising nearly a hundred and twenty-five feet in the valley of the Guadaloupe.

The bravest man might well shrink from attempting to scale the perpendicular sides of this mass of rock, but as young Hemingway gazed longingly up the side to the nest, he noticed that the stone had become coated, in the course of time, with earth, which was covered with tangled vines and stunted vegetation.

"I believe I can climb that," thought the sturdy lad, after scrutinizing the herculean task, and watching one of the eagles soaring far above the summit. "I think there is enough foothold, and I can use the vines to help pull me up; but, if the eagles should catch me at it, they would make music."

It was the birds that caused him more dread than the forty odd yards of rock. We knew their fierce nature, and, if they discovered his designs against their home, as they were almost certain to do, they would assail him with a fury that must be resistless in his cramped position.

The professor advised him not to make the attempt, but the daring youth had to earn his own living, and the prize of fifty dollars was too tempting to be resisted.

"I'll do it!" he exclaimed, after considering the question, "if you will keep watch with your gun for the eagles."

"Of course I'll do that," replied the professor, delighted with the prospect of securing that which he had sought so long in vain.

The preparations for the work were simple. With a basket, furnished with a lid, slung to his back, in which to secure the eggs or eaglets, young Hemingway began his laborious and dangerous ascent, while the professor, gun in hand, watched him from the ground below.

The boy quickly proved the possession of unusual skill as a climber. With the help of the vines he went steadily upward, hunting secure places for his feet and testing every support before trusting his weight to it. Once or twice, the professor thought the lad had made a mistake and was on the point of paying the penalty, but he never faltered nor slipped. Higher and higher he ascended until at last the feat was accomplished, and the very summit reached.

His heart throbbed with pleasure when he discovered two young eagles in the nest. They were no more than a couple of days old, and he had no trouble in placing them and a portion of the nest in the basket, which was again strapped to his back, and, after a brief rest, he started to descend.

Nothing was seen of the parent eagles, and he was congratulating himself on his good fortune, when bang went the professor's gun. At the same moment a shadow flitted over his head, and looking up he saw that instead of one, both of the eagles had arrived.

The lad had not descended half-way and the professor's shot did not harm either of them. They landed on the summit of the rocks, and, if a bird can feel astonishment, they must have felt it when they looked around and discovered nothing of their home.

But the great American bird is not the one to submit tamely to such an outrage. They began an immediate investigation, and, when they caught sight of a boy scrambling down the side of the rocks with a basket strapped to his back, from which came a number of familiar squeak-like chirpings, they had no trouble in understanding matters.

The style in which they went for that same boy was a sight to behold. There was no hesitation or maneuvering; but, with outstretched wings and hoarse screeches, they dashed toward him like a couple of cyclones. The youth saw that he was caught in a desperate fix, for he had no weapons, and had to cling to the vines with one hand to save himself from being dashed to the ground below.

He ducked his head to ward off their beaks and talons from his eyes, and tried hard to beat them back with his free hand.

This was impossible. Their beaks struck him repeatedly in the head, bringing blood, which flowed over his face and almost blinded him, while they savagely buffeted him with their great wings, until he was in danger of being knocked from his position.

Meanwhile, the alarmed professor could do nothing for his young friend. The eagles kept so close to him, that, if he tried, he was as likely to hit one as the other. He walked back and forth, on the alert for such a chance, and fortunately had not long to wait. One of the furious birds, circled off a few feet, as if to gather impetus for a decisive charge, when, taking a quick aim, the gentleman fired.

The shot was unerring and killed the female. She fluttered into a large sapling that sprouted from a large crevice in the rocks, about eight feet above the boy's head, and lay motionless. Although nearly blinded by blood, young Hemingway now attempted a feat which he was convinced offered the only means of saving his life.

He drew himself up to the foot of the tree, and once there, braced himself firmly with his feet, and tied his handkerchief around his forehead, to keep the blood out of his eyes. Seizing the dead bird by the feet, he swung it around with might and main and struck the male, which had continued beating him incessantly.

It was a strange weapon -- a dead eagle against a live one, and the boy's constrained position prevented his using it with much effect. So lacking, indeed, were the blows in force, that the male flew directly at his face. The sorely beset lad dropped the dead bird and fastened both hands around the throat of his assailant. The latter fought desperately, but the young hero never released his grip, until it ceased its struggles. Then he flung it from him, and it tumbled downward to the professor's feet.

This gentleman had done his best to help his young friend, but was unable to do so. The lad, after resting awhile, picked his way down to the ground, where his feet had hardly touched when he fainted in the professor's arms. He soon rallied, however, though his wounds were so severe that he was obliged to keep his bed for several weeks.

The two eaglets were found uninjured, and were safely carried to the professor's home, as were the bodies of the dead birds. They were mounted by Professor McInery, who, in consideration of the danger undergone by the boy, and the two extra birds, presented Lee with $100, and no one will deny that the money was well earned.



Who Shall Explain It?

Let me begin by saying that I was never a believer in signs, omens, or the general superstitions which, it must be admitted, influence most people to a greater or less degree. I have been the thirteenth guest at more than one table, without my appetite being affected; I have tipped over my salt-cellar without a twinge of fear; I have never turned aside to avoid passing under a leaning ladder, and I do not care a jot whether the first glimpse of the new moon is over my right or left shoulder.

I had a little boy Bob, who was fourteen years old on the last anniversary of American independence. Being our only son, his mother and myself held him close to our hearts. In fact, I am sure no little fellow was ever regarded with more affectionate love than our Bob. The painful story which, with much hesitation, I have set out to tell is one, therefore, that no member of our little family can ever forget.

We always tried to act the part of sensible parents toward our little boy. He never stepped inside of a school-house until he was seven years old, and, when he did so, it was to stay only a brief while. It was six months before he became acquainted with every letter of the alphabet, and no youngster of his years ever ruined more clothing than he. The destruction of shoes, hats, and trousers was enough to bankrupt many a father, and it often provoked a protest from his mother. I have seen him, within a half hour after having his face scrubbed until it shone like an apple, present himself in such ragged attire and with so soiled a countenance, that it took a second glance to identify him.

And yet, as I sit here writing by the evening lamp, I am glad to recall that I never scolded Bob. I would have been sadly neglectful of my duty had I failed to reprove and advise him, and I am sure he honestly strove to obey my wishes; but the sum and substance of it all was, he couldn't do it. He was a vigorous little fellow, overrunning with animal spirits, high health, and mischief; and it was a pleasure to me to see him laying the firm foundation of a lusty constitution, which, in later years, could laugh at disease.

And then when he did take a start in his studies, he advanced with a speed that astonished his teacher. At the age of twelve there was not a girl or boy in school (and some of them were several years older than he) who could hold his own with him. I took some credit to myself for all this, for I believed it was largely due to the common-sense I used in his early youth. The foundation was strong and secure, and the building erected upon it was upon solid rock.

During the last two or three years I suffered from a great fear. Between the school-house and our home was a mill-pond, which in many places was fully a dozen feet deep. I knew what a temptation this was to the boys during the long, sultry summer weather, and there was not a day when a dozen youngsters, more or less, were not frolicking and splashing in it.

One afternoon, when I sauntered thither, I found fully a score of them in the height of enjoyment, and the wildest and most reckless fellow was my Bob. When he observed me standing on the shore he was so anxious to astonish me that he ventured into the water up to his chin, I shouted to him to come to shore, for he was in fearful peril, and it needed only a few inches further advance for him to drown before help could reach him.

"Bob," said I, in a voice and manner that could not be mistaken, "if you ever do that again I'll whip you within an inch of your life."

"I won't, pop," he replied, in such meek tones that, parent-like, my heart reproached me at once.

"Now," I added more gently, "every boy ought to learn to swim, and until he is able to do so, he should keep out of deep water. If you will promise me that you will never venture into a depth above your waist until a good swimmer, you may bathe here; otherwise you shall never come near it."

He gave me his promise, and, telling him that he had been in the water long enough for that afternoon, I asked him to dress himself and come home with me.

I felt that I had been weak. I ought to have forbidden him ever to enter the mill-pond unless in my company, and thus that which followed never could have occurred. I did not tell his mother what had taken place, for I knew she would insist on a strict prohibition of his aimless swimming efforts.

To tell the truth, there were two reasons why I did not forbid Bob to enter the mill-pond. I knew it would be the most cruel kind of punishment, and, I may as well confess it, I didn't believe the boy would obey me if he gave the pledge. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. Alas! how often our affection closes our eyes to the plainest duty!

And now I have reached a point which prompts me to ask the question at the head of this sketch, "Who Shall Explain It?" I have my own theory, which I shall submit, with no little diffidence, later on.

It was on Saturday afternoon, the ninth of last August, that I became a victim to a greater depression of spirits than I had known for years. I felt nothing of it during the forenoon, but it began shortly after the midday meal and became more oppressive with each passing minute. I sat down at my desk and wrote for a short time. I continually sighed and drew deep inspirations, which gave me no relief. It was as if a great and increasing weight were resting on my chest. Had I been superstitious, I would have declared that I was on the eve of some dreadful calamity.

Writing became so difficult and distasteful that I threw down my pen, sprang from my chair, and began rapidly pacing up and down the room. My wife had gone to the city that morning to visit her relatives, and was not to return until the following day; so I was alone, with only two servants in the house.

I couldn't keep the thoughts of Bob out of my mind. Saturday being a holiday, I had allowed him to go off to spend the afternoon as he chose; and, as it was unusually warm, there was little doubt where and how he was spending it. He would strike a bee-line for that shady mill-pond, and they would spend hours plashing in its cool and delicious depths.

I looked at the clock; it was a few minutes past five, and Bob ought to have been home long ago. What made him so late?

My fear was growing more intense every minute. The boy was in my mind continually to the exclusion of everything else. Despite all my philosophy and rigid common-sense, the conviction was fastening on me that something dreadful had befallen him.

And what was that something? He had been drowned in the mill-pond. I glanced out of the window, half expecting to see a party bearing the lifeless body homeward. Thank Heaven, I was spared that woful sight, but I discerned something else that sent a misgiving pang through me.

It was Mrs. Clarkson, our nearest neighbor, rapidly approaching, as if the bearer of momentous tidings.

"She has come to tell me that Bob is drowned," I gasped, as my heart almost ceased its beating.

I met her on the threshold, with a calmness of manner which belied the tumult within. Greeting her courteously, I invited her inside, stating that my wife was absent.

"I thank you," she said, "but it is not worth while. I thought I ought to come over and tell you."

"Tell me what?" I inquired, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Why, about the awful dream I had last night."

I was able to smile faintly, and was partly prepared for what was coming.

"I am ready to hear it, Mrs. Clarkson."

"Why, you know it was Friday night, and I never had a dream on a Friday night that didn't come true -- never! Where's Bob?" she abruptly asked, peering around me, as if to learn whether he was in the hall.

"He's off somewhere at play."

"Oh, Mr. Havens, you'll never see him alive again!"

Although startled in spite of myself, I was indignant.

"Have you any positive knowledge, Mrs. Clarkson, on the matter?"

"Certainly I have; didn't I just tell you about my dream?"

"A fudge for your dream!" I exclaimed, impatiently; "I don't believe in any such nonsense."

"I pity you," she said, though why I should be pitied on that account is hard to understand.

"But what was your dream?"

"I saw your Bob brought home drowned. Oh, I can see him now," she added, speaking rapidly, and making a movement as if to wring her hands; "his white face -- his dripping hair and clothes -- his half-closed eyes -- it was dreadful; it will break his mother's heart -- "

"Mrs. Clarkson, did you come here to tell me that?"

"Why, of course I did; I felt it was my duty to prepare you -- "

"Good day," I answered, sharply, closing the door and hastily entering my study.

She had given me a terrible shock. My feelings were in a tumult difficult to describe. My philosophy, my self-command, my hard sense and scepticism were scattered to the winds, I had fought against the awful fear, and was still fighting when my neighbor called; but her visit had knocked every prop from beneath me.

She had hardly disappeared when I was hurrying through the woods by the shortest route to the mill-pond. I knew Bob had been there, and all that I expected to find was his white, ghastly body in the cold, cruel depths.

"Oh, my boy!" I wailed, "I am to blame for your death! I never should have permitted you to run into such danger. I should have gone with you and taught you to swim -- I can never forgive myself for this -- never, never, never. It will break your mother's heart -- mine is already broken -- "

"Pop, just watch me!"

Surely that was the voice of my boy! I turned my head like a flash, and there he was, with his hands together over his head, and in the act of diving into the mill-pond. Down he went with a splash, his head quickly reappearing, as he flirted the hair and water out of his eyes, and struck out for the middle of the pond.

"What are you doing, Bob?"

"You just wait and see, pop."

And what did that young rascal do but swim straight across that pond and then turn about and swim back again, without pausing for breath? Not only that, but, when in the very deepest portion, he dove, floated on his back, trod water, and kicked up his heels like a frisky colt.

"How's that, pop? You didn't know I could swim, did you?" he asked, as he came smilingly up the bank.

"I had no idea of such a thing," I replied, my whole being fluttering with gratitude and delight; "I think I'll have to reward you for that."

And when he had donned his clothes, and we started homeward, I slipped a twisted bank-bill into his hands. I am really ashamed to tell its denomination, and Bob and I never hinted anything about it to his mother.

And now as to the question, Who shall explain it? I think I can. I have a weakness for boiled beef and cabbage. The meat is healthful enough, but, as every one knows, or ought to know, cabbage, although one of the most digestible kinds of food when raw, is just the opposite in a boiled state. I knew the consequences of eating it, but in the absence of my good wife that day I disposed of so much that I deserved the oppressive indigestion that followed.

That fact, I am convinced, fully explains the dreadful "presentiment" which made me so miserable all the afternoon.

On our way home we passed the house of Mrs. Clarkson. I could not forbear stopping and ringing her bell. She answered it in person.

"Mrs. Clarkson, Bob is on his way home from swimming, and I thought I would let him hear about that wonderful dream -- "

But the door was slammed in my face.

I said at the opening of this sketch that I "had" a boy named Bob. God be thanked, I have him yet, and no lustier, brighter, or more manly youth ever lived, and my prayer is that he may be spared to soothe the declining years of his father and mother, whose love for him is beyond the power of words to tell.



A Fool Or A Genius.

Chapter I.

Josiah Hunter sat on his porch one summer afternoon, smoking his pipe, feeling dissatisfied, morose and sour on account of his only son Tim, who, he was obliged to confess to himself, gave every indication of proving a disappointment to him.

Mr. Hunter was owner of the famous Brereton Quarry & Stone Works, located about a mile above the thriving village of Brereton, on the eastern bank of the Castaran river, and at a somewhat greater distance below the town of Denville. The quarry was a valuable one and the owner was in comfortable circumstances, with the prospect of acquiring considerable more of a fortune out of the yield of excellent building stone. The quarry had been worked for something like ten years, and the discovery that he had such a fine deposit on his small farm was in the minds of his neighbors equivalent to the finding of a gold mine, for as the excavation proceeded, the quality of the material improved and Mr. Hunter refused an offer from a company which, but for the stone, would have been a very liberal price for the whole farm.

Mr. Hunter had been a widower ever since his boy was three years old, and the youth was now fourteen. His sister Maggie was two years his senior, and they were deeply attached to each other. Maggie was a daughter after her father's own heart, -- one of those rare, sensible girls who cannot be spoiled by indulgence, who was equally fond of her parent and who stood unflinchingly by her brother in the little differences between father and son, which, sad to say, were becoming more frequent and serious with the passing weeks and months. It is probable that the affection of the parent for the daughter prevented him from ever thinking of marrying again, for she was a model housekeeper, and he could not bear the thought of seeing anyone come into the family and usurp, even in a small degree, her functions and place.

Mr. Hunter was getting on in years, and nothing was more natural than that he should wish and plan that Tim should become his successor in the development of the valuable quarry that was not likely to give out for many a year to come. But the boy showed no liking for the business. He was among the best scholars in the village school, fond of play and so well advanced in his studies that his parent determined to begin his practical business training in earnest. He looked upon a college education as a waste of so many years, taken from the most precious part of a young man's life, and it must be said that Tim himself showed no wish to attend any higher educational institution.

Tim had assisted about the quarry, more or less for several years. Of course he was too young to do much in the way of manual labor, but there were many errands that he ran, beside helping to keep his father's accounts. He wrote an excellent hand, was quick in figures and had such a command of language that all his parent had to do was to tell him the substance of the letter he wished written, to have the boy put it in courteous but pointed and clear form. The elder had never detected an error in the computations of the younger, who had no trouble at all when the operations included difficult fractions.

All this was good in its way, but it could not be denied that Tim had no liking for the business itself. His father had told him repeatedly that he must prepare himself for the active management of the stone works, and that to do so required something more than quickness in figures and skill in letter writing. But it was in vain. Tim was never at the works unless by direct command of his parent, and seized the first opportunity to get away.

"No person can succeed in a business which he dislikes," remarked Mr. Hunter to Maggie who on this summer afternoon sat on the front porch, plying her deft needle, while the waning twilight lasted, with Bridget inside preparing the evening meal.

"I think that is true, father," was her gentle reply.

"And that boy hates the stone business and I can't understand why he should."

"Isn't it also true, father, that one cannot control his likes and dislikes? Tim has told me he can't bear the thought of spending his life in getting out great blocks of stone and trimming them into shape for building. He said he wished he could feel as you do, but there's no use of his trying."

"Fudge!" was the impatient exclamation; "what business has a boy of his years to talk or think about what sort of business he prefers? It is my place to select his future avocation and his to accept it without a growl."

"He will do that, father."

"Of course he will," replied the parent with a compression of his thin lips and a flash of his eyes; "when I yield to a boy fourteen years old, it will be time to shift me off to the lunatic asylum."

"Why, then, are you displeased, since he will do what you wish and do it without complaint?

"I am displeased because he is dissatisfied and has no heart in his work. He shows no interest in anything relating to the quarries and it is becoming worse every day with him."

"Didn't he help this forenoon?"

"Yes, because I told him he must be on hand as soon as he was through breakfast and not leave until he went to dinner."

"Did you say nothing about his working this afternoon?"

"No; I left that out on purpose to test him."

"What was the result?"

"I haven't seen hide or hair of him since; I suppose he is off in the woods or up in his room, reading or figuring on some invention. Do you know where he is?"

"He has been in his room almost all the afternoon and is there now."

"Doing what?"

"I guess you have answered that question," replied Maggie laying aside her sewing because of the increasing shadows, and looking across at her father with a smile.

"That's what makes me lose all patience. What earthly good is it for him to sit in his room drawing figures of machines he dreams of making, or scribbling over sheets of paper? If this keeps up much longer, he will take to writing poetry, and the next thing will be smoking cigarettes and then his ruin will be complete."

Maggie's clear laughter rang out on the summer air. She was always overflowing with spirits and the picture drawn by her parent and the look of profound disgust on his face as he uttered his scornful words stirred her mirth beyond repression.

"What are you laughing at?" he demanded, turning toward her, though without any anger in his tones, for he could never feel any emotion of that nature toward such a daughter.

"It was the idea of Tim writing poetry or rhyme and smoking cigarettes. I'll guarantee that he will never do either."

"Nor anything else, you may as well add."

"I'll guarantee that if he lives he will do a good many things that will be better than getting out and trimming stone."

This was not the first time that Maggie had intimated the same faith, without going into particulars or giving any idea upon what she based that faith. The parent looked sharply at her and asked:

"What do you mean? Explain yourself."

But the daughter was not yet ready to do so. She had her thoughts or dreams or whatever they might be, but was not prepared as yet to share them with her parent. He was not in the mood, and for her to tell all that was in her mind would be to provoke an outburst that would be painful to the last degree. She chose for the present to parry.

"How can I know, father, what ambition Tim has? He is still young enough to change that ambition, whatever it may be."

"And he's got to change it, as sure as he lives! I am tired of his fooling; he is fourteen years old, big, strong, and healthy; if he would take hold of the work and show some interest in it, he would be able in a couple of years to take charge of the whole business and give me a rest, but he is frittering away valuable time until I've made up my mind to permit it no longer."

The parent knocked the bowl of his pipe against the column of the porch and shook his head in a way that showed he meant every word he said. Maggie was troubled, for she had feared an outbreak between him and Tim, and it seemed to be impending. She dreaded it more than death, for any violence by her beloved parent toward her equally beloved brother would break her heart. That parent, naturally placid and good-natured, had a frightful temper when it was aroused. She could never forget that day when in a quarrel with one of his employes, he came within a hair of killing the man and for the time was a raging tiger.

There was one appeal that Maggie knew had never failed her, though she feared the day would come when even that would lose its power. She reserved it as the last recourse. When she saw her father rise to his feet, and in the gathering gloom noted the grim resolute expression on his face, she knew the crisis had come.

"Tell him to come down-stairs; we may as well have this matter settled here and now."

"Father," she said in a low voice of the sweetest tenderness, "you will not forget what he did two years ago?"

The parent stood motionless, silent for a minute, and then gently resumed his seat, adding a moment later,

"No; I can never forget that; never mind calling him just now."

And what it was that Tim Hunter did "two years ago" I must now tell you.



Chapter II.

Bear in mind that Tim Hunter was twelve years old at the time, being the junior by two years of his sister Maggie.

On the day which I have in mind, he had spent the forenoon fishing, and brought home a mess of trout for which he had whipped one of the mountain brooks, and which furnished the family with the choicest sort of a meal. The father complimented him on his skill, for that was before the parent's patience had been so sorely tried by the indifference of the lad toward the vocation to which the elder meant he should devote his life. He left the lad at liberty to spend the rest of the day as he chose, and, early in the afternoon, he proposed to his sister that they should engage in that old game of "jackstones" with which I am sure you are familiar.

Years ago the country lads and lassies generally used little bits of stones, instead of scraggly, jagged pieces of iron, with which they amuse themselves in these days. Tim had seen some of the improved jackstones; and, borrowing one from a playmate, he made a clay mould from it, into which he poured melted lead, repeating the operation until he had five as pretty and symmetrically formed specimens as one could wish. It was with these in his hands, that he led the way to the barn for a game between himself and sister.

The big, spacious structure was a favorite place for spending their leisure hours. The hard, seedy floor, with the arching rafters overhead could not be improved for their purpose. The shingles were so far aloft that the shade within was cool on sultry summer days, and it was the pleasantest kind of music to hear the rain drops patter on the roof and the wind whistle around the eaves and corners. The mow where the hay was stored was to the left, as you entered the door, and under that were the stalls where the horses munched their dinner and looked solemnly through the opening over the mangers at the two children engaged at play. Between where they sat and the rafters, the space was open.

Maggie took her seat in the middle of the floor, and her brother placed himself opposite. Before doing so, he stepped to the nearest stall and picked up a block of wood six inches in diameter and two feet in length. This he laid on the floor and seated himself upon it, tossing the jackstones to his sister to begin the game.

She was his superior, for her pretty taper fingers were more nimble than his sturdy ones, and, unless she handicapped herself by certain conditions, she invariably won in the contest of skill. She tossed them one after the other, then two or three or more at a time, snatching up the others from the floor and going through the varied performance with an easy perfection that was the wonder of Tim. Once or twice, she purposely missed some feat, but the alert lad was sure to detect it, and declared he would not play unless she did her best, and, under his watchful eye, she could not escape doing so. As I have said, the only way to equalize matters was for her to handicap herself, and even then I am compelled to say she was more often winner than loser.

Sitting on the block of wood tipped up on one end, Tim kept his eyes on the bits of metal, popping up in the air and softly dropping into the extended palm, and wondered again why it was so hard for him to do that which was so easy for her. Finally she made a slip, which looked honest, and resigned the stones to him.

Now, you know that in playing this game, you ought to sit on the floor or ground; for if your perch is higher, you are compelled to stoop further to snatch up the pieces and your position is so awkward that it seriously interferes with your success.

The very first scramble Tim made at the stones on the floor was not only a failure, but resulted in a splinter catching under the nail of one of his fingers. Maggie laughed.

"Why do you sit way up there?" she asked; "you can't do half as well as when you are lower down like me."

"I guess you're right," he replied, as he pushed the block away and imitated her. "I 'spose I'll catch the splinters just the same."

"There's no need of it; you mustn't claw the stones, but move your hand gently, just as I do. Now, watch me."

"It's a pity that no one else in the world is half as smart as you," replied the brother with fine irony, but without ill nature. "Ah, wasn't that splendid?"

Which remark was caused by the plainest kind of fluke on the part of Maggie, who in her effort to instruct her brother, forgot one or two nice points, which oversight was fatal.

"Well," said she, "I didn't fill my fingers with splinters."

"Nor with jackstones either; if I can't do any better than you I'm sure I can't do any worse."

"Well, Smarty, what are you waiting for?"

"For you to pay attention."

"I'm doing that."

With cool, careful steadiness, Tim set to work, and lo! he finished the game without a break, performing the more difficult exploits with a skill that compelled the admiration of his sister.

"I'm glad to see that you're not such a big dunce as you look; I've been discouraged in trying to teach you, but you seem to be learning at last."

"Wouldn't you like me to give you a few lessons?"

"No; for, if you did, I should never win another game," was the pert reply; "I wonder whether you will ever be able to beat me again."

"Didn't you know that I have been fooling with you all the time, just as I fool a trout till I get him to take the hook?"

Maggie stared at him with open mouth for a moment and then asked in an awed whisper:

"No; I didn't know that: did you?"

"Never mind; the best thing you can do is to tend to bus'ness, for I'm not going to show you a bit of mercy."

During this friendly chaffing, both noticed that the wind was rising. It moaned around the barn, and enough of it entered the window far above their heads for them to feel it fan their cheeks. An eddy even lifted one of the curls from the temple of the girl. This, however, was of no special concern to them, and they continued their playing.

Each went through the next series without a break. Tim was certainly doing himself honor, and his sister was at a loss to understand it. But you know that on some days the player of any game does much better than on others. This was one of Tim's best days and one of Maggie's worst, for he again surpassed her, though there could be no doubt that she did her very best, and she could not repress her chagrin. But she was too fond of her bright brother to feel anything in the nature of resentment for his success.

"There's one thing certain," she said, shaking her curly head with determination; "you can't beat me again."

"I wouldn't be so rash, sister; remember that I mean bus'ness to-day."

"Just as if you haven't always done your best; it's you that are bragging, not I."

Tim had taken the stones in his right hand with the purpose of giving them the necessary toss in the air, when a blast of wind struck the barn with a force that made it tremble. They distinctly felt the tremor of the floor beneath them. He paused and looked into the startled face of his sister with the question:

"Hadn't we better run to the house?"

"No," she replied, her heart so set on beating him that she felt less fear than she would have felt had it been otherwise; "it's as safe here as in the house; one is as strong as the other; if you want to get out of finishing the game, why, I'll let you off."

"You know it isn't that, Maggie; but the barn isn't as strong as the house."

"It has stood a good many harder blows than this; don't you see it has stopped? Go on."

"All right; just as you say," and up went the pronged pieces and were caught with the same skill as before. Then he essayed a more difficult feat and failed. Maggie clapped her hands with delight, and leaned forward to catch up the bits and try her hand.

At that instant something like a tornado or incipient cyclone struck the barn. They felt the structure swaying, heard the ripping of shingles, and casting his eyes aloft, Tim saw the shingles and framework coming down upon their heads.

It was an appalling moment. If they remained where they were, both would be crushed to death. The door was too far away for both to reach it; though it was barely possible that by a quick leap and dash he might get to the open air in the nick of time, but he would die a hundred times over before abandoning his sister. The open window was too high to be reached from the floor without climbing, and there was no time for that.

The action of a cyclone is always peculiar. Resistless as is its power, it is often confined to a very narrow space. The one to which I am now referring whipped off a corner of the roof, so loosening the supports that the whole mass of shingles and rafters covering the larger portion came down as if flung from the air above, while the remainder of the building was left unharmed, the terrified horses not receiving so much as a scratch.

There was one awful second when brother and sister believed that the next would be their last. Then Tim threw his arm around the neck of Maggie and in a flash drew her forward so that she lay flat on her face and he alongside of her; but the twinkling of an eye before that he had seized the block of wood, rejected some time before as a chair, and stood it on end beside his shoulder, keeping his right arm curved round it so as to hold it upright in position, while the other arm prevented Maggie from rising.

"Don't move?" he shouted amid the crashing of timbers and the roaring of the gale; "lie still and you won't be hurt."

She could not have disobeyed him had she tried, for the words were in his mouth when the fearful mass of timber descended upon them.



Chapter III.

Do you understand what Tim Hunter did? Had the mass of timber descending upon him and his sister been unchecked, they would not have lived an instant. Had it been shattered into small fragments by the cyclone, the ingenious precaution which a wonderful presence of mind enabled hint to make, would have been of no avail.

Take a block of seasoned oak, six inches through, and two feet in height, and interpose it squarely against an approaching body and it is almost as powerful in the way of resistance as so much metal. It would take an ironclad to crush it to pulp, by acting longitudinally or along its line of length. This block stood upright, and received a portion of the rafters, covered by the shingles and held them aloft as easily as you can hold your hat with your outstretched arm. From this point of highest support, the debris sloped away until it rested on the floor, but the open space, in which the brother and sister lay, was as safe as was their situation, before the gale loosened the structure.

Tim called to his sister and found that not so much as a hair of her head had been harmed, and it was the same with himself. All was darkness in their confined quarters, but the wrenched framework gave them plenty of air to breathe.

Who can picture the feelings of the father, when he saw the collapse of the roof of the barn and knew that his two children were beneath? He rushed thither like a madman, only to be cheered to the highest thankfulness the next moment at hearing their muffled assurances that both were all right. A brief vigorous application of his axe and the two were helped out into the open air, neither the worse for their dreadful experience.

The parent could hardly believe what had been done by his boy, when Maggie told him, until an examination for himself showed that it was true. He declared that neither he nor anyone would have thought of the means and applied it with such lightning quickness. It certainly was an extraordinary exhibition of presence of mind and deserved all the praise given to it. The Brereton Intelligencer devoted half a column to a description of the exploit and prophesied that that "young man" would be heard from again. For weeks and months there was nothing at the disposal of Mr. Hunter which was too good for his boy and it is probable that the indulgence of that period had something to do with making Tim dissatisfied with the prospect of spending all his life as a "hewer of stone."

Gradually as the effects of the remarkable rescue wore off, the impatience of the parent grew until we have seen him on the point of calling to account the boy who had really been the means of saving two lives, for his own was as much imperilled as the sister's. Once more she appealed to that last recourse, and once more it did not fail her. When he recalled that dreadful scene, he could not help feeling an admiring gratitude for his boy. Although silent and reserved some time later, when the three gathered round the table for their evening meal, nothing unpleasant was said by the parent, though the sharp-witted Tim felt a strong suspicion of the cause of his father's reserve.

Later in the evening, the latter sat down by the table in the sitting room and took up his copy of the Brereton Intelligencer, which had arrived that afternoon. He always spent his Thursday evenings in this manner, unless something unusual interfered, the local news and selected miscellany affording enough intellectual food to last him until retiring time.

While he was thus occupied, Tim and Maggie played checkers, there being little difference in their respective skill. They were quiet, and when necessary to speak, did so in low tones, so as not to disturb the parent.

An hour had passed, when he suddenly turned, with his spectacles on his nose, and looked at the children. The slight resentment he still felt toward Tim caused him to address himself directly to his sister:

"Maggie, do you know who has been writing these articles in the paper for the last few weeks?"

She held a king suspended as she was on the point of jumping a couple of Tim's and asked in turn:

"What articles?"

"They are signed 'Mit' and each paper for the last two or three months has had one of them."

"No, sir; I do not know who wrote them."

"Well, whoever he is he's a mighty smart fellow."

"Maybe it's a 'she,'" suggested Maggie, as she proceeded to sweep off the board the two kings of Tim that had got in the path of her single one.

"Fudge! no woman can write such good sense as that. Besides, some of them have been on the tariff, the duties of voters, the Monroe Doctrine and politics: what does any woman know about such themes as those?"

"Don't some women write about them?"

"I haven't denied that, but that doesn't prove that they know anything of the subjects themselves."

The miss could make no suitable response to this brilliant remark and did not attempt to do so, while Tim said nothing at all, as if the subject had no attraction to him.

By and by the parent uttered a contemptuous sniff. He was reading "Mit's" contribution, and for the first time came upon something with which he did not agree.

"He's 'way off there," remarked the elder, as if speaking to himself.

"What is it, father?" asked Maggie, ceasing her playing for the moment, for her affection always led her to show an interest in whatever interested him.

"The article is the best I have read until I get toward the end. Listen: 'No greater mistake can be made than for a parent to force a child into some calling or profession for which he has no liking. The boy will be sure to fail.' Now, what do you think of that?"

"The latter part sounds very much like what you said to me this afternoon."

"It isn't that, which is true enough, but the idea that a boy knows better than his father what is the right profession for him to follow. That doctrine is too much like Young America who thinks he knows it all."

"Read on, father; let me hear the rest."

The father was silent a minute or two, while he skimmed through the article.

"It isn't worth reading," he remarked impatiently, thereby proving that he had been hit by the arguments which he found difficult to refute. Maggie made no comment, but smiled significantly at Tim across the board, as they resumed their game.

In truth, Mr. Hunter had come upon some sentiments that set him to thinking, such, for instance, as these: "It may be said with truth in many cases, that the father is the best judge of what the future of his son should be. In fact no one can question this, but the father does not always use that superior knowledge as he should. Perhaps he has yielded to the dearest wish of the mother that their son should become a minister. The mother's love does not allow her to see that her boy has no gifts as a speaker and no love for a clergyman's life. He longs to be a lawyer or doctor. Will any one deny that to drive the young man into the pulpit is the greatest mistake that can be made?

"Sometimes a father, with an only son, perhaps, intends that he shall be trained to follow in his footsteps. The boy has a dislike for that calling or profession, -- a dislike that was born with him and which nothing can remove. His taste runs in a wholly different channel; whatever talent he has lies there. While it may be convenient for him to step into his parent's shoes, yet he should never be forced to do so, but be allowed to select that for which he has an ability and toward which he is drawn. Parents make such sad mistakes as these, and often do not awake to the fact until it is too late to undo the mischief that has been done. Let them give the subject their most thoughtful attention and good is sure to follow."

It was these words, following on the talk he had had with Maggie a short time before that set Mr. Hunter to thinking more deeply than he had ever done over the problem in which his son was so intimately concerned. After his children had retired and he was left alone, he turned over the paper and read the article again. It stuck to him and he could not drive it away. Laying the journal aside, he lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair.

"It is not pleasant," he mused, "to give up the idea of Tim becoming my successor, for he is the only one I have ever thought of as such. But there is force in what 'Mit' says about driving a boy into a calling or profession that he hates; he will make a failure of it, whereas he might become very successful if left to follow his own preferences. I wonder who 'Mit' is; his articles are the best I have ever read in the Intelligencer; I must ask the editor, so I can have him out here and talk over this question which is the biggest bother I ever had."

Before Maggie and Tim separated to go to their rooms, and while at the top of the stairs they whispered together for a few minutes. The parent had got thus far in his musings, when he heard the voice of Maggie calling from above:

"Father, do you think 'Mit' is a smart fellow?"

"Of course, even though I may not agree with all his views," replied the parent, wondering why his child was so interested.

"Would you like to know who he is?"

"Of course, but you told me you didn't know."

"I didn't at that time, but I have learned since. If you will spell the name backwards and put it before your surname, you will have that of the youth who wrote the articles you admire so much."

The parent did as suggested, and behold! the name thus spelled out was that of his only son, whose writings he had praised before the young man's face.



Chapter IV.

When the chuckling Tim told his sister the secret as he paused to kiss her good-night at the head of the stairs, he did not dream that she would reveal it to their father; but, before he could exact a promise, she emitted the truth, despite his attempts to place his hand over her mouth. Then she darted off, and, humiliated and chagrined, he went to his own room.

But the parent was given more to think about. He was pleasant to both the next morning at breakfast and made no reference to the matter that was in the minds of all. Just as the meal was finished, he remarked:

"Tim, the load of stone is ready and we will take it over to Montvale to-day; wouldn't you like to go with us?"

"Thank you, father; I shall be glad to go."

"All right; as soon as you and Maggie are through with your nonsense, come out to the wharf and join us."

The method of transporting stone from the Brereton quarries to Montvale, on the other side of the river, was simple. The canal ran directly in front of the quarries, and there the boat was loaded with the heavy freight. It was then drawn by horse through the canal Denville, several miles to the north, where the waterway touched the level of the Castaran river. Passing through a lock, the boat was pulled across the stream by means of a rope, and wheel arrangement (a heavy dam furnishing comparatively deep and smooth water), when another lock admitted it to the canal on the opposite side.

The boat, which lay against the bank of the canal near the quarries, was loaded so heavily that it was brought as low in the water as was safe. Then a horse was hitched fast, and with Tim driving, and with Warren and his father and two men on board, the craft began slowly moving against the sluggish current.

The start was made in the morning, and before the forenoon was half gone they were at the lower end of Denville, where preparations were quickly made for crossing the river. The horse was taken on board, the boat securely fastened by a strong rope at the bow and stern, so as to hold her broadside against the current, and then the contrivance began dragging her slowly toward the opposite shore.

During the spring months and the period of high water, a great many rafts of lumber descend the Castaran, though the number is not so great of late years as formerly. They are sold at various points along the river, and occasionally two or three rafts float down stream during the summer months. A long sweeping paddle (sometimes a couple) at either end of the raft enable the men to clear the abutments of the bridges and to shoot the rapids at different points.

The canal boat, with its cargo of stone had no more than fairly left the eastern side, when a large raft was observed emerging from between two abutments of the bridge above. The men at the oars began toiling with them with a view of working the structure toward the rapids, through which the only safe passage can be secured.

Those on the boat having nothing to do had seated themselves here and there, and were watching their surroundings, as they moved at right angles to the current. The raft was heading toward a point just ahead of the boat, and was so near that Tim, who was sitting beside his father on the cabin, started to his feet and said:

"I believe they are going to strike us."

"Sit down; there is no danger; these people know their business; we shall be well out of their way before they can reach us."

Nevertheless a collision seemed so imminent a moment later, that Mr. Hunter rose to his feet and motioned to those working the rope to give the boat greater speed. At the same time he shouted to the raftsmen:

"Keep off; don't you see we are in danger?"

"Get out of the way, then!" was the reply; "we must go through there."

Such manifestly was their right, and the gentleman again waved his hands to those on both shores. But they saw the danger, and applying all the power at their command, the boat began moving so much faster that Mr. Hunter resumed his seat.

"It's all right now," he remarked; "but it looked mighty squally a minute ago."

The canal boat was now crossing the rapid current, where a passage-way had been left on purpose for rafts. It had not quite reached the middle, toward which the structure was aiming, but its speed was sufficient to take it well out of the way, provided no accident occurred.

And this is just what did occur. The unusual strain on the gearing caused something to give way, and the forward motion of the craft ceased at the very moment it reached the middle of the strong current. Those on the bank who were managing the apparatus saw the trouble at once, and strove desperately to extricate the boat from its perilous situation, but they were powerless.

"For Heaven's sake, keep off!" shouted Mr. Hunter to the raftsmen; "if you don't we shall be ruined!"

As he spoke he caught up a long pole, and pressing one end against the bed of the river exerted himself with might and main to impel the boat forward. He called to the two men to do the same, and under their united propulsion the boat advanced, but at a snail's pace.

The lumbermen, seeing the alarming state of affairs, put forth all their strength to swing the raft over so that it would pass between the boat and the eastern shore. There was scant room for this, but they were hardly less anxious than the imperilled boatmen, to whom the consequences were certain to be more serious than to themselves.

Had the distance been greater they might have succeeded, but under the circumstances it was impossible. Dipping the broad blades of the long oars, balanced at the ends of the raft, the men almost lay on their faces as they held their breath and pushed with every ounce of strength at their command. Then, when they reached the edge of the raft, they bore down so as to lift the blade from the water, ran back to the other side, dipped the oar again and shoved as before.

Meanwhile Mr. Hunter and his assistants were panting and red in the face, as they desperately strove to force the boat from the path of the approaching raft, which came plunging down upon them with increasing speed.

"No use!" he suddenly exclaimed, flinging the wet pole in the center of the boat on top of the stone; "we shall be shivered to atoms! Be ready to jump on the raft as it crushes through us! Leave the horse to take care of himself! Tim, you know how to swim, but jump on the raft with us -- Heavens! what have you done, my son?"

A few seconds before the boy had caught up the sharp hatchet lying near the cabin, and intended for use of splitting fuel for the stove. With two quick blows he severed the rope which held the stern. The latter yielded to the strong current dashing against it, and began swinging around, so that it quickly lay parallel with the river, with the bow pointing up stream, and held securely by the rope fastened at that end.

This was no more than fairly done when the enormous raft swept past, so close that the nearest log was heard scraping the entire length of the boat. The impact drove it clear, and before any one beside the boy realized how it was done the entire structure had gone by, no damage was done and all were safe.

"Jim," said Mr. Hunter, a minute after, when the flurry was over, "what a set of fools we were that we didn't think of that."

"I don't agree with you," replied the other, "because no one would have thought of it except that youngster."

"Tim," added the father, placing his hand affectionately on his head, "I am proud of you."

And the little fellow blushed and replied:

"I'm glad I happened to think of it in time, but it was rather close, wasn't it?"

"It couldn't have been more so, and but for you boat and cargo would have been a dead loss, and more than likely some of us would have lost our lives."

That night at the supper table, Mr. Hunter remarked with a meaning smile:

"Maggie, the Hunter family contains a fool and a genius, I'm not the genius and 'Mit' isn't the fool."

"Father, you are not just to yourself," the boy hastened to say; "I have done wrong in not appreciating your kindness or indulgence, and I have resolved to do my best to please you. I think I have some talent for composition and invention, but I can use it just as well, without neglecting the quarries and stone works, and if you will permit, I shall give you all the help I can in the business with the hope that some day, which I pray may be far distant, I shall become your successor."

Tears filled the eyes of all, as the parent, rising from his chair, placed his hand on the head of Tim and said, in a tremulous voice:

"God bless you, my son!"

<eob>

Living Up To Billy

By

Elizabeth Cooper



I


Dear Kate:

Two years! Only two years, what do you think of it! Why, when I heard the judge say two years, I nearly fell off the bench. You were caught with the goods, and he had your record with its two stretches right before him, yet he only gave you two years. You told me yourself you thought you would get at least five. We tried to dope it out up to the room, and kind of figured that he had it in for the prosecuting attorney, and you got the benefit. Well, if you ain't singing to-night in the tombs, you orter be. And two years, old girl, will go by so quick that when you see the lights of Broadway again, you won't even see a change. You can get a lot off for good behavior, and you know how to work all the con games there is to be worked, so as it will make it easy for you, cause it ain't as if it was your first time. Put on a good face, and don't get sulky and you will be out before you have time to remember you was ever sent up.

Now, I will come up and see you just as often as I can, and I will get you a letter regular once a month anyway, and I will tell you all that is doing. Oh, Kate, it kinda breaks me all up to think of you being put away again. You're all I got, and I don't know what I will do without you. That last stretch of yours I nearly died. You and me have just got each other and we have been mighty close, more so than most sisters I think. You have not always treated me white, sometimes you have been mean, but it was not your fault. I suppose it is hard in a girl like you to have a sister left on her hands, and I was only a kid when you had to take me over and was lots of trouble to you. You have been good in your way, and Kate, I want you to know when you are setting alone at night, that I am just counting the days till you come back to me.

Yours, Nan.




II


Dear Kate:

I didn't write you before cause I wanted to be able to tell you what we are going to do about the kid. Jim was up and we talked it all over and I said I would take him. I don't want none of Jim's friends to have him cause he ain't no good, Kate, and I have always told you so. I made him promise if I take Billy that he will leave him alone. I won't have him hanging around and I don't want Billy to see nothing more of him than he has to. I blame him for all that has come to you. Before you married him and got in with his crowd, you was on the level, but -- it ain't no use kicking now, it is all done; only I want him to keep his hands off Billy. There is a roomer on the floor below that has got a little girl who will come in and kinda look after Billy when I am out. I can take him out for a walk every day and perhaps I can get him in one of those kids' schools for two or three hours in the afternoon.

Jim brought him up at night, and he was all sleepy and soft and warm and cuddled up to me just like a little kitten. I never noticed before how pretty he was, but I watched him as he lay there with his red lips half open and his long black lashes laying on his cheeks and his hair all curling around his face, and I just could not go to sleep for looking at him. He is too pale, I think. Seems to me he ought to have more color in his cheeks. I suppose it is cause he hasn't had enough outdoor exercise that babies should have. Roomers should not have kids. It don't seem just right to shut a baby up in four walls when he would like to run and play outside with other young things. But I am going to do the best I can by him, so don't you worry, he will be all right.

Jim is pretty sore about you getting pinched, and says he is going to leave town. The crowd is kinda scared, and I think they are going to scatter. Irene went to St. Louis the other day, cause she said the cops are getting too familiar with her face. I told the whole bunch what I thought of them, and that they had better clear out. Do you remember Jenny Kerns? She was that little blond that use to clerk in Siegel's store. She has got the room right next to me, and say, she is awful sick. I have been setting up nights with her till I am dippy for want of sleep. I think she is all in. I didn't let her know it, but I have sent for her mother. I snooped around her place the other night till I found her mother's address, and I wrote her a letter telling her just how Jenny was, and that some one orter come and get her. Jenny would kill me if she knew it, cause she don't want her folks to know what she is doing, but it seems too bad to have her die here alone in a rotten little room on 28th Street when she has got a mother, who, no matter what she has done, would be glad to see her. Say what you will Kate, girls that have got mothers have a darned sight better chance than girls like you and me who was brought up on the street, and when she gets sick and lonely, no matter how tough she has been, if she can reach out her hand and touch her mother, she can sort of begin over again.

I have been learning a lot of the new dances, and Fred Stillman and me took the prize the other night for the best hesitation waltz. I am going to try to get a job dancing in one of the restaurants. I am tired working like a dog in these cheap theatres, and I know I can dance as well as any girl on Broadway. A crowd of us blew in the other night at that big dance hall at 59th Street, and everybody stopped to watch me and Fred. It kinda makes you feel good to know you can do anything well, if it is only tangoing, and I do love it! When I get a good partner it seems to me I hear voices calling, and the music ain't made just by some niggers in the corner, but it is just something speaking to me and something inside of me answers and I forget I am in a hall with a lot of people looking at me, I am just a dancing by myself to the things I hear. Jim says you have fixed it with a guard so as you can get all the letters you want. I can't slip you over twenty dollars a month to save my soul. That orter be able to fix him enough, but if it ain't, let me know, cause you know Kate, you can have every dollar I make except just enough to keep the kid a going, if it will make things easier for you. Get me out a letter whenever you can. Remember I am always thinking of you.

Nan.




III


Dear Kate:

I told you, didn't I, of sending for Jenny Kerns' mother. Well, she come and she was just the kind you read about in story books. The moment I opened the door I knew who she was and I took her in my room and had her take her hat off and smooth her hair and try to make it easy about Jenny. I told her she had been working too hard, and had caught cold and that if she was took home where she had the right kind of things to eat and real nursing, not just us girls going in when we had the time, that she would soon get all right. The mother could hardly wait until I had finished, and she sort of trembled all over. When I took her into Jenny's room, Jenny was laying with her eyes shut, not asleep, but just like she lays most of the time, and she looked so white and little and her lashes were so black against her white face, that I could see it went right into that mother's heart. She went up to the bed, and put her arms around Jenny, and her face against hers, and said, "My little girl, mother's own little girl," and then I left, 'cause I am kinda soft, and I could see it was the hose cart for me. In about half an hour, I went in to see if they was hungry, and Jenny was laying there with her mother's hand in hers looking as if she had found peace. I just wanted to put my arms around that little old fashioned woman and cry. You know, style don't seem to count when it is your mother. The old lady is going to stay until Jenny is better, then they are going home, and I hope we will never see Jenny again. Being a chorus girl ain't her place. She belongs in a little town playing the church organ.

But say, you would laugh to see the old lady. She don't fit in a rooming house in 28th Street. She has a nice, sweet, old face and she combs her hair back from it, parted in the middle, and she smiles at all of us in a loving way, cause she thinks we have been good to Jenny. And the girls! It is funny to see them when they first blow into the room and run into her. They look as if they saw a ghost, and then they set back quiet, and let her talk. She tells them all about Iowa or wherever it is she is from, and about Jenny when she was a little girl, and her father and her two brothers, and how sorry they were when Jenny come to New York to study music, but they didn't want to stand in her way. All the girls come in whenever they have a chance and bring Jenny some little thing from the delicatessen or some plants or flowers. Her room is awful pretty, cause they keep it just filled with flowers. Mary Callahan took the mother out the other afternoon to a moving picture show. She didn't want to leave Jenny, but we told her she must get out a little or she would get sick too. Mary said that everyone stared at her, and some of the crowd at the corner were going to guy her, but she gave them one look, and they said nothing. I stayed with Jenny and she talked about her mother all the time that she was gone and about the home and the little berg where she comes from. She is crazy to get back, cause I think she knows it won't be for long, and she wants to pass in her checks with the folks around her. She said to me, "Oh, Nan, I have had my lesson, and it has cost me dear, but I won't kick, as I wouldn't have been satisfied till I had tried it." But I thought, if all the preachers could bring up a few girls who think they want to try the Great White Way, and let them take a good look at Jenny, it would be better than all their sermons. Any girl with half a brain would say, "Oh, little Oskaloosa is good enough for me."

No, I won't bring Billy up to see you, Kate. He is big enough to remember things, and I don't want him to know what a prison is, and his first remembrance of his mother must not be that he saw her behind the bars. I know you want to see him and I can understand it, because I love him too, but I would die without ever touching his hand rather than ever let him see me in stripes. He will be five years old when you get out Kate, and he grows cunninger each day. He don't look a bit like Jim, has got our curly reddish hair, and his eyes are blue like yours instead of brown like mine. I suppose I orter have his hair cut, as it is so thick and curly, but I can't bear to, as it is the only thing he has of mine, and I like to look at it, and feel he is a little bit like me. I make him up a bed at night on the morris chair, cause Jenny's mother sleeps with me, and do you know, at night when she is sound asleep if she hears Jenny cough, she raises up and listens and if it don't stop right away, she slips out of bed and goes into her room. I tell you, I am going to have a mother some day if I have to get you to steal one for me.

Yours, Nan.




IV


Dear Kate:

I ain't wrote you for quite a time, cause I have been in a lot of trouble, and so busy and kinda tired out that any time I set down long enough to write a letter, I go to sleep. Billy had an awful accident. I was making some hot chocklate in my room, and he pulled the pan over on him and burned his hand and arm and shoulder. I took him to St. Vincent's hospital and they fixed him up, but said he didn't look well and I orter leave him there awhile. They put him in a ward with a lot of other babies, and I go every day to see him. He can set up now and play. I take him up something every time I go, and some things for the other kiddies too. There are twelve little tads in the room, and they are awful good when you think that they are sick. One little kid had both his hips broke, and he lies on his back with his feet in a sling that holds his legs straight up and he plays with his toys and talks to himself and never whimpers except when he sees the doctor come in the ward. Then his face gets awful scared, and his eyes get big and black with a helpless look of fear in them, cause he knows the doctor means changing his bandages and that hurts. The doctors and the nurses talk and handle the children just as if they loved them. There is a little boy in the bed next to Billy who is only six months older than Billy, and he looks something like him. He has got Billy's blond curls, and great big eyes, only he is much stronger. I suppose it is because he lives in the country. His mother is an English woman with an awful funny accent, but I like her real well. She lives out in New Jersey, somewhere on a little farm. Her kid is going to leave next week, and she asked me to bring Billy and come and see her. I told her I would, but Lord, I don't believe I know where New Jersey is. When I come to think of it, I ain't never been even to Hoboken. All the United States of America I know is bounded on the north by 59th Street, and on the south by 14th Street, on the east by Third Avenue, and the sun sets on Seventh Avenue for me. I never stopped to think that people lived anywhere else, but I suppose all these folks that we see chasing up and down with packages in their hands must be going somewhere. You know, Kate, we ain't never been in the country in our lives. Honest, I don't believe we have ever seen real grass and I never wanted to before, but when I saw the look in that little woman's face, and how different her baby was than Billy, I kinda thought I would like to see how she lived. I wonder if country kids do have a better time than city kids? We had an awful good time, if doing just as you please is having a good time. Do you remember how you used to shake my teeth out for following the hand organ men around town? It is funny we young ones didn't get run over or killed, the way we was always in the streets. It might have been all right, but I would hate to see Billy bringing himself up the way I did.

Oh, Kate, he is the cutest thing! He has a cot in the corner of the room facing the doorway, and I step in the door and stand there a minute until he looks up, and then his face all changes and breaks in little dimples and smiles, and he holds out his arms to me and says, "Nannie, my Nannie is tum." Why you know, I all choke up and I hold him close in my arms and talk to him and play with him until the nurse comes with their suppers, and all the visitors must leave. I go back to the room which is empty without him. It is funny what a change a baby brings to a place, and how it makes home out of a bum little six-dollar-a-week room. I didn't put his things away when he was took to the hospital, cause I like to see them laying around. His shoes look so funny under the bed setting by mine, and I got a lot of his clothes hanging up on a line behind the door. I washed lots of his clothes out myself, not so much to save the money as I like to be a doing something for him. I must say you dressed him nice, Kate, his clothes looked so pretty when they was all ironed and hung up in a row and his funny little white stockings -- don't he wear them out fast? When I undressed him at night, if there was a hole in his stocking, he would wiggle his little pink toe out of it and point to it and say, "Naughty, naughty Billy." The girls in the place were just crazy about him, but they gave him too much candy and fussed over him more than I liked, yet I hated to call them down, as the poor devils don't have a chance to see a baby often.

Mary Callahan is sick. I want her to go to the hospital, but she won't do it. The other night coming home from the theatre in a lot of slush and snow, she caught an awful cold. She is all in. I fussed around her all morning and put a mustard plaster on her chest, which burned the skin all off and made her awful mad at me. She says she won't be able to cover it with make-up for a month, and it will mean a good fat call-down from the manager, but between you and me, she will have time to get a brand new skin before she will be able to show up at work again.

Well, so long, old girl. I must go to bed. Gee, how I do miss Billy. Night-times I used to have to lift him over on his own side, cause he would lay cross wise on the bed, and when I would get in it would be all warm where his little body had been. Oh, Kate, he is the dearest kid! I bought him a funny little jumping jack to-day. You pull a string and a man's neck goes away out and I can just see Billy's eyes and hear his funny laugh when he first sees him.

Nan.




V


Dear Kate:

I got a lot to tell you cause things have shaken up a bit. Do you remember that little English woman who had a baby in the hospital next to Billy? Well, I went out to see her one Sunday. It was such a nice, warm spring day, just seemed as though I had to do something different, and the greatest shock I could give my system was to leave the pavements of New York for a time. I dressed Billy in a blue velvet coat I bought at Macy's, and he had on a blue hat over his little red curls, and his shoes had dark blue tassels on the front of them, and he looked cunning enough to eat. He was so proud of his tassels that he showed them to everybody in the street car and in the train. It took us almost two hours to get out there, and the people met us with a horse and buggy and drove us to their house. Why, Kate, I didn't know there was such places! The house is on a side hill with great trees around it, and in the front of it is a little lake with ducks and geese swimming on it. They had a great big stable opening on to a pasture where there was calves and cows and horses and pigs. I think I stood half an hour looking at the pigs. It is funny, but I always thought a pig a sort of a ham hanging up in the window of a delicatessen, instead of being a live, friendly animal that will come when you call it. There were a lot of chickens, white leghorns, I think the woman called them, and they looked friendly and home-like wandering around the place talking and singing to themselves like a bunch of happy women. Mrs. Smith let me feed them. She gave me a milk pan full of corn and told me to hit on its edge with a spoon, and they came flocking from every direction, some half flying, half running, as if they were afraid they would miss the party. They were so tame that I had to hold the pan up high to keep some of the sassy roosters from climbing into it. Mrs. Smith knows them all and can tell if one is missing, though they all look alike to me. She says she hates to kill them cause it seems like eating some of the family. Her husband laughed and said, "I will tell you the tragedy of the wrong hen." He said, "You know once a week we have chicken pot pie, and for seven days Mary goes mourning around wondering which one of her precious chickens she can part with, -- and live. We hear the virtues and the vices of each old biddy, cause my wife loves each feather. The other day after heart breakening talks Mary decided that Peggy could be killed, and a motherly old hen who wanted to set should be tied up. We caught them at night and put a blue string on Peggy, and a white string on the motherly hen, and tied them to the ice-house door. Mary took an hour and a half to explain to me that the chicken with the blue string was to be eaten, and she of the white string was to be left tied to the ice-house door until her longings toward motherhood would stop. In the morning when I went out to see those chickens, blest if I could tell which was to be killed, and which was not, but I thought I would take my chance on the fattest, and I took her head off. I suppose you noticed Mary's eyes -- it was the wrong head."

Billy and the kid played out-doors all day and his face got sun burnt and his eyes sparkled, and he looked just like another baby. Her boy is only six months older than Billy, but he is so much bigger, and it just makes me sick to think I can't give this to Billy and let him have a chance to grow up big and strong like other boys. All the way in on the train, I kinda cussed under my breath, to think I had to take him back to that dirty little room, and the girls who were always talking to him and feeding him things he orter not have, and him a hearing things that perhaps he will remember when he grows up, and it may make him do a lot of thinking by himself. I wish I could do something, but I don't know what I can do. I feel helpless, as if my hands was tied down by my sides, and I couldn't get them loose. Good-bye, I am kinda sore to-night. Seems to me we got in wrong somewhere, Kate, and I don't know where nor how. It ain't your fault, and it ain't mine, but it don't seem to me we have had our chance like other women have. I saw a picture the other day on a calendar. It was a happy looking woman dressed in a long blue gown carrying a baby up a beautiful stairs with flowers everywhere, and they were looking over her shoulder at the father down below. Now, can you imagine anything nicer than that to be in a home of your own with a pretty dress on, your baby in your arms, going to put it in its bed and your husband looking up at you proud? Nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to be afraid of. That is the biggest kind of heaven I know, but I guess it ain't for us. We got in wrong from the start, but oh, Kate, I do wish things was different. I don't care so much for myself, but I do want to get Billy out of this life where thieving and being a crook is the natural thing, and a person on the level is looked upon as being queer. Sometimes when I see Billy do some little thing or have a look in his face like Jim, my heart most stops beating. I don't pray, but I do say, "Oh, if there is such a thing as a God, don't let Billy grow up like his father." And, there are a lot of your little ways that I would just as soon not see cropping out in him.

Well, good night, I am glad you are getting along so well. I can't send you any money this time, cause I am flat broke since I paid your storage bill, but I will give you twenty next month. Do write me a decent letter, Kate. Your last letter was simply a touch from the beginning to the end, and between you and your friends, I am kept pretty well cleaned up.

Nan.




VI


Dear Kate:

Say, but I am a happy girl! What do you think, Billy and me is in the country. I am going to stay a week, and Billy is going to stay always, I hope. After I had made that first visit to Mrs. Smith, I kept seeing that place with the pigs and the chickens and the trees and the lake and the nice green grass and the kids rolling over on it, and the room here got smaller and hotter, and Billy got whiter, and I felt I couldn't stand it, so I sat down and wrote Mrs. Smith, and asked her if she wouldn't take Billy to board. She was real nice and came over to see me one day, and ended up by taking me and Billy back with her. She asked me to stay a week so Billy would get used to her and the place and not be lonesome. The manager kicked, but I said I was sick, and I got a week's leave. Mrs. Smith offered to take Billy for nothing, but I wouldn't stand for that and we settled on $3.50 for his board. I offered to pay more, but she would not listen to me. She says he will be company for her baby, and that two is easier to take care of than one anyway.

This life here don't seem real to me. I went to bed at nine o'clock, which I don't remember I have ever done in my life before. Even as a kid I was on the streets until ten or eleven o'clock and, in the last three years, three in the morning has been my bye-bye time. I went up to a little room under the roof, and lay awake until almost morning, hearing such a lot of strange sounds that I was as nervous as a hen. There was a big tree by the corner of the house, and its branches would swish across the roof as if a ghost was trying to get in the window. Talk about the quiet of a country night, I never heard so many sounds in all my life and they all seemed sad. The little frogs go chug, chug, as if their hearts was broken, and every once in a while, the tinkle of the cow-bell from some pasture down below, would come to me. There is a night bird called the whip-o-will that set in a tree up near the barn and called another one across the lake whose answer I could just hear. There is a funny animal up here called the bull-frog, who sets upon a log over at the back of the lake and hollars at his friends. The first time I heard them, it nearly scared a lung from me, but now I lie in bed and laugh when they commence. I thought the Smiths were joshing me when they showed me the little thing that made such a big noise. Wouldn't it be nice if we could make a noise as big according to our size as the bull-frog does to his? I know lots of people that I would like to sit on a log and hollar at.

It seemed I had just shut my eyes when they called me to breakfast, but it was beautiful. We ate out in front of the kitchen door and saw a gray mist rise over the lake all turning to rose when the sun touched it. It looked like a pink silk dancing petticoat under a gray chiffon skirt. Did you ever eat at a table under a great big tree looking out on the water? You know you eat different. You eat slow, and you think of the things you love, the things you have read about, and of what you would like to be. The toast seems crisper, and the coffee tastes better, and you forget the rotten crowd and old New York and the hot, dry streets and the Childs restaurants and the dance halls and the whole bum world. Then our evenings are so happy! We row around the lake and afterwards come home and water the flowers. We must pump the water from the pump in the kitchen and carry it in pails. I had one side of the lawn and Mrs. Smith had the other side, and last night my flowers took fifteen pails. It makes my back ache, and the pump coughs as if it had the T. B., but the flowers are so pretty, and they look so happy and so old fashioned in the big green tubs, that I am willing to do anything for them. Mrs. Smith has learnt me their names. There are pansies with purple and yellow faces, and proud red dahlias, and China astors and hollyhocks against the wall, and flox all mixed together in a way that shows, as Mrs. Smith says, that there is no social standing in the country. There are some poor tea roses that by mistake got planted in a bed of merrigolds, and they are not doing very well and act unhappy. Each morning I go over them all and take away the foolish green worms that always crawl back in the night, although I throw them over the fence.

Then, when all the "chores," as Mr. Smith calls them are done, we shut the boat-house door and set on the veranda and watch the moon as it goes down over the tree tops. It shines so beautiful through the pine trees at the edge of the lake. Everyone is quiet. Even the babies snuggle down in our arms and stop their chattering. There are two great toads that live under the front veranda, who come out on the walk and look at each other as only toads in love can look, and there is a cricket in the tree down by the lake that calls to a lady cricket who lives over by the ice house. She answered lovingly for two evenings, but I guess now she is gone, and he sets in his lonely tree, and calls and calls, and no soft-voiced cricket says, "Yes, dear." There is a loud-voiced cricket that sets near the boat-house door, and says, "Come to me, come to me," and I fear my lady cricket has gone to him.

Then we take our little lamps and go to bed, and I have the baby near me if I want to speak to him. I use to have to read till I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, but now sleep seems to come to me just like a friend. Some way I feel that this is the right life, and if I only could live it long enough, I might become a woman after all.

Nan.




VII


Dear Kate:

I have had the grandest week. It is Billy's birthday, and I come out to stay two days with him and have stayed on and on and won't go back until next Monday. I brought out both the kids a white pique suit and white shoes and stockings, and they look awful cunning. I always buy something for Paul, because it seems kind of selfish to give to Billy and not to the other one. I don't think the Smiths have much money. He was a teacher in a school in England, and his health broke down and he come to America because he thought he could do better here, but I don't think every thing is going just as he thought it would. His brother is in Australia, and is doing fine, and I guess they wish that they had gone there instead. He is an awful nice man and knows all about the birds, and the trees, and the flowers, and he tells it to me and it has changed lots of things for me, because I know all the sounds now and what they mean, and they talk to me instead of being just noises.

I am learning to be a housekeeper, and "I help round," as Mrs. Smith says, all day. We washed Monday and I never knew it took such work to just wash clothes. I have washed handkerchiefs and some of Billy's things up in my room, but here we wash sheets and pillow cases and table clothes and shirt waists. Talk about shirt waists! I use to tell Mrs. Murphy that did mine up, that she was an old thief, cause she charged me twenty cents for them, but now I know she earned her money all right. First Mrs. Smith soaked the clothes over night with some white powder in the water. Then Mr. Smith fished the washing machine out of the lake where it was put where its seams would swell up, and I turned the handle of the thing, till I thought my arm would come off, but it was rather fun, as it was out-of-doors and I could watch the chip-monks as they come looking for scraps from the kitchen. There is some squirrels in the trees, and they look so pretty setting up on their haunches with their long bushy tails curled over their backs, nibbling away at a nut. If I lived in the country, I wouldn't keep a cat, because it kills the chip-monks and birds. The young black birds are just now trying to leave their nests, and sometimes they fall out and set on the ground under the bushes and call their father and mother with a funny little chirp sound, and the cat hears it and creeps with her stomach close to the ground till she is close to the baby bird, and then pounces like lightening on him, and the poor little chap cries for help most like a human baby. The mother bird will fight for her little ones, as long as she can, and sometimes I wish she would peck the old cat's eyes out. I spent a good share of my time chasing the cat from place to place, but even after doing that and watching the chip-monks and squirrels and stopping to keep the children from falling off the dock, I got the washing done at last, and Mrs. Smith rinsed and blued the clothes and hung part of them up on a line and part she spread on the grass to bleach. My clothes looked surprised as they never found themselves in such a place before, laying on nice clean grass with the hot sun blazing down on them. They seemed sort of happy, and they took such odd positions that I looked at them in wonder, hardly knowing my old friends. But they got whiter and whiter, and we gathered them in when the dusk come and they smelled so sweet, that I am sure I will have to carry clean thoughts for the rest of the week.

Mrs. Smith lets me gather the vegetables for dinner. Every morning after the dishes are washed, I go across the road to the garden and pick the string-beans and gather summer squash and grub around the nice smelly earth for potatoes. I get the dirt all under my finger nails, and can just see the duchess at Gimble's who manicures me, when she takes my lily-white hands in hers next time. I pick the cucumbers from the vines, and I never in all my life saw such big tomatoes. Then we come down the path, Billy carrying a cucumber in each hand, because they don't break if he drops them, and Paul with a summer squash swinging by the neck, and me with my apron piled full of things that smell of the vines.

There is nothing to drink up here, and I don't miss it and I don't bring cigarettes with me. My friends think it ain't nice to smoke, and I would not hurt them for worlds. Their friendship and the love they show me is worth more than all the drinks or smokes in little old New York. Why, I would give up anything just to see the look in their faces when they meet me at the station, and I know they really want me to come.

It rained yesterday, not a dull, drizzling rain like we have in the City, but a happy "I am good for you" rain, that washed old mother earth's face and left quiet gray shadows on the lake. I never thought I could think a rain was pretty, but yesterday it was just beautiful as it came down slantwise on the water. We heard it coming long before it got to us, sounded just like the patter patter of soft footed things on a chifon carpet, and way across the lake we could see a blue-gray wall that come nearer and nearer till it got to us. Then when the rain was finished, the lake looked like a dull looking glass with every leaf and tree showing in its face. The birds began to call to one another again, and the robbins came out on the lawn looking for worms. There is one saucy robbin who comes toward me and cocks his little head and says, "Am I not a little dandy? Do I not hold myself as a gentleman should?" Then he finds a big fat worm and pulls and tugs until he gets him loose and flies away to his wife and babies because, although his vest is far too gay for a person who is the main support, quite likely of a large and growing family, he don't seem to have the air of a bachelor. There is a loon at the other end of the lake that laughs just like a person, and twice I have seen a big bird walking around on the edge of the water that Mr. Smith says is a blue heron. When we go up into the woods, little red lizzards with gold spots run across the path, and the babies try to get them. I have been fishing twice, but I won't do it no more, as I can't bear to take the hooks out of the fish's mouth, so when the others go I will stay on shore and watch the funny water-bugs that make such big jumps. If we could jump like them, one good hop would take us from 14th Street to the Grand Central, and there would be no use for the subway.

I just live out-of-doors, setting on the veranda watching the mist rise over the lake, or, when I am not helping Mrs. Smith, spending long hours lying flat on my back looking up at the sky and wondering if there is some path for me, and if I will ever find it. I think it is good to get close to the ground, and I tell it all my secrets. It gives me strength, and a sort of hope I never had before.

Oh, Kate, I am so happy here! You know I have been hungry all these years and didn't know it, just hungry for friends. I wanted love that you didn't have to watch, and these people give it to me. They show me that they want me and I have a part in their life, eat the things they eat and hear their home talk and am just one of them. You know I never tasted food, no matter how much it cost, that tastes so good as it does out here. It ain't just the things, if you got lots of money you can buy them, but it is the something that goes with the "why, come right in, you are in time for dinner." If it was only potatoes and salt, the way they offer it to you makes it better than a dinner party at Martin's. In the afternoon, we have tea and bread and butter and preserves that Mrs. Smith has made herself. She is English you know, and says she could not go without her afternoon tea any more than she could go without her breakfast. And we set and talk and laugh and I feel as if there was such a thing as windows in one's soul, mine are all open to the sunlight for the first time.

Good night, Kate dear. Do I seem sort of stupid to you? I know you wouldn't like it here, as it is too far from Broadway, but I love it! We have been out on the water all evening, each sitting in our end of the boat with a lot of pillows at our back and looking at the moon. You know I never seemed to have known the moon before, he is a new friend that I have made at Lake Rest, and life will never be quite the same now I have known him. He makes me dream and I plan such a happy future for you and me and Billy, and when I look at him there is nothing but rose leaves in life. But -- well -- it is a new moon now, I wonder what the old moon will say.

Lovingly, Nan.




VIII


Dear Kate:

It is raining and I am staying in the room cause I bit my tongue last night and I can't talk. I am sore. Sometimes I think I will never do a good trick for a person as long as I live, and then, when the time comes I am always Mr. Easymark. Last night I was coming along home after work about two o'clock, and it was cold and rainy and a miserably bum night. At the corner of Sixth Avenue I saw a fellow all sort of hunched up, walking along as if he had a jag. As I went by him I saw it was Fred Dennis, and he sure looked all in. He was shaking as if he had chills and fever, and I stopped and asked him what was the matter. He said he just come out of the hospital where he had typhoid. Between you and me, I think he had been in the jag ward at Bellevue, but that was none of my business, and he sure needed help. He said he was stone broke, that he didn't have the price for a ten-cent lodging house, and he give me a touch. First I thought I would cough, then I looked in his shifty eyes, and I knew he would go straight to Kelly's and get a drink and take a chance of sleeping on the floor, so I said to him, "You come up to my room, and I will make you some hot cocoa, and you go to bed in a bed. That is what you need, or you will be costing the City a funeral." I sneaked him up to the room and had him put on that old Japanese wadded wrapper of mine and get in bed, and I made him some hot cocoa. His teeth chattered like they was playing a tune, but I piled all my bed clothes on him and my winter coat and most of my clothes and when he got warm, I went in and slept with Myrtle Seaman. She has only a single bed, and I went to turn over in the night and fell out and bit my tongue. Say, but it is sore. It seems to fill my whole mouth, and I spend most of my time setting in front of the looking glass to see if the swelling is stopped.

But my tongue ain't half as sore as I was, when I went into my room this morning thinking I would make Fred some coffee and give him a half a dollar, so as he could get a square meal. Now what do you think that piker had done? He had copped everything in my room that he could hock. He took my black bag, my winter coat, my new green silk petticoat that I got to wear with my slit skirt, the buckles off my dancing slippers, and the little silver frame that had Billy's picture in it. My can of cocoa was gone and he even sneaked the bottle of milk in front of the door. Can you beat that for nerve! Now, the next time I see a bum standing on a corner, shaking his teeth out with the cold, he can stand there and scatter his pearls from 14th Street to 42nd for all me.

I am just sore to-day. I have been a setting here and a thinking that this game ain't worth it. There must be something better somewhere than living from hand to mouth with people that would steal the pennies off your eyes. You can't tell where you stand with any of them. They will be good to you one minute, and the next minute do you a dirty trick. Just like Ethel Rooney who sat up three nights running with Mamie Callahan when she was sick, then pinched her only pair of slippers. I believe crooks have something wrong down deep inside of them. They never do nothing like other people. Their hearts are good, they will go to the pen for a friend rather than peach on him, and yet that friend wouldn't trust him alone in his room with a five dollar bill, and the women -- if they don't steal each other's money, they steal each other's fellows if they're left around careless-like.

I sent your letter to Jim, and I told you before, I paid the storage man. Don't get so blue, it won't be long, and I am doing everything I can for you. You are always a kicking at me, Kate, and I am a doing the best I know how. I am working like a dog, and I don't spend a cent for myself more than I have to. I am a thinking of you, Kate, and I love you even if you do seem to always have a grouch against me.

Yours, Nan.




IX


Dear Kate:

I haven't wrote you for a long time, cause I know you will be sore at what I am going to tell you, and I was afraid you would tell some of the old crowd where I was, and they would queer me in some way. I have been doing housework, Kate. Yes, I can see you throw a fit as you read it, but it will tell you one reason why I have not been able to send you any money the last two months. I had been dancing steady for a long time and I got dead tired of the crowd. The bum faces and the cheap girls and the dirty restaurants and the fresh waiters got on my nerves and it even spoiled my work. Mrs. Smith has been after me for a long time to leave it. She just talks to me and talks to me every time I go over there. I got half sick and went over to Lake Rest for a couple of weeks, and I used to lie at nights up in my room a hearing the sounds and a feeling the quiet, and in some way it made me hate the sidewalks and the hot dusty streets and the dance halls and the nights when I was up till morning and the days when I was a feeling like a boiled owl. I talked it all over with Mrs. Smith and she didn't want me to do clerking, cause I would still have to live in a room, and it is the people in the rooming houses she is dead sore at. She wants me to do something that will take me away from the crowd. Then she asked me if I would be willing to do house work. I told her I would be willing to try scrubbing, that sometimes it seemed that any old thing was better than what I have been doing for the last seven years. But I told her I didn't know nothing about housework, as I don't remember ever having been in a real house except hers. I lived in furnished rooms all my life but I was willing to learn and it seems to me if you are only willing to try, you can learn anything. I stayed with her two weeks, and she showed me how to cook potatoes, to fix meat, and I think the first day I made an apple pie all by myself, I nearly bust with pride. Why, Kate, there is a joy in just making something. To take some apples and some flour and butter and lard and to fix it all yourself, then take it out of the oven crisp and hot and have some one say, "Ain't that fine"! Why, you feel you have really done something. It must be like when an artist paints a great picture. I had made something, something that is a part of me. The last week I was there, she let me get all the meals, and if I ever marry a man, I would want to do all the cooking myself. I don't think there could be any bigger happiness for a woman who really loved her man, than to see him eat the food that she had fixed with her own hands, and if I could hear a man of mine say, "Pass me them biscuits, Nan," or "You sure can make good gravey," well -- I would have all that is coming to me. I learned to set a table and how to put the right knives and the right forks in the right places, and I always put a bowl of flowers in the middle. Sometimes they was yellow nasturcheons, and I would mix them in with leaves and put them in a big yellow bowl and they would make the food taste better just to look at them. Often the babies and me would go out in the fields and get great arms full of daisies and I would put them in with some pretty ferns we had around the house, or else I would gather red poppies, and wheat and it would make it look as if all out-doors was a growing on the table.

Mrs. Smith showed me how to make a bed just right, and to dust and sweep, to iron the clothes and to do all the things that women must know if they keep a house clean. But finally she said she thought I would do, and one day she went over town to a friend of hers that lives up in the Bronx. What she told her I don't know, but anyway I got a job and I went over to my room and packed my things, and I have been here two months. It was hard at first, as I didn't know how to manage, and couldn't make my head save my legs. But I got along somehow, although at night I used to be so dead tired that two or three times I cried myself to sleep. The woman ain't as nice as Mrs. Smith, she is kind of suspicious of me, and watches me a lot, and she feels I ought to know more than I do and tells me to do things without telling me how. But I am going to stick it out. The main trouble is that it is devilish lonesome. At night after I get the dishes done, there ain't no place to go except a little room which looks out on a courtyard, and there is nothing to do and nobody to talk to, and I set by myself trying to think things all over. Sometimes I think I am a fool to work like a dog a whole week and only get six dollars for it, and then again I remember all Mrs. Smith said to me, and the nice letters she writes me telling me to be brave and that I am doing the square thing. My afternoons off I don't take, because I don't want to see the old crowd, and I don't know no one else. Every two weeks I have been over to see Billy, but it costs quite a lot, and after I pay $3.50 a week for his board, I ain't what you call a J. D. Rockefeller. I used always to take the kid some little thing, but now it has to be so darned little you can't see it. The woman next door has got a baby, and she knits things for it, and I asked the woman I worked for if she would ask the woman to learn me how to knit. She was awful nice about it, and I bought a lot of white yarn, and nights up in my room I made Billy and Paul each a jacket, and now I am making them some mittens, so when it gets cold they can wear them when they play outside. Next week after I get my pay, I am going to get some of that grey pusey yarn and make them each a cap.

One night I got so blue I almost died, and I went downtown to see Irene who is back from St. Louis. I had an awful good time, a lot of fellows and girls come into Irene's room, and I sent one of the boys out for some oysters and showed them some fine stunts I could do with the chafing dish. They was crazy to know where I was and what I was doing but I wouldn't tell them, as I knowed they wouldn't understand. I suppose there is something wrong in me somewhere, but it seemed awful nice to see all the crowd again, and hear them talk and laugh and even the old cigarette smoke smelled good. There didn't one of them seem to have any trouble nor have to work hard, and I thought of how they could sleep in the morning, and how I would have to get up when my old alarm clock went off at half past six. For a minute I thought I wouldn't go back, then I thought of Mrs. Smith and how bad she would feel if I didn't stick, so I said, "Oh, me for my little room," and I left the crowd at half past ten, sort of the middle of the day for most of them. But I ain't been unhappy, though I didn't know there was so little money in the world. Why, it seems funny not to be able to buy anything at all. When you look in the shop windows and see all the fluffy petticoats and the pretty collars and the silk stockings and the fancy shoes, and you know you can't buy one of them, it makes you feel sore all over. Why, I think every body ought to take their hat off to a pretty girl who is pegging along on six or eight a week, and who wants pretty things just the same as all women do and who knows all she has got to do is to give a little nod to get them, I say, them is the people that ought to have a statue up on that hall of fame on the Hudson.

I had to buy two maid's dresses when I come here, plain black with little white collars and cuffs, and in the afternoon the woman makes me wear a dinkey little cap on my head which makes my hair look curlier than ever though I brush it down as best I can. Callers kind of looked surprised when they see me first, I guess cause I am kind of thin now and my eyes sort of fill my face.

Billy is looking fine. He is most as big as Paul and he has learned a lot of things. Mr. Smith takes the kids with him in the woods and Billy knows the names of trees and plants and can tell the Robin's call from the Blue Bird's whistle. Mrs. Smith reads little stories to the children and they know their A B C's already, and by the time Billy is ten, he will have lots more book-learning than I have now.

Now don't write me a rotten letter, Kate, and don't put any of the gang on to try to queer me nor to try and come and talk to me, cause house work ain't no joke for a person who ain't never done nothing, and sometimes I feel all in and something told me at the wrong time, might make me throw the whole thing up. And I don't want to. I want to make good if it is only at housework, and if I can, I am going to stick to it till there's skating down below.

Nan.




X


Dear Kate:

I am back in my old room and I guess there is where I belong. I did intend to stick, and I didn't think I would ever see this old room again, but here I am, and guess here I will stay. You know I was getting along real well in that place where I worked, and things got much easier, as I kind of learned to save my steps and plan the work, and it didn't make me so tired as it did at first. I had saved up twelve dollars too, and was going to buy Billy's winter clothes and send you five, then the darn thing fell. I had been over on Sunday to see Billy and was chasing along home about half past ten at night along 33rd Street to catch the subway, when one of them old rounders passed me by and stuck his old face down into mine and as I didn't say nothing, he kept chasing after me and saying something in a low voice. I pretended I didn't hear and went on a little faster and he kept right after me. When we got near to Fourth Avenue, he came up close to me and said, "Don't be in such a hurry, little girl," and I didn't say nothing, then he stuck his face right down into mine and said something, and it just made me sick, and before I knew what I did I slapped his dirty old mouth for him. He stood still a minute, and almost turned white and then what do you think the piker did? He called the cop from the corner and had me arrested for speaking to him. It was Casey who knew me and I told Casey he was a liar, and Casey said to the man, "Are you going to court and make a charge against this girl?" And the man says, "I am, and if you don't take her I will have you broke." I honestly think Casey believed me, but he couldn't do nothing, and they took me down to Jefferson Court. I hoped I would never see that place again, but there I was with the girls and the bums and the plain closemen and the cops and the shister lawyers and the probation officer who knew me at once as your sister, and I kinda felt I was up against it. But I told my story straight to the Judge, and the man told his, and of course the Judge took his word against mine and he fined me ten dollars or ten days. When I thought of that ten dollars and what it meant and how hard I had saved and scrimped for it, and how I had gone without things and that Billy wouldn't have the winter things that he ought to have, I just lost my head and I told the Judge he was an old fool, that if he couldn't tell a lie from the truth, he had not orter be a setting up there like an old brooding hen. I told him he didn't see nothing but crooks, and he couldn't tell a crook from a decent person and then he got back at me by saying, "Did I say ten dollars or ten days, I made a mistake, I meant ten dollars and ten days," and I had to go to the Island. I don't think I was ever so broke up in my life, it didn't seem I was getting a square deal. I suppose I did say things I shouldn't have, cause I was so mad I couldn't see and then I cried all night. I wrote a letter to Mrs. Smith and told her just how it was and asked her to go and see the woman I worked for and tell her about it and not blame me. Now, Mrs. Smith believed me and came over to see me on the Island but that other woman didn't believe me and went down to the night court and saw the probation officer and I guess she got the idea you built the Jefferson Court with your fines. Anyway, she said she didn't want me in her house no more. I guess she is afraid I would hurt the dishes. When I got out I went up to see her and her face was hard and nasty and she wouldn't take my word at all. I asked her if she seen a thing out of the way for four months, if I hadn't done my work right and if I hadn't stayed in nights and been as good as any girl she ever had. She said "yes" to them all, but she didn't believe in encouraging vice and she never could tell what I might do because I come of a bad family. She got your record from A to Z and she even knew about father and she acted as if she thought perhaps, that all the cussedness of the family was stored up in me and might have busted any minit.

Well, it made me all sore, and I come right down to the old room and told Mrs. Murphy that she quite likely would have me for the rest of her life, I had all I wanted a working. I went out that night to Kelly's dance hall and danced till closing time trying to forget my troubles. It did make me forget because I can dance, Kate, and if I ain't a fine dish washer nor fit to be in somebody's kitchen, I sure can tango. I fished out all my pretty clothes again and done them two maid's dresses up in a wad and threw them under the bed. It is me for the slit skirt and the high heeled slippers, and I am going to be the best dancer on Broadway or know the difference.

Yours, Nan.




XI


Dear Kate:

I have been dancing at Rudolph's, it is awful hard work there and the hours are long, but it is better than it was down at the corner inn. I am working up, Kate, and I expect one of these days to be dancing on Broadway. The manager from Casey's come in and watched me dance the other night, and he said he thought I was the lightest thing on my feet in New York. Billy Flynn is my partner now, and he is working real hard. We go mornings to a teacher up at 59th Street who learned me a lot of new steps. We practise most every afternoon. I have met some of the other dancers in the cabarets and they are mostly a nice lot of girls. It ain't so hard for me as it is for some of them, as I have been dancing all my life, and I only have to see a new step once to be able to do it. I don't see why the people are against dancing, it is awful good for everybody. Why, you see old men and women that never done nothing before but stay at home and read The Christian Advocate, dancing in the restaurants, and it makes them forget all their troubles. Dancing makes you say with your body what you would like to say with your tongue, and you don't know how. Lots of people have beautiful thoughts and they can't tell them, so they have to read books writ by people who say just what they think, but can't tell, or they go to the theatre and hear acted all the love and beautiful things that they would like to have come to them, but can't. With dancing they can say themselves all the things they feel and the swaying of their body in time to the music is just a telling the love and the romance and the poetry that is inside of them. Why, when I am dancing with a good partner, I forget all the ugly things of life and it seems to me that if there ever is a God, he is a speaking to me and I sometimes feel as if I had wings and could fly right away with them. There is nothing wrong with the dancing itself, as I keep a telling Mrs. Smith. She wants me to leave it all the time, and of course in some of the places where I have to dance, there is a bum crowd and you do have to talk to the men and lots of the women that you wouldn't choose for your sister. I tell you I am going to work out of this, I am a good dancer and there ain't no reason why I shouldn't be working in the better places where the management won't allow the men to get fresh with the girls. If I live long enough and don't get paralyzed in my legs, you will see at the Winter Garden "Nancy Lane" in great big electric lights. I have been around some of them places and if I ever get a chance, I know I can do as well as the girls there now. Why, Kate, I would rather dance at the Winter Garden than have a front seat in Heaven, and I got a mighty poor chance of either one, but I am going to try for them both. You know I believe when you want a thing real bad and just keep thinking of it night and day, you are going to get it some way and when you come out, Kate, I think you are going to be straight, and you won't queer me as you have so many times, just when I was beginning to get along.

I am sending you twenty. You ought to own that boarding house you are in, with the money I've sent you the last year. Mamie Callahan was in yesterday, she is working in a chorus somewhere. Gee, she does look swell! She must have cost a thousand just as she stood. She wants me to go back to Miner's, but the restaurants pay more. One of the boys I met the other night at Kelley's wants me to join him and go dance out West somewhere, but I don't want to go so far away from Billy. I know he would be all right with the Smiths, but I kinda like to see him, and I am always planning little things about him and what he will say to me and what I will say to him and what I am going to buy him. I kind of feel that if I wasn't able to go out there once in two or three weeks, and touch him and play with his hair and wash his little hands and notice how he is growing out of his clothes, that I wouldn't care to live. The money I could earn wouldn't mean nothing without him. I had just as much happiness out of him when I was earning six dollars a week and I could only take him out a ten cent jumping jack, as I would if I was earning fifty and could buy him fur coats. Babies just love, they don't think of the price of the thing you give them, but they seem to feel the heart behind it. Billy put his arms just as tight around Nannie's neck when she didn't have nothing in her hands for him, as when they was full.

I heard through Long Dave that Jim has been pinched in Chicago, but they think he will get off. He struck me for fifty but I wouldn't cough up, he can go to the pen for all I care. I always did tell him that stripes become his style of beauty. You know he is like a lot of crooks that even hate to look at a barber's pole cause of the stripes on it, and when you stop to think about it, you never see a crook wear a striped suit of clothes. They will wear plain colors, pepper and salts, cheques, but no stripes for the con man, they make him nervous.

I am coming down next week. I wish I could bring you something but I don't know what you could use. I am glad you are getting along so well, Kate, you will get four months off, won't you? I miss you awful, you are the only one I can talk to, and though you don't see some things my way, you are my sister, the only mother I ever knew. I wish when you are quiet there, Kate, you would think things over and decide to do different. You and me and Billy could go away somewhere. You must see by this time, Kate, that thieving don't pay. Why you are only thirty-three years old, and you have had five years in the pen and you are getting bitter and sour and you will have a grouch against life, and you know you are awfully clever, if you could only turn your brain to something honest, I don't see why you couldn't get along. I believe we could save up some money and go somewhere and start a boarding house. I can cook real well, and I believe something could be doing in that line.

Billy had a party and it sure was some party. Mrs. Smith asked some of the farmers' children in, and she gave them cake, and I brought him out presents and give each of the children a toy. Billy ate too much cake and was awful sick in the night. Mrs. Smith give him some medicine and he was all right the next day, and ready to eat more cake. Why, he eats all the time, Kate, and he is the fattest, biggest boy. We dress him awful swell. Mrs. Smith makes her boy's clothes and I help her and we made Billy some funny little linen pants like a Dutch baby, and he is the cutest looking thing. We cut his hair off square, but it still curls and don't look Dutch at all.

Good night, I must go to bed.

Nan.




XII


Dear Kate:

Say, but I am having a good time! And what do you think? I am having my picture painted. Some artist people blew into the cafe the other night, and after I had danced a couple of times they talked to the manager, then they asked me to come over and talk to them. I set down to the table and they were awful nice to me, didn't get fresh, but asked me a lot of questions about myself and where I learned to dance. I told them I could dance ever since I could walk, that I danced as a kid at Coney Island, and Miner's theatre had got in trouble twice with the Children's Society because of me. I laughed and said, "Why, I never learned to dance, I just danced." The artist man said he wanted to paint my picture. It is a funny idea it seems to me. He wants to paint me in this dirty cabaret with the tables all around me and the bum men setting around and me a dancing in the center with the lights on me. He said he is going to call it "Youth." He said to one of the men that was with him, "Can't you see it, Phillip, can't you see it? That pretty girl the very spirit of youth with her gold hair around her face and her wonderful body swaying to the time of the music and all those bloated beasts looking up at her through the smoke?" I don't see how he is going to paint the picture, but that is his business. Mine is to go to his studio every day at ten o'clock.

Do you remember Will Henderson who used to play in the orchestra in the Grand Opera and who lived next to us when we was at 129? Well, what do you think? He is playing the piano in this joint here. Isn't that a come-down? He got to taking coke and he couldn't be trusted to keep his dates and he lost all his good jobs and now he can only get a place in the joints, but he does play wonderful! And when he is not too dopey, he sets down at the piano and makes music that draws the heart right out of you. He won't touch his violin cause it makes him remember, he says. It is a lucky thing for me in a way, as he likes me and he has wrote some music for me to dance by. He wrote a piece for me called "The Poppy," and that artist chap who is painting my picture got me a dress made for the dance, and oh, Kate, it is grand! It is red chiffon, and over it green chiffon like the leaves of the poppy, and I wear red slippers with pale green silk stockings that are so thin I can hardly get them on, and he had my hair all fluffed out and piled on top of my head, where it made a "golden halo," whatever that is. Him and Will explained to me about the dance. It seems that opium is made out of the flower, and they wanted me to show by dancing all the beautiful dreams that come with opium, and then the sleep afterward. I have known a lot of people who hit the pipe, and I don't know as they have ever had many beautiful dreams, but anyway the dance is awful pretty. The artist gave a party the other night, and had me come and do it. All the lights in the room was turned off and a greenish light was thrown on me and I danced fast at first and then I went slower and slower until at the last I dropped down on the stage and the lights went out and I run away in the dark. Everybody was crazy about it, and one of the big restaurants on Broadway is going to have me give the dance every night at midnight. Do you see, Kate, I told you if I got a chance I would get away from Seventh Avenue. I begun at 14th Street, and I am working up. I am up to 42nd and one of these days, I tell you, I am going to be dancing at the Winter Garden. I don't see why I shouldn't, I can dance as well as any girl in New York City, and now that Jim and your gang ain't around to queer me, there ain't no reason why I shouldn't be in the best places in town. I have had to stick to a lot of bum joints just because the managers of decent places didn't want to have a person who was mixed up with the crowd that I was in, around their place.

I am really having an awful good time. I get home about three in the morning and I sleep until about nine. I make my breakfast in my room yet, cause I like my own coffee, and then Jim Kelly who is my dancing partner now, comes up and we practise steps or else Will Henderson and Jim and me go over to Mamie Callahan's who has got a piano, and we work at some new thing. I don't have to be at the cafe till night and most every afternoon, I go around to some of the other places or to the shows to see what the other girls are dancing. I thought I would take some lessons from some of the swell teachers, but Lord, I can dance as well as any of them so what is the use of me spending my money.

I bought a swell new suit yesterday, and I sure do look some going up the avenue and, hear me, it is Fifth Avenue instead of Seventh. Oh, there is some class to your sister, Kate, and when I get on the new lid that the milliner made me, well -- I should worry.

I went up to a party the other night at Rose Fisher's. I couldn't blow in until after work, but even as late as it was, I won $4.90 at penny ante, and it tickled me most to death. I have been trying to learn a new game called bridge that the girls are crazy about. I guess it is not in my line cause it is a thinking part. I can't remember what cards are out or what is trumps or what is anything else, and set sort of making over my old clothes or thinking up new steps when we are playing, and you can't do that with bridge. I lost a lot of money the other afternoon, and what is worse, Katie Regan was my partner and she took it hard and gave me an awful call-down. I got sore and felt like slapping her face, but I guess she is right. Don't play a game with other people's money unless you attend to business.

Do you remember that fat old brewer that use to come hanging around you? Well, he blew in while I was dancing the other night, and claimed to be a long lost friend. He come down every night for about a week, and then tried that old gag of putting some money for me in a wheat deal or some such thing where it was tails I win and heads you lose. I told him I was on to that chorus trick, and wasn't at all crazy about it. You see, whether he won or lost he would have handed me over three or four hundred dollars and kinda felt he owned me body and soul. I simply laughed at him, and said with a voice of a Wall Street broker, "Man, I am making so much money that it is quite impossible to find investments for my income, so I am planting it around the yard in tin cans." I even offered to make him a loan if business was bad. He went away in a huff, and I got a call-down from the manager because the brewer owns the bar the same as he does all the other saloons around our district, and the saloon-keeper is only in on a percentage. If the temperance people would only go after the brewer and the distiller, instead of the poor devil of a saloon-keeper, they might do something worth while, cause there ain't one bar in twenty in New York that is owned by the man who keeps it.

Well, good-bye, I am going to dinner in a place in 39th Street where they say they have an awful pretty dancer. I am saving up my money, Kate, so when you come out, you will have enough to live on for awhile until you find out what you want to do. Now don't worry, and don't write me any more letters like that last one. Everything is fine and dandy. Billy is all right, and I am as happy as a clam and getting fat. I have put on two pounds in three months. I weigh 118 now, which is a lot for me, and if I keep on like this I will look like Taft one of these days.

I am coming down to see you next week, and I have got something for you. Oh, Kate, I am fond of you and I get just crazy to see you.

Yours, Nan.




XIII


Dear Kate:

I have been working again. Mrs. Smith got at me about the dancing, not that she thinks the dancing is bad, but she don't like the places where I dance nor the people I have to be with, and she is dead sore at the rooming house where I live. She don't like the girls I float around with, and that hang around my room. I can't understand it, because they are all right, and I have known them kind of girls all my life. She came up to see me one afternoon, and there was half a dozen in the room, and the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife, and she cried after they left, and said a lot of rot about me being too good to throw my life away with them sort of people. She talked and she talked to me, and I thought I would try to work again, not but what dancing ain't work and there ain't nothing wrong with it either, but there is a hard crowd down at Kelley's, and sometimes it kinda makes me sick. She talked to me a lot about Billy, and said it will make a great difference in his life if he can look back to his folks as being respectable. I myself don't see why he should be any prouder of his aunt being a servant than he would be if she was a dancing girl, and I get thirty per for dancing, and only six little bucks for housework. I stayed awake two nights thinking about it, wondering if I was getting tough and didn't know it, cause things that I don't think nothing about at all, Mrs. Smith thinks awful, and she says that the longer you live in that kind of life and with people who have no "ideals" -- whatever them is, one is just bound to go down. I don't want to go down, and I don't want to get so I will think crookedness is right, and that decent people are wrong, so I just piped it out to myself as I lay awake at night that I would give the honest work job another chance.

I answered an "ad" in the paper. I got a place up on West End Avenue. I stayed there two months, then I had bad luck again. I liked the place real well, and the people liked me, and I suppose I would have been there yet, if I hadn't of cut my hand, because, take it from me, Kate I am a dandy housekeeper and I like it too. I can't imagine nothing nicer than having a little home of your own and taking care of it yourself. It even give me a little thrill to walk into some body else's kitchen and see it all clean and nice, the dishes and the glasses shining, and the pretty white cloth on the table, and a bird singing in a cage before the window, and know that all looked so home-like cause I made it so. If somebody else's kitchen can make me feel that way, if I had one of my own, I suppose I'd just naturally bust. The woman I worked for was one of those sort of no-good women who ain't bad or who ain't good, who is just nothing. She didn't do a thing around the house, didn't even take care of her own clothes. She read a little in the morning, then went down town every afternoon of her life, either to the theatres or to the restaurants or shopping. Then at night as often as she could, she made her poor husband put on his dress clothes and go somewhere with her. They use to scrap a lot about it, as he was tired and generally wanted to put on a pair of old slippers and set and smoke and read. Sometimes I use to wonder what she done to earn her board, as she wasn't as much of a help as a wife of a crook generally is. Even you, Kate, used to pass the leather on when Jim pinched one, which was doing your share in buying your meal ticket. She was dippy on the dancing, and women used to come in the afternoon and dance with the victrola. I didn't let her know that I danced at first.

One night I was a cutting bread and the knife slipped and cut my hand between my thumb and first finger. The woman was awful nice about it, and kept me on for two weeks. It didn't seem to get no better and the doctor thinks I poisoned it. I didn't have the nerve to stay there without doing something, so one day when she and some of her friends were dancing like a lump of cheese, I told her I would learn her the dance if she wanted me to, and -- gee, didn't those females work me after that! They didn't care nothing about the housework. It could go hang, but morning, night and noon I was a holding some fat lady or some tall lady or some short one from breaking her neck, as she tried to do the Castle Glide or the Maxixe. I must say my boss was generous, she was perfectly willing to loan me to all her friends and they grabbed after me like a cat after a mouse, cause they was getting five-dollar lessons for nothing. I stayed two weeks and I lost six pounds and my hand didn't heal none and I didn't see where I was doing any better being a private dancing teacher for a lot of fool women who really think no better than a lot of the girls I had to go with, but who only know how to say it better. Here I was working harder for six a week and at the same kind of work, than I would be if I was dancing at thirty, so I told the woman I must go. I spent all my money with the doctor and I didn't know what to do, as I didn't want to go back to my room. Mrs. Smith was awful nice and told me to come with her. I did and I am there now. My hand is a little better but I still can't do much work and have to keep it tied up. I can't wash dishes, nor do nothing where it will get wet.

Billy has learned his letters and he knows a lot of stories, especially Bible stories out of a book that is full of pictures. He is awful funny. He was showing me the book the other day, and he come to an old man with long whiskers and I said, "Who is that old guy, Billy?" and he looked at me so shocked and said, "Why, aunt Nannie, where have you been? That is Moses," and he told me all about him and the Israelites which is another name for Jews. I said if he has got anything to do with Jews, I orter know something about them, cause there ain't much else in New York, yet they ain't much in my line, as I just naturally hit the Irish.

Do you remember Rosie O'Grady who got married about three years ago? Well, she is only twenty years old now. She has got a kid and supporting it herself. That fellow she married was a coke fiend, and she fired him, and she is doing real well. Her brother is a driver at McCreey's, and between them they hire a little flat down on 20th Street and her mother takes care of the baby and they are real happy. I went down to see her the other night. A lot of women live there who scrub offices or go out washing or do any kind of day work they can get. Most every one of them support a drunken husband. One woman next door to Rosie has both her husband and her brother on her hands, and her brother has been full for three months and that poor woman goes out washing to give these good-for-nothing men their food. I'd let their stomachs grow to their back bone before I'd feed them. You see an awful lot of drink down around Eighth Avenue, and it seems like it is done by the men that most need the money. Yet I suppose when they are out on the wagon all day in the cold and the wet, that a saloon looks awful nice and warm and the free lunch tastes mighty good. They can't afford to go to the restaurants, even cheap ones, so they go to the saloon and drink that rotten whiskey that drives them crazy. That is one thing I never saw no fun in, and I must say for you, Kate, that with all the rotten crowd you run with, you didn't take to booze nor dope. If you hadn't just naturally not known the difference between what belonged to you and what belonged to the other man, you might have been a pretty respectable member of society. I tell you I am watching Billy mighty close to see that he don't have too small fingers. By the looks of him now, the way he is growing, his hands are going to be like hams, and if he ever got them in another man's pocket, he would never get them out again.

I can't send you no money. I tell you I am absolutely flat strapped. I hocked my two rings and I even sold my dancing slippers. I ain't paid Mrs. Smith for Billy's board in most a month, and I know they need the money. Cheer up, old girl, you only have a short time now. I keep a trying to think what you can do when you come out, but I don't seem to light on nothing you would like. Anyway, you know I am thinking of you.

Yours, Nan.




XIV


Dear Kate:

I am worried to death. I don't know what to do and my hand don't seem to get well. I haven't got a cent to my name, I owe Mrs. Smith six weeks' board money for Billy, and I have been eating off her for three weeks. She can't afford to feed me, and every mouthfull I take chokes me. I know they are hard up, cause I caught her crying the other day. Her husband is awful nice, but he ain't got much sense and his business in life is teaching not trying to raise vegetables. She says she won't hear me going back to dancing, but I don't see what else I can do. My hand don't affect my feet. I was over town the other day and saw my old dancing partner, Fred Keeney. He said we can get a job at the Cafe Boulevard and I am crazy to try it. Yet if I could work, I would cut the whole thing out, cause Mrs. Smith is right when she says that dancing ain't bad, just the bum crowd you have got to go with. And I am up against it more than most of the girls, cause nearly all of them have homes, but everybody seems to know or finds out mighty sudden that I am your sister, and it ain't up to me then to go in for the heavy respectable. Gee, Kate you have got a reputation! You must have had a lot of newspaper advertising. Nobody ever says I am Nan Lane, they just say I am Kate Lane's sister. Then they look at me as if I was going to take a bite out of them. That is why it is more comfortable for me to keep with the old crowd, cause they don't throw a fit every time your name is mentioned.

Oh, I am sure distracted. I've walked the floor nights till I wore a path in the carpet. What with my hand aching and me wondering what in the world I ought to do, I can't sleep. I go out in the afternoon and lie down in the woods and if I knew something to pray to, I would sure get right down on my knees and ask it to tell me which way to turn. I have been in Mrs. Smith's room twice when they have what they call family worship. It didn't seem to do me much good but I bowed my head as I saw them do. Why, if they wanted to stand on their heads and meow like cats, I would bark an accompaniment cause I like them so.

Mrs. Smith cries every time I speak of the dancing, but I can't live on charity for the rest of my life and I am pestered to death for money. When I was coming out of Kelley's the other day, I saw father and of course, he give me a touch. He never shows up unless he wants something. Oh, I hate him, Kate. When I saw his shifty old eyes I just turned sick. Every time I see him I think of the kicks and the cuffs we kids got whenever he come round, which, thank goodness, wasn't often. Do you remember how happy we was when we went down to court and heard him get that seven years' stretch? That was the finest present the judge could give us, and when we got back to the room I remember we just hugged each other and danced round and round and made up a song with the chorus, "Pa's got seven years, we ain't glad, oh, no." You gave a party that night, and we almost got pulled for being so noisy. I wonder what mother was like. What kind of a woman she could have been to have seen anything in him. You must be something like her, cause you stick to Jim and you know what I think of him. I suppose being married to a man does something to a woman because I know a lot of nice women that stick to good-for-nothing bums because they are married to them. As for me, I don't suppose I ever will be married cause none of the crowd I know now for mine and I don't have much chance to meet the Henry Van Dykes or the John T. Wanamakers.

Well this ain't telling me what to do. What will I do? I am near crazy. Well -- I can always go to bed, good night.

Nan.




XV


Dear Kate:

Well, I am back at the old work and it is all right. I have been dancing in the best restaurants in New York, and what do you think, Kate, I am going to dance at the Winter Garden. The manager there saw my poppy dance the other night, and he is giving me a dance. I can still come back and dance at twelve o'clock in the restaurant. Fred Kelly, my dancing partner, is crazy glad. Will Henderson nearly cried. He said, "You have got your chance, Nan, you have got your chance." I offered to give him part of my salary because if he had not thought out all the pretty dances, him and the artist chap, I never could have piped them out myself. But he won't take a cent. He is dead square, and not a half bad fellow, and I have been trying to get him to take the cure. I offered to pay all expenses if he would go up to that dope cure joint at White Plains, and sometimes he says he will, then again says he won't. You can't trust a person who takes dope. Sometimes he shows up every night and plays just beautiful, then again we don't see him for ten days. Fred Kelly is so tickled at this chance to work in the good places, that he has braced up and seems a different fellow. He used to drink a lot and one time when he was tanked up, he had to throw me from one arm to the other in the dance, and he let me fall and hurt my back so bad, I could hardly move for a week. It gave me an awful scare and I had a good heart to heart talk with him. I told him he either had to cut out the booze or cut out working with me, cause you can't do the two things and do both well. Oh, I am glad that I have left the joints and I am proud of myself. I have worked awful hard and something inside of me has always said I would win out, and it is winning out, because there ain't no bigger thing in my line than dancing at the Winter Garden. They are going to advertise me, Kate, and they call me Nancy Lane. Sounds kinda pretty, doesn't it? I got some of the nicest clothes you ever saw. My new dancing slippers is made to order, and I got some pretty things for my hair, though I think it looks better without anything in it, as it is hard to match the color.

Mrs. Smith and the children came over the other afternoon to see the toys. I bought the kids some things, then we went to a place and had ice cream sodas and sundaes until I bet two babies went to sleep that night with a stomach-ache.

Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. I got a funny present. Do you remember Jenny who was sick about a year ago, and whose mother come from Iowa or Kansas or somewhere to get her? Well, I got a package the other day about the size of a house and when I opened it there was a bed quilt in it made of little pieces of colored calico set around with white pieces. Jenny's mother wrote me a beautiful letter saying she made it herself for me out of pieces of cloth she had saved from her family's dresses. I put it on the bed, and gee, it was the funniest looking thing you ever saw. It didn't seem to belong to 28th Street anymore than the old lady did. It was funny to watch the girls when they come into the room. Them who had been born on the sidewalks like me whooped when they saw it, and made a lot of fun of it, but the girls who had come from the country looked at it different and a sort of change come over their faces. One girl who is in the chorus at the Columbia, set down by the bed and run her hand up and down the cover and then put her head on it and cried, and Mary Crosby who comes somewhere from Pennsylvania and has only been in the quarter about three months, looked at it straight for about five minutes without speaking and then turned and left the room. I followed her out into the hall and said, "What is the matter, Mary?" And she said in a queer choked way, "Good-bye, Nan, me for that little room down in old P-a. I've got enough." And I'll be darned if she didn't go home.

It was nice to see you, Kate, and you are looking real well. You have got the only soft snap there, but I can trust you for getting anything that is laying around easy. I am off to work, going to try a new dance on to-night.

Nan.




XVI


Dear Kate:

I opened your trunk and got out the clothes you wrote about. I give the grey dress to Mary, and the coat to Mrs. Keenan. There are a lot of things that you won't be able to use when you come out. Hadn't I better give them to some one? It seems a shame to have them laying there no use to any body.

I had a dandy day yesterday. Mildred Carter met me in a shop and we spent the whole day together. You know she is married. Married some swell man and lives in a fine place on Riverside Drive. She is just as pretty as ever. No wonder she was in all the Broadway shows. She hasn't a bit of sense, but her tiny figure has the most perfect curves, and her face and eyes are just like a wondering child. She makes me think of Billy. She has a baby two years old, and if it wasn't for him, she would go back to the stage. She is awful lonesome up in her fine home, and she misses the lights and the fun and the pretty dresses. She is crazy over the clothes the girls are wearing in the new Field show, and I think she misses the suppers after the shows when a lot of the girls used to go with the Johnnies and sort of joy ride. There wasn't nothing wrong with the parties, but her mother-in-law thinks it is awful to even mention them. A pretty girl like Mildred could have four suppers a night if she wanted to, because lots of men like to take a show girl out. They wear pretty clothes and attract attention and are funny, have lots of up-to-date slang, know all the new songs, and don't expect a man to be clever. All that they want of him is to pay the supper. And they are perfectly willing to pay for it if you don't expect them to talk of art or the uplifting of the drama. Just look pretty and say fool things and whistle popular songs and say things that don't make their head ache to answer. I tell Mrs. Smith who, like so many women, think it is always wrong to go to supper, that it is done by heaps of girls who are on the level.

I am kind of sorry for Mildred. She is pretty but nothing but a little butterfly, and Tom's folks don't like her, and make little dabs at her about being in the chorus, and they are trying to educate her. Read to her from a man named Emerson and Tennyson and a lot of high brows that put a kink in her brain that lasts for days. And they think the theatre is all wrong except things by Ibsen and Shakespeare and a man named Shaw, and of course Mildred thinks, and so do I, that a funny show where the comedian makes a monkey of himself and the girls change their dresses twenty times, and do stunts under the spot light is a lot decenter than those nasty shows where people turn their feelings inside out, especially their private feelings that ought not be talked about in public. She is bound to go back and I had a long talk with her. I told her that his folks might take the baby away from her, and she nearly went crazy. She turned on me like a cat, and said, "What do you mean?" I said that they would like her and Tom to separate and they would take the baby. She could not speak for a minute then she blazed at me:

"Take my baby, take Tommy? But he is mine. He is my baby. No one can take him away from me. I couldn't live without him." I saw that was the only way to get her switched off from going back, cause she met some stage manager the other day who offered her a job, so I rubbed it in; I don't know whether I am right, but it worked with her all right. After a while she sat down and talked sense, and I am sorry for her. She said sort of pitiful, "Tom is in newspaper work, and I am alone nights and I lay there alone a longing for something to be going on. I hate the dark and the being alone. Why I never used to be alone. His people don't look at my side of the question at all. They are not fair to me. I had no idea when I married Tom that his people would not like me. Every one always liked me. I had my picture in all the shop windows and people always jollying and making me laugh.

"His people make me old. All the sun goes out of the room as soon as one of them come into it. To have dinner with them is awful. I am afraid to move at the table or ask for more bread. Every one is so polite and so quiet. You can't laugh and if you should happen to put your elbow on the table, it would be a tragedy. And I have lived that life two years, and Tom blames me and looks hurt cause sometimes I want the old life. And, Nan, I see you are with him and think I am wrong. But remember I am only calling for my own. I can't help longing for it. I think it is my right to laugh and to be gay my way. I have tried to make myself over in Tom's way, but I can't. God did not make me a New England woman. All I want is the lights and the music and the laughter. I want to snuggle down in a big chair and have somebody make me laugh, laugh, laugh, and never be told it is bad form to laugh too loud. Everything I do is bad form, and oh, Nan, I don't want to do anything wrong, I just want to live."

Poor little devil, I am sorry for her, but she must stay where she is. I am going to get hold of Tom some day and tell him to side step so much family and take Mildred out more and give her a good time her way.

But we had had an awful good time until we got to talking about the baby, when she got scared and hurried home to see if anything had happened to him. We had lunch together at Bustanoby's, and went to that swell Castle Garden for tea. She treated cause it cost $2.50 per and that was too rich for my blood. I danced with her and she looked awful cunning, and I learnt her some new steps, altho' I never dance with women, as I don't think it looks nice. One of the dancers who runs the place came over and asked me to dance with him, and everybody stopped to watch us. Gee, I wish I could get a place in one of them swell places, but I will, you just watch me do it. I had on a pretty new dress and a hat that is a dream, and silk stockings and new patent Colonials and I felt some. Ain't it funny how everybody is dancing, I wonder how long it will last. I must get in before everyone gets over the bug. It sure can't last forever. Seems awful funny to see a lot of old men and grannies fluffing around a room, when they ought to be home rubbing their backs with Omega Oil. One old lady, sure she was sixty, danced with the professional at Bustanoby's, and he told me she had a table there every day, and about three nights a week, and dances till closing time. I heard her tell some friends, "I told John that if he didn't want to learn he could stay home and go to bed, I am going to dance," and she is sure a dame of her word.

What do you think? Fred Kelly, my dancing partner, is engaged to an awful nice girl. She is crazy over him, but she is making an awful mistake. His legs are all right, but his head was just put on his neck to finish it off. There is nothing in it, and if this dancing craze goes out, he will have to run a sizzor's grinding machine to earn a living, as he couldn't even play a thinkin' part.

I went out to see Billy last Sunday and we went to church. I felt awful jay as I didn't know what to do, but I watched Mrs. Smith and done everything she done and got through all right. The kids looked so nice in their little Sunday clothes, and Billy was so good. I didn't think much of the sermon, as it didn't seem to hit anything, but I am glad the Smiths take Billy every Sunday. It may do him good, and it can't hurt him, yet it seems to me that if the preacher talked a little more about how to get help and how to peg along every day, that it would do people more good than to talk about some old guy -- he called him Isaih -- who has been dead a long time. When Billy gets a little bigger, I would like him to sing in church. He would look lovely in a long white night dress, and his eyes and hair would show up wonderful. I asked the Smiths about it, and they said that they would get both Paul and Billy in the choir if I wanted them to. I would like it, but still I am kinda scared that it might put ideas of the stage in his head and no theatre for our Billy. I want him to be a working man of some kind. A man that builds things, or invents, or writes. I want him to do something and be something, not just amuse a lot of fool people who can't amuse themselves. When you come home we will pipe up something great for that son of yours, and we will stick to it and make him be something. There is a chance for every one in this nice big fat world of ours, and Billy will come out on top some way, or his aunt Nan will know the reason why.

Lots of love, Nan.




XVII


Dear Kate:

I am having the best time of any girl in the whole world. Oh, Kate, I do love to dance, cause dancing is just a saying the nice-thoughts inside of you with your body instead of your lips. And I think when you get better thoughts you do better work. I know mine is different somehow, cause even old, fat Casey who never throws you a decent word if he can help it, said I'd do. When I used to dance in the joints around 14th Street and over on Eighth Avenue I danced just the things I knew then, which was cafes filled with cigarette smoke, booze on the tables and puffy, bad faced men staring at me. My dancing was not good, just making my feet go, but now I think about other things and I dance the buds coming out on the pussey willows, the dog wood blossoms and the ripples of the lake when the moon shines on it. I hear the crickets and the katey-dids and the little peepers from the pond, and instead of hard-faced girls puffing cigarette smoke into men's faces, I see Billy with his curls hanging round his laughing face as he runs up the long road to meet me when I come from the station. My body seems to have grown softer with my feelings and it bends more easy and I believe I have even changed my face. I don't feel that all the world is against me and that I have to fight my way through it, cause I know I am loved and trusted and there is always some one waiting for me at the gate. Why, Kate, it changes your whole life to know there is some one caring for you who won't try to do you the first chance they get, and if it makes such a difference in your feelings, it is bound to make a difference in your actions, and that is the reason when I dance, I sway and bend and turn as light as if I was a fairy one reads about in story books. It ain't dancing, it ain't work. It is just a telling all the world I'm happy.

Dancing in these better places is not bad for a girl cause the management don't make you talk to no one and won't let the men get fresh. Of course I get a lot of notes and bids to dinner, but I don't mind them cause I have had them all my life. The only difference now, the spelling is good in these and they are supposed to come from gentlemen. Yet I tear them up just as easy as I did the other kind. Mrs. Smith is always scared about me. I showed her a mash note once and she sure threw a fit, but I tell her she don't need to worry about me, I know how to take care of myself all right, as I have been doing it all my life. I seen too much crookedness and I have seen that it don't pay. I never knew a girl yet that went the limit but landed hard some day on the pavement. Even you was straight, Kate, your only trouble is that your hands are too small, and when you married Jim and he showed you how easy they went in other people's pockets, you kinda took to it natural. I suppose that is because of father who is a born dip and it had to come out again in some of the family. I wonder if lots of people ain't crooked cause they don't know no better. I have been thinking a lot lately about education. Mr. Smith was a teacher in a boy's school in England, and he talks sometimes about the right kind of learning, and I sit by and listen trying to hear all I can that will help Billy. Mr. Smith says that if a boy has got the right kind of education, he will just naturally choose the right things in life. He don't believe because Billy's father and his grandfather are dips that that is any reason that Billy should be one. He says, give him the right kind of schooling and teachers that will understand him or show him what kind of books to read and tell him the great things that have been done by other men, and that he can do it if he tries, that it will make him ambitious and he will naturally choose the right kind of a life instead of the wrong kind. He will go with the right kind of people, instead of the wrong kind.

He wants to make Paul an electrical engineer, but first he wants him to go to college and get a lot of book-learning, so when he is by himself he will be willing to sit by the fire and read some book he loves instead of chasing down the Great White Way to find amusement. He says a man must know something besides his business or when he ain't working he won't know what to do with himself. Them is the men, he says, that fill the night restaurants and sets in the front row at the Burlesques. He believes that if men were educated in the way they orter be, there would not be no crookedness. That the upper story men and the dips and the safe blowers most always ain't got no education, and they are crooked because they don't know nothing different. He says ignorance makes a man not able to tell right from wrong. I told him I knew lots of dips who were clever, and he said, "Yes, that is so, but if they had been able to train that cleverness in the right way when they was young, they would not be dips now. They would use their brains in building up some business that was on the square. They ain't never had the right chance, so they can't be blamed." That is so, part of it, Kate. Lots of people I know, feel it in their bones that crookedness don't pay, but they don't know nothing else, cause they got in wrong at the start. Now if it is all true that he says and education will make a man on the level, then me for education. Billy is going to have it if I have to pour it down him with a spoon. Billy is going to have just as good a chance as Paul. I am getting to be such a tight wad that I am losing all my friends. I won't buy a drink for no one, and I even shove the girls sweet Caporals instead of Melachrino's when they come up to my room. Why, I squeeze a nickle till it hollers, and I wear out three dollars of shoe leather chasing up the street to find an eating joint where they will fill me up for a quarter. Any way, Kate, your son is going to have a lot of letters writ after his name, if his aunt Nan don't get the cholly hoss in her legs, and lose her thirty bucks per week that she is making now.

Good-bye, Kate, I am coming to see you soon, and I will bring you some pictures of the kid that we took when he went in swimming. He can float on his back and Mr. Smith nearly scares a lung out of me learning him to dive. I am thinking of you always.

Nan.




XVIII


Dear Kate:

I went down to Miner's the other night and saw Mable Lee. I was in her dressing room with her most two hours. She is a near star now, and don't she put on airs! She has a dressing room of her own, and any mere chorus girl that puts her nose in her door gets a lady-like call-down that you can hear to 42nd Street. She forgot that she ever worked at Coney with us, and rustled beer between acts, and that ain't the only thing that has happened to her memory. She says she is only twenty one, and she was twenty one when we were playing together at the Casino and I was doing a kid act. That was ten years ago. I must say it for her, she gets it over because she has got new red hair and when she gets her face fixed up and her long ear rings on, which is about all she wears in this new act, she looks about sixteen.

I danced the other night at a party. There was a lot of swell folks there, women with low neck dresses and real diamonds. Gee, if Anthony Comstock had come in he'd a got busy when he piped off some of the clothes. They acted as if they were trying to be tough, set around and smoked and acted like street girls dressed up. Funny, ain't it, street girls try to act like real ladies, and real ladies try to act like street girls. I suppose everybody wishes sometimes they could be what they ain't, and so they play at the other thing. I wondered as I looked at them if they had homes or babies, and if they ever set in front of the fire and talked of things like Mr. and Mrs. Smith does.

Sometimes Mr. Smith reads at night from a Bible and he read the other night something written by a Jewish gentleman named Moses. I heard it all one evening when I was dancing. It just come back to me like a soft voice:

"As an eagle that stirreth up her nest, that fluttereth over her young. He spread abroad his wings, he took them, he bare them on his pinions."

Now, ain't that pretty? I thought after I went to bed about the big bird that broke up her nest, as Mr. Smith told to me, and pushed her babies out so as they could learn to fly, and then went under them with her wings all stretched out wide to catch them if they fell. That is just like a mother, ain't it? They want their children to go in the world and learn, yet they would put out their bodies if they could for them to fall on when things went wrong. I suppose it is because children are so helpless and their mothers must care for them and keep them from everything that is hard and so it brings out all the love and sweetness in a woman's heart and makes her give her life for her own. Anyway, I heard it a humming in my heart along with the music, and I didn't dance my dance at all, I just danced old Moses, and I will never see a kike again with the same eyes.

I got another new dress. Gee, it is like pulling teeth to spend the money. Will Henderson made up another dance for me, and I had to have the clothes to go with it. He is a wonder, Kate, a sure wonder! Even when he is half full of dope he sets down to that old piano and makes it talk. Some times he sets for half an hour with his head in his hands, and then he raises up and has a funny look in his eyes and plays such music that all the crowd stops laughing and listens to him. I can dance anything he plays, cause he makes the music talk to me. Sometimes it is country fields and flowers and birds and running brooks, and then it changes to dull wet nights beneath the street lamps with sad eyed girls and bad-faced men and hungry eager people all looking for something they have missed, and they go into cabarets like this I dance in, filled with smoke and laughs that only come from lips not from the heart -- and I whirl and dance until I am mad from dizziness. And then the music quiets down again and sadness comes and you know the searchers have not found what they were looking for, and they, wander out into the dim grey light of morning and disappear like mist upon the lake.

Oh, Kate, I love to dance! I hope I will never grow old, I want to die a dancing.

Yours, Nan.




XIX


Dear Kate:

I have not time to write much, but I am so glad I must tell some one, and I know you will be glad with me. I am going to dance at the Winter Garden at last. We are going to have our try out, and if we take, we will sign a contract like real professionals. I can't talk it to you, I can't say all I am feeling, but if you was here I would dance it to you.

Yours, Nan.




XX


Dear Kate:

Just as I was a getting ready to go up to the Winter Garden for our try out, I got a letter from Mrs. Smith saying that Billy had the diptheria. She said, "don't come," that she would let me know all the time how he was. Fred come to take me up and I told him I was not going, that I was going to Billy, and he almost went crazy. He said, "Why, Nan, don't you see you will lose your chance if you don't show up now, they will never give it to you again." I said, "I don't care, I am going to Billy." He nearly cried. He said, "Nan, you have been working two years trying to get on Broadway, and if they had told you six months ago that you had a chance to go on at the Garden, you would a said they were liars or you would a died for joy. And now you throw it all over for a kid." I said, I didn't care, I was a going to Billy. He talked and he talked and then he went down and phoned for Will Henderson who come over and talked to me. They made me feel that I was doing them a rotten trick, cause Will wrote the music and was going to have his name on the program, and he said that if I didn't show up, he would lose the biggest chance he ever had, to get back decent again. So I gave in if they would promise to get me to the train as soon as our turn was over.

Well, we went and the dance sure did go. I came back eight times and I never saw anybody so tickled in his life as Will to think that he can have his name on a program again. He says he will go out to that dope joint in White Plains to-morrow, cause he believes he still has got a chance of making good. It does put heart into you when you are down and out to feel that perhaps there is something still ahead of you if you will only buck up.

After my turn the manager came into the dressing room and offered us season's work. I think it was the happiest minit of my life. I have worked for it ever since I was a kid and I just seemed to know that some day I would be on top. Why, think of it, Kate, I am going to have my name, Nancy Lane, on a program of the biggest dancing place in America, and I will be dancing along side of girls from Europe and real actresses. I felt all choked up and I was dead scared that fat manager would see how tickled I was. I am going to do three dances, and talk about wages -- no, it is salary now -- say, when I die I will leave a Foundation fund for poor dancers who have caught rheumatism in their lower limbs. I'll bet you to-morrow that everybody from 14th Street to 42nd Street will be trying to give me a touch. That is a sure sign you are getting along well in the world, when your friends try to borrow money off you, but Hetty Green will be a willful waster compared to me, cause I am going to plant it all in the saving's bank for you and Billy.

Good-bye, old lady, I am off for New Jersey. Even when I was a dancing and the people was a giving me a hand, I was a wondering how Billy was, and every once in a while his face would come before me and nearly shut out the lights.

Your happy Nan.




XXI


Dear Kate:

We are out of quarantine. I sent you word twice that Billy was all right, and he is getting well, but poor little Paul died. When I got out here that Monday night, the doctor was in the house and told me that if I come in he would have to put me in quarantine and I couldn't leave. It kinda paralyzed me for a minit, cause I thought of that fat Garden contract, and how all my chances would be gone because you can't talk to theatre managers about kids or diptheria, as that don't fill the house. Then I thought of Will and Fred and how it would knock Fred out of a job and I kinda got sick and set down quick. I asked the doctor how Billy was, and he said they was both pretty sick, then I said, "To Hell with contracts," and I took off my hat and I'm here.

Oh, it has been awful, Kate. Did you ever see a sick baby, when he couldn't tell what was the matter with him and lay just fighting for his breath and you not able to help him, just a standing by with helpless hands, promising God that if your kid ain't took this time you will sure do something for Him if you ever get a chance? Billy was much worse than Paul for a time, and I was scared when I seen him lyin' on the pillow with his face all red with fever, and he didn't seem to know me. The doctor put a tube in their throats and it worked all right with Billy, but it was no good for Paul, and he died just at daylight, Wednesday morning. Oh, Kate, my heart just broke for his mother. She didn't cry nor nothing, and when they got her away from the baby she come in my room where Billy was and she looked down at him for a long time and then -- she cursed him. It would a made your blood run cold to hear her talk. She said in a low, hate voice, "You, a child of the streets, a baby nobody wants, you are left and my baby is taken. You, -- you will grow up to be a professional thief like your father. They say your mother is in prison, and yet God leaves you. There ain't no God! I tell you it is all a lie, there ain't no God!" I was a setting in a chair at the foot of the bed and she turned and looked at me as if she didn't know me. Then all at once she dropped on her knees at my feet and put her face in my lap and said, "Oh, Nannie, why didn't God take me too? How can I live the to-morrows." And Oh, Kate, if you have never seen a mother when her only baby is lying in the next room white and cold, you ain't never seen real sorrow. She set on the floor at my feet nearly an hour then she wanted me to go in and help her dress little Paul. We put on the new suit I bought him for his birthday, and he looked just as if he was asleep.

They buried him in a little grave yard on the hillside, and Mrs. Smith can see it from her bed room, which I think is bad for her. She acts queer and won't come in the room where Billy is, and I never speak his name to her. He is getting along all right now, but it turns me cold to think what might have happened.

I will send you word as often as I can, so don't be worried.

Nan.




XXII


Dear Kate:

I am staying to-night at Lake Rest and it seems like home. I am a setting in front of a fire of logs in a great big fire-place, and the flicker of the fire and the ticking of the clock seem a sort of music to me. Oh, Kate, it is wonderful here now! It is a little cold and the hills around the Lake instead of being green, are all scarlet and brown. The maple trees look as if they had put on their dancing dresses and the beach turns to gold when the sun strikes it. The bitter-sweet has little yellow berries which burst open and show the red centres, and the sumac is all rouged standing stiff and straight as if waiting for the calcium to be turned on it. The brown of the oak trees seem only made to show off the green of the pines and hemlock and spruce, and the brakes that was so green a month ago, are now all crisping up and dying along with the golden rod and the purple astors. The ground is covered with a thick brown carpet of oak leaves that rustle when you walk through them, as if the fairies Mrs. Smith reads about, was trying to speak to you.

It rained yesterday when I come, sort of an unhappy rain that made little ripples on the water and the Lake was covered with grey shadows that said as plain as they could. "There is something deep and wonderful below me here that I am covering up with my veil of mystery." I was disappointed that I couldn't see the moon, but he broke out of the clouds a while ago and touched their edges with silver. I am sure it ain't the same sun and moon shining here that shines on city streets. This morning I woke up early and from the ground to the sky there was nothing but a sea of color. It looked as if the world was on fire over there beyond the hills. It waved and rippled a great crimson thing without a shadow, and then it changed to colors which I have never seen before and I felt I was looking into a world of beauty that drawed the heart right out of me. The sky above grew bluer and lighter with only here and there a cloud till it was lost in a great cup that closed down over the earth like a cap of silver.

Oh, Kate, I love it here, I wish I never had to go back. After I have had a night here with the quiet and the peace that seems to be everywhere, the restaurants, and the smoke and the people make me sick. But after a couple of nights I slide back into it again, and like it, I suppose because I have never knowed anything else. But I believe that if I had a home like this I would never go to the city and rush around with the women with tired faces and loud voices that seem to be trying to hurry to finish something before they die. I sometimes set and listen to women who seem to be so busy doing nothing, and when I hear them say, "I am rushed to death" or "I haven't time to do a thing," I wonder what would happen if they didn't do it. What is the difference anyway? If they died to-morrow they wouldn't care it wasn't done, and if they don't die, they will have time to do it, if it is the thing to be done.

I am tired of it all. Mrs. Smith says I have been working too hard and I am blue because I am tired. Anyway I want to get way down in a big easy chair and watch the fire and hear the wind in the trees and once in a while, hear the acorns as they drop on the roof. That is all the music I want. I never want to hear an orchestra, and I am sure that some day I will put my foot through the big drum that keeps time for the dancing. I wish you liked the country, Kate, and we could get a little place and have a pig and some chickens and a duck and I wouldn't never have to see a pavement or a street light.

I am thinking of you, Kate, though I am awful tired.

Nan.




XXIII


Dear Kate:

I know you will be dead sore at me, but I could not do nothing else and perhaps some day you will understand why I done it. Anyway, I have given Billy his chance. He has got just as good a show as any boy of growing up and being a good man, and he won't ever need to know that there are such things as thieves and prisons. He'll learn to think of Mrs. Smith as mother and he won't ever know that his real mother was in the stir. He will think of his aunt Nan, as a little red headed girl who loved him and brought him toys, and he won't never have bitterness or wickedness come into his life through us. He is going away.

I will tell you all about it, so as you can get the worst of your madness off before you come out, cause I know when you read this you will want to kill me, and perhaps you will, but I don't care, I have done the only thing I knew to do for Billy.

After Mrs. Smith's baby died, she wouldn't look at Billy for a long time. Then she got to holding him and rocking him to sleep at night, and after a while she couldn't let him out of her sight. I was awful glad, cause I thought perhaps she would be always glad to have him, and then one day I heard them talk about going to Australia. Mrs. Smith didn't like the house since Paul was gone. She stops and listens as if she expects to hear him round the corner, and she don't want to go in his room, and she acts queer. Mr. Smith thinks that if she got away where everything was different, she would forget sooner, or if she didn't forget she wouldn't remember with so much pain.

His brother wrote from Australia and asked them to come there a long time ago. He is in the sheep business and doing very well. They talked it over and talked it over, and now they have decided to go. It most killed me, cause this is the only home I ever knew, and I didn't know what would become of Billy. I felt I couldn't take him back to the room. I said to Mrs. Smith one day that it kinda kicked my feet from under me to think of Billy losing his home and the mother and things he has had for two years. She looked at me a long time and then she said, "Nan, Billy don't need to lose his home." I said, "What do you mean?" "I will take him with me," she said. It took my breath away for a minit to think of losing Billy, as he is all I got, and I guess she saw it in my face cause she said quickly, "You can come too." I did not say nothing for a long time. I thought that this was my chance, I would get away from the old crowd, get away from all the things I hate and yet seemed kinda drawed to. I could leave this life that may be will take me down and down, and Billy and I could commence over again in a new country. Then I thought of you, Kate, and how you are coming out soon, and if both Billy and me was gone, you would have nothing to hold to, and I know you, and I know you would go straight to Hell. There would be no half way place for you, you would keep on sliding. And, Kate, I couldn't leave you. Billy can get on without me, he won't never know no difference, but you would be all alone, and it's hard enough to try to be decent when once you've been in stir -- even with friends to help you, and when you come out, Kate, I am going to be waiting for you at the gate, and you are going to make a fight and win out and live decent.

I thought of all this when I sat there looking at Mrs. Smith and then I said, "No, I can't go, but you can take Billy." She said, "Nannie, I won't take a baby unless I can adopt him and make him really mine. I don't want any father and mother to come and take him when I have grown to love him." I said nothing cause I knew neither you or Jim would give him up unless you saw something in it for yourselves, and these people are poor people and could not afford to pay you nothing. Then Mrs. Smith moved over close to me and took my hand and said, "Nan, I am going to say something that perhaps will hurt your feelings. Won't you give Billy to me?" I said, "Why, I would love to, but I can't, he ain't my Billy." Then Mrs. Smith said, "Now, don't be angry at me, I have never said anything, but I have never believed that story about Billy being your sister's baby. Isn't he your little boy?" At first I didn't understand her, and then it all come over me what she meant. She thought I had lied to her, thought I had made up that story about you being Billy's mother. At first I was mad, not because she thought Billy was mine, cause that don't make no difference one way or another, but I hated to think she thought I had lied to her. She saw I was hurt and she held my hand a little tighter and said, "Remember, child, I don't blame you, and I don't think none the less of you. I have loved you for two years and I will love you always, but if you want me to take Billy, I must take him as his mother." Then she got up and kissed me and said, "Don't answer me to-night, think it over and tell me to-morrow morning." They left me alone that evening and I sat before the fire till midnight, and when I went up to my room I stood by the window and looked over the lake till the sun come up. And then it all come to me. I would give Billy his chance. In a few months you were coming out, in a year Jim would be out. You may settle down and be straight, but Jim -- never. Billy would grow up with crooks, would live around in little cheap rooms, getting no education, playing on the streets nights, knowing nothing but dirt all his life and quite likely spend most of his time after he grew up in prison, all through no fault of his, but just because he didn't have a chance. If he could go with Mrs. Smith he could live in a great big out-of-doors country, where people have clean thoughts and live clean lives, and instead of eating out of the garbage pails of life, he could eat in a clean dining room with a white cloth on the table.

I went down in the morning and I did not say nothing until after breakfast, then I said to Mrs. Smith, "Yes, you are right, I lied to you. Billy is my baby." She come over and kissed me and said, "I knew it, dear, and I will always like to think of you as his mother." I said to her quick so she would not know how bad I felt, "What must I do to give you Billy?" And she said, "We will go to the lawyer's and he will make out the papers." So we went and I swore that I was his mother and that his father was dead, and I give Billy to Mrs. Smith and when he come back he was her little boy. Oh, Kate, I can't write more, my heart is nearly broke.

Nan.




XXIV


Dear Kate:

Billy is gone. He sailed away at ten o'clock this morning. I went over to the boat with them and I didn't say nothing. I don't think even Mrs. Smith knew how bad I felt. It seemed when I saw that boat pulling out that it was taking all the world with it, and as I stood on the dock watching Billy dressed in his little blue suit, his pretty gold curls all around his face, I just wanted to die. The Smiths and Billy are the only good things I ever had in my life, and it seemed at the last I couldn't let them go. Even the morning of the sailing Mrs. Smith wanted me to go with them, and I felt at first I had to go, that I couldn't stay on here and look all the days and nights in the face and keep on living. Then I knew it would not be playing the game. You do need me, don't you, Kate? You won't be dead sore about Billy, will you, and some day you will understand?

I have just walked the streets all day, I didn't want to go up to the room, and I am writing this in Kelly's restaurant. I begin to work to-morrow night at the Cafe Boulevard, and perhaps when I am dancing I won't remember. You will be out in a few weeks and we will be together and happy again. You won't be sore at me, say you won't, Kate?

Oh, Kate, I wish things had been different, so we could have kept him. It is Hell to be crooked, ain't it?

Yours, Nan.




XXV


Dear Kate:

Billy is back! I don't know hardly how I can tell you all about it, it don't seem real to me yet. Two days out from New York the ship that they was on run into another ship in a fog and everybody was saved except eighteen people, and the Smiths was lost. An officer saw Billy and threw him in a boat and the Smiths was put in another boat that was swamped. I read it in the papers first, and it said the Smiths was drowned and of course I thought Billy was with them, and I was near crazy because I thought it was all my fault. If I had not of given him to the Smiths, he would be alive still. I went down to the dock where the people who was brought in by the other boat landed, and one of the first persons I see was Billy, standing with a man and woman, looking just as natural as ever, with his curls around his face and his eyes a laughing just as if nothing had happened. I near went nutty, and made an awful fool of myself, but I was so tickled, I didn't care.

I suppose it is wrong to be so glad as I am to have him back, and I feel so bad about the Smiths, that one minit I am crying about them and the next minit I am hugging the life out of Billy to have him again. I got him up in the room and I will never let him out of my sight a minit if I can help it. I leave him with Myrtle Williams when I am at work and I hurry right home as soon as I am through. He just makes the sun shine in the old room again. He is such a big strong boy, it is all I can do to lift him over to his own side of the bed at night. I take him out in the morning and we have a long walk. We went up to the park the other day and saw the animals. I think I was as tickled with them as much as Billy was, but I guess I made a mistake taking him up there because if he had his way he would board with Miss Murphy and her baby. He seems to take to hippopotamuses and elephants and things big. I bought him all new clothes, and he looks awful cunning. Oh, Kate, he sure is one kid. And talk, why, he has got Bryan beat to a finish. I have to watch him kinda close cause girls have no sense with babies. Myrtle took him out the other afternoon when I was at work and filled him up with ice cream and candy and all kinds of stuff till he nearly died. I gave her a call-down and she said, "Well, he wanted it." I said, "Of course, he wanted it, kids want everything they see, but that is no sign they should have it. Ain't you got nothing in your head but your rat?" She got sore and then I was sorry cause she has been awful good, and I gave her my best slipper buckles to make up. But I tell you it threw a scare into me. Billy got all blue and kinda swelled up and I chased her out for a doctor and he said it was all right, and gave him some stuff and the next day Billy was nearly all right. I gave Billy a talking to and told him that if he coaxed aunt Myrtle for everything he saw that I would spank him. It was hot air, and I think he knows it, cause I couldn't bear to spank him. I only did it once and then I was so mad that I did it before I thought. He and Paul had a fight, and he pulled a big handful of Paul's hair out and made Mrs. Smith mad, and I just up and gave him a good fat spanking where it did the most good and it helped a lot. I just can't whip him, but sometimes I set him down with a thud that jars his teeth. I don't know what I will do with him, as it ain't good for him to live in one room, but I am so glad to have him that I ain't worrying much.

Write me a long letter Kate. I have been scared to see a post man come my way since I sent you the letter about Billy going away, but now, you sure can't be sore, and I will give the old man a good fat hug when I see him ambling up my stairway.

Yours, Nan.




XXVI


Dear Kate:

I have been house furnishing. No, not for myself, but for Charlie Haines who lives across the hall from me. He is an awful nice fellow and is working in the General Electric and doing real good. He told me he is getting seventy five a month now and was going to get married to a little girl he has been engaged to a long time, way off in Vermont where he used to live. We had a heart to heart talk and I asked him all about her and found she was just a nice little girl who goes to Sunday school and teaches the girls and has never been farther away from home than Brattleboro, wherever that is. He thought of taking a bigger room and rooming for a while, but I told him not to be a fool, and not to board neither. Take a little girl from the country that has always had something to do and put her in a room in a rooming house or a boarding house, and she would go crazy or get to chasing around with the lazy women who live in them places and if she was not a fine sort of girl you can't tell where she would land. A woman wants something to do, and then it ain't no life for a man to come home from work and have to chase out to a restaurant for his grub or down to a long table of folks. What he wants is to take off his coat and wash his face in the kitchen sink and put on a pair of straw slippers and set down smelling the beef steak and onions frying in his own kitchen. And they can talk without a lot of people rubbering and after supper he can help her wash the dishes, and water the geranium and then get in the morris chair and put his feet on the radiator or window sill and smoke and sing "Home sweet home." He fell for the stuff and got quite excited, but then he sort of shifted around and I tumbled to the fact that he hadn't saved much money and didn't know how to get the furniture. I said, "Now, you just trust your aunt Nancy, we will buy it on the installment plan." I found out he had only about $25 after he had payed their fare down here, cause her folks are poor, so I said, "Well, we will go look up a flat. Better get out a ways so you will get more for your money", and we found a pretty place at 207th Street for twenty dollars a month. Four rooms and bath on the fifth floor and there ain't no elevator, but they are both strong so it won't hurt them to climb the stairs, and he will be so tickled to get home nights that he won't think about them. He wanted to furnish it and have it all ready when they come back, he is going up to get her and be married at her folks', but I put the nix on that too. I said, "We will furnish the bed room and the kitchen so as you can have a place to stay, but let her pick out the fancy things like the parlor rug and the dining room table. It will make it seem more like her own," and so he done everything I said. They got back about five days ago and say, haven't we been the busy ladies! She is an awful nice little thing, has not got much sense and green -- well, Kate. Believe me, we are the funniest looking pair. I guess she makes her own clothes and her hats -- they must have been wished on her. But I like her and she is the happiest thing about the flat. She thinks it is the grandest place she ever seen. I was right about letting her pick her own things as it has given her something to do, the first few days when she was kinda lonesome for her mother and little bit afraid of Charlie. We went to a place on 125th Street and picked out the furniture, a real nice dining room table and a little side board that looks like real mahogany, and six chairs. Got a centre table and a nifty rug for the parlor and a morris chair and a rocking chair, and got the bed room furniture all white, and didn't we have fun buying kitchen things! We went to the ten-cent store and bought everything you ever heard of, from frying pans to egg beaters, and we packed them home in the subway looking like immigrants just landed. She got the grandest set of dishes, a hundred pieces for three ninety five. Each dish has got a wreath of pink roses around the edge and they would make even fried onions smell like Spring. I am going to help her make the curtains, cause lace ones don't look right in such a little place and we bought some white stuff with dots in it for six cents a yard. I can come up mornings once in a while and sew them. They didn't have money enough to pay all down, so I lent Charlie fifteen dollars and they have to pay ten dollars a month. They will get along fine. Alice is going to the market herself and I told them they ought to live for five dollars a week for the two of them, so they will save money.

Gee, it kinda made me feel all in that the flat was not mine. When you come out, Kate, let us hire a flat and you stay home and take care of Billy and do the cooking and I will hustle the dough. Wouldn't I just love to put my door key at night into a little place like they are in, and feel it was ours and go out in the kitchen and eat some Irish stew, and then set down and have a gab fest with you over what we had done all day? Well, maybe we will do it. Just want a thing bad and you will get it and I want a little place of our own some day and you and Billy with me and no fear of the police. I am waiting to hear from you.

Yours, Nan.




XXVII


Oh, Kate, but your letter made me happy. I just carry it round with me and take a peep at it every once in a while to make sure it is real. You say when setting alone you have been thinking and you want to go straight when you come out for Billy's sake. I understood how you feel about me giving him away and that it was a rotten trick for me to play you, but I didn't know what else to do then. And then you feel so glad to have him back and know you can see him again, that it has kinda braced you up. Now, perhaps if I had not give him away, and he hadn't been nearly drowned, you wouldn't have had the scare about losing him, and you wouldn't never have known how much you cared for him. Oh, Kate, I just feel it in my bones that we are going to be happy as goats when you get out. We will shake Jim someway, and anyway, it will be a long time before he is out, and we will begin over again and you will keep house for Billy and me and -- I just can't talk I am so happy. Heaven's going to have to offer a lot to coax Nancy Lane away from little old New York when all these pipes come true.

Yours, Nan.




XXVIII


Dear Kate:

I just don't know how I can tell you all about it. Jim is out and it is awful. I suppose you know it by this time in that way that you people seem to get all the news, especially any news that has to do with crooks or prisons. The papers say that him and French Louis hit one of the guards over the head with a hammer while coming from work, and got away. They hit too hard, and the guard is dead.

Well, I didn't think much about it except to be kinda sorry that Jim had made such a fool of himself as he only had a year more, and it nearly knocked my pins out from under me when I come up to my room one night and found Jim setting there. He was all in and in an awful bad way, and I said to him, "For God's sake, Jim, why did you come to me? The police will sure watch me." He said, "I couldn't help it, Nan, I am sick and broke and I got to have money and I didn't know who else to touch who wouldn't peach."

Well, I just stood with my back against the door and looked at him, with one ear ready to listen if any one come up the stairs. He sure did look tough. The year hasn't done him no good. He couldn't look even me in the face. I asked him if it was so what it said in the papers that he had killed a guard. He all broke down and said, "Honest to God, Nan, we didn't mean to croak him. We didn't hit hard enough to break a baby's head. It must a been like mush." He got up and walked up and down the room and was all in a tremble and he kept saying, "We didn't mean to croak him."

I asked him how he got in my room cause my door was locked, and he just laughed and said, "Well, if I get so as I can't unlock a crazy lock like this, I better stay in stir the rest of my life."

He talked about half an hour with me and I was scared that he had been seen, and I tried to get him to go away, but it seemed he wanted to talk with some one he was not afraid of. I asked him what he was going to do, and he started to tell me where he was going to hide, but I stopped him and said, "Don't tell me, Jim. Then I won't know if the police get after me." I said, "Here is fifty dollars, all I got now, but I will get you more, only don't let no one come here or don't send no letters nor nothing. The bulls are bound to think of me first thing." Billy was laying in the bed and hadn't waked up cause we talked in whispers, and when he got ready to go, he walked over to the bed and looked down at him, and I really think something come into his rotten little heart. He stood there with his hands in his pockets a long time and then said, "So that is the kid! Well -- well -- he don't look like me, does he? But he is mine, and if I ever get out of this scrape I'll take him." That made me sick and I nearly said, "Well, I hope you won't get out of this scrape then." I felt for a minit that if I thought he would get Billy that I would peach on him, though that is the lowest trick and ain't done by no one who is white.

I went down stairs first to see all was right, and then he sneaked out. I come back and sat down in a chair and set there till morning. I was just all in. Now when everything was coming along so nice, why did he have to come and butt in and spoil it all? It is just that way all my life. If it ain't father getting in trouble, it is you or Jim. And the nerve of him to say he would take Billy! I suppose he would bring him up to be a swell second story man or something big in the profession, so as he could live off him. Well, he won't get him, I tell you, and I most hope they find him, although that is rotten in me to even think such a thing.

When it come light and nothing happened, I laid down on the bed by Billy and put my face against him and cried till I woke him up, and he was so sweet. He said, "Poor Nanny, somefing hurt her. Let Billy kiss it," and then I broke all up for sure. I got to get some of my money out of the bank so I can have it handy when Jim sends for it.

Well, good night, Kate, don't worry, I'll keep you posted, and I'll send you some money next week.

Nan.




XXIX


Dear Kate:

I can't write much, I am so nervous I am near crazy. The police are hot after Jim, and they haven't done a thing to me but give me the third degree twice. Once they had me up before the captain of the police station here, and once they had me at the central office where the old man himself took a turn at me. I was there four hours, and they done everything they could to make me tell short of putting me behind the bars. They promised me that they would see you got better time, but I know that is only hot air, and they coaxed and bullied and tried to scare me for hours. I told them that it was on the level, I didn't know where he was. I said "yes" that I'd seen him, that he came to me but left the same night. The Captain was rotten with me, and if it hadn't been for Tom Cassidy, I think he would a locked me up until Jim was found. But that great big cop stood up for me and said, "Oh, Captain, take my word for it, she is all right. She ain't lying. I watched her for years and she is on the level. The only thing to do is to watch her." He talked quite a lot with the Captain and they let me go, but I tell you setting four hours with a police captain who knows you and your people from the time they entered the ark, and who thinks you are lying just because your relations are crooks, ain't a rest cure for nervous women. I can't dance worth a damn, and I am so fidgety that if I hear a door slam I go all to pieces.

That ain't all either. When I was just turning our corner the other night a man came out of Sweeney's saloon and handed me a note from Jim asking me to give the bearer fifty dollars. I had been expecting it so I went down in my sock and give it to him. I don't know who he was, but I was dead scared for fear that he'd been seen.

Don't worry, things will come right some way. They can't be much worse. I will write you all the news.

Nan.




XXX


Oh, Kate, can't you get word to Jim some way and call him off? He is just bleeding me to death, and every time I turn round there is some one with a note from him asking for money. I have drawn most all I have in the bank, and will soon be flat broke if this keeps up. I want to help him all I can, but it just kills me to see all the money that I have saved so careful and gone without things so as to have some for you when you come out so as you could rest a while and see what you wanted to do, go to that cheap crook and his friends. I suppose he is a paying them dear to hide him, cause they are a rotten lot and won't do nothing without pay. It scares me cold every time I see a man with a note in his hand, because the police are bound to get on to it sooner or later, and they will follow the fellow and find Jim. I have give him enough to get to Australia, why don't he go? Oh, I don't want them to get him of course, but I wish something would happen that would call him off of me.

Nan.




XXXI


Dear Kate:

I am worried near sick, and I can't sleep nor eat nor nothing. I refused to send Jim any more money and the other night a man walked along the street with me and said, "Jim wants you to send him fifty." I said, "I haven't got it to send, I am busted." He bent his head toward me and said, "Jim said to tell you that if you didn't send the dough, he would take the kid." I just near went cold at that, and the man saw it scared me white. I had my week's pay in my bag and like a fool I gave him twenty, which tipped my hand off to them, showing I was scared for the kid. I went home and I ain't let Billy out of my sight since, except when I am working, and then I take him up to Myrtle's, and tell her to keep the door locked, and not to answer it for nobody. I tell you, Kate, if he touches Billy, I will peach on him as sure as I am a living sinner. I am dead sore. He has got all my money, and I am in all wrong with the police, but I will help him anyway I can, so long as he keeps his hands off Billy. Now, if you or your friends have got any way of getting word with him, you just let him know it.

Nan.




XXXII


Dear Kate:

Billy is all right. I got him planted in a place where Jim would never dare look for him. I was in an awful fix. Every time I turned around it seemed I saw some one from Jim, and I got so scared I couldn't do my work, because every time I come home, I thought perhaps they might have copped him. Did you ever know Tom Cassidy, a young cop at our Station? His father was captain there for years and years and years, a great big good-looking Irishman. Well, young Tom is just as good looking as his dad, and he has been awful nice to me. He is the one that took my part before the captain, when the captain tried to give me the third degree. He walks down to the corner with me every once in awhile, and he likes Billy. The other day he walked home with me and Billy, and I was all in, as I just had a rotten note from Jim. He was so kinda nice, I started a crying in the street, and he said, "You poor little thing, let me go up with you and tell me all about it." First I thought it might be a plant, then I thought I didn't care, for I had to talk to somebody who had some sense, and it would not be peaching on Jim, for I really didn't know where he was. So he came up to the room, and I made some coffee to give me time to get my feelings collected so I could talk, and he sat down and played with Billy. Then I told him all about it, how I didn't know where Jim was, but that he kept a touching me all the time, till I didn't have a cent left, and now he was threatening to take the kid. He was awful nice, and patted my hand with his great big hand, and said, "You poor little red head, it has sure made you peaked looking. Your eyes are bigger than your face. What you going to do?" "That's just it," I said, "I don't know what to do. I've got to work, I can't set around and watch Billy all the time. I just don't know what to do. If I could only get him away somewhere where they couldn't find him, I'd tell the whole bunch to go to Hell."

"Say, kid," he said, "I got an idea. Why don't you send him up to my mother's? We got a swell little house up at 225th Street, lots of room, a big yard where he could play, and ma would be tickled to death to have him. She is dippy on kids, and since me and Jack growed up, she says her hands have been empty." I nearly fainted, a thinking of Billy in the home of a cop, cause that is the last place on earth they would think of looking for him, and then I got suspicious again. You know, Kate, I have got an awful bad suspicious disposition. I am looking everywhere for a plant, but I studied it all over, and I couldn't see none in this, and I was so tickled that I couldn't say even "thank you." Tom said to me, "Now, you put his little duds in a bundle, and when I go off duty at four o'clock, I will come and get you, and we will go up on the subway." Then I got a thinking after he went away that some of Jim's friends might be watching the house, so I went down to Cassidy's beat, and told him I would meet him at the Grand Central, where there wouldn't be so much danger of us being piped off.

Talk about a grand little home, Kate. Tom Cassidy has sure got it, and his mother is the nicest little Irish woman that ever lived! And Irish! You could cut her brogue with a knife. But she just laughs all the time, and her face breaks up in the funniest little wrinkles that make you laugh with her. She came to the door herself, wiping her hands on her kitchen apron, and when she saw Tom and me and Billy, she looked at us funny for a minit and then she said, "Say, Tom, ye ain't been married all these years, and just now a bringing your family to your old mother?" Tom laughed and said, "No such luck, mother, but I've adopted a family. I think the house is lonely without kids." She took Billy and me up to a little bed room, and she helped take off his hat and coat, talking all the time, Billy talking back, not a bit scared of her. Then we went down to the kitchen to finish getting supper. Another son came in named Jack who is studying farming and he is crazy about it. Tom introduced him to me by saying, "This is John Cassidy, farmer, greatest onion expert in the world." The kid, who is about nineteen, said, "Ah, cut it out, Tom," and Tom's mother said, "Now, don't plague the bye." Then we sat down and had the dandiest dinner. We ate in the kitchen, and then I had to go to work. Billy was all right, didn't seem to feel a bit bad about me going. Jack had him in the back yard, building something with little pieces of wood. Tom went to the station with me, but I wouldn't let him go no farther, cause I did not want to be seen too much with him. I told him I wouldn't come and see Billy, cause I might be followed. I tell you, I went home feeling better than when I went up there, cause Jim can do his worse now, he can't get Billy.

I got your letter, Kate. It was an awful nice letter. You seem all different, and it makes me happy way inside.

Yours, Nan.




XXXIII


Dear Kate:

I don't know how I'm going to tell you, so you won't feel too bad. Jim is dead. He sent two or three times to me asking me for money, and I wouldn't send it to him, cause I didn't have it, and when the last fellow threatened to take the kid, I told him to go to the devil, that the kid was where they couldn't touch it. Well, that night I just got home from work and had taken my waist off and was starting to brush my hair when I saw my door open sneaking like, and Jim crept in. I was paralyzed for a minit and couldn't move, just stood there with the brush on my hair. He had been drinking and looked awful. I said low like, "Jim, for God's sake, Jim, why do you come here?" He said, "Where else am I to go?" I said, "Jim, go -- go -- don't stay a minit." He didn't move, just stood and looked at me. "But, Jim," I said, "the police, they're watching the place." He come up to me and put his face close against mine and I backed away, and said, "Jim, get out. You've been drinkin'." Then he sort of got sore and he said, "What do you mean by sendin' me the messages you have?" I said, "I mean just what I said, I ain't got no more money to give you," and he sneered at me. "Oh, you ain't got no money, and you ain't hauling down thirty a week, are you?" "Well," I said, "suppose I am, it's mine, ain't it?" And then he said I ought to divy up when a feller's in trouble, and at that I got mad. "Divy up?" I said. "Divy up. What have I been doin' the last month but divy up. I've give you all I got. Why don't you get out of the country, you'll be pinched the first thing you know." And then he said fierce like and with an awful look on his face, "You take it from me, Nan, they'll never pinch Jim Sheridan. If the bulls git me it'll be because I can't handle a gun." I didn't know what to do with him and I said again, "Get out, Jim, I'm scared to death you've been seen." He said, "Gimme some money. I got to have money." I asked him, "What've you done with all I sent you. I've give you enough to take you to Australia." He said, "I've had to pay for my hidin' and I got to put up some more." That kind of made me sick and I said, "Well, you'll have to get it from some one else then, I've give you the last dollar I've got. I'm busted." He kind of saw it was true I think, cause he started looking around the room, then he said, "Where's the kid?" I said, "Never you mind where he is," and he got sore again and said, "Never mind my own kid. Well, believe me, he's mine, and I've got an idea I want him. Where is he?" and I said, "He's where you won't get him." Jim come over to me again and stood in front of me and says, "He is, is he? Well, I'm going to have him," and then I got mad clear through and said, "Well, you can't have him. So help me God, Jim, if you try to touch Billy, I'll peach on you as sure as I'm alive." Jim laughed and said, "Yes, you will, you ain't that kind," and I said quick, "Oh, I ain't, ain't I. No, I ain't that kind. I been brought up to believe that it's the last trick to peach, but I'll go back on all I ever knowed, and put you behind the bars if you ever try to touch that kid." Jim kind of sneered. "What do you want of him?" he said; "he ain't no better off with you than with me." I said, "Perhaps he ain't. But he won't be raised with crooks and grow up feeling that crookedness is straight. He'll know decent people, not a lot of cheap second story men and dips."

Jim laughed. "You're a nice one to talk, old Bill Lane's daughter." And then Kate, oh I said awful things, and I remember every word and go over it all at night. I said, "Yes, and Kate Lane's sister. I know, I've had it rubbed in enough. No one ever says Nancy Lane, they always say Bill Lane's daughter, Kate Lane's sister or Jim Sheridan's sister-in-law. Hain't I had that to fight against all my life? Ain't I lost every good chance that I ever had to work in the good places, just because I've had to buck against the reputation of my family? And then when you come in the family, I might a carried the others, but no one could carry you. Why, you dirty crook, you're known from San Francisco to New York, and I've had to work in cheap shows and dirty cabarets just because of you always coming and queering me when I got started. Look at the crowd I go with," I said. "Do you suppose I'm crazy about them? But I have to go with that kind, the kind that don't fall dead, when they find out who I am." Jim looked at me a minit, then he said, "You're getting dam nice lately, what's the matter with you?" I thought a minit and then I said, "Yes, I'm different, I know it, but I've had most two years of not havin' to be scared to death, not having to look over my shoulder for fear a cop was following me to find out about some of you. I've been able to read the papers without being scared I'd see some of your names in it, and I've been allowed to work in peace. And I've done good work too, I've been able to leave the rotten joints and I'm workin' up, and I'd get to the top if I was left alone. Why the only peace I've had in all my life has been the last year when you and Dad and Kate was all in jail. I been able to sleep nights knowing where you all was and that you couldn't be doing nothing to get in trouble."

Jim said, "Oh, can the hot air. I want the kid, I'm going to get out, but I'm going to take him with me." I said, "Yes, you are, nit." Jim looked at me kind of curiously for a minit and said, "What are you so crazy about him for, why do you want him?" I said, "I don't know what I want him for. I don't know, but you won't have him. He's the first thing I ever had in my life that's sweet and clean, and he's the first thing that ever loved me without thinking what they could make out of me. Why, when he was in the country and he'd come to the gate to meet me, with his eyes shining with love and his face all dimpling with laughs, I'd choke up and some times not be able to speak. Billy's made me live. He's made something new come to me, he's made me see all life different, and I'm going to pay him back for what he's done for me by giving him a chance." Jim laughed, "You give him a chance," he said, "what kind of a chance can you give him?" I said, "I don't know for sure. I ain't got it all figured out, but he's going to have his chance to grow up like other men." Jim acted sore again and said, "Ah -- what's the use of talking. We're wasting time. I want money and I'm going to have the kid. If I can't find him I'll put the gang wise, and some of them'll find him all right." At that I think I just went off my head, and I didn't care whether the police heard me or not. I said, "Jim, don't you dare to try to take Billy. Don't you dare to put any of your dirty gang on to get him away from me. I tell you I'll peach on you. I'll find out where you're hiding and I'll bring the police there myself. I'll fight for Billy. I'll fight as any woman'll fight for a baby. If you dare to touch him or let any of your sneakin' pals come near him, I'll follow you till I see you behind the bars if I have to follow you till Hell freezes over." Jim seemed as if he couldn't speak for a minit, then his face got red and he come towards me. He said, low and fierce like, "Tell me where that kid is." I said, and moved away from him, "I won't tell you." He said again to me, "I say, tell me where he is." I said again, "I won't tell you. He's planted where you'll never find him." I was standing by the bed and he grabbed me by the throat, and bent me over backwards, and his eyes just burned into mine. "Oh," he said, "You won't tell me, you won't -- we'll see if you won't, by -- " and just then the door opened and three plain clothes men and two cops walked in. I don't know how it happened. I don't know nothing that happened after Jim turned and knew the game was up, but there was three quick shots all at once, and when the smoke cleared away, Jim was lying on his back on the floor, one of the plain clothes men had a bullet through his shoulder. They bent over and found that Jim was all in. Pretty soon an ambulance come, and he was took away. The sergeant talked to me, but I can't remember nothing he said. It all happened so quick, that it seemed an awful nightmare, and I just sat there, saying "yes and no" to the sergeant, not understanding nor caring. When they all went away, Tom Cassidy stayed behind, and he come up to me, and put his arms around my shoulders and said, "You poor little red head, you do seem to be getting more than your share, don't you?" And at that I just all broke up, and I put my head against his great big chest, and I cried all down the front of his uniform. He just patted me quiet like, and let me cry, and then when things quieted down a bit, he said, "Now, I will tell you what you do. You just put on your bonnet and I will take you up to the old lady's. You don't want to sit here alone, and Billy will be tickled to death to see you." I said, I didn't want to be a trouble to him, that having one of us was enough, and he said, "My grandmother's grey cat's kittens, why you won't be no trouble, mother likes somebody to wipe the dishes, and Jack likes somebody to talk onions to. We have all heard it, but it will be new to you." Well, he helped me find my hat, and he almost put the hat pin through my brains, and he helped me find my blouse, I had been a setting all the time without a waist and didn't know it, and he was awful nice, never showed by the bat of an eye that I wasn't dressed in a mackintosh. Then when I had powdered my eyes, we went over to the station. He wasn't on duty, but he had heard the men talking about Jim being at my place, and he come along with them to see that nothing happened to me.

I am going to stay here a week. I can't work and Tom went and saw the manager and Fred Keeney, my dancing partner, and got me off for a week. Mabel Sullivan is going to take my place. She dances a good deal better than I have the last month since I have been so worried, so it'll be all right. Billy is looking fine. He calls the old lady "granny" and talks as Irish as she does. She is crazy about him, and says she will never let me take him away.

Now, don't feel too broke up, Kate. I am afraid I haven't told you very well about it, but I had rather have you hear it from me, so you will get it straight. There is no use a telling you I am sorry, cause I ain't. I always hated Jim's eyes, yet I wouldn't have peached on him, nor done nothing to hurt him.

Yours, Nan.




XXXIV


Dear Kate:

I am having a dandy time! This is an awful pretty place. It is kinda in the country, yet it is right in the city. Captain Thomas Cassidy must have been a very saving man, or else he didn't let many things get by him, to be able to buy a nice little home like this. Yet, perhaps, he bought it when this was real country, and cheap. The house has got a parlor and a dining room and another room and a kitchen and a laundry down stairs, and up stairs there are five bed rooms and a bath, and a great big attic where Billy can play when it rains. There is a big yard, both front and back. The front yard has flowers and belongs to Mrs. Cassidy, and the back yard has a vegetable garden, and belongs to Jack and Tom, half and half. You would laugh to see them two great big babies quarreling over their vegetables. Tom comes home and takes off his uniform and his collar and fusses around his garden every night. He weeds and sweats and swears, and his garden ain't nothing like Jack's. All Jack has to do is to look at a cabbage and it grows, and their poor mother has an awful time keeping peace in the family. If they have lettuce from Jack's garden, Jack says to her, "Mother, ain't that the finest lettuce you ever et?" And Tom drops his knife and looks up sudden at her, and she says careful-like, "It is awful good lettuce, Jacky bye, but that we had yesterday was most as good," and then Tom goes on eating. Jack has just finished his farm schooling, and he is dippy about it. Onions is his graft. Why, he will talk about an onion for an hour. He got me in a corner one day, and he talked about the money there was in raising onions, how many bushels there was eaten in the world, and how many thousands of bushels there was brought in from some place down south, and the price of onions a bushel, and how many million could be raised on an acre, well, my head whirled before he got through, and I felt as if everybody had made a mistake by not turning the whole earth into an onion farm. I said to him one day, "What are you studying farming for, that don't pay? Why don't you go into the police like your father and like Tom?" "Ah," he said, "who wants to walk up and down a hot street all day and bat a drunk over the head or pinch a kid for hooking a watermelon. I am going out in the country where I can see things grow." His mother said, "He do be taking after my people. He is just like me feyther, who always had to have his little bit of garden and his pig." Here Jack started in again talking so fast you could hardly understand him, he gets so excited and his eyes get bright and he waves his hands around in the air -- he is awful funny. Tom and his mother set back in a chair and laugh at him, just like I did when he started on pigs. He said, "Now for pigs, there is more money in pigs -- " Just then Tom hollered, "Choke him, Nan, choke him, if he gets started on pigs we are done for. Onions is bad enough, but pigs is pigs." Jack gets awful mad and hates to be laughed at, and his mother has to smooth him down. She says to him running her hand soft up and down his coat sleeve, "Never you mind, Jacky me bye, it is yourself that will be making the family fortune one of these days, with your onions and your pigs." Tom laughed and says, "Yes, if he feeds the onions to the pigs." But I think Jack is right, and I hope some day he has a chance to get a farm, cause it would be a shame for a person to love a thing the way he loves it, and not be able to work at it. I asked him one day if he thought he could make it pay, and he said, "Sure, don't the Italians and the Chinamen out West make truck farming pay? The trouble with us is, we don't go at it right. We go at it too big, and raise corn and oats and barley instead of vegetables. Why, a farm near a big city like this, if it was run right, ought to just coin money."

I am teaching, the boys to dance. You would kill yourself a laughing watching them. After supper we push the kitchen table back, cause the kitchen is a big old-fashioned kind, and Tom takes off his coat, because he goes at it as if he was going to saw a load of lumber, and Jack runs the phonograph and I try to teach Tom to dance, but you might just as well teach an elephant to walk a tight rope. Tom is all feet. To begin with, he is six feet two, and I come to about the second button on his coat, and I have an awful time trying to get him around. He tries so hard, he puckers his face all up in worried lines, and he sweats and he breathes hard, and then when he gets through, he falls into a chair just done up, mops his face and the back of his neck with a handkerchief or a handy towel, and says, "Talk about work, why I would rather load a dray all day." Then when he gets cooled off, he runs the phonograph for Jack. Jack dances lovely. He is awful light on his feet. You don't have to show him a step but once when he knows it, but he don't care much for dancing, not half as much as Tom does, who would never learn the tango if he lived a thousand years. But it is funny to see Tom. When Jack is a dancing Tom will take an onion and go in front of Tom, holding it just out of reach and moving just as Jack moves, as if he was trying to chase the onion. When I say Jack is a good dancer, Tom says, "Sure, he is, cause he thinks he is chasing an onion. Now if we only had a pig, no tellin' what he'd do."

The one that can beat them all out is Mrs. Cassidy. At first she wouldn't get up and try, and said, "The likes of an old woman like me dancing around," but I gave her a great line of talk, told her how all the old ladies was dancing, that if she went down to the restaurants where I danced, she would see women old enough to be her grandmother, having the time of their lives. First she wouldn't listen to it, and said, "Gwan, they are trying to make a fool of me in my old age," but finally I got her to try, and say, she done grand. Like all Irish girls, she used to dance when she was young, and it all come back to her, and she took to the new steps just natural. It was fun to see her. Her face flushed, her eyes got bright, and she didn't seem to be old no more. Tom and Jack were tickled to death. When she got through, they clapped their hands, stamped their feet on the floor, just like the hoodlums do in the gallery, when the hero rescues the maiden. Mrs. Cassidy flushed, was half ashamed, and half tickled, and said she would never make a fool of herself again, but she does and she likes it, and she and Jack can do the hesitation waltz beautiful.

I mustn't write you any more, Kate. I am awful happy here. I think of you all the time, and your letters are so good.

Yours, Nan.




XXXV


Dear Kate:

I got your letter and I know how you feel. If Jim was no good, he was your husband and you cared for him, and you were a mighty good wife, too. I am sorry if I said things that hurt you about him, but oh, Kate, I am glad for one thing, that is, you begin to see that crookedness don't pay, whether it is right or whether it is wrong, it just don't pay. Look at Jim and his crowd. He is dead and five of his friends are in prison, and most of the rest of them are afraid to lift their heads for fear they will see a cop a watching them. I am so glad you see it that way now, and I like to hear you say you have had enough of prison. You will never see one again, Kate, except to admire the architecture from the outside.

You are right about one thing. You can brace up in New York just as well as outside of it. There is no reason in the world why you should leave this little old berg. We will get up in the Bronx somewhere in a little flat like Charlie Haines', and you won't never need to see the old crowd. Something will turn up some way for you to do, and anyway, I can make enough to keep us three. Why, Kate, I would dance my legs off to have you and Billy with me, and you a playing the game straight. So cheer up, old lady, everything is fine and dandy, and you are going to be the happiest woman one of these days in the buzum of your family.

Yours, Nan.




XXXVI


Dear Kate:

What do you think? Billy is an heir! Before the Smiths went away they tried to sell their place over in New Jersey, but they was going away too soon, and an agent couldn't sell it for them in such a hurry, so they made a will, that if Mrs. Smith died, the place was to go to Mr. Smith, and if Mr. Smith died first the place was to go to Mrs. Smith, and if they both died, the place was to go to their adopted son, William Smith, and that is Billy. Now, what do you know about that? A lawyer came to me and told me all about it, and the will has been done something to in court, and I have had to sign some papers, and Billy is a landowner. Why, we was all so excited when we heard it, we all talked at once, and when Jack heard it was a farm, he talked onions and pigs at the same time. We went over there last Sunday, and it looked just as pretty as ever. It made me feel awful bad about the Smiths, and I cried at first a lot. The house seemed lonesome with blinds all shut, and no pigs nor chickens or cattle around the barn, or in the pasture. The house inside was just as Mrs. Smith left it, cause they had hoped to sell it furnished, and there was even pickles and preserves in the cellar. We ate our lunch on the kitchen table which we put under the big tree looking out over the lake. It was awful pretty. The water was just like a looking glass, and once and a while a little spurt of wind would come and ruffle it all up and then it would die down quiet again. Mrs. Cassidy said it made her think of her home back in Ireland, which is by a lake, and she talked a long time about her man who has been dead ten years, "who was one of the finest" in New York and that meant something in those days. Mrs. Cassidy set down in the shade with Billy, and Tom and Jack and me went over the place. Jack was crazy about it. He would take little handfuls of mud and smell it or taste it, and say, "too sour," or "it needs salt" or "there ain't lime enough," just kinda talking to himself all the time. He found the pasture with a brook running through it, and said it would be just the right thing for pigs, and he saw about ten acres he said the Lord intended for an onion field. He made over the barn in his mind, and filled it full of holsteins, and I think if it had not begun to get late and we had to catch a train, that he would have all the holsteins mothers of growing families, cause he just located the right kind of a calf pen when we took him by the coat-tails and dragged him away.

We got home awful tired, and everybody went to bed except Jack, who set down with a pencil and paper to figure out how much money it would need to make Lake Rest the model farm of New Jersey.

Good bye, Kate, don't feel too bad. Remember you are going to be just as happy as me some day, and that's going some.

Yours, Nan.




XXXVII


Dear Kate:

I got the grandest idea. I just can't wait to tell you. I thought it all out in the middle of the night, and I had to talk to somebody, so I got up and went into Mrs. Cassidy's room and got in bed with her and we talked till most morning. She was awful nice, and we talked it over and over. Here it is now, Kate, don't you think it is wonderful? You and Billy and Jack can live at Lake Rest when you come out! now what do you think of it! The house is there all furnished, and Jack will do the farming. He is just crazy about it, and he says sure he can make it pay. Tom says he will cough up and buy the things Jack needs to start, if the little money Jack's father left him ain't enough. You give the farm and the house, and Jack will furnish the farming things and the work, and you can go halves. That sounds all right, doesn't it? Anyway, even if you don't make much the first few years, you get your living, which is about all we get anyway, ain't it, Kate? I feel awful bad that I can't do much, but my money all went to Jim, but I will live on eggs and buttermilk, and every cent I make will go into the place. You can't help but get along, Kate, and out there the old crowd will never get on to you, nobody will ever know nothing about you, and you can begin again as if you was new born.

Oh, I think it is grand, Kate! I can see Tom and Mrs. Cassidy and me coming to see you on a Sunday morning, and you and Billy and Jack waiting for us at the station when the train pulls in, and we will drive over to the place and look at the chickens and scratch the pig and pick the cabbage and hear about the onions, and then after supper we will set on the porch and listen to the frogs and the whip-o-wills and see the shadows come on the lake, and feel that everything is all right, and Somebody must be a sure taking care of us.

Write me soon, Kate, and tell me you are as glad about this as I am.

Nan.




XXXVIII


Dear Kate:

I feel so kind of shamed, kind of choked up and happy, that it is awful hard for me to put down on paper just what I am a feeling, I don't know what you will say about it, Kate, and I know that you will nearly drop dead when you read this, but I am going to get married and -- wait a minute -- I am going to marry a cop! Can you beat that? Me, Nancy Lane, who has been brought up since a kid to feel that cops is her natural enemy, and to hate a uniform as the devil hates holy water. But some way I never think of Tom as being a policeman, he is so kind and good and big hearted, always doing something nice for people, and he is so nice at home, just like a great, big boy. He loves his little mother and jollies her and laughs at her, he is just like a good pal to both her and Jack, and they simply worship the ground he walks on, and I don't blame them, Kate, because -- put your head down close -- dear, I do too. It is the first time I dared say it out loud even to myself. I didn't know what was the matter with me, I used to be so anxious to get up in the morning to see him at the breakfast table, and I liked to pour his coffee, and fasten his stick in his belt and go to the gate with him. It seemed like the day would never go by until he got back. Sometimes he would call me up on the telephone. Why, Kate, I couldn't hardly talk to him and he would notice it and his voice would get worried and he would ask me if I was sick. When he would come home at night, we would all have supper, and set around and josh and laugh and talk, him and Jack half quarreling in a good natured way over their vegetables, or we would dance, or just set out on the front porch with some of the neighbors who'd come in. I didn't know I was loving him cause I wanted to be close to him, but when he was a setting by me, I didn't want to talk or nothing, I was happy just being near him. One night everybody went in and left us on the porch together. He was quiet for a long while, then he moved over closer to me and put his arm around me and he said soft and quiet-like, "Nan, are you happy here with us?" And I said, "Why, I ain't never been so happy in my life," and he said, "Do you think you could stand it to stay always," and I kinda edged away from him and said, "I can't stay always, I must go to work next week," and he said, "No, you ain't going to work no more, Nan, except for Tom Cassidy. You have got a life-long job teaching him to tango." I laughed kinda nervous-like. "That ain't no lie. It would take more than one life to teach you to tango." Tom took hold of my face and leaned my head back, and said, "Nannie, little girl, I just want you. Won't you marry me?" "Oh, Tom," I said, and I couldn't say no more, and he said, "I don't know how to make love much, but I do love you, Nan. From the first minit I laid eyes on you I wanted to take you up in my big arms and take care of you, you seemed so little and alone -- and you crept right inside of my uniform and stuck around my heart till there ain't room for nothing else. Why everything I hear says your name, and your face goes dancing before me as I walk up and down my beat, and when I looked up sudden the other day at the captain, hanged if for a minit he didn't have red, curly hair. Say you will marry me, Nancy, and we will be the happiest bunch in the Bronx." When he had been talking to me it seemed I was just choked up two ways, one with happiness and the other with misery. I said to him, "Oh, Tom, I couldn't marry you." He said, "Why not, don't you love me?" "It ain't that, Tom," I said, "but my family is all crooks. You couldn't marry me." He said, "Well, what has that got to do with it? I don't see how they can stop me marrying you. Most of them is in jail anyway." I couldn't help but laugh, as he was so earnest about it, but I said, "Why, Tom, if they knowed down at Central Office that you had married me, they might break you. All the bulls know father." And then Tom got mad. "Break me -- what would they break me for? I guess I got the right to marry the finest little girl in New York if I want to and I would just as soon take you right up to the chief himself and say 'Chief, this is Nancy Lane and I am going to marry her. Her father is old Bill Lane, and the worst crook this side of the Pacific, but my little girl is white and clean right through.' And do you know what he would do? He would give you one look over with that clever eye of his, and say, 'Put a rose in your hair and go as far as you like, and because you have shown common sense for once in your life, you will be made a captain next week.'" I laughed and couldn't say nothing much, and he moved over close to me again and laid my face against his coat, and put his head down on my hair, kinda patting my face soft with his big hand. He said, "Nancy darling, you do like me a little bit, don't you? I will be so good to you, little one, and I will stand between you and all your troubles. You have had your share, and you never need to have no more, cause when things don't go right, all you need to do is to run to big Tom Cassidy, and rub your little face up and down the front of his big coat, and squeeze a little water out of one eye, and put a little tremble in your voice, and he would go out and lick a St. Patrick's Day procession for you." Then he was quiet but went on after a while soft and tender like, "I sure do love you, little one. Don't you care for me a little?" "Oh, Tom," I said, "it ain't little, it is lots." Then he said, "Why won't you say we will be married?" And I said, "Tom, I care more for you than for anything in the world, but I wouldn't hurt you for nothing." And he said, "The only way you can hurt me, Nan, is to say you won't have me and you don't say that, do you dear?" I looked up at him for a minit and he must a saw what was in my eyes, cause he was quiet, just a looking deep into my eyes. Then he drew my face to him with his two hands and kissed me. Kate I went all of a tremble and it seemed my heart came right up on my lips when I felt his touch mine, and when he said, "Say, 'I love you, Tom,'" I only needed to whisper it for him to hear, and I was glad cause I couldn't have spoke it out loud to save my soul.

Oh, Kate, I didn't know there was such a thing in the world as what I am feeling. I am so happy it keeps me quiet, and I like to set by myself and think of Tom, how big and strong he is, how he will always fight my troubles. But I feel I will never have troubles if I live with him, cause he is so good and kind and gentle, that sorrow could never come near him or his.

I won't write you more, cause if I wrote you a hundred pages, I couldn't say more than that I'm the happiest girl in the world, cause I love him, love him, love him.

Nan.




XXXIX


Dear Kate:

Tom told his mother this morning at the breakfast table and she put down her saucer of coffee, and come over to me and kissed me, and said, "Faith, the Gosoon, I thought he never was going to do it. Sure he's not the son of his father, or he'd a asked you the question the second day you was here. I've always wanted a daughter and now I've got one that couldn't a suited me better if I'd ordered her making."

She was so happy, she spent the whole morning making plans for the future, how she would pass part of the time with me and Tom, and then when we got tired of her, she would go over to see you and Jack. And Kate you sure will love her. She is just a dear little Irish woman who has always had a great big husband or a son to stand between her and anything that might hurt her. And just think, dear, I won't never have to be alone no more, never have to worry about things all by myself, cause I, too, am going to have a great big man all my own.

Your happy Nan.




XL


Dear Kate:

We were married this morning by the priest at the church near here. Mother was there (oh, Kate, it is nice to say "mother"), and Jack and the Captain of the station that bullied me so, but he is really all right when his uniform is off and he was a great friend of Tom's father. It was over awful sudden. It seemed they just had begun, when he said, "Kiss your wife," and I found we was married.

Now you are out on Saturday, Kate. Tom is coming with me, and we will be there at 10:30. Now, I don't want you to feel, like you said in your letter, that you are ashamed to look anybody in the face. You don't need to be, and when those old doors close behind you, you just forget them, and think of what is before you. Why, you went in there with nobody but me and Jim and Billy, and you come out having a great big family, a mother and two brothers, a kid and a sister, not to speak of a farm and two live pigs and a black and white cow that is a waiting for you, and we are all a loving you, and ain't a thinking or a caring nothing about your past, just going to help you make a future. When we step out of the gates, we will look up at the great big, blue sky and though none of us ain't long on prayer, perhaps who is ever watching above there, will know just what we feel and will start us right. Anyway, Kate, we will be waiting for you, and we are all going to be so happy, that there will never be a grey day, they will all be blue and gold with the sun a shining.

Yours, Nan Cassidy.

<eob>

The Young Engineers On The Gulf

Or

The Dread Mystery Of The Million Dollar Breakwater

By

H. Irving Hancock



Chapter I

The Mystery Of A Black Night


"I wish I had brought my electric flash out here with me," muttered Harry Hazelton uneasily.

"I told you that you'd better do it," chuckled Tom Reade.

"But how could I know that the night would be pitch dark?" Harry demanded. "I don't know this gulf weather yet, and fifteen minutes ago the stars were out in full force. Now look at them!"

"How can I look at them?" demanded Tom, halting. "My flashlight won't pierce the clouds."

Reade halted on his dark, dangerous footway, and Harry, just behind him, uttered a sigh of relief and halted also.

"I never was in such a place as this before."

"You've been in many a worse place, though," rejoined Tom. "I never heard you make half as much fuss, either."

"I think something must be wrong with my head," ventured Harry.

"Undoubtedly," Tom Reade agreed cheerily.

"Hear that water," Harry went on, in a voice scarcely less disconsolate than before.

"Of course," nodded Tom. "But the water can hardly be termed a surprise. We both knew that the Gulf of Mexico is here. We saw it several times to-day."

The two young men stood on a narrow ledge of stone that jutted out of the water. This wall of stone was the first, outer or retaining wall of masonry -- -the first work of constructing a great breakwater. At high tide, this ledge was just fourteen inches above the level surface of the Gulf of Mexico, and at the time of the above conversation it was within twenty minutes of high tide. The top of this wall of masonry was thirty inches wide, which made but a narrow footway for the two youths who, on a pitch black night, were more than half a mile out from shore.

On a pleasant night, for a young man with a steady head, the top of this breakwater wall did not offer a troublesome footpath. In broad daylight hundreds of laborers and masons swarmed over it, working side by side, or on scows and dredges alongside.

"Wait, and I'll show a light," volunteered Tom raising his foot-long flashlight.

Some seventy-five yards behind them a crawling snake-like figure flattened itself out on the top of the rock wall.

"Don't show the light just yet," pleaded Harry. "It might only make me more dizzy."

The flattened figure behind them wriggled noiselessly along.

"Just listen to the water," continued Hazelton. "Tom, I'm half-inclined to think that the water is roughening."

"I believe it is," agreed Tom.

"Fine time we'll have getting back, if a gale springs up from the southward," muttered Harry.

"See here, old fellow," interposed Tom vigorously, "you're not up to concert pitch to-night. Now, I'll tell you what I'll do -- -first of all, what you'll do. You sit right down flat on the top of the wall. Then I'll move on up forward and see what has been happening out there that should boom shoreward with such a racket. You stay right here, and I'll be back as soon as I've looked into the face of the mystery."

"What do you take me for?" Harry asked almost fiercely. "A baby? Or a cold-foot?"

"Nothing like it," answered Tom Reade with reassuring positiveness. "You're out of sorts, to-night. Your head, or your nerves, or some thing, has gone back on you, and you walk through this blackness with half a notion that you're going to walk over a precipice, or drop head-first into some danger. With such a feeling it would be cruelty to let you go forward, chum, and I'm not going to do it. I'll go alone."

The crouching figure to the rear of the young engineers quivered as though this separation of the two engineers on this black night was a thing devoutly to be desired.

"You're not going to do anything of the sort," retorted Harry Hazelton. "I'm going forward with you. I'm going to stick to you. All I wanted was a minute in which to brace myself. I've had that minute. Now get forward with you. I'm on your heels!"

Tom Reade shrugged his shoulders slightly. However, he did not object or argue, for he realized that his chum was sensitive over any circumstance that seemed to point to sudden failure of his courage.

"Come along, then," urged Tom. "Wait just a second, though. I'll flash the light ahead along the wall, to show you that it's all there, and just where it lies."

A narrow beam of light shot ahead as Tom pressed the spring of his pocket flash lamp.

A weird enough scene the night betrayed. In perspective the wall ahead narrowed, until the two sides seemed to come to a point. Back of all was the thick curtain of black that had settled down over the gulf. A little farther out, too, the water seemed rougher. There would seem to be hardly a doubt that a gale was brewing.

"Shut that light off!" Hazelton commanded, fighting to repress a shudder. "I can do better in the darkness. Now, go ahead, and I'll follow."

Tom started, but he went slowly now, feeling that this pace was more suited to the condition of his chum's nerves. Harry followed resolutely, though none but himself knew how much effort it took for him to keep on in the face of such a nameless yet terrible dread as now assailed him.

To the rear a bulky, hulking figure rose and stood erect. With the softest of steps this apparition of the night followed after them, until it stole along, ghost-like, just behind Hazelton. Then a huge arm was raised, threateningly, over Harry's head.

At that particular moment, as though insensibly warned, Hazelton stopped, half-wheeling. In the next second Harry bounded back just out of reach of the descending arm, the hand of which held something. But in that backward spring Harry, in order to save himself from pitching into the water, was oblige to turn toward Reade.

"Tom!" exploded the young engineer. "Flash the light here quickly!"

In the instant, however, that Harry had sprung backward the figure had slipped noiselessly into the water to the left. As Reade wheeled about, throwing on the light, he let the ray fall in the water to the right of the wall. But no sign of the intruder appeared; the water had closed noiselessly over the now vanished figure.

"What's the matter?" asked Reade, as he stood looking, then finally flashed his light over to the other side of the wall.

"I saw -- -" began Hazelton. Then changed to: "I thought -- -er -- -I saw -- -oh, nonsense! You'll josh the life out of me!"

"Not I," Tom affirmed gravely, as a thrill of pity, for what he deemed his friend's unfortunate "nervous condition," shook him. "Tell me what you saw, Harry."

"Why, I thought I saw a big fellow -- -a black man, too -- -right behind me, arm upraised, just ready to strike me."

"Well, where is he?" Tom demanded blankly, flashing the light on either side of the narrow wall-top. "See him anywhere now, chum?"

Harry didn't. In fact, he hardly more than pretended to look. The thing that had been so real a moment before was now utterly invisible. Hazelton began to share his chum's suspicion as to the utter breakdown of his nerves and powers of vision.

"It was nothing, of course," said Harry, shamefacedly, but Tom vigorously took the other side of the question.

"See here, Harry, it must have been something," insisted Reade. "You're not dreaming, and you're not crazy. It would take either one of those conditions to make you see something that didn't really exist. No mere nervous tremor is going to make you see something as tall as a man, standing right over you, when no such thing exists."

"Well, then, where is the fellow?" Harry Hazelton demanded, helplessly, as he stared about. "There isn't any human being but ourselves in sight, either on the wall or in the water. Your light shows that."

The light did not quite show that, and could not, since the huge prowler was now swimming gently under water, some seven or eight feet from the surface.

"We'll have to solve the question before we leave here," declared Tom. "We can't have folks following us up in a ticklish place like this. Besides, Harry, I'm willing to wager that your vision -- -whatever it was -- -has some real connection with the mystery that we're going out yonder to investigate. So we'll solve the puzzle that's right here before we go forward to look at the bigger riddle that the dark now hides from us out yonder. Use your eyes, lad, an I'll do the same with mine!"

Neither Tom Reade nor Harry Hazelton are strangers to the readers of this series, nor of the series that have preceded the present one.

Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, now engineers in charge of a big breakwater job on the Alabama gulf coast, were first introduced to our readers in the "Grammar School Boys Series." There we met them as members of that immortal band of American schoolboys known as Dick & Co. Back in the old school days Dick Prescott had been the leader of Dick & Co., though, as all our readers know, Prescott was not the sole genius of Dick & Co. Greg Holmes, Dave Darrin, Dan Dalzell and Tom and Harry had been the other members of that famous sextette of schoolboy athletes.

After reading of the doings of Dick & Co. in the "Grammar School Boys Series," our readers again followed them, through the events recorded in the four volumes of the "High School Boys Series". Here their really brilliant work Boys Series athletes was stirringly chronicled, as along with scores of non-athletic adventures that befell them.

At the close of the high school course Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes secured appointments as cadets at the United States Military Academy at West Point. All that befell them there is duly set forth in the "West Point Series." Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell were fortunate enough to secure appointments as midshipmen in the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, and their doings there are set forth in the "Annapolis Series."

Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, on the other hand, had felt no call to military glory. For their work in life they longed to become part of the great constructive force wielded by modern civil engineers. During the latter part of their high school work they had studied hard with ambition to become surveyors and civil engineers. In their school vacations they had sought training and experience in the offices of an engineering firm in their home town of Gridley. After being graduated from the Gridley High School, Tom and Harry had done more work in the same offices. Then, in a sudden desire for advancement, and possessed by the longing for a wider field of endeavor, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had secured positions as "cub engineers" on the construction work that was being done to rush a new railway, system over the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. The stern, hard work that lay before them, the many adventures in a rough wilderness, and the chain of circumstances that at last placed Tom Reade in charge of the railroad building, with Harry as first assistant engineer, are all told in the first volume of this present series, "The Young Engineers In Colorado."

That great feat finished satisfactorily, the ambition of our young engineers led them further afield, as told in "The Young Engineers in Arizona." A great, man-killing quicksand had to be filled in and effectively stopped from shifting. Reade & Hazelton undertook the task. Incidentally Tom came into serious, dangerous conflict with gamblers and other human birds-of-prey, who had heretofore fattened on the earnings of the railway laborers. It was a tremendously exciting time that the young engineers had in Arizona, but they at last got away with their lives and were at the same time immensely successful in their undertaking.

In "The Young Engineers In Nevada" we found our young friends under changed conditions. While at work in Colorado and in Arizona Tom and Harry had studied the occurrence of precious ores, and also the methods of assaying and extracting ores. Having their time wholly to themselves after finishing in Arizona the dauntless young pair went to Nevada, there to study mining at first hand. In time they located a mining claim, though there were other claimants, and around this latter fact hung an extremely exciting story. Both young engineers nearly lost their lives in Nevada, and met with many strenuous situations. Their sole idea in pushing their mine forward to success was that the money so earned would enable them to further their greatest ambition; they longed to have their own engineering offices. In the end, their mine, which the young engineers had named "The Ambition," proved a success. Thereupon they left their mining partner, Jim Ferrers, in charge and went east to open their offices.

We next found the young engineers engaged to the south of the United States border. These adventures were fully set forth in the preceding volume in this series, entitled "The Young Engineers in Mexico." Tom and Harry, engaged to solve some problems in a great Mexican mine, found themselves the intended tools of a pair of mine swindlers of wealth and influence. From their first realization of the swindle Tom and Harry, even in the face of threats of assured death, held out for an honest course. How they struggled to save a syndicate of American investors from being swindled out of millions of dollars was splendidly told in that fourth volume.

And now we find our young friends down at the gulf coast town of Blixton, Alabama. Here they are engaged in a kind of engineering work wholly unlike any they had hitherto undertaken. The owners of the Melliston Steamship Line, with a fleet of twenty-two freight steamships engaged in the West Indian and Central American trade, had looked in vain for suitable dock accommodations for their vessels, worth a total of more than six million dollars. In their efforts to improve their service the Melliston owners had found at Blixton a harbor that would have suited them excellently, but for one objection. The bay at Blixton was too open to shelter vessels from the severity of some of the winter gales. Up to the present time Blixton had not been used for harbor purposes. But the Melliston owners had conceived the idea that a great breakwater could be so built as to shelter the waters of the bay. They had quietly bought up most of the shore front of the little town, which had railway connection. Then they had searched about for engineers capable of building the needed breakwater. Reade & Hazelton, hearing of the project, had applied for the work. As the young men furnished most excellent recommendations from former employers they had finally secured the opportunity.

By no means was the task an easy one, as will presently be shown. It was a work that would have to be carried on in the very teeth of jealous Nature. Tom and Harry were fully aware of the great difficulties that lay before them. What they did not know was that they would presently have to contend, also, with forces set loose by wicked human minds. What started these untoward forces in operation, and how the forces worked out, will soon be seen.

Captain of a queer crew was Tom Reade, and Harry was his lieutenant. Of the laborers, seven hundred in number, some four hundred were negroes; there were also two hundred Italians and about a hundred Portuguese. Many, of each race, were skilled masons; others were but unskilled laborers. There were six foremen, all Americans, and a superintendent, also American. There were a few more Americans and two or three Scotchmen, employed as stationary engineers and in similar lines of work.

A touch of the old Arizona trouble had invaded the camp. There had recently been a pay-day, and gamblers had descended upon the camp of tents and shanties. Once more Reade had driven off the gamblers, though this time with less trouble than in Arizona. At Blixton, Tom had merely sent for the four peace officers in the town of Blixton, and had had the gamblers warned out of camp. They had gone, but there had been wrathful mutterings among many of the workmen.

The camp was a half mile back from the water's edge, on a low hillside. Here the men of the outfit were settled. There had been mutinous mutterings among some of the men, but so far there had been no open revolt.

Tom, however, who had had considerable experience in such matters, looked for some form of trouble before the smouldering excitement quieted. So did Harry.

On this dark night Tom had proposed that he and his chum take a stroll down to the shore front to see whether all were well there. Soon after leaving camp behind, the young engineers had started on a jog-trot. Just before they reached the water's edge the wind had borne to their ears the faint report of what must have been an explosion out over the waters of the gulf.

"Trouble!" Tom whispered in his chum's ear. "Most likely some of the rascals that we drove out of camp have been trying to set back our work with dynamite. If they have done so we'll teach 'em a lesson if we can catch them!"

So the young engineers had started out over their narrow retaining wall. We have seen how they had walked most of the distance when Harry had had his sudden warning of the hostile arm uplifted over his head.

"What could it have been?" demanded Tom in a low voice, as he continued to cast the light from his flash lamp out over the waters on either side of the wall.

"It must have been my nervous imagination," admitted Harry. "Whew! But it did seem mighty real for the moment."

"Then you're inclined, now, to believe that it was purely imagination?" pursued Tom.

"Ye -- -e -- -es, it must have been," assented Harry reluctantly.

Tom made some final casts with the light.

While they were conversing, well past the short radius of the flash lamp's glare, a massive black head bobbed up and down with the waves. Out there the huge negro who had swiftly vanished from the wall, and who had swum under water for a long distance, was indolently treading water. Wholly at home in the gulf, the man's black head blended with the darkness of the water and the blackness of the night.

"Oh, then," suggested Reade, "we may as well go along on our way. Plainly there's nothing human around here to look at but ourselves."

So they started slowly forward over the wall. Leisurely the black man swam to the wall, taking up the dogged trail again in the darkness behind the pair of young engineers.

Several minutes more of cautious walking brought Tom Reade to a startled halt.

"Look there, Harry!" uttered Reade, stopping and throwing the light ahead.

Out beyond them, not far from the end of the wall, some hundred feet of the top had been torn away. For all the young engineers could see, the foundations might have gone with the superstructure.

"Dynamite!" Tom muttered grimly. "So this is the way our newly-found enemies will fight us?"

"It won't be such a big job to repair this gap," muttered Harry calmly.

"No; but it'll take a good many dollars to pay the bills," retorted Tom.

"Well, the expense can't be charged to us, anyway," maintained Harry. "We didn't do this vandal's work, and we didn't authorize its being done."

"No; but you know why it was done, Harry," Tom continued. "It was because we drove the gamblers out of the camp, and thus made enemies for ourselves on both sides of the camp lines."

"Anyway, the company's officers can't blame us for trying to maintain proper order in the camp," Hazelton insisted stoutly.

"Not if we can stop the outrages with this one explosion, perhaps," replied Tom thoughtfully. "Yet, if there are many more tricks like this one played on the wall you'll find that the company's officers will be blaming us all the way up to the skies and down again. Big corporations are all right on enforcing morality until it hits their dividends too hard. Then you'll find that the directors will be urging us to let gambling go on again if the laborers insist on having it."

"Well, we won't have gambling in the camp, anyway," Harry retorted stubbornly. "We're simply looking after the interests of the men themselves. I wonder why they can't see it, and act like men, not fools."

"We're going to stop the gambling, and keep it stopped," Tom went on, his jaws setting firmly together. "But, Harry, we're going to have a big row on our hands, and various attempts against the company's property will be made."

"If the company's officers order us to let up on the gambling," proposed Harry, "we can resign and get out of this business altogether."

"We won't resign, and we won't knuckle down to any lot of swindlers either, Harry!" cried Tom. "Some one is fighting us, and this wreck of a sea-wall is the first proof. All right! If any one wants to fight us he shall find that we know how to fight back, and that we can hit hard. Harry, from this minute on we're after those crooks, and we'll make them realize that there's some sting to us!"

"Good enough!" cheered Hazelton. "I like that old-time fight talk! But are you going to do anything to protect the wall to-night, Tom?"

"I am," announced the young chief engineer.

"What's the plan?"

"Let me think," urged Reade. "Now, I believe, I have it. We'll send one of the motor boats out here, with a foreman and four laborers. They can arm themselves with clubs and patrol the water on both sides of the wall. The 'Thomas Morton' has a small search-light on her that will be of use in keeping a close eye over the wall."

"That ought to stop the nonsense," Harry nodded. "But I don't imagine that any further efforts to destroy the wall will be made tonight, anyway."

"We'll have the night patrol out every night after this," Tom declared. "But I'm not so sure either, that another effort won't be made to-night, if we don't put a watch on to stop this wicked business. Harry, do you mind remaining out here while I run back and get the boat out?"

"Why should I mind?" Hazelton wanted to know.

"Well, I didn't know whether you would, or not -- -after seeing that imaginary something behind you."

"Don't laugh at me! I may have had a start, but you ought to be the first to know, Tom, that I haven't frozen feet."

"I do know it, Harry. You've been through too many perils to be suspected of cowardice. Well, then, I'll run back."

Tom Reade had really intended to leave the flash lamp with his chum, but he forgot to do so, and, as he jogged steadily along over the wall he threw the light ahead of him. As he got nearer shore Tom increased his jog to a brisk run.

Once, on the way, he passed the prowling negro without knowing it. That huge fellow, seeing the ray of light come steadily near him, hesitated for a few moments, then took to the water, swimming well out. After Reade had passed, the fellow swam in toward the wall.

Up on the wall climbed the negro. For a few minutes he crouched there, shaking the water from his garments. Then, cautiously, he began to crawl forward.

"Boss Reade, he done gone in," muttered the prowler. "Boss Hazelton, Ah reckon he's mah poultry!"

Harry, keeping his lone vigil away out on the narrow retaining wall, was growing sleepy. He had nearly forgotten his scare. Indeed, he was inclined to look upon it as a trick of his own brain.



Chapter II

The Call Of One In Trouble


Once Tom Reade reached the solid land he let his long legs out into a brisk run.

With his years of practice on the Gridley High School athletic team he was not one to lose his wind readily.

So he made his way at the same speed all the way up to the camp.

"Who dar?" called a negro watchman, as Tom raced up to the outskirts of the camp.

"Reade, chief engineer," Tom called, then wheeled and made off to the right, where the more substantial barracks of the foremen stood. Superintendent Renshaw lived in a two-story barrack still farther to the right, as the guest of the young engineers.

"Quien vive?" (who's there?) hailed another voice, between the two barracks buildings.

"So, Nicolas, you rascal, you haven't gone to bed?" demanded Tom, halting. "What did I tell you about earlier hours?"

Nicolas was the young Mexican servant whom Tom and Harry had brought back with them from Mexico. Readers of the previous volume know all about this faithful fellow.

"You and Senor Hazelton, you waire not in bed," replied Nicolas stolidly.

"You're not expected to stay up and watch over us as if we were babies, Nicolas," spoke Tom, in a gentler voice. "You'd better turn in now."

"Senor Hazelton, where is he?" insisted Nicolas, anxiously.

"Oh, bother! Never mind where he is," Tom rejoined. "We won't either of us be in for a little while yet. But you turn in now -- -at once -- -instanter!"

Then Tom bounded over to the little porch before the foremen's barracks, where he pounded lustily on the door.

"Who's there? What's wanted?" demanded a sleepy voice from the inside.

"Is that you, Evarts?" called Reade.

"Yes, sir."

"Get on your duds and turn out as quickly as you can."

"You want me?" yawned Evarts.

"Now, see here, my man, if I didn't want you why on earth would I call you out in the middle of the night?"

"It's late," complained Evarts.

"I know it. That's why I want you to get behind yourself and push yourself," retorted the young chief engineer energetically. "Hustle!"

Twice, while he waited impatiently, Tom kicked the toe of one boot against the door to emphasize the need of haste. Other drowsy voices remonstrated.

"Hang a man who has to sleep all the time!" grunted Tom Reade.

After several minutes the door opened, and a lanky, loose-jointed, lantern-jawed man of some forty-odd years stepped out.

"Well, what's up, Mr. Reade?" questioned the foreman, hiding a yawn behind a bony, hairy hand.

"You are, at last, thank goodness!" Tom exclaimed. "Evarts, I want you to rout out four good men. Lift 'em to their feet and begin to throw the clothes on 'em!"

"It's pretty late to call men out of their beds, sir," mildly objected the foreman.

"No -- -it's early, but it can't be helped," Tom Reade retorted. "Hustle 'em out!"

"Black or white?" sleepily inquired Evarts.

"White, and Americans at that," Tom retorted. "Put none but Americans on guard tonight, Evarts! What do you suppose has happened?"

"Can't guess."

"No! You're still too sleepy. Evarts, some scoundrels have blown out a good part of our wall yonder."

"Are you joking, Mr. Reade?"

"No, sir; I am not. Dynamite must have been used. Hazelton and I heard the noise of the blast, but of course we got out there too late to catch any miscreant at the job."

Evarts, at first, was inclined to regard the news with mild disbelief, but he soon realized that something must have happened very nearly as the young chief engineer had described.

"Well, what are you standing there for?" Tom demanded, impatiently. "Are you going to wait for daylight? Get the four men out -- -all Americans, mind you. Hustle, man!"

Evarts started away; toward the camp over to the left of them. As he did so Tom darted in another direction. Two minutes later Tom was back, piloting by one arm a man who was still engaged in rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. This was Conlon, engineer of the motor boat, "Morton."

"Where's Evarts?" Reade queried, impatiently. "Oh, Evarts! Where are you, and what are you doing?"

"Trying to get four men awake," bawled back the voice of the foreman, from the distance. "As soon as I get one man on his feet the other three have sunk back to sleep."

"Wait until I get over there then!" called Tom, striding forward. "Come along, Conlon! Don't you lag on me."

"There! Do you fellows reckon you want Mr. Reade to bump in here and shake you out?" sounded the warning voice of Evarts.

As Tom and the motor boat's engine tender reached the little, box-like shack from which Evarts's tones proceeded, four men, seated on the floor, were seen to be lacing their shoes by the dim light of a lantern.

"A nice lot you are!" called Tom crisply. "How many hours does it take you to get awake when you're called in the middle of the night?"

"This overtime warn't in the agreement," sleepily retorted one of the men.

"You're wrong there," Reade informed him, vehemently. "Overtime is in the agreement for every man in this camp when it's wanted of him -- -from the chief engineer all along the line. Now, you men oblige me by hustling. I don't want to wait more than sixty seconds for the last man of you."

"I've a good mind to crawl back into my bunk," growled another of the men.

"All right," retorted Tom Reade, with suspicious cheerfulness. "Try it and see what kind of fireworks I carry concealed on my person. Or, just lag a little bit on me, and you'll see the same thing. Men, do you realize that there's foul play afoot out on the retaining wall? We've got to go out there in time to stop anything more happening. Now, you've got your shoes on; grab the rest of your clothing and hustle it on as we make for the beach. Come along!"

Tom fairly got behind the men and pushed them outside. They would have liked to complain, but they didn't. Some of them were larger and heavier than the chief engineer, but they knew quite well that, at sign of any trifling mutiny to-night, Reade would thrash them all.

"If any one is trying to blow up the wall, Mr. Reade, it's all your fault, anyway," ventured Evarts, as the little party started at a brisk walk for the beach. "When you've got a mixed crowd of men working for you, you shouldn't interfere too much with their amusements. Yet you would have the gamblers run out of camp just when our boys were getting ready to have some pleasant evenings."

"I'll run out any one else who attempts to bring disorderly doings into this camp," Tom retorted quietly.

"Then there'll be some more of your seawalls blown up," Evarts warned him gloomily.

"If such a thing happens again there'll be some men hurt, and some others breaking into prison," Tom answered with spirit. "Any evildoers that try to set themselves up in business around here will soon wish they had kept away -- -that's all."

"It's a bad business," insisted Evarts, wagging his head. "When you have a mixed crowd of workmen -- -"

"I think you've said that before," Tom broke in coolly. "To-night we're in too much of a hurry to listen to the same thing twice. Come on, men. You can go a little faster than a walk. Jog a bit -- -I'll show you how."

"This is pretty hard on men in the middle of the night," hinted Evarts, after the jogging had gone on for a full minute. "It ain't right to --  -- -"

"Stop it, Evarts!" Tom cut in crisply. "I don't mind a little grumbling at the right time, and I often do a bit myself, but not when I'm as rushed as I am to-night. There's the dock ahead, men -- -a little faster spurt now!"

Tom urged his men along to the dock. With no loss of time they tumbled aboard the "Morton," a broad, somewhat shallow, forty-foot motor boat of open construction.

"Get up and take the wheel, Evarts," Tom. directed. "Get at work on your spark, Conlon, and I'll throw the drive-wheel over for you. Some of you men cast, off!"

In a very short time the "Morton" was going "put-put-put" away from the dock.

Tom, after seeing that everything was moving satisfactorily, turned around to look at the four men huddled astern.

"Don't any of you go to sleep," he urged. "A good part of our success depends on how well you all keep awake and use your eyes and ears."

That said, Tom Reade hastened forward, stationing himself close to Evarts, who had the steering wheel.

Some of the men astern began to talk.

"Silence, if you please," Tom called softly. "Don't talk except on matters of business. We want to be able to use our ears. Conlon, make your engine a little less noisy if you can."

Now Reade had leisure to wonder how matters had gone with Harry Hazelton.

"Of course that threatening figure Harry saw behind him was an imaginary one," Tom said to himself, but he felt uneasy nevertheless.

A few moments later Reade clutched at one of Evarts's arms.

"Did you hear that, man?" the young engineer demanded.

"Hear what?" Evarts wanted to know.

"It sounded like a yell out there yonder," Tom rejoined.

"Didn't hear it, Mr. Reade."

"There it goes again!" cried Tom, leaping up. "Some one is calling my name. It must be Harry Hazelton, and he must want help. Conlon, slam it to that engine of yours!"



Chapter III

Vanishing Into Thin Air


Left by himself Harry had stood, at first, motionless, or nearly so. He strained his hearing in trying to detect any unusual sound of the night, since it was so dark that vision would not aid him much.

There was nothing, however, but the mournful sighing of the wind and the lapping of the waves. It seemed to Hazelton that the wind was growing gradually more brisk and the waves larger, but he was not sure of that until the water commenced splashing across his shoes. The footway on the masonry became more slippery in consequence.

"With these rocks well wet down I wouldn't care much about having to run back to the land," muttered Harry, dryly. "However, I won't have to go back on my own feet. Tom will have the boat out here, and undoubtedly he will plan to have us both taken back to shore after we get through cruising around here. We should have brought the boat out in the first place."

A night bird screamed, then flapped its wings close to Harry's face in its flight past him. The young engineer saw the moving wings for an instant; then they vanished into the black beyond.

Farther out some other kind of bird screamed. The whole situation was a weird one, but Harry was no coward, though a less courageous youth would have found the situation hard on his nerves.

Still another night bird screamed, of some species with which Hazelton was wholly unacquainted. The cry was answered by some sort of strange call from the shore.

"It's a fine thing that I'm not superstitious," laughed the young engineer to himself, "or I'd surely feel cold chills chasing each other up and down my spine."

As it was, Harry shivered slightly, though not from fear. With the increasing wind it was growing chilly out there for one who could not warm himself with exercise.

"It's a long time, or it seems so," muttered the young engineer presently. "Yet I'll wager that Tom is hustling himself and others on the very jump."

Again the call of a night bird, and once more a sound from shore seemed to answer it.

"Real birds?" wondered Hazelton, with a start of sudden curiosity. "Or have I been listening to human signals? If so, the signals can't cover any good or honest purpose."

That train of thought set him to listening more acutely than before. Yet, as no more calls reached his ears the attention of the young engineer soon began to flag.

The monotonous lapping of the waves against the stone wall, the constant splashing of water over the rocks and the steady blowing of the wind all tended to make the watcher feel drowsy.

"What on earth can be keeping good old Tom?" Harry wondered, more than once.

It would have been well, indeed, had Harry kept his eyes turned oftener toward the shore end of the wall. In that case he might more speedily have detected the wriggling, snake-like movement of the big negro moving toward him.

With great caution the huge prowler came onward, raising his head a few inches every now and then and listening. The black man's nostrils moved feverishly. He was using them, as a dog would have done, to scent any signs of alarm on the part of the human quarry that he was after.

At last Harry Hazelton turned sharply, for his own ears were attuned to the stillnesses of the western forests and his hearing was unusually acute. He had just heard a sound on the wall, not far away. Instantly the young engineer was on the alert.

Then his eyes, piercing the darkness, made out the crawling, dark form, which did not appear to be more than fifty feet away from him.

For a second or two Harry stared. But he knew there could be no snake as broad as this crawling figure appeared to be.

"Who's there?" Hazelton called quickly.

The writhing mass became still, flattening itself against the bed of rock. Hazelton was not to be deceived, however.

"Who's there?" Harry repeated. "You had better talk up, my man!"

Still no sound. Harry started forward to investigate. His foot touched against a good sized fragment of rock left there by one of the masons.

Without delay Harry reached down, picking up the rock, which was rather more than half as large as his head.

Holding this in his right hand Harry advanced with still more confidence, for he felt himself to be armed. Hazelton had been a clever pitcher in his high school days and knew that he could make this fragment of rock land pretty close to where he wanted it to go.

"Who are you?" demanded Hazelton, once more, as he stepped cautiously forward. "No use in your keeping silent, my man. I see you and know that you're there. Moreover, I'm going to drag the truth out of you as to what you're doing out here on the wall at this hour of the night -- -and to-night of all nights."

Still no answer; Harry went steadily forward, until he was within a dozen feet of the head of the flattened brute in human guise. Hazelton could now see every line of his adversary plainly, though he could not make out the fellow's face.

"You'd better get up and talk," warned Harry, poising the rock fragment for a throw. "If you don't you'll cast all the more suspicion upon yourself. For the last time, my man, who are you and what are you doing here?"

The huge black figure might have been a log for all the answer that came forth.

"All right, then; it's your own fault," Harry Hazelton continued calmly. "As you won't speak I'm going to crack the nut for myself. Your head will be the nut, and this rock I have in my hand shall be the hammer. I'm going to slam this rock on your head with all the force I've got, and I'm a good, straight thrower."

Yet, though Hazelton spoke with such confidence, he was far from meaning all he said. In the first place, he had no legal right, under the circumstances, to go as close to murder as it might be for him to throw the rock at the rascal's head. Moreover, Harry would hardly have exercised such a legal right, had he possessed it, without the strongest provocation.

From the black prowler came a sudden, fierce snort. It sounded altogether like defiance.

"Ho -- -ho! You're finding your voice, are you, my man?" Hazelton jeered. "Then talk up in time to save yourself!"

Instead the huge black man began to writhe forward.

"Stop that!" ordered Harry dangerously. He did not retreat from the writhing human thing, but he took better aim, noting that the black man was hatless and that his head offered a fair mark. "You're going to get hurt in just about a second more," he added.

Uttering another snort the bulky black sprang to his feet with surprising agility in one of his great size.

Harry now let his right hand fall back quickly. He was poising for the throw in earnest, for there could no longer be any doubt that the stranger was planning a deadly assault.

"Take it, then, since you want it!" snapped out Harry Hazelton. The fragment of rock left his hand, propelled with force and directed with accurate aim at the negro's face.

But the crafty black dodged just in time, at the same instant throwing up his hands.

Harry gasped as he saw his unknown assailant deftly catch the rock fragment as though it had been a base ball.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" jeered the black, in a hoarse, rumbling voice.

He threw back his hand, gathering impetus for the cast. Hazelton could do nothing but throw himself on the defensive, planning to duplicate the black man's catch.

Then the stone came -- -but it did not go high, instead, by a jerk of his wrist, the negro hurled it at Harry's right foot.

That granite-like fragment struck Hazelton's foot with full force.

"You -- -you scoundrel!" groaned Harry, in an all but admiring gasp.

Like a flash he bent over, snatching up the fragment for his own use.

"Now, I'll slam you into the middle of the Gulf of Mexico!" cried the young engineer, vengefully, as he tried to straighten up.

A groan escaped him. His injured foot was paining him more than he had expected.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" harshly jeered this mysterious, evil creature. The black man had halted as Harry prepared to throw, but he showed no sign of hesitation. Though he stood still, he thrust his repulsive, leering face forward, as though to offer that face as the best mark.

Harry found that he could not stand straight -- -the pain in his injured foot was now too intense.

"Get back with you!" ordered Harry. "Get back if you don't want a heap worse than you gave me."

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" came the sneering laugh. Then the stranger reached out his hands as though to seize the youth.

"I guess I'll have to do it -- -though not because I really want to hurt you!" muttered Harry ruefully.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!"

There could be no question that the unknown was merely playing with him. Little as he liked to make the ugly throw Harry knew that he had to do it. When Hazelton had anything to do he believed in doing it well. So, putting all possible force into his throw, Harry let the rock fragment fly, and this time he was sure that his enemy would not be able to dodge in time.

Nor did the black man make any seeming effort to dodge.

Bump! Squarely in the black face the rock landed. Harry heard the sound and felt ill within himself. Yet the black man did not stagger. With a contemptuous snort he kicked the fragment of rock into the water as it landed at his feet.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!"

For the first time Harry Hazelton felt positively dismayed. He saw the long, massive arms moving, looking like a powerful ape's arms. There could be no doubt that the unknown was ready for a spring.

Harry did not retreat. Where could he run to? Only a few yards could he go out towards the end of the wall. Then, if he wished to continue his flight he could only take to the water.

Only a glance was needed at the bulky, powerful frame of the unknown to make it appear certain that the latter could swim two rods to the young engineer's one.

Harry decided instantly to stand his ground and to make the most valiant fight possible on so slippery a footing as that presented by the top of the retaining wall.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!"

It was as though the black unknown sought to terrify his intended victim with his repetitions of that harsh, discordant laugh. Harry braced himself and waited.

Then, off shoreward, came the sound of "put-put-put." The motor boat, "Morton," was putting out at last.

"If I can keep this fellow busy for a few minutes, I can have all the help I want," flashed through Hazelton's mind. So he opened his mouth, raising his voice in a long, pent-up hail.

"R e -- -e -- -e a d e! To -- -o -- -o -- -om R e a d e! Quick! Hazelton!"

"Ha, ha!" jeered the unknown black.

Then, suddenly, he leaped -- -not unexpectedly, however, for Harry had been watching, cat-like.

The unknown threw out his arms, seeking to wrap them around Hazelton.

Not in vain had Harry been trained, season after season, on the athletic ground of one of the best high school elevens in the United States.

As the fellow leaped at him Harry crouched lower and went straight at his opponent.

Powerful as the stranger was he was no football player. Harry "tackled" him in the neatest possible way, then strove to rise with this great human being.

In the first instant it seemed to the young engineer as though he were trying to lift a mountain. His back felt as though it were snapping under a giant's task. Yet, but for one fact, Hazelton would have risen with his man, and would have hurled the mysterious one over into the waters of the gulf.

Just in the instant of victory Harry's injured right foot gave out under him. With a stifled groan he sank down just as he threw his opponent.

The black, instead of going into the water, landed hard on his back on the top of the wall. He was up again, however, before Hazelton could repress the pain in his foot and leap at the wretch.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" came the tantalizing challenge.

"Put-put-put!" sounded over the water, coming nearer all the time.

"Re -- -e -- -e -- -e a d e! T o m R e a d e! Help -- -quick!" yelled Harry, lustily.

This, doubtless, was the first call that Tom, at the bow of the motor boat, thought he heard.

Uttering a snort, this time, instead of the laugh, the black sprang at his intended prey. Their heads met, with considerable force. Then, with a wild chuckle, the black wound his apelike arms around the young engineer.

"Reade! Tom Reade! Reade!" bellowed Hazelton lustily, as he tried desperately to free himself from the crushing embrace of the other.

*   *   *   *   *

Over the waters came the penetrating beam of a small search-light. The "Morton" was coming nearer all the time, but the ray did not yet reach with any great clearness the point where Harry Hazelton had been fighting for his life against his strange foe in the black night.

"Keep parallel with the wall, Evarts," Tom ordered, crisply. "Conlon, are you pushing the engines for all it's worth?"

"Yes, sir," came from the engine-tender. "This old craft isn't good for quite seven miles' an hour, anyway."

"There! Now I've picked up the part of the wall where there isn't any wall in sight just now," said Tom, wincing over his own bull. "Hazelton ought to be just this side of there."

"There's no one near the breach," replied Evarts.

"So I see," Reade admitted, in a tone of worriment. "Oh, well, Harry isn't such an infant as to be wiped out all in one moment."

"Where is Mr. Hazelton then?" inquired Evarts, as Tom swung the arc of the searchlight in broad curves.

"Great Scott! I wish I knew!" gasped Reade, his perplexity and his anxiety growing with every second. "There appears to be no one on top of the wall."

Evarts ran in within a few feet of the wall, on the shore-side of the breach.

"Shall I land you there, sir?" questioned the foreman.

"Presently," Tom nodded. "But now, back out a few feet and swing the boat's nose around so that I can make a search with this light." Evarts obeyed the order. Despite the smallness of the light, Reade was able to send the searching beam of light back nearly one-half of the way to shore. Nowhere was there any human being visible on the wall.

"Harry! Hazelton!" bawled Tom, with all the power in his lungs.

There was no answer.

"Jupiter! You'll have to land me, I reckon," quaked Tom Reade. "Drive her nose in -- -gently. I'll be ready to jump."

"Be careful how you do jump," warned Evarts. "It's mighty slippery on that wall tonight."

Tom poised himself as the boat moved in close. Then he took a light leap, landing safely.

Here the young chief engineer again brought his pocket flash lamp into play. Closely he scanned the top of the wall all around where he knew he had left his chum.

But Harry was nowhere to be seen, nor, on the wet wall, could Tom find any signs of a scuffle, or any other sign that gave him a clue.

"Evarts, this is mighty mysterious!" groaned the young chief.

"Unless -- -" hinted the foreman.

"Unless what?"

"Perhaps Mr. Hazelton ran along the walltop to the shore."

"He'd have hailed us, then, in passing, wouldn't he?" choked Tom Reade. "Besides, I had the light playing on this wall most of the way. If he had run back we would have seen him, even if he hadn't hailed. And he couldn't have run farther out to seaward. Evarts, I'm downright worried."

Tom Reade might indeed well be worried over the grewsome mysteries of this night of evil deeds.



Chapter IV

Some One Calls Again


Half an hour later Tom Reade leaped ashore at the little pier.

"My orders, Mr. Reade."

"They're brief and concise," Tom rejoined. "You're to cruise the length of the wall, especially farther out from shore. Use your searchlight freely. Keep the wall so guarded that no rascal can slip out there, either over the wall or by boat, and do any damage. Mr. Evarts, the safety of the wall until daylight is your whole charge."

"Very good, sir. But I'm sure that nothing more will happen to the wall."

"If anything does it will be up to you, Mr. Evarts," Tom assured him grimly. "I'll hold you responsible."

"I won't let anything happen, Mr. Reade. And I hope you find Mr. Hazelton all right."

"He may be up at camp," Tom answered, though in his heart he did not believe it.

Had Harry escaped whatever danger had menaced him, Tom knew very well that his chum, after appealing for help, would by some means have signaled his subsequent safety.

However, Tom started toward camp at a run. He was wholly mystified. The search in the neighborhood of the breach in the wall had been continued until its hopelessness had been fully demonstrated. The search had also been continued over the water, for a possible clue to the mystery.

Though Tom ran, he felt himself choking, stifling. Despite all his efforts to cheer himself the young chief engineer felt certain that his chum had mysteriously met his fate, and that brave, dependable Harry Hazelton was no more.

Yet how could he have vanished so completely, and what possibly could have happened to his assailant or assailants?

"It'll be an awful night, until daylight," Tom groaned inwardly, as he ran. "At daylight, of course, we can make a far better search, especially over the water. But in the hours that must elapse -- -! It's going to be a tough period of waiting!"

Arrived at camp, Tom made straight for his own barracks, letting himself in with a latch-key as soon as he could control his shaking hand sufficiently to use the key.

Tom bounded straight for the bed-room of the superintendent, at the rear of the little building.

"Mr. Renshaw!" shouted the young chief, throwing open the bed-room door.

The barrack was lighted by electricity. Tom threw on the light, then wheeled toward the bed, to find the superintendent sitting up, revolver in hand.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" gasped the superintendent. "Mr. Reade, in my stupor from being aroused I was just on the point of shooting you for a burglar. It's awful!"

"You ought to throw that revolver to the bottom of the gulf," Tom rasped out.

"Not much!" retorted the superintendent. "Handling as mixed a crew as we have on this work I wouldn't think of going about unarmed. And you ought to go armed, too, Mr. Reade."

"Bosh!" uttered Tom. He had a well-known objection to carrying a pistol. Reade always maintained that a pistol-carrying man was a coward. A coward is one who is afraid, and the man who is not afraid has no reason to carry a weapon.

"Renshaw," added Tom, "there's just one circumstance in which I would carry a pistol -- -and that is, if I were carrying large sums of other people's money. If I were a pay-master, or a bank messenger, I'd carry a pistol, but under no other circumstances, outside of military service, would I carry a weapon. But -- -are you thoroughly awake, now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, Mr. Renshaw, get up and hide that pistol somewhere. While you're about it, listen to me. Some scoundrel has blown out a large portion of our retaining wall to-night. I left Hazelton on guard at the point and came ashore to get out the motor boat, 'Morton.' Before I could return I heard Hazelton's call for help, and -- -he has disappeared! There's wicked work on hand to-night. You'll have to get up and help me. Be quick with your dressing. We've work to do to-night, and all of it is man's work."

Tom hastily added such other particulars as were needed. Renshaw, while he dressed hurriedly, listened with a horror that he took no pains to conceal.

"Evarts claims that it's revenge work, on the part of some of our men, because Hazelton and I stopped gambling in the camp," Tom continued.

"It might be," Renshaw admitted thoughtfully. "But to me it seems that there must be a lot more behind the whole terrible matter."

"That's the way it strikes me, too," Tom nodded. "However, you're dressed, so now we can hurry out and get busy."

"What shall we do first?" Superintendent Renshaw inquired.

"That's what I've been thinking over while you were dressing," Tom replied. "Of course the one thing of real importance is to find Hazelton."

"Killed, beyond a doubt," replied the older man.

"I refuse to believe it," Tom retorted. "There's a mystery in his fate, but I simply won't believe that Harry has been killed."

"Then why didn't you hear from him further?"

"That's the mystery."

Tom had shaped their course for the barracks occupied by the foremen. He bounded upon the little porch and began to hammer on the door with both fists.

"Turn out, everybody!" Tom bellowed. "Every foreman is on duty to-night. Show a light, and let us in as soon as you can."

Some one was heard stirring. Then Dill, one of the foremen, admitted the callers.

"Are all the others up?" Reade asked, sharply.

"Yes, sir."

"Good! Tell your associates to finish dressing as quickly as possible and to meet me in the office."

"The office" was a little room just inside the entrance to the building. It was a room where the foremen sat and chatted in the evenings.

"Put a double-hustle on, everyone," Tom called after Dill.

"Yes, sir."

Barely three minutes had passed when all of the six remaining foremen had assembled. Tom plunged instantly into a brief account of what had happened.

"It seems to me, sir -- -" Dill began.

"Keep it to yourself, then, if you please," Tom interrupted him gently. "We haven't any time for opinions to-night. What we want is swift, intelligent work, and a lot of it."

Tom thereupon gave each man his directions.

"Now, each of you go to your own gangs in the camp," he added. "Wake what men you need and put 'em to work. If any of the men object to being taken from their cots in the night, just lift them out. Don't stand any nonsense. Let each foreman make it his business to know just what the men under him are doing."

One foreman was to take men with lanterns and go out carefully over every foot of the seawall. Another was to organize a beach patrol. Still another, with but two men, was to go into the town of Blixton and see if any tidings of Hazelton could be obtained there. To one foreman fell the task of searching carefully through camp before going to other work assigned to him.

"Now, get to work, all of you," Tom ordered. "As an extra inducement you can tell your men that the one who finds Hazelton, whether dead or alive, shall have a reward of one hundred dollars. Remember the watchword for to-night, which is, 'hustle!'"

In all, some sixty men were pulled from their cots. Tom, having given the orders, walked down to the beach with his superintendent.

"You've covered everything that's possible, I think, Mr. Reade," commented the foreman.

"I think I have. But there won't be any rest for any one until we have found Hazelton."

"Are you going to have the water dragged?"

"Not before daylight -- -perhaps not then," Reade replied. "I can't bring myself to believe that Harry was thrown into the water and that he drowned there."

"It'll take the chief a day or two to realize that," sighed the superintendent to himself. "Yet that is exactly what has happened. The chief won't believe it, though, until the body is found."

Down on the beach there was really nothing for Tom and his head man to do after the arrival of the foremen and their gangs. Everything went ahead in an orderly manner.

"I don't suppose you could get any rest, under the circumstances, Mr. Reade," hinted the superintendent, "yet that is just what you are going to need."

"Rest?" echoed Tom, gazing at the man, in a strange, wide-eyed way, while a grim smile flickered around the corners of his mouth. "What have rest and I to do with each other just now?"

"Yet there's nothing you can do here."

"I am here, anyway," Reade retorted. "I'm on the spot -- -that's something."

"Let me run back to the house and get you some blankets," urged the superintendent. "Then you can lie down on the sand and rest. Of course I know you can't sleep at present."

"It is not necessary go back," volunteered a voice behind them. "I have the blankets."

"Nicolas!" gasped Tom, in surprise. "How did you know I was here?"

"I wake up when you talk to Meester Renshaw," replied the Mexican simply. "I listen. I know, now -- -poor Senor Hazelton!"

Nicolas's voice broke, and, as he stepped closer, Tom beheld some large tears trickling down the little Mexican's face.

"Nicolas, you're a good fellow!" cried Tom, impulsively, "but I don't want the blankets. Spread them on the sand, then lie down on them yourself until I need you."

"What -- -me? I lie down?" demanded Nicolas. "No, no! That impossible is. I must walk, walk! Me? I am like the caged panther to-night. I want nothing but find the enemy who have hurt Senor Hazelton. Then I jump on the back of that enemy!"

Saying which Nicolas saluted, and, as became his position of servant, fell back some yards. But first he had dropped the blankets to the beach.

The light of lanterns showed that the men of one gang were searching thoroughly all along the top of the wall. Once in a while a man belonging to the beach patrol passed the chief engineer and the superintendent, reporting only that no signs of Harry had been found.

An hour thus passed. Then, from over the water, as the lantern-bearing searchers were returning, a dull explosion boomed across the water.

"Great Scott!" quivered Tom. "There they go at it again, Mr. Renshaw! Another section of the retaining wall has gone -- -blown up!"



Chapter V

Wanted -- -Daylight And Divers


In a trice the foreman of the gang on the wall wheeled his men about, running them out seaward toward the scene of the latest explosion. That much was plain from the twinkling of the rapidly-moving lanterns.

"Come on, Renshaw!" Tom shouted. "You, too, Nicolas. You can pull an oar."

Reade was already racing out on to the small dock. He all but threw himself into a rowboat that lay tied alongside.

"Cast off and get in," Tom ordered his companions, as he pushed out a pair of oars. "Nicolas, you're also good with a pair of oars. Mr. Renshaw, you take the tiller. Inform me instantly when you see the first gleam of the 'Morton's' search-light. Evarts ought to have caught the scoundrels this time. Evidently he's been cruising softly without showing a light."

Mr. Renshaw gathered up the tiller ropes as Tom pushed off from the dock. Then the chief engineer addressed himself to the task of rowing. His firm muscles, working at their best, shot the little craft ahead. Nicolas, at the bow oars, did his best to keep up with his chief in the matter of rowing, though the Mexican was neither an oarsman nor an athlete.

"Don't you make out the motor boat's lights yet?" Tom asked impatiently, after the first long spurt of rowing.

"Not yet, sir," replied the superintendent. "I shan't miss the light when it shows."

A few minutes later the superintendent announced in a low voice:

"There's some craft, motionless, just a bit ahead."

Tom, without stopping his work at the oars, turned enough to glance forward.

"Why, it's -- -it's the 'Morton'!" he gasped.

"I believe it is," declared the superintendent, staring keenly at the nearly shapeless black mass ahead.

Tom, with his jaws set close, bent harder than ever at the oars.

"Senor!" wailed Nicolas, gaspingly. "If you do not go more easily I shall expire for lack of breath. I cannot keep up with you."

Reade fell into a slower, stronger stroke.

"Drop the oars any time you want to, Nicolas," Reade urged. "There won't be much more rowing to do, anyway."

Presently Tom himself rested on his oars, as the boat, moving under its own headway, approached the motor boat.

"Going to board her on the quarter?" the superintendent asked.

"No; by the bow," Tom answered. "Let go the tiller ropes. I'll pull alongside."

As they started to pass the boat a sound reached them that made Reade grow wild with anger. Snore after snore, from five busy sleepers!

Tom pulled softly up to the bow.

"There's the anchor cable!" snorted Tom, Pointing to a rope that ran from the bow of the "Morton" down into the water. "Did you ever see more wicked neglect of important duty? And not even a lantern out to mark her berth! Get aboard, Mr. Renshaw, and go aft to start the engine. Nicolas, you take this boat astern and make fast. Don't wake the sleepers -- -poor, tired shirkers!"

Tom, in utter disgust, leaped aboard the boat at the bow. There, behind the wheel, Evarts lay on the floor of the boat, his rolled-up coat serving as a pillow.

Almost noiselessly Tom hauled up the light anchor. Then he stood by the wheel.

"All ready at the engine, Mr. Reade!" called the superintendent, softly.

"Let her go," Tom returned, "as soon as Nicolas boards."

The Mexican was quickly aboard, after having made the rowboat's painter fast.

"Headway!" announced Renshaw, throwing over the drive-wheel of the engine.

"Put-put-put!" sputtered the motor. Then the "Morton" began really to move. With the first real throb of the engine the electric running lights gleamed out.

Aft Conlon began to stir. Then he opened his eyes.

"What -- -" he began.

"Silence!" commanded Mr. Renshaw.

"Tell me who's at the wheel?" Conlon begged.

"Mr. Reade," replied the superintendent, dryly. "Now, keep still!"

"Whew -- -ew -- -ew!" whistled Conlon, in dire dismay. Then he sank back, watching the engine with moody eyes. The other three men aft still slept.

Presently Tom, in shifting his position, touched one foot lightly against the foreman's head. Evarts half-awoke, then realized that the boat was moving.

"Who started this craft against my orders?" he drowsily demanded, as he sat up.

"I did," Tom retorted witheringly, "though I didn't hear your orders to the contrary."

"You -- -Mr. Reade?" gasped the foreman, leaping to his feet.

"Yes -- -and a fine fellow you are to trust!" Tom rejoined. "I leave you with very definite orders, and you go to sleep. Then there's another explosion out on the wall and you sleep right along."

"Another explosion?" blurted Evarts, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "Here, let me have that wheel, sir. I'll have you out there quick!"

"You've nothing more to do here," Tom answered, dryly, without yielding the wheel.

"What do you mean by that?" Evarts cried quickly.

"Can't you guess?" wondered Reade.

"Mr. Reade means," said Conlon, who had come forward, "that we're fired -- -discharged."

"Nonsense!" protested Evarts.

"Conlon has guessed rightly, as far as you're concerned," Tom continued. "To-morrow, Evarts, you go to Mr. Renshaw and get your pay. As for you, Conlon, you're not discharged this time. Evarts admitted himself that it was he who gave positive orders to tie the boat up at anchor. You were under his orders, so I can't hold you responsible. Are you wide awake, now?"

"Yes, sir," answered Conlon meekly.

"Then go back and attend to your engine. Look sharp for hail or bell."

"I guess you'll find you can't quite get along without me," argued Evarts moodily. "You'll find that you need me to manage some of the men you've got."

"You're through with this job, as I just did you the honor to inform you," Tom responded quietly. "To-morrow Mr. Renshaw will pay you off up to date."

"If I'm bounced, then you'll pay me for the balance of the month, anyway!" snarled the foreman defiantly. "You can't drop me without notice like that."

"You'll be paid to date only," Tom retorted. "You've been discharged for wilful and serious neglect of duty, and you're not entitled to pay for the balance of the month."

"All right, then," retorted the other hotly. "I'll collect my money through the courts. I'll show you!"

"Just as you please," Reade replied indifferently. "But I imagine any court will consider seven dollars a day pretty large pay for a man who goes to sleep on duty."

"See here, I'll -- -"

"You'll keep quiet, Evarts, or you'll go overboard," Reade interrupted significantly. "I happen to know that you can swim, so I won't be bothered with you here if you insist on making a nuisance of yourself."

Mr. Renshaw, having been relieved at the engine, now came forward.

"Mr. Renshaw," directed the young chief engineer, "as soon after daylight as it is convenient for you you'll pay Evarts off in full to date and let him go. He threatens to sue if he is not paid to the end of the month, but if he wants to we'll let the courts do our worrying."

"All right, sir," nodded the superintendent.

Evarts had dropped into a seat just forward of the engine. He sat there, regarding Tom Reade with a baleful look of hate.

"You're a success, all right, at one thing, and that's making enemies," muttered the discharged foreman under his breath.

Besides attending to the wheel Tom now reached out with one hand and switched on the search-light, which he manipulated with one hand. Shortly he found the spot where the portion of the wall had been blown away by the first explosion. A hundred and fifty yards farther out he beheld the work of the second explosion. Some seventy-five yards in length was the new open space, where at least as much of the retaining wall as was visible above the water had been blown out.

"Slow down, Cordon," ordered Tom. "All we want is headway."

"All right, sir."

Tom drifted in within a few feet of the former site of the retaining wall. The "Morton" moved slowly by, Tom, by the aid of the searchlight, noting the extent of the disaster.

"Get back aft, Evarts," ordered the young engineer, turning and beholding the late foreman. "We don't want you here."

For a moment or two it looked as though Evarts would refuse. Then, with a growl, he rose and picked his way aft. By this time the other men who had been in his gang were awake. They regarded their former foreman with no great display of sympathy.

"I'll confess I'm mystified," muttered Tom, watching the scene of the latest explosion for some minutes after the engine had been stopped. "When daylight comes and we can use the divers we ought to know a bit more about how such a big blast is worked in the dead of night when the scoundrels ought to make noise enough to be heard. It must have been a series of connected blasts, all touched off at the same moment, Mr. Renshaw, but even such a series is by no means easy to lay. And then the blasts have to be drilled for, and then tamped."

"As you say, sir," replied the superintendent, "a much clearer idea can be formed when we have daylight and the divers."

Tom held his watch to one side of the searchlight.

"Nearly two hours yet until daylight, Mr. Renshaw," he announced. "And, of course, it will be two or three hours after daylight before we can get the divers at work. A fearful length of time to wait!"

"You'd better go back to the shore, sir," urged the superintendent.

"Not while this boat needs to be run," objected Reade. "For the rest of the night I want a man here whom I can trust."

"Will you trust me with the boat?" proposed the superintendent.

"Why, of course!"

"Then let me run back to the dock and put you ashore, Mr. Reade. After that I'll come out here and patrol along the wall until broad daylight."

That was accordingly done. The "Morton" lay alongside the dock, and Nicolas instantly busied himself with casting off the rowboat and making her fast to the pier instead.

Evarts sullenly remained in the boat.

"Come on, Evarts," spoke Tom quietly.

"Mr. Reade," expostulated the late foreman, "I'm not going to be thrown out of my job like this."

"Which especial way of being thrown out do you prefer then?" Tom queried, dryly.

"I'm not going to be put out of my job until I've had at least one good talk with you," insisted the foreman.

"I'm afraid the time has passed for talking with you," Reade responded, turning toward the shore. "You lost a great chance, to-night, to serve the company with distinction, and your negligence cost the company a lot of money through the second explosion. Are you coming out of that boat -- -or shall I come back after you?"

Evarts rose, with a surly air. He stepped slowly ashore, after which one of the crew cast off. The engine began to move, and the "Morton" started back to her post.

"Oh, you feel fine and important, just at this minute!" grumbled the discharged foreman, under his breath, glaring wickedly at the broad back of the young chief engineer. "But I'll do something to take the importance out of you before very long, Tom Reade!"

Truth to tell, Tom, though he was still alert to the interests of his employers, felt anything but important. The thought of Harry Hazelton's unknown fate caused a great, choking lump in his throat as Reade stepped from the pier to land.



Chapter VI

Mr. Bascomb Is Peevish


At the first blush of dawn Tom despatched the tireless Nicolas to Blixton to notify the police of the explosions and of the disappearance of Harry Hazelton.

Two men in blue, wearing stars on their coats, came over within an hour, walked about and looked wise until noon. They discovered nothing whatever, and their theories did not strike Reade as being worthy of attention.

As soon as possible the divers were sent down at the two wrecked parts of the retaining wall. These men reported that the breaches extended ten feet beneath the surface at some points; only eight feet at other points. The foundations of the walls were reported as being secure. Then Tom, under the directions of two divers, put on a diver's suit and went down himself, for the first time in his life. After some two hours, with frequent ascents to the surface, the young chief engineer had satisfied himself that the foundations were secure. Then he did some rapid figuring.

"The loss will not exceed eight thousand dollars -- -the cost of rebuilding the missing parts of the walls," Reade informed Superintendent Renshaw.

"Only eight thousand dollars!" whistled the superintendent.

"Well, that figure isn't anywhere nearly as high as I feared it might be," Tom pursued.

"But it will strike the directors of the Melliston Company as being pretty big for an extra bill," muttered Renshaw. "Especially, since -- -"

The superintendent paused.

"You were going to say," smiled Tom, wanly, "since the loss wouldn't have happened if I hadn't kicked the gamblers out of camp."

"That's about the size of it, Mr. Reade," nodded Renshaw. "Directors of big companies are less interested in moral reforms than in dividends. They're likely to make a big kick over what your crusade has cost them already, even if it costs them no more."

"We'll see to it that it doesn't cost them any more," Tom retorted. "Every night we'll watch that sea wall the way a mother does a sick baby. There'll be no more explosions. As to the directors kicking over the present expense, they'll have a prompt chance to do it. As soon as the telegraph office in Blixton was open this morning I wired the president of the company. Now, I'm going ashore. I can't do anything out here to help you, can I?"

"Nothing," replied Renshaw. "If I didn't know how foolish the advice would sound, Mr. Reade, I'd urge you to take a nap."

"I'll take a nap when I find it impossible to keep my eyes open any longer," Tom compromised. "For the next few hours -- -work and lots of it."

As yet no effort had been made to repair the breaches in the wall. The different gangs were working that day in nearer shore. The divers, gathered on a scow, were now waiting for the "Morton" to convey them back to shore. Reade decided to go with them.

"Twenty minutes to two," murmured Tom to himself, glancing at his watch as the "Morton" went laboriously back over the dancing, glinting waves. "There's a train due at Blixton at 1:30. By the time I get back to the house I ought to find one or more officials of the company impatiently waiting to jump on my devoted neck."

Nor was Tom disappointed in this expectation. Pacing up and down on the porch of the house occupied by the engineers and superintendent was George C. Bascomb, president of the Melliston Company. Behind him stood Nicolas, respectfully eager to do anything he could for the comfort of the great man.

"Ah, there you are, Reade," called President Bascomb in an irritated tone, as he caught sight of the young engineer striding forward. "Now, what's all this row that you wired us about?"

"Will you come down to the water, and go out with me to look at the damage, sir?" asked Tom, as he took the president's reluctantly offered hand.

"No," grunted Mr. Bascomb. "Let me hear the story first. Come inside and tell me about it."

"Our friend is not quite so gracious as he has been on former meetings," thought Tom, as he led the way inside. "I wonder if he is going to get cranky?"

Inside was a little office room, as in the foremen's barracks.

"Any decent cigars here?" questioned Mr. Bascomb, after exploring his own pockets and finding them innocent of tobacco.

"No, sir," Tom answered. "No one here smokes."

"I've got to have a cigar," the president of the company insisted.

"Then, sir, if you'll give Nicolas your orders, he'll run over to Blixton and get you what you want."

The Mexican departed in haste on the errand.

"Now, first of all, Reade," began the president, "I am disgusted at learning of one fool mistake that you've made."

"What is that, sir?" Tom asked, coloring.

"I've just learned that you discharged Evarts -- -one of our best and most useful men."

"I did discharge him, sir," Reade admitted.

"Take him back, at once."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't do it. He -- -"

"I don't think you quite understand," broke in Mr. Bascomb coldly. "I directed you to take Mr. Evarts back on this work."

"I was about to tell you, sir, why I can't do anything of the sort. I -- -"

"Stop right there, Reade," ordered President Bascomb, in his most aggressive, bullying manner. "The first point that we have to settle is that Evarts must come back on the pay-roll and have his old position. Be good enough to let that proposition sink in before we take up the second."

"I am very sorry, sir," Tom murmured respectfully, "but I can't and won't have Evarts back here. I won't have him around the work at all. Now what is the second proposition, sir?"

As Tom spoke he looked straight into Mr. Bascomb's eyes. The other glared at him unbelievingly but angrily.

"Young man, you don't appear to understand that I am president and head of the Melliston Company."

"I quite understand it, sir," Reade answered. "At the same time I am chief engineer here, and I am committed to building the breakwater and dredging out the enclosed bay or harbor, all within a certain fixed appropriation. In order to keep my part of the bargain I must have men with me on whom I can depend to the fullest limit. Evarts isn't such a man and I won't have him on the work again."

"He'll go on the pay-roll, anyway," snorted Mr. Bascomb.

"I can't help what you may see fit to pay him, Mr. Bascomb, provided you pay him somewhere else. But the fellow can't go on the pay-roll here for the simple reason that he wouldn't be allowed to visit this construction camp for the purpose of getting his money. Mr. Bascomb, I am not trying to ride a high horse. I recognize that you are president of the company, and that I must take all reasonable orders from you and carry them out to the letter. Yet I can't take any orders that would simply hinder my work and damage my reputation as an engineer. Evarts can't come back into this camp as long as I am in charge here."

"We'll take that up again presently," returned Mr. Bascomb, with an air of ruffled dignity. "Now, there's another matter that we must discuss. I know what has been done in the way of great damage to the retaining wall. I also know that this damage came through enmity that you stirred up by drumming certain parties out of this camp."

"You refer, sir, I take it, to my act in having Blixton police officers come in here and chase out some gamblers who had come here for the purpose of winning the money of the workmen?"

"That's it," nodded Bascomb. "In that matter you went too far -- -altogether too far!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, sir."

"You mean, Reade, that you don't want to understand me," snapped the president. "You admit having chased out the gamblers, don't you?"

"Of course, I admit it, sir."

"That was a bad move. In the future, Reade, you will not interfere with any forms of amusement that the men may select for themselves in their evening hours."

Tom stared at the speaker in undisguised amazement.

"But, Mr. Bascomb, the men are shamelessly robbed by the sharpers who come here to gamble with them."

"That's the men's own affair," scoffed the president. "Anyway, they have a right to pitch away their wages if they want to. Reade, when you're as old as I am you will understand that workmen who throw away their money make the best workmen. They never have any savings, hence they must make every effort to keep their jobs. A workman with savings becomes too independent."

"I am certain you have seen more of the world than I have, Mr. Bascomb," Reade replied, respectfully. "At the same time I can't agree with you on the point you have just stated. A workman with a bank account has always a greater amount of self-respect, and a man who has self-respect is bound to make a good citizen and a good workman. But there are still other reasons why I had the gamblers chased out. Gambling here in the camp would always create a great deal of disorder. Disorder destroys discipline, and a camp like this, in order to give the best results in the way of work, must have discipline. Moreover, the men, when gambling, remain up until all hours of the night. A man who has been up most of the night can't give an honest day's work in return for his wages. Unless the men get their sleep and are kept in good condition we can't get the work out of them that we have a right to expect."

"The right man can drive workmen," declared Mr. Bascomb, with emphasis. "You'll have to drive your men. Get all the work out of them, but drop at once this foolish policy of interfering with what they do after the whistle blows. We can't have any more of this nonsense. It costs too much. By the way, how much will it cost to repair the damage to the retaining walls?"

"About eight thousand dollars, sir, if my first figuring was correct," was Reade's answer.

"Eight thousand dollars!" scowled President Bascomb. "Now, Reade, doesn't that amount of wanton, revengeful mischief teach you the folly of trying to regulate camp life outside of working hours?"

"I'm afraid it doesn't, sir."

"Then you must be a fool, Reade!"

"Thank you, sir. I will add that you're not the first man who has suspected it."

"You will, therefore, Reade," continued Mr. Bascomb, with his grandest air of authority, "cause it to become known throughout the camp that you are not going to interfere any further with any form of amusement that is brought to the camp evenings by outsiders."

"Is that proposition number two, sir?" queried the young chief engineer.

"It is."

"Then please don't misunderstand me, sir," Reade begged, respectfully, "but it is declined, as is proposition number one."

"Do you mean to say that you are going to go on with your fool way of doing things?"

"Yes, sir -- -until I am convinced that it is a fool way."

"But I've just told you that it is," snapped Mr. Bascomb.

"Then I say it very respectfully, sir, but pardon me for replying that I don't consider the evidence very convincing. I have shown you why I must have good order in the camp, and I have told you that I do not propose to allow gambling or any other disorderly conduct to go on within camp limits. I can't agree to these things, and then hope to win out by keeping the cost of the work within the appropriation."

"Do you feel that you'll keep within the appropriation by making enemies who deliberately blow up our masonry?" glared Mr. Bascomb.

"I doubt if there will be any more expense in that line, sir. I intend to have such a watch kept over the wall as to prevent any further mischief of the kind."

"Watchmen are an item of expense, aren't they?" snorted the president.

"Yes, sir; but next to nothing at all as compared with the mischief they can prevent."

"I have already told you how to prevent the mischief, Reade. Stop all of your foolish nonsense and let the men have their old-time pastimes."

"I can't do it, sir."

"Have you paper, pen and ink here?" thundered Mr. Bascomb. "If so, bring them."

Tom quietly obeyed.

"Reade," again thundered the president of the Melliston Company, "I have had as much of your nonsense as I intend to stand. You are out of here, from this minute. Take that pen and sign your resignation!"



Chapter VII

Tom Isn't As Easy As He Looks


"I don't believe I'll do that, sir," murmured Tom, putting down the pen.

"You don't, eh?"

"No, sir."

"Oh, then you'd rather wait and be forced out?"

"How about the contract, sir, between your company and Reade & Hazelton? Contracts can't be broken as lightly as your words imply."

"I'll break that contract, if I set out to," declared Mr. Bascomb, purpling with half-suppressed rage. "I've every ground for breaking the contract. You're running things with a high hand here, and disorganizing all our efforts. No contract will stand on presentation of any such evidence as that before a court."

"I am quite willing to leave that to a court, if I have to," Reade rejoined. His tones were decidedly cold. "Mr. Bascomb, even if I were inclined to forfeit the contract I would have no legal right to do so without the approval of my partner, Hazelton."

"Humph! He's dead," snorted the president.

"That yet remains to be proved, sir," Tom answered huskily, his voice breaking slightly at thought of Harry.

"How on earth do you think you could defend a contract against a wealthy company like ours? Why, we could swamp you under our loose change alone. How much money have you in the world? Two or three thousand dollars, perhaps."

"I've a little more than that," Tom Reade smiled. "For one thing, I'm a third owner in the Ambition mine, on Indian Smoke Range, Nevada, and the Ambition has been a dividend payer almost from the start. Hazelton owns another third of the mine."

"Eh?" gasped Mr. Bascomb, plainly taken aback.

"Oh, we're not millionaires," Tom laughed easily. "Yet I fancy Hazelton and I could raise enough money to fight any breach-of-contract case in court. With a steady-paying mine, you know, we could even discount to some extent the earnings of future years."

"Oh, well, we don't want hard feelings," urged Mr. Bascomb, his manner becoming more peaceable. "The plain truth is, Reade, that we're utterly dissatisfied with your way of managing things here. When you know how the Melliston Company feels toward you, you don't want to be impudent enough to insist on hanging on, do you?"

"I am certain that I speak for my partner, sir, when I state that we won't drop the contract until we have fulfilled it," Tom muttered, coolly, but with great firmness.

"What's all this dispute about anyway, Bascomb?" a voice called cheerily from the hallway.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Prenter?" asked Mr. Bascomb, turning and not looking overjoyed at the interruption.

Simon F. Prenter was treasurer of the Melliston Company. Tom had met him at the time of signing the engineers' contract with the company. Now Reade sprang up to place a chair for the new arrival.

"What was all the row about?" Mr. Prenter asked affably. He was a man of about forty-five, rather stout, with light blue eyes that looked at one with engaging candor.

"I have been suggesting to Reade that he might resign," replied Mr. Bascomb, stiffly.

"Why?" asked Prenter, opening his eyes wider.

"Because he has raised the mischief on this breakwater job. He has all the men by their ears, and the camp in open mutiny."

"So?" asked Mr. Prenter, looking astonished.

"Exactly, and therefore I have called upon the young man to resign."

"And he refuses?" queried the treasurer. "Most astounding obstinacy on the part of so young a man when dealing with his elder."

"I'll try to explain to you, Mr. Prenter," volunteered Reade, "just what I've been trying to tell Mr. Bascomb."

"I don't know that I need trouble you," replied Mr. Prenter, moving so that he stood more behind the irate president. "I overheard what you were telling him."

Then the treasurer did a most unexpected thing. He winked broadly at the young engineer.

"Yes, Prenter," Mr. Bascomb went on, "this camp is in a state of mutiny. The men are all at odds with their chief."

"Strange," murmured the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "When I paused on the porch, before entering, I thought I caught sight of unusual activity down at the water front. Did you notice it, too, Bascomb?"

"I noticed nothing of the sort," replied the president stiffly. "Am I to infer, Prenter, that you are going to follow your occasional tactics and try to laugh me out of my decision as president of the company?"

"Oh, nothing of the sort, I assure you," hastily protested the treasurer. But he found chance to drive another wink Tom Reade's way. The young chief engineer could not but feel that an ally had suddenly come his way.

"Now, what is the nature and extent of the mutiny?" asked Mr. Prenter.

"First of all, eight thousand dollars' damage has been done to the retaining wall of the breakwater," replied Mr. Bascomb. "That is, according to Mr. Reade's figures, which very likely may prove to be too low. Also, Mr. Hazelton has been murdered."

"Hazelton -- -killed?" gasped Mr. Prenter showing genuine concern. "Of course I know that the telegram to the office said that Hazelton was missing, but I didn't suppose it was anything as tragic as a killing."

"Well, Hazelton can't be found, so I haven't a doubt he was killed as part of a general plan of mutiny and revenge on the part of the mixed crews of men working here," declared Mr. Bascomb.

"Oh, I sincerely hope that Hazelton hasn't lost his life here!" cried Mr. Prenter. "Reade, aren't you going to take us down to the water front and show us the extent of the damage?"

"I shall be only too glad to do so, sir," Tom agreed.

Even Mr. Bascomb consented at last to go. As they gained the porch Nicolas rushed up with the cigars for which the president had sent him. While Mr. Bascomb paused to light one, Mr. Prenter thrust an arm through Tom's and led that youth down the road.

"Now, Mr. Reade," murmured the treasurer, earnestly, "Mr. Bascomb, of course, is our president, and I don't want you to treat him with the slightest disrespect. But Bascomb isn't the majority stockholder nor the whole board of directors, so I'll just drop this hint: When Bascomb talks of resignations don't attach too serious importance to it until you receive a resolution endorsing the same view and passed by the board of directors of the company."

"Thank you. I have no intention of resigning," smiled Tom.

"Now, let's go on," continued Mr. Prenter.

Mr. Bascomb, having his cigar lighted, seemed to prefer strolling in the rear by himself.

"Now, I don't want to give you any wrong impressions, Mr. Reade," went on Mr. Prenter. "Mr. Bascomb is the head of our company, but other directors represent more of the stock of the company than he does. I am one of them. Sometimes Mr. Bascomb gets a bit hard-headed, and he is inclined to give orders that others of us wouldn't approve. I judge that you and he were having some dispute when I happened along."

"I didn't regard it as a dispute, sir," Reade rejoined. "In the first place, I had discharged, for incompetency and faithlessness, a foreman named Evarts.

"And Evarts is a pet of Mr. Bascomb's," smiled Mr. Prenter. "I imagine that Evarts is even some sort of family connection who has to be looked after and kept in a good job."

"Anyway," Tom continued, "I explained that Evarts was worse than useless here and that I couldn't have him in the camp or on the job."

"Quite right, I fancy," nodded Mr. Prenter. "In the second place, Mr. Bascomb ordered me to stop my crusade against the gamblers who had tried to invade the camp and rob the men of their earnings. Hazelton and I had that sort of row once out in Arizona -- -and we won out."

"You deserve to win out here, too," remarked Mr. Prenter. "I have no patience with anything but straight, uncompromising right. We can't control the men, if they see fit to leave the camp at night, but you have every right -- -and it's your duty -- -to see to it that no disorder is allowed within camp limits. I, too, have heard something about your trouble here, Mr. Reade, and I can promise you that the directors generally will sustain you. So Mr. Bascomb demanded your resignation?"

"He did, sir."

"Let it go at that," smiled Mr. Prenter. "You may even, sometime, if it will please Mr. Bascomb, hand him your resignation. I will see to it that it doesn't get past the board of directors. Mr. Bascomb is irritable, and sometimes he is a downright crank, but he is valuable to us just the same. We feel, too, Reade, that you and Hazelton are just the men we need to put this breakwater through in the best fashion."

"Even though at least eight thousand dollars in damage was done last night?" queried Tom.

"Yes, even in the face of that. I am certain that you will know how to forestall any more such spite work."

"Now, I'm not altogether so sure of that, sir," Reade answered, quickly. "Of course we'll be eternally vigilant after this, but the trick was done last night so cleverly and mysteriously that we may be surprised again by the plotters. Speaking of mystery, could anything be stranger, or harder to explain, than what happened to poor Hazelton?"

"There was mystery for you!" nodded Mr. Prenter. "Have you any ideas whatever on the subject of Hazelton's disappearance?"

"Not the slightest," groaned Tom. "I know all the indications are that he has been killed, and I ought to believe that such is the case. But I simply won't believe it. Why, if he were killed, what became of the body?"

"It's a puzzle," sighed Mr. Prenter.

They were now nearing the land end of the breakwater wall. Mr. Bascomb overtook them. Together the three strolled out along the wall, halting frequently, to observe what the men were doing. It was their plan to keep on until they came to the scene of the two explosions of the night before.

"Just what are you doing here?" asked Mr. Bascomb, stopping and pointing to a gang of men at work on a scow moored against the wall.

"I can tell you, after a fashion, sir," Reade answered. "Yet this was a part of Hazelton's performance. He had charge here, and knew ever so much about it. Poor old Harry!"

Behind them, at the beginning of the wall, a long, loud whistle sounded.

In a moment fully a hundred of the workmen stood up, waved their caps and cheered as though they had gone mad.

Coming forward, with long strides, was Harry Hazelton, in the flesh!



Chapter VIII

Mr. Prenter Investigates


Tom suddenly felt dizzy. He wished to race back, to be the first to greet his chum and press his hand. But just then Reade felt strangely bewildered.

"Of course I don't believe in ghosts!" Tom laughed nervously.

"No!" chuckled Mr. Prenter. "This is real flesh and blood that is coming toward us."

Now, for the first time, Tom Reade knew just how fully he had believed, in the inner temple of his soul, that Harry Hazelton had been actually killed.

"Pulling my work to pieces, are you, Tom?" Harry called jovially.

"P -- -p -- -pardon me for not coming to meet you, old fellow, b -- -b --  -- but I'm dumbfounded at seeing you," Tom called back.

Harry, too, looked rather unsteady in his gait by the time he joined them. The last few yards he tried to run along the wall. Tom thrust out an arm and caught him just in time.

"You've been hurt, Harry!" gasped Tom.

"Yes, and I guess I'm a bit weak, even now," Hazelton mumbled. "Hurt? Look at this."

Hazelton uncovered his head, displaying a court-plaster bandage underneath which clotted blood showed.

"Where in the world have you been?" Tom quivered.

"At sea," Harry answered, with an attempt at banter.

"What happened to you?"

"Tom, you remember the big black man I imagined that I saw last night?"

"Of course I do."

"He was a reality," Harry went on soberly. "After you had gone he appeared again. We had it hot and heavy. I saw your boat coming, and I yelled -- -"

"I heard you," Tom interposed. "We got along as speedily as we could."

"And you didn't find me," finished Harry. "That brute hit me over the head with something. We clinched and rolled into the gulf together. That was the last that I remember clearly for some time. For a long time I had a dream that I was bobbing about in water, and that I had my arms around a floating log. By and by I came to sufficiently to discover that the dream was a reality. I was holding to the log in grim earnest. How I came to find the log I can't imagine. I think, while more than half unconscious, I must have been swimming straight out into the gulf. Then I must have touched the log and clung to it instinctively. Anyway, when I recovered more fully I knew that the 'long-shore lights looked thousands of miles away. I was too weak even to dream of trying to swim back, or to push the log before me. So I got a stout piece of cord out of one of my pockets and lashed myself to the log. I was afraid I might become unconscious again. A part of the time I was unconscious.

"Well after daylight I saw a sloop headed my way. It didn't look as though it would go straight by either. So I waved my handkerchief -- -my hat was gone. After a while the skipper of the sloop saw me and headed in for me. It was a sloop that carries the mails to Hetherton, a village that has no rail connection.

"The captain hauled me aboard, questioned me, looked as though he more than half doubted my yarn, and then put me to bed in the cabin of the sloop. He attended to me as best he could. When we reached Hetherton, about noon, a doctor patched me up. I had something to eat, bought this new hat, and hired a driver to take me ten miles to the railway. Then I came over here as soon as I could, and -- -pardon me, but I'm feeling weak. I'll sit down right here."

Harry sat down heavily on the wall.

"Why didn't you wire me?" asked Tom.

"Why, you didn't doubt but that I'd turn up as surely as any other bad egg, did you?" questioned Harry, looking up.

"Chum, I wouldn't admit it, even to myself, but I feared you were dead. But we mustn't waste time talking. Describe that black man to me, and -- -"

"And the company will hire detectives to start right on the trail of that negro," interjected Mr. Prenter.

"If -- -if the expense is really warranted," ended Mr. Bascomb, cautiously.

"Warranted?" retorted the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "Why, it is absolutely necessary to protect our work here! That big negro is the key to the mystery. We must catch him if it costs us a thousand dollars."

"Oh, well," assented President Bascomb, reluctantly.

"I -- -I guess I'm all right to start in to work now," Harry suggested, trying to rise.

"Sit down -- -you're not!" replied Tom and Treasurer Prenter, in the same breath, as both pressed Harry back to the wall.

"We don't need work so much to-day," Mr. Prenter continued. "What we want to do is to solve this mystery. You stay here, Hazelton. I'll go back alone and find a 'bus or a carriage. Then we'll go back to camp and hold a council of war. Something must be done, and we'll decide how it's to be done."

Mr. Prenter, though no longer a young man, proved that he carried both speed and agility in his feet. While he was gone Tom endeavored to get a few more particulars from Harry, but Hazelton simply didn't know anything that threw any more light on the dread mystery of the breakwater.

"Then a million-dollar undertaking like this is to be constantly imperiled, just because of a senseless moral crusade that you two young men are trying to put through in the camp," declared Mr. Bascomb moodily.

Tom covertly signaled his chum to pay no heed to this remark.

Within a quarter of an hour Treasurer Prenter returned in a stage drawn by two sorry looking horses.

"This will carry us up to the house, if the affair doesn't break down," Mr. Prenter called cheerily. "Come along, folks."

Soon afterwards the four were back on the porch. Nicolas came gliding out to see what he could do for their comfort.

"Just circulate around and make sure that no one gets close enough to hear what we're talking about," Mr. Prenter directed. He had already ordered the driver of the stage to withdraw a few rods and await orders.

"Now, then, Hazelton," continued the treasurer, "we're anxious to hear more of your strange story."

"I've told you all there is to it," protested Harry.

"Surely, there must be some more to it."

"There isn't."

"Then, for the tale of an engineer who was all but murdered, and a case enveloped in mystery from end to end," cried Mr. Prenter, "we have a most singular scarcity of details."

"There are only two more details needed, as it appears to me," Tom remarked quietly.

"Good! And what are they?" demanded the treasurer, wheeling around to look keenly at the young chief engineer.

"The two details we now need," Reade continued, "are, first, who was the negro? Second, who was behind the negro in this rascally work?"

"Only two points to be solved," suggested the treasurer mockingly, "but pretty big points. Of course, the first point is -- -"

"To find that negro, and get him jailed," Tom declared incisively.

"Good enough!" nodded Mr. Prenter. "The detectives will find the negro."

"Will they?" Tom asked. "Then that will be something new, indeed. I've seen detectives employed a good deal, Mr. Prenter, and generally all they catch are severe colds and items to stick in on the expense account."

"Oh, there are some real detectives in this country," contended Mr. Prenter. "We'll engage some of them, too."

"The expense of hiring detectives will be very large," murmured Mr. Bascomb uneasily.

"Yes, it will," agreed the treasurer with a laugh. "But never mind. It's always my task to find funds for the company, you know."

"Harry," Tom broke in, "just what did that negro look like?"

"About six-foot-three," answered Hazelton, slowly and thoughtfully. "He was broad of shoulder and comparatively slim at the waist. He must weigh from two hundred and twenty-five to thirty pounds. As to age, I couldn't tell you whether he was nearer thirty or forty years. From his agility I should place him in the thirty-year class."

"Any beard?"

"Smooth-faced."

"Scars?"

"I couldn't see that much in the dark."

"Color of his clothes?"

"Some darkish stuff -- -that's all I can say."

"Could you pick him out of a crowd of negroes?"

"Not if they were all of the same height and weight," Hazelton admitted.

"Do you think you ever saw him before?" Reade pressed.

"I'm sure that I never have," Harry replied.

"Then he wasn't one of our men in this camp at any time?" Mr. Prenter interjected.

"We have never had a man in the camp as large as this negro," Harry rejoined.

"Such a very large black man ought not to be hard for the detectives to locate," Prenter continued.

"Very good, sir. Then you can let the sleuths have a try at the matter," Tom suggested.

"Have you any telegraph blanks here?"

Tom went inside, coming out with a pad of blanks. Mr. Prenter addressed a dispatch to the head of a detective agency in Mobile.

"We'll get the 'bus driver to take this over to town," said Mr. Prenter, as he signed the dispatch.

"You had better send your dispatch by Nicolas, who is so faithful that he can't be pumped, and he never talks about things that he shouldn't."

The Mexican was accordingly sent away in the stage. When he returned Nicolas busied himself with getting supper and setting it on the table. Superintendent Renshaw returned from the work in time to join the others at table.

"Mr. Reade, how are you going to protect the works to-night?" inquired the superintendent.

"I'm going to order Foreman Corbett and twenty men to night duty," Tom answered. "The motor boat will also be out to-night. We'll have every bit of the wall watched by men with lanterns."

"What you ought to do," suggested Treasurer Prenter, "is to light the breakwater up with electric lights. You have steam power enough here, and with a dynamo you could supply current to the lights."

"There's the expense to be considered," mildly observed President Bascomb.

"The expense is a good deal less than having the wall damaged by more explosions," said Prenter, rather sharply. "Reade, how long would it take you to get an electric light service going?"

"It ought not to take more than three or four days, sir, if we can pick up a suitable dynamo in Mobile. But there's another point to be considered. We very likely would have to obtain the permission of the Washington authorities before we could run a line of lights out into the Gulf of Mexico. You see, sir, so many uncharted lights might confuse the navigators of passing ships."

"Write Washington, then, and find out where you stand in the matter," directed the treasurer.

"Yes, sir; I'll do that," Reade agreed.

"But don't order any electrical supplies until you've got an estimate of the cost and have it approved by me," hinted President Bascomb. This cautious direction made Mr. Prenter shrug his shoulders.

Dinner finished, all hands went out to sit on the porch. Mr. Bascomb soon began to ask questions about the camp, the housing of the men, and about other details of the camp.

"Although it is dark it's still early. Wouldn't you like to go over through the camp with us?" proposed Tom.

Mr. Bascomb agreeing, the whole party set out, only Nicolas remaining behind to keep an eye over the house.

Though he did not then suspect it Tom was on the threshold of more trouble in the camp.



Chapter IX

Invited To Leave Camp


Lanterns hung here and there on poles lighted the camp. Men who toil hard all day do not usually want a long evening. Many of the men were already inside their tents or shacks, preparing for bed.

At least two hundred, however, were still stirring in the streets of the camp. Tom led his friends near one of the groups. A warning hiss was heard, and then a man in a remote group, urged by his comrades, rose and staggered toward a shack. Tom was at the man's side in an instant. He proved to be an Italian.

"My man, you appear to be intoxicated," Tom remarked, quietly, as he gripped the Italian by the arm.

"No spikka da English," hiccoughed the laborer. As he spoke he tried to free himself from the engineer's grasp. He staggered, and would have fallen, had not Tom prevented the fall.

"Where's this man's gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking about him sharply, while he still held the drunken man.

None of the Italians addressed appeared to know. For the most part they took refuge in the fact or the pretense that they didn't understand English.

"Get an Italian gang-master, Harry," Tom murmured softly.

Hazelton bolted away, but was soon back, followed by a dark-skinned man who came with apparent reluctance.

"You're a gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking sharply at the man. "This fellow is intoxicated."

"Is he?" asked the gang-master.

"Yes, he is," Tom declared, bluntly. "Now, where did the man get the liquor."

"I do not know," replied the gang-master, shrugging his shoulders.

"Then it's your business to know -- -if he got his liquor in camp. We won't allow any of that stuff in camp, and you gang-masters all know that."

"I can't stop a man from going to town to get liquor," argued the gang-master.

"No; you can't," Tom admitted. "Neither can I. But it's your duty, gang-master, to see that no liquor is brought back into camp. This man hasn't been to town for the stuff either. He hasn't had time enough to go away over to Blixton and get enough liquor to make him drunk. Moreover, in his present condition, the fellow couldn't have walked back from town the same evening. This man got his liquor in camp, and it will have to be stopped. Now, put this man in his shack; see that he gets into bed. Then come back to me."

The gang-master obeyed.

"We'll see if we can't put a complete stop to this sort of thing," Reade muttered.

"Now, do you think it's going to be well to interfere so much with the movements of the men?" asked President Bascomb, in an undertone. "I am afraid that you'll only start more dissatisfaction and more treachery among them."

"This having liquor in camp is going to be stopped, sir," Tom insisted. "A keg of liquor will demoralize a whole campful of men like these. They are an excitable lot, and they go crazy when there's any liquor around. If we don't put a stop to it, then there'll be fights, and then a few murders are most likely to follow. I've had plenty of experience with men such as we have here, and the stopping of liquor in camp means our only safety, and our only chance to have our work well done. Come along; let the gang-master follow us."

Tom went directly up to a group of workmen who had been looking curiously on. Most of them were Italians, but there were a few negroes present.

"Now; men, gather around me," Tom requested. "I want to talk to you. Come close."

As they did so Reade rested a hand on the shoulder of a negro.

"My friend," said Tom, "you've been drinking to-night."

"No, sah, boss! 'Deed I hasn't," replied the negro, earnestly.

"Man, don't you think I have a nose?" Tom demanded, dryly. "Every time you open your mouth I smell the fumes of the stuff. There are other men in this group, too, who have been drinking. I want you all to realize that this sort of thing must stop in this camp. We don't want fights and killings, nor do we want men who wake up so seedy in the morning that they can't do a proper day's work. As I look about me I see at least eight men who have been drinking this evening. That shows me that some one has been bringing liquor into the camp."

Other workmen were now approaching, curious to know what was in the air.

Tom, glancing about him, suddenly, fastened his gaze on one man in particular. This was a lanky, sallow-looking chap of some thirty years.

"See here, just what is your errand in this camp?" Reade demanded, confronting the man.

"Is it any of your particular business?" demanded the fellow, with some insolence in his tone.

"Yes; it is," Reade assured him, promptly. "I'm chief engineer in this camp, and I've asked you what you are doing here!"

"Is it against any law for an outsider to come into camp?" argued the stranger.

"Answer me," Tom insisted, stepping closer. "What are you doing in this camp?"

"I won't tell you," came the surly retort.

"You don't have to," Reade snapped, as he suddenly ran one hand over the sallow man's clothing. Out of the fellow's hip pocket Tom briskly brought a quart-bottle to light. It was about half-filled with some liquid.

"Here, give that back to me!" growled the fellow. "It's mine."

"I'm glad you admit it," rejoined Reade, drawing the cork and taking a sniff as Hazelton slipped in front of him to protect him. "This is liquor. So you're the bootlegger who is bringing this stuff into camp to sell to the men? You won't come here after to-night if I can find any way of keeping you out."

Reade finished his remark by re-corking the bottle and throwing it down hard on the ground. The bottle was smashed to flinders, the liquor running over the ground.

"Here, you! You had no right to do that!" roared the fellow. He made an effort to reach Tom, but Harry gave the fellow a shove that sent him spinning back. "You'll pay me for that stuff, Reade, since you destroyed it."

"How much?" asked Tom, artlessly.

"A dollar and a half," insisted the stranger, coming forward as Reade thrust one hand into trousers pocket.

Tom withdrew the hand, laughing.

"Much obliged, my friend," mocked the young chief engineer. "You've confessed all that I wanted to know. You've tried to charge me the price of a pint of liquor sold in single drinks. That confesses that you've been in camp to sell liquor to the men. I shall pay you nothing, for you're here against the law and against the camp regulations. You're engaged in selling liquor illegally. If I catch you in camp again on that business, my friend, I'll arrest you and hold you until the officers come over from Blixton and take you."

Then, in the next moment, Tom suddenly shot out:

"Harry, see to it that our friend doesn't run away just yet!"

"What are you up to?" demanded the man, as Tom stepped close once more, while Harry rested a hand on his shoulder.

"For a rather warm evening," Reade rejoined, "it strikes me that it's a bit odd for you to be wearing a long top-coat. I'm going to look you over a bit."

"You get out and keep away from me!" blustered the man, raising one of his fists. But Harry caught at that arm and held it. Treasurer Prenter, who had been looking on with keen interest, seized the other arm.

"You let go of me, or you'll run up against the law for assault!" warned the stranger.

His captors, however, held him, while Tom rapidly ran his hands over the stranger's clothing. As a result, within less than a full minute, Tom had removed two full quart bottles and six smaller ones from the fellow's various pockets. All of these the young chief engineer threw on the ground, smashing them.

From the crowd gathered about, which numbered more than sixty men of three different races, a howl went up. President Bascomb began to shiver.

"I'll make you sweat for this!" raved the stranger.

"Let go of the fellow, please," said Tom. Then, as Harry and Mr. Prenter stepped aside, Reade added, "I'll admit, Mr. Bootleg, that I've behaved in a rather high-handed fashion with you. But I'm justified in doing it. You have been breaking the law of the state, moving through this camp and selling liquor. You represent the scum of the otherwise decent population of Alabama. If you think you've any redress in the courts, my name is Reade and you can hire a lawyer and get after me as hard and as fast as you like."

"I'll take personal satisfaction out of you!" stormed the fellow.

"All right," Tom agreed laconically. "You may start now, if you feel like doing it. I'll agree that none of my friends or workmen shall take any part in anything you feel like starting. If you can thrash me then you shall be allowed to depart in peace after you've done it."

Tom did not put up his hands, though he watched keenly to see whether the stranger meant to attack him. The stranger muttered unintelligible threats, then he turned to the laborers pressing about him.

"Men," he demanded, "are you going to be free, or are you going to allow yourselves to be treated like a lot of slaves by this boy?"

"If that's all you've got to say," Tom warned "you may as well start now."

"Start?" scoffed the sallow-faced one. "Where to?"

"Anywhere, outside of this camp," Tom informed him. "You can't stay here any longer, and you can't come here again. If I catch you, again, on this company's property, I'll see to it that you're arrested, and locked up for trespass."

"That's the way to talk!" nodded Treasurer Prenter, approvingly.

"I guess I'll go when I get good and ready," asserted the stranger.

In the front ranks of the crowd pressing around them, Reade now discerned the face of the Italian gang-master with whom he had talked recently.

"What's your name?" Tom demanded, turning about on the gang-master.

"Scipio, sir."

"Then, Scipio, take four men, and escort this fellow out of the camp. Don't use any force unless you have to, but see to it that this fellow leaves camp as quickly as he can walk -- -or be dragged. Start him now."

Gang-master Scipio plainly didn't like the job, but he liked it better than he did the idea of being discharged. So he spoke to four Italians about him, and the five surrounded the man.

"Hol' on dar, Boss Reade!" spoke up a negro. "Ef yo' carry dis matter too far, den dere's gwine to be a strike on dis wohk. Jess ez dis gemman sez, we ain't no slaves. Yo' try to stop all our pleasures ebenings, an' dar's gwine be a strike -- -shuah!"

"You may strike right now, if you wish to," Tom retorted, facing the last speaker. "Mr. Renshaw will be prepared to pay you off within hour. Any other man in this camp who isn't content to get along without liquor and gambling may as well strike at the same time. Mr. Renshaw, it's half-past eight. At nine o'clock please be at the house ready to pay off any man who isn't satisfied to live and work in a camp where neither drinking nor gambling is allowed. Scipio, why haven't you started that fellow away from here?"

"Too bigga crowd in front of us," replied the Italian gang-master, shrugging his shoulders.

"Come on, Harry," Tom replied. "We'll see if we can't make a way through the crowd." The two young engineers placed themselves at the head of the squad, and succeeded quickly in opening up a passage through a crowd that seemed to be at least half hostile.

Thus Tom found himself soon face to face with an American.

"Evarts!" Reade cried, angrily. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here by permission," snarled the discharged foreman.

"Whose permission?" Tom insisted, briskly.

"Mr. Bascomb's," replied Evarts, with a leer so full of satisfaction that Reade didn't doubt the truth of the statement.

"Mr. Bascomb," Tom called, "did you tell Evarts that he might visit this camp?"

"Yes; I did," admitted the president of the company, stiffly.

"Then I'm sorry to say that Evarts has been misinformed," Tom went on. "He can't visit this camp. He's too much of a trouble-maker here."

"Shut up your talk!" jeered Evarts roughly. "Don't try to give orders to the president of the company that hires and pays you."

"Mr. Bascomb is the head of the company that employs me," Tom assented. "But I am in charge here, and am responsible, with Mr. Hazelton, for the good order of the camp and the success of the work. Therefore, Evarts, you'll leave camp now, and you won't come back again under pain of being punished for trespass."

"Oh, now see here, Reade -- -" began Mr. Bascomb angrily, as he started forward. But Treasurer Prenter caught Bascomb by the arm, whispering in his ear.

"Waiting for you, Mr. Bascomb," called Evarts.

"I guess you'd better go," called the president, rather shamefacedly, after his talk with Mr. Prenter. "I guess maybe Reade is right. At all events his contract places him in charge of this camp."

"Humph, Evarts, a lot of good you can do us here, can't you?" sneered the sallow-faced fellow.

Tom looked first at one, and then at the other of the pair.

"So," guessed Reade shrewdly, "Evarts has been at the head of this game of unlawful liquor selling in this camp. There are other vendors here, too, are there?"

"You lie!" yelled the discharged foreman.

"You may prove that, at your convenience," Reade replied, without even a heightening of his color. "For the present, though, you're going to get out of camp and stay out."

"I called you a liar," sneered Evarts, "and you haven't the sand to fight about it."

"Fighting with one of your stripe isn't worth the while," Tom retorted, shortly. "Come along, Evarts. I'll show you the way out of camp."

As Reade spoke he took hold of the ex-foreman's arm gently.

"Leggo of me!" raged the foreman, clenching and raising one of his fists.

"Don't make the mistake of touching me," urged Tom, quietly, "but come along. This way out of camp!"

Evarts swung suddenly, driving a fist straight at Reade's face. But the young chief engineer was always alert at such times. One of his feet moved in between Evarts's feet, and the ex-foreman flopped down on his back.

"Come on, now!" commanded Tom, jerking the fallen foe to his feet. "This time you'll hurry out of camp."

"Are you going to stand for it, men?" yelled Evarts, his face aflame with anger. "Come on -- -all of you! Show that you're not a pack of cowards and slaves!"

From more than a hundred throats came an ominous yell. The crowd surged around Reade and Hazelton. Mr. Bascomb, seeing his chance, dodged and ran out of the crowd. But Mr. Prenter, with a spring, placed himself at Tom Reade's side.

"Come on, men!" yelled the sallow-faced fellow.

"Run dem w'ite slave-drivers outah camp!" yelled a score of negroes. Yells in Italian and Portuguese also filled the air.

In an instant it was plain that Tom Reade had stirred up more than a hornet's nest.

"Come on, Harry," spoke Tom, firmly. "Let's run this pair out of camp. Then we'll come back and look for more trouble-makers and trouble-hunters! Make way there, men!"

One excitable Italian rushed through the crowd, brandishing a revolver. As alarmed men fell back, the Italian confronted Reade, holding the revolver almost in the latter's face and firing.



Chapter X

The Night Is Not Over


Tom winced slightly, as the pistol was discharged, for some of the powder burned his face.

Mr. Prenter, who stood beside him, had knocked up the barrel so that the bullet sped over the heads of the crowd.

In a twinkling Tom had hold of the Italian's arm. He wrenched the pistol away, spraining the Italian's arm. Instantly Tom "broke" the weapon, dropping the cartridges out into his pocket. Then he hurled the weapon as far as he could throw it into the shadows of the night.

"You breaka my arm!" snarled the Italian, showing his white teeth.

"Your face is next!" Tom retorted, letting his fist drive. It caught the Italian on the nose, breaking that member.

"Kill him! Kill Reade!" came the hoarse yell on the night air.

"You'll find it a tough job, men!" Tom called, warningly. "I won't die easily, and I'll take a few men along with me when I go. Now, stand out of the way! I shall consider any man an enemy who blocks my path!"

Tom hit resolutely out, at first. Soon the men crowding about him began to realize that they had taken a large contract on their hands in attempting to cow this young engineer.

Then, too, another element entered into the fight. While there were some wild and troublesome men in camp, there were also many straightforward, excellent fellows among them. There were church-going negroes there, Italians who were thrifty and law-abiding, and Portuguese who loved nothing better than law and order.

The better element among the men came thronging forward, willing and ready to fight under such excellent generalship as they knew they would find with Tom Reade.

Other men, of both stripes, came pouring forth from shanties and tents.

The yells and the shot had alarmed the foremen, who now came along on the run.

"Dill, Johnson!" Tom called, as he saw some of the foremen trying to push or punch their way through the throng. "Help me to run Evarts and this other trouble-hunter out of the camp!"

The menacing yells grew fewer and fainter as the cheers of loyal laborers rose.

The foremen seized both trouble makers and began to run them along with more skill than gentleness.

Tom ran along, keeping his glance on the enraged men of the camp, many of whom followed on the outskirts of the crowd. Harry Hazelton occupied himself in similar fashion.

"Now, you get out of this -- -and stay out!" ordered Foreman Dill, giving Evarts a shove that sent him spinning across the boundary line of the company's property.

"You, too!" growled Foreman Johnson, giving the bootlegger a kick that sent him staggering along in his efforts to keep on his feet.

It was rough treatment, but Tom's course, all through, had been of the only sort that could break down the threatened riot.

"Now, see if that Italian can be found who fired the shot in my face," Tom called. "I'll know him if I lay eyes on him."

There was a prompt search, but the Italian could not be found.

"If he has left camp, and keeps away, perhaps he'll be safe," Tom announced. "But, if I run across him again I'll seize him, hold him for the officers of the law, and see to it that he's sent to prison for attempted murder."

"Here are two men we want!" called Hazelton.

Tom ran to his chum, who was holding an American by the arm. Mr. Prenter had hold of another.

"Two more of Evarts's bootleggers, eh?" muttered Reade. "Let me see."

On one of the men he found a bottle of liquor. On the other no liquor was discovered.

"Did Evarts pay you fellows a salary, or commission?" Tom demanded.

"Commiss -- -" began one of the bootleggers, then stopped himself with a vocal jerk. "Evarts? I don't even know who he is."

"Yes, you do," chuckled Tom Reade. "You were on the point, too, of telling us that he paid you a commission on your sales, instead of a weekly wage. Now, my men, I've looked you well over and shall know you again. If I find you in camp, hereafter, you'll be dealt with in a way that you don't like. Savvy? Comprenay? Understand? Now -- -git!"

"Now, men, get back to your camp," shouted Tom. "To-morrow I'll try to find time for a good and sociable talk with all of you. Try to enjoy your few leisure hours all you can, but remember that the men who can't get along without liquor and gambling are the kind of men we don't want here. Any man who is dissatisfied can get his pay from Mr. Renshaw tonight or to-morrow morning. For those who stood by us I have every feeling of respect and gratitude. Those who thought to fight us -- -or some of them -- -will have better sense by tomorrow. We don't want to impose on any man here, but there are some things that we shall have to stop doing. Good night, men!"

Engineers, superintendent and foremen now left the men, going towards their barracks.

"I've a little job for you, Peters, if you don't mind going back into the camp," suggested Tom.

"It's not to go back and fight, single-handed, is it?" Mr. Peters asked, with a smile.

"Nothing like it," Tom laughed. "Peters, we have plenty of really good men among our laborers, haven't we?"

"Scores and scores of 'em, sir -- -among all three kinds of the men, negroes, Italians and Portuguese."

"I wish you would go back, then, and pick out two of each race -- -six men in all. They must be honest, staunch and able to hold their tongues."

"Do you want them for fighting, sir?" asked Peters.

"Not a bit of a fight in it. I want them to use their eyes and report to me."

"Going to employ spotters on the camp?" asked Mr. Prenter, quickly.

"Not a single spot!" Tom declared with emphasis. "I haven't any use for information turned in by spotters."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Reade," nodded the treasurer.

"What I want the men for, Peters, is something honest and manly, and with no fighting in it," Tom continued. "I want information, and I'll pay the man well who can bring it to me. Now, go and get your six men. Bring them up to the house within half an hour."

Nodding, Peters turned and strode back.

When the others gained the house where the engineers and superintendent lived the foremen took leave of their chiefs.

As Tom, Harry and Mr. Prenter went up the steps to the porch the front door opened to let out Mr. Bascomb.

"Is that revolting row all over?" demanded the president of the Melliston Company.

"What row?" asked Mr. Prenter, innocently.

"That riot back in camp," shivered Mr. Bascomb. "I simply abhor all fighting."

"So I noticed," commented Mr. Prenter, dryly. "Yes; I believe the trouble is over, unless our young chief engineer intends to stir up something new before bedtime. Do you, Reade?"

"I haven't anything in mind," Tom answered with a smile. "Gentlemen, I am afraid you may think I do things with a high hand. But I have been at this engineering business just long enough to know that I must banish all serious vices from a camp of laborers if I hope to get the best results in work out of the men. So I must tackle some problems rather stiffly, and use my fists when I'm driven to a corner."

"I am not thoroughly satisfied of the wisdom of your course," said Mr. Bascomb slowly.

"Sorry to disagree with you, Bascomb," broke in the treasurer, "but I've had some experience in handling what is called wild labor, and I believe that Reade goes at it in just the right way. I don't believe there are really fifty really wild or troublesome men in that camp. The few bad ones usually start trouble going, and then the good ones are driven into it. Let Reade stop the vices over yonder, in the way that he wants to, and the worst of the crowd will call for their time and leave camp. We shall then have a thoroughly good lot of men left, who'll do more and better work."

"That is," almost whined President Bascomb, "if Reade, in doing what he wants, doesn't stir up so much enmity that we have the rest of our wall blown out into the gulf."

"Mr. Bascomb," put in Tom, "while I must have control of the men and their camp I don't wish to do anything to cast reflection on yourself as the head of the company. May I therefore ask, sir, if there is any especial reason why Evarts should be allowed in this camp?"

President Bascomb fidgeted in the porch chair on which he was sitting.

"I -- -I don't know of any reason, Mr. Reade, why Evarts should be allowed in camp if his presence prevents you from keeping order as you wish."

"Then you approve, sir, of my intention to keep him out?"

"I -- -I won't question your right to handle the matter as you wish, Mr. Reade," was the president's evasive reply.

"Thank you, sir."

Peters was soon back with the six men -- -two each of the negroes, Italians and Portuguese. All of them understood English.

Harry described the negro who had attacked him on the retaining wall, after which Tom asked:

"Have any of you men ever seen that negro? Have you any idea who he is, and where he can be found?"

None of the six admitted any knowledge of the mysterious black man.

"Then I want you to keep his description in mind," continued Tom. "Keep your eyes open, at all times, for any chance glimpse of him. The man who brings me information leading to the capture of that big negro will receive a reward of one hundred dollars in gold."  "Keep your eyes open, won't you? You may find him prowling around the wall at any time. He may walk out on the wall, or he may be found hiding near in a boat. Watch for him."

All promised eagerly that they would do all in their power to earn the hundred dollars.

"That's what I call good business!" cried Mr. Prenter approvingly, as soon as the foreman and the men had gone.

"Does the hundred dollars come out of the company treasury, Reade, or from your own pocket?" inquired President Bascomb.

"Really I hadn't thought of the matter," answered Tom.

"The company can afford to pay its own bills," broke in Mr. Prenter, rather gruffly.

"It's about time to turn in, isn't it?" asked Mr. Bascomb, striking a match and glancing at his watch.

"I'm going to stay up a little longer, and talk with Reade about the dread mystery of our million dollar breakwater, if he'll let me," hinted Mr. Prenter.

Mr. Bascomb rose as though to go into the house.

"While we're talking about the matter, sir," suggested Tom, "wouldn't it be a good idea for us to stroll down to the beach and look out along the wall to see how Foreman Corbett and his gang are guarding the breakwater to-night?"

"Fine idea," nodded the treasurer of the company.

"Then, if you're all going away, and intend to leave the house alone, I think I may as well go with you," grunted Mr. Bascomb. "I don't exactly like the idea of staying here alone in such troublesome times."

Harry walked beside Mr. Bascomb, while Tom led the way with the treasurer. Mr. Renshaw brought up the rear.

As the party came in sight of the beach and glanced out seaward, they saw many a little, dancing light out on the retaining wall. Each light showed where a workman patrolled under the orders of Foreman Corbett. The latter was aboard the motor boat, "Morton," which ran up and down near the wall, throwing the searchlight over the scene.

"Reade," remarked Mr. Prenter, "I don't see that the enemy have any chance to-night to run in and work harm to our property."

Hardly had the treasurer spoken when Tom, looking out seaward, saw a sudden, bright flash of light upward. There was a brief pause -- -then the sullen boom of an explosion reached their ears.

"Mystery of all mysteries!" choked Tom Reade. "There goes another section of the wall -- -blown up under our very eyes!"



Chapter XI

A Message From A Coward


"Now Reade," began President Bascomb, in a shaking voice, "what can you say -- -"

Tom didn't wait to inform him. The young chief engineer was darting out on the wall as fast as he could go.

Already the "Morton" had turned, and was chugging back to the scene of this latest outrage, the searchlight flashing back and forth, in the vain effort to detect any small craft stealing away from the vicinity.

"I -- -I can't race on a narrow runway like that," faltered Mr. Bascomb, halting at the beginning of the narrow wall. "I -- -I'll wait here, Mr. Renshaw, will you keep me company?"

"If you so direct, sir," replied the superintendent. "For that matter, what Reade and Hazelton can't find out, out yonder, will probably never be discovered."

"Do you share Mr. Prenter's infatuation for those two young men?" asked the president of the Melliston Company.

"I can't say about that, sir," Renshaw replied, with a puzzled air. "But this much I know -- -I never worked with two more capable men of any age. They always know what to do, and they never lose their heads."

Mr. Bascomb compressed his lips tightly.

In the meantime Tom, Harry and Treasurer Prenter covered nearly a quarter of a mile along the retaining wall when the motor boat, putting about, picked them up with the searchlight.

Toot! toot! sounded the boat's pneumatic whistle.

"Foreman Corbett is signaling to us to wait and he'll put in for us," said Tom, coming to a halt. Soon the motor craft chugged in alongside, coming close to the wall. Tom, Harry and Mr. Prenter jumped, landing safely aboard.

"How did the enemy come to catch you napping, Corbett?" Tom inquired good-humoredly.

"They didn't catch me napping, sir," protested Foreman Corbett. "It is the strangest thing, sir -- -that explosion. Why, I had had my light turned on that very part of the wall at least a dozen times in the last half-hour before the blow-out came. Our light didn't pick up a soul around there at any time. What do you suppose I did, Mr. Reade, as soon as the explosion sounded?"

"I saw you turn about and use your search light a lot," Reade answered.

"Did you notice, sir, that I turned the light right up at the sky, first-off?"

"I believe I did notice that," Tom assented.

"It seemed to me, sir, that nothing but an airship could plant a charge of high explosive on the wall in that fashion."

"I don't believe the airship theory will explain it either," said Tom, shaking his head.

"Then what theory can explain it?" asked Mr. Prenter, anxiously.

"I'd pay a reward out of my own pocket for the right answer," Reade replied.

"Then you haven't a theory?" asked the treasurer.

"Not even an imitation of a theory," Tom laughed, shortly.

All this time the motor boat was gliding out toward the scene of the wreck.

"Now, you can see the damage that has been done," suggested Mr. Corbett, turning the light fully on the scene of the latest blow-out. "You see, a long strip of the wall has been cleaned out. Not a trace of the damaged part shows above water."

"It wasn't as big an explosion as the other two, though," Reade declared. "Really, it looks as though the folks behind this found themselves running low on explosives."

"There must be a trace or a clue left," urged Mr. Prenter.

"High explosives don't leave many traces of anything with which they come in contact," muttered Harry. "If we do find any traces, I guess it will have to be in broad daylight."

"And I guess that's right," agreed Tom. "Mr. Corbett, did none of your men patrolling on the wall report any signs of strangers?"

"No such report was made, sir."

"At all events, we can be thankful that the explosion didn't blow one or two of our men into the other world," Tom went on.

"Even that is bound to happen if there are many more of these explosions," muttered Corbett, grimly.

"Which is another reason," remarked Tom Reade, "why we're going to solve the mystery of said explosions at the earliest minute that we can."

"One thing is certain," observed Mr. Prenter, with the nearest approach to gloom that he had yet shown. "If you don't soon penetrate this grim mystery, and find a way to stop these outrages, then the wall will be destroyed more rapidly than you can build it."

"The outrages may cease after a while," suggested Harry.

"No," answered Reade. "As long as the unknown enemy feels that he can harass us without much risk of being caught red-handed, just so long will he go on with his outrages -- -unless we give in."

"Give in?" asked Mr. Prenter, with a rising inflection in his voice.

"Unless we give in," supplied Tom promptly, "by allowing gambling and rum-selling to go on openly in our camp of workmen."

"Have you any notion of giving in to that extent?" asked Mr. Prenter.

"Not an idea!" retorted Tom Reade promptly. "It wouldn't be my way to surrender to the Devil. I'll fight to the last ditch -- -unless your company really prefers to have Hazelton and myself cancel our contract and get out of this work. Do you?"

"I don't want you to quit," replied Mr. Prenter positively. "I admire fighting grit, and I want to see you keep hammering away at the work until you win and the job is finished. The board of directors will stand with me on that, if I can sway them. As for Mr. Bascomb, you mustn't take him too seriously. He's a first rate fellow in a lot of ways, but there's no fight in him, and he's a bit close-fisted, too. As for me, Reade, and as far as I can speak for my fellow directors, go ahead, just the way you've started. If you can find any way to hammer camp vice harder than you've been hammering it, then go ahead and do some harder work with your little hammer."

"I'll do it," promised Tom. "Now, Mr. Prenter, I don't believe anything more will happen here to-night -- -perhaps not for two or three nights. So I think the wisest thing for you to do will be to get back to the house and get some sleep. The same for you, Harry!"

"What are you going to do?" Hazelton wanted to know.

"I?" repeated Reade. "For to-night I'm going to remain up, and be out here around this threatened wall."

"Then that ought to be good enough for me, also," Harry suggested.

"Not much, chum. I'm going to take the night trick for the present, and put on you the burden of all the day work. So you'll need your sleep."

"I can swing the day work easily enough," laughed Hazelton. "It will be all the more easy as the next few days will be taken up simply with repairing the breaks that have been made."

"Swing the boat in toward land, Mr. Corbett," Tom directed the foreman.

At the little landing Hazelton and Mr. Prenter joined the waiting president and superintendent.

"Did you really find out anything?" called Mr. Bascomb eagerly.

"It's as big a mystery as ever."

"There's just one thing we'll have to do," sighed Mr. Bascomb, "and that will be to stop running the camp on a basis of old Puritan laws."

"You talk Reade into it, if you can," chuckled Treasurer Prenter. "You won't find him easy to convince, either."

Tom didn't wait to discuss the matter. Instead, he signaled to Foreman Corbett to run the craft out again.

"If you want to, Corbett," suggested Tom, with a laugh, as the boat moved over the salt waters again, "you might go ashore and go to bed. You can easily claim that you engaged with us as a foreman, and that being captain of a motor boat amounts to breach of contract."

"I'm not fussing," smiled the foreman. "As long as I can sleep daytimes running this motor boat is easier than working."

"It probably will be," nodded Reade, "unless the enemy go in for a new line of tactics."

"Such as what, sir?" asked Corbett.

"If this boat hampers them too much they may decide to send it to the bottom with a torpedo."

"Let 'em try, then," grunted the foreman, giving the steering wheel a turn.

Though Reade remained up until broad daylight no further sign of the unknown enemies was seen. Through the night, had it not been for the patrols walking up and down the line of wall with lanterns, it would have been hard to realize that the big breakwater was haunted by any such desperately practical group of "ghosts."

"I guess we've heard the last of the rascals," suggested Harry Hazelton one night at supper. Messrs. Bascomb and Prenter had returned to Mobile, so that the young engineers and their superintendent were the only men at table.

"My guess is about the same," drawled Mr. Renshaw.

"Yes?" queried Reade. "Guess again!"

"Oh, I believe they've quit," argued Mr. Renshaw. "For one thing, the scoundrels probably have discovered that detectives from Mobile are down here trying to run 'em to earth. That has scared the rascals away."

"What are the detectives doing, anyway?" asked Harry.

"Blessed if I know," Tom yawned. "I believe there are three of them here or over in Blixton, but I wouldn't know one of them, if I fell over him. The detectives came, secured their orders from Mr. Prenter, and went to work -- -or pretended to go to work. I'm glad that I'm not responsible for the detectives."

Nicolas entered, an envelope in his hand.

"Par-rdon, Senor Reade," begged the Mexican. "I would not interrupt, but on the porch I found thees letter. It is address to you."

Tom took the envelope and scanned it, saying:

"The address is printed -- -probably because the writer didn't want to run the risk of having his writing identified. Probably the letter, also, is printed. Pardon me, gentlemen, while I open this communication . . . Yes; the letter is printed, and unsigned -- -a further sign of cowardice on the part of the writer. And now let me see what it says."

Tom spent a few moments in going through the communication. A white line formed around his mouth as he read. Then he passed the letter to Harry, who read it aloud, as follows:

"You have had a week of peace. Is peace better than war? You may have all the peace you wish, and go on working and prospering if you will let others do the same. Stop interfering with the right of your men to amuse themselves and all will be well. Try any of your former tricks in the camp, and then you will have good cause to 'Beware!'"

"Is that a declaration of war?" asked Harry, looking up.

"I think so," nodded Tom.

"Then how are you going to meet it?"

"There's only one way," Tom returned. "A declaration of war must be met with a fight. Unless I'm very greatly in error the gamblers and bootleggers will try to start up matters again to-night in camp."

"And you'll throw them down harder than before?" queried Mr. Renshaw, gazing keenly at the young chief.

"If it be possible," Tom declared. "Nicolas, be kind enough to go over and ask the foremen to report here at 8:20 promptly. At 8:30 we will enter camp and see what is going on."

"I miss my guess, then," chuckled Mr. Renshaw, quietly, "if our arrival isn't followed by war in earnest."

"War is never so bad," retorted Tom Reade, his jaws setting, "as a disgraceful peace!"



Chapter XII

An Engineer's Fighting Blood


Just at half-past eight that evening Tom, Harry, the superintendent and the foremen entered camp.

They went, first, to a shack which they knew to be occupied by orderly, respectable blacks.

"Come, men," said Tom, halting in the doorway. "I've an idea we may need you."

Six negroes rose and came forward.

"There are gambling and bootlegging going on in this camp to-night, aren't there?" Reade inquired.

"Ah doan' rightly know, boss," replied one of the negroes cautiously.

"But you suspect it, don't you?" Tom pressed.

"Yes; Ah done 'spec so, boss," grinned the negro.

"And I do, too," rejoined Tom. "Come along. We may need a little help."

With this reinforcement -- -the negroes were wanted for work rather than for fighting -- -Tom now stepped off briskly through the camp.

Nor did he have to guess in which way to go through the darkened streets of this little village of toilers. Shouts of laughter and the click of ivory dice and celluloid chips signaled the direction.

The largest shack in the village was closed tightly as to door and window, though light came out through the chinks. Tom stepped over there boldly, not turning to see whether his following were close behind him.

Stepping up to the closed door the young chief engineer placed his shoulder against it. He gave a sturdy push, and the barrier flew open.

There were about fifty of his men crowded into one large room. A half dozen gambling games were in full blast. At two tables stood bootleggers, each with a bottle of liquor and glasses.

Tom stalked boldly in, still without turning to look at his own following. Reade's face bore such a mild look that the leader of the visiting gamblers was wholly deceived as he glanced up.

"The chief!" called one workman, in dismay, and a dozen men made a break for the door. But Harry and the others prevented their getting out.

"Oh, it's all right," cheerily announced the leader of the gamblers. "Mr. Reade has just come here to look on and make sure that everything is being conducted above board and on the square. Isn't that so, Reade?"

"Yes," Tom assented, pausing near the central table at which gambling was going on.

At that assurance the panic-stricken gamblers breathed more easily. Several men who had jumped up from their seats went back to their chairs.

"Reade is a good friend of ours," called the leader of the gamblers, mockingly. "He isn't going to interfere with any amusements that are properly carried on -- -eh, Reade?"

The fellow stared boldly into Tom's eyes, a look of insolent mockery on his features.

"Certainly I'm not going to interfere with any proper amusements in this camp," Tom nodded, easily.

"What did I tell you, boys?" laughed the leader of the gamblers. "Go on with your play, boys!"

"But gambling isn't a proper amusement for poor men, who have to toil and sweat for every five-cent piece they get," Tom Reade continued calmly. "Neither is the trade of bootlegging a decent one, or one that provides decent amusement. I have already warned you that gambling and liquor selling are things of the past in this camp."

There was another stir in the room. The leader of the gamblers rose, fixing his gaze on Tom's eyes and trying to stare the young engineer out of countenance.

"What do you mean, Reade?" he demanded.

"Isn't my meaning clear enough?" Tom insisted, with a chilly smile.

"Man, haven't you come to your senses yet?" snarled the gambler.

"Do you mean to ask whether I was scared by the cowardly, unsigned letter that I received this evening?" Tom fired back at the fellow, with another taunting smile.

"I don't know anything about any letter," muttered the gambler sullenly, "but I heard that you had come to your senses."

"Whether I have or not," retorted Tom, "you are pretty sure to come to your proper senses to-night. Men -- -I mean workmen, not gamblers or bootleggers -- -you are at liberty to pass out of this building."

"Don't you go," shouted the gambler, as some two dozen men started toward the doorway where Harry and the rest were on guard.

Some of them halted.

"I must have made a mistake in calling some of you 'men,' since you take orders from such disreputable characters as these gamblers and bootleggers," Tom taunted them mildly. "Now, all I will say is that those of you who wish to do so may pass outside. The rest may remain here, though they'll be sorry, afterwards, that they stayed. All who want to get outside must do so at once."

"Don't you do anything of the sort," shouted the gamblers' leader. "Stay here like men and assert your rights! Come on! I'll lead you, and show you how to throw these meddlers out."

"You'll do it -- -just like this, eh?" demanded Tom Reade.

He made a leap for the leader of the gamblers, catching the fellow by the throat and waist. Lifting him, Tom hurled the fellow a dozen feet. The gambler fell on one side, but was up in a moment, his right hand traveling toward a hip pocket.

"Don't draw," mocked Tom, with another smile. "Probably you haven't a pistol there. If you have, you can never make me believe that you have sand enough to draw and shoot before as many witnesses as I have on hand."

"I've a good mind to drill you with lead!" scowled the gambler, still resting his hand behind him.

"But you're a wise man," mocked Reade, "and wise men often change their minds."

However, the very move of the gambler to draw a pistol had had one effect that Tom ardently desired. Most of the workmen present were now in frantic haste to get out before any shooting began. The two bootleggers also sought to make their escape.

"Get back there! You fellows can't get out!" Harry shouted, himself seizing and hurling the bootleggers back into the room. They rose, glaring sullenly at Hazelton. But they didn't know how many more men he might have behind him out there in the dark.

Tom Reade now had the six gamblers and the two bootleggers in the room with him.

"You're a nice crew, aren't you?" he jeered, gazing at them scornfully.

"We're making our living," retorted the leader of the gamblers, with what he meant to be a fine tone of scorn.

"Making your living off of human beings! You're some of the parasites that infest honest workingmen. I've drummed you out of this camp before, and you have the cheek to come back. Now, I'll try to teach you another lesson. Harry, send in our workmen, will you?"

Hazelton stepped aside, to let in the half dozen honest negroes they had brought along with them. These men entered, then stood looking at their young chief.

"Get hold of those cards, chips and dice!" ordered Tom.

"Here, what are you trying to do?" demanded the leader of the gamblers.

"You have the advantage of me," responded Tom. "I don't know your name."

"Hawkins is my name," replied the chief of the gamblers.

"Hawkins is a fine name," admitted Tom. "It will do as well as any other. I won't annoy you, Hawkins, by asking you what your name used to be in prouder and happier days."

"What are these men doing with our outfit?" insisted Hawkins, as the negroes began industriously to clear the surfaces of the tables.

"You can see what they're doing," Tom rejoined.

"You blacks get out and leave our property alone," warned Hawkins, darting among them.

The negroes drew back, in some alarm, for the gambler looked dangerous with one hand at his hip pocket.

"Go get on with your work, men," counseled Tom. "I'm here to back you up."

"As for you, sir -- -" snarled Hawkins, facing Tom.

"Don't look at me like that," laughed Reade softly. "Save that face to frighten children with."

The negroes had busied themselves until they had gathered up all the implements of gambling and had stuffed them into their pockets.

Now Tom went up to the bootleggers. Both men he boldly searched, bringing forth from their pockets bottles of liquor. These he threw down hard on the floor of the cabin, smashing them.

"I don't know why we allow you to do all this, Reade," fumed Hawkins, whose face was white with rage.

"It's because you're afraid, and know that you can't help yourselves," Tom smiled.

"I'll show you who's afraid!" yelled Hawkins, again throwing his right hand back to his hip pocket.

This time Reade saw the unmistakable butt of a revolver. Without an instant's hesitation. Reade leaped at the fellow. In a moment Tom had the revolver, springing backwards.

"Well -- -shoot!" jeered Hawkins. "You don't dare to."

"You're right," assented Tom coolly. "I don't dare to. Assassination belongs to the lowest orders of human beings. An honest man seldom has any need of concealed deadly weapons."

Tom stepped still farther back, breaking the revolver and dropping the cartridges into one hand. Hawkins made a move as though to spring upon him, but Harry leaped into the room, confronting the gambler.

Thus shielded, Tom drew a combination tool-knife from one of his pockets, then coolly drew out the screw that held the trigger in place.

Dropping the trigger into his own pocket, Tom tossed the weapon back.

"Catch it, Hawkins," he called. "You may want this to frighten some children with over in Blixton. Now, Mr. Renshaw, I believe you know what you're to do."

"Yes, sir," nodded the superintendent, from the doorway, and vanished.

"We'll take our leave, now," sneered Hawkins, "unless you have some further humiliation in store for us."

"Just one," Tom declared, "so you can't go just yet."

"Oh, all right," Hawkins laughed fiercely. "You'll have to pay for this unlawful detention."

"You can tell the officers all about that," Tom suggested tantalizingly. "Mr. Renshaw has just gone to telephone for them."

"The officers? Police?" snarled Hawkins.

"Yes. Did you imagine that you could keep on defying all the laws? You've just threatened me with a taste of the law. You may try a taste yourself, Professor Hawkins!"

"Let us out of this place!" insisted Hawkins angrily. "Come on, friends!"

He rallied his own force of seven men and started toward the door.

"Of course you can try to get away," Reade warned the fellow. "But the effort will cost you all broken heads, to say the least. I have placed you all under arrest for breaking the laws of Alabama, and, before we'll let you go, we'll break a few bones for each of you."

Outside the workmen of the camp were thronging by this time. Doubtless, had they dared, two or three score of these men would have fought in behalf of the gamblers and bootleggers, but far more than that number would have rallied under Tom Reade's banner, for it is human nature to flock to the banner of the leader who is resolute and unafraid. Besides, there were the foremen, all of them good, hard hitting men.

"Oh, well," sneered Hawkins, "let it go at that, Reade. We'll have our day in court tomorrow, and then. I guess we'll find our innings."

"Yes," chuckled Tom, "and when you get your innings you'll be wild to swap them for outings -- -for the innings will be in jail."

"Don't push my temper too far," cautioned Hawkins with a scowl.

"Let it go as far as you like, always being ready to take the consequences," Tom smiled genially.

There followed a period of tense waiting. After nearly a half an hour of this a 'bus arrived, with four police officers from Blixton in it. Tom Reade preferred his charges against the gamblers and bootleggers. The officers had no choice but to take them, so the late troublemakers, now amid jeers and hoots from many of the workmen, were led outside and into the 'bus.

"You'll hear from this!" hissed Hawkins, in the young chief engineer's ear.

"I believe you," nodded Tom thoughtfully.

After the police and their prisoners had gone Tom led his own party back to the house.

"You'd better get to bed now, Harry," Reade advised his chum. "There can be no telling how soon I'll need to call you up, and you ought to have some sleep first."

"You look for trouble to break to-night?" Harry asked.

"Between now and daylight," said Tom simply.

"Whee! I'd like to stay up with you."

"You might find more fun that way, Harry, but the work to-morrow would suffer, and work is more important than mere fun," Tom answered.

Nor was Tom to be disappointed in his expectation that the worst trouble yet experienced would break loose that night.



Chapter XIII

Wishing It On Mr. Sambo


"Oho!" breathed young Reade, as he crouched low behind the fringe of bushes, peering toward the beach.

It was now somewhat past midnight. For three hours Tom had been scouting stealthily along this shore section, well to the west of the breakwater.

For, in pondering over the explosions, Tom had come to the conclusion that the blow-outs on the retaining wall, however accomplished, were controlled from a point to the westward of the sea wall.

This conclusion had been rather a simple matter to a trained engineer. Tom had witnessed the flash of one explosion, and that, as he remembered, had sprung up at the west side of the wall. Moreover, the appearance and condition of the wall, at the point of each explosion, had shown that the attack in each case must have been made at the west side of the wall.

And now, after nearly three hours of work, Tom Reade had come upon a real clue.

"Another blow-out is arranged for to-night, just as I had expected," Reade muttered, with an angry thrill, as he glanced at a figure down on the beach. "Moreover, my guess that the huge negro is the fellow who touches off the blow-outs has proved to be the correct one."

Down on the beach a big, black man was moving about stealthily. Though the spot was a lonely one, this scoundrel plainly intended to take no unnecessary risks of detection.

Just at the present moment the negro was placing in the water a curious-looking little raft that he had brought on one shoulder from its place of concealment. It was something like a flat-bottomed scow, the sides being just high enough to prevent whatever cargo it carried, from rolling off into the water.

The raft placed and secured to the shore, the negro crouched in his hiding place in a jungle of bushes. He soon reappeared, carrying four metal tubes.

"The explosive is in the tubes," guessed Tom easily. "And at one end of each tube is a sharp metal point that permits of being driven into the crevices in the wall. Four, or more, of these tubes are thrust into the wall, I suppose, and connected in series, so that they can be fired by the same electric spark. These tubes and the wires are water-proofed. The negro is only the dastardly workman in this case. It was never he who invented the trick. But he must be an excellent workman, who ought to be employed in much more honest effort. I wonder if the fellow is going to use more than four tubes?"

All of these thoughts ran through the mind of Tom as he crouched, peering eagerly at the negro.

By this time the negro was taking to the water, towing his miniature scow and its explosive cargo as he swam.

"He must be a good swimmer, and also a good diver," concluded Tom. "With my men patrolling the sea wall he must have to dive, some distance away, swim under water, and remain there until he has secured one of the tubes in place. Then he has to get back, out of range of the lanterns' rays, and get his breath before he goes back to the next job. But maybe I can interfere with his work to-night."

Though he rose and moved away, Reade, despite the darkness of the night, was careful to keep himself concealed behind the bushes, so that he could not be observed from beach or water. Shortly the young engineer was over at the point in the jungle from which he had seen the negro emerge with scow and explosives.

"The fellow must use a magneto, attached to wires running under the water," concluded Tom. "At that rate, the first real job is to find the magneto. My, but Mr. Sambo Ebony may be wondering, to-night, why his blow-out doesn't work as easily as usual!"

Simple as the search ought to have been, Tom Reade was soon on the point of despair.

"If it isn't a magneto, or if I can't find it in time," Tom muttered uneasily, "the mystery may remain nearly as great as ever, and the explosion may be pulled off to-night, after all."

Twenty minutes passed before Reade, with all his senses alert, stumbled on the concealed magneto. It had been so well hidden, under a mass of rocks, that it would not have been astonishing had Tom missed it altogether.

Attached to the magneto was the wire that must connect, in some way, with the series of tubes that would soon be fastened in the retaining wall out yonder. Yet this wire ran into the ground, and then vanished.

"Now, I've simply got to hustle!" sighed Tom Reade nervously. "If I don't succeed in raising the wire, and in a mighty short space of time, I may be to-night's fool yet. I'd really like to wish that on the black man, too!"

By using his eyes and his reasoning powers Reade, after twenty minutes more of search, with some sly digging, unearthed a section of the wire some dozen feet from the magneto.

"Now, it must be really the swiftest sort of work," murmured the young engineer, after a glance seaward. He seated himself with his face turned toward the Gulf, gathered the exposed section of wire up into his lap, then drew a pair of wire nippers from his pocket.

Snip! Tom now had two ends of wire in his hands. That would have been enough, had Reade chosen to bury the ends and conceal all evidence of his work. However, he believed that a more workmanlike way could be found.

From the same pocket Tom drew out a three inch piece of pure rubber cable, wrapped in water-proof tape. This he fastened to the severed ends of the wire, binding the whole as neatly as a lineman could have done.

"Rubber is believed to be a pretty good insulator," chuckled Reade, as he finished. "I don't believe the spark is made that can jump three inches of rubber. Certainly magneto-power can't do it. Now, let me see what sort of a trail-concealer I am."

Tom laid the wire back in the ground, covering it carefully with his hands.

"I wish I dared strike a match, so that I could judge better just how my work looks," he sighed. "However, I don't believe Mr. Sambo Ebony will think it discreet to strike any matches either, so he won't find the place where I've been fooling with his work.

"Now, I'll get back out of sight, where I belong," muttered Tom, rising cautiously. "I hope, though, I can find a place where I can see the look on that darkey's face when he tries his magneto and waits for the bing! from out yonder. Oh, Sambo, you simply can't have any idea of how I've been wishing it on you tonight!"

As the bushes grew thickly hereabouts, and there were many hollows in the surface of the earth, Reade had little trouble in finding what he believed to be a satisfactory hiding place. It enabled him to hide his head within fifteen feet of the handle of the magneto.

A soft, southerly wind blew in from the Gulf. As long as he could Reade fought drowsiness. Again and again he opened his eyes with a start.

"I mustn't do this," Tom told himself angrily. "No gentleman will go to sleep at the switch -- -when it's his train that is coming!"

Yet still he found himself nodding. Had he deemed it safe Tom would have sprung up and walked about briskly. But this, he knew, was to invite being discovered by the returning negro.

So, at last, despite himself, Tom fell asleep.

How much time had passed he never knew. At last, however, he awoke with a start. Reproachfully he rubbed his eyes.

"Not a bit too soon!" he muttered, as his ears caught sound of an approaching step, and his eyes showed him the hulking form of the massive foe. "Here comes my black man!"



Chapter XIV

The Black Man's Turn


Closer to the earth Tom tried to burrow. As to a plan, Tom Reade had none now, save to watch, and, if possible, to learn something that he did not already know.

Soft-footed, despite his great bulk, the negro approached with an air of little concern. Plainly, the wretch did not much fear discovery -- -still less interference.

Humming an old plantation melody the negro reached his concealed magneto, then stood up for a brief moment, staring seaward in the direction from which he had just come. His garments dripped water; his whole appearance was bedraggled, yet there was something utterly shaggy, majestic, in this huge specimen of the human race.

"Ah done reckon dem gemmen gwine lose some mo' of deir wall to-night," chuckled the negro softly.

"Go as far as you like, Mr. Sambo Ebony!" grinned Tom Reade, under his breath. "I've wished something else on you this time."

Carelessly the negro bent over his magneto, seized the handle and gave a push.

Then he straightened up, listening. Only the soft sighing of the southern wind came to his ears.

"Yo' shuah done gotta use a mo' greasy elbow dan dat, chile," chuckled this imp of Satan aloud, though in a soft voice that seemed out of all proportion to his bulk.

Then he gave a half dozen indolent though steady strokes to the handle of the magneto.

"Whah am dat 'splosion?" he asked himself in wonderment. "Am mah eardrum done gone busted? Moke, yo' am plumb lazy this night!"

This time the huge negro pumped at the handle of the magneto until he was all but out of breath. Several dozen shoves he had administered before he halted, let go of the magneto and raised himself to his full, majestic height.

"Some black witch hab done gwine wish a big hoodoo on me!" grunted the negro suspiciously. "Dis am do fust time dat de magernetto gwine back on me like dis!"

In his bewilderment the one whom Tom had named Sambo glared around him. His eyes gleamed with a phosphorescence like that which one sees on the water on a lowering night. What Reade did not know was that this black man possessed eyes that were a little keener in the dark than a bat's.

With a sudden "Woof!" Sambo went up in the air, moved sideways, and came down on the startled Tom Reade with the force of a pile driver.

"Wha' yo' doing heah?" demanded the negro, gripping Reade by the coat collar and dragging that hapless engineer to his feet.

Tom did not answer. To save his life he couldn't have answered just then, his breath utterly gone.

"Wha' yo' want heah, anyway?" insisted Sambo, giving the youth a vicious shake.

There was blood before the negro's eyes, or he would sooner have recognized his victim. But at last he did see.

"So, I'se gwine cotch Mistah Reade himself!" snorted Sambo. "An' Ah reckon I'se gwine foun' de differculty wid my magernetto at de same time! Huh?"

Again he shook Tom, with an ease and yet a force that further drove the breath from the young engineer's body.

"Why doan' yo' talk!" glared the negro, holding Tom out at arm's length with one hand.

Tom could only groan. Yet that method of communication carried its own explanation to the big black.

"Reckon yo' gwine talk w'en yo' get gale enough in yo' lungs," grinned the negro. "In dat case Ah gwine lay yo' down on de groun' to fin' yo' breff."

Sambo's idea of laying Tom down was to give him a violent twist that brought the lad flat on the ground at his captor's feet. Then the negro sat on his captive to make sure that the latter did not escape.

"Take yo' time -- -ah got plenty," grimaced the black man.

Slowly the beaten-out breath came back to Tom Reade. Sambo, watching, knew finally that his quarry was at last able to talk.

"Wha' yo' do to mah magernetto?" demanded Sambo.

"Guess," breathed Tom.

"Oh, take yo' time, boss. Ah got plenty ob dat accommerdation"

"What magneto are you talking about?" Reade queried innocently.

"Nebber heard ob it befo', eh, boss?"

"I've heard of plenty of magnetos, of course," admitted Tom. "But what have you to do with one?"

For a brief instant Sambo was almost inclined to believe that Reade did not fully know his secret. Finally it dawned on the brain of the big black man that he was being hoaxed.

"Ef yo' doan wanter tell, yo' doan hab to, ob co'se," proposed Sambo. "It ain't mah way to be too persistency wid de w'ite quality gemmen. But Ah done thought maybe yo' know somethin' dat yo's burnin' to tell."

"Who are you, and what are you doing around here?" asked Tom. "I'm certain you don't belong to my force of workmen -- -unless you just joined yesterday. Are you working on the breakwater job?"

"Yessah," promptly answered Sambo with momentary gravity. Then his mood changed to a chuckle.

"Dat am all right, Massa Reade," he allowed. "But yo' doan' fool dis nigger as easy as yo' maybe think. Ah know what yo' watchin' me fo', and Ah done know I'se been doin' jess w'at yo' think. So I guess we doan' need no mo' conversationin', unless yo' willing to talk right out and tell me w'at's w'at."

"Sambo," said Reade solemnly, "I imagine I'm not very intelligent, after all. I listened to you attentively, but, for the life of me, I couldn't make out what you were talking about."

"Kain't yo'?" the negro demanded, mockingly. "Den Ah done reckon Ah must be a good deal of a scholar, ef Ah can talk so dat er w'ite quality gemmen kain't undahstan' me."

Mr. Sambo Ebony chuckled gleefully in appreciation of his own joke.

"There's one thing I guess you can tell me, Sambo," Reade suggested hopefully.

"W'at am dat, massa?"

"When are you going to change your seat and stop making me feel like a very thin pancake?"

"W'en Ah done get mah mind made up."

"When you have your mind made up about -- -what?"

"About w'at I'se gwine do wid yo', Massa Reade."

"Well, what do you think you're going to do with me?" insisted Tom. "I'll admit, Sambo, that I'm about losing my patience. Unless you get up off of me soon, and move away to a respectful distance, I shall be obliged to do something on my own account."

"Go as far as yo' like, massa," returned the negro, unmoved. "I'se boun' ter admit dat yo' done got me fo' curiosity. W'at yo' done think yo' can do?"

Plainly the negro meant to go on having sport with him. Tom decided that it would be of no use to try to deceive this great mountain of black flesh. So Reade, who had been doing some brisk thinking during the last few moments, gave a sudden heave -- -a trick that he retained from the old football days.

Much to Sambo's surprise he found himself going. Yet the black man was as agile as he was big. He leaped to his feet, bounding one step sideways, while Tom, who had been watching for this very chance, sprang to his own feet.

"Not so fas', massa!" mocked the big black, reaching out and taking a strong clutch on. Tom's coat collar.

Reade would have squirmed out of his coat and placed more distance between them, but Mr. Ebony, with a stout twist, gathered the two ends of the coat collar, holding the young engineer as though in the noose of a halter.

Quick as a flash Reade struck out with his right fist for the black man's belt-line. Had the blow landed even the huge Sambo would have gone down to earth. But the negro parried with his own disengaged fist, then gave a twist to the coat collar noose that made Reade turn black in the face from choking.

"Ah might as well tell yo'," Sambo observed dryly, "dat yo' ain't done got no new fight tricks dat yo' can wish on me. Ah done seen all de tricks of fightin' dat any man done know, an' Ah nebber yet seen no man dat could put any kind oh a blow ober on me to hurt!"

The negro spoke boastfully, yet there could be no doubt that he believed all he said.

Tom Reade next schemed to land a hard kick against the negro's shins. Ere he had his foot well lifted, however, the watchful Sambo seemed to divine the intent. He gave a quick twist at the coat collar that made Reade's head swim. It was some time before the young engineer's head recovered from that sudden confusion and blackness.

"Am' yo' gwine beliebe dat yo' kain't wish no kind oh a trick ober on me?" demanded the black man in an injured tone. "Ah nebber seen no odder w'ite man dat had such a ha'd time beliebing w'at Ah done tole him!"

"I've got to land this wicked brute, some way, or I may as well conclude that the jig is danced through, as far as I am concerned," Reade thought ruefully.

Panting, quivering, in dread of being choked again, and much harder, Tom tried to think fast in the effort to devise some new plan for worsting this terrible opponent.

"I've been fooling myself all along," Tom told himself, with a sinking heart. "I've been up against several men who were too weak or too cowardly to fight, and I've somehow gained the opinion that I could fight. But this black fellow has taken all the conceit out of me. I was a fool ever to think that I could fight! I'm nothing but a piece of jelly -- -or putty!"

Of a sudden Reade tried to wrench himself free at the collar, at the same time raising his right knee with a forceful jerk. He wanted to drive that knee into the black man's wind.

But Sambo seemed to guess the plan without trouble. He gave a twist that choked Tom, once more, until all went black before him. Then the negro slammed his victim down hard on the ground, well-nigh stunning the young engineer.

"Ah done see w'at Ah gotta do wid yo'," Sambo announced. "Ah gotta tie yo' up, load yo' pockets wid rocks, and den take yo' out in de Gulf ah' lose yo'! Dat's w'at Ah gotta do, an' Ah ain' gwine lose no time about it either."

Sambo was in earnest, too. He had mapped out that very course!



Chapter XV

A David For A Goliath


From his pockets the big fellow brought out a coil of stout cord. Without much trouble he slipped a noose over one of Tom's wrists. Then began an active fight, the object of which, on the black man's part, was to make the other wrist secure.

But here Tom developed an amount of agility and a skill in fighting that angered Sambo.

"Doggone yo', ef yo' won't take it peaceable-like, den yo'll get it do odder way."

With that, Sambo delivered a blow that made young Reade see stars. His head swam dizzily. Now, the black man secured the other wrist, making a turn and a knot that would have done credit to an expert.

But about that time something else happened. Whack! A blow from a club landed across the negro's head.

"Who doin' dat?" demanded the negro, blinking and half turning.

"I did eet, you miser-r-r-rable black smoke, and I do eet again!" rang the voice of Nicolas, as that valiant Mexican circled around the negro.

"Yo' blow away, yaller baby!" jeered Sambo, whose head had been not at all hurt by the blow.

"I show you eel I run away!" bridled up Nicolas.

Tom now began to recover enough to know that his faithful servant was on the scene.

"Scoot, Nicolas!" urged Tom, in a gasping Voice. "Run for all you're worth. This fellow will eat you up. Run and bring help."

"Senor, I can wheep him with one hand!" vaunted the little Mexican.

"Run, I tell you, and get help. Be like a flash, man!"

"As you say, Senor, but -- -"

Nicolas turned, speeding away.

His escape, however, would interfere, possibly, with the plans of Sambo. The big black leaped up, racing after Nicolas.

As the Mexican was a little fellow, and short of leg, it was not long before the pursuer caught up with him.

"Hol' on, yo' yaller rascal!" laughed Sambo, reaching out for the Mexican. Nicolas wheeled about, dancing out of reach of the negro's massive hands.

"Stand still, yo' li'l' Greaser!" laughed Sambo.

"Now you have insult me, and I show you what I do to you!" snarled Nicolas, his brown face aflame at the taunting word, "Greaser."

"Come heah!" jeered Sambo, making a bound and reaching for the small man.

Nicolas dodged, but he did not run away. Instead, he bobbed up inside of the negro's reach. The Mexican thrust out his slim, sinewy right-hand forefinger. A vicious poke he gave with it, landing sharply on a spot just about an inch and a quarter below the base of the negro's breast bone.

"Woof!" panted Sambo, half doubling, for Nicolas had touched a tender spot.

"You have insult me! You call me mean name!" raged Nicolas. "Stand steel, you big black smoke!"

Again Nicolas ducked and rushed in. Once more he employed his forefinger tip in the same fashion, and with more power.

"O-o-o-o-o-h! Wow!" gasped Sambo, this time doubling nearly to the ground. "Get away, chile! I doan' wan' no mo' ob yo'!"

"You have insult," insisted Nicolas angrily, "and I do much more yet to you."

This time the negro appeared almost helpless. Nicolas danced about, looking for an opening. In desperation Sambo struck out with his powerful left. It gave the Mexican the chance he wanted. Darting in, he repeated his trick for the third time.

The bulky negro lay down, groaning. He had too little breath left to be dangerous.

While this was going on Tom Reade had rolled over on his face. From this position he succeeded in getting to his knees. Then he rose and hastened toward the Mexican.

"Nicolas, you're surely a little terror!" Reade admitted, admiringly. "Now, untie my hands and we'll take care of Sambo."

"Wait -- -jus' one leetle moment, Senor," begged the Mexican. He turned back to Sambo, that forefinger ready for another jab.

"Fo' de lub ob goodness -- -" gasped Sambo. But Nicolas was determined. He made the jab, and Sambo all but lost the little breath that was in him.

"Now, Senor, we do it all in one second," proclaimed the Mexican. From his pocket he drew a knife, springing the blade open. Snip! snip! and the young engineer was free of his lashings.

"There's plenty of this cord left," declared Tom. "We'll fix up our black friend."

"Do not use that word, Senor," implored Nicolas. "He is no good! He is scoundrel! He call me Greaser, an' I will keeck off his head for eet!"

"Wait until we get him tied," Tom proposed.

Sambo, by this time, had gained strength enough to sit up. He was wondering whether he could rise to his feet and sprint away from this dangerous little fury of a Mexican.

"Wait, you black cloud!" cried Nicolas. "I will put you down again!"

"Yo' get away from me -- -please do!" begged Sambo, recoiling in terror.

"Sambo," laughed Tom, "Africa shouldn't have stirred up Mexico as you did. Now, lie down on your face, place your hands behind you, and I will persuade him to let you alone."

Sambo hesitated.

"Let me at him, Senor!" begged Nicolas, maneuvering forward, his right hand ready. "He is no good, I tell you! But I feex him!"

With a yell Sambo Ebony flopped over on his face, placing his hands behind his back.

"Let him alone, Nicolas, as long as he minds," ordered Reade, catching the excited Mexican by the collar. "Only, if he shows signs of making trouble then sail into him fast."

No sign of trouble, however, was there in Sambo. He lay as meek as a lamb while Tom used a lot of the spare cord in taking sundry hitches around the negro's wrists.

"I don't believe he'll get out of that," said Reade grimly, "Now, we'll fix his feet."

This, too, was done, and Sambo lay helpless on the ground.

"You'll make a fine-looking jailbird, my friend," mocked Tom, looking down at the prisoner. "Nor did any man ever better deserve the striped suit that the State of Alabama will present you. Now, Nicolas, I'll stay and watch this black treasure while you run and find help."

"Senor, you go yourself," begged the Mexican. "The men will obey you more queeckly than they would me."

"Oh, you find some of the men and tell 'em to come here to get the fellow who has been blowing up the wall, and they'll come fast enough," smiled Tom.

"But, Senor, suppose thees scoundrel free himself?"

"I won't let him, Nicolas."

"But eef he do?" persisted the Mexican. "Then, as I have shown you, Senor, I can take fine care of heem!"

"There's something in that, too," laughed Tom. "Nicolas, I don't believe it will be risking you any if I leave you here. Besides, I won't have to be gone very long."

"If this black scoundrel he get restless, Senor, I will amuse heem with my forefinger."

Sambo groaned; Nicolas grinned.

"All right," Tom Reade laughed. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Away he raced at a dog-trot, chuckling. The contrast between bulky Sambo and little Nicolas and the big negro's comic fear of the slim little fellow kept Reade laughing.

"But where on earth did Nicolas learn that trick?" Tom wondered. "I shall have to get him to show it to me. Plainly that trick is worth more than all the muscle that I spent so many years in piling on."

Tom headed his course for the shore end of the wall. Here he would find men in abundance. Moreover, now that the big black was a prisoner the men would hardly be needed on the wall.

"I think I know just how Sambo worked it, too," the engineer reflected, as he ran. "He swam out into the Gulf, towing that little scow behind him. Neither his black head nor the little scow would be seen far on the water on a dark night. Sambo, when he got near enough, could take one of the metal tubes, swim in under water to some point where no watchman was near, and stick the tube fast into the wall. Then another tube, and another -- -all under water where they would not show to a passing watchman.

"Then, when he had all in place, and while no patrolling watchman was too near, Sambo could begin to attach the wires. That would take but a few minutes. Whenever any one came too near Sambo had but to swim out a little way and tread water until he could return to his job. When, at last, all was complete, Sambo would attach a wire from the bombs to a wire moored at a stated point under water, and then swim in, work his magneto, and touch the whole thing off from a safe hiding place on shore. The explosion itself would shatter the last length of wire. Oh, but it was all slick and easy!"

Not increasing his speed, but keeping steadily at the jog-trot, Tom was at last near enough to the wall to raise his voice and shout.

"Hullo!" came back the answer.

"This is Reade, the chief engineer," Tom answered, through the night. "We've caught the fellow that has been blowing up the wall. A half a dozen of you men hurry over here with your lanterns. Come on the run."

The man who had answered summoned several of his comrades as quickly as he could. As the men had to come in from the wall, however, it took a little time. Then six men reported, almost breathless, to Reade. Still behind them came Corbett on the run, summoned from the boat.

"What's this I hear, Mr. Reade?" puffed the foreman. "You've solved the mystery and caught the fellow who has been dynamiting the wall?"

"Got him and he's tied up, waiting for his ride to jail," Tom chuckled.

"How did it happen, sir?" asked Corbett, staring with his eyes very wide open.

"I caught the fellow -- -a huge giant of a negro, the same fellow who got Hazelton the other night," replied Tom. "But before the fight was over the black 'got' me, instead, and had me tied up. Then Nicolas came along and put the negro out of the fight, and -- -"

"Nicolas?" demanded Foreman Corbett incredulously.

"Yes. Nicolas proved himself to be the most fiery little bunch of fighting material that I have ever seen," laughed Reade, as they walked rapidly along.

"How could that Mexican wallop a giant?"

"I'll ask Nicolas to show you, to-morrow," Tom laughed mischievously. "But, Corbett, I believe that four bombs are even now attached to some part of the retaining wall, ready to be set off.

"Great Scott!"

"They won't be set off, though," continued Reade. "I found the firing magneto, and had a chance to cut the wires."

The foreman wanted to ask more questions, while the half dozen workmen trudged along close at their heels, eager to hear every word. Tom, however, suggested that they save their breath in the interest of speed, until they had Mr. Sambo Ebony in safe custody.

"Here we come, Nicolas!" Tom called, as the party neared the spot where captor and captive had been left.

There was no response.

"Nicolas!" Tom called again, with a start.

Still no answer.

"I don't like the look of that," Reade uttered. "Let's get there on the sprint!"

Tom himself caught at one of the lanterns, leading the way. Neither the negro nor the Mexican was where the young chief engineer had left them.

Feverishly, Tom began to search the ground, holding his lantern close.

"Hang the luck!" he quivered, pointing to fragments of cord on the sand. "That negro simply burst his bonds -- -and now where is he? Where is Nicolas, for that matter? I thought the little fellow, with his trick, could easily take care of the big black."

But, though they spread out and searched, there was no sign of either the negro or the little brown man.

"I can't understand what has happened," quivered Tom Reade, thinking more of the staunch little Mexican than of the loss of the prisoner.



Chapter XVI

A Test Of Real Nerve


"What an idiot I was not to stop to consider that Sambo Ebony could snap those cords!" groaned Tom, staring disconcertedly about him. "Yet, if Nicolas were safe I wouldn't so much mind the escape of the black. I shall see him again, and I shall know him wherever I see him."

"Let's look for the trail," proposed Foreman Corbett, holding one of the lanterns close to the ground.

The trail, however, was easy neither to distinguish nor to follow.

"We may as well leave here and search farther," concluded the young engineer. "Before we go, though, we'll get the magneto and take it with us."

Then the procession turned toward the land end of the retaining wall.

"If Nicolas doesn't show up soon," Tom murmured to the foreman, "I shall notify the Blixton police and offer a reward for news of him. That little fellow is too faithful to be left to his fate."

"What would the negro want of Nicolas?" queried the foreman.

"Revenge," Tom replied. "It makes a big bully like him furious to be handled the way Nicolas treated him. But I can't understand how Nicolas failed to repeat his clever trick with the black."

Arrived at the water front the magneto was dumped into the motor boat.

"Seems to me I would smash that thing all to pieces," Suggested Foreman Corbett. "It has done harm enough around this wall."

"I don't believe in destroying anything that is useful," Reade answered, shaking his head. "Besides, we are going to capture Sambo yet, and then we shall want that magneto for evidence."

"What are you going to do to find Nicolas?" Corbett wanted to know.

"I wish I had even an idea," Tom sighed. "Corbett, I wish you would hurry over to Blixton and rout out the police. I've an idea that Sambo may have a hiding place in the town. Nicolas, too, may have been taken that way. I'll sit down and write out a good description of the rascal."

This Reade did, handing the paper to the foreman.

"Who'll take charge here? Corbett asked.

"I will, until you get back, but hurry."

As soon as the foreman had gone Tom stepped into the motor boat, taking the wheel.

"Tune up the engine, Conlon," Reade directed the engine tender. "I'm going to take a run around to the west side of the wall. I'm going to try to find the tubes of high explosive that I'm satisfied were planted in the wall."

"That's a fine job for a dark night, sir," grumbled Conlon. "Suppose we run into the bombs, and they prove to be contact exploders, too?"

"That's one of the risks of the business," Tom retorted grimly.

Before the motor boat had gone far Tom called one of the men aboard to take the wheel. Then the young chief engineer began to experiment with the searchlight.

"What's the idea, sir?" asked Conlon, looking on.

"I want to depress the light, so that we can use it to look down into the water."

"And try to find the bombs?"

"Exactly," Reade nodded.

"Lucky if we don't find the bombs with the keel of the boat," observed Conlon.

Tom succeeded in rigging the light so that he could use it. By the time that the boat was around at the west side of the retaining wall Tom ordered the boat in close alongside. Then, with the depressed searchlight he discovered that he could see the sides of the wall to a depth of some eight feet under the surface.

"That may be enough for our needs," Reade murmured. "Now, run the boat along, slowly and close. I want to scan every bit of the wall."

Less than five minutes later Tom Reade, one hand controlling the searchlight and peering steadily into the water, sang out:

"Stop! Back her -- -slowly. There, come back five feet. So! Hold her steady!"

As the engine stopped Conlon stepped forward, kneeling by Reade's side.

"There are the bombs, man!" cried Tom exultantly. "See them -- -the two upper ones?"

"I see something that gleams," admitted Conlon.

"Well, we'll have them up and aboard in a hurry. Then you'll see just what they are."

"You're not going to try to raise the things with the boathook, are you?" queried the engine tender, a look of alarm in his eyes.

"That might be risky," admitted Reade. "I'll go over the side after them and bring them up.

"Don't, Mr. Reade!" urged Conlon with a shiver. "That'll be worse still. You're likely to blow yourself into the next world!"

"I think not -- -hope not, anyway," answered Tom steadily. "Have you a pair of pliers in your tool box that'll cut small wires?"

"Yes," replied Conlon.

"Get them for me."

Reade removed his coat, shoes and socks, then took the pliers.

"Let one of the men jump ashore with the boathook and hold the boat steady," was Reade's next direction.

This being done, Reade deflected the searchlight for one more look into the water. Then, the pliers in his right hand, he mounted to the rail of the boat.

"Be careful, sir -- -do," begged Conlon. "What I'm afraid of is that the bombs are contact exploders."

"It's likely," nodded Reade. "I'll be as careful as I can."

Tom did not dive; the distance was too short. Instead, he let himself down into the water slowly. Then his head vanished beneath the surface of the water.

"Whew! The nerve of that young fellow!", thought Conlon with shuddering admiration.

"Ob co'se Massa Reade done got nerve," nodded the negro at the wheel. "Dat's one reason why, Misto Conlon, Massa Reade is boss."

"There are other reasons why he's boss," grunted the engine tender. "Mr. Reade has nerve, but he also has brains in his head. Any man with brains and the sense to use 'em goes to the top, while I stay down a good deal lower, and you, Rastus, are still lower."

"Ah reckon Ah got a two-bit hat on top o' only two cents' wo'th o' brains, Misto Conlon," grinned the darkey.

Conlon was an Irishman, and naturally, therefore, no coward. Yet with the possibility that Tom would run afoul of a contact-exploding bomb and send them all skyward, the engine tender waited at the rail with drawn breath.

Finally, there was a ripple on the water. Then Tom's head appeared; next his shoulders.

"Conlon!"

"Here, sir."

"Here is one of the bombs. Handle it carefully."

"Trust me, sir."

Conlon drew the metal tube, with a piece of wire pendant from it, as carefully as though it had been a royal baby and heir to a throne. Into the boat the engine tender lifted the thing, and laid it carefully in a locker. By the time that Conlon was back at the rail Reade had gone below again.

"Down dere, aftah mo' death!" grinned the darkey. A colored man can usually be brave when serving under a white leader in whom he has full confidence.

Presently Tom came up with another metal tube, like the first.

"I'll hang on and get my breath," Tom informed the men in the boat, as he rested one hand on the rail. "The other two bombs are about three feet lower, and it's going to be hard to work at the lower depth."

"Be careful, won't you, sir?" urged Conlon, in a somewhat awed voice. "Mr. Reade, we can't afford to lose you until this job is completed. Men with all the nerve you show are scarce in the world."

"I know where there are forty thousand men with at least as much nerve, many of them having several times as much as I," laughed Tom.

"Where on earth are they?" demanded the Irishman.

"In the United States Navy. If there were a battleship here the jackies would be fighting for the honor of going down after these bombs."

Then Reade dropped out of sight, once more. Nor was it long before he had the third and the fourth bombs aboard the boat. Then he climbed in himself, dripping like a shaggy Newfoundland dog.

"Put in at the dock now," the young chief ordered, and the boat started on its way.

"Some one signaling from the wall lower down," Tom soon informed the negro pilot. "Put in where you see the signaling."

"It is I, Corbett," called the foreman of that name. "Mr. Reade, these two men with me belong to the Blixton police."

"Perhaps you had rather walk down to the dock, then, instead of getting into the boat," laughed Reade. "We have four bombs aboard, just taken out of the wall above here."

Accordingly the three turned and walked. At the landing the policemen gazed curiously at the bombs.

"Do you want to take charge of these?" Reade queried.

"Not particular about it," replied the policeman, with a shrug. "We'd be scorched for endangering the town if we took those things into Blixton. Your foreman, Mr. Reade, called us out here to see if we could get trail of your missing Mexican servant."

"That's a vastly more important thing to do," Tom replied with enthusiasm. "I want to find Nicolas before I do another thing."

"Come here, Bill," called one of the officers.

Out of the shadows near the shore came a youth leading a dog on a leash.

"This dog is a bloodhound," announced one of the policemen with visible pride. "Take him to where the scent of the Mexican starts, and the dog will follow as long as there's any scent left. But, first, we'll have to have something that the Mexican has worn, so that the hound will know the true scent."

"That will take but a few minutes," declared Reade energetically. "Come up to the house, and I'll find something that Nicolas has worn."

Corbett remained behind to take care of the bombs. Tom led the officers and the youth with the hound on a brisk walk up to the house.

"Wait out here," murmured Tom, "and I'll bring something out. If we all go into the house we'll wake my partner, Hazelton, and he has enough work to do in the daytime, without being kept up at night."

While the others remained outside Tom stole into the house. There was a room in the rear, off the kitchen, where Nicolas slept. Into that room Reade stepped noiselessly.

It was not necessary to strike a match, for, in the very faint light there, Tom espied an object on the foot of the bed that he recognized -- -one of the Mexican's white canvas shoes.

Tom snatched it up quickly. Then, despite his steady nerves, he staggered back.



Chapter XVII

Tom Makes An Unexpected Capture


For an unearthly scream pierced the air. There was a wrench, a bounding figure -- -and then Tom Reade felt a jolt near his solar plexus that made him gasp.

"Stop that!" gasped the young chief engineer.

"You, Senor?" demanded an incredible, drowsy voice.

"Yes; it's I -- -Reade."

"A thousand pardons, Senor!"

"So this is you, Nicolas?"

"Yes, Senor."

"What are you doing here?"

"The negro got away from me."

"I know that, but -- -"

"I could not help it, Senor. I assure you I was not careless."

"I never knew you to be careless, Nicolas."

"Thank you, Senor. But I stood over that black scoundrel, watching for the slightest move on his part. I had my forefinger ready, and he did not dare move."

"I can quite believe that," agreed Tom, dryly, "after the poke you just gave me."

"Again a thousand pardons, Senor, but in the dark, and awaking so suddenly, I did not see you or know you."

"I can quite believe that, Nicolas."

"As I was saying, Senor, I was watching over the black man when some one came up behind me -- -so softly that I did not hear. But I felt. Ah! What I felt! It was a fist that seemed to break in the top of my head. Down I went, and I heard a voice. I knew that voice, too. So would you have known it, Senor!"

"Whose voice was it?" asked Tom, curiously.

"The voice of Evarts."

"The discharged foreman?"

"Yes, Senor. But I am delaying my story. While Evarts was speaking I heard another sound. At one effort the negro snapped the cords that held him. Ah, he is a powerful brute."

"He is," Tom affirmed solemnly.

"I knew it was my task to keep the negro from getting away," continued the little Mexican excitedly. "So I leaped up, extended my forefinger and rushed at him. But thees Evarts -- -hees feest catch me between the eyes. I do not have to guess the spot where he struck me, Senor, for I can feel it yet. Down I went, and knew no more. When next I opened my eyes I found myself lying in the middle of a theecket of bushes. I theenk, perhaps, the scoundrels believed they had killed me, and so they hid my body. But I have fool' them. I am still alive -- -much alive!"

"What did you do when you came to, Nicolas?"

"Senor," protested the Mexican, "there was no more need of me. You had gone after men. Eef you came back, you have many men with you, so you do not need me. For that reason I come home."

Even in the dark the young engineer could "feel" Nicolas's shudder. Tom could not repress a smile that threatened to become a chuckle.

"I was varee sleepy," continued Nicolas, "and so I lay down. I forgot to undress, or even to take off my shoes. I fall asleep, and I dream much. I see the big negro again, and I dream that I have more fight with heem. Then, when you pull my foot, I wake up in one gr-rand sweat, for I theenk the big black attack me once more. I am glad -- -so glad that it is not true."

"Nicolas," cried Tom, "you have done fighting enough for one night. Yet tell me, how did you happen to be at hand to-night in time to save me from Mr. Sambo Ebony?"

"Because I see you start away to-night," replied Nicolas, "an' I see that you go alone. I know that you mos' likely run into trouble, an' so I follow you. Sure enough, Senor, you find trouble -- -and I heet heem with my finger!"

"You surely did 'hit him with your finger,' Nicolas," laughed Tom, grasping the little Mexican's hand and wringing it. "But now come outside. I had sent for the police to find you, and now I must show them that you are already found."

Together they went out on the porch. Tom explained the situation.

"Then you don't need us, after all?" asked one of the policemen.

"Not to find Nicolas," Tom Reade admitted. "But do you know Evarts?"

"Used to be your foreman?"

"Yes."

"We know him," nodded the policeman.

"Then," Reade continued, "I wish you would search through Blixton for him. If you find him, be good enough to lock him up and notify me."

"Is there a warrant out against him?" asked one of the policemen, cautiously.

"You don't need one," Tom replied. "I will make a charge of felony against Evarts, to the effect that he is concerned in the outrages against our wall. On a felony charge you don't need a warrant. Then, too, try to find the big negro."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know his name," Tom answered. "I've dubbed him 'Sambo Ebony.' You have the description of him that I wrote out. Arrest Sambo, by all means, if you can find him, and I'll make a felony charge against him, too. The negro is the one who has been blowing up the sea wall."

"We'll look for the pair all through the town, Mr. Reade," promised the officers.

"Do! And, on behalf of the company, I'll offer a two-hundred dollar reward for the arrest of each man!"

With that prospect to spur them on the policemen hastened away, followed by the young man with the bloodhound.

"Now, Nicolas," pressed Reade, turning around at the faithful little brown man, "you tumble back into bed."

"But you, Senor?"

"Don't worry about me. I've probably done all I need to do to-night. I shall probably sit here on the porch and think until daylight. Then I'll call Hazelton, and go to bed for a few hours' sleep before I appear in court against the gamblers and the bootleggers. Go to bed, Nicolas, and sleep! That's an order, remember!"

The Mexican therefore went to his bedroom without protest. Presently Reade became aware of the fact that his clothing had not by any means fully dried. He went to his room, took a vigorous rub-down, donned dry clothing, and then went out on the porch.

Though the night was dark the air was delicious. The combined odors of many flowers came in on the faintly stirring breeze.

Tom leaned back in a chair, his feet on the porch railing. His senses lulled by the quiet and repose of the night he was in danger of falling asleep.

Of a sudden he came to with a start. Off among the trees to the eastward, near the road, a human being was stirring.

Reade rose, moving swiftly back more into the shadow. Then he watched, every sense alert. Yes; some one was moving, out there amid the trees. What he could not see, Tom discovered by his acute sense of hearing.

"I'll put a hot pebble in that fellow's bonnet, whoever he is!" Tom muttered vengefully. Entering the house, he left at the rear, then made a stealthy, roundabout trip that brought him at the farther edge of the litte grove of trees.

Now the young engineer crouched close to the ground as he listened. Once more he heard that some one moving, not many yards away. It was pitch-black in there amid the trees. Guided by his ears, Tom moved closer and closer without making a betraying sound. Suddenly he found the tall figure looming up almost in his path.

"Now, I've got you!" cried Tom exultantly, making a bound that should have carried his hands to the throat of the prowler.

But the other, like a flash, went on the defensive. Tom felt himself parried, then clutched at. The next instant the prowler had the young engineer in a tackle that carried Tom Reade back to the good old high school days at home. The young engineer was dumped on the ground as though he had been a sack of flour.

"Great Scott!" quivered Tom Reade. "No one but Dick Prescott ever had that tackle down fine!"

"Well, you blithering idiot!" came the indignant answer. "That's who I am -- -Prescott!"



Chapter XVIII

The Army "On The Job"


"You, Dick?" gasped Tom, stumbling ruefully to his feet. Then he leaped at his late foe, throwing his arms around him. The two fairly hugged each other, Yes; here was Dick Prescott, not so many weeks a graduate of the Military Academy at West Point, and now, if you please, Second Lieutenant Richard Prescott, United States Army!

"Well, of all the strange things that the Illinois Central Railroad brings into Alabama!" grunted Tom, now gripping Dick by the hand and holding on as though he never meant to let go.

"If the Illinois Central had built its tracks through to Blixton I probably would have arrived at a civilized hour," laughed Dick. "As it was, I had to come in on a wood-burning, backwoods road and the train was only five hours and a half behind schedule. Then, from a sleepy policeman I got directions that enabled me to find this place after an hour's hard work." To what effect? Only to be pounced upon by you as though you had caught me in the act of stealing all the water in the Gulf of Mexico!"

"Stop your roasting," laughed Tom joyfully. "But say, it does seem good to set eyes on you again, after two years."

All of our readers who have read the "High School Boys Series" and the "West Point Series" know all about Dick Prescott, the famous leader of Dick & Co.

"What are you now?" Tom asked eagerly. "A general, or only a colonel?"

"Nothing but a shavetail," laughed Dick. "Shavetail is the army nickname for a second lieutenant."

"I've got to join my regiment, the Thirty-fourth Infantry, out in Colorado very soon," continued Prescott. "But I came down here to spend a few days with you, if you can stand me."

"If we can stand you!" chuckled Tom, patting his old high school chum on the back. "Say, where's Greg?"

Greg Holmes had been another member of Dick & Co., and Dick's chum and comrade at West Point.

"Well, you see," laughed Lieutenant Prescott, "Greg has been falling in love with six girls a year regularly ever since he entered West Point. Now that he's in the army he has started in to increase the yearly average. He's visiting a Miss Deering, who lives near Chicago."

"Greg's likely never to marry," wisely remarked Tom. "These fellows who catch a new love fever every few weeks always end up by finding that no girl wants them. But say, Dick you hardly look the soldier."

"Why not?"

"Well, one would expect to see an army officer in uniform, you know."

"An officer rarely travels in uniform, unless on duty with troops," explained Dick.

"How did you like West Point?"

"Fine!" said Dick, grimly. "It was like four years in prison, only more so. When I look back I shudder at the incessant grind I had to endure there. Yet I'm going to be happy, now I'm through, for I couldn't be happy anywhere except in the United States Army."

"What crazy notions some folks have of happiness," murmured Tom, mockingly. "However, old fellow, we're not going to fight, are we? Now, hustle over to the house. Harry is sleeping at the present moment, but I won't let him have a wink more of sleep to-night. It's getting toward daylight, anyway, and too much sleep isn't good for a fellow. But don't talk above a whisper, Dick, when we get near the house. I don't want Harry, by any chance, to catch a sound of your voice until he comes out on the porch and runs into you."

Chatting away in low tones the two old-time high school chums gained the porch.

"Now, just stay here," whispered Tom, then strode into the house. He entered his partner's room, gripping the slumber-seized Hazelton with a strong clasp.

"Oh, quit your fooling!" protested a sleepy voice from the pillow.

"Time to get up, you slant-eyed rations stealer!" muttered Tom gruffly. "Come on. You're needed, and there's no time to be lost. Up with you!"

Tom dragged his drowsy partner from the bed, seating him on the edge of it.

"Now, shed your pajamas and pull on something decent," Reade commanded grimly. "Hustle! There's a conference going on outside, and you're wanted. Hurry! Want me to dump the pitcher of water on you? I'll do it if you give your eyes another rub!"

Hazelton was now fully convinced that something important was in the air. If not, he knew that his chum never would have hauled him out of bed in the darkest hours of the night.

"If you throw any water I'll shave you with the bread-knife," retorted Harry. "But you can keep on talking to me, so that I won't fall asleep while I'm trying to dress."

Slowly, at first, then more rapidly, Hazelton got his clothes on. Pouring water into the basin he sopped a towel in it, then liberally applied it to his face. The water waked him rapidly.

"Now, lead me forth to where duty calls," mimicked Harry.

"Run along out on to the porch," ordered Tom. "I'll be there in a moment."

Still yawning, Hazelton groped his way out into the hall, along the dark passage, and thence out into the night. Some one stood there, and Harry walked curiously toward him.

"Howdy, whoever you are," was Hazelton's greeting.

"Halloo, Harry, old chum," came Dick Prescott's laughing answer.

"Dick Prescott!" gasped Harry delightedly.

"I suppose you think I might have waited until daylight," laughed Dick, as their hands met.

"I'm heartily glad you didn't wait," said Harry. "How long can you stay with us?"

"Not as long as I'd like to, for I'm due at Fort Clowdry in a very few days."

"And Greg?"

Lieutenant Prescott gave the same explanation he had furnished Tom.

"How does it seem to be an army officer?" Harry continued.

"I believe it to be the finest career on earth," Prescott answered. "Still, as you can guess, I'm utterly without experience so far. After a few days more I shall have my first day as an officer on duty with troops. But do you and Tom continue to find engineering the grandest career on earth?"

"We certainly do," affirmed Hazelton.

"It must be very interesting," agreed Dick. "Still, I imagine there is yet enough of the primitive savage in the average man to make him enjoy a real fight once in a while. That's an experience you're denied in your calling, but an army officer may always look forward to the chance of seeing a little fighting."

Hazelton glanced humorously at his partner before he replied:

"At present there's a very good chance of a fight right here at this camp."

"So?" Dick Prescott asked, sitting up with a look of interest.

"Not so much chance as there was," said Tom gravely. "The fight came off to-night. Harry, I met the big black -- -caught him redhanded."

"You did?" cried Hazelton, leaping up. "And you never called me?"

"There wasn't any chance," Tom assured him. "The meeting and the fight didn't take place on this porch."

Tom now had two very interested auditors. For Prescott's benefit Reade first sketched a brief outline of the troubles that had led up to the present, including an account of the wrecking of substantial portions of the retaining wall. Then he came down to the events of the night.

"Oh, and I had to miss it," sighed Harry, disappointedly. "I'd have missed a week of sleep just to have been in to-night's doings. And, if I had been with you, Tom, we'd now have Mr. Sambo Ebony in jail."

"I think we've blocked the black rascal's game on the wall, anyway," said Tom.

"There's just a fair chance that you haven't yet blocked it," remarked the young army officer thoughtfully. "Of course this Sambo of yours merely represents a well-organized gang. This gang may have more ways than one of damaging the property of the Melliston Company. From all I can see, Tom and Harry, you're likely to need to be more vigilant than ever. Whew! But I'm glad that I can be with you a few days. I'm likely to come in for a choice lot of excitement. Also, I may very likely be able to help out a lot."

"We wouldn't put you to that trouble, Dick," protested Tom. "You're to be our guest -- -not our policeman."

"Are you going to try to keep me out of all the excitement and fun?" Lieutenant Dick demanded, indignantly. "Sleep? Can't I get enough of that when I go aboard a Pullman again and am riding out to Colorado? Of course I'm going to help -- -and I'm going to have my share of all the opportunities for excitement here -- -or else I'm going to cut your acquaintance."

"Why, of course we'll be delighted to have your help, Dick, if you want to stand the racket," Reade made haste to say. "It will surely seem like doubling -- -or trebling -- -our forces, to have Dick Prescott working hand in hand with us."

"Then that's settled," cried Dick, with an air of satisfaction.

"You haven't had any sleep lately, have you, Dick?" inquired Tom, after they had chatted a little longer.

"No; I haven't."

"Then you must turn in and get a few hours," proposed Reade. "I must have a little myself, as I shall have to be up and go into court during the coming forenoon."

"I'm wide awake now," said Harry. "So I'll sit right here on the porch and dream of Dick and Greg, and good old Dave Darrin and Danny Dalzell, and the good times we had in old Gridley. What time do you want to be up, Tom?"

"Not later than eight," Reade answered.

"Trust me," said Harry promptly. Harry went to his own bedroom, pulled his bed apart, remade it with fresh linen, and with a final grip of Dick's hand, he left the army officer to turn in there.

At eight o'clock Hazelton called both Tom and Dick. They turned out promptly, to find that Nicolas had laid an appetizing breakfast on the porch.

Then Tom had to hurry over to Blixton, Dick going with him, while Hazelton went down to the breakwater to superintend the day's work there.

Only a little time had to be spent in the justice's stuffy court. Hawkins and his fellow gamblers and bootleggers were arraigned and held in one thousand dollars' bail each for trial. As none of them had the money the eight men were sent to the county jail pending trial.

"That's queer," mused Tom, aloud, as he and Dick walked back to camp. "You'd think that professional gamblers would have money enough to put up small bail."

"Not if they're working for other people," suggested Dick. "These men may be merely the agents of some larger crowd."

"Meaning that the larger crowd may be a sort of vice trust, operating in many fields at the same time?" queried Reade.

"Something of the sort," replied the young army officer. "To-day nearly everything has been capitalized on a large scale of combined capital. Why shouldn't vice be?"

"I begin to think you're more than half right in your guess," Tom admitted. "Your explanation is about the only way to account for a fellow like Hawkins not having a thousand at his instant disposal. However, if these fellows represent a vice trust, then I suppose it will be a question of only a little time when the trust sends down money enough to put up the needed bail."

"That will undoubtedly happen," nodded Dick. "And then you'll have to look out for that fellow, Hawkins, and all the men he can command. Hawkins looked at you, in court, as though he'd enjoy pulverizing you."

"I'm ready, when he is," laughed Tom. "If he'd only fight in the open I wouldn't be at all afraid of him."

Tom now led the way down to the retaining wall. Prescott gazed with great interest at the signs of activity. On a closer inspection he was even more interested. He was capable of understanding very fully what was being done here, for every graduate of the United States Military Academy is supposed to be a capable engineer.

"You've a difficult task on hand, but your basic principle is sound, and you're doing the work finely and economically," Dick declared with emphasis.

Harry came in from the outer end of the wall and joined them. He listened with pride to the praises that the army officer showered on the engineers.

"I wish Mr. Bascomb, the president of the company, could hear you," said Harry. "He isn't altogether sure that we know what we're about in anything that we're doing."

"Then I've a very good mental picture of Bascomb," declared Dick, bluntly. "Bascomb is something of a chump. By the way, if you want to get square with Mr. Bascomb, why don't you coax him down here to help you look out for the evil-doers who are combined against you?"

"He wouldn't be much use," sighed Tom. "He's an impossible sort of chap. He wanted us to stop our crusade against camp vice. Said it was hurting business."

"What craft is that?" inquired Dick, looking toward a sailboat that was moving lazily along about a half-mile to the eastward.

"I don't know," Tom answered, after a look. "Never saw the boat before. Regular cabin cruiser, isn't she, about forty feet long?"

"About that," nodded Dick. "What interested me in her was the fact that a fellow on board has been watching us with a marine glass. I caught the glint of the sun on the lenses."

"Why should he want to be watching us?" demanded Hazelton.

"That's just what made me curious," replied Prescott. "As an army officer, if this were a fort that I commanded in troublous times, I'd want to look into any strange craft that I caught cruising lazily in the offing and holding a marine glass on us."

"I wonder if that boat can be in the service of those who are annoying us?" Tom muttered.

"It's an even chance that it is a 'hostile ship,'" Prescott suggested. "You have a motor boat here. I'm inclined to think you ought to use it in overhauling that suspicious craft. Of course you'd have no right unless there was a police officer along. Can you get one?"

"The authorities in Blixton would send a policeman on request."

"Then send a messenger to request them to send over a policeman in citizen's clothes," proposed Dick.

Tom promptly despatched Foreman Dill on that errand.

"Now don't let the men on the boat see that you're paying any more attention," Prescott advised. "Leave it to me, and I'll contrive to keep the boat and its people under observation without looking too plainly in their direction."

In due time the plain clothes policeman arrived. He, the young engineers and the army lieutenant boarded the "Morton," which put out from the landing as though on a trip of inspection of the wall.

"Don't anyone look over at the sloop," Prescott urged. "I'll do the watching. A fellow on that craft is holding the glasses on us right now. Officer, do you demand the assistance of all present in any police duty that may come up?"

"I do," replied the Blixton policeman, a man named Carnes, returning Prescott's wink.

"All right, then," laughed Dick. "That demand makes policemen of us all. Tom, you can turn, now, when ready, and put on full speed in going after that craft."

Reade gave the order for full speed, then took the steering wheel himself.

"Guilty conscience!" laughed Prescott. "There's the sloop putting about at once and heading away from us."

"They can't get away from us, in this light wind," chuckled the young chief engineer.

A few minutes later the "Morton" came up within easy hailing distance of the sloop, aboard which only one man now appeared.

"Sloop ahoy!" called the policeman. "What are you doing in these waters?"

"Looking for a good fishing ground," answered the dark-faced man at the tiller.

"Then you're too far in by some three miles," answered the policeman.

"Thank you, cap'n," acknowledged the sailing master of the sloop.

"You're welcome," the policeman continued, "but ease off your sheet and lay to. We want to come aboard."

"You can't!" flatly retorted the skipper.

"You're wrong there," retorted the policeman. "This is a police party, and I tell you that we are coming aboard. Lay to, or we shall have to start a lot of trouble for you."

In the policeman's hand suddenly glistened a revolver. Tom ran the motor boat close alongside. With a snarl the man left off his sheet. The policeman and Dick Prescott leaped aboard the craft, Tom and Harry following.

"This is a cheeky outrage!" snarled the skipper, scowling at the invaders.

"Then keep the change, and welcome," laughed the policeman, taking his stand close to the skipper.

Dick Prescott made a dive at the cabin door, which was closed.

"Open this door!" he summoned.

As the door did not open Dick placed his shoulder against it.

"Open the door, or I'll break it down," Dick insisted.

There was still no answer. Thereupon Prescott proceeded to put his threat into execution. Harry bounded forward to help. Under their combined assault the door gave way.

Lieutenant Prescott was the first to enter the dark little cabin. Poor as the light was his eyes caught sight of something that made him gasp.

"This is the big capture of the season!" cried Dick jubilantly.



Chapter XIX

A New Mystery Peeps In


"Get out of here, or you'll get something you don't want," roared an ugly voice at the farther end of the cabin.

At sound of that voice Tom Reade started. He thrust his head in the open doorway.

"Hullo, Evarts!" called the young chief engineer.

"Get out of here!" came the furious order.

"So you've openly joined the enemy, Evarts?" demanded Tom, as his eyes fell upon the object that had first claimed Lieutenant Dick Prescott's attention.

"You've no business here! Get out, or I'll shoot," cried Evarts, defiantly.

"Don't be too quick on the shoot," warned the Blixton policeman, who still had his own revolver in his hand. "This is a police party, and you're under arrest. Start any shooting trouble, and the air will be full of it."

"Clear out, and I'll come outside and talk with you," proposed Evarts, for it really was the discharged foreman.

"All right," nodded the policeman. "Gentlemen, let him step outside."

The others left the entrance to the cabin, As Evarts, his pistol now back in his pocket, stepped sullenly outside, Harry Hazelton dropped back into the doorway.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Evarts," grinned the police officer, deftly slipping handcuffs on the fellow's wrists.

"This is treachery!" stormed the prisoner. "I didn't surrender to you. I only came out to talk with you."

"If you didn't surrender, then excuse me, and go ahead and put up a fight," laughed the policeman, handily removing Evarts's revolver from a hip pocket.

"Now, look in here, Tom," urged Dick. "Do you see what caught my eye?"

Prescott pointed to a sharp-nosed cylinder, some eight feet long. Just as it lay the propeller at the other end was invisible to one at the doorway of the cabin.

"It's a home-made imitation of a Whitehead torpedo," Lieutenant Dick went on, in explanation. "If it proves to be charged with explosives then the mere having of it aboard this sloop will prove embarrassing to these two prisoners to explain in court. If it isn't loaded, that will be almost as bad, as such a torpedo can be rather easily loaded, and then set in operation by clock-work machinery that will control the propeller."

"Young man, you seem to think you know a good deal about torpedoes," sneered Evarts.

"He ought to," Harry retorted quietly. "He's a West Point man and an army officer. Therefore, he's a specialist in some kinds of explosives."

Evarts's face turned somewhat paler at this information of having an army officer on hand as a witness.

"Do you call me a prisoner, too?" asked the man at the tiller uneasily.

"Something like it, I guess," nodded Dick.

"Say, but that's a pretty rank deal against an honest man," protested the skipper hoarsely. "I hired this boat out to that man, the one you call Evarts, but I didn't know what he was up to."

"You didn't know that torpedoes are used for wicked work either, eh?" pressed Lieutenant Dick.

"I'll swear that I didn't know what it was that he brought on board," cried the skipper. "Evarts said it was a new device for killing fish at wholesale."

"You may be telling the truth," Tom broke in.

"I am," declared the skipper eagerly.

"Then explain it to the court," Reade continued. "If you can prove to a judge and a jury that you're an honest man, and always have been one, you may get off on the charge that will be made against you."

"Then you don't believe me?" asked the skipper anxiously.

"It isn't for me to say," Tom replied crisply. "It's a job for a judge and a jury."

"Then I'm to be a prisoner?"

"That's for the policeman here to say."

"You're a prisoner, my man," nodded the policeman. "Now, sail your boat into the landing over yonder."

"Some one else will sail it," retorted the skipper, angrily, as he abandoned his tiller.

"I'll take the tiller," Harry suggested, and did so. He hauled in the sheet, brought the boat around and headed for the landing with the skill of an old sailor.

"My man, since you don't want to sail the boat you'll have to go as a real prisoner," announced the policeman. He produced a pair of handcuffs, snapping them over the man's wrists.

In a short time Harry brought the sailboat up to the landing. The motor boat had followed, but did not come all the way in. After the sail had been lowered and made snug the party took up its way, on foot, to the nearby town of Blixton.

Justice Sampson was found, and consented to open court immediately. Officer Carnes brought his prisoners forward, stating the charge. The young engineers and the army officer gave their testimony.

"The prisoners are held for trial, and bail fixed at five thousand dollars in each case," decided the court.

The torpedo had been left on the sloop, in charge of a foreman. The justice now ordered two officers to go back and bring over the torpedo, which was to be held until a chemist could examine and take samples of whatever explosive might be found inside.

As Dick was a United States Army officer, under orders to proceed to his post within the next few days, the court reduced his testimony to writing, and permitted Prescott to sign this under oath.

It had been a busy forenoon. Now it was time for luncheon, and the three chums returned to the house to eat. In the afternoon they visited the wall, remaining there until four o'clock. On their return to the house Tom and Harry were greeted by Mr. Prenter, who had been waiting for them.

"I heard the news of last night's doings, and to-day's, and came right down," explained the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "Reade, I'm glad to be able to say that you appear to have brought us to the end of the explosion troubles."

"Or else we're just starting with that trouble," Reade smiled wistfully. "Mr. Prenter, I must say that there appears to be no end to the surprises with which our enemies are capable of supplying us."

Tom then nodded to Dick to come forward and presented him to the treasurer.

"An army officer?" asked Mr. Prenter eagerly. "Then I'm doubly glad to meet you, Mr. Prescott. You've seen the breakwater work? As an army officer and an engineer what do you think of it?"

"It's great!" said Dick, though he added laughingly: "Reade and Hazelton are such dear old friends of mine that any testimony in their favor is likely to be charged to friendship."

"I'll believe what an army officer says, even in praise of his best friends," smiled Mr. Prenter.

Foreman Johnson, who had been over in town, now came along. He halted some distance away, beckoning to Reade.

"Mr. Reade," murmured the foreman, in an undertone, "over in Blixton I just heard some news that I thought would interest you. Evarts is out on bail."

"He furnished a five thousand surety?" queried Tom.

"Yes, sir, and who do you suppose went on his bond?"

"I can't imagine who the idiot is."

"The man who signed Evarts's bond," continued Foreman Johnson solemnly, "was Mr. Bascomb, president of this company!"

"Whew!" muttered Tom aghast. "And that's all I've got to say on this subject."

"I thought you'd like to know the news," remarked Johnson, "and so I came to tell you."

"Please accept my thanks," Tom answered. Then, as the foreman passed along, Reade went back to his friends.

"You seem staggered about something," remarked Mr. Prenter, eyeing him keenly.

"Possibly I am," admitted Tom. "Evarts is out on bail."

"Now, what fool or rogue could have signed that fellow's bail bond?" demanded Mr. Prenter in exasperation.

"Careful, sir!" warned Tom smilingly. "I've just been informed that the bail bond was signed by Mr. Bascomb, president of the Melliston Company."

"Well, of all the crazy notions!" gasped Mr. Prenter. "But there! I won't say more. Bascomb is a queer fellow in some things, but he's a good fellow in lots of things, and a square, honest man in all things. If he signed Evarts's bond, there was a reason, and not a dishonest one."

"But Evarts won't behave," predicted Harry dismally. "After all our trouble we shall still have to remain on guard night and day."

"It'll be an airship next," laughed Dick Prescott.

"Unless Sambo Ebony comes forward once more, and finds out how to lay wires by a new submarine route," retorted Tom Reade.

All the present company felt unaccountably gloomy just at this moment. There could be no guessing what would occur next to hamper or destroy the fruits of their hard labor.



Chapter XX

A Secret In Sight


"Mr. Prenter," asked Tom suddenly, "is there anything about which you wish to see me just now?"

"Not particularly," replied the treasurer. "Only, in view of late developments I'm going to remain about for the next few days, unless you order me out of the house. I want to be close to the trouble."

"Then, if I'm not needed," gaped Reade, "I'm going to turn in and steal a little sleep. I need rest."

"As I'm going to stay up to-night, Tom, and keep you company through the dark hours, I'm for the bale of lint, too," announced Lieutenant Prescott.

"At what hour shall I call you?" asked Harry.

"At eight o'clock to-night," answered Tom.

Refreshed by a few hours' sleep Tom and Dick were called, to find their supper ready. Nicolas stood behind their chairs, attentive to their needs.

Mr. Prenter remained out on the porch, but Harry sat at table with his friends.

"Has Mr. Bascomb put in an appearance here?" Tom inquired.

"No," said Hazelton briefly.

"He certainly has wound up my curiosity," murmured Tom. "Why on earth should he bail out Evarts?"

"Probably because Evarts asked him to," suggested Dick.

"But why should he want to please Evarts in such a matter?"

"Well, you know," hinted Harry, "we've heard that Evarts is some sort of relative to Mr. Bascomb."

"But the rascal has been working to ruin this company," Tom protested, "and Mr. Bascomb is the trusted president of the company."

"Yet is Mr. Bascomb really fit to be trusted?" Prescott propounded.

"Mr. Prenter seems to think so, and he is a capable judge of men," Tom rejoined. "It is the combination of all these circumstances taken together that makes me so curious over Mr. Bascomb's being willing to bail the fellow."

"Oh, well, it's too much of a puzzle for us," said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "All we've got to do is to keep our eyes open and faithfully guard the property that is entrusted to our care. However, I'm growing sour and sore. Here I've got to go to bed presently, and you and Dick are going to be prowling about all night. You'll have all the excitement, while I'll be in bed."

"You seem to forget," Tom reminded him, "that the last big excitement took place in the daytime, during your shift. Dick and I may have a lazy night, and you may have the air full of wreckage to-morrow in broad daylight."

They chatted a little while with Mr. Prenter, outside, and then Dick rose at Tom's signal.

"We must be starting," said Reade. "I don't know just what we're going to do to-night, but we have miles to cover I'm afraid."

"Being an army officer, Dick, you've got a pistol, of course," suggested Harry hopefully.

"I've a brace of them," nodded the army man.

"Good!" cheered Harry.

"But both of them, unloaded at that, are in my trunks at Mobile," laughed Dick, whereat Tom chuckled. Harry Hazelton was much inclined to want to carry a pistol in times of danger, but Tom didn't believe in any such habit.

"I thought soldiers went armed," muttered Hazelton ruefully.

"Only when on duty," Dick informed him.

Nicolas wistfully watched Reade out of sight. The Mexican had been ordered to remain at home to-night, and on no account to think of following his employer. That didn't at all agree with the faithful fellow's wishes.

"They'll be sure to get into some trouble, Senor Hazelton," Nicolas said mournfully. "I should be on their flank, watching over them."

"You don't know Gridley boys," laughed Harry, "if you don't understand that Dick Prescott and Tom Reade, together, are a hard team to beat."

In the meantime Tom led the way down to the camp of workmen. Reade stopped to speak with one of his reliable negroes, whom he found softly strumming a banjo under a tree.

"Are there any visitors in camp to-night who shouldn't be here?" asked Tom.

"I doan' beliebe so, boss," replied the colored man. "Dem gamblers an' bootleggers ain' done got bail yet, has they, sah?"

"I don't believe they have," replied Tom. "There are no others of their kind here, then?"

"I doan' beliebe so, sah."

Tom and Dick strolled through the camp, but all was quiet there. Many of the men were outside their shacks or tents, smoking and waiting for turning-in time to come.

"Looks as orderly as a camp-meeting," declared Lieutenant Prescott. "I'm glad to see, Tom, that you're for the decent camp every time."

"The decent camp is the only kind that contains efficient workmen for engineering jobs," Reade answered dryly.

Presently they strolled out of camp, on the farther side. This was what the young engineer really wanted to do -- -to vanish suddenly, in a fashion that would not be likely to be noted by hostile eyes. Now Reade and his army chum proceeded softly, and without words. Through the deep woods Tom was heading for the spot where he had found the magneto.

Sambo Ebony was at large, and Tom believed that other things than the magneto had been concealed at this spot. If Sambo intended any further assaults on the retaining wall he would be quite likely to come this way. So here Tom Reade was resolved to remain and watch, even if he had to put in most of the night there.

Behind some bushes he and Dick found a hiding place looking out upon the scene of the late conflict with "Mr. Ebony."

Without even whispered conversation time dragged slowly. More than an hour dragged by, and both watchers were beginning to feel decidedly bored.

At last, however, footsteps came that way. Both watchers crouched lower and waited.

The new-comer approached the place rather uncertainly. At last, however, he stood revealed. Tom Reade felt like yelling in his utter astonishment.

For President Bascomb, of the Melliston Company, now stood before them. After a glance about Mr. Bascomb walked slowly up and down, as though he were waiting for some one.

Dick, of course, did not know Mr. Bascomb. However, as Tom kept silent the young soldier did the same.

"What on earth can Bascomb be doing here?" Tom wondered. "Is he, too, one of the conspirators? It is unbelievable! Yet with what speed he obeyed Evarts's summons to come and bail him out! It makes me feel like a sneak to be here spying on the president of the company that employs me -- -and yet there's something here that certainly must be looked into!"

Fifteen minutes more dragged by, with Mr. Bascomb walking impatiently back and forth, occasionally heaving a deep sigh or catching at his breath.

"Our worthy president is much excited, at any rate," Reade said to himself.

Finally steps were heard, both by Bascomb and by the pair who watched him. Then another man came upon the scene.

"Evarts, why on earth did you send for me?" demanded Mr. Bascomb, as the discharged foreman came up.

"Because I knew you'd be here -- -you don't dare do otherwise," was the sneering reply.

"Try not to be impudent about it," advised Mr. Bascomb mildly. "As you may remember, I've had to stand a lot from you."

"And not as much as you might have to stand, either, if I took it into my head to make matters lively for you," jeered Evarts harshly. "Remember, man, you'll do as I want you to do."

"I'm willing to do what I can for you," replied the president. "But -- -"

"Now, don't throw any of your 'buts' at me," broke in the discharged foreman, roughly. "You failed me in one thing -- -you didn't make Reade take me back on the job, as I told you to do."

"I couldn't," pleaded Mr. Bascomb. "Prenter stood with Reade and was against me."

"You're the president of the company, aren't you?" Evarts demanded sullenly.

"Yes; but Prenter is a bigger man in the company, and he has more influence with the board of directors. If Prenter came out against me, and persuaded the other directors that I was a bad asset for the company, they'd act on Prenter's suggestion and remove me from the presidency."

"Humph!" jeered Evarts. "Then what would your directors do if they knew that -- -."

"Stop!" begged Mr. Bascomb hoarsely, "Don't say a word further, man! Sometimes even the leaves on the trees have ears. Don't breathe a word of what you were going to say just now."

Even in the dark the two concealed watchers could see that Bascomb was glancing about him nervously.

"Now, what is up?" gasped Tom inwardly. "What part has Mr. Bascomb been playing in this mystery that he's so afraid of having become public?"



Chapter XXI

Evarts Hears A Noise


"I won't shut up," proclaimed Evarts.

"I don't care who hears me."

"But I care," protested the president, in a trembling voice.

"Then you'll have to reward me for whatever silence you want," snarled the wretch.

"Is this blackmail never to cease?" groaned Mr. Bascomb.

"Yes, when you've used me right," declared Evarts harshly.

"Didn't I come forward promptly on your bail?" demanded Mr. Bascomb.

"Sure, for you didn't dare do otherwise. But that only gave me liberty. It didn't put any money in my pocket."

"Are you going to jump your bail, and leave me to pay the bond?" asked Bascomb.

"Perhaps," said Evarts lightly. "You can stand losing the money."

"I suppose so."

"But when I jump," continued Evarts, "I'll have to stay out of the country after that. It'll take money -- -and you'll have to furnish me with it."

"How much?"

"Well," continued the foreman, craftily, "I wouldn't leave the country with less than enough to set me up elsewhere. I'd need -- -well, let me see. I couldn't start in a new country on less than ten thousand dollars."

"That would make fifteen thousand dollars, in all." Mr. Bascomb finished his remark with a groan.

"Well, what are you howling about?" demanded Evarts unfeelingly. "You've got the money."

"It will lower my holdings in the Melliston Company," complained Mr. Bascomb bitterly "I'm not a rich man, and I haven't any too much stock in the company at the present moment."

"You'd have to sell it all out, if I gave the directors a chance to find out that you're a jailbird -- -that you did time as a younger man," sneered Evarts.

"For goodness' sake hold your tongue, man!" gasped Mr. Bascomb in accents of terror.

"Just think," grinned Evarts heartlessly, "how delighted your directors would be to know that you had done time in prison."

"Silence, man!" implored Bascomb. "It wasn't altogether my fault, as you know. And the governor of the state discovered that I wasn't as bad as the jury thought me. It all came through trying to help a worthless friend. Why, man, the governor pardoned me, when I had yet two years to serve and restored me to liberty."

"But you're a jailbird, just the same," jeered the discharged foreman. "Let the directors find that out, and how quickly they'd drop you from your office!"

Mr. Bascomb buried his face in his hands and sobbed aloud.

"So," continued Evarts, "I'll give you forty-eight hours to raise the ten thousand dollars -- -in good cash, mind you -- -no checks! Then I'll call on you to hand the money over to me. If you don't, I'll write a note to the directors, telling them to look up your name in the court records at Logville, Minnesota. Now, do you understand?"

"Yes," nodded Mr. Bascomb brokenly.

"And you'll have the money?"

"I -- -I'll try."

"You'll have the money -- -by day after tomorrow!"

"Yes."

"Now clear out -- -fast!"

"Eh?" inquired Mr. Bascomb, looking wildly at the wretch.

"Get out! Go back to the hotel in Blixton, and don't try to slip away from me at any point in the game. Start -- -now!"

"Good night!" said President Bascomb in a choking voice.

"Oh, cut out the civilities!" grunted Evarts turning on his heel.

Mr. Bascomb then silently left the spot. His footfalls made so little noise that their sound was soon lost to Dick and Tom.

Evarts appeared in no hurry to leave. On the contrary he drew out a pipe, filled it and lighted it. Then he threw himself down on the ground, puffing slowly.

"From the fact that he sent Mr. Bascomb away, and is himself remaining," thought Tom Reade, "it is rather plain that this scoundrel, Evarts, is awaiting some one else."

The same thought had occurred to Dick Prescott, though, as they lay within thirty feet of where Evarts reclined on the ground, the chums did not deem it wise to exchange even whispers.

After another half-hour Dick pressed Tom's arm. Other footsteps were now near. Then Mr. Sambo Ebony slouched on to the scene.

"Hullo, Tar!" was the ex-foreman's careless greeting.

"Now, doan' get too prescrumptious wid me," warned the black man, with an evil grin that displayed his big, white teeth. "Yo' an' me hab done been good frien's, an' pulled togedder. But Ah want yo' to undahstan', Mr. White Man, dat I doan' allow yo' to call me Tar Baby."

"Oh, come, now, don't get huffy," yawned Evarts, who had not taken the trouble to rise. "I'm not afraid of you, Tar."

"Stop dat!" cried the black angrily. "Yo's takin' big chances, yo' is."

"You're big and powerful, I know that," grinned Evarts. "But I have something with me that makes me just the same size as you are, or perhaps a little bigger. See this!"

The ex-foreman drew from one of his pockets a formidable-looking automatic revolver.

"Huh!" grunted the negro, producing a similar pistol, "yo' ain' no bettah fixed dan Ah be."

"We're quits," laughed Evarts easily, returning his weapon to his pocket. "Put up your rain-maker."

"Den yo' won't call me Tar Baby no mo?"

"No more."

"All right, den." Ebony put up his weapon.

"Now, what's the programme?" asked Evarts. "You've seen the leader?"

"Yah. Ah's done see de right man. De orders am simple."

"What are they?"

"Misto Reade am to be killed de fust time he show himself," declared Sambo Ebony. "He to be shot down ez soon ez Ah can lay eyes on him. Maybe Ah have to shoot from ambush, but in any case he must be daid befo' de sun go down to-morrow. Our big men am tired to def dat Massa Reade stop do men from havin' a little liquor and playin' cairds evenin's."

"Fine!" thought Tom, with a start. "If Sambo knew how close I am he'd carry out his orders right now! He has his pistol with him."

"An' den, if dey's any fuss made," the black went on, "Misto Hazelton, he done gottah go nex'. Maybe Ah get cotch' w'en I do fo' Misto Reade. Ef dat happen, den dere's anodder man ready to do fo' Misto Hazelton."

"And maybe the second man will get caught, too," suggested Evarts. "Then there'll be two of you with nooses around your necks."

"We maybe get cotch', an' put in de jail," smirked Sambo Ebony, "but doan' yo' beliebe nothin' worse happen. Dere ain' many guards at de jail, an' do gang is on de way. De jail guards done be shot up, an' ouah folks turn' loose. Den we all strike out fo' new place, an' begin all ober again. Den a new gang come in heah and operate to get de money away from de breakwatah gangs. Dere's so much money in dat camp yondah dat ouah folks done gottah hab it ef a dozen men has to be kill'."

"For cold-blooded, systematic villainy I believe I am listening to the limit!" quivered Lieutenant Dick Prescott under his breath.

"They're insane, these people," was Tom's inward comment. "Let this crowd of scoundrels shoot up the jail guards, and do they think the citizens would ever allow the gang to operate in camp? There'd be more likelihood of the known members of the gang being lynched!"

"I won't go back to jail if I can help it," laughed Evarts, speaking to the negro. "As soon as I even up one or two grudges I'm going to slip away."

"Break yo' bail?" asked the negro, showing his teeth.

"That's about the size of it," nodded Evarts.

"Den de w'ite gemman who done fu'nish yo' bond will be feelin' bad, won't he?"

"Let him -- -he's no friend of mine," grunted the discharged foreman.

"Maybe yo'd like de job ob tendin' to Boss Reade yo'so'f?" hinted Sambo darkly.

"Oh, I'm going to settle with Reade in some fashion," boasted Evarts with a leer. "I don't know that I want to kill him. I'd rather cripple him and let him live a life of misery."

"Thank you!" thought Tom from his hiding place.

"There's another chap we'll have to deal with, too, I'm thinking," Evarts went on. "Reade and Hazelton have a friend of theirs here, and he's likely to make some trouble for us. He's an army officer."

"I done heah'd ob him," nodded Sambo. "We can settle wid him, too."

"We ought to, for he helped arrest me, and he's to be a witness on the torpedo matter."

"W'ate's his name -- -de ahmy man's?" inquired Sambo.

"Prescott. He's -- -"

The speaker stopped suddenly, looking about him.

"What was that, Tar?" Evarts demanded.

"W'at yo' talkin' 'bout?"

"I heard a noise, and it was right over there," replied Evarts, pointing to where Tom and Dick lay hidden.

"I didn't heah nuffin'."

"I did, I tell you, and it will have to be looked into," insisted the ex-foreman, drawing his automatic revolver.

"Go ahaid, den," encouraged Sambo, also drawing his weapon. "Ef anybody been a-lis'enin', den shoot him full ob holes!"

Evarts darted at the bushes ahead of his companion. Then an exultant yell came from him.

"Hustle, Tar -- -and shoot straight! Here are the very people we want -- -I caught sight of them!"

"Den watch me!" chuckled Sambo Ebony, flourishing his weapon and dashing forward in the tracks of Evarts.

There was no time for the chums to rise and dart away.



Chapter XXII

Mr. Bascomb Hears Bad News


When Evarts used the word "people" he employed it only in a general sense. He had seen no one but Tom Reade, but Tom was the one person in the world whom the ex-foreman wanted most to 'see' at a disadvantage.

"Now, I have you!" Evarts croaked hoarsely, rushing in, flourishing his weapon, then letting the muzzle drop to the position of aim.

Dick Prescott, unseen, stirred almost under the fellow's feet.

Flop! Bump! Caught by the legs, by that famous football player, Dick Prescott, Evarts simply had to go down on his back.

In the same instant Reade leaped, then bent over the prostrate foe.

Evarts was too much dazed to resist much. Tom snatched the revolver out of his hand.

Sambo, beholding this much, came to a dismayed stop for an instant.

"Dick, it's your trade to know how to handle this tool better than I can," Tom cried, passing the captured revolver to Prescott, who swiftly received it as he rose. "I'm afraid," continued the young engineer, "that it's going to be necessary to kill the negro."

"Wow! Woof!" uttered Sambo Ebony. It didn't take that villain an instant to decide on flight. Bending low, the black man ran off with frantic speed.

Dick took a step forward -- -only one, for Evarts furiously gripped at one of the young army officer's ankles, bringing him down to his knees.

"Hang you, you hound!" ground out Tom, in a rage, as he threw himself athwart of the ex-foreman. Within the next thirty seconds Evarts received a swift, fearful pummeling.

"Let up, Mr. Reade! Let up!" cried the wretch. "I'll behave myself."

"I'll wager you will," retorted the young engineer grimly, as he gripped Evarts by the coat collar and drew him to his feet.

Dick was up and had run ahead some distance. But the time that had been gained for the black man had proved sufficient. Sambo, was now out of sight, nor did he send back any sound to guide his pursuers.

"It may have to be a long hunt for the negro," remarked Tom Reade when Lieutenant Dick stepped back to state the case. "Stand by me and shoot this fellow down in his tracks if he tries to get away."

"Why, what are you going to do to me?" quaked the ex-foreman.

"It's back to jail for yours," Tom informed him crisply.

"Then the laugh will be on you," jeered Evarts. "I'm out on bail -- -all in regular form."

"You're not on bail on the latest charge against you -- -attempted murderous assault," Reade rejoined. "Nor will any court allow you out on bail again when Mr. Prescott and I testify to hearing you tell the negro that you were going to jump your bail."

"Humph! That was all a joke," blustered Evarts.

"All right," nodded Tom. "Explain the joke to the judge, if you can find a judge who's a good and willing listener. What you'll find, at this time, is that a hundred thousand dollars' worth of bail won't get you out of jail. Start along with you," Tom wound up, shaking Evarts by the arm that he gripped. "If this sneak tries to get away, Dick, bring him down with a bullet."

"I'm ready enough to do it," Prescott agreed.

A sudden great change came over the ex-foreman. At first he threatened. Then he begged to be turned loose, promising nothing but the best behavior in the future.

"Stop all your nonsense," ordered Reade finally. "There's only one proper place on earth for you, Evarts, and that's behind the bars. Now, move right along, or I'll give you a worse walloping every time you stop or argue."

Finding that nothing would avail with these determined captors the ex-foreman relapsed into sulks. However, he kept walking straight ahead, obeying every order addressed to him.

Tom stopped briefly at the cottage. Mr. Prenter was not there, and Harry Hazelton had turned in. Nicolas was lying on a blanket on the porch.

"You'll have to keep awake until I get back, anyway, Nicolas, and keep your eyes open," Tom informed the Mexican. "Sambo is at large again, and I'm afraid he may turn up here."

"I shall know how to take care of him, Senor," grinned the Mexican holding up his right forefinger.

"That wouldn't help you, this time," Tom retorted dryly. "Mr. Sambo Ebony has a revolver with him. Don't let him get a shot at you; he'd be only too glad to even the score. Now, Dick, I guess we'd better get Evarts over to the jail."

Away started the chums and their prisoner while Nicolas went inside to warn Harry.

Not so very much later Tom and Dick turned Evarts over to the police in Blixton. Evarts was locked up on the new charge. The revolver taken from him was turned over to the police as evidence. The chums also gave their information that they had overheard the ex-foreman tell the negro that he intended to jump bail. But the greatest of all was the news of the plot to rescue the gambler prisoners now in jail.

Then the chums started back to camp.

"I noticed," said Lieutenant Prescott, in a low tone, "that you didn't mention the conversation between Bascomb and Evarts."

"I hadn't any right to," Tom said simply. "If Mr. Bascomb once had trouble in his life, but is living honestly now, it would be criminal of me to expose such a secret that he wouldn't want known. Mr. Bascomb's past is none of my business."

"I'm mighty glad to hear you talk that way about it," said Prescott, resting a hand on Reade's shoulder.

"Why?" demanded Tom rather bluntly. "Did you think that I could feel any other way about it?"

"But Evarts is pretty sure to talk a lot about Bascomb, now," hinted the young army officer.

"If he does," sighed Tom, "I don't know that I can think of any way to stop the fellow."

"Then you don't believe that Mr. Bascomb's evil record of past years affects his honesty now?" Dick went on after a long pause.

"I don't believe it," Tom answered with unusual emphasis. "If I did it would be as much as if I said that a fellow who once makes a wrong step must never hope to get back into the right path again. Mr. Prenter, I am certain, is an honest man and an unusually keen one. He is satisfied to trust Mr. Bascomb as president of the company. But, if Evarts is some sort of family connection of Bascomb's, and if he has often threatened to tell all about Mr. Bascomb's past history, you can imagine the terror that poor Mr. Bascomb has lived in for years."

"If I were in Bascomb's place," Dick declared positively, "I would go before the board of directors and tell them the whole story. Then no one else could ever hold any power over me."

"I guess that's the way all of us think we would act if we'd meet a blackmailer," nodded Reade. "Yet I guess most of the victims, when there's a sad, true story that could be told about them, pay the blackmailer and so secure silence."

"Which may be another way," mused the young army officer, "of saying that most men are cowards. Or, maybe, it's another way, after all, of saying that the man who does anything very wrong or crooked is generally such a coward at heart that he'll spend his savings in keeping his secret from the world."

"Yet Bascomb must have shown considerable bravery in meeting Evarts's demands," suddenly suggested Reade. "Otherwise, Mr. Bascomb would now be a poor man and Evarts would have spent all of Bascomb's money. Heretofore, I imagine, Evarts hasn't been able to blackmail his relative for anything much more substantial than a good job. I hear that Evarts has been drawing good pay from the Melliston Company for something more than four years -- -and Evarts isn't a very useful man, at that."

"Then, after four years of easy berths, no wonder Evarts hates you, Tom, for having bounced him out," smiled Dick Prescott.

"I'm afraid I'm going to do worse than bounce the fellow out of a job," sighed Reade. "I'm afraid I've helped head him for prison for a term of a good many long years."

"Evarts did that much for himself," Prescott argued. "I wouldn't waste much worry over the fellow."

"I suppose it's my way to worry over a dog with a sore paw," answered Reade thoughtfully, "Certainly Evarts has done some mean things against me, and without any just cause; but I don't like the thought of his having to be locked up, away from sunlight, joy and life, for so many years as I'm afraid are coming to him."

Arrived at camp, Tom found Mr. Bascomb walking back and forth on the porch of the engineers' house.

"You're up late, sir," was Tom's friendly greeting to the president.

"Yes, Reade; I can't sleep to-night," said Mr. Bascomb wearily. "I came over here to talk with Prenter. Where is he?"

"Asleep, I imagine, sir," Tom answered.

"Wrong," replied President Bascomb. "I've already been inside, but Prenter isn't in the house."

"Then perhaps he thought it too lively around here," laughed Reade, "and went over to Blixton to sleep at the hotel."

Mr. Bascomb didn't reply to this, but puffed hard at the black cigar he was smoking and sending up clouds of smoke.

But the president of the Melliston Company became instantly more distracted when Tom Reade began an account of the capture of Evarts, and his jailing, and the escape of Mr. Sambo Ebony.

Presently Bascomb began to puff harder than ever at his cigar.

"Reade," he finally blurted out, "how long were you hiding there before Evarts found you there?"

"Some little time," Tom admitted vaguely.

More clouds of cigar smoke ascended; then, shaking, and his face a sickly white and green, the president inquired:

"Reade, were you there -- -you and Mr. Prescott -- -at the time when I talked with Evarts on that very spot to-night?"

There was no use in evading the question, so engineer Reade answered in a straightforward manner:

"Yes, sir. Mr. Prescott and I were there."

"Then -- -then -- -y-y-you heard all of my talk with Evarts?"

"Yes, sir."

Bascomb's teeth began to chatter so that he was forced to steady his jaws. Tom and Dick looked aside, pitying the man for his evident anguish of mind.

At last the president steadied himself enough to speak.

"Reade, I know I haven't been a very good friend of yours, and I even tried to work you out of this contract altogether. Now, you know my secret, and I'm in your power!"



Chapter XXIII

Ebony Says "Thumbs Up"


Tom Reade stared in frank amazement at the trembling man.

"Do you mean to insult me, Mr. Bascomb?" demanded the young engineer bluntly.

"Insult you? The fates forbid," replied Bascomb with a sickly grin. "Reade, I don't dare offend you in any way."

"But you do insult me, sir, in believing that it would be possible for me to make any hostile use of whatever unpleasant knowledge I may possess against you."

"Do you mean to say that you wouldn't use the knowledge?" demanded the president of the Melliston Company.

"You're insulting me again, sir. Perhaps you are to be pardoned, Mr. Bascomb. You have been so long dancing to the fiddling of an Evarts that you don't realize how impossible it is for a gentleman to do a dishonorable thing."

"Then -- -then I -- -I can rely upon your silence?" demanded Mr. Bascomb, eagerly.

"I am sorry, sir, to think that you even think it necessary to ask me such a question," rejoined Reade gravely.

"Reade! Reade! You can't imagine how grateful you'll find me if I really can rely upon you to forget what you overheard to-night!" cried the humiliated man. "And you, Mr. Prescott -- -may I depend upon you, also, to preserve silence?"

"I'm afraid, sir, you're putting me in Reade's class as an insulted man," Dick smiled grimly. "My friend, the people of this country, in the person of their President, have issued to me a commission certifying that I am worthy to wear the shoulder-straps of an army officer. The shoulder-straps stand for the strictest sense of honor in all things. If I depart, ever so little, from the laws of honor, I prove my unfitness to wear shoulder-straps. Have I answered you."

There was silence for a few moments. Then, Mr. Bascomb, having smoked his cigar out, tossed the butt away.

"I'd like to offer you a little advice, Mr. Bascomb, if you won't think I'm too forward."

"What is it?" asked the president, turning briskly upon the young chief engineer.

"Just as long as you both live, Mr. Bascomb, Evarts is likely to bother you, in one way or another. Even if he goes to prison himself he'll find a way to bother you from the other side of the grated door. Mr. Bascomb, why don't you yourself disclose this little affair in your past history to the board of directors? Then it would be past any blackmailer's power to harm you."

"I could tell the directors in only one way," Mr. Bascomb answered, his face growing sallow. "That would be to tell my story and hand in my resignation in the same breath. Reade, you don't realize how much the presidency of the Melliston Company means to me! To resign, or to be kicked out, would end my career in the business world."

In the near darkness a step sounded on the gravel. Then Mr. Prenter came briskly forward.

"Bascomb," said the treasurer of the company, "Reade's advice was good, though wholly unnecessary. There is no need to tell the directors the story of your past misfortune. Most of them know it already."

The president's face grew grayish as he listened in torment.

"Moreover," Mr. Prenter continued, "most of us have known all about the matter since just before you were elected president."

"And yet you allowed me to be elected!" cried Mr. Bascomb hoarsely.

"Yes; because we looked up your life and your conduct since -- -well, ever since you left the past behind and came out into business life again. Our investigation showed that you had been living for years as an honest man. The rest of us on the board are men -- -or think we are -- -and we voted, informally, not to allow one misstep of yours to outweigh years of the most upright living since."

"Knowing it all, you elected me to be president of the company!" gasped Mr. Bascomb, as though he could not believe his ears or his senses.

"Now, let us hear no more about it," urged Mr. Prenter, cordially. "If I listened just now -- -if I played the part of the eavesdropper, allow me to explain my conduct by saying that I, too, was present to-night when you talked with Evarts. I heard, and I knew that Reade and his friend heard. I listened, just now, in order that I might make sure that Thomas Reade, engineer, is a man of honor at all times. And now, let no one say a word more."

Some one else was coming. All on the porch turned and waited to see who it was. Out of the shadows came a hang-dog looking sort of fellow.

"Is Mr. Bascomb here?" asked the newcomer.

"I am Mr. Bascomb," spoke the president.

"Here's a note for you," said the man, handing over an envelope.

Tom stepped inside, got a lantern and lighted it, placing it upon the porch table. With the aid of this illumination Mr. Bascomb read the brief note directed to him.

"It's from Evarts," said the president, looking up with a quiet laugh. "He commands me to come to him at once, in his cell, and to arrange some way of getting out. My man," turning to the messenger, "are you going back to Evarts?"

"Yes," nodded the messenger, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Go back to Evarts, then, and tell him that he'll have to threaten some one else this time. Tell him that I am through with him."

"Huh!" growled the hang-dog messenger. "I believe Evarts said that, if old Bascomb wasn't quick, he'd make trouble for some one."

"Tell Evarts," said Mr. Prenter, "that he can't make trouble for any one but himself, and that he had better save his breath for the next time he needs it."

"Evarts will be awful mad, if I go back to him with any talk like that," insinuated the messenger meaningly.

"See here, fellow," interjected. Tom Reade, stepping forward quickly, "I'm rather tired and out of condition to-night, but if you don't leave here as fast as you can go, I'll kick you every step of the way for the first half-mile back to Blixton! Do you think you understand me?"

"I -- -I reckon I do," admitted the fellow.

"Then start before you tempt my right foot! I'll give you five seconds to get off."

There could be no mistaking that order. The messenger started off, nor did he glance backward as long as he was in sight.

"You see how easily a chap like Evarts can be disposed of," smiled Mr. Prenter.

"He'll send back again for another try, within an hour," prophesied Mr. Bascomb, wearily.

"If he does," laughed Dick Prescott, shortly, "his second appeal won't come by the same messenger."

"Then you were near us, Mr. Prenter, when Evarts and the negro charged us?" Tom inquired.

"I was," smiled the treasurer. "That convicts me of cowardice, doesn't it, in not having come to your aid at the moment of attack? I wasn't quite as big a coward as I would seem, though. The truth is, I was behind you. Had I jumped in in that exciting moment, you would have thought other enemies were attacking from behind. You would have been confused and would have lost the fight."

"By Jove, sir, but that was quick thinking and shrewdness on your part!" ejaculated Dick Prescott.

"Then you acquit me of cowardice?"

"No," smiled the young army officer, "for I hadn't thought of accusing you of lack of courage."

"I am glad you didn't," sighed the treasurer. "I would rather be suspected of almost anything than of lacking manly courage. Afterwards I didn't make my presence known to you, for, at that time, I didn't want you to know that I had overheard a certain conversation."

"My cowardice has made a dreadful mess of things in a lot of ways, hasn't it?" demanded Mr. Bascomb bitterly.

"That's all past now, so it doesn't matter," spoke up Tom Reade. "We have just one move more to make in this baffling game, and then I fancy we shall have won. When Mr. Sambo Ebony, as I have nicknamed him, is safely jailed I think we shall find ourselves undisturbed in the future. We shall then be permitted to go ahead and finish the million-dollar breakwater as a work and a triumph of peace."

"Every time that one of us opens his mouth," laughed Mr. Prenter, "I am expecting to hear a big bang down by the breakwater to punctuate the speaker's sentence. I wonder whether the scoundrels back of Sambo have any more novel ways for setting off their big firecrackers around our wall?"

"It might not be a bad idea for me to get out on the watch again," Tom suggested, rising. "If I get in more trouble than I can handle I'll just yell 'Mr. Prenter,' for I shall know that he'll be within easy hearing distance."

The treasurer laughed, as he, too, rose.

"My being so near you before, Reade, was just accident. I was prowling about on my own account, when you and your army friend passed me in the deep woods. I had an idea that you were out for some definite purpose, and so I just trailed along at your rear in order to be near any excitement that you might turn up."

"And I suppose you're going to follow us this time, too," smiled Tom Reade.

"Prenter," suggested the president of the company, "what do you say if you and I prowl in some other direction? I've been such a miserable coward all through this affair that now I'd like to go with you. If we run into any trouble I'll try to show you that I'm not all coward."

"Come along, Bascomb," agreed the treasurer cordially. "Reade, I give you my word that we won't intentionally follow on your trail."

At a nod from Tom, Dick was at his side. The two high school chums started off with brisk steps.

"Which way are you going?" whispered Dick.

"Let's go down to the breakwater," suggested Tom. "I really ought to visit it once in the night, despite the fact that Corbett is a wholly reliable foreman, and that he has his own pick of workmen on patrol duty there."

As the chums stepped out from under the trees in full view of the breakwater site they beheld the lanterns of the patrol, like so many fireflies, twinkling and bobbing here and there along the narrow-topped retaining wall.

Tom and Dick went out on the wall until they encountered the first workman on patrol. Tom took this man's lantern and signaled the motor boat as it stood in shore.

"All going right, Corbett?" the young engineer hailed, as soon as the "Morton" had come up alongside.

"As far as I can see, Mr. Reade, there's not a sign of the enemy to-night. But of course you know, sir, that we've been just as sure on other nights, only to have a large part of the wall blown clean out of the water."

"All I can say," Tom nodded, "is to go on keeping your eyes and ears open."

"Yes, sir; you may be sure I'll do that," nodded the foreman.

Then Reade and his army chum returned to the shore.

"I guess it will be a wholly blind hunt," Tom laughed, "but I've a notion for returning to the spot where we encountered Sambo Ebony before this night."

After they had left the beach well behind, the chums strolled in under the trees of a rather sparse grove.

Well in toward the center of the grove stood one tree larger than the rest.

From behind this Sambo Ebony swiftly appeared, just at the right instant for surprise. In each hand the negro held a huge automatic revolver.

"Gemmen," chuckled the negro coolly, "Ah jess be nacherally obliged to yo' both if yo'll stick yo' hands ez high up in de air ez yo' can h'ist 'em. It am a long worm dat nebber turns, an' Ah'se done reckon dat Ah'se de tu'ning worm to-night! Thumbs up, gemmen!"

Despite Sambo's bantering tone there could be no doubt that to fail to obey him would be to invite a swift fusillade.

Reluctantly Tom Reade thrust his hands up skyward. Nor did Dick Prescott hesitate to follow so prompt an example.



Chapter XXIV

Conclusion


"Now Ah reckon Ah'se done got yo'," laughed the big negro, insolently. "It am a question ob w'ich one Ah wantah pick off fust!"

In his wicked joy over having both the young engineer and the army officer wholly at his mercy Sambo, his mouth open and his massive teeth showing white in his grin, advanced nearer.

Yet he did not fail to keep each of his enemies covered. He was watching most alertly for any sign of rebellion on the part of his victims.

Nor was there any doubt in the mind of either young man that the black, after playing with them, meant to dispose of them as his possession of pistols indicated.

He would torment them first, then ruthlessly "shoot them up."

"How long are we to keep our hands up?" asked Tom banteringly.

It would be foolish to say that Reade was not afraid, but he was determined to keep Ebony from discovering the fact.

"Yo's to keep yo' hands up longer dan yo' can keep yo' moufs shut!" scowled the black man, his ugly streak showing once more.

"It makes me think of the way we used to play football," laughed Reade, though there was not much mirth in his chuckle.

"Shut yo' mouf, or Ah done gib yo' plenty to think erbout!" ordered Sambo angrily.

That word "football" set Dick Prescott to tingling. He knew there was some hidden meaning in what Tom had said.

"Are you trying to signal us, Sambo?" queried the army officer.

That word "signal" was intended only for Tom's ear, for Lieutenant Prescott was beginning to guess at the truth.

"On the gridiron, on the gridiron!" hummed Tom, audibly, as he tried clumsily to fit the words to the refrain of a popular song.

Dick Prescott was "getting warm" on the scent of the hidden meaning.

"Shut yo' mouf!" gruffly commanded the lack. "Ah doan' wantah tell yo' dat again, neider."

"Right foot -- -high foot!" chanted Tom.

Mentally Dick Prescott jumped as though he had been shot. "Right foot -- -high foot" had been one of their old kicking signals on the Gridley High School eleven!

Lieutenant Dick Prescott fairly throbbed as he now understood the covered signal.

"Now!" left Reade's lips with explosive energy, though the word was low-spoken.

At "right foot -- -high foot" and "now" each youth suddenly shot his right foot up into the air.

Tom's landed against Sambo's right wrist, kicking the automatic revolver completely out of the negro's hands.

Dick's kick landed against the black man's left wrist. The pistol held in Sambo's left hand was discharged, though the muzzle had been driven up at such an angle that the bullet passed harmlessly over Prescott's head.

In a twinkling Ebony had been disarmed.

Darting low, Tom grappled with the negro's legs. Then Reade rose swiftly, toppling Sambo over backward.

Dick Prescott bounded upon the prostrate foe, beating him with both fists. Tom also threw himself into the melee.

While the black might have thrashed either youth alone he was not equal to handling both at the same time.

"I've got him, now, and he'll behave, I guess," panted Tom Reade, at last. "Slip off, Dick, and gather in the pistols."

As Prescott did so Sambo made the last few efforts of which he was capable. He had been hammered so hard, however, that Tom did not have extreme difficulty in holding him down.

"Now, lie still and take orders," warned Dick, pressing one of the pistols against the black man's temple, "or I'll get excited and send you out of this world for keeps!"

Sambo Ebony thereupon dropped into sullen muttering, but did not offer to resist. Prescott, as a soldier, had a businesslike way of handling weapons that cowed the black man.

Tom got up leisurely from the prostrate foe.

"Now, you can stand a little farther off, Dick," he suggested, "and then the fellow won't get a chance to tip you over with any trick. If he tries to get up before he's told you can easily bring him to earth again, for you've been taught the exact use of firearms."

"Good idea," nodded Lieutenant Prescott, backing away a few feet. "Are you going to run for assistance now, Tom?"

"No," retorted Reade. "You're going to shoot for it."

"Eh?"

"Fire a shot into the air from each revolver. That, with the accidental discharge of a moment go, will show any listener that there's trouble going on over here. I miss my guess if the shots don't bring help very shortly."

Bang! Bang!

Nor was Reade's guess a wrong one. Not much time passed before steps were heard hurrying in their direction.

"Here! This way!" summoned Tom.

"Are you hurt?" sounded Mr. Prenter's voice.

"No; but we have Sambo Ebony here, and he's going to be hurt if he tries to stir."

President and treasurer of the Melliston Company raced to the spot. Barely sixty seconds afterward Foreman Corbett, with four negroes and one Italian laborer, also came up.

"Corbett, you have the handcuffs I gave you the other night, haven't you?" Tom asked.

"Yes, sir. Here they are."

Tom took the steel bracelets, ordering Mr. Sambo Ebony to turn over and lie face downward, with his hands behind his back. Then the handcuffs were slipped over the black wrists.

"Now, Sambo," called Tom laughingly, "we'll set you on your feet and whistle the rogues' march for you all the way."

"Yah, yah, yah!" jeered one of the negroes who had come up with Foreman Corbett, as he gazed contemptuously up and down the bulky figure of Mr. Ebony. "Yo' done been tellin' us 'spectable cullud fo'ks dat de great way to injye life was to be tough an' smaht, lak yo'se'f. How ye' feel erbout it now? Doan' yo' wish yo' been mo' 'spectable yo'se'f? Doan' ye' done wish dat ye' had been to camp-meeting a few times in yo' life? Doan' yo' wish ye' been honest most er de time, an' been a hahd-wo'kin', pay-ye'-bills niggah lak some ob de rest oh us? Yo' fool lump er tar, yo' boun' ter go de way ob all de wicked -- -down to ye' grave in misery an' sorrow. It's de way oh all ob yo' lazy, ugly, wuthless kind!"

"I've heard philosophers talk," laughed Dick, in an aside to Tom Reade, "but I can't say that I ever yet listened to a trained philosopher who had the truth of life down any more pat than the negro workman who just now gave his views."

"On all matters of good behavior wise men of all degrees hold about the same views," nodded Reade, "even though they may express their thoughts in differing grades of speech. This good negro knows just where the bad negro has failed in life."

Mr. Sambo Ebony was marched off to jail. Even up to the minute when he was sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment the big black stubbornly refused to give his real name. He was therefore taken away to prison under the name "Sambo Ebony."

Evarts got off with eight years and four months in prison. He is still serving that sentence.

Hawkins and his crew of gamblers and bootleggers were sentenced to two years apiece, as only misdemeanor charges could be preferred against them.

From the foregoing it will be inferred that the proposed jail delivery by other members of the gang from elsewhere did not come off according to plan. The truth was that the citizens of Blixton, when appealed to, organized a strong guard which was thrown around the jail. Doubtless the gang-members were warned in time, and so did not attempt to commit wholesale suicide by running against a citizens' posse.

Mr. Bascomb is still president of the Melliston Company, and he is holding up his head. No further fear of blackmailers oppresses him.

Dick Prescott was able to remain several days longer -- -long enough, in fact, to see the more substantial structure of the million-dollar breakwater begin to go up just inside the completed retaining wall.

Then Lieutenant Dick was obliged to resume his journey on to Fort Clowdry, Colorado. What happened to Prescott, after joining the army as an officer, is told in "Uncle Sam's Boys on Field Duty," the second volume in the "Boys of the Army Series."

Though Harry Hazelton was disappointed in missing some of the excitement at Blixton, he had no occasion to complain in that respect when he and Tom entered upon the next great undertaking of the young engineer pair.

After the disappearance of the big black from the scene there was no further trouble at the breakwater.

Blixton is now an important though artificial harbor. With the completion of the breakwater, and the building of a lighthouse, the next work undertaken was the building of stone docks at which the steamships of the Melliston Line now dock.

The next adventures that befell Tom and Harry were destined to be the most wonderful and exciting of all. These adventures must be reserved for complete telling in the next volume in this series, which is published under the title, "The Young Engineers In The Lead; Or, The stroke That Made Them Masters of Their Field."

It is a story of almost incredible efforts, backed by strong ambition, of two American youths who had both the desire and the will to toil unceasingly and at last reach their goal.

<eob>

Stories To Read Or Tell From Fairy Tales And Folklore

By

Laure Claire Foucher



The Stone-Cutter


Once upon a time there lived a stone-cutter, who went every day to a great rock in the side of a big mountain and cut out slabs for gravestones or for houses. He understood very well the kinds of stones wanted for the different purposes, and as he was a careful workman he had plenty of customers. For a long time he was quite happy and contented, and asked for nothing better than what he had.

Now in the mountain dwelt a spirit which now and then appeared to men, and helped them in many ways to become rich and prosperous. The stone-cutter, however, had never seen this spirit, and only shook his head, with an unbelieving air, when anyone spoke of it. But a time was coming when he learned to change his opinion.

One day the stone-cutter carried a gravestone to the house of a rich man, and saw there all sorts of beautiful things, of which he had never even dreamed. Suddenly his daily work seemed to grow harder and heavier, and he said to himself: "Oh, if only I were a rich man, and could sleep in a bed with silken curtains and golden tassels, how happy I should be!"

And a voice answered him: "Your wish is heard; a rich man you shall be!"

At the sound of the voice the stone-cutter looked round, but could see nobody. He thought it was all his fancy, and picked up his tools and went home, for he did not feel inclined to do any more work that day. But when he reached the little house where he lived, he stood still with amazement, for instead of his wooden hut was a stately palace filled with splendid furniture, and most splendid of all was the bed, in every respect like the one he had envied. He was nearly beside himself with joy, and in his new life the old one was soon forgotten.

It was now the beginning of summer, and each day the sun blazed more fiercely. One morning the heat was so great that the stone-cutter could scarcely breathe, and he determined he would stop at home till the evening. He was rather dull, for he had never learned how to amuse himself, and was peeping through the closed blinds to see what was going on in the street, when a little carriage passed by, drawn by servants dressed in blue and silver. In the carriage sat a prince, and over his head a golden umbrella was held, to protect him from the sun's rays.

"Oh, if I were only a prince!" said the stone-cutter to himself, as the carriage vanished round the corner. "Oh, if I were only a prince, and could go in such a carriage and have a golden umbrella held over me, how happy I should be!"

And the voice of the mountain spirit answered: "Your wish is heard; a prince you shall be."

And a prince he was. Before his carriage rode one company of men and another behind it; servants dressed in scarlet and gold bore him along, the coveted umbrella was held over his head, everything heart could desire was his. But yet it was not enough. He looked round still for something to wish for, and when he saw that in spite of the water he poured on his grass the rays of the sun scorched it, and that in spite of the umbrella held over his head each day his face grew browner and browner, he cried in his anger: "The sun is mightier than I; oh, if I were only the sun!"

And the mountain spirit answered: "Your wish is heard; the sun you shall be."

And the sun he was, and felt himself proud in his power. He shot his beams above and below, on earth and in heaven; he burnt up the grass in the fields and scorched the faces of princes as well as of poorer folk. But in a short time he began to grow tired of his might, for there seemed nothing left for him to do. Discontent once more filled his soul, and when a cloud covered his face, and hid the earth from him he cried in his anger: "Does the cloud hold captive my rays, and is it mightier than I? Oh, that I were a cloud, and mightier than any!"

And the mountain spirit answered: "Your wish is heard; a cloud you shall be!"

And a cloud he was, and lay between the sun and the earth. He caught the sun's beams and held them, and to his joy the earth grew green again and flowers blossomed. But that was not enough for him, and for days and weeks he poured forth rain till the rivers overflowed their banks and the crops of rice stood in water. Towns and villages were destroyed by the power of the rain, only the great rock on the mountain side remained unmoved. The cloud was amazed at the sight, and cried in wonder: "Is the rock, then, mightier than I? Oh, if I were only the rock!"

And the mountain spirit answered: "Your wish is heard; the rock you shall be!"

And the rock he was, and glorified in his power. Proudly he stood, and neither the heat of the sun nor the force of the rain could move him. "This is better than all!" he said to himself. But one day he heard a strange noise at his feet, and when he looked down to see what it could be, he saw a stone-cutter driving tools into his surface. Even while he looked a trembling feeling ran all through him, and a great block broke off and fell upon the ground. Then he cried in his wrath: "Is a mere child of earth mightier than a rock? Oh, if I were only a man!"

And the mountain spirit answered: "Your wish is heard. A man once more you shall be!"

And a man he was, and in the sweat of his brow he toiled again at his trade of stone-cutting. His bed was hard and his food scanty, but he had learned to be satisfied with it, and did not long to be something or somebody else. And as he never asked for things he had not got, or desired to be greater and mightier than other people, he was happy at last, and heard the voice of the mountain spirit no longer.




Prince Kindhearted


Once upon a time there lived a king who had but one son, and he was called the Kindhearted. When the prince was twenty years old, he asked the king, his father, to let him go traveling. His father fitted him out for the journey, gave him a true servant to guard him, and his fatherly blessing. The prince took leave of his father, mounted a brave steed and went to different countries, to see God's world, to learn many things, and to return home a wiser and a better man.

Once when the prince was slowly riding through a silent field, he suddenly perceived an eagle in pursuit of a swan. The white swan was almost caught by the eagle's sharp claws, when the prince, carefully aiming, fired his pistol. The eagle fell dead, and the happy swan came down and said: "Prince Kindhearted, I thank you for your help. It is not a swan that is thanking you, but the enchanted daughter of the Knight Invisible. You have not saved me from an eagle's claws, but from the terrible magician King Koshchey. My father will pay you well for your services. Remember whenever you are in need, to say three times: 'Knight Invisible, come to my help!'" The swan flew away as soon as it had finished speaking, and the prince looked after it, then continued his journey.

He crossed many high mountains, traversed deep rivers, passed foreign countries, and at last he came to a great desert, where there was nothing to see but sky and sand. No man lived there, no animal's voice was ever heard, no vegetable ever grew there; the sun was shining so brightly and burning so terribly that all the rivers were dried up, their beds were lost in the sand, and there was not a drop of water anywhere. The young prince anxious to go everywhere and see everything and not noticing how dry things were, kept going farther and farther, and deeper and deeper, into the desert. But after a while he became terribly thirsty. In order to find some water he sent his servant in one direction and he himself went in another. After a long time he succeeded in finding a well. He called to his servant, "I have found a means of getting some water," and they both were happy. But their happiness did not last, for the well was very deep and they had nothing with which to reach the water.

The prince said to the servant: "Dismount, I will let you down into the well by some long ropes and you shall draw up some water."

"No, my prince," answered the servant, "I am much heavier than you are, and Your Majesty's hands will not be able to hold me. You take hold of the ropes, and I will let you down into the well."

The prince, the ropes tied around him, went down into the well, drank the cold water, and taking some of it for the servant, pulled the ropes, as a sign for the servant to draw him up again.

But instead of pulling him up, the servant said: "Listen, you, kingly son! From your cradle-days until now you have lived a happy life, surrounded by luxury and love, and I have always led the life of a miserable wretch. Now you must agree to become my servant, and I will be the prince instead of you. If you will not exchange, say your last prayer, for I am going to drown you."

"Do not drown me, my true servant, you will not gain anything by it. You will never find such a good master as I am, and you know what a murderer may expect in the next world."

"Let me suffer in the next world, but I will make you suffer in this one," answered the servant and he began to loosen the ropes.

"Stop!" cried the prince, "I will be thy servant and you shall be the prince. I will give you my word for it."

"I do not believe your word. Swear that you will write down what you promise me, now, for words are lost in the air, and writing always remains as a testimony against us."

"I swear!"

The servant let down into the well a sheet of paper and a pencil, and told the prince to write the following: "The bearer of this is Prince Kindhearted, traveling with his servant, a subject of his father's kingdom."

The servant glanced over the note, pulled the prince out of the well, gave him his shabby clothes, and put on the prince's rich dress. Then having changed armor and horses, they went on.

In a week or so they came to the capital of a certain kingdom. When they approached the palace, the false prince gave his horse to the false servant and told him to go to the stable, and he himself went straight into the throne chamber and said to the king: "I come to you to ask for the hand of your daughter, whose beauty and wisdom are known all over the world. If you consent, you will have our favor; if not, we will decide it by war."

"You do not speak to me in a nice way at all, not as a prince ought to speak, but it may be that in your country you are not used to better manners. Now listen to me, my future son-in-law. My kingdom is now in the hands of an enemy of mine. His troops have captured my best soldiers and now they are approaching my capital. If you will clear my kingdom from these troops, my daughter's hand will be yours as a reward."

"All right," answered the false prince, "I will drive your enemies away. Do not worry if they come to the capital. To-morrow morning not one enemy will be left in your land." In the evening he went out of the palace, called his servant and said to him: "Listen, my dear! Go out to the city walls, drive away the foreign troops, and for this service I will return to you your note, by which you denied your kingdom and swore to be my servant."

The honest Prince Kindhearted put on his knightly armor, mounted his steed, went out to the city walls and called in a loud voice: "Knight Invisible! Come to my help!"

"Here I am," said Knight Invisible, "what do you wish me to do for you? I am ready to do everything for you, because you saved my child from the terrible Koshchey."

Prince Kindhearted showed him the troops, and the Knight Invisible whistled loudly and called: "Oh you, my wise horse, come to me quickly!"

There was a rustling in the air, it thundered, the earth trembled, and a wonderful horse appeared, having a golden mane, from his nostrils a fire was burning, from his eyes bright sparks were flying, and from his ears thick clouds of smoke were coming.

Knight Invisible jumped upon the horse and said to the prince: "Take this magic sword and attack the troops from the left, and I upon my golden-maned horse will attack them from the right."

They both attacked the army. From the left the soldiers were falling like wood, from the right like whole forests. In less than an hour the entire army vanished. Some of them remained upon the spot, dead; some of them fled. Prince Kindhearted and the Knight Invisible met upon the battle-field, shook hands in a friendly way, and in a minute the Knight Invisible and his horse turned into a bright red flame, then into thick smoke, which disappeared in the darkness. The prince returned quietly to the palace.

The young princess felt very sad that evening. She could not sleep and so leaned out of her window, whence she overheard the conversation between the prince and the servant. Then she saw what was going on behind the city walls. She also saw the Knight Invisible disappear in the darkness, and Prince Kindhearted return to the palace. She saw the false prince coming out of the palace, taking the knightly armor from the servant, and Prince Kindhearted entering the stable to rest.

The next morning, the old king, seeing his land freed from the enemies, felt very happy, and gave the prince many rich presents. But when he announced the engagement of his daughter to him, she stood up, took the hand of the real prince, who helped to serve at the table, led him before the old king and said: "My dearest father and king, and all you that are present here! This man is my bridegroom, sent to me by God, for he is your savior, and the real prince. And that one who calls himself a prince, is a traitor; a false and dishonest man." Then the princess told everything she knew and said: "Let him show some proof that he really is a prince."

The false prince gave to the king the note, which was given to him in the well. The king opened it and read aloud: "The bearer of this note, the false and untrue servant of Prince Kindhearted, asks for pardon and expects a just punishment. The note was given to him in the well by Prince Kindhearted."

"Is it really so?" cried the wretch and he became pale as death.

"Yes, read it yourself, if you do not believe it," answered the king.

"I cannot read," said the poor fellow. He knelt before his master and begged for mercy, but he received what he deserved.

Prince Kindhearted and the princess were happily married, and I was present at the wedding feast and also felt happy.




The Timid Hare And The Flight Of The Beasts


Once upon a time when Brahmadatta reigned in Benares, the Bodhisatta came to life as a young lion. And when fully grown he lived in a wood. At this same time there was near the Western Ocean a grove of palms mixed with vilva trees. A certain hare lived here beneath a palm sapling, at the foot of a vilva tree.

One day this hare after feeding came and lay down beneath a young palm tree. And the thought struck him: "If this earth should be destroyed, what would become of me?" And at this very moment a ripe vilva fruit fell on a palm leaf. At the sound of it, the hare thought, "This solid earth is collapsing," and starting up he fled without so much as looking behind him.

Another saw him scampering off as if frightened to death, and asked the cause of his panic flight. "Pray, don't ask me," he said. The other hare cried, "Pray, sir, what is it?" and kept running after him. Then the hare stopped a moment and without looking back he said, "The earth here is breaking up." And at this the second hare ran after the other. And so first one and then another hare caught sight of him running, and joined in the chase till one hundred thousand hares all took flight together. They were seen by a deer, a boar, an elk, a buffalo, a wild ox, a rhinoceros, a tiger, a lion, and an elephant. And when they asked what it meant and were told that the earth was breaking up, they too took flight. So by degrees this host of animals extended to the length of a full league.

When the Bodhisatta saw this headlong flight of the animals, and heard that the cause of it was that the earth was coming to an end, he thought: "The earth is nowhere coming to an end. Surely it must be some sound which was misunderstood by them. And if I don't make a great effort, they will surely perish. I will save their lives."

So with the speed of a lion he got before them to the foot of a mountain, and lion-like roared three times. They were terribly frightened at the lion, and stopped in their flight, stood huddled together. The lion went in amongst them and asked why they were running away.

"The earth is collapsing," they answered.

"Who saw it collapsing?" he said.

"The elephants know all about it," they replied.

He asked the elephants. "We don't know," they said; "the lions know." But the lions said, "We don't know; the tigers know." The tigers said, "The rhinoceroses know." The rhinoceroses said, "The wild oxen know." The wild oxen, "The buffaloes." The buffaloes, "The elks." The elks, "The boars." The boars, "The deer." The deer said, "We don't know; the hares know." When the hares were questioned, they pointed to one particular hare and said, "This one told us."

So the Bodhisatta asked, "Is it true, sir, that the earth is breaking up?"

"Yes, sir, I saw it," said the hare.

"Where," he asked, "were you living when you saw it?"

"Near the ocean, sir, in a grove of palms mixed with vilva trees. For as I was lying beneath the shade of a palm sapling at the foot of a vilva tree, methought, 'If this earth should break up, where shall I go?' And at that very moment I heard the sound of breaking up of the earth, and I fled."

Thought the lion: "A ripe vilva fruit evidently must have fallen on a palm leaf and made a 'thud,' and this hare jumped to the conclusion that the earth was coming to an end, and ran away. I will find out the exact truth about it." So he reassured the herd of animals, and said: "I will take the hare and go find out exactly whether the earth is coming to an end or not, in the place pointed out by him. Until I return do you stay here." Then, placing the hare on his back, he sprang forward with the speed of a lion, and putting the hare down in a palm grove, he said, "Come, show us the place you meant."

"I dare not, my lord," said the hare.

"Come, don't be afraid," said the lion.

The hare, not venturing to go near the vilva tree, stood afar off and cried, "Yonder, sir, is the place of dreadful sounds," and so saying, he repeated the first stanza:

"From the spot where I did dwell Issued forth a fearful 'thud'; What it was I could not tell, Nor what caused it understood."

After hearing what the hare said, the lion went to the foot of the vilva tree, and saw the spot where the hare had been lying beneath the shade of the palm tree, and the ripe vilva fruit that fell on the palm leaf, and having carefully ascertained that the earth had not broken up, he placed the hare on his back and with the speed of a lion soon came again to the herd of beasts.

Then he told them the whole story, and said, "Don't be afraid." And having thus reassured the herd of beasts, he let them go.

Verily if it had not been for the Bodhisatta at that time, all the beasts would have rushed into the sea and perished. It was all owing to the Bodhisatta that they escaped death.

Alarmed at sound of fallen fruit, A hare once ran away; The other beasts all followed suit, Moved by that hare's dismay.

They hastened not to view the scene, But lent a willing ear To idle gossip, and were clean Distraught with foolish fear.

They who to Wisdom's calm delight And Virtue's heights attain, Though ill example should invite, Such panic fear disdain.

These three stanzas were inspired by Perfect Wisdom.




The Bee, The Harp, The Mouse, And The Bum-Clock


Once there was a widow, and she had one son, called Jack. Jack and his mother owned just three cows. They lived well and happy for a long time; but at last hard times came down on them, and the crops failed, and poverty looked in at the door, and things got so sore against the poor widow that for want of money and for want of necessities she had to make up her mind to sell one of the cows. "Jack," she said one night, "go over in the morning to the fair to sell the branny cow."

Well and good: in the morning my brave Jack was up early, and took a stick in his fist and turned out the cow, and off to the fair he went with her; and when Jack came into the fair, he saw a great crowd gathered in a ring in the street. He went into the crowd to see what they were looking at, and there in the middle of them he saw a man with a wee, wee Harp, a Mouse, and a Bum-clock (Cockroach), and a Bee to play the harp. And when the man put them down on the ground and whistled, the Bee began to play the Harp, and the Mouse and the Bum-clock stood up on their hind legs and got hold of each other and began to waltz. And as soon as the Harp began to play and the Mouse and the Bum-clock to dance, there wasn't a man or woman, or a thing in the fair, that didn't begin to dance also; and the pots and pans, and the wheels and reels jumped and jigged, all over the town, and Jack himself and the branny cow were as bad as the next.

There was never a town in such a state before or since, and after a while the man picked up the Bee, the Harp, and the Mouse, and the Bum-clock and put them into his pocket, and the men and women, Jack and the cow, the pots and pans, wheels and reels, that had hopped and jigged, now stopped, and everyone began to laugh as if to break its heart. Then the man turned to Jack. "Jack," says he, "how would you like to be master of all these animals?"

"Why," says Jack, "I should like it fine."

"Well, then," says the man, "how will you and me make a bargain about them?"

"I have no money," says Jack.

"But you have a fine cow," says the man. "I will give you the Bee and the Harp for it."

"O, but," Jack says, says he, "my poor mother at home is very sad and sorrowful entirely, and I have this cow to sell and lift her heart again."

"And better than this she cannot get," says the man. "For when she sees the Bee play the Harp, she will laugh if she never laughed in her life before."

"Well," says Jack, says he, "that will be grand."

He made the bargain. The man took the cow; and Jack started home with the Bee and the Harp in his pocket, and when he came home, his mother welcomed him back.

"And, Jack," says she, "I see you have sold the cow."

"I have done that," says Jack.

"Did you do well?" says the mother.

"I did well, and very well," says Jack.

"How much did you get for her?" says the mother.

"O," says he, "it was not for money at all I sold her, but for something far better."

"O, Jack! Jack!" says she, "what have you done?"

"Just wait until you see, mother," says he, "and you will soon say I have done well."

Out of his pocket he takes the Bee and the Harp and sets them in the middle of the floor, and whistles to them, and as soon as he did this the Bee began to play the Harp, and the mother she looked at them and let a big, great laugh out of her, and she and Jack began to dance, the pots and pans, the wheels and reels began to jig and dance over the floor, and the house itself hopped about also.

When Jack picked up the Bee and the Harp again the dancing all stopped, and the mother laughed for a long time. But when she came to herself, she got very angry entirely with Jack, and she told him he was a silly, foolish fellow, that there was neither food nor money in the house, and now he had lost one of her good cows also. "We must do something to live," says she. "Over to the fair you must go to-morrow morning, and take the black cow with you and sell her."

And off in the morning at an early hour brave Jack started, and never halted until he was in the fair. When he came into the fair, he saw a big crowd gathered in a ring in the street. Said Jack to himself, "I wonder what are they looking at."

Into the crowd he pushed, and saw the wee man this day again with a Mouse and a Bum-clock, and he put them down in the street and whistled. The Mouse and the Bum-clock stood up on their hind legs and got hold of each other and began to dance there and jig, and as they did there was not a man or woman in the street who didn't begin to jig also, and Jack and the black cow, and the wheels and the reels, and the pots and pans, all of them were jigging and dancing all over the town, and the houses themselves were jumping and hopping about, and such a place Jack or any one else never saw before.

When the man lifted the Mouse and the Bum-clock into his pocket, they all stopped dancing and settled down, and everybody laughed right hearty. The man turned to Jack. "Jack," said he, "I am glad to see you; how would you like to have these animals?"

"I should like well to have them," says Jack, says he, "only I cannot."

"Why cannot you?" says the man.

"O," says Jack, says he, "I have no money, and my poor mother is very down-hearted. She sent me to the fair to sell this cow and bring some money to lift her heart."

"O," says the man, says he, "if you want to lift your mother's heart I will sell you the Mouse, and when you set the Bee to play the Harp and the Mouse to dance to it, your mother will laugh if she never laughed in her life before."

"But I have no money," says Jack, says he, "to buy your Mouse."

"I don't mind," says the man, says he, "I will take your cow for it."

Poor Jack was so taken with the Mouse and had his mind so set on it, that he thought it was a grand bargain entirely, and he gave the man his cow, and took the Mouse and started off for home, and when he got home his mother welcomed him.

"Jack," says she, "I see you have sold the cow."

"I did that," says Jack.

"Did you sell her well?" says she.

"Very well indeed," says Jack, says he.

"How much did you get for her?"

"I didn't get money," says he, "but I got value."

"O, Jack! Jack!" says she, "what do you mean?"

"I will soon show you that, mother," says he, taking the Mouse out of his pocket and the Harp and the Bee and setting all on the floor; and when he began to whistle the Bee began to play, and the Mouse go up on its hind legs and began to dance and jig, and the mother gave such a hearty laugh as she never laughed in her life before. To dancing and jigging herself and Jack fell, and the pots and pans and the wheels and reels began to dance and jig over the floor, and the house jigged also. And when they were tired of this, Jack lifted the Harp and the Mouse and the Bee and put them in his pocket, and his mother she laughed for a long time.

But when she got over that she got very down-hearted and very angry entirely with Jack. "And O, Jack," she says, "you are a stupid good-for-nothing fellow. We have neither money nor meat in the house, and here you have lost two of my good cows, and I have only one left now. To-morrow morning," she says, "you must be up early and take this cow to the fair and sell her. See to get something to lift my heart up."

"I will do that," says Jack, says he. So he went to his bed, and early in the morning he was up and turned out the spotty cow and went to the fair.

When Jack got to the fair, he saw a crowd gathered in a ring in the street. "I wonder what they are looking at, anyhow," says he. He pushed through the crowd, and there he saw the same wee man he had seen before, with a Bum-clock; and when he put the Bum-clock on the ground, he whistled, and the Bum-clock began to dance, and the men, women, and children in the street, and Jack and the spotty cow began to dance and jig also, and everything on the street and about it, the wheels and reels, the pots and pans, began to jig, and the houses themselves began to dance likewise. And when the man lifted the Bum-clock and put it in his pocket, everybody stopped jigging and dancing and everyone laughed loud. The wee man turned, and saw Jack.

"Jack, my brave boy," says he, "you will never be right fixed until you have this Bum-clock, for it is a very fancy thing to have."

"O, but," says Jack, says he, "I have no money."

"No matter for that," says the man; "you have a cow, and that is as good as money to me."

"Well," says Jack, "I have a poor mother who is very down-hearted at home, and she sent me to the fair to sell this cow and raise some money and lift her heart."

"O, but Jack," says the wee man, "this Bum-clock is the very thing to lift her heart, for when you put down your Harp and Bee and Mouse on the floor, and put the Bum-clock along with them, she will laugh if she never laughed in her life before."

"Well, that is surely true," says Jack, says he, "and I think I will make a swap with you."

So Jack gave the cow to the man and took the Bum-clock himself, and started for home. His mother was glad to see Jack back, and says she, "Jack, I see that you have sold the cow."

"I did that, mother," says Jack.

"Did you sell her well, Jack?" says the mother.

"Very well indeed, mother," says Jack.

"How much did you get for her?" says the mother.

"I didn't take any money for her, mother, but value," says Jack, and he takes out of his pocket the Bum-clock and the Mouse, and set them on the floor and began to whistle, and the Bee began to play the Harp and the Mouse and the Bum-clock stood up on their hind legs and began to dance, and Jack's mother laughed very hearty, and everything in the house, the wheels and the reels, and the pots and pans, went jigging and hopping over the floor, and the house itself went jigging and hopping about likewise.

When Jack lifted up the animals and put them in his pocket, everything stopped, and the mother laughed for a good while. But after a while, when she came to herself, and saw what Jack had done and how they were now without either money, or food, or a cow, she got very, very angry at Jack, and scolded him hard, and then sat down and began to cry.

Poor Jack, when he looked at himself, confessed that he was a stupid fool entirely. "And what," says he, "shall I now do for my poor mother?" He went out along the road, thinking and thinking, and he met a wee woman who said, "Good-morrow to you, Jack," says she, "how is it you are not trying for the king's daughter of Ireland?"

"What do you mean?" says Jack.

Says she: "Didn't you hear what the whole world has heard, that the King of Ireland has a daughter who hasn't laughed for seven years, and he has promised to give her in marriage, and to give the kingdom along with her to any man who will take three laughs out of her."

"If that is so," says Jack, says he, "it is not here I should be."

Back to the house he went, and gathers together the Bee, the Harp, the Mouse, and the Bum-clock, and putting them into his pocket, he bade his mother good-bye, and told her it wouldn't be long till she got news from him, and off he hurries.

When he reached the castle, there was a ring of spikes all round the castle and men's heads on nearly every spike there.

"What heads are these?" Jack asked one of the king's soldiers.

"Any man that comes here trying to win the king's daughter and fails to make her laugh three times, loses his head and has it stuck on a spike. These are the heads of the men that failed," says he.

"A mighty big crowd," says Jack, says he. Then Jack sent word to tell the king's daughter and the king that there was a new man who had come to win her.

In a very little time the king and the king's daughter and the king's court all came out and sat themselves down on gold and silver chairs in front of the castle, and ordered Jack to be brought in until he should have his trial. Jack, before he went, took out of his pocket the Bee, the Harp, the Mouse, the Bum-clock, and he gave the Harp to the Bee, and he tied a string to one and the other, and took the end of the string himself, and marched into the castle yard before all the court, with his animals coming on a string behind him.

When the queen and the king and the court and the princes saw poor ragged Jack with his Bee, and Mouse, and Bum-clock hopping behind him on a string, they set up one roar of laughter that was long and loud enough, and when the king's daughter herself lifted her head and looked to see what they were laughing at, and saw Jack and his paraphernalia, she opened her mouth and she let out of her such a laugh as was never heard before.

Then Jack dropped a low courtesy, and said, "Thank you, my lady; I have one of the three parts of you won."

Then he drew up his animals in a circle, and began to whistle, and the minute he did, the Bee began to play the Harp, and the Mouse and the Bum-clock stood up on their hind legs, got hold of each other, and began to dance, and the king and the king's court and Jack himself began to dance and jig, and everything about the king's castle, pots and pans, wheels and reels, and the castle itself began to dance also. And the king's daughter, when she saw this, opened her mouth again, and let out of her a laugh twice louder than she let before, and Jack, in the middle of his jigging, drops another courtesy, and says, "Thank you, my lady; that is two of the three parts of you won."

Jack and his menagerie went on playing and dancing, but Jack could not get the third laugh out of the king's daughter, and the poor fellow saw his big head in danger of going on the spike. Then the brave Mouse came to Jack's help and wheeled round upon its heel, and at it did so its tail swiped into the Bum-clock's mouth, and the Bum-clock began to cough and cough and cough. And when the king's daughter saw this she opened her mouth again, and she let the loudest and hardest and merriest laugh that was ever heard before or since; and, "Thank you, my lady," says Jack, dropping another courtesy; "I have all of you won."

Then when Jack stopped his menagerie, the king took himself and the menagerie within the castle. He was washed and combed, and dressed in a suit of silk and satin, with all kinds of gold and silver ornaments, and then was led before the king's daughter. And true enough she confessed that a handsomer and finer fellow than Jack she had never seen, and she was very willing to be his wife.

Jack sent for his poor old mother and brought her to the wedding, which lasted nine days and nine nights, every night better than the other. All the lords and ladies and gentry of Ireland were at the wedding. I was at it, too, and got brogues, broth and slippers of bread and came jigging home on my head.




The Tale Of The Pointer Tray


In a voyage which I made to the East Indies with Captain Hamilton, I took a favorite pointer with me; he was, to use a common phrase, worth his weight in gold, for he never deceived me. One day, when we were, by the best observations we could make, at least three hundred leagues from land, my dog pointed. I observed him for nearly an hour with astonishment, and mentioned the circumstance to the captain and every officer on board, asserting that we must be near land, for my dog smelt game. This occasioned a general laugh; but that did not alter in the least the good opinion I had of my dog. After much conversation pro and con, I boldly told the captain that I placed more confidence in Tray's nose than I did in the eyes of every seaman on board; and therefore boldly proposed laying the sum I had agreed to pay for my passage (viz., one hundred guineas) that we should find game within half an hour. The captain (a good hearty fellow) laughed again, desired Mr. Crawford, the surgeon, who was prepared, to feel my pulse. He did so, and reported me in perfect health. The following dialogue between them took place; I overheard it, though spoken low and at some distance: -- 

Captain. His brain is turned; I cannot with honor accept his wager.

Surgeon. I am of a different opinion. He is quite sane, and depends more upon the scent of his dog than he will upon the judgment of all the officers on board; he will certainly lose, and he richly merits it.

Captain. Such a wager cannot be fair on my side; however, I'll take him up, if I return his money afterwards.

During the above conversation, Tray continued in the same situation, and confirmed me still more in my opinion. I proposed the wager a second time; it was then accepted.

Done! and done! were scarcely said on both sides, when some sailors who were fishing in the long boat, which was made fast to the stern of the ship, harpooned an exceedingly large shark, which they brought on board and began to cut up for the purpose of barrelling the oil, when, behold, they found no less than SIX BRACE OF LIVE PARTRIDGES in this animal's stomach!

They had been so long in that situation, that one of the hens was sitting upon four eggs, and a fifth was hatching, when the shark was opened!

This young bird we brought up by placing it with a litter of kittens that came into the world a few minutes before. The old cat was as fond of it as any of her own four-legged progeny, and made herself very unhappy when it flew out of her reach till it returned again. As to the other partridges, there were four hens amongst them; one or more were, during the voyage, constantly sitting, and consequently we had plenty of game at the captain's table; and in gratitude to poor Tray (for being a means of winning one hundred guineas) I ordered him the bones daily, and sometimes a whole bird.




The Enchanted Princess


In a certain kingdom there once served in the king's army a soldier. He served him honestly and faithfully for twenty-five years. For his good service the king gave him a leave of absence, and presented him with his war-horse and armor. The soldier bade farewell to his comrades and went home. He traveled one day, another day, a third day, and a whole week. The soldier had no money to buy food for himself or for his horse, and his home was still very far off. He was very hungry and tired. He looked all around and saw a large and beautiful castle.

"Well," thought he, "I will try to enter it; perhaps they will take me into service and I can earn something."

He entered the castle, put his horse in the stable, gave it food, and went to the palace. In one of the rooms a table was set with the best foods and drinks a person could wish for. He ate and drank and thought of taking a rest.

Suddenly a bear entered. "Do not be afraid, young man. You can do me some good. I am not a frightful bear; I am a fair maiden, an enchanted princess. If you will pass three nights here, my enchantment will be broken, and I will marry you."

The soldier consented. The bear left, and he was all alone. He felt so sad. A great anxiety took hold of him, and he felt such a longing to depart that he almost lost his mind. The third night he decided to leave the castle, and to flee. But no matter how he looked and searched, he could find no way of escape. He had to remain in the castle against his will. In the morning the princess came in. She was as beautiful as a dream. She thanked him for the service and told him to get ready for the wedding. The wedding was celebrated and they lived happily together.

After some time the soldier thought of his old home and wanted to visit it.

"Stay here, my friend! Do not go. Aren't you happy here?" asked the princess.

But the soldier insisted upon going to see his old parents. Before departing, his wife gave him a small bag full of seeds. "Wherever you go throw these seeds on both sides of the road; wherever they fall trees will grow up; upon the trees rare fruits will grow, beautiful birds will sing."

The soldier mounted his good old horse and departed. Wherever he went, he threw the magic seeds; and after him forests rose as if creeping out of the earth. On the third evening of his journey, in the middle of an open field, he saw a group of men sitting upon the grass, playing cards. Near them a kettle was hanging, and though there was no fire under it, the soup inside was boiling.

"What a wonder!" thought the soldier. "No fire is to be seen yet the kettle is boiling hot. Let me look at it." He turned his horse, approached the men and said, "Good evening, honest people. You have a wonderful thing: a kettle boiling without fire, but I have something more wonderful."

He took out one seed and threw it upon the ground. In a minute a tree grew up, rare fruit upon its branches, wonderful birds singing beautiful songs. Now the soldier did not know that these men were the magicians that had enchanted the princess, his wife. They recognized him.

"Oh," said they, "that is the same fellow, who saved the princess. Let us make him sleep for half a year."

They treated him with an enchanted drink. The soldier immediately fell fast asleep, and the men with the kettle disappeared.

Soon after this the princess took a walk in her garden. There she saw that all the tree-tops were dry and dead. "That foretells me nothing good"; thought she. "Something wrong must have happened to my husband. He has been away for three months already. It is time for him to come back, and as yet I have heard nothing of him." She decided then to go to look for him.

She went by the same road over which the soldier had gone. On both sides forests were growing, and birds were singing. But after a while she reached the place where there were no more trees. The road was clearly marked in the open field. She thought, "Where could my husband have gone? I hope he has not been swallowed up by the earth." She looked around and saw aside from the road a wonderful tree, and under it her husband. She ran to him, shook him, called him, but could not wake him up. She pinched him, stuck pins into his body but he felt no pain. He was lying as one dead and did not move.

The princess became angry, and in her anger she cursed him. "O, you wretched sleepyhead! I wish a storm would raise you, and carry you off, far away to unknown countries!"

Hardly had she spoken these words, when raging winds came blowing and whistling, and raised the soldier and carried him off before the princess' eyes. The princess felt sorry for her bad words, but it was too late. She cried bitterly, but could not get her husband back. She returned to her palace, and lived there a sad and lonely life.

The poor soldier was carried by the wind through many lands and seas, and was thrown upon a very lonely sand-bank between two seas. If in his sleep he should turn to his right or to his left, he would fall into the sea and perish. For half a year he slept and did not move a finger. When he awoke, he jumped straight upon his feet and looked around. From both sides the waves were rising, and there was no end to the waters. He asked himself in surprise, "How did I come here? Who brought me hither?"

He went along the bank and came to an island. There he saw a very high and steep mountain. Its top reached the clouds. Upon it there was a large stone. He approached the mountain and saw at its foot three men fighting. They were the sons of a malicious magician.

"What is the matter?" asked the soldier. "What are you fighting for?"

"You see," answered they, "our father died and left us three wonderful things: a flying carpet, seven-league boots, and an invisible cap. But we cannot divide them peaceably."

"O you silly magicians! Stop your fighting! If you wish, I will divide the things between you so that everyone shall be satisfied."

The magicians consented.

"Now," said the soldier, "do you see that large stone upon the mountain top? Climb up to it, push it down the mountain, and run after it; whoever shall reach the stone first, shall choose among the three wonders; the second one, between the two wonders; and the third shall take that which shall be left."

The magicians climbed up, pushed the stone, and ran after it. It was rolling down very quickly. One reached it, seized upon it -- the stone turned over, fell upon him and killed him. The same happened to the other two magicians.

The soldier took the seven-league boots, the invisible cap, sat down upon the flying carpet and went to look for his kingdom. After some time he came to a hut; and entered. An old fairy lived there.

"Good morning, grandmother! Tell me how to find my dear little princess."

"I do not know, my dear! I have never seen her, nor heard of her. Go to the other side of the ocean. There lives my older sister. She knows more than I do; perhaps she will tell you."

The soldier flew upon his carpet to the older fairy. The journey was very long. When he felt hungry or thirsty, he had only to put on his invisible cap, go to the shops, and there he had everything he wished. At last he came to the older fairy.

"Good morning, grandmother. Can't you tell me how to find my beautiful princess?"

"No, dear! I can't tell you. But you cross many oceans and many lands until you reach the end of the world. There lives my oldest sister; perhaps she knows about the princess."

The soldier felt very much discouraged, but he was anxious to find his wife. He went then to look for the oldest fairy. He traveled for a very, very long time over many seas and many lands until he came to the end of the world. A single hut was standing, and beyond it nothing could be seen but thick darkness.

"Well," thought the soldier sadly, "if I don't find out anything here, I can fly no further."

He went into the hut. There he saw an old, old fairy. Her teeth had fallen out, her hair was white like snow. She was half blind and lame.

"Good morning, grandmother! Tell me, please, where to find my princess?"

"Wait awhile," said the fairy. "I will call all the winds and ask them. They blow all over the world, so they must know where she lives."

She went out upon the porch and called in a loud voice. Suddenly from all sides raging winds arose and blew, so that the hut trembled. "Be calmer!" cried she, and said, "O you, my raging winds, you blow all over the world; have you seen anywhere the beautiful princess?"

"No, we have not seen her, answered all the winds."

"Are you all here?"

"All but the South Wind."

After a short time the South Wind came. The old fairy asked him angrily, "Where were you until now? I have been waiting impatiently for you."

"Pardon me, grandmother! I went into a new kingdom where a beautiful princess lives. Her husband disappeared no one knows where. Now different kings and princes come to woo her."

"And how far is it to that kingdom?"

"It will take thirty years to walk thither, ten years to fly upon wings, and if I blow I can carry one over in three hours."

Then the soldier with tears in his eyes, begged the South Wind to carry him to his princess.

"Well," said the South Wind, "I will do it if you will allow me to blow in your kingdom for three days and three nights."

"You may blow for three weeks if you like."

"All right. Let me take a rest of three days. I will gather my strength, and then we will go."

The South Wind rested and then said to the soldier, "Now, my friend, get ready for the journey; but do not be afraid; I will not hurt you!"

Suddenly the strong wind whistled and blew, the soldier was raised in the air, and carried over mountains and seas, right under the clouds, and in just three hours he was in the new kingdom where the beautiful princess lived.

The South Wind said, "Good-bye, young man! I pity you, and do not want to blow in your kingdom."

The young prince asked, "Why so?"

"Because, if I begin to blow, not one house will be left in the cities, not one tree in the gardens. I will overthrow everything."

"Good-bye, South Wind! Thank you for your service to me," said the soldier, put on his invisible cap, and went into the palace.

All the time while he had been away, the trees had been standing with dried and faded tops; now when he appeared again, they revived and began to blossom. He entered the large room. Around the table there were sitting all the many kings and princes that had come to woo the princess, feasting. When one of them put the wine-glass to his lips, the soldier hit upon the glass and broke it. All the guests were surprised, but the beautiful princess guessed the meaning of it immediately.

"My husband must have come back," thought she. She looked through the window into the garden. There all the trees were alive again, and covered with blossoms. So she gave to her guests a riddle to solve: "I had a wonderful hand-made casket with a golden key to it. I had lost my key and had never expected to find it; and suddenly the key has found itself. Whoever shall guess the riddle shall be my husband."

All the kings and princes tried in vain to solve it. Then the princess said, "Come out and show yourself, my beloved!"

The soldier took off his invisible cap, took the white hands of the princess, and kissed her sweet lips.

"Here is the key to my riddle," said the fair princess. "The casket is myself, and the golden key is my faithful husband."

All the wooers had to go home with nothing, and the princess and the soldier lived happily ever after.




"It Is Quite True!"


"That is a terrible story!" said a Hen in a quarter of the town where the affair had not happened. "That is a terrible story from a poultry-yard. I dare not sleep alone to-night! It is quite fortunate that there are so many of us on the roost together!" And she told a tale, which made the feathers of the other hens stand on end, and the cock's comb fall down flat. It is quite true!

But we will begin at the beginning; and that took place in a poultry-yard in another part of the town. The sun went down, and the fowls jumped up on their perch to roost. There was a Hen, with white feathers and short legs, who laid eggs regularly and was a respectable hen in every way; as she flew up on to the roost she pecked herself with her beak, and a little feather fell from her.

"There it goes!" said she; "the more I peck myself the handsomer I grow!" And she said it quite merrily, for she was a joker among the hens, though, as I have said, she was very respectable; and then she went to sleep.

It was dark all around; the hens sat side by side on the roost, but the one that sat next to the merry Hen did not sleep: she heard and she didn't hear, as one should do in this world if one wishes to live in peace; but she could not help telling it to her neighbor.

"Did you hear what was said here just now? I name no names; but here is a hen who wants to peck her feathers out to look well. If I were a cock I should despise her."

And just above the hens sat the Owl, with her husband and her children; the family had sharp ears, and they all heard every word that the neighboring Hen had spoken. They rolled their eyes, and the Mother-Owl clapped her wings and said, "Don't listen to it! But I suppose you heard what was said there? I heard it with my own ears, and one must hear much before one's ears fall off. There is one among the fowls who has so completely forgotten what is becoming conduct in a hen that she pulls out all her feathers, while the cock sits looking at her."

"Prenez garde aux enfants," said the Father-Owl. "That's not a story for the children to hear."

"I'll tell it to the neighbor owl; she's a very proper owl to associate with." And she flew away.

"Hoo! hoo! to-whoo!" they both screeched in front of the neighbor's dove-cote to the doves within. "Have you heard it? Have you heard it? Hoo! hoo! there's a hen who has pulled out all her feathers for the sake of the cock. She'll die with cold, if she's not dead already."

"Coo! coo! Where, where?" cried the Pigeons.

"In the neighbor's poultry-yard. I've as good as seen it myself. It's hardly proper to repeat the story, but it's quite true!"

"Believe it! believe every single word of it!" cooed the Pigeons, and they cooed down into their own poultry-yard. "There's a hen, and some say that there are two of them that have plucked out all their feathers, that they may not look like the rest, and that they may attract the cock's attention. That's a dangerous thing to do, for one may catch cold and die of a fever, and they are both dead."

"Wake up! wake up!" crowed the Cock, and he flew up on to the plank; his eyes were still heavy with sleep, but yet he crowed. "Three hens have died of a broken heart. They have plucked out all their feathers. That's a terrible story. I won't keep it to myself; pass it on."

"Pass it on!" piped the Bats; and the fowls clucked and the cocks crowed, "Pass it on! Pass it on!" And so the story traveled from poultry-yard to poultry-yard, and at last came back to the place from which it had gone forth.

"Five fowls," it was told, "have plucked out all their feathers to show which of them had become thinnest out of love to the cock; and then they have pecked each other, and fallen down dead, to the shame and disgrace of their families, and to the great loss of their master."

And the Hen who had lost the little loose feather, of course did not know her own story again; and as she was a very respectable Hen, she said, -- 

"I despise those hens; but there are many of that sort. One ought not to hush up such a thing, and I shall do what I can that the story may get into the papers, and then it will be spread over all the country, and that will serve those hens right, and their families too."

It was put into the newspaper; it was printed; and it's quite true -- that one little feather may easily become five hens.




The Old Hag's Long Leather Bag


Once on a time, long, long ago, there was a widow woman who had three daughters. When their father died, their mother thought they never would want, for he had left her a long leather bag filled with gold and silver. But he was not long dead, when an old hag came begging to the house one day and stole the long leather bag filled with gold and silver, and went away out of the country with it, no one knew where.

So from that day, the widow woman and her three daughters were poor, and she had a hard struggle to live and to bring up her three daughters.

But when they were grown up, the eldest said one day: "Mother, I'm a young woman now, and it's a shame for me to be here doing nothing to help you or myself. Bake me a bannock and cut me a callop, till I go away to push my fortune."

The mother baked her a whole bannock, and asked her if she would have half of it with her blessing or the whole of it without. She said to give her the whole bannock without.

So she took it and went away. She told them if she was not back in a year and a day from that, then they would know she was doing well, and making her fortune.

She traveled away and away before her, far further than I could tell you, and twice as far as you could tell me, until she came into a strange country, and going up to a little house, she found an old hag living in it. The hag asked her where she was going. She said she was going to push her fortune.

Said the hag: "How would you like to stay here with me, for I want a maid?"

"What will I have to do?" said she.

"You will have to wash me and dress me, and sweep the hearth clean; but on the peril of your life, never look up the chimney," said the hag.

"All right," she agreed to this.

The next day, when the hag arose, she washed her and dressed her, and when the hag went out, she swept the hearth clean, and she thought it would be no harm to have one wee look up the chimney. And there what did she see but her own mother's long leather bag of gold and silver? So she took it down at once, and getting it on her back, started for home as fast as she could run.

But she had not gone far when she met a horse grazing in a field, and when he saw her, he said: "Rub me! Rub me! for I haven't been rubbed these seven years."

But she only struck him with a stick she had in her hand, and drove him out of her way.

She had not gone much further when she met a sheep, who said "O, shear me! Shear me! for I haven't been shorn these seven years."

But she struck the sheep, and sent it scurrying out of her way.

She had not gone much further when she met a goat tethered, and he said: "O, change my tether! Change my tether! for it hasn't been changed these seven years."

But she flung a stone at him, and went on.

Next she came to a lime-kiln, and it said: "O, clean me! Clean me! for I haven't been cleaned these seven years."

But she only scowled at it, and hurried on.

After another bit she met a cow, and it said:

"O, milk me! Milk me! for I haven't been milked these seven years."

She struck the cow out of her way, and went on.

Then she came to a mill. The mill said: "O, turn me! Turn me! for I haven't been turned these seven years."

But she did not heed what it said, only went in and lay down behind the mill door, with the bag under her head, for it was then night.

When the hag came into her hut again and found the girl gone, she ran to the chimney and looked up to see if she had carried off the bag. She got into a great rage, and she started to run as fast as she could after her.

She had not gone far when she met the horse, and she said: "O, horse, horse of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the horse, "it is not long since she passed here."

So on she ran, and it was not long till she met the sheep, and said she: "Sheep, sheep of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the sheep, "it is not long since she passed here."

So she goes on, and it was not long before she met the goat, and said she: "Goat, goat of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the goat, "it is not long since she passed here."

So she goes on, and it was not long before she met the lime-kiln, and said she: "Lime-kiln, lime-kiln of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and with all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the lime-kiln, "it is not long since she passed here."

So she goes on, and it was not long before she met the cow, and said she, "Cow, cow of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the cow, "it is not long since she passed here."

So she goes on, and it was not long before she met the mill, and said she: "Mill, mill of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

And the mill said: "Yes, she is sleeping behind the door."

She went in and struck her with a white rod, and turned her into a stone. She then took the bag of gold and silver on her back, and went away back home.

A year and a day had gone by after the eldest daughter left home, and when they found she had not returned, the second daughter got up, and said: "My sister must be doing well and making her fortune, and isn't it a shame for me to be sitting here doing nothing, either to help you, mother, or myself. Bake me a bannock," said she, "and cut me a callop, till I go away to push my fortune."

The mother did this, and asked her would she have half the bannock with her blessing or the whole bannock without.

She said the whole bannock without, and she set off. Then she said: "If I am not back here in a year and a day, you may be sure that I am doing well and making my fortune," and then she went away.

She traveled away and away on before her, far further than I could tell you, and twice as far as you could tell me, until she came into a strange country, and going up to a little house, she found an old Hag living in it. The old Hag asked her where she was going. She said she was going to push her fortune.

Said the hag: "How would you like to stay here with me, for I want a maid?"

"What will I have to do?" says she.

"You'll have to wash me and dress me, and sweep the hearth clean; and on the peril of your life never look up the chimney," said the hag.

"All right," she agreed to this.

The next day, when the hag arose, she washed her and dressed her, and when the hag went out she swept the hearth, and she thought it would be no harm to have one wee look up the chimney. And there what did she see but her own mother's long leather bag of gold and silver? So she took it down at once, and getting it on her back, started away for home as fast as she could run.

But she had not gone far when she met a horse grazing in a field, and when he saw her, he said: "Rub me! Rub me! for I haven't been rubbed these seven years."

But she only struck him with a stick she had in her hand, and drove him out of her way.

She had not gone much further when she met the sheep, who said: "O, shear me! Shear me! for I haven't been shorn in seven years."

But she struck the sheep, and sent it scurrying out of her way.

She had not gone much further when she met the goat tethered, and he said: "O, change my tether! Change my tether! for it hasn't been changed in seven years."

But she flung a stone at him, and went on.

Next she came to the lime-kiln, and that said: "O, clean me! Clean me! for I haven't been cleaned these seven years."

But she only scowled at it, and hurried on.

Then she came to the cow, and it said: "O, milk me! Milk me! for I haven't been milked these seven years."

She struck the cow out of her way, and went on.

Then she came to the mill. The mill said: "O, turn me! Turn me! for I haven't been turned these seven years."

But she did not heed what it said, only went in and lay down behind the mill door, with the bag under her head, for it was then night.

When the hag came into her hut again and found the girl gone, she ran to the chimney and looked up to see if she had carried off the bag. She got into a great rage, and she started to run as fast as she could after her.

She had not gone far when she met the horse, and she said: "O, horse, horse of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the horse, "it is not long since she passed here."

So on she ran, and it was not long until she met the sheep, and said she: "Oh, sheep, sheep of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the sheep, "it is not long since she passed here."

So she goes on, and it was not long before she met the goat, and said: "Goat, goat of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the goat, "it is not long since she passed here."

So she goes on, and it was not long before she met the lime-kiln, and said she: "Lime-kiln, lime-kiln of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the lime-kiln, "it is not long since she passed here."

So she goes on, and it was not long before she met the cow, and says she: "Cow, cow of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

"Ay," said the cow, "it is not long since she passed here."

So she goes on, and it was not long before she met the mill, and said she: "Mill, mill of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

And the mill said: "Yes, she is sleeping behind the door."

She went in and struck her with a white rod, and turned her into a stone. She then took the bag of gold and silver on her back and went home.

When the second daughter had been gone a year and a day and she hadn't come back, the youngest daughter said: "My two sisters must be doing very well indeed, and making great fortunes when they are not coming back, and it's a shame for me to be sitting here doing nothing, either to help you, mother, or myself. Make me a bannock and cut me a callop, till I go away and push my fortune."

The mother did this and asked her would she have half of the bannock with her blessing or the whole bannock without.

She said: "I will have half of the bannock with your blessing, mother."

The mother gave her a blessing and half a bannock, and she set out.

She traveled away and away on before her, far further than I could tell you, and twice as far as you could tell me, until she came into a strange country, and going up to a little house, she found an old hag living in it. The hag asked her where she was going. She said she was going to push her fortune.

Said the hag: "How would you like to stay here with me, for I want a maid?"

"What will I have to do?" said she.

"You'll have to wash me and dress me, and sweep the hearth clean; and on the peril of your life never look up the chimney," said the hag.

"All right," she agreed to this.

The next day when the hag arose, she washed her and dressed her, and when the hag went out she swept the hearth, and she thought it would be no harm to have one wee look up the chimney, and there what did she see but her own mother's long leather bag of gold and silver? So she took it down at once, and getting it on her back, started away for home as fast as she could run.

When she got to the horse, the horse said: "Rub me! Rub me! for I haven't been rubbed these seven years."

"Oh, poor horse, poor horse," she said, "I'll surely do that." And she laid down her bag, and rubbed the horse.

Then she went on, and it wasn't long before she met the sheep, who said: "Oh, shear me, shear me! for I haven't been shorn these seven years."

"O, poor sheep, poor sheep," she said, "I'll surely do that," and she laid down the bag, and sheared the sheep.

On she went till she met the goat, who said: "O, change my tether! Change my tether! for it hasn't been changed these seven years."

"O, poor goat, poor goat," she said, "I'll surely do that," and she laid down the bag, and changed the goat's tether.

Then she went on till she met the lime-kiln. The lime-kiln said: "O, clean me! clean me! for I haven't been cleaned these seven years."

"O, poor lime-kiln, poor lime-kiln," she said, "I'll surely do that," and she laid down the bag and cleaned the lime-kiln.

Then she went on and met the cow. The cow said: "O, milk me! Milk me! for I haven't been milked these seven years."

"O, poor cow, poor cow," she said, "I'll surely do that," and she laid down the bag and milked the cow.

At last she reached the mill. The mill said: "O, turn me! turn me! for I haven't been turned these seven years."

"O, poor mill, poor mill," she said, "I'll surely do that," and she turned the mill too.

As night was on her, she went in and lay down behind the mill door to sleep.

When the hag came into her hut again and found the girl gone, she ran to the chimney to see if she had carried off the bag. She got into a great rage, and started to run as fast as she could after her.

She had not gone far until she came up to the horse and said: "O, horse, horse of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

The horse said: "Do you think I have nothing to do only watch your maids for you? You may go somewhere else and look for information."

Then she came upon the sheep. "O, sheep, sheep of mine, have you seen this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

The sheep said: "Do you think I have nothing to do only watch your maids for you? You may go somewhere else and look for information."

Then she went on till she met the goat. "O, goat, goat of mine, have you seen this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

The goat said: "Do you think I have nothing to do only watch your maids for you? You can go somewhere else and look for information."

Then she went on till she came to the lime-kiln. "O, lime-kiln, lime-kiln of mine, did you see this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

Said the lime-kiln: "Do you think I have nothing to do only watch your maids for you? You may go somewhere else and look for information."

Next she met the cow. "O, cow, cow of mine, have you seen this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

The cow said: "Do you think I have nothing to do only watch your maids for you? You may go somewhere else and look for information."

Then she got to the mill. "O, mill, mill of mine, have you seen this maid of mine, with my tig, with my tag, with my long leather bag, and all the gold and silver I have earned since I was a maid?"

The mill said: "Come nearer and whisper to me."

She went nearer to whisper to the mill, and the mill dragged her under the wheels and ground her up.

The old hag had dropped the white rod out of her hand, and the mill told the young girl to take this white rod and strike two stones behind the mill door. She did that, and her two sisters stood up. She hoisted the leather bag on her back, and the three of them set out and traveled away and away till they reached home.

The mother had been crying all the time while they were away, and was now ever so glad to see them, and rich and happy they all lived ever after.




The Wolf And The Seven Little Goats


There was once an old goat who had seven little ones, and was as fond of them as ever mother was of her children. One day she had to go into the wood to fetch food for them, so she called them all round her.

"Dear children," said she, "I am going out into the wood; and while I am gone, be on your guard against the wolf, for if he were once to get inside he would eat you up, skin, bones, and all. The wretch often disguises himself, but he may always be known by his hoarse voice and black paws."

"Dear mother," answered the kids, "you need not be afraid, we will take good care of ourselves." And the mother bleated good-bye, and went on her way with an easy mind.

It was not long before some one came knocking at the house-door, and crying out, "Open the door, my dear children, your mother is come back, and has brought each of you something."

But the little kids knew it was the wolf by the hoarse voice.

"We will not open the door," cried they; "you are not our mother, she has a delicate and sweet voice, and your voice is hoarse; you must be the wolf."

Then off went the wolf to a shop and bought a big lump of chalk, and ate it up to make his voice soft. And then he came back, knocked at the house-door, and cried, "Open the door, my dear children, your mother is here, and has brought each of you something."

But the wolf had put up his black paws against the window, and the kids seeing this, cried out, "We will not open the door; our mother has no black paws like you; you must be the wolf."

The wolf then ran to a baker.

"Baker," said he, "I am hurt in the foot; pray spread some dough over the place."

And when the baker had plastered his feet, he ran to the miller.

"Miller," said he, "strew me some white meal over my paws." But the miller refused, thinking the wolf must be meaning harm to some one.

"If you don't do it," cried the wolf, "I'll eat you up!"

And the miller was afraid and did as he was told. And that just shows what men are.

And now came the rogue the third time to the door and knocked. "Open, children!" cried he. "Your dear mother has come home, and brought you each something from the wood."

"First show us your paws," said the kids, "so that we may know if you are really our mother or not."

And he put up his paws against the window, and when they saw that they were white, all seemed right, and they opened the door; and when he was inside they saw it was the wolf, and they were terrified and tried to hide themselves. One ran under the table, the second got into the bed, the third into the oven, the fourth in the kitchen, the fifth in the cupboard, the sixth under the sink, and the seventh in the clock-case. But the wolf found them all, and gave them short shrift; one after the other he swallowed down, all but the youngest, who was hid in the clock-case. And so the wolf, having got what he wanted, strolled forth into the green meadows, and laying himself down under a tree, he fell asleep.

Not long after, the mother goat came back from the wood; and oh! what a sight met her eyes! the door was standing wide open, table, chairs, and stools, all thrown about, dishes broken, quilt and pillows torn off the bed. She sought her children, they were nowhere to be found. She called to each of them by name, but nobody answered, until she came to the name of the youngest.

"Here I am, mother," a little voice cried, "here, in the clock-case."

And so she helped him out, and heard how the wolf had come, and eaten all the rest. And you may think how she cried for the loss of her dear children. At last in her grief she wandered out of doors, and the youngest kid with her; and when they came into the meadow, there they saw the wolf lying under a tree, snoring so that the branches shook. The mother goat looked at him carefully on all sides and she noticed how something inside his body was moving and struggling.

"Dear me!" thought she, "can it be that my poor children that he devoured for his evening meal are still alive?" And she sent the little kid back to the house for a pair of shears, and needle, and thread. Then she cut the wolf's body open, and no sooner had she made one snip than out came the head of one of the kids, and then another snip, and then one after the other of the six little kids all jumped out alive and well, for in his greediness the rogue had swallowed them down whole. How delightful this was! so they comforted their dear mother and hopped about like tailors at a wedding.

"Now fetch some good hard stones," said the mother, "and we will fill his body with them, as he lies asleep."

And so they fetched some in all haste, and put them inside him, and the mother sewed him up so quickly again that he was none the wiser.

When the wolf at last awoke, and got up, the stones inside him made him feel very thirsty, and as he was going to the brook to drink, they struck and rattled one against another. And so he cried out:

"What is this I feel inside me Knocking hard against my bones? How should such a thing betide me! They were kids, and now they're stones."

So he came to the brook, and stooped to drink, but the heavy stones weighed him down, so he fell over into the water and was drowned. And when the seven little kids saw it they came up running.

"The wolf is dead, the wolf is dead!" they cried, and taking hands, they danced with their mother all about the place.




The Tale Of The Snow And The Steeple


I set off from Rome on a journey to Russia, in the midst of winter, from a just notion that frost and snow must of course mend the roads, which every traveler had described as uncommonly bad through the northern parts of Germany, Poland, Courland, and Livonia. I went on horseback as the most convenient manner of traveling. I was but lightly clothed, and of this I felt the inconvenience the more I advanced northeast. What must not a poor old man have suffered in that severe weather and climate, whom I saw on a bleak common in Poland lying on the road helpless, shivering, and hardly having the wherewithal to cover his nakedness? I pitied the poor soul: though I felt the severity of the air myself, I threw my mantle over him, and immediately I heard a voice from the heavens blessing me for that piece of charity, saying, "You will be rewarded, my son, for this in time."

I went on: night and darkness overtook me. No village was to be seen. The country was covered with snow, and I was unacquainted with the road.

Tired, I alighted, and fastened my horse to something, like a pointed stump of a tree, which appeared above the snow; for the sake of safety, I placed my pistols under my arm, and laid down on the snow, where I slept so soundly that I did not open my eyes till full daylight. It is not easy to conceive my astonishment to find myself in the midst of a village, lying in a churchyard; nor was my horse to be seen, but I heard him soon after neigh somewhere above me. On looking upwards, I beheld him hanging by his bridle to the weather-cock of the steeple. Matters were now very plain to me; the village had been covered with snow overnight: a sudden change of weather had taken place: I had sunk down to the churchyard whilst asleep, gently, and in the same proportion as the snow had melted away; and what in the dark I had taken to be a stump of a little tree appearing above the snow, to which I had tied my horse, proved to be the cross or weather-cock of the steeple!

With long consideration, I took one of my pistols, shot the bridle in two, brought down the horse, and proceeded on my journey. [Here the baron seems to have forgotten his feelings: he should certainly have ordered his horse a feed of corn after fasting so long.]




King Longbeard


A story about King Berendey; his son Prince Ivan; about the cunning of the immortal King Koshchey, and about the wisdom of his daughter, Princess Mary.

Once upon a time there lived King Berendey, called Longbeard, for his beard reached far below his knees. He lived very happily with his wife the queen, but God gave no children to them, and this grieved the king very much.

The king had to visit his kingdom. He bade farewell to his queen, and stayed away for a long time. At the end of the visit on a very warm afternoon, when he was approaching his capital, he decided to stop for a rest in the meadow. He felt very thirsty and wanted some cold water to drink, but there was no water around. What should he do? He was all dried up with thirst. So the king decided to ride all over the meadow, perhaps he would strike a spring. And sure enough, he soon found a well.

Hurriedly he jumped down from his horse, and looked into the well. It was full of water to the brim, and upon its surface there was floating a golden cup. The king reached his hand after the cup, but he could not grasp it. The cup swam away from his reach. He grasped impatiently at the amber handle now with his right hand, now with his left; but the handle, quickly turning to the left or to the right, as if but mocking the king, could not be caught. What was the matter? The king waited until the cup stood up again straight in the water, grasped it at once from the right and the left, but in vain! Slipping out from his hands like a fish, the cup dived straight to the bottom, and again it was swimming on the surface as if nothing had happened.

"Now wait," thought King Longbeard, "I will drink without you," and stretching himself upon the grass, he began to drink with eagerness the cold spring water, forgetting about his beard, which was drowned in the water.

When he had drunk enough, he wanted to raise his head, but he could not do it: somebody was holding the king's beard and did not want to let it go. Leaning upon the fence of the well, he tried to get himself loose, shook himself, turned his head, but all was in vain; he could not free his beard. "Let me go," cried he. No answer. Only a terrible monster looked up to him from the bottom, two big eyes shining like emeralds; the widely open mouth queerly smiling, two rows of shining pearly teeth, and a red tongue sticking out between them. The monster was laughing at the king. With its paws it was firmly holding the king's beard.

At last a hoarse voice said from under the water, "It is no use trying, King. I shall not let you go. But if you want to be free, give me that which you possess, but which you do not know about."

The king thought, "What could that be that I have and do not know about? It seems to me that I know everything," so he answered the monster, "All right, I agree."

"Very well," the hoarse voice was heard to answer once more, "but look out, keep your word, that no harm may happen to you." With the last word the claws disappeared, with the monster.

Having freed his beard, the king mounted his horse, and continued his journey. As he entered his capital, all the people came out to meet him, cannons were playing, and all the bells were ringing from the city towers. The king approached his gilded palace. The queen was standing upon the balcony, near her the prime minister; in his arms he held a brocaded pillow upon which there was lying a baby, fair and beautiful like the moon.

Then the king guessed and groaned, "There is what I did not know about! O, you monster, you will be the death of mine!" So thought the king and cried bitterly.

All wondered, but no one said a word. Taking the baby into his arms, King Longbeard admired it long, carried it into the palace, put it into the cradle, and hiding his sorrow, he began to rule over his country as formerly. Nobody knew the king's secret. But everybody saw the king was sad -- he was always expecting somebody to come for his son. During the day he found no rest, at night he could not sleep. The time was passing meanwhile, and nobody came. The young prince grew very rapidly and developed into a beautiful youth. The king himself forgot all that happened at the well -- but not everybody was so forgetful.

Once the prince, while hunting, came into a very thick forest. He looked around: a wild glade was before him. Upon it stood a hollow lime tree. A rustling came from the hollow, and a very queer looking old man came out with a green beard and green eyes.

"Hello! Prince Ivan," said he, "we were looking for you. It is time to think of us."

"Who are you?" asked Ivan.

"I will tell you later about it. Now do this for me: give my regards to your father, King Longbeard, and ask him whether it is not time for him to pay his debt? The term has passed long ago. He will understand the rest. Now good-bye," and the bearded old man disappeared.

Prince Ivan, very sad and thoughtful, left the dark forest. He went straight to his father, King Longbeard.

"Dear father king," said he, "a miracle occurred to me," -- and he told him what he had seen and heard.

The king became pale like a ghost. "Woe to me, my dear son Ivan," cried he weeping bitterly, "I see that we must part!" and he told to his son the terrible story about his given oath.

"Do not cry, do not worry, father," answered the prince. "The calamity is not so great. Give me a steed. I will go and you wait for me; keep the secret, that nobody may know about it, not even my mother the queen. But if I do not come back to you in a year, know that I am no longer alive." The prince was fitted out for the journey. King Longbeard gave him gold armor, a sword, and a steed. The queen gave him her blessing and a golden cross upon his neck -- and the young prince departed. What is going to happen to him?

He rode for one day, for another, for a third, and on the fourth day right after sunset, he came to a lake. The lake was smooth like glass; the water was on a level with the shores; everything around was desert. The water was covered with the rosy evening glow and the green shores with the thick reeds were reflected in it. Everything seemed as if in a dream. The air did not move; the reeds did not stir, there was no rustle upon the light streams. The prince looked around and what did he see? Thirty crested white ducks were swimming near the shore, upon the shore were lying thirty white gowns. The prince dismounted very cautiously at some distance. Hidden by the grass he crept towards the gowns and quickly took one of them. Then he rested himself behind a bush to see what was going to happen. The ducks swam and splattered in the stream, played, dived, and at last got to the shore. Twenty-nine of them ran to the white gowns, knocked themselves upon the ground, and all turned themselves into fair maidens, dressed and went away. But the thirtieth duck ran up and down with a pitiful cry. Shyly stretching her neck forward, she looked here and there, now flying up, now coming down again. The prince felt pity for her. He came out from behind his bush, and behold, she spoke to him in a human voice.

"Prince Ivan, give me back my gown and I will be useful to you."

The prince did not let her wait, but put the gown upon the grass and suddenly what did he see? A maiden in white robes, young and beautiful. She gave him her hand and with downcast, bashful eyes said to him:

"Thank you, good prince, for your kindness to me. You did me a favor, but it will be of good service to you also. I am the daughter of the immortal King Koshchey, Princess Mary. He has thirty daughters altogether. He is the ruler of the underground kingdom. He has expected you as his guest for a long time, and is very angry at your delay. But do not worry. Only follow my advice. Now listen. As soon as you shall see King Koshchey, kneel and creep before him upon your knees. He will stamp with his feet, but do not be frightened. When he scolds you, do not listen, but keep on creeping before him. What will happen, you will see later. Now we must go."

Princess Mary struck the ground with her small foot, the earth opened, and they went down into King Koshchey's underground kingdom. They came to the palace. It was built of precious stones and shone under the ground brighter than the earthly sun. Boldly the prince entered. King Koshchey sat upon his throne wearing a glittering crown, his eyes shone like emeralds. His hands were like claws. Ivan immediately fell upon his knees. King Koshchey stamped with his feet, his green eyes glittered frightfully, and he howled so loudly that the vaults of his underground kingdom trembled. Remembering the words of the Princess Mary, Ivan crept upon his knees toward King Koshchey's throne.

The king howled and the prince kept on creeping. Finally it seemed funny to the king. "Good for you, rogue," said he, "if you could succeed in making me laugh, I will quarrel with you no longer. You are welcomed to our underground kingdom, but know that for your disobedience you will have to do three services for us. We will settle our accounts to-morrow. It is too late to-night. Go!"

The courtiers quickly and politely took Ivan under his arms, and carried him to a chamber, opened the door, bowed, and left him all to himself. He lay down upon the bed and soon fell asleep. The next morning very early King Koshchey called for Prince Ivan. "Well, Prince Ivan, now let us see what you can do. For instance, build for us a palace for to-morrow. The roof must be of gold, the walls of marble, the windows of crystal; around it a regular garden, and in the garden a fish-pond. If you do it, you will get into our favor; if not, do not blame us, but you shall be executed."

"O, you cruel King Koshchey!" thought Ivan. "This is an impossible thing for me to do."

Greatly grieved he went to his room and thought his sad thoughts. In the evening a bright bee came flying to his window, flapped against the pane, and he heard a voice saying "Let me in!" He opened the window, the bee flew inside and turned into Princess Mary.

"Hello, Prince Ivan! Why are you so sad?"

"I have good reasons to be so. Your father wants to have me executed."

"What have you decided to do?"

"Nothing. Let him do it. Go where you can and die where you must."

"No, my dear Prince Ivan. We must not lose our courage. There are still greater calamities in the world than yours. Go to sleep, and get up very early. The palace will be built for you. You will only have to go around it, and knock with your hammer at the walls as if finishing your work."

And so it was. Very early in the morning Ivan came out of his chamber, and behold! The palace was all built for him.

King Koshchey was surprised. He did not believe his own eyes. "O, you are a very skillful fellow indeed. Now let us see whether you are just as clever. I have thirty daughters, beautiful princesses. To-morrow I will place all of them in a row; you will pass three times before them and tell me which is the youngest of them. If you don't guess, you shall die. Now go."

"Is that hard to guess?" thought the prince, "I certainly will recognize Princess Mary."

"It is very hard," said the princess, who flew as a bee into his room, "and if I do not help you, you will get into trouble. We thirty sisters look all alike. So great is the resemblance between us, that our father can recognize us only by our dress."

"What am I to do then?"

"I will tell you what: I will be the one who has a small black fly on the right cheek. But beware! Look very carefully; it is easy to make a mistake." And the bee disappeared.

The next day the prince was again called to King Koshchey. All the princesses were there, and all dressed alike stood in a row with downcast eyes.

"Well," said the king, "pass three times before these beauties and tell us which of them is Princess Mary."

Ivan looked at them and thought, "What a resemblance." He passed the first time and saw no fly; passed for the second time -- still no fly; passed the third time and saw a tiny fly stealing its way across the fresh burning cheek of one of the princesses. The prince blushed and his heart was beating with joy. "Here she is, Princess Mary," said he, giving his hand to the beauty with the fly upon her cheek.

"Ah, ah! I see there must be something wrong about it," grumbled King Koshchey, looking angrily at the prince with his big green eyes. "It is true you did recognize Princess Mary, but how did you guess it? Wait now, I will soon find out the truth. In three hours come back to us. You will be welcomed as our guest, but you will have to prove to us your wisdom by deeds. I will light a straw, and you will have to make here upon the spot while the straw is burning, a pair of shoes. It is not hard for you. But remember if you fail to do it, you shall pay for it with your life."

Very much irritated, Ivan returned to his room. The bee-princess was waiting for him.

"Why are you so sad again, my dear Prince Ivan?"

"How can I be joyful?" answered he. "Your father is plotting a new trick against me. He wants me to make a pair of boots while a straw is burning. Am I a shoemaker? I am a king's son, not worse by birth than he is. He is immortal, but does this give him a right to treat me so badly?"

"So, Prince Ivan, what are you going to do now?"

"What can I do? I cannot make the boots. Let him take my head off. I do not care any longer!"

"Oh, no, my dear prince! Are we not now bride and bridegroom? I will try to save you. We will both be saved or both perish. We must run away." Saying this the princess breathed upon the window. Her breath immediately froze to the panes. Then she and the prince left the room, locked the door, and threw the key far away.

Arm in arm they went up, and in a minute they were in the place of entrance to the underground kingdom. The same lake, low grassy shore, fresh meadow, and upon it the good steed of Prince Ivan. As soon as the sturdy steed felt its rider, it neighed, jumped, ran straight towards him, and stood as if rooted to the spot. Ivan did not think long, but mounted the horse, lifted the princess, and off they went as quick as lightning.

Meanwhile King Koshchey sent his courtiers at the appointed hour for Prince Ivan. They came to the door and found it locked. They knocked, and from behind the Princess' breath answered in the voice of Prince Ivan, "I am coming." The servants took the answer to the king. He waited and waited and no prince came. The angry King Koshchey sent his servants again and they brought the same answer. Nobody came, King Koshchey was almost mad with anger.

"Does he want to mock me? Run, break the door, and take by force that ill-bred fellow."

The servants ran, the door was broken up. What a surprise! Nobody was inside, but the breath was loudly laughing at them.

King Koshchey almost burst with anger. "O, you miserable thief! Come here, my people! All to me, my servants! Run, all of you, in pursuit of them. They have departed."

"I hear the tramping of horses feet," whispered the princess, clasping the prince.

He dismounted, and putting his ear against the ground said, "Yes, I hear the chase, and it is quite near."

"Then we must not lose our time," said Princess Mary, and in a minute she turned into a river, the prince into an iron bridge the steed into a black raven, and the large road was divided into three smaller roads.

Swiftly the chase was coming by the fresh tracks, but when they came to the river, they stopped perplexed. Up to the bridge they could follow the track, but beyond it the track was lost. Nothing could be done. They had to go back.

King Koshchey was terribly angry when he heard about their failure. "You fools!" cried he. "The river and the bridge must have been they. Couldn't you guess it, you idiots! Go again, and do not fail to bring them with you."

The pursuit started anew.

"I hear the tramping of horses," said Princess Mary to Prince Ivan.

He dismounted again, put his ear against the ground and said, "Yes, they are tramping, and pretty near us."

In a second Princess Mary, together with Prince Ivan and the steed, turned into a wild dark forest. In that forest there were numberless paths, and a horse with two riders seemed to gallop through it. Now the chase came by the fresh track to the forest. They saw the riders and ran after them. The forest reached as far as King Koshchey's underground kingdom. The chase was flying and the horse with the two riders was always before them. Now they almost reached them, now they only had to grasp them, -- but no, the steed was again far behind them. And see! There they were again before the entrance to King Koshchey's kingdom at the same place where they started their chase; and everything disappeared, -- no more horse, no more forest.

With empty hands the pursuers appeared before King Koshchey. Like one mad the king tossed about. "Wait until I catch that wretch! I will go myself now. Let us see how they are going to escape me!"

Again Princess Mary whispered to Prince Ivan, "I hear tramping."

Again he answered her, "Yes, they are approaching us."

"Woe to us! This is my father himself; but his power reaches only to the first church. Give me the cross you wear upon your neck."

The prince took from his neck the golden cross, the gift of his mother, gave it to the princess, and in a minute she turned into a church, he into a monk, and the steed into a bell-tower.

Right after King Koshchey came with his suite. "Did you not see any travelers pass by, my venerable man?" he asked the monk.

"Just now Prince Ivan and Princess Mary passed by; they went into the church to pray, and asked me to pray for your help, and to remember them to you if you should come to me."

"Oh, I wish they would break their necks, the wretches!" cried King Koshchey. Turning his horse like one possessed, he returned home with his suite. After his arrival he cruelly whipped all his servants.

Ivan with the princess went further, no longer fearing the pursuit. They were riding very slowly. The sun was setting, and suddenly in the evening rays they beheld a beautiful city. Ivan was very anxious to go inside.

"Prince Ivan," said the princess, "do not go; not in vain does my heart ache. A misfortune will happen to us."

"What are you afraid of, dear princess? Let us go in just for a very short time. Let us see the city and then continue the journey."

"It is not hard to get in, but it will be hard to get out. Do as you please. Go, and I will remain here, lying as a white stone upon the road. Look out, my dear, be careful. The king, queen, and their daughter will come out to meet you with a beautiful child; do not kiss that child. If you do, you will immediately forget me; then I will live no longer; I will die from grief, and you will be the cause of my death. Here at the road I will wait for you for three days. If you do not come -- but good-bye now. Go."

Bidding her farewell, the prince went into the city. At the road as a white stone remained Princess Mary. One day passed, another passed, at last the third day passed. The prince did not come. Poor Princess Mary! He did not follow her instructions. In the city he met the king, queen, and their daughter. With them came a beautiful child, a curly-headed boy, very lively, his eyes shining like bright stars. He ran straight into Ivan's arms. The prince was so charmed with his beauty that, losing his mind, he began to kiss his warm cheeks, and at the same time his memory was darkened and he forgot about Princess Mary.

She was seized with grief, "You left me, and I do not want to live any longer." In a moment she turned into a sky-blue flower. "Here by the road I will remain, perhaps somebody passing by will tread me down into the earth," said she, and tears like dew-drops glittered upon the blue petals.

An old man passed that place. He saw the blue flower. Delighted with its delicate beauty, he dug it carefully out with the roots, carried it into his hut, planted it in a flowerpot, watered it and cared for it tenderly. What happened? From that time everything was changed in the poor man's hut. Something wonderful was going on there. When the old man awoke, he found the hut all cleaned and in perfect order. There was nowhere a grain of dust to be found. At noon when he came home, the dinner was cooked and the table neatly set; he had only to sit down and eat. He wondered but could not explain matters. At last he was frightened and went to an old fairy to ask for advice.

"I will tell you what to do," answered the fairy, "get up very early at dawn, before the cocks' sing, and look about the hut. Whatever begins to move first, cover it with this kerchief. What happens, you will see."

The whole night the old man lay sleepless in his bed. The sun began to rise, and there was light in the hut. Suddenly he saw that the blue flower moved, flew off its thin stalk and began to fly about the room. Everything went right away to its place, everything was dusted and cleaned, and a bright fire began to burn in the stove. Quickly jumped the old man off his bed and covered the flower with the fairy's kerchief and before him there appeared the beautiful Princess Mary.

"What have you done?" said she. "Why did you bring me to life again? My bridegroom, Prince Ivan, left me and I am forgotten by him."

"Your Prince Ivan is getting married to-day. The wedding-feast is all ready and all the guests have arrived."

Princess Mary cried bitterly. Then she wiped her tears. Putting on a "sarafan" (Russian national dress for women) she went into the city as a country girl. She came into the king's kitchen. The cooks were running here and there in their white caps and aprons. There was plenty of noise, bustle, and clatter. She went up to the chief cook, and with an imploring face and a voice as sweet as a flute said, "Cook dear, allow me to bake the wedding cake for the prince."

The cook, disturbed in his work, wanted to refuse her, but no angry word could escape his lips when he looked at her, and he answered very kindly, "Very well, fair maiden, do what you please; I myself will serve your cake to Prince Ivan."

At the feast when all the guests were sitting around the table, the chief cook put before Ivan a large cake upon a beautiful silver plate. All the guests were surprised at the skill of the baker. But as soon as Ivan cut off the top of it, a new wonder! A pair of pigeons flew out of it. The gray male pigeon was walking upon the table, and the white female after him cooing. "Pigeon, my pigeon, stop, do not run away; you will forget me just as Prince Ivan has forgotten Princess Mary."

Ivan groaned when he heard this. He jumped up like mad, and ran to the door behind which Mary was waiting. Before the palace the black steed all saddled and bridled, was impatiently stamping the ground. They did not tarry. Ivan and his princess rode away. After a long journey they arrived in King Longbeard's kingdom, where the old king and queen gave them a joyful reception. They prepared for the wedding; guests were invited and a great feast feasted. And I was there and feasted with them, and that is the end of the whole story.




The Toy-Goose


A Flea, a Grasshopper, and a Toy-goose once wanted to see which of them could jump highest, and so they invited the whole world and everybody else who would like to come, to see the frolic. When the three met together in the room, everyone thought they were remarkable jumpers.

"Well, I'll give my daughter to the one who jumps highest!" said the king; "for it would not be fair to let these people jump for nothing!"

The first one to step forward was the Flea; he had such perfect manners and bowed on every side, for he had noble blood in his veins, and more than that, he associated only with human beings, which makes a great difference.

Then came the Grasshopper; he was certainly very much larger, however, he carried himself well, and wore the green uniform he was born with. Moreover, as he said, he belonged to a very old family in the land of Egypt, and was well thought of here at home.

The fact was, when he was brought out of the fields he was put in a house, three storeys high, all made of court-cards with the colored side turned in; both doors and windows were cut out in the waist of the Queen of Hearts. "I sing so well," he said "that sixteen native crickets who had chirped since they were born, and still had no house of cards to live in, grew thinner than they were before out of vexation when they heard of me."

So it was that the Flea and the Grasshopper were able to give a good account of themselves, and saw no reason why they should not marry the princess.

The Toy-goose said nothing; and people thought it was because he knew all the more; the house-dog sniffed at him with his nose, and assured them the Toy-goose was of good family. The old councilor, who had three orders given him for holding his tongue, said that the Toy-goose was a prophet; for one could see on his back if there would be a severe or mild winter, and that was more than one could see on the back of the man who writes the almanacs.

"Well, I shall say nothing," said the king, "however I have my own opinion."

The trial was to take place at once, so the Flea jumped first. He jumped so high that nobody could see where he went to; so they said he had not jumped at all; which was shameful.

The Grasshopper jumped only half as high; but he jumped right into the king's face, which, the king said was most unpleasant.

The Toy-goose stood still for a long time, thinking to himself; at last the people believed he would not jump at all.

"I only hope he is not ill," said the house-dog; when, pop! he made a side jump right into the lap of the princess, who was sitting on a little golden stool close by.

Then the king said, "There is nothing above my daughter; therefore he has made the highest jump that can be made: to do this, one must have a good mind and the Toy-goose has shown that he has a good mind. He has a mind of his own!"

And so he won the princess.

"It's all the same to me, she may have the old Toy-goose, for all I care," said the Flea. "I jumped the highest; but, in this world a fine appearance is what people look at nowadays."

The Flea then went into a foreign land and enlisted, where it is said, he was killed.

The Grasshopper sat on a green bank, and thought on worldly things; and he said, "Yes, a fine appearance is everything -- a fine appearance is what people care about." And then he began chirping his melancholy song from which we have taken this story; and which may or may not be true, although it is printed.




Yellow Lily


Once upon a time, when fairies were as plentiful as dandelions in the meadow, there dwelt in Ireland a mighty king and his good queen. The names of these great rulers have long since been forgotten by writers of history, for they lived hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

They ruled over Erin, and lived in a great stone castle built high upon a cliff overlooking the sea. Erin was the most beautiful part of Ireland, for its forests and great stretches of land were as green as the emerald, and its skies and waters were as blue as the turquoise.

This king and queen had but one child, who was known as the Prince of Erin. He was a bright, handsome boy, but he cared only to have a good time. His father had often told him how wrong it was for him to make bets, but the lad gave no heed to his advice.

One day the prince went out in the wood to hunt for deer. He tramped about all day long, carrying his bow and arrows, but no deer could he find. At last he sat down to rest.

He was almost asleep when he heard a shrill whistle behind him and the tramping of heavy feet upon the fallen timbers.

"Who are you?" cried a loud, gruff voice.

The prince turned quickly and saw a giant striding towards him down the hill. He was almost as tall as the tallest tree, and his face was frightful to see. His eyes were like balls of fire and his nostrils belched forth black smoke.

"Woe is me; it is the Giant of Loch Lein!" cried the prince. He wanted to run away as fast as he could, but his feet would not move. He stood trembling in every limb, for he knew that the Giant of Loch Lein hunted in the wood for boys just as the boys hunted for game. Many a lad had been seized by the terrible creature, taken to his castle in the heart of the forest, and had never returned to his parents.

"Who are you?" again roared the giant.

"I am the son of the King of Erin," replied the boy, trying to be brave.

"I have been waiting for you a long time," said the giant with a laugh that sounded like a thunder clap. "I have never eaten a real prince, although I have heard that their meat is very tender."

The prince turned away, weak with fright; but the giant seized him and said:

"Do not be frightened. As you are a son of the Ruler of Erin, I will give you a chance to escape. I understand that you can play fine games, and that you are fond of betting. Let us play a game on this hillside. If I win, I will take you to my castle, never to return to your home again."

The prince was so fond of playing games that, even in his fright, he agreed to do as the giant wished.

"I have two fine estates, each containing a castle," said the giant. "They are yours if you beat me at the game."

"And I also have two estates which shall be yours, if you beat me," replied the prince. "No man in Erin has ever beaten me at any game."

So they played until dusk, the prince quite forgetting his fear of the giant. Although the Giant of Loch Lein was a skillful player, the Prince of Erin beat him badly.

"You may go," grumbled the giant when the game was at an end. "You are surely a wonderful player -- the best in all the land."

Most of the old historians agree that the Prince of Erin did not tell his parents anything about his narrow escape from the giant. As soon as he reached home, he climbed to the top of the tallest tower where he could gaze at the forest in the distance, in which stood the castle of the giant.

"I will go again to-morrow and beat the giant, for it will be huge sport," he said to himself. "Even if I be beaten, the giant dare not destroy the son of the King of Erin, for my father's army will search for me and tear down the castle of the giant when I am found. Besides, I understand that he has three beautiful daughters, the fairest girls in all the land. I should like to see them."

On the next morning, while the prince was preparing to go hunting, the wisest old man in the court, whose name was Glic, went to the king and said:

"The prince is about to go hunting. I beg you not to let him go, for I fear that some great danger will befall him."

The king commanded his son to stay inside the palace all day; but when no one was looking, the prince stole away to the hillside near the forest. Again he heard a shrill whistle that shook the boughs of the trees like a gale, and in a few moments he saw the giant striding towards him.

"Ho, ho, my young prince!" cried the giant. "I knew that you would come back to-day. Let us have another game. What will you wager that you can beat me playing?"

"I will wager my herd of cattle," said the prince, not so much frightened as before.

"And I will wager five hundred bullocks with gold horns and silver hoofs," said the giant. "I am quite sure you cannot beat me again."

"Agreed," said the prince, and at once they began to play.

In a short time the prince won the game, and the giant set up a howl of rage. Turning towards the forest he whistled loudly three times, and five hundred bullocks with gold horns and silver hoofs came forth.

"They are yours," said the giant. "Follow them to your palace gate and come again to-morrow."

The prince, filled with the delight of triumph, followed the cattle to the palace gate where the king's herder took charge of them. Then he hastened to his father and mother and bade them go to see the costly wager he had won from the Giant of Loch Lein.

The king and queen and all the court were delighted with the cattle, whose gold horns and silver hoofs shone in the sunlight.

On the third morning the Prince of Erin again put on his hunting clothes and started to the forest; but Glic, the fortune teller, again stopped him.

"No good can come from this gaming, for the giant will beat you at last, and you will never return to us again," said Glic.

"I am not afraid," laughed the prince, "for if he take me prisoner, I will have his head."

So he set forth again, singing a merry tune. Hardly had he seated himself upon the hillside when he heard the giant's whistle. The prince was not at all frightened, although the giant scowled with anger because he had been obliged to give up his herd of cattle.

"What will you wager to-day?" roared the giant.

"I will wager my head against yours," said the prince boldly.

"Ha, ha! you have grown quite brave," laughed the giant mockingly. "I will wager my head that I can beat you to-day. If you lose the game, I will have your head before the sun rises to-morrow."

They played on the hillside till dusk. The game was a close one, full of breathless interest and excitement; but the prince was beaten. With a shout of triumph the giant danced about, trampling down small trees and bushes.

The prince was indeed sorry that he had wagered such a useful piece of property as his head, but he did not complain.

"You are an honest lad, even though you are rash," he said presently. "I will let you live one year and one day longer. Go home to the palace, but do not tell anyone that I am to have your head. When the time has passed by, come back again to the hillside to pay your wager."

Then the giant vanished, leaving the poor prince alone, very sick at heart. He did not go home but wandered about, not caring whither he went.

Finally he found that he was in a strange land far beyond the border line of Erin. On each side were green pasture lands, and in the distance were high green hills; but not a house could be seen.

He wandered on and on, weak from hunger till he came to an old hut that stood at the foot of a hill. It was lighted by a candle. He entered and came face to face with an old woman who had been bending over a fire. Her teeth were as long as the staff he carried and her scant hair hung loosely about her face.

Before the prince could speak, the old woman said:

"You are welcome in my house, son of the King of Erin."

Then she took him by the hand, led him into a corner of the room, and told him to wash his face and hands. In the meantime she made him some hot porridge and bade him eat a hearty meal.

The prince was much surprised because she knew his name, and he wondered why she remained so quiet. He thought she must be a witch; but hungry boys, no matter how high their station, are apt to forget danger when a good supper is set before them. After he had eaten and drunk all he wanted, he sat by the fire until she took him to a bedroom and told him to go to bed.

On the next morning he was awakened by the witch, who bade him rise and eat his breakfast of bread and milk.

He did as he was told, without so much as bidding her good morning.

"I know what is bothering you, son of the King of Erin," she said. "If you do as I bid you, you will have no cause for regret. Here is a ball of thread. Hold to one end of the thread and throw the ball before you. When you start on your journey the ball will roll; but you must keep following it and winding the thread all the time or you will be lost again. You were with me last night; you will be with my sister to-night."

The prince took the ball of thread; threw it before him, and began walking slowly and winding the thread into another ball. With each step that he took, the ball moved further and further away from him. All day long he trudged up hill and down dell, faster and faster, until his feet and hands were so tired he could scarcely move them. At last the ball of thread stopped at the door of a hut that stood at the foot of a high hill. A candle flickered in the window. He picked up the ball and ran to the door where he met another old witch whose teeth were as long as crutches.

"Welcome, son of the King of Erin!" she cried. "You were with my youngest sister last night; you will be with me to-night; and to-morrow you will be with my eldest sister."

She took him into the hut, bade him wash his hands and face, gave him a hearty supper of porridge and cakes, and sent him to bed.

The next morning she called him to breakfast. When he had finished eating, she gave him a ball of thread and told him to follow it as before.

The prince followed it through field and over common, hurrying faster and faster every minute, until late on the following evening, when it stopped at the door of a hut that stood at the foot of a hill. A candle sputtered in the window as if to welcome him. A witch, more homely than the others, stood by the fire making porridge.

She greeted the prince as her sisters had done, bade him wash his face and hands, gave him his supper, and sent him to bed. On the following morning after breakfast she gave him a ball of thread and said:

"Son of the Prince of Erin, you have lost your head to the Giant of Loch Lein, who lives near by in a great castle surrounded by spikes. Some day you will lose your head to his daughter. Follow this ball of thread to the lake behind the castle. When you reach the lake at midday, the ball will be unwound. In a few minutes more the daughters of the cruel Giant of Loch Lein will come to the lake to bathe. Their names are Blue Lily, White Lily, and Yellow Lily. The latter is the wisest and most beautiful of the three. Steal her clothing and do not give it up until she promises to help you, for she is the only person in the world that can outwit the Giant of Loch Lein."

The prince thanked the witch for her advice, and followed the ball of thread to the Castle of Spikes, which was a dark, gloomy building hidden from view by great trees. When he reached the lake behind the castle, the ball of thread vanished.

He stood for a time looking at the lake, which looked like a brilliant turquoise in the sunshine. Presently he heard girlish shouts of laughter. He concealed himself behind a clump of bushes where he could see without being seen. Three beautiful girls came tripping down to the edge of the water, where they stopped to look all about them.

It was very easy for the prince to make out their names. The tallest one, who wore a gown of pale blue, had eyes as blue as the skies above; he knew that she must be Blue Lily.

One of them was so fair that she looked as though she were carved from marble; he was sure that she was White Lily. But Yellow Lily was small and slender, with hair that shone like gold in the sunlight. She was wonderfully graceful and beautiful.

Yellow Lily threw off her robe of spun gold and stood dressed in a bathing suit of the same material. With a joyous shout she leapt into the water, followed by her sisters.

The Prince of Erin darted forth from his hiding-place, and seized the robe of spun gold. Yellow Lily saw him and cried at the top of her voice:

"Give me back my golden robe. My father will kill me if I lose it. Please do not run away."

"What will you give me for it?" asked the prince, moving slowly backward from the pool.

"Anything that you wish, for I am guarded by a fairy godmother who makes all things possible," replied Yellow Lily.

"I have come to give myself up to your father, the Giant of Loch Lein, according to my promise," said the prince. "I would ask you to have him set me free. Here is your gown."

He laid the robe upon the grass and walked away up the hill towards the castle. In a few moments he was joined by Yellow Lily dressed in her golden robe.

"You are the son of the King of Erin," she said smiling sweetly, and catching step with him. "If you do as I say, you will not lose your head; but in the future I hope that you will never become so foolish as to wager your head or any other trifle you may have."

"I promise you that I will not," said the prince, looking at her admiringly. "If your father had wagered your pretty golden head, I believe I could have beaten him at the game."

Yellow Lily tossed her curls and laughed merrily, saying: "Father has a soft bed for you in a deep tank; but do not worry, for I will help you."

They passed in silence through the stone gates of the Castle of Spikes. The great stone courts, balconies, and battlements were quite deserted. Yellow Lily took the prince into the kitchen, which was the largest one he had ever seen. The floor was made of white cobblestones, and a brass caldron boiled over the flames in the great fireplace. Yellow Lily hid the prince behind a curtain in one corner of the room.

Presently the Giant of Loch Lein appeared and sank down into a chair before the fireplace. He began to sniff the air and finally roared:

"The son of the King of Erin is here! Fetch him hither, Yellow Lily."

The girl did as she was bidden. The prince could not keep from trembling as he stood before the fierce giant, although he felt that Yellow Lily would keep her promise.

"You must be very tired," roared the giant, so loudly that the dishes on the shelves rattled. "I have a nice soft bed for you."

He seized the prince, carried him across the kitchen, opened a tank, and threw him in. Splash! The prince fell head-first into three feet of water.

What was still more terrible, the giant fastened down the lid of the tank. The prince feared the dark far more than he did the water, but he did not cry out. He stood shivering for more than an hour, wondering if Yellow Lily had forgotten him, and wishing that he was safe at home in his bed of silk and gold.

At last the lid was raised, and Yellow Lily peeped down at him, smiling roguishly.

"Shall I steal your clothes and run away, as you tried to do to-day?" she said softly.

"No, do not let me stay in this place. I will do anything you may want me to do," pleaded the prince, with chattering teeth.

"Then climb out; put on these dry, warm clothes I have for you; and have some supper," she said.

It did not take the prince long to get out of his soft bed. He found the giant sound asleep before the fireplace, snoring loud enough to drown the most terrible crash of thunder.

Yellow Lily spoke not a word, but gave the prince some dry clothing and told him to stay in the corner until she returned. Before long she came back with a tempting supper smoking upon a tray, and told him to eat. He was very hungry and ate very heartily. Then she took him to another corner of the room and raised a curtain that hung there.

He saw a soft, white bed and a table that held fresh water and towels. Yellow Lily wished him happy dreams and hastened away.

At break of day she returned and said excitedly:

"Awaken, Prince of Erin! Do not lose a moment or we are lost. Put on the clothes you wore yesterday and follow me."

The prince rose and dressed himself as quickly as possible. Then he drew back the curtain that hid his bed, and followed the girl.

"When the chickens begin to cackle, father will awaken," she whispered. "Leap back into the tank and I will shut down the lid."

The prince hesitated.

"Do as I say, or we are both lost," said the girl.

The prince jumped into the tank, and Yellow Lily closed the lid. The splash aroused the giant, who stretched his heavy limbs, rubbed his nose, and yawned. Then he opened his eyes, gazed all about him, strode across the room, opened the tank, and shouted:

"Good morning, Prince of Erin; how did you like your nice soft bed last night?"

"I never slept better, thank you," truthfully answered the prince.

"Then climb out," commanded the giant.

The prince obeyed.

"Since you have slept so soundly, you shall do some hard work to-day," said the giant. "I will spare you your head if you will clean out my stables. They contain five hundred horses and they have not been cleaned for seven hundred years. I am anxious to find my great-grandmother's slumber-pin which was lost somewhere in these stables. The poor old soul never slept a wink after losing it, so she died for want of sleep. I want the slumber-pin for my own use, as I am a very light sleeper."

"I will do my best to get the pin," said the prince, almost discouraged, for he had never so much as cleaned the tips of his boots.

"Here are two shovels, an old one and a new one," said the giant gruffly. "You may take your choice. Dig away until you find the slumber-pin. I shall expect it when I come home to-night."

The prince took the new shovel and followed the giant to the stables where hundreds of horses began to neigh, making a most deafening noise.

"Remember, Prince of Erin, I will either have the slumber-pin or your head," said the giant, as he walked away.

The prince set to work, but every time he threw a shovelful out of the window, two shovelfuls came flying in to take its place. At last, tired and discouraged, he sat down to rest.

At that moment Yellow Lily appeared, more beautiful than ever in another gown of gold and silver, with yellow flowers in her golden hair.

"What are you trying to do, Prince of Erin?" she asked, dimpling with laughter.

"I am trying to find your great-great-grandmother's slumber-pin," was the pitiful reply.

"You are a mighty prince and my father is a mighty giant, yet you are both foolish as all men are," she said. "How do you suppose my great-great-grandmother could lose her slumber-pin in the stables? I have the slumber-pin myself; here it is. I put it in father's pocket last night so he could not wake up and catch us."

"What a useful girl you are!" cried the Prince, beside himself with joy and admiration.

All day long they visited until Yellow Lily said that she must go, for she heard her father's footsteps a league away, and he would be there in two minutes.

When the giant saw that the prince had found the slumber-pin, he was greatly surprised.

"Either my daughter, Yellow Lily, has aided you, or else it was the Evil Spirit," he muttered.

Before the prince could reply, the giant picked him up, carried him back to the kitchen, and again threw him into the tank. Then he sat down by the fire, holding the slumber-pin. Soon he began to snore like a thousand locomotives.

Up went the lid of the tank, and Yellow Lily, sweet and smiling, shouted down at the top of her voice:

"Get up from your soft bed, Prince of Erin; eat the supper I have prepared, and talk as loudly as you wish, for father has gone to sleep holding great-great-grandmother's slumber-pin."

The evening they spent together was a merry one, and after Yellow Lily had joined her sisters in the watch-tower, the prince again slept in the soft bed in the corner of the kitchen. At dawn Yellow Lily again awakened him and told him to hurry back to the tank.

As soon as the lid was closed, Yellow Lily rushed to her father's side, seized the slumber-pin, and threw it upon the floor. The giant gave a roar and fell sprawling upon the cobblestones.

"Who woke me up?" he growled, trying to gain his feet.

"I did, dear father," said the girl meekly. "You would have slept forever had I not pulled the slumber-pin from your grasp. It is very late."

"You are a good, trustworthy daughter," said the giant. "I will get you something pretty."

He went to the tank and commanded the prince to get out of his nice, soft bed.

"You have lain in bed so long, you must work still harder to-day," he added. "My stables have not been thatched for many years, and I want you to do it to-day. They cover many acres, but if you finish them before dark I will spare you your head. They must be thatched with feathers, to be put on one at a time, and no two of them must be alike."

The prince was again cast down, but he said that he would do his best.

"But where shall I find the birds?" he asked after a period of helpless silence.

"Where do you suppose? I hope you would not try to find them in the frog pond," was the impatient answer. "Here are two whistles, an old one and a new one. You may take your choice."

"I'll take the new one," said the prince, and the giant gave him a whistle that looked as though it had never been used.

"Some day you will learn that old things are best," said the giant scornfully.

When the giant had gone, the prince blew the whistle until his lips were puckered out of shape, but not a fowl came to his rescue. At last he sat down upon a rock, almost ready to cry.

But Yellow Lily came again, lovelier than ever in another yellow gown trimmed with the wings of dragon flies, and with pearls in her glorious hair.

"Why do you sit whistling instead of working?" she asked. "Poor prince, you must be hungry. Here is a little table set for two under this big tree. When things worry you, don't give up. The man who keeps his appetite has no cause to despair."

So they sat down and ate peacock tongues and frosted cakes and almonds and many other delicacies, and were happier than ever.

"But it is growing late, and the stable is still unthatched!" cried the prince, suddenly remembering his task as soon as his appetite was satisfied.

"Look behind you," said the girl.

The prince, to his utter surprise, saw that the stables were thatched with downy bird feathers, no two of them alike.

"You are a wonder," he said, grasping her hands in gratitude.

"Not at all," she replied. "How could the birds work for you while you stood there blowing that terrible whistle? Birds would be as good friends to people as dogs are, if people did not frighten them so. But say no more. I hear father drinking at the spring two miles away, and he will be here in four minutes."

She drew her skirts closely about her and with a sweet smile hastened into the castle.

"Who thatched that roof?" shouted the giant as soon as he arrived.

"My own strength did it," said the prince humbly, feeling that he had not told a falsehood, for Yellow Lily was even more than strength to him.

The giant, instead of thanking him for his services, seized him again, and threw him headlong into the kitchen tank. Then he sat down by the fire. No sooner had his head begun to nod than Yellow Lily placed the slumber-pin over his nose to be sure that he could not wake up. Then she set the prince free, and they spent the evening as before, except that there was much more merriment.

On the following morning the giant opened the tank and ordered the prince to climb out.

"I have a task for you to do that even a prince cannot do," he said. "I am sure that I shall have your head before night. Near the castle is a tree nine hundred feet high. It has but one branch and that is near the top. This branch contains a crow's nest. In the nest is one egg. I want that egg for supper to-night. If you do not get it, you will be sorry."

The giant took the prince to the tree, which rose like a great pillar of smooth glass, so slippery that not even an ant could crawl upon it without sliding off.

When the giant had gone, the prince tried a dozen times to climb to the top, but each time he slipped back to the earth quicker and harder than before. He was glad indeed when Yellow Lily came.

And now comes the bloodcurdling part of the tale that I would rather omit; but I must tell it all to you just as the dear little Irish children heard it centuries ago, or I should feel that I had marred this ancient bit of fairy folklore.

Yellow Lily, as usual, brought something to eat, and after they had eaten, she, for the first time, turned upon the prince a sorrowful face.

"I am sorry father gave you this task to do; but we must submit to what cannot be helped," she said. "Alas! dear prince, you must kill me."

"Kill you!" he cried in horror. "Never! I would rather lose my head a thousand times."

"But, if you are careful, I shall come to life again," persisted the girl. "My fairy godmother will care for me. You will find it easy to strip off my flesh, for you have only to say, 'Yellow Lily of Loch Lein.' Say it again and my bones will all separate. You will find that my bones will stick to this tree like little steps. On the ladder of bones you can climb to the top of the tree. Get the egg and climb down carefully, each time pulling one of my bones from the tree until you have reached the earth. Then pile the bones in a heap upon my flesh and say, 'Come back, Yellow Lily of Loch Lein,' and lo! I will be myself again. But be careful -- be careful not to leave one of my bones on the tree."

For a long time the prince refused to obey her request until Yellow Lily grew vexed and said:

"Then I will tell father that I have been helping you, and he will kill us both. Make haste, for the time is short."

"Yellow Lily of Loch Lein!" shouted the prince, without looking at her. "Yellow Lily of Loch Lein!" he shouted again.

Then he looked down and saw at his feet a stack of little white bones. He gathered them up and, climbing slowly, made a little ladder by sticking them against the tree. He soon reached the crow's nest, found the egg, placed it in his pocket, and climbed down again, plucking the bones from the tree as he went. Then he piled them upon the flesh and garments of the girl and, with tears in his eyes, shouted:

"Come back, Yellow Lily of Loch Lein."

And immediately Yellow Lily stood before him, but no longer smiling.

"Wretch!" she cried. "You have made me a cripple for life! You are nothing but a careless boy after all."

"Oh, what have I neglected to do?" cried the prince, sick with fear.

"There is one of my little toes still hanging to the tree. Oh, what an awkward creature a prince is!"

The prince on his knees begged her pardon, and finally Yellow Lily broke into her old, sweet smile and said:

"I am thankful it is no worse. What a sight I would be if you had forgotten my backbone!"

So they became merry and talkative again until it was time for the giant to arrive. Then Yellow Lily went to her tower and the prince took his stand at the castle gate holding the crow's egg.

"You are certainly a magician!" gasped the giant when he saw the prince. "I cannot take your head, lest a worse fate befall me. Go home at once. Do not linger here a minute."

The prince wanted to bid farewell to Yellow Lily, but of course, that was impossible, so he hastened home as fast as he could.

When he reached the Palace of Erin, the king, the queen, old Glic, and all the court ran out to greet him. Never before had there been such rejoicing there. For days they feasted and danced to melodious music, and a tournament was held in which the best archers in the kingdom tested their skill.

A year later, old Glic, who was always making trouble, told the king that it was time for the prince to marry some noble lady of great wealth. The prince would have liked to marry Yellow Lily, but the king said that he must choose a princess whose rank was equal to his own. In despair the prince told Glic to select him a wife soon or he would go roaming again and never return.

"I have found a suitable lady," said Glic. "Her father is the King of Loch Lein, the kingdom that is next to ours. Her father is powerful, her family is famous, her wealth cannot be counted, and she is as beautiful as the Queen of the Fairies."

"If she will have me, I will marry her," said the prince, "but I will not seek her myself."

The king sent Glic to the court of Loch Lein, bearing rich gifts and guarded by soldiers and attendants. In a few weeks he returned and told the King of Erin that the King of Loch Lein had consented to give the prince his daughter in marriage.

Preparations were at once made for a great wedding. All kinds of sports, several dances, and other amusements were to be enjoyed at court, and the royal families of many different kingdoms, even from the isles of the sea, were to be present.

The prince himself finally grew much interested in getting ready for the great event. In fact he almost forgot about Yellow Lily and the help she had given him to save his head. Yet he bade his father invite the Giant of Loch Lein to be present at the feast to be given before the day of the wedding. It was also agreed to invite Blue Lily, White Lily, and Yellow Lily, and to treat them as princesses of the royal blood.

In time the King of Loch Lein, who was an aged man, arrived with his daughter and a shipful of attendants. The gatekeeper blew his bugle and the whole court of Erin ran out to greet them. The King and Princess of Loch Lein were taken into the reception hall where the Queen and Prince of Erin welcomed them.

The prince was much disappointed when he beheld the princess, and was very angry with Glic, for she was haughty and not at all pretty. She seemed to be more pleased with the costly furniture and tapestries than with the prince.

The day of the feast came at last. The table in the banquet hall was loaded with fruits and costly meats of all kinds to be served upon plates of solid gold. Every one appeared to be happy, especially old Glic, who was to receive a large sum of money for finding the prince a wife.

At the close of the feast, the King of Erin sang a ballad and the King of Loch Lein told a story. In those days the people were fond of deeds of magic, so the prince requested Glic to call the mighty Giant of Loch Lein, that he might perform some tricks.

In a few moments the giant entered the room, bowing sternly as the people clapped their hands and cheered. He did not look at the prince but bowed low to the two kings.

"Your Majesties," he said, "it is my daughter who is the real magician. I know that she will be glad to entertain you for a short time. In fact she has consented to take my place."

Just then Yellow Lily entered the room in a gown of gold that swept the floor. Her golden hair shone like the sun. No one present had ever seen such glorious hair nor such a beautiful face and form. All were too much amazed at her beauty and elegance to utter a word of welcome.

Yellow Lily sat down at the table and threw two grains of wheat into the air. They lit upon the table and turned into a male and a female pigeon. Immediately the former began to peck at his mate, almost driving her from the table. To the surprise of all, the female pigeon shrieked:

"You didn't treat me thus on the day I cleaned the stable for you and found the slumber-pin."

Yellow Lily laid two grains of wheat before them, but the male pigeon greedily devoured them and continued to abuse his mate.

"You would not have done that to me the day I thatched the stables for you with the feathers of birds, and no two of them alike," shrieked the female pigeon.

When some more wheat was laid before them, the male pigeon ate more greedily than before, and after he had eaten every grain he pushed his mate off the table. She fluttered to the floor screaming:

"You wouldn't have done that the day you killed me and took my bones to make steps on the glass tree nine hundred feet high, to get the crow's egg for the supper of the Giant of Loch Lein -- and forgot my little toe, and made me lame for life!"

The Prince of Erin rose to his feet, red with shame, and turning to the King of Loch Lein, said:

"When I was younger I roamed about hunting and playing games. Once while away from home, I lost the key to a valuable chest. After a new key was made I found the old one. Which of the two keys should be kept, the old one or the new one?"

The King of Loch Lein looked puzzled, but he answered promptly:

"Keep the old one by all means, for it will fit better and you are more accustomed to it."

"I thank you for your sound advice," continued the prince with a smile. "Yellow Lily, the daughter of the Giant of Loch Lein, is the old key to my heart, and I will wed no other girl. Your daughter, the princess, is the new key that has never been tried. She is only my father's guest, and no more; but she will be better for having attended my happy wedding in Erin."

Great astonishment of both royal families and their guests when the prince took Yellow Lily by the hand and led her to a seat beside him. But when the musicians began to play a brilliant air, the palace re-echoed from tower to dungeon with joyous shouts of "Long live the Prince of Erin and his future bride, Yellow Lily of Loch Lein!"




The Mouse, The Bird, And The Sausage


Once upon a time, a Mouse, a Bird, and a Sausage, entered into partnership and set up house together. For a long time all went well; they lived in great comfort, and prospered so far as to be able to add considerably to their stores. The Bird's duty was to fly daily into the wood and bring in fuel; the Mouse fetched the water, and the Sausage saw to the cooking.

When people are too well off they always begin to long for something new. And so it came to pass, that the Bird while out one day, met a fellow-bird, to whom he told of the excellence of his household arrangements. But the other Bird sneered at him for being a poor simpleton, who did all the hard work while the other two stayed at home and had a good time of it. For, when the Mouse had made the fire and fetched in the water, she could retire into her little room and rest until it was time to set the table. The Sausage had only to watch the pot to see that the food was properly cooked, and when it was near dinnertime, he just threw himself into the broth, or rolled in and out among the vegetables three or four times, and there they were, buttered and salted, and ready to be served. Then, when the Bird came home and had laid aside his burden, they sat down to table, and when they had finished their meal, they could sleep their fill till the following morning: and that was really a very delightful life.

Influenced by these remarks, the Bird next morning refused to bring in the wood, telling the others that he had been their servant long enough, and had been a fool into the bargain, and that it was now time to make a change, and to try some other way of arranging the work. Beg and pray as the Mouse and the Sausage might, it was of no use; the Bird remained the master of the situation, and the venture had to be made. They therefore drew lots, and it fell to the Sausage to bring in the wood, to the Mouse to cook, and to the Bird to fetch the water.

And now what happened? The Sausage started in search of wood, the Bird made the fire, and the Mouse put on the pot, and then these two waited till the Sausage returned with the fuel for the following day. But the Sausage remained so long away, that they became uneasy, and the Bird flew out to meet him. He had not flown far, however, when he came across a Dog who, having met the Sausage, had regarded him as his legitimate booty, and so seized and swallowed him. The Bird complained to the Dog of this bare-faced robbery, but nothing he said was of any avail, for the Dog answered that he had found false credentials on the Sausage, and that was the reason his life had been forfeited.

The Bird picked up the wood and flew sadly home, and told the Mouse all he had seen and heard. They were both very unhappy but agreed to make the best of things and to remain with one another.

So now the Bird set the table, and the Mouse looked after the food, and wishing to prepare it in the same way as the Sausage, by rolling in and out among the vegetables to salt and butter them, she jumped into the pot; but she stopped short long before she reached the bottom, having already parted not only with her skin and hair, but also with life.

Presently the Bird came in and wanted to serve up the dinner, but he could nowhere see the cook. In his alarm and flurry, he threw the wood here and there about the floor, called and searched, but no cook was to be found. Then some of the wood that had been carelessly thrown down, caught fire and began to blaze. The Bird hastened to fetch some water, but his pail fell into the well, and he after it, and as he was unable to recover himself, he was drowned.




The Tale Of The Wolf In Harness


The horse carried me well. Advancing into the interior parts of Russia, I found traveling on horseback rather unfashionable in winter; therefore I submitted, as I always do, to the custom of the country, took a single-horse sledge, and drove briskly towards St. Petersburg. I do not exactly recollect whether it was in Eastland or Jugemanland, but I remember that in the midst of a dreary forest, I spied a terrible wolf making after me, with all the speed of ravenous winter hunger. He soon overtook me. There was no possibility of escape. Mechanically I laid myself down flat in the sledge, and let my horse run for our safety. What I wished, but hardly hoped or expected, happened immediately after. The wolf did not mind me in the least, but took a leap over me, and falling furiously on the horse, began instantly to tear and devour the hind part of the poor animal, which ran the faster for his pain and terror. Thus unnoticed and safe myself, I lifted my head slyly up, and with horror I beheld that the wolf had ate his way into the horse's body; it was not long before he had fairly forced himself into it, when I took my advantage, and fell upon him with the butt-end of my whip. This unexpected attack in his rear frightened him so much, that he leaped forward with all his might; the horse's carcass dropped on the ground; but in his place the wolf was in harness, and I on my part whipping him continually, we both arrived in full career safe at St. Petersburg, contrary to our respective expectations, and very much to the astonishment of the spectators.

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Stories The Iroquois Tell Their Children

By

Mabel Powers



How The Stories Came To Be


Out of the moons of long ago, these stories have come. Then every tribe of the Iroquois had its story-teller.

When the Old Man of the North came out of his lodge, and the forests and rivers of the Red Children grew white with his breath, these story-tellers wandered from wigwam to wigwam.

Seated on warm skins by the fire, the story-teller would exclaim, "Hanio!" This meant, "Come, gather round, and I will tell a story."

Then all the Red Children would cry, "Heh," and draw close to the fire. This meant that they were glad to hear the story. And as the flames leaped and chased one another along the fire trail, they would listen to these wonder stories of the Little People, of the trees and flowers, of birds, of animals, and men. When the story-teller had finished, he said, "Na ho." This meant, "It is the end."

The earth was very young, when the Red Children first learned how everything came to be, and just why it is that things are as they are. They told these wonderful things to their children, and their children in turn told them to their children; and those children again in turn told them to theirs, that these things might not be forgotten.

Now, but few of the Red Children know these stories that the grandmothers and old men of the tribe used to tell. The story-teller is no longer seen wandering from wigwam to wigwam.



Why I Was Called The Story-Teller


Some time ago the writer of these stories was asked to speak for an Indian Society. She accepted the invitation, and that night made her first Indian friends.

Her new friends told her many beautiful things about the Red Children. The more the writer learned about the Iroquois people, and things Indian, the more interested she became. After a time she began to tell the Paleface the things she had learned.

Soon, one of the tribes, the Senecas -- the tribe to which her new friends belonged -- heard that she was speaking for them. They wished to honor her, so they asked her to be present at their Green-Corn Feast, and become one of them.

So when the Green-Corn moon hung her horn in the night sky, the writer found the trail to the Land of the Senecas. There the Senecas adopted her into the Snipe clan of their nation. She was called Yeh sen noh wehs -- "One who carries and tells the stories."

Thus it was that the writer became one of the Red Children, Yeh sen noh wehs -- the Daughter of the Senecas.

The more Yeh sen noh wehs learned of the Red Children, and their simple stories, the more she loved them. One day, Yeh sen noh wehs said she would be the story-teller not only of the Senecas, but of all the tribes of the Iroquois. There are six great families of this people. Each family is called a tribe or nation.

Once, the council fires of these six nations burned from the Hudson on the east, to Lake Erie on the west, and they were a great and powerful people.

It was at the time of the Berry Moon that Yeh sen noh wehs hit the story trail. Since then she has journeyed through all the lands of the Senecas, the Onondagas, the Cayugas, the Oneidas, the Mohawks, and the Tuscaroras.

Like the story-teller of old, Yeh sen noh wehs wandered from lodge to lodge of the Iroquois. "Hanio," she would call, and as the Indians gathered round, she would tell them one of the stories that other Indian friends had told to her.

Sometimes this would remind the Red Children of another story, which Yeh sen noh wehs did not know, and they would tell it to her. It was in this way that these stories have been gathered.

There were many days when Yeh sen noh wehs told her stories, but none were told in return. Few members of the tribes -- these usually the oldest -- could remember the stories "they used to tell."

Sometimes Yeh sen noh wehs heard a story as she trudged along a furrow, beside a ragged Indian who was plowing with a more ragged-looking team. Or she would listen as she helped an Indian woman prepare the evening meal, pick berries, or gather nuts.

Sometimes, as Yeh sen noh wehs sat by a fire down in the depths of a beautiful wood, and watched the smoke of the sacred medicine rise, a medicine man would tell her a story; or an Indian woman would drop a word, as she sat at her door weaving baskets or making beadwork.

These stories Yeh sen noh wehs has made into a story book, that they might not be lost and forgotten; that all the Iroquois Red Children and their children's children might know and tell them, and that Paleface children might learn them as well.

The American children have no fairies of their own. They must borrow their fairies from children of other nations. Yeh sen noh wehs thought it very sad, so she put a magic feather in her cap, and winged moccasins on her feet. Then she went on the chase for real American wonder stories, and for real American fairies.

Had there not been a feather in the magic cap she wore, Yeh sen noh wehs would not have found them. But the feather pointed the way to the Nature Wonder Trail, and there she caught a glimpse of the "Little People," -- the only true American fairies.



The Little People


All children who live close to Mother Earth come to know and to see the fairies of the flowers, the woods, the rocks, and the waters.

These fairies the Iroquois call the Jo gah oh, or "Little People," because they are so small. The Little People can do wonderful things. Whatever they wish, they can do. They can fly through the air. They can dart under or through the water, into the earth and through the rocks, as they please, for they wear invisible moccasins and travel in winged canoes.

Their wee babies are carried on the little mothers' backs, -- just like the Indian's papoose. The little fathers have wonderful winged bows and arrows, that can shoot any distance they wish.

The Little People bring good luck to the Indians. Whatever Indian boys and girls wish for, -- if they wish hard enough, the Jo gah oh will bring to them.

It is said that there are three tribes of these Little People, -- those that live in the rocks beside streams and lakes, those that hover near the flowers and plants, and those that guard the dark places under the earth.

The rock Little People are very strong. They can uproot large trees and can hurl great rocks. Sometimes they dare the Indians to a test of strength with them. They also like to play ball with stones.

The Red Children fear the Stone Throwers, as they call them. But they love the little folk that help the flowers to blossom, and the fruit and grains to grow and ripen.

They remember these Little People in their Feasts of Thanksgiving, for do the Jo gah oh not help the sweet waters of the maple to flow? Do they not whisper to the growing seeds and show the way to the light? Do they not guide the runners of the strawberries, turn the blossoms to the sun, and paint the berries red? They also tint the grains, and give to the corn its good taste.

A third tribe of Little People dwell under the earth. They guard the sacred white buffaloes, and keep the serpent monsters that live in the darkness below from coming to the surface to the Red Children.

There are trails that lead out to the sunlight, but the Little People guard them close, although sometimes a great serpent will find the trail of a spring, and will follow it and poison the waters.

Often, at night, these elves of the dark come to the upper world to dance with the other Little People.

Wherever you find a tree in a deep, dark part of the wood, around which no grass will grow, there you may be sure a dance ring has been formed. There the Little People have danced till the moon dropped out of the sky.



Story-Telling Time


The old-time Indians say that long, long ago, the Little People made a law that stories must not be told in summer.

Summer is the time for work. Bees must store their honey. Squirrels must gather their nuts. Men must grow their corn. Trees and plants must leaf, and flower, and bear their fruit.

If stories were told, plants, birds, animals, and men would stop their work to listen. This would mean poor crops and hungry people. Animals would forget to grow their winter coats and lay by their winter stores. Birds would fail to start in time for the South.

The old Indians say that the story-teller who disobeys this law of Jo gah oh will suffer some misfortune. Winter is the time to tell the stories, for then the work of animals, plants, and men is done, -- and the Little People are fast asleep.

No, it is not safe to tell stories in summer. No one knows when a bird, or a bee, or a butterfly may be listening, and may tell the chief of the Little People. Should the chief of the Little People be offended, he might cause something dreadful to happen to the story-teller.

Last summer, the writer of these stories came very near being changed into an animal, -- or something worse, -- just for telling stories. So an old Indian said. She does not know now how she escaped. She thinks it must have been because she was a White Indian. This is how it happened.

It was at the time of the Harvest Moon. Yeh sen noh wehs spoke for one of the tribes at their council house, and she told some of these wonder stories.

All went well until the middle of the night. Then a very old Indian came to warn her of her danger. It seems that he had been at the council in the evening, and had heard the stories told, many of which he knew.

He told Yeh sen noh wehs he had expected to see her change into something else right then and there. He said he would not dare to tell a story. "No, no, me 'fraid, evil come!" he said.

Then he wanted to know if Yeh sen noh wehs was a real Indian. He had been told that she was a White Indian, but when he heard her tell the stories, he said, he thought she was a real Indian.

When Yeh sen noh wehs told him that she had not a drop of Indian blood running in her veins, he looked very solemn. At last he spoke. He told the interpreter to tell her, -- for he spoke but a few words of English, -- that the Great Spirit made a snake, a snake; a fox, a fox; a muskrat, a muskrat; a coon, a coon; a bear, a bear; an Indian, an Indian; a White Indian, a White Indian. Each must be snake, fox, coon, bear, Indian or White Indian, as long as he lived. Each must be himself.

Then the old man asked what disease Yeh sen noh wehs had, that made her go around with a feather in her hair, acting like a real Indian, if she were a White Indian.

Yeh sen noh wehs had no answer. And she does not know to this day, what saved her from being changed into a rabbit, a katydid, or something worse, by the chief of the Little People. She knows, however, that she is very glad she is telling the stories to you, in the WINTER time.



How The Iroquois Give Thanks


The Iroquois Red Children are a grateful people. The true Iroquois never rises after eating without saying, "Niaweh," which means, "I am thankful." The others reply, "Niuh," -- "It is well."

The Red Children never pick a flower without thinking how kind the Great Spirit has been, to cause the flowers to grow. They like flowers, and no matter how poor the Indian cabin, flowers are always to be found near.

When the Iroquois pick fruit, they give thanks to the Great Spirit. And always do they leave some, for the "little brothers of the wood."

They do not try to pick every cherry or berry, or nut or apple, for themselves. Fruits grow for the birds and animals as well as for men, and the little brothers of the wood must not be forgotten. Some of everything that grows is left for them.

During the spring and summer, the Iroquois give several thanksgiving feasts. The first is early in the spring, at maple-sugar time. As soon as the sap begins to flow, the Maple Feast is called.

The Indians gather about a large maple tree. A fire is lighted near, upon which one of their number sprinkles tobacco. As the smoke rises, a prayer of thanksgiving is made to the Great Spirit, for causing the sweet waters of the maple to flow. Then the maple trees are thanked for their service to men, and protection is asked for the trees during the coming year.

When "the leaf of the dogwood is the size of a squirrel's ear," it is planting time. Then an Indian maid goes into the fields and scatters a few grains of corn, asking the aid of the Great Spirit for the harvest. The Indian always plants his seed with the growing moon, that it may grow with the moon.

The next feast is the Strawberry Feast and Dance.

The strawberry is one of the best gifts of the Great Spirit to his children. So greatly is it prized that it is thought to grow on the Sky Road that leads to the Happy Hunting Ground. An Indian who has been very ill, near death, will say, "I almost ate strawberries."

When the strawberry ripens, the Red Children are happy. They sing their praises to the Great Spirit and dance with joy. They remember the Little People who have helped to make the berries beautiful, and they have a song of praise and dance of thanks for them as well. Without the help of the Little People, the strawberries would not be so sweet and ripe.

At the time of the Harvest Moon comes the last feast of the summer. This thanksgiving feast lasts four days. The Indians not only give thanks for the ripening of the corn, but for every growing thing. Therefore this feast is longer than the others, since it takes some time to name all the good gifts of the Great Spirit to the Red Children, and to give thanks for them all.

There is a story[1] of the corn in which the Spirit of the Corn is a maiden, not a handsome young chief, as one of the stories claims. This Corn Maiden was one of three sisters, and was called Ona tah.

[Footnote 1: Myths and Legends of the Iroquois, by Harriet Maxwell Converse.]

The three sister vegetables -- the corn, the bean, and the squash -- were called the Di o he ko, which means "those we live on," since they are the life-giving vegetables.

These sisters lived together on a hill and were very happy. But one day Ona tah wandered away in search of dews for her kernels.

The Evil Spirit was watching. He seized Ona tah, the Spirit of the Corn, and sent one of his monsters to blight her fields. The killing winds swept over the hill, and the spirits of the squash and bean fled before them.

Ona tah was held for some time a prisoner in the darkness under the earth, by the Evil Spirit.

At last a sun ray found her and guided her back to her lost hilltop. There she found that her sisters had fled. She was alone.

Then Ona tah made a vow to the sun that she would never again leave her fields. But she sighs for her lost sisters, and mourns the blight that came upon her beautiful fields. For since the time when Ona tah wandered away and left her fields, the corn has not grown so tall or so beautiful as once it did.



A Firemaker And A Peacemaker


In the olden times, tribes of Indians did not always live in one place as they do now. They sometimes wandered from one valley or woodland to another. When they came to a sheltered place, where there was pure running water, and where plenty of game and wood were to be found, they would build their lodges and light their council fires.

There they might camp for one moon, or for many moons. As long as their arrows brought game on the hunting trails near, they would not break camp. But if game grew scarce, or if for any reason they did not like the camp ground, they would move farther on.

Sometimes they would go several days' journey, before they found a camping place such as they liked.

The first thing that was done in making a camp was to secure fire and light the council fire. This fire was always kept burning. It never went out while they remained.

The Indians loved the fire. It was the gift of the Great Spirit to the Red Children. It kept them warm and cooked their food by day, and protected them by night.

A line of fires was kept burning around the camp. This protected the Red Children from the wild animals, for all animals fear fire, and are charmed by it. They might prowl and howl all night long outside the fire ring, but never would they attempt to come within that ring. There the Indians could sleep in peace, guarded by the spirits of the fire.

The Indian that could make fire first became a chief and leader. When it was decided to camp at a certain place, a signal would be given. At this the young braves would leap into the woods, to see which one first could bring back fire. Each had his own secret way of making it. Usually a bowstring was twisted about a fire stick, and the stick was turned rapidly in a groove. In a few seconds, smoke would rise from the sawdust that formed. After a little fanning a flame would leap forth.

The Indian whose brain and hand worked swiftest and surest was the smartest and best man. He became a Firemaker, and was made a chief of the tribe. He could do something that the rest could not, -- at least he had proved himself to be more skillful. Such a man, it was thought, had a better understanding of all things, and therefore could tell the rest of the tribe what ought to be done.

He no longer was just a man who ate and slept, walked and ran. He was a man with a mind. He could think and could do things. So he became a Firemaker chief, and he helped the tribe to think and do.

The Iroquois Red Children believe that there are three kinds of men: those that use the body only; those that use body and mind; and those that use body, mind, and spirit.

Now it happened that sometimes an Indian grew to be so kind and so great, that he could not only strike the fire we see, but the fire we do not see, -- the fire of love that burns in the hearts of people.

When an Indian could strike this kind of fire, and warm the hearts not only of his own tribe but of all tribes, so that they came to love one another, he was a great chief, a Peacemaker chief. Such a man would go from tribe to tribe, teaching the people how they should do, so that all might live in peace and plenty, like brothers.

To be a Peacemaker was the highest seat an Indian could take. Few Indians became Peacemaker chiefs, and they were the great men of the tribe.

Indian women also might become Peacemakers. At one time the Iroquois had a Peace Wigwam, where all disputes and quarrels were settled.

The most beautiful, just, and fair-minded woman of all the tribes was chosen to sit in this wigwam. It was her duty to tend the Peace fire, and to see that it never went out. She also kept a pot of hominy always steaming over the fire.

If two Indians had a dispute, it was the custom for them to run to the Peacemaker's wigwam. They entered from opposite sides. Inside the wigwam, a deerskin curtain separated them from each other.

The Peacemaker would listen to the grievance of the one and then to that of the other. Then she would draw aside the curtain, get the enemies together, and settle the dispute with justice.

The two would then eat of the hominy, and depart in peace, -- no longer enemies, but friends.

No nation could fight another nation without the consent of the Peacemaker. Because the peacewomen were wise, and just, and kind, and taught men to love, not fight each other, the Iroquois were for many years at peace.

But one day, it is said, a Peacewoman proved untrue to her trust. She thought more of her own happiness than that of the nation.

This woman was very beautiful, and the people loved her. For some time she sat in the Peace Wigwam, and tended faithfully the Peace fire.

One day an Oneida and a Cayuga chief fell to quarreling. They sought the Peace Wigwam. As they entered and saw the young Peacewoman tending the fire, each thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful.

Into the heart of each there leaped the desire that she might tend his wigwam fire.

The Peacemaker listened to the quarrel of the young chiefs and settled it justly. Then each tried to persuade her to leave the Peace fire and return with him to his lodge. But the Peacemaker said, "No, I must tend the fire, it must be kept burning." The chiefs departed with heavy hearts.

But the Oneida chief could not forget the beautiful woman. When a moon had passed, he returned to the Peace Wigwam. This time he persuaded the Peacemaker to leave her fire and return with him to sit at his wigwam door.

The Peace fire flickered and went out. The Iroquois again went on the warpath, and for many, many moons, they fought and suffered and died.



Iroquois Wonder Stories





How The White Man Came


Long, long before Columbus came to America, the Red Children were here. They were the first and only real Americans.

From the Big Sea Water on the east to the Big Sea Water on the west, ranged these Children of the Sun, as they called themselves.

Happy and free as the sunlight and air about them, they ran through wide forests all their own, or plied their bark canoes up and down the streams.

Then the Indian had a dream. This was long before Columbus dreamed his dream of the Western World.

In his dream the Indian saw a great White Bird coming out of the east. Its wings were stretched wide to the north and south. With great strength and speed, it swept toward the setting sun.

In fear and wonder the Indian watched this giant White Bird appear and disappear. He knew its meaning, and the Indian's heart was sad.

Then the White man came. From the Big Sea Water on the east he came, in his great white-winged canoe. With one hand pointing to the Great Spirit, and with the other extended to the Red man he came. He asked for a small seat. A seat the size of a buffalo skin would be quite large enough for him, he said.

In the name of the Great Spirit, the Red Children greeted the White man, and called him "brother." They gave him the seat he asked. They gave him a large buffalo skin also, and showed him where he could spread it by their council fire.

The White man took the buffalo skin. He thanked his Red brother in the name of the Great Spirit. Then he began to cut the skin into many, many small strips.

When the whole buffalo skin had been cut into narrow strips, he tied the strips together. They made a long cord that would reach over a long trail.

In amazement the Indians watched the White man while he measured off a seat as long and as broad as this cord would reach around. The "small seat," the size of a buffalo skin, became a tract of land.

Soon the White man asked for another seat. This time his seat took in the Indians' lodges and camp fire. He asked the Indians if they would move on a few arrow flights. This they did.

Then the White man wanted another seat. Each time it took a larger skin for him to sit upon. This time the skin stretched so far that it covered a part of the Indians' hunting and fishing grounds.

Again the Indians moved on. Again the White man followed. Each time his seat grew larger, until the Indian had a place but the size of a buffalo skin on which to sit.

Thus it was that the White man came. Like a great White Bird that swept from the Big Sea Water on the east to the Big Sea Water on the west, the White man came; and he drove the Indian from the rising to the setting sun.



Why The Eagle Defends Americans


Many, many moons before the White man came, a little Indian boy was left in the woods. It was in the days when animals and men understood each other better than they do now.

An old mother bear found the little Indian boy.

She felt very sorry for him. She told the little boy not to cry, for she would take him home with her; she had a nice wigwam in the hollow of a big tree.

Old Mother Bear had two cubs of her own, but she had a place between her great paws for a third. She took the little papoose, and she hugged him warm and close. She fed him as she did her own little cubs.

The boy grew strong. He was very happy with his adopted mother and brothers. They had a warm lodge in the hollow of the great tree. As they grew older, Mother Bear found for them all the honey and nuts that they could eat.

From sunrise to sunset, the little Indian boy played with his cub brothers. He did not know that he was different from them. He thought he was a little bear, too. All day long, the boy and the little bears played and had a good time. They rolled, and tumbled, and wrestled in the forest leaves. They chased one another up and down the bear tree.

Sometimes they had a matched game of hug, for every little bear must learn to hug. The one who could hug the longest and the tightest won the game.

Old Mother Bear watched her three dear children at their play. She would have been content and happy, but for one thing. She was afraid some harm would come to the boy. Never could she quite forget the bear hunters. Several times they had scented her tree, but the wind had thrown them off the trail.

Once, from her bear-tree window, she had thrown out rabbit hairs as she saw them coming. The wind had blown the rabbit hairs toward the hunters. As they fell near the hunters, they had suddenly changed into rabbits and the hunters had given chase.

At another time, Mother Bear tossed some partridge feathers to the wind as the hunters drew near her tree. A flock of partridges went whirring into the woods with a great noise, and the hunters ran after them.

But on this day, Mother Bear's heart was heavy. She knew that now the big bear hunters were coming. No rabbits or partridges could lead these hunters from the bear trail, for they had dogs with four eyes. (Foxhounds have a yellow spot over each eye which makes them seem double-eyed.) These dogs were never known to miss a bear tree. Sooner or later they would scent it.

Mother Bear thought she might be able to save herself and her cubs. But what would become of the boy? She loved him too well to let the bear hunters kill him.

Just then the porcupine, the Chief of the animals, passed by the bear tree. Mother Bear saw him. She put her head out the bear-tree window and called to him. He came and sat under the bear-tree window, and listened to Mother Bear's story of her fears for the boy.

When she had finished, Chief Porcupine said he would call a council of the animals, and see if they could not save the boy.

Now the Chief had a big voice. As soon as he raised his voice, even the animals away on the longest trails heard. They ran at once and gathered under the council tree. There was a loud roar, and a great flapping of wings, for the birds came, too.

Chief Porcupine told them about the fears of Mother Bear, and of the danger to the boy.

"Now," said the Chief, "which one of you will take the boy, and save him from the bear hunters?"

It happened that some animals were present that were jealous of man. These animals had held more than one secret council, to plan how they could do away with him. They said he was becoming too powerful. He knew all they knew, -- and more.

The beaver did not like man, because men could build better houses than he.

The fox said that man had stolen his cunning, and could now outwit him.

The wolf and the panther objected to man, because he could conceal himself and spring with greater surety than they.

The raccoon said that man was more daring, and could climb higher than he.

The deer complained that man could outrun him.

So when Chief Porcupine asked who would take the boy and care for him, each of these animals in turn said that he would gladly do so.

Mother Bear sat by and listened as each offered to care for the boy. She did not say anything, but she was thinking hard, -- for a bear. At last she spoke.

To the beaver she said, "You cannot take the boy; you will drown him on the way to your lodge."

To the fox she said, "You cannot take him; you would teach him to cheat and steal, while pretending to be a friend; neither can the wolf or the panther have him, for they are counting on having something good to eat.

"You, deer, lost your upper teeth for eating human flesh. And, too, you have no home, you are a tramp.

"And you, raccoon, I cannot trust, for you would coax him to climb so high that he would fall and die.

"No, none of you can have the boy."

Now a great bird that lives in the sky had flown into the council tree, while the animals were speaking. But they had not seen him.

When Mother Bear had spoken, this wise old eagle flew down, and said, "Give the boy to me, Mother Bear. No bird is so swift and strong as the eagle. I will protect him. On my great wings I will bear him far away from the bear hunters.

"I will take him to the wigwam of an Indian friend, where a little Indian boy is wanted."

Mother Bear looked into the eagle's keen eyes. She saw that he could see far.

Then she said, "Take him, eagle, I trust him to you. I know you will protect the boy."

The eagle spread wide his great wings. Mother Bear placed the boy on his back, and away they soared, far from the council woods.

The eagle left the boy, as he had promised, at the door of a wigwam where a little Indian boy was wanted.

This was the first young American to be saved by an American eagle.

The boy grew to be a noble chief and a great hunter. No hunter could hit a bear trail so soon as he, for he knew just where and how to find the bear trees. But never was he known to cut down a bear tree, or to kill a bear.

However, many were the wolf, panther, and deerskins that hung in his lodge. The hunter's wife sat and made warm coats from the fox and beaver skins which the hunter father brought in from the chase. But never was the hunter, his wife, or his children seen to wear a bear-skin coat.



How The Turkey Buzzard Got His Suit


It was a long, long time ago, when the earth was very young. Trees and flowers were growing everywhere, but there were no birds. One morning the Great Spirit drew back the blanket from the door of his wigwam in the sky. He looked upon the earth and smiled, for he saw that his work was good.

"Today," thought he, "I will make big butterflies, to fly in and out among the beautiful trees and flowers of the earth. They shall sing as they fly."

Then the Great Spirit spoke, and the tree tops were full of birds, -- but they had no feathers.

All day he watched them fly and listened to their songs. But their naked bodies and long legs did not please him. Before the sun had set he had made feathered suits, of every size and color, to cover them.

That night, as the birds hid their heads under their wings, the Great Spirit spoke to them. He told about the feathered suits he had made for them, and where these suits could be found.

A council was called next day by the birds. They chose Gah gah go wah, the Turkey Buzzard, to get the suits. He could fly over a long trail and not be tired.

The birds told him that if he would go, he might have the first choice of the suits of feathers, but he must try on no suit more than once.

Turkey Buzzard promised and set out toward the setting sun. Twice the sun set, and three times it rose, before he found the feathered suits. There were many of them, and they were very beautiful. He could not make up his mind which one he would like best to wear.

Then he remembered that he could try on each suit of feathers once. So he began to put them on.

The feathers of the first suit were too long. They trailed on the ground as he walked. Neither could he fly well in them. Turkey Buzzard laid that suit aside.

The next suit shone like gold. The feathers were a beautiful yellow. Turkey Buzzard put it on and strutted up and down the forest.

"Oh, how handsome I am!" he said. "But I must not keep this, for if I did, I should shine so like the face of the Great Spirit, that all the other birds would see me."

And he slipped off the suit of yellow feathers as quickly as possible.

A third suit was of pure white feathers. Turkey Buzzard thought it looked very beautiful. It was a perfect fit.

"But it will get dirty too soon," he said. "I will not choose this."

And this, too, was laid aside.

There were not enough feathers in the fourth suit. Turkey Buzzard shivered with cold. It was not warm enough. He would not have it.

There were too many feathers, and too many pieces, in the fifth suit. It took too much time to put it on. Turkey Buzzard did not want that.

So he went from one suit to another, trying on and taking off. Always he had some new fault to find. Something was wrong with each one. Nothing quite pleased him. No suit was just right.

At last there was but one suit left. It was not pretty. It was a plain, dull color, -- and very short of feathers at the neck and head. Turkey Buzzard put it on. He did not like it. It did not fit him well: it was cut too low in the neck. Turkey Buzzard thought it was the homeliest suit of all. But it was the last suit, so he kept it on.

Then Gah gah go wah, the Turkey Buzzard, gathered up the suits and flew back to the bird lodge. He still wore the plain, dull-colored suit.

The birds again called a council. Each was told to select a suit from those that Gah gah go wah had brought, and put it on. This they did.

Then the birds in their beautiful feathered suits began to walk and fly about the Turkey Buzzard, and to make fun of his plain, dull dress.

But Gah gah go wah held his head high. He walked proudly about among the birds. He looked with scorn on their beautiful suits. After a time he spoke.

He said, "Gah gah go wah, the Turkey Buzzard, does not want your suits. He had the pick of them all. He likes his own suit best."

Adapted from Erminie Smith's Myths of the Iroquois.



Why The Partridge Drums


It was after the Great Spirit had made all the beautiful birds, that the Evil Spirit came along. He saw the beautiful birds and heard their beautiful songs. He saw that the earth people liked the birds and liked to hear them sing.

Now the Evil Spirit did not wish people to be happy, so he said, "I will make a bird that will make people afraid. I will make a big bird that will not sing, but will make a great noise."

So the Evil Spirit went to work. In a short time he had made a big bird, that could not sing, but could drum.

The big bird flew away into the wood. That night a drumming noise was heard in the wood. The people were afraid. They could not sleep, because of the noise.

In the morning, they went into the woods to search for the noise. Deep in the forest could still be heard that strange drumming. They followed it, until they came to a deep, dark place in the woods. There was a loud fluttering and whirring of wings, and a great bird flew out from among them, along the ground and over the trees.

The people were afraid. They called to the Great Spirit to help them.

The Great Spirit was near. He heard their cry, and went after the bird, for he was very angry.

The Great Spirit said, "I will not have my people frightened by this great bird; it shall die."

The big bird gave the Great Spirit a long chase. At last the Great Spirit came upon it. He seized it, and threw it against a large tree.

As the big bird struck the tree, drops of blood flew in all directions. They changed into smaller birds that went whirring into the woods, just as the big bird had done. There they began to drum.

Like the big bird, these smaller birds like to startle people. They flutter out from under the leaves, and with a whirring noise they fly far into the wood. There they perch on an old log, or a rock, and drum with their wings.

Some of the earth people say they are drumming for their mates. But others still think that the birds drum to make people afraid.

So this is how the Indians say the partridges came to be. This is why they drum, and why some of the earth children still love to hunt partridges.



How The Indians Learned To Heal


A long, long time ago, some Indians were running along a trail that led to an Indian settlement. As they ran, a rabbit jumped from the bushes and sat before them.

The Indians stopped, for the rabbit still sat up before them and did not move from the trail. They shot their arrows at him, but the arrows came back unstained with blood.

A second time they drew their arrows. Now no rabbit was to be seen. Instead, an old man stood on the trail. He seemed to be weak and sick.

The old man asked them for food and a place to rest. They would not listen but went on to the settlement.

Slowly the old man followed them, down the trail to the wigwam village. In front of each wigwam, he saw a skin placed on a pole. This he knew was the sign of the clan to which the dwellers in that wigwam belonged.

First he stopped at a wigwam where a wolf skin hung. He asked to enter, but they would not let him. They said, "We want no sick men here."

On he went toward another wigwam. Here a turtle's shell was hanging. But this family would not let him in.

He tried a wigwam where he saw a beaver skin. He was told to move on.

The Indians who lived in a wigwam where a deer skin was seen, were just as unkind. Nor was he permitted to enter wigwams where hung hawk, snipe, and heron skins.

At last he came to a wigwam where a bear skin hung.

"I will ask once more for a place to rest," he thought.

And here a kind old woman lived. She brought food for him to eat, and spread soft skins for him to lie upon.

The old man thanked her. He said that he was very sick. He told the woman what plants to gather in the wood, to make him well again.

This she did, and soon he was healed.

A few days later the old man was again taken sick. Again he told the woman what roots and leaves to gather. She did as she was told, and soon he was well.

Many times the old man fell sick. Each time he had a different sickness. Each time he told the woman what plants and herbs to find to cure him. Each time she remembered what she had been told.

Soon this woman of the Bear clan knew more about healing than all the other people.

One day, the old man told her that the Great Spirit had sent him to earth, to teach the Indian people the secrets of healing.

"I came, sick and hungry, to many a wigwam door. No blanket was drawn aside for me to pass in. You alone lifted the blanket from your wigwam door and bade me enter.

"You are of the Bear clan, therefore all other clans shall come to the Bear clan for help in sickness.

"You shall teach all the clans what plants, and roots, and leaves to gather, that the sick may be healed.

"And the Bear shall be the greatest and strongest of the clans."

The Indian woman lifted her face to the Great Spirit to thank him for this great gift and knowledge of healing. When she turned again to the man, he had disappeared.

No one was there, but a rabbit was running swiftly down the trail.



Why Dogs Chase Foxes


A fox was running through the wood near a river. He had a fish in his mouth.

The fish had been stolen from an Indian who lived down the stream. The fox had been passing near the Indian's wigwam. He saw the fish hanging by the fire. It was cleaned and ready to cook.

"What a tasty breakfast!" thought the fox. "I think I will watch the man eat."

Soon the Indian went into the wigwam. The fox slipped up to the fire. He seized the fish, and ran away with it.

When the Indian came back, he had no breakfast. The fish was gone. No fox was to be seen.

The fox ran along, feeling much pleased with himself.

"What a cunning fox I am," he chuckled. "I will play another foxy trick. This time it shall be on the bear I see coming."

He ran up a tree that had been bent half way to earth by the West Wind. There he began to eat his fish. He smacked his lips so loudly that the bear heard him.

The bear stopped under the tree, and asked, "What are you eating that tastes so good?"

For answer the fox threw down a bit of the fish. The bear smacked his lips and cried, "More! More!"

"Go to the river, swim out to the big log, and catch your own fish," called the fox. "It's very easy! Just drop your tail into the water. Hold it there till a fish comes along and bites, then pull it up. That is the way I catch my fish. You can catch all the fish you want with your own tail."

The bear hurried on to the river. He swam to the log and dropped his tail into the water, as the fox had advised.

All day he sat and fished with his tail, -- for bears then had very long tails.

The sun set, but no fish had pulled his tail. All night the bear sat on the log and fished. Cold North Wind blew his breath over the water. The river grew still and white.

Towards morning, the bear felt that his tail was getting very heavy. Now at last he was sure he had a fish. He tried to pull it up. But alas! his tail was frozen fast in the ice.

Then the fox came along. He laughed long and loudly at the bear, and asked if the fishing was good.

Some dogs heard the fox, and came tearing through the thick underbrush. They saw the fox and started after him.

The fox slyly led them on to the frozen river toward the bear. The bear saw them coming, and called to the fox to go around some other way. The fox made believe he did not hear, and came straight on to the bear to ask him what he had said.

The dogs leaped upon the bear. The bear struggled. He gave one great pull, and freed himself from the ice. He struck at the dogs so fiercely with his great paws, that they soon left him, and went on after the fox.

Dogs have been running after foxes ever since.

When the bear got his breath, he stood up and looked around at his tail. He found he had only a small piece left. Most of his tail had been left in the ice.

This is why bears have short tails, and why dogs still love to chase the fox.



Why Hermit Thrush Is So Shy


Some moons after the council when the birds chose their feathered suits, a second council was called. The purpose of this council was to see which bird could fly to heaven, and bring a song to earth.

When all the birds had arrived and were perched upon the council tree, the wise old owl spoke.

"Friends and brothers, listen," said the owl. "Many of you have strong wings, but your voices are not beautiful. High, high up in the sky, a long trail beyond the clouds, is the Happy Hunting Ground.

"There live all our brothers of the wood, whom the Great Spirit has called. They sing songs more beautiful than any heard on earth.

"The bird that can fly beyond the clouds will hear that singing. He shall bring a song to earth. Who will fly the Great Sky Trail, and bring a song to earth? Who-whoo! Who-whoo! Who-whoo!"

At this, all the birds that were swift of wing flew high in the air. They circled round and round to show their skill. Then they disappeared in the clouds.

But one by one they dropped to earth; for when they had reached the Great Sky Trail beyond the clouds, they were too tired to take it.

At last the eagle arose and stretched his great wings.

"Listen," he said, "for the Chief of Birds speaks. No other bird is so swift and so strong as the eagle. He has circled the earth. He has flown to the rim of the world. The eagle will fly the Great Sky Trail and bring the song to earth."

A little brown thrush sat near the eagle.

"Oh," he thought, "how I would like to bring that song to earth!"

But he was so small, and his wings were so tired!

Then an idea popped into the little brown head of the thrush. He hopped softly to the back of the eagle, and hid in the thick feathers near the neck. So small and light was the thrush, that the eagle did not feel his weight. He did not know that the little brown thrush was on his back, -- and the other birds did not tell him.

The eagle spread his great wings. Up, and up, and up, they soared. The council wood became a little speck and then was seen no more. Over, and under, and through the clouds, on, and on, and on, they sailed, along the Great Sky Trail.

At last the eagle's strength began to fail. He could go no further. The great wings of the chief of birds could beat the air no longer. They fell at his side.

The little brown thrush felt the eagle quiver and begin to drop toward the earth.

Then away flew the little brown thrush. The air was so light it seemed easy to fly. On and on he went, for he was not tired. He had had a ride almost to heaven.

"Now," he thought, "I will go on and will get the song."

For some time, the little brown thrush flew along the Great Sky Trail. All at once the air seemed full of song. He knew he was nearing the Happy Hunting Ground.

He listened. One song seemed more beautiful to him than the rest. Again and again he listened. He caught the notes. He sang them many times, until he was sure that he could carry the song to earth.

Then down, and down, and down, he floated, through clouds and storms and sunshine, back to Mother Earth.

Very happy, he flew toward the council wood. He was so full of his beautiful song and the wonderful Sky Trail, he thought he must pour out his song at once.

But when he reached the council wood, he dared not open his mouth! He remembered that he had stolen his ride part way to heaven, -- and he knew the other birds knew it.

But that song! he must sing it! He thought his throat would burst, if he did not sing!

So the little brown thrush flew off by himself, into a deep, dark part of the wood. There, hidden by the brush and the bushes, he poured forth the song he had heard on the Great Sky Trail.

Men hearing it to-day, say, "Listen, a hermit thrush! What a beautiful song! But he is such a shy bird, one seldom can catch a glimpse of him."

They do not know why he keeps so close under cover.



How Good And Evil Came To Be


Every boy has wondered how there came to be two of him.

Every girl has puzzled over how she happened to be twins. Sometimes she is the good girl, -- sometimes a naughty one.

The Indians say this is how it happened.

The world was very young. There was no earth, only a cloud-like sea.

The sea was filled with water animals, and water birds flew over it. All was dark. Light had not yet come.

Then the cloud-sea began to call for light. The Great Spirit heard, and said, "It shall be so. I will make a new place for man to live in."

The Great Spirit called the beautiful Sky Mother to Him. Her face was like the sun, she was so light of heart.

The Great Spirit told the Sky Mother to look down. She, too, heard the cloud-sea calling, and she said, "I will go."

As she began to descend, the animals saw her coming. "See the light," they cried. "Where will it rest?"

One of the water animals said, "I will go to the bottom of the sea and get something for it to rest on."

He went down, but he never came back.

Other animals followed him. But they, too, did not come back.

Then the muskrat said, "I will go. I will be the earth bringer."

He returned, with some mud in his mouth and claws.

"It will grow fast," he cried, in a weak voice. "Who will carry it?"

The turtle offered his back. As the muskrat placed the mud on the turtle's shell he died. But the beaver came and slapped the mud down with his tail.

The mud on the turtle's back grew very fast. Soon it was a small island. The turtle became the earth bearer. He has continued to hold up the earth ever since.

Now, when the sea rises in great waves, or the earth shakes, the Indians say, "The turtle is stretching. He is wiggling his back!"

Now, since there was a place for the light to rest on, the birds flew up to meet it. They found that the light was the beautiful Sky Mother.

Then the birds spread wide their great wings, and bore the Sky Mother through the air to the cloud-sea. They placed her on the island on the turtle's back. There the Sky Mother had rested some time, when she felt something stirring beneath her heart. She heard voices. One was soft and kind and full of love, the other was harsh and quarrelsome.

Soon the Sky Mother looked into the faces of the first-born of earth, for she had borne the twin brothers, the spirits of Good and Evil. As she looked into the face of the Good Mind, she said, "You shall be called the Light One."

Then she looked into the face of his brother, and said, "You shall be named the Dark One."

The island became a beautiful land.

The twin brother Light One grew up happy, loving, peaceful, and kind. He wanted to make the new land the most beautiful place in which to live. The twin brother Dark One grew up sullen, quarrelsome, hateful, and unkind. He tried to make the land the worst place in which to live.

From his mother's beautiful face the Light One made the sun. He set it in the eastern sky, that it might shine forever. Then the Dark One put darkness in the west to drive the sun from the sky.

The Light One gave his mother's body to the earth, the Great Mother from which springs all life. He made great mountains, and covered them with forests from which beautiful rivers ran. The Dark One threw down the mountains, gnarled the forests, and bent the rivers which his brother had made.

Every beautiful thing which the good brother Light One made, the bad brother Dark One tried to destroy and ruin.

And because the first-born of earth were the twin spirits, the Good Mind and the Evil Mind, there has been a good and bad spirit born into every boy and girl who has come into the world since.

So the Indians say!



How A Boy Was Cured Of Boasting


There was once an Indian boy, who thought he knew more and could do more than anyone else. He was so proud of himself that he walked around like a great chief, who wears a war shirt with many scalp locks on it.

The other Indian boys and girls called him Spread Feather, because he strutted about like a big turkey or a peacock.

One day, Spread Feather was playing ball with the other boys. Not once had he failed to drive or catch the ball with his crosse stick. Twice he had thrown the ball with such force that some one had been hurt.

Spread Feather grew more and more pleased with himself, as he played. He began to use tricks and to talk very large.

"No one can play ball as I," he said. "I can catch the swiftest ball that can be thrown. I can throw the ball to the sky. I can run faster than the deer."

Spread Feather boasted so loudly that a rabbit heard him. The rabbit came out of the bushes and sat up on his hind legs. He watched Spread Feather play, and listened to his boasting.

Soon a strange boy was standing where the rabbit had sat.

The stranger said to Spread Feather, "I would like to play ball with you."

"Come on, then!" taunted the boastful boy. "Spread Feather will show the strange ball player how to catch a ball."

They began to play.

The stranger could run like a deer. His balls were so swift and so curved that Spread Feather could not see them. He could not catch one. They seemed to come from the sky.

At last one ball hit Spread Feather on the mouth. He fell to the ground. His face was red with anger, and his lips were red with blood.

He sprang to his feet and shouted to the stranger, "Though I do not like the taste of your ball, yet I can throw you."

"Very well, then," said the stranger. "We will have a game of 'Catch as catch can.'" This is the Indian name for a game of wrestling.

Spread Feather set his feet very hard on the ground.

"My legs are as strong as the legs of a bear," he boasted.

They began to wrestle. Soon Spread Feather's arms fell at his sides. He panted for air. He had no breath and no strength.

The stranger picked Spread Feather up and tossed him over his head like a ball. The boy fell without a word.

When Spread Feather opened his eyes, a rabbit sprang into the bushes.

All night, Spread Feather lay and thought, and thought. He was too weak and too sore to go back to his wigwam. Nor was he eager to meet the other boys.

At sunrise a rabbit hopped near. The rabbit slyly suggested that he might like to play another game of ball.

The boy sat up and said to the rabbit, "Spread Feather is no more. He no longer struts like a turkey. He has nothing to say. He will win a new name. It will not be Spread Feather."



Why The Cuckoo Is So Lazy


The land was lean and hungry. The Old Man of the North Lodge had breathed upon the valley. His breath had frozen the corn, and there was no bread for the people.

The Indian hunters took to the chase. They followed every track of deer or rabbit. If their arrows brought them meat, they threw it over their shoulders and ran to the village, that the hungry women and children might eat.

But one Indian remained in his wigwam. He sat by the fire with his wife and child, and waited for the hunters to bring game.

This man refused to go on the hunt. He was lazy. All day he sat by the fire and smoked his pipe. Once in a while, he would stir the water in the kettle which he kept boiling for the meat that he hoped the hunters might bring. Whenever the child, his little son, begged him for food, he would say, "It isn't done yet."

At last the little Indian boy grew so sick and faint for want of food that he cried aloud.

The lazy Indian father was angry. He seized the pudding stick, and struck the child to the ground. Instantly a bird flew up and perched on the pole over the fire, from which the kettle hung.

"Now it's done!" said the bird solemnly, for it did not seem to have a light heart like other birds.

Now, strange as it may seem this father was no longer cruel and lazy. His lazy spirit seemed to have gone. He wanted to go at once on the chase, and hunt food for his wife and little boy.

"To-night you shall have deer meat to eat," he said, as he spread a soft skin by the fire, for the boy to lie on. Then he turned to place the child on the skin, -- but no boy was there. He had no son. Only that strange bird perched, joyless and alone, over the fire, on the pole from which the kettle hung.

"Now it's done!" the bird cried again, and with that it flew out of the wigwam.

*    *    *    *    *

That spring the Indians discovered a new bird in the woods. The bird was too lazy to build a real nest.

This bird did not weave together twigs and moss, leaves and ferns, bits of hair and thistledown, to make a cozy, warm, safe nest for its eggs and young, as did the other birds. This bird would lay its eggs anywhere. Wherever a few sticks lay crosswise in a track, or in a little hollow of the ground, or where some twigs or dried ferns were caught loosely in a bush, there this lazy bird would lay its eggs and rear its young.

It was too lazy to build a real nest, that was safe and warm for its little ones.

The Indians called the bird "the cuckoo." But only one Indian knew how the cuckoo came to be, and why it is too lazy to build a real nest.



How The Coon Outwitted The Fox


A wise old raccoon sat up in a tree near the river where the bear lost his tail. The coon saw the fox play his foxy trick on the bear, and he did not like it.

"The fox is getting a big head," said the coon. "This must not be. His head must be made smaller. Some of the foxiness must be taken out of it. He is getting too foxy. He thinks he has the cunning of all the animals, and that no one can outwit him. Some one must play a 'fox' trick on him."

Not many days later, the coon saw the fox coming down the trail. The coon was eating some juicy yellow apples that he had found on a tree not far away. As soon as he saw the fox, he ran up a tree, and began to smack his lips as the fox had done to tempt the bear.

The fox stopped under the tree, just as the bear had stopped.

"What tastes so good?" he asked.

For answer the coon threw down an apple to the fox, just as the fox had thrown the piece of fish down to the bear.

The fox took the apple and ate it.

"Fine! Fine!" said the fox, when he had finished the last mouthful. "Where did you get it?"

The coon then told the fox how to find the apple tree. He must follow the trail along the river, down to the pine bluff. Then he must climb the bluff and run toward the setting sun, until he came to an open field. In the center of that field stood a great apple tree. It was filled with juicy yellow apples.

"But you can climb the tree and pick your own apples. How can I get them off the tree?" whined the fox.

"Oh, that's easy," said the coon. "Just back off two bow shots from the tree, then lower your head, -- so. Run hard and butt the tree with your head. You have such a big head, it will shake the tree so hard that all the apples will fall at once. Do as I tell you, and you will have all the apples you want for a long time."

The fox thanked the coon and started at once.

He found the apple tree, just as the coon had said.

"What a fine open place to run in," thought the fox. "I will get such a fine start that when I hit the tree it will shake the world."

Already he began, in his mind, to see the apples falling, like pine needles, and to feel the earth shake under his feet.

The fox did as the coon had told him. One arrow flight he backed off, then another. Then he closed his eyes, lowered his head, and ran swiftly over the thick grass. He struck the tree as hard as ever he could, with his big head.

Not an apple fell, but a dazed, foolish-looking fox fell to the ground.

Next morning as the sun rose, a shame-faced fox was seen running toward the woods beyond the pine bluff. He carried his head low, and he seemed to be playing no foxy tricks.



Why The Goldfinches Look Like The Sun


It was some moons after the coon outwitted the fox, before they again met. The coon was hurrying by, when the fox saw him.

Now the fox had not forgotten the trick the coon had played on him. His head was still sore from that great thump against the apple tree. So the fox started after the coon. He was gaining, and would have caught him, had they not come to a tall pine tree.

The coon ran to the very tiptop of the pine tree. There he was safe, for the fox could not climb.

The fox lay down on the soft pine needles and waited for the coon to come down. The coon stayed up in the pine tree so long that the fox grew tired and sleepy. He closed his eyes and thought he would take a short nap.

The coon watched, until he saw that the fox was sound asleep. Then he took in his mouth some of the pitch from the pine tree. He ran down the tree and rubbed the pitch over the eyes of the sleeping fox.

The fox awoke. He sprang up and tried to seize the coon, but, alas! he could not see what he was doing. The lids of his eyes were held fast with the pine gum. He could not open them.

The coon laughed at the fox's plight, then ran and left him.

The fox lay for some time under the tree. The pine gum, as it dried, held the lids of his eyes closer and closer shut. He thought he should never again see the sun.

Some birds were singing near by. He called them, and told them of his plight. He asked if they would be so kind as to pick open his eyes.

The birds flew off and told the other birds. Soon many of the little dark songsters flew back to where the fox lay. Then peck, peck, peck, went the little bills on the eyelids of the fox. Bit by bit they carefully pecked away the pine gum. If one grew tired, another bird would take its place.

At last the fox saw a streak of light. Soon the lid of one eye flew open, then the other. The sun was shining, and the world looked very beautiful to the fox, as he opened his eyes.

He was very grateful to the little birds for bringing him light. He told them to ask what they would, and he would give it to them.

The little birds said, "We do not like the plain, dark suits which the Turkey Buzzard brought us. Make us look like the sun we have brought to you."

The fox looked about him. Beautiful yellow flowers were growing near. He pressed some of the sun color from them, and with the tip of his tail as a brush, he began to paint the dark little birds like the sun.

The birds fluttered so with joy, he thought he would paint the bodies first. Before he could brush the wings and tails with the sun paint, each little bird had darted away, like a streak of sunshine. So happy and light of heart were the birds, that they could not wait for the fox to finish the painting.

This is why goldfinches are yellow like the sun. It is why they have black wings and tails, why they flutter so with joy, and why they never finish their song.



What The Ash And The Maple Learned


Long ago, birds, trees, animals, and men knew each the language of the other, and all could talk together.

In those days, the trees of the forest grew very large and strong. At last they came to know their strength too well. They became selfish, and proud, and quarrelsome. Each tree boasted that he was the greatest and strongest. Each one struggled to gain for himself the most earth, the best air, the brightest sun. No tree had a thought for the other.

One day the trunk of a great Maple tried to crowd out an Ash. The Ash, of course, thought he had as much right to stand there as the Maple, and he said he would not stir a limb.

"Get out of my way," cried the Maple. "I am greater than you, and of more use to man; for I furnish the sweet water for him to drink."

"Indeed, I will not!" said the Ash. "I am greater than you, and of more use to man than you; for I furnish the tough wood from which he makes his bow."

At this the trees fell to wrestling. Back and forth, in and out they swayed, each trying to throw the other. They forgot that they were brothers in the wood.

Then the South Wind came along. He heard the loud voices and stopped to find out what the quarrel was about.

"I am greater than you, for I furnish the sweet water for man to drink," came the angry voice of the Maple, as he threw his huge trunk against the Ash.

"No, you are not," retorted the Ash, and he sent the Maple back with a great push of his strong elbow. "I am greater than you, for I furnish the tough wood from which he makes his bow."

For a time, the South Wind watched them writhe and twist and try to throw each other to the ground. Then he said, softly, "You, O Maple, do not cause the sweet water to flow for man; nor do you, O Ash, make your wood to grow pliant and tough for his bow."

"Who does, then?" they asked defiantly.

"Listen," said the South Wind, "and you shall hear."

Then the Maple and Ash forgot their quarrel. They bent their heads so low and close to listen, that an arm of the Maple slipped through an arm of the Ash.

And as they stood thus listening, each with an arm locked in an arm of the other, the South Wind gently swayed them to and fro. Then a voice was heard, singing, "San noh-eh! San noh-eh! San noh-eh!" which means, "The Mother of all things."

Thus it was that the Ash and the Maple learned that it was Mother Earth who gave them their life, and power, and strength, and that they were brothers, because they had one Mother.

The Ash and the Maple whispered the secret to the birds. The birds came and listened to the voice, and went and told the animals. The animals came and listened, and went and told men. And thus all the earth children learned that there is one Great Mother of every living thing, and that all are brothers.

And now, whenever two trees lock arms lovingly, and the South Wind sways them gently to and fro, that same voice may be heard, singing, "San noh-eh! San noh-eh! San noh-eh!"



How The Woman Overcame The Bear


An Indian woman built a wigwam in the deep wood. She was a brave woman. She had no fear.

One night, she heard something coming along the trail. Thump, thump, thump, it came, to the very door of her wigwam.

There was a rap.

"Come in," said the woman, but no one entered.

Again there came a rap.

Again the woman called, "Come in." Again the latch was not lifted.

A third time the rap came. A third time the woman called, "Come in," but no one entered.

Then the strange thump, thump, thump, was heard going down the trail.

The next night, the same thing occurred. Soon after dark, the woman heard the thump, thump, thump, coming along the trail. Up to the very door of the wigwam it came.

Three times, a rap, rap, rap, was heard as before. Three times the woman answered, "Come in," but no one entered.

Then the same strange thump, thump, thump, was heard going down the trail again.

The third night, the woman thought she would make sure who was calling. She stood for a long time, with her hand on the latch.

At last she heard the visitor coming. Thump, thump, thump, it came along the trail. There were three raps.

"Come in," called the woman, but the latch did not move in her hand. She waited. Again came the raps.

This time she threw wide open the door, and there stood a great black bear. He showed his sharp teeth and growled, "Are you at home?"

The woman looked him straight in the eye and replied, "I am at home."

At once the bear turned on his heel and went down the trail, as fast as he could go.

Never again did the woman hear that strange thump, thump, thump; and never again did the bear call to see if she were at home.



Why The Woodpecker Bores For Its Food


Once upon a time, the Great Spirit left the Happy Hunting Ground and came to earth. He took the form of a poor, hungry man. He went from wigwam to wigwam, asking for food.

Sometimes he found the Indians sitting around the fire, telling stories and talking of the Great Spirit. Then the man would pass by unseen.

One day, he came to a wigwam in which a woman was baking cakes.

"I am very hungry," the man said. "Will you please give me a cake?"

The woman looked at the man, and then at the cake. She saw that it was too large to give away.

She said, "I will not give you this cake, but I will bake you one, if you will wait."

The hungry man said, "I will wait."

Then the woman took a small piece of dough and made it into a cake and baked it. But when she took this cake from the coals, it was larger than the first.

Again the woman looked at her cake. Again she saw it was too large to give away. Again she said, "I will not give you this one, but I will bake you one, if you will wait."

Again the man said, "I will wait."

This time the woman took a very, very, tiny bit of dough, and made it into a cake.

"Surely, this will be small enough to give away," she thought, yet when baked it was larger than both the others.

The woman stood and looked at the three cakes. Each was too large to give away.

"I will not give you any of the cakes," she said to the man. "Go to the woods, and find your food in the bark of trees."

Then the man stood up and threw off his ragged blanket and worn moccasins. His face shone like the sun, and he was very beautiful. The woman shrank into the shadow of the wigwam. She could not look upon his face, for the light.

"I am the Great Spirit," said he, "and you are a selfish woman. Women should be kind, and generous, and unselfish. You shall no longer be a woman and live in a warm wigwam, with plenty of cakes to bake. You shall go to the forest and hunt your food in the bark of trees. Summer and winter, you shall eat worms of the same size as the cake you would have made for me."

The woman began to grow smaller and smaller. Feathers grew upon her body, and wings sprang from it. The Great Spirit touched her head, and it became red.

"Always shall you wear this red hood," he said, "as a mark of your shame. Always shall you hide from man. Always shall you hunt for little worms, the size of the cake you made for me."

At this a sharp cry was heard, and a bird flew into the fireplace of the wigwam, and up the chimney. As it passed out of the chimney, the soot left those long streaks of black which we see now on the woodpecker's back.

Ever since then, this woodpecker has had a red head, and has been hiding from man on the farther side of the tree trunk, and boring in the bark for little worms.



Why The Ice Roof Fell


A great many winters ago, there lived at the foot of a certain lake a tribe of wicked Indians. These Indians were so fierce, and warlike, and wasteful, they went about destroying everything.

They laid low a tract of beautiful forest trees, for no good purpose. They tore up shrubs and plants that gave them food and medicine. They shot their arrows into every bird or animal they saw, just for sport.

The great trees -- their silent brothers of the wood -- trembled and sighed when they heard these Indians coming. The squirrels darted into hollow trees, and birds flew in alarm at their footsteps. The deer and rabbit ran from the trail.

At last the Great Spirit became very angry with this tribe. Always he had taught the Indians never to kill an animal, unless for food and protection; never to fell a tree, unless for fuel or shelter; never to dig up shrubs or plants, unless for some good use.

"All life," the Great Spirit had said, "is sacred and beautiful. It must not be wasted."

And never before had he known the Indians to waste the beautiful living things about them. The Great Spirit was very sad.

The ice formed very thick on the lake that winter.

One night, there came a great storm of wind and rain. The ice broke loose from the shores, and the wind blew it down the lake. At the foot of the lake, a mass of ice was piled high over the shore, where lived these wasteful Indians.

Like a giant roof, the ice spread over the little Indian village lying there asleep, but the Indians did not know. They slept on, unaware of their danger, for a deep, heavy sleep had come upon them.

Just as the sun rose, the ice roof gave way and fell upon the sleeping Indians, crushing them in their wigwams.

The waste they had brought upon their brothers of the wood had brought punishment upon them. The Great Spirit had destroyed these wicked Indians, that the good Indians might keep his world beautiful.

Ever after, as long as the Indians occupied the country, before the White man came, no trees were felled, and no animals or birds were killed, unless for some wise and useful purpose.



Why The Chipmunk Has Black Stripes


At one time, the animals had tribes and chiefs, like men. It was when the porcupine was chief, that a council was called.

A great fire was lighted, for it was night. When all the animals were seated around the fire, the porcupine spoke.

"Friends," he said, "we have met here to settle a great question: 'Shall we have night all the time, or day?'" At this, all the animals began to talk at once. There was great confusion. The night animals kept shouting, "Night, night! Always night!" Others of the animals cried, "Day, day! Always day!" Still others called for "Day and night!"

There was so much noise that it could not be decided what was best.

At last the animals grew tired of calling. One by one the voices grew fainter, and the shouting ceased. Of the night animals, the voice of the bear alone was heard. He had a big voice and still kept calling, "Night, night! Always night!"

The animals who wanted day all the time, and those who wanted day and night, also became quiet, -- all except the chipmunk. He chattered on, "We will have light -- and then night. We will have light -- and then night. Chee, chee, chee!"

Then the bear, too, became tired. He was fat and lazy, and so sleepy! He thought he would take a short nap.

But all night long the wide-awake little chipmunk kept up his song. Not for a moment did he stop to rest. Out of the dark came his voice, sure and cheery, "We will have light -- and then night. We will have light -- and then night! Chee, chee, chee!"

And before the animals knew it, the sun began to rise.

At the first rays of light, the bear sat up, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. He saw that while he had slept, light had indeed come. He knew that he and the night animals had been beaten in the council, and that the chipmunk and the animals who wanted day and night had won.

The bear was very angry. He struck at the chipmunk with his paw. But he was clumsy, and the chipmunk was spry!

The chipmunk laughed and sprang into a hole of a hollow tree near by. But those black stripes on the chipmunk's back show where the paw of the black bear touched him as he slipped into the tree.

Ever since this council, and the little chipmunk called so long and loud for "light and night," we have had day and night.



How Two Indian Boys Settled A Quarrel


Flying Squirrel and Lightning Bow were two little Indian boys. They lived by Singing River, and they played from sunrise to sunset. They were as happy as the day was long.

In the summer, they fished and swam in Singing River, and they shot their arrows into chipmunk and woodpecker holes. Sometimes they played "Dodging Arrows," a game their mother had taught them when they were very young.

In the winter, they jumped into fleecy snowdrifts and rolled until their little bronze bodies took on a red-raspberry tint. Then they would send their snow-snakes skimming over the hard crust of snow.

Snow-snakes were small rods of wood, polished smooth with resin, oil, or wax. They could be thrown long distances. Long Moose -- Lightning Bow and Flying Squirrel's father -- could throw a snow-snake a mile and a half, over the crust of the snow. But the snow-snakes he used were eight feet long and tipped with lead.

It was the Moon of Berries. Six times had Flying Squirrel and Lightning Bow seen the Berry Moon hang her horn in the night sky. And not once in all their lives had they quarreled.

One morning, Flying Squirrel and Lightning Bow planned a foot race. Seven times they were to run. Three times, Flying Squirrel had made the goal first. Three times, Lightning Bow had outrun him. The seventh race was claimed by each. No one saw them run, so no one could decide the game. And they fell to quarreling.

Louder and louder their voices were raised. More and more angry they grew.

White Fawn, their mother, was baking corn bread on the coals of the wigwam fire. The angry voices reached her ears. She stepped to the door.

"For shame!" she called. "Go and set up your sticks."

Then she showed Lightning Bow and Flying Squirrel how to set up three sticks so they would stand for many days.

"Now go into the wood, set up your sticks, and leave your quarrel there," she said. "When the Berry Moon has passed, you shall return and see if the sticks are still standing.

"If they lean toward the rising sun, Lightning Bow was right. If they lean toward the setting sun, Flying Squirrel won. If they have fallen down, neither was right and neither won."

Lightning Bow and Flying Squirrel went into the wood and set up their sticks. Then they began to throw balls with willow wands, and soon they were happy again.

*    *    *    *    *

The sun had risen and set many times. The Berry Moon had passed. It was the Thunder Moon, when White Fawn said to Lightning Bow and Flying Squirrel, "Today you may go into the wood and see if your sticks are still standing."

Hand in hand, the two little Indian boys ran into the wood. They found only a heap of rotting sticks.

Flying Squirrel and Lightning Bow stood and looked at the sticks. They thought and thought.

"What did we set up the sticks for?" each asked of the other.

And for the life of them they could not remember what they had quarreled about, and why they had set up the sticks!



How Mice Overcame The Warriors


Once a tribe of the Iroquois became very warlike and cruel. They liked to follow the warpath rather than the hunting trails.

These warriors thought only of the war dance. They forgot to give thanks for the sweet waters of the maple, and for the planting season. Neither did they remember to praise the Great Spirit, in song and dance, for the juicy strawberries, and the waving green corn, as once they had done.

To fight was the one desire of their lives, the one thought that filled their minds. They boasted that none were so fierce and bloodthirsty as they.

"Our arrows fall like leaves of the pine," they said, "and always are they red with blood. Our war shirts have many scalp locks on them."

One day, a dispute arose with a neighboring tribe of their nation. The Peace Wigwam was not far away, but these warriors would not take their quarrel to it, as was the custom. The fighting Indians would have none of the Peace Wigwam.

"Let the women and papooses sit in the sun at the door of the Peace Wigwam," they said scornfully. "Chiefs are for the warpath."

A fierce cry was raised, and the war dance was begun. The chiefs painted their bodies, donned their war shirts, sharpened their tomahawks, tipped their arrows, and tightened their bowstrings.

But by the time they had made ready, the sun had set, and the blanket of darkness had fallen upon them. A council was quickly called. It was decided that they would not start to war until moonrise. So the warriors lay down to sleep.

As they slept, another council was called. This was not a council of men, but of mice.

From long and short trails they came, hundreds and hundreds of mice, for all had heard the warriors boast of their strength.

"Now," said the mice, "we will show these boasters how weak are men, and how strong are little mice."

When all the mice were gathered about the council tree, the leader spoke thus: "My brothers, listen! The Great Spirit did not give men strength, that they should fight and kill one another. The Great Spirit did not make men powerful, that they should strike down and kill the weaker animals. Let us show these fierce warriors that it is the weak who are strong, and the strong who are weak. Let every mouse destroy at least one weapon before the moon shall rise."

At this, all the mice set to work. Snap, snap, snap, went the bowstrings on all sides. Then the sharp little teeth began on the feathers that winged the poisoned arrows. Soon the feathers lay in bits about the ground.

Next, the deerskin cords that bound the sling shots were cut in two, and before the moon had risen, every weapon had been made useless; every Indian had been disarmed, -- and the mice had scampered away.

The warriors awoke. Again the war cry was raised. They sprang to their feet and seized their weapons, but found them useless. Their bows had no strings; their arrows, no wings; their slings, no cords.

The warriors who boasted that they were the strongest and fiercest on the earth, had been made powerless by mice.



Why Crows Are Poor


After the Great Spirit had made the Red Children and had given them this beautiful land in which to live, he sent them a great gift, -- the gift of the corn.

Ga gaah, the Crow, claims it was he who brought this gift. He says he was called to the wigwam of the Great Spirit in the sky. A grain of corn was placed in his ear, and he was told to carry it to earth, to the Red Children.

Therefore, as Ga gaah brought the gift, he claims he has a right to pull what corn he needs. Ga gaah says he does not "steal" corn. He simply takes what belongs to him, his rightful share.

And surely Ga gaah is not greedy! He never takes more corn than he wants for himself. He never hides or stores it away. He takes just what he wishes to eat at the time, and no more, for crows never think of to-morrow.

In summer, they are happy in the cornfields, guarding the roots from insect enemies, and pulling the tender blades whenever they are hungry.

But when winter comes, the crows are sad. Many councils are held. Sometimes a council tree will be black with crows. All are so poor and so hungry, that they get together to try to plan a better way to live.

There is much noise and confusion at a crow council, for all the crows talk at once. All are saying, "No bird is so poor as the crow; he is always hungry. Next summer, let us plant and raise a big crop of corn, and gather and save it for the winter. Next winter, crows will not be hungry; they will have food.

"We will no longer take from the fields of the Red Children just enough corn for a meal to-day. We will raise our own corn, and lay by a store for the winter."

And having agreed that this is a wise plan, the council ends.

A few days later, another council will be called. At this, the crows will plan how and where to plant the corn. Some will be appointed to select a field, others to find seed, and still others to plant and tend the corn.

But, alas! When spring comes, and skies are blue, and the sun shines warm, the crows forget the hunger of the winter, and the councils in the tree. They remember only that the skies are blue, and the sun shines warm, and now there is plenty of corn.

Happy and content, they walk up and down the fields of the Red Children.

"We have all we want to-day," they say, "Why should we think of to-morrow, or next winter? We had a good meal this morning, and we are sure of one to-night. Is not this enough for a crow? What more can he ask?"

And the next winter comes, and finds the crows as poor and as hungry as they were the last. Again they are holding noisy councils in the council tree. Again they are laying plans for the great crop of corn that they will raise next summer!



Why The Indian Loves His Dog


The dog is the Indian's best friend. He is the comrade by day and the protector by night. As long as the Indian's dog has strength, he will fight for his friend.

The Indian says this is how the dog came to take his part.

An Indian and his dogs went into the woods to hunt. It was in the days when dogs and men could talk together, and each understood the language of the other.

When they reached the woods, the dogs began to talk with the Indian. They told him many wonderful things about the woods, which he did not know. They taught him many tricks of the chase: how to scent and track the game, and where to look for trails.

The man listened to what the dogs said, and he did as they told him. Soon the sledge which the dogs had drawn to the woods was piled high with deer and other game.

Never had the Indian's arrows brought him so much game. Never had he met with such success in hunting. He was so pleased that he said to the dogs, "Always shall I talk with you, give ear to what you say, and be one of you."

"Ah, but listen!" said the dogs. "If you wish to be one of us, you must live under the law of dogs, not men. Animals have laws different from those of men. When two dogs meet for the first time, they try their strength to see which is the better dog.

"Men do not fight when strangers meet, they shake hands. As we fight strange dogs, so you, too, must fight strange men, to see which is the best man, -- if you are to live under the law of dogs."

The man said he would think it over, and at sunrise give his answer. Indians always sleep before deciding a question.

Next morning, the man said he would live under the law of animals, and fight strange men.

The following day, the man made ready to leave the woods. From the basswood, he made a strong harness for the dogs, so that they could draw the load of game back to the camp for him.

When the sun was high, the man and the dogs started with the sledge load of game. They had not gone far before they saw two strange Indians coming.

"Now," said the dogs to the man, "remember you are living under the dog's law. You must fight these strange men."

The man attacked first one Indian and then the other. At last both turned on him, and when they left him, he was nearly dead. At this, the dogs took a hand. They leaped upon the Indians and drove them from the woods. Then they came back to where their friend lay on the ground, and began to talk with him and lick his face.

The man could not speak for some time, but when his voice came to him, he said to the dogs, "No longer do I wish to live under the law of animals. No more shall I fight strangers. From this time, I shall shake hands with strangers, and bid them welcome. From this time, I shall be a man and live under the law of men."

"Then," said the dogs sadly, "we shall no longer be able to talk with you, and tell you the things that we know. But we will always stand by you. We will be your friends and will fight for you, when you need us as you did to-day."

This is why the Indian and his dog are now unable to speak each other's language. This is also why an Indian's dog will fight to the death for his friend.

Not only is the dog a true friend to the Indian in this world, but in the next as well. It seems that the soul of an Indian on its journey to the Happy Hunting Ground must cross a deep, swift-running stream. On either side of this dark river, there stand two dogs who hold in their teeth a great log upon which the souls pass.

The soul of the Indian who has been kind to his dog crosses the log easily, for the dogs stand guard. As the soul of such an Indian reaches the river, they say, "This Indian was kind to his dog. He gave him of his own food, and the dog always had a warm place by his fire. We will help this Indian to cross."

Then the dogs grip the log firmly in their teeth, and hold it steady while the soul of the kind Indian passes over.

But if the soul of an Indian who has been unkind to his dog comes to the river, the dogs say, "This man was cruel to his dog. He gave his dog no place by the fire, he beat him, he let him go hungry. This man shall not cross."

Then the dogs grip the log lightly in their teeth, and when the soul of the unkind Indian is half way across, they turn it quickly to one side, and the soul is thrown into the deep, dark river.

Many an Indian has been kind to his dog, that he might make sure of a safe crossing on that log.



Greedy Fawn And The Porridge


In the days when there was no one living in this country but the Indians, there were no houses; there were only Indian wigwams. There were no roads and no streets, but Indian trails.

At that time there grew a wonderful chestnut, which the Indians used in their cooking. A very small bit of this chestnut grated into a kettle would make a potful of porridge.

In a certain wigwam lived Deerheart and Sky Elk, and their little son Greedy Fawn. The mother was called Deerheart because she was so loving, and gentle, and kind. The father was named Sky Elk because he was so strong and fleet of foot. Greedy Fawn, too, came rightly by his name. You will soon know why.

One day, Deerheart and Sky Elk went on a long trail. As they left the wigwam, they said to Greedy Fawn, "Do not touch the chestnut, do not build a fire, while we are away."

Greedy Fawn promised. He watched his father and mother disappear down the western trail. Then he went back to the wigwam.

"Now," thought he, "I will have all the porridge I want."

So he ran and gathered some sticks. He built a fire with the sticks. Then he hung the kettle over the fire, and put some water in it. Then he found the chestnut. He grated a little of the chestnut into the kettle, and began to stir. Then he grated some more, and some more, and some more.

Faster and faster Greedy Fawn stirred the boiling porridge, for it began to swell and fill the kettle.

Larger and larger, it grew, and it grew, and it grew.

Greedy Fawn was so frightened he did not know what to do.

"Oh, will it never stop swelling?" he thought. Harder and harder he stirred to keep the porridge from boiling over. Beads of perspiration ran down his little bronze face, yet still he stirred. He dared not stop.

Then he remembered that sometimes his mother would rap the kettle with the porridge stick, if it became too full.

Rap, rap, rap, went the porridge stick on the edge of the kettle. Instantly the kettle began to swell. Larger, and larger, and larger it grew. Greedy Fawn was so frightened he did not know what to do.

Now Greedy Fawn could not reach across the kettle, to stir the porridge with his stick, so he began to run around it. And around, and around, and around the kettle he ran, stirring, and stirring, and stirring.

At last the kettle was so large that it nearly filled the wigwam. There was just space enough left for Greedy Fawn to run around it. And around, and around, and around the kettle he ran, stirring, and stirring, and stirring.

Oh, how his little arms ached! And, oh, how tired his small legs were! But still he ran. He dared not stop.

Here was porridge enough to last a small boy a lifetime, and he could not stop to taste one mouthful!

At last Greedy Fawn could run no longer. He stumbled and fell by the side of the kettle. He was too weak to rise. The stick fell from his hand, and the porridge boiled on. Higher, and higher, and higher it rose, until it ran over and down the sides of the kettle. Closer, and closer the boiling porridge crept to the little Indian boy, and soon Greedy Fawn and his stick were nearly buried in porridge.

For once Greedy Fawn had all the porridge he wanted. And never again would he have wanted anything, had not Deerheart and Sky Elk heard his cries, and come running like deer up the trail to save him.



Why Hounds Outrun Other Animals


A hound was chasing a hare through the woods.

Some wolves and panthers were chasing a bull that had been feeding in the valley near the woods. For some time they had been trying to run him down, but they did not seem to gain on him.

When the wolves and panthers saw that they were not gaining on the bull, they halted to take counsel. They decided that it would take a whole day of hard running to get the bull, and a hound was near! Why not go for the hound?

All agreed. They set off for the hound.

Now the bull had heard the wolves and panthers take council, and he, too, set off for the woods.

As he neared the wood, the bull called to the hound and warned him that a pack of wolves and panthers was after him. Just then they came into sight. The hound dared not meet them alone, and he knew not which way to turn.

Then the bull called, "Come, jump on my back. I can outrun them."

The hound ran and leaped on the back of the bull, and away they went.

The bull and the hound talked as they ran. The bull said he thought the wolves would soon grow tired, fall back, and give up the chase. But he was wrong. They were too angry at being outwitted.

"You think to take our game from us," they howled at the bull. "But we will eat hound meat to-night."

The bull saw it was a run for life. All day he ran. For a time it was easy to outrun the wolves and panthers, but at last they began to press hard upon him.

As the sun dropped out of the sky, the bull felt his knees begin to weaken. The weight of the hound was telling on him. A moment later, he stumbled and fell.

In an instant, the pack was upon them. But with one leap, the hound cleared the pack and was off down the trail.

The weaker wolves and panthers leaped upon the bull. The stronger went on.

But now the best of them were no match for the hound. He was fresh and strong, for he had been riding all day. They were tired and worn from the long chase, and soon they gave it up.

Because the hound is able to save his strength for the end of the chase, he can now outrun not only wolves and panthers, but all the other animals.



Why Indians Never Shoot Pigeons


An Indian hunter went into the forest in search of game.

The forest was so large that it would have taken three days to journey through it. All day he followed the track of the deer, but his arrows brought him no food.

At night, he came to a dark, swift-running stream. He was tired and hungry.

"Here," said he, "I will lie down and rest until sunrise."

He began to search for a bed of pine needles, for the Indian loves the pine tree. It is his friend by day and by night. By day it is his forest guide. At night it gives him a soft, sweet-smelling bed on which to sleep, and it shields him from the storm.

The hunter ran along the stream. It was very dark. He felt no soft pine needles under his moccasined feet, only the knotted roots of trees.

Suddenly the great roots of an oak tree reached out and caught him. He could not free his foot from the oak's grasp.

The sun rose and set. The great tree still held the hunter fast. He was weak from pain and hunger.

It was now two days since he had tasted food. Four notches had been cut in his stick, for the Indian measures time in this way. Each sunrise and sunset, when he is on the trail, is marked by a notch on a small stick which he carries.

Three times did the sun again rise and set, yet the tree did not let go its hold. There were now ten notches on the stick, and the hunter was so weak that he could scarcely cut the last one.

As the sun rose on the fifth day, a bird flew into the tree. He saw the hunter lying on the ground, and came close and spoke to him.

The hunter understood, for in those days men and birds could talk together.

The bird asked the man what he could do for him, and the hunter whispered, "You are strong. You can fly a long trail. Go and tell the chief of my people."

The bird flew swiftly away with the message. He did not wait until the sun was high. He did not stop to eat one berry or one worm. He did not fly high, nor fly low to talk with other birds. He went straight to the people the hunter had told him of.

The West Wind tried to blow him back. A black cloud came up to frighten him, but he went through it. On, and on, and on, he went. Straight to the wigwam of the chief, he carried his message.

The chief had called together the young men who were fleet of foot, and was about to send them forth to find the lost hunter. They were asking the chief what trails they had best take. Before the chief could reply, a beautiful dove-colored bird had flown close to his ear and had spoken to him in soft, low tones.

The chief told the young men what the bird had said, and they set off on the trail the bird had named. Before sunset, they had found the lost hunter.

Carefully they freed him from the grasp of the great oak and bore him to his people. That night there was a feast and a dance in his honor.

Ever since, the Indians have loved the birds that carry the messages, and they never shoot a pigeon.



How Old Man Winter Was Driven Back


Far away in the North Sky lives Old Man Winter. Every year he leaves his wigwam in the sky and comes to earth.

At the foot of a mountain, he builds a lodge of ice and snow, which no human being, animal, or bird can enter. There he lives for a time.

North Wind is the only friend of Old Man Winter. When he passes near Old Man Winter's lodge, he gives a loud shriek, and with his blustering breath he blows open the door and enters.

Near a fire which glows, but does not warm, North Wind finds a seat. There he and Old Man Winter sit and smoke, and lay their plans for the next snowstorm.

When the council is ended, North Wind departs, to drive up the snow and hail from the corners of the earth.

Old Man Winter also leaves his lodge. He stalks over the mountains and valleys of the Red Children. The land becomes white with his breath. The rivers are stilled, and all the voices of the wood are hushed as he passes. A deep sleep falls upon every living thing.

No sound is heard in the forest but the rapping on the trees. Old Man Winter carries a great hammer, and he strikes the trees a blow as he passes. The colder it grows, the louder and more frequently he raps. The trees snap, and the Indian lodges crack with his blows.

One day, as Old Man Winter was stalking through a forest, he came upon a hunter's lodge. For days the snow had been falling. No track of deer or rabbit was to be seen, and the hunter and his little boy sat within, weak from hunger. They were also very cold, for the fire in the lodge burned low.

Old Man Winter laughed and shook his hammer in glee, as he drew near. Once, twice, three times, he rapped. The little boy within heard him, and rapped three times in reply, -- just as Old Man Winter had done.

At this, the hunter spoke. He told the boy that he must not mock a nature spirit, lest some harm should come to him. He might be captured and made to serve that spirit.

Now when Old Man Winter heard the mocking raps of the little boy within the lodge, he was very angry. He breathed fiercely upon the little lodge. It shrank and shivered at his touch like a living thing. He struck it several sharp blows with his hammer, and passed on.

The fire inside the lodge burned lower and lower. The hunter and his little son drew closer and watched the last flame flicker and die out.

As they sat by the ashes, numb with the cold, all of a sudden a new warmth filled the lodge. The South Wind gently opened the door, and a young chieftain, with a face like the sun, entered. He saw the dying hunter and the boy, and he warmed them back to life. When they were stronger, he helped them to rekindle the fire. Then he told them to take a few dried blackberries that they had in the lodge, and boil them in water.

He said they must eat a portion of the blackberries, and throw the rest at Old Man Winter when he returned. This would frighten him away, for he was terribly afraid of blackberries.

Blackberries mean sunshine and summer heat. Old Man Winter cannot stay where they are. He never visits the earth at blackberry time.

The hunter and the little boy said they would do as they had been told. Soon the young chieftain left the lodge, with the South Wind.

Not many days later, Old Man Winter returned, and again came rapping at their lodge. But this time the hunter and the little boy were ready. They threw the blackberries at him, as they had been told, and he ran in fear to his ice lodge.

The South Wind and the young chieftain with a face like the sun were near. They followed close upon the Old Man's track. When he was again inside the ice lodge, the South Wind rapped gently at the door.

"Begone!" said the Old Man. "No one but North Wind is welcome to my lodge."

Then the South Wind breathed soft and warm upon the door of the ice lodge, and it melted at their feet. The young chieftain passed in and sat down by the strange fire that had no heat. The South Wind stayed without, and sang, soft and low.

The Old Man was very angry. He raged about the lodge and ordered the young chieftain with sunshine in his face and warmth in his breath to depart.

"I am great and powerful," said the Old Man. "When I touch the sky, the snow falls. When I speak, hunters hide in their lodges; animals crawl into their holes; and birds fly in fear.

"When my hand touches the earth, it grows cold and hard, and all life dies. Begone! or I will make an ice man or a snow man of you."

But the young chieftain moved not. He only sat and smiled at the bluster of the Old Man.

Slowly he filled a pipe, and handed it to the Old Man, saying, "Here, smoke with me. It will give you strength to go to your lodge in the North Sky. It is time for you to depart. You are old, and tired, and worn. You and North Wind have had your day. The days that are to come belong to South Wind and to me.

"I, too, am powerful, and I am young! I do not fear you. When I touch the earth, it grows soft and warm. Every living thing stirs in its sleep, -- birds and bees, flowers and trees, animals and men. When I speak, the sleeping sun awakes. See! already he begins to send down his arrows. Hasten! that they may not find you, on the trail to the North Sky."

The Old Man trembled. His legs and arms grew weak. Icicles fell from his beard. Great tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Who are you?" he whispered, as he was melting at the young chieftain's feet.

"I am Go hay -- the Spring," answered the young chieftain. "All the earth is glad, when I come to drive you back to your lodge in the North Sky, for I bring sunshine, and love, and joy."

But the Old Man did not hear. He was far on the North Sky trail, and Spring and South Wind were masters of earth.



Why Lightning Sometimes Strikes


An old man of the Iroquois nation once wished to make a beautiful Indian maiden his wife. The old man had many rare furs and valued strings of wampum. These he brought and laid at the door of the wigwam where the maiden lived.

The father and mother were pleased with the old man's gifts. They told him that when the Planting Moon should come, the maiden should go to his wigwam.

Now the maiden did not love the old man. She did not wish him to make her his wife. "I will never sit at his wigwam door," she said.

It was midwinter, when the old man brought the gifts, the time of the pale, cold moon. From that time, the maiden watched, with a heavy heart, the moons wax and wane.

At last the snows disappeared. No more was the North Wind heard shrieking about the lodge. The gentle South Wind had come, bringing with him the singing birds.

The little brooks awoke and sang. They were happy that spring had come, and all the earth children were glad, -- except the maiden. Her heart grew more heavy and sad, as the face of the sun grew brighter.

Then the Planting Moon came. The maiden watched the moon hang her horn in the sky. Then she ran swiftly to the great river that flowed not far from the lodge. Lightly she sprang into her canoe. A few quick strokes, and the canoe was in midstream.

The current ran swift and strong. The little craft was carried swiftly down the river toward the great falls known as Niagara Falls. As the canoe neared the falls, the maiden was seen to rise and stretch out her arms, as though about to leap. A smile was on her face, and a song was on her lips, as the canoe shot into the mist that overhung the water.

Then, from the caverns below a dark blanket floated upward, as though spread to catch the maiden. It was Heno, the Thunder Spirit, who dwelt behind the falls. He had caught her in the folds of his blanket, and had saved her from the great rocks below.

Heno took the maiden to live with him, in his lodge behind the falls. There she was very happy, so happy that her smile shone through the mist, and the Indians cried, "See! A rainbow!"

In her new home the maiden learned many wonderful things. She found she possessed strange powers, not known to her before. She could float on a cloud at will, and she seemed filled with a strange fire.

One day, the young woman was given a son. Heno and she were very happy. Many moons the mother and child played together. When Heno was away on one of his journeys through the sky, they would ride the great bubbles of foam that went dashing through the rocks. Sometimes they would catch sunbeams in a net, as they sat on the edge of a cloud and fished.

One day, Heno asked the young woman if she would like to visit her people.

"If you wish," he said, "you shall return for a time, taking our son with you. But remember, both of you possess powers unknown to the earth children. Be careful how you use them. Never let another child strike the boy, for that child would at once wither and die. Never strike the boy yourself, for he would fall stunned to earth."

The woman listened to Heno's words. Soon they were wrapped in his great cloud blanket, and were floating over the river. When they came to the home of her people, Heno left the woman and the boy by the river, and went on further to the east.

The people were glad to see the woman, whom they had mourned as dead. She told them of the wonderful things she had learned in her new home. She told them also how Heno was freeing their land of a monster serpent, that trailed underneath the earth, poisoning their springs and causing sickness. Always, she said, Heno carried a basket of great rocks on his back, which he hurled at the monster whenever he saw him. Soon he would kill the serpent, and they would be sick no more.

During many days, the mother and the little boy stayed with the earth people. Sometimes, when the child was playing by the river, he would see a dark cloud approaching. Then he would clap his hands with joy and cry, "There comes my father!"

The black cloud would float earthward, and Heno would stop and have a word with the mother and the boy. As he left them he always said, "Do not let anyone strike the boy."

But one day, the mother did not watch the boy, and he fell to playing with some earth children. They grew angry as they played, and struck the boy. Instantly these earth children fell dead to the ground. Then the mother laid hands on the boy, to punish him, and he fell to earth.

At this, there came a great rumbling and roaring through the sky, and Heno appeared. He took the lifeless child in his arms, crying, "You have disobeyed. No longer shall you have this great power I gave you. You shall remain on earth and be simply an earth woman. I will take the boy to my abode. Henceforth, our lodge shall be in the sky. There he will return to life, and ever after he will go with me on my journeys through the sky."

Then the sky shook and trembled. The door of the sky lodge opened, and Heno and the boy were seen no more.

Now, when a rumbling and rolling through the sky is heard, the Indians say, "'Tis the voice of Heno! He is coming from his lodge in the sky!"

But when a flash of fire is seen, and a loud crash is heard, they say, "That is the boy! He is trying to hit the earth children with a fire stone. He remembers how they struck him, a long time ago."



Why The Hare Has A Split Lip And Short Tail


Once a rabbit began to run back and forth through the woods, calling for snow, snow, snow! It was one of those large gray rabbits, with long ears, that people call hares.

As this hare ran back and forth through the woods, he sang at the top of his voice, "Ah gon ne yah -- yeh! Ah gon ne yah-yeh! Ah gon ne yah -- yeh! dah gen, dah ton, Ah gon ne yah -- yeh! Ah gon ne yah -- yeh!" This meant, "Snow, snow, snow! How I would run if I had snow! Snow, snow, snow! How I would run if I had snow!"

Now, strange as it may seem, as this hare ran back and forth singing for snow, snow, snow, some flakes of snow began to fall. The hare was so delighted that he jumped up and down for joy.

"Ah gon ne yah -- yeh! Ah gon ne yah -- yeh! Ah gon ne yah -- yeh!" he sang, in short, quick notes of joy. And the higher he jumped, and the louder he sang, the faster and thicker the snow came.

The hare was so delighted that he again began to run. All day long he ran, back and forth through the woods, calling for "Snow, snow, snow! How I would run if I had snow!" And the snow fell faster and faster. Thicker and thicker it came. The path in which the rabbit ran grew higher and higher, as the snow fell deeper and deeper.

But at last the hare was so tired that he could run no longer. He no longer sang for "Snow, snow, snow! How I would run if I had snow," for he now had more snow than he wanted. The snow was up to the tiptops of the trees, and it was very hard to run.

The hare was very tired. He thought he must take a rest. Night was coming on. He looked about him. Near the path were the top branches of a willow tree, sticking out above the snow. He sprang into a crotch of those branches. There he could sit and rest for a time. Soon he fell asleep. He slept all night and part of the next day.

That night it began to rain, and it rained very, very hard. The snow began to melt, and it melted very, very fast, and when that hare awoke, not a flake of snow was to be seen!

But there was the hare away up in the tiptop of that willow tree! What to do he did not know. He was very hungry. He wondered how long he could stay there and not starve. He saw some tender buds on the branches. He ate those, and then he gnawed bark for a time.

However, sooner or later, the hare knew he must jump or starve. He looked down at the earth. It looked very good to him. He could see some fresh green moss and some beautiful grass. One jump, and they were his! But what a jump!

At last the hare whipped his courage up to the jumping point. He shut his eyes, and gave one great jump to earth. But when he jumped, he caught his tail on the branch of the willow tree and left part of it up there. And when he jumped, he struck the front of his face on a sharp stone, and the stone split his upper lip in two.

Ever since then, hares have had split lips and short tails, and ever since then, willow trees have had tails, or catkins, on them, in the spring.



Corn Plume And Bean Maiden


The Great Spirit had smiled upon his Red Children. The land was filled with plenty, for the Great Spirit had given to them the three sustainers of life, the corn, the bean, and the squash. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, and all the earth was glad with the Red Children, for the gifts of the Great Spirit.

On one side of a hill grew the tall, waving corn, with its silk tassels and plumes. On another side, beans, with their velvety pods, climbed toward the sky. Some distance down a third slope, beautiful yellow squashes turned their faces to the sun.

One day, the Spirit of the corn grew restless. There came a rustling through the waving leaves, and a great sigh burst from the heart of the tall stalks. The Spirit of the corn was lonely.

After that, every morning at sunrise, a handsome young chief was seen to come and stand on the brow of the hill. On his head were shining red plumes. Tall, and strong, and splendid he stood, wrapped in the folds of his waving blanket, whose fringed tassels danced to the summer breeze.

"Che che hen! Che che hen! Some one I would marry! Some one I would marry!" the young chieftain would sing, many, many times.

One day, his voice reached the Squash Maiden, on the other side of the hill. The Squash Maiden drew about her a rich green blanket, into which she had woven many flaunting gold trumpet-shaped flowers. Then she ran swiftly to the young chieftain.

"Marry me! Marry me!" said the Squash Maiden, as she spread her beautiful gold and green blanket at his feet.

Corn Plume looked down at the Squash Maiden sitting on her blanket at his feet. She was good to look upon, and yet Corn Plume was not content. He wanted a maiden who would stand by his side, not always sit at his feet.

Then Corn Plume spoke thus to the Squash Maiden.

"Corn Plume cannot marry Squash Maiden. She is very beautiful, but she will not make song in Corn Plume's heart. Squash Maiden will grow tired of his lodge. She will not stay in his wigwam. She likes to go a long trail, and wander far from the lodge.

"Corn Plume cannot make Squash Maiden his wife, for he is not content with her. But she shall be Corn Plume's sister, and sit in his lodge whenever she will. The maiden Corn Plume weds must be ever at his side. She must go where he goes, stay where he stays."

Next morning at sunrise, the voice of Corn Plume was again heard, singing from the hilltop, "Che che hen! Che che hen! Some one I would marry! Some one I would marry! Che che hen! Che che hen!"

This time his song reached the ears of the Bean Maiden. Her heart sang, when she heard the voice of Corn Plume, for she knew that he was calling her. So light of heart was Bean Maiden, that she ran like a deer up the hillside. On and on, up and over the brow of the hill she climbed, till she reached the young chieftain's side.

Then Corn Plume turned and beheld the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen. Her eyes were deep and dark, like mountain pools. Her breath was sweet as the waters of the maple. She threw off her blanket of green, and purple, and white, and stretched her twining arms to him.

Corn Plume desired to keep Bean Maiden forever close to him. He bent his tall plumed head to her. Her arms wound round and round the young chieftain, and Corn Plume was content.

So closely were the arms of Corn Plume and the Bean Maiden entwined, so truly were they wed, that the Indians never attempted to separate them. Ever after, corn and beans were planted in the same hill, and often a squash seed was added.

Since the Great Spirit had placed the corn, the bean, and the squash together on a hill, the Indian said they should continue to live and grow and occupy a hill together.

The door of Corn Plume's lodge was ever open to the Squash Maiden, if she chose to enter. But seldom did she stay in his wigwam. More often, she was found running off on a long trail.

But Bean Maiden remained true to Corn Plume. Always she was found by his side. Never did she leave the lodge unless he went with her. Corn Plume's lodge was her lodge, and her trail was his trail.

And because the Spirits of the corn and the bean are as one, the Indians not only plant and grow them together, but cook and eat them together. "In life, they were one," they say, "We will not separate them in death."

And now, when a great rustling and sighing of the corn is heard in the White man's land, the Indians often say, "'Tis the Spirit of Corn Plume, crying for his lost Bean Maiden!"



How The Robin Burned His Breast


Some Indian hunters once made their way north, to hunt for moose. It was at the time of Falling Leaves.

They journeyed for several days, until they came to a lake. Close by the lake they built a log cabin. Moss was placed between the logs to keep out the wind, and a thick roof was made from hemlock boughs. In the center of the roof, a small opening was left for the smoke from the lodge fire to pass out.

Here the hunters lived during the Moon of Falling Leaves. Every day they went on the moose trail, but they found no moose. Their arrows brought them little game of any kind. They became discouraged and sick, and one by one the hunters lay down and died.

At last there was but one hunter left. He, too, was sick, and he grew weaker day by day. His food was nearly gone. It was growing cold, and there was little wood in the cabin to burn.

But the man did not give up. Again and again he cried aloud, "Some one will come and help me! Some one will come and help me!"

One day, as he lay there too weak to rise, the fire flickered and went out. It seemed that he must die. But even then he did not give up. Again and again, with his weak voice he cried, "Some one will come and help me! Some one will come and help me!"

And some one did come and help him. His cry was heard, for a bird came flying in through the smoke hole in the roof of the lodge.

The bird had such a cheery, brave voice that the man felt better the moment he flew in. The bird said to the man, "I was near; I heard you calling. I have come to help you."

Then the bird saw that the fire was out, and that the man was cold. He fluttered among the ashes until he found a bit of live coal. With a glad chirp, he flew out through the roof. Soon he was back, with his bill full of dried twigs. He placed them on the fire and began to fan them into flame with his wings. Soon the twigs were blazing. Then he flew out for more twigs, -- and more, and more, and more.

The brave little bird kept on carrying twigs until the fire burned hot, and the lodge was warm once more.

When the bird had flown into the lodge, he had had a clean, white breast. After the fire was built, his breast was covered with red and brown spots. He tried to pick them off with his bill, but they would not come off. Instead, they seemed to spread, and his whole breast became red-brown. Then the bird knew that he must have burned his breast to a red-brown, when he was fanning the fire into flame.

But the little bird did not care if he had soiled his white breast, and burned it red-brown. Had he not brought cheer and life to a dying man?

He chirped a few glad notes, then said to the man, "I will go now, but I shall be near your lodge. When you need me, call, and I will come again."

Later in the day, the man again called for help. The fire was getting low, and he was not yet strong enough to go out and gather twigs. Again the bird came to his aid. In and out he flew, many times, after small branches and twigs, until they were piled high on the fire, and once more it crackled and burned.

There was a little wood in the lodge. The man placed it on the fire, and the warmth healed the man, so that soon he was well and strong again.

Every day the man talked with the bird, for he was always near, and his cheery voice and brave words gave the man courage.

Once more he went on the moose trail, and this time his arrows brought him moose. In a short time the hunter had all the meat, skins, and moose hair he wanted. The moose hair he was taking to his wife, to work into pretty forms on moccasins.

The first snow was falling, as the hunter started south on the home trail. The bird hopped along by his side for a little way, then said, "I must leave you now. Winter is coming, and I must be on my way to the Southland, or the snow will catch me. In the spring you will see me again."

When spring came, the bird with the red-brown breast came with his mate, and built a nest close to the hunter's home lodge. In the nest, that summer, there grew up five little birds, and they, too, had red and brown breasts.

And ever since, Robin Redbreast has continued to come and build his nest close to the lodges of men, for Robin Redbreast is a friend to man.



Iroquois Fairy Stories



How Morning Star Lost Her Fish


Once the Little People, the Indian fairies, ran with the Red Children through the woods, and played with them beside the streams. Now they are not often seen, for the white man drove them out of the woods with the Indians, and away from the waters, with his big steam noises.

But before steamboats and great mills were on the streams, the Little People were there. They were often seen paddling their tiny canoes, or sliding down the great rocks on the banks. They loved to slide down a bank where one rock jutted out, for then they had a big bounce. They also liked to sport and jump with the fish.

There was a young Indian girl whose name was Morning Star. She was called Morning Star because her face was so bright, and she was always up early in the morning.

Morning Star lived with her father in a comfortable wigwam by a river. Every day she would get up with the sun, and run down to the river where the great rocks were, to catch fish for breakfast.

Morning Star caught her fish in a basket. At night, she would go and fasten her basket between the rocks, in a narrow place of the stream. Then, when the fish swam through in the night, they would get caught in it, and Morning Star would find plenty of fish waiting for her. In the morning, she would take the basket of fish back to the wigwam, and soon the smell of fish frying on hot coals would come from the lodge.

Never since Morning Star began to fish with her basket, had Chief Little Wolf, her father, had to wait for his fish breakfast before starting on the chase. But one morning, neither Chief Little Wolf nor Morning Star breakfasted on fish. This is how it happened.

On this morning, the Indian girl was up as usual with the sun. She ran down the river just as the Great Spirit lifted the sun's smiling face. Morning Star had such a light heart that she was glad just to be alive, and she sang a song of praise as she ran. All true Indians at sunrise lift their arms and faces to the sun, and thank the Great Spirit that he has smiled upon them again.

Happy and fleet as a deer, Morning Star ran on until she came to the great rocks. There she saw a whole tribe of tiny little folk gathered about her basket. Some of them were perched on the sides of the basket, laughing and singing. Others were lifting the fish from it and throwing them into the stream. Still others were opening and closing the splints of the basket for the fish to slip through.

Morning Star knew that these tiny folk were the Jo gah oh. She knew also that these Little People were friends of the fish. They know every twist of a fish net and every turn of a hook. Often they have been known to set fish free, and to guide them into deep, quiet places, far away from the men who fish.

Morning Star called to the Little People and begged them not to let all the fish go. Then she began to climb down the rocks, as fast as she could. The little Chief called up to her, "Fish, like Indian girls, like to be alive."

Then he told the Little People to keep on setting the fish free.

When Morning Star reached her basket, a few fish were still in it. She put out her hand to take them from the Little People, -- and not a fish, nor a Jo gah oh was to be seen. The Little People had darted into the rocks, for they go through anything, and the fish had slipped through the tiny spaces between the splints of the basket.

Morning Star heard the laughter of the Little People echo deep within the rocks, for they like to play pranks with the earth children. And far down the stream, she saw the fish leap with joy at being still alive. She took up her empty basket and went back to the wigwam.

That morning for breakfast, Morning Star baked corn cakes on the hot coals. As she ate the hot cakes, she thought they tasted almost as good as fish.

Ever after, when Morning Star saw a fish leap from the stream, she remembered what the Jo gah oh had said: "Fish, like Indian girls, like to be alive."



How Little Shooter Lost His Luck


One day, an Indian boy was playing beside a stream, when one of the little elf men came along in his canoe. The boy had his bow and arrow with him; so had the little elf man.

The little man stopped and offered to trade bows and arrows. The Indian boy looked first at his bow, and then at that of the little man. His bow was large. The little man's bow was very small. The boy thought his own bow was better, so he said he would not trade.

The little elf man laughed and drew his bow.

"You think only big things are great," he said. "Some day you will learn better. Some day you will want this little bow and these little arrows. Some day you will wish you had traded."

Then he shot an arrow into the clouds, sprang into his canoe, and paddled off up the stream. As he disappeared, he called back to the boy, "You will see me again, sometime!"

The Indian boy ran to his wigwam home. He told his father about the little man he had seen, and how the man wanted to trade bow and arrows.

"And you did not trade?" exclaimed the father.

"No," said the boy, "his bow was small; mine is large."

"Foolish boy!" said the father. "That little man was a Jo gah oh, one of the Little People. They do wonderful things. Their arrows are winged with power. Had you traded bows, you would have become a great hunter, and been able to get near the animals.

"Those little arrows of the Jo gah oh fly swift and far, and always bring back game. The boy who has a Jo gah oh bow and arrow always has good luck. One arrow of theirs is worth a flight of yours. Had you traded bow and arrows, you would have been called 'He shoots the sky.' Now you shall be called 'Little Shooter.'"

Little Shooter grew to be a man. He went often on the chase, but his arrows did not bring much game.

Many times, he wished he could meet the little elf man again, and trade bow and arrows, for sometimes he ran for days and found no track of deer or rabbit. But the little elf man never came.

One day, when Little Shooter had grown to be quite an old man, he was walking in the woods. He stopped under a tree to rest. Several times he felt something fall on his head.

At last he looked up to see what it was.

There sat the little elf man, swinging on the tip of a branch, and throwing nuts and twigs at him. He looked just as he did when Little Shooter met him by the stream long before. He had not grown old or changed at all.

"How long have you been here?" asked Little Shooter.

"I have always been here," said the little man. "I have been in the world ever since the stones were soft."

Then he laughed, and asked, "Does Little Shooter now like big bow and arrows best, or has he learned that sometimes small things are great? Next time, he had better trade with the little man," and aiming another nut at Little Shooter's head, he disappeared in the tree trunk.



How An Indian Boy Won His Name


It was bluebird time, many moons ago. Little brooks laughed and danced, and all the forest was glad.

An Indian boy came running through the forest. He, too, was glad, for it was spring!

As he ran down the trail, he saw something hanging from a bush. The bush was but a few rabbit jumps from the trail, so he stopped to see what new flower the spring had brought. He found the new flower to be a tiny papoose cradle.

The boy picked the cradle from the bush, and held it in the palm of his hand. As he looked closer, he saw that there was a tiny papoose in the little cradle. The wee papoose laughed in his face, as he spoke to it.

The boy had never seen so tiny a papoose, and he thought he would take it home to his mother, it was so cunning. She had but nine of her own. He was sure she would like one more, and that there would be a place for the tiny stranger in their wigwam.

He started to run on down the trail, but something seemed to hold him fast. He could not get away. Three times he tried to run, but each time he only circled round that bush. Something held him to the spot.

Just then there came a sharp cry from up the trail. The boy thought some animal must be hurt or in pain. He turned to look and saw a little woman coming. She was less than a foot high, but she ran like a deer to the boy, and cried and begged him to give back her baby.

Then the boy knew it was the love of that little mother that had held him fast. He could not break the love cord between that mother and her baby.

Now the boy had a heart that was soft and kind. He liked to see everything happy. When he saw the little mother crying and begging for her baby, he felt sorry for her.

Many times he had heard his mother tell how every mother bird loves her young; every mother bear, her cub; every mother deer, her fawn; every Indian mother, her papoose. And he knew this little fairy mother must also love her fairy baby, so he put it on the little mother's back, and told her she should have her papoose.

The little mother gave a glad cry, as she felt the baby on her back once more. Then she drew a stone from a bag which she carried, and slipped it on a string of beads that hung from the boy's neck.

The stone shone on his breast like a dewdrop.

"Because you are good, and kind, and unselfish, and because you make everything happy," she said, "you shall wear this good-luck stone. It will bring you whatever you want.

"We Little People give this stone to those earth children only, who are strong and yet protect the weak. Wear it always on your breast. Never take it off, and you will become a mighty chief."

Then the little mother gave another glad cry, and with her baby on her back she disappeared into an oak.

The boy ran on. His heart grew lighter and the stone brighter, as he ran. Before he reached his mother's wigwam, his arrows had brought back game for their evening meal.

From the day when the boy met the little Jo gah oh mother in the wood, and was given the stone, he had good luck. Whatever he did, all went well with him. If he went on the chase, he brought back deer. If he planted corn, it grew tall and fine. No boy could throw a ball as far, or could run as fast as he. He could shoot his arrows to the sky, and could send his snow-snakes skimming far beyond the rest.

So lucky was this Indian boy, that his tribe called him "Luck-in-all-moons." "He wears the good-luck stone," the old people said as they sat around the fire, and they nodded their heads knowingly. But they never knew how he came by it, or why he won the stone.

And when "Luck-in-all-moons" grew to be a man, his tribe made him a great chief. Just as the little Jo gah oh mother had said, he became a chief, though not in the chieftain line.

Because he stood so strong and straight, serving the people, protecting the weak, and doing great deeds, he was called the Pine-tree Chief.

"His feet are planted deep in wisdom and strength," they said, "and his head is not far from the sky. He sees far and points us the way. As the topmost branch of the pine points always to the east, so Luck-in-all-moons shall guide us to the sun rising. He shall be our Pine-tree Chief."



How The Fairies Worked Magic


Once a little Indian girl was very sad and unhappy. The Great Spirit had taken her father and mother, and she had gone to live with relatives who did not want her. Often she went to sleep hungry, for only the scraps of food that were left from a meal were given to her.

One day, the relatives of the little girl brought in a fine deer from the chase, and made ready for a feast. They told the girl to get out of the lodge, for there was neither room, nor meat for her.

The little girl ran and hid herself in a great field of corn. There she cried aloud.

Soon a band of strange Little People gathered about her, to comfort her. On all sides, from the folds of the green cornstalks they came.

They stroked her head, wiped the tears from her eyes, and said, "Don't cry, little girl. We will take care of you. You shall come and live with us. We will make a feast for you. We know why you are sad, for we can read the thoughts of all the earth children. Come with us, and we will show you more wonderful things than you have ever seen."

At this the little girl dried her tears, and smiled at the kind Little People.

"You are very good to me," she said. "Who are you?"

"We are the Jo gah oh," they replied, "the Little People. Come, and we will show you what we can do."

Then they slipped some winged moccasins upon her feet. They wrapped her in an invisible blanket and put a magic corn plume in her hair, and the next moment all were flying through the air.

They flew to a ledge of great rocks. At the touch of the Little People, the rocks opened, and they passed within.

The girl found herself in a beautiful lodge. Kind Jo gah oh mothers were baking cakes and roasting meat. They welcomed the girl, and soon a feast was spread in her honor.

Now the heart of the little girl was so light that she danced with joy.

"What wonderful people you are! Can you go anywhere, or do anything you wish?"

"Yes," said the little chief, "the Jo gah oh are small, but they are great. Come with us, and you shall see what we can do."

Again they were flying through the air. Soon they reached the lodge where the little girl had lived. It was night, and her relatives were asleep, but she could see the deer that hung outside ready for the feast.

"Now," said the Jo gah oh chief, "we will call out a pack of wolves from the wood yonder, and there will be no fat deer for this selfish feast, at sunrise."

Now no wolves had been seen in that wood for many moons. But at the call of the fairies, a pack sprang from it, ran to the lodge, seized the deer, and tore it into shreds. Then they again disappeared in the wood.

The little girl's eyes were large now with wonder, as they flew back to the fairy lodge in the rocks, but she was not afraid of these strange Little People. She was so happy with them she wished she might always live in a Jo gah oh lodge.

One morning, the little chief said, "Today we shall see more wonders."

This time a tiny canoe was waiting. They stepped into it and sailed down a river until they came to a great tree.

"In that tree," said the little chief, "lives a great, black bear. Every day he comes out that door you see high up in the bear tree. I will make the door fast so he cannot open it. A deep sleep will fall on him. He will sleep for many moons."

Then the chief threw three stones through the open door of the bear tree. Each time, a flame spread like a blanket over the door. A growling and scratching was heard within. Then all became still.

"Now," said the chief, "the bear will sleep until I call him in the spring. He is locked up for the winter. Come, let us go on."

The little girl drew her invisible blanket closer, as the canoe went sailing with the birds through the clouds. The birds that were swift of wing called loudly for a race.

"Come on!" said the fairy chief.

Then he spread wide the invisible sails of his canoe, and they flew past the birds like a streak of lightning. Even the eagle was left far behind. They seemed to shoot through the sky.

And, oh, what fun it was to be a bird! The little girl would have sailed on forever, but the little chief said, "You shall now return to your people. We have given them soft hearts and kind minds. They are calling for you. They will be glad to see you."

And soon the little girl was again in the wigwam of her relatives, sitting by the warm fire.

They greeted her with joy, spread a soft skin for her to sit upon, and gave her the best food. And the little girl lived with them, ever after, and was happy.

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The Wonders Of The Jungle

By

Prince Sarath Ghosh



Chapter I

The Midnight Pool


My dear, I shall tell you all about the wonders of the jungle. You have seen many animals in the zoo or in a circus -- elephants, bears, lions, tigers, leopards, and many others. But the jungle is the place where these animals live before they are brought to the zoo or the circus.

In fact, jungle really means a wild place; that is, a place where trees and bushes grow quite wild, so that men never cut down the trees or clear away the bushes. That is the natural home for all sorts of animals.

Now I am going to tell you about the wonderful way in which they live there with their families, as we do in our homes; for the Papas and Mammas among the animals are just as fond of their children as ours are. So you must imagine that you are going into the jungle with me, so that I can show you everything. You see, it is just like a game of pretending, that we are going to play.

There is actually a place in the jungle where you can see all the animals at once. In fact, that place is so wonderful that King George and Queen Mary of England went to see it; that was a few years ago, when they went to India, which is a far-away country. For in India there is a huge jungle where many thousands of animals live.

So you must pretend that I am taking you to the Royal party, and that you are sitting with the King and Queen and all the fine men and lovely ladies; and we are watching the animals, while I tell you all about them.

First, I must tell you that it is midnight, and all the animals are coming to a stream of water to drink. This stream is a river about twice as wide as a large street in your home town. We are sitting on the bank, on one side of the stream; and the animals are coming to drink on the bank on the other side.

"But," you may say, "will not the animals see us across the stream, and get frightened and run away?"

That is quite true. But the King and Queen had thought of that. So they ordered a lot of men to put a large net on their side of the stream, just in front of them, and then to cover the net with twigs and leaves so cleverly that the animals thought the leaves were a part of the jungle, and did not see the people on the other side of the net.

So the King and Queen, and you and I, can peep quietly through the leaves and watch the animals. Almost all wild animals drink at midnight; so we shall see them now.

Where will the animals come from? You see the stream before us; well, on the other side of it is the jungle, where the animals live. Right in front of us we see a gap in the jungle close to the bank. That gap was made by elephants by beating down the bushes with their feet. They made it long ago to come to the water, and now they use it every night. In fact, it is known among the jungle folks as the Elephant Path; for no other animal would dare to use it before the elephants did.

The elephants, being the biggest of all animals, are the lords of the jungle; so they have the right to come first to drink. They are also the wisest of all animals. You have seen many kinds of animals -- elephants, horses, dogs, monkeys, and others -- do funny tricks in a circus. Now, all these animals except the elephant have to be taught to do tricks; the elephant is the only animal that can think out a trick for itself.

Of course in a circus there is always a teacher, or trainer, to show even the elephant how to do tricks; but in the jungle the elephant can find out how to do things for itself.

Very soon I shall tell you about the tricks which the elephant actually does in the jungle; and as you hear about them, you must think! Why? Because then you will know why the elephant does these things -- and that will show you how clever you can be!


Elephants Drink First -- but Down Stream

First let us watch the elephants as they come to the river through the gap in the jungle.

See! They come one at a time, one behind another; for the gap is not big enough for more than one at the same time. The elephant is so big that it can get through the jungle only in this way.

First come a number of bull elephants. They are the Papa elephants; you can always tell them by the huge tusks they have. The bulls come first, in case there are any enemies waiting to hurt their children; for then the bulls can drive off the enemies.

As each bull elephant comes through the gap, you see him turn to our right, which is down the stream -- that is, the way the water flows. You see the first one walk along the bank that way, and the second comes after him, then the third, and so on.

But why do they walk along the bank? To make room, of course, for all their friends who are still coming from behind. In this way about a dozen bull elephants come ahead of all the others.

After them you see the cow elephants, also in a line, one behind another. They are the Mamma elephants; and nearly every one of them has a baby elephant trotting in front of her. You have often seen the ordinary cow that gives you milk; when she goes to graze in the field, her baby, or calf, trots by her side.

But the Mamma elephant is much wiser, and always tells her baby to toddle in front of her, in case any one comes suddenly to hurt or steal the baby. For a tiger sometimes wants to pounce on the baby from the side, grab it quickly, and carry it away. But he cannot do it if the baby is right in front of its Mamma; for then she will drive him off with her tusks, even if they are not quite so big as the tusks that the Papa elephants have.

As the Mammas reach the bank, each with her baby, you see them also walk along the bank down stream in a long line.

After all the Mammas and babies have come, you see another set of bull elephants coming out of the jungle. Why? Because some enemy might try to attack the Mammas and the babies from the back; so these bull elephants are there to guard them. You see, the Mammas and the babies are always in the middle, safe from all harm.

When all the elephants have reached the stream, they stand in line and face the water. All these elephants belong to one herd; you can count about a hundred. A herd of elephants is really a republic, like the United States of America, and has a President, who is the wisest bull in the herd.

In another book I shall tell you how the elephants choose their President, and make laws, and keep order in the herd; how they choose some strong bulls among them to act as policemen in the herd, and catch and punish any naughty elephant who becomes a rogue; and how, if two elephants start quarrelling and fighting like naughty boys, the police elephants have to catch and punish both of them. Also, I shall tell you how the President has to lead the herd every day when they go in search of food, so that they will have plenty to eat.

And in the jungle, as there are other elephant herds and sometimes two herds find the same feeding ground, and then start quarrelling and fighting as to who found it first, it is the duty of the President to keep his own herd away from the two that are fighting, and not mix in the fight in any way. All these wonderful things and many others you will read in the other book, when you are a little older.

But let us see what the President has to do when the whole herd is standing in line, facing the water. He is at the bottom of the line, far down stream; so he looks up along the line to see that all are ready. Then he gives the signal for them to begin drinking; he does this by dipping his trunk into the water. Then the second one sees him do it, and does the same; in that way each elephant higher up the line sees that the next one below him has started drinking, so he too does the same. Soon they are all drinking, as you see in the picture at the beginning of this book.

But why does the President have to give the signal to begin? Why is it that any elephant, anywhere along the line, cannot start drinking, just as he or she pleases? Think!

Because if any one along the line started drinking too soon, he might muddy the water for those that stood below him along the line, because the water flows down that way. But if the lower ones drank a little before, it would not matter if they did muddy the water, for the higher ones would still have clear water to drink. That is why the lowest one drinks first, then the next, and so on up the line. Is not that very wise, and very fair to all?


How the Elephant Drinks

But you must not think that an elephant actually drinks through his trunk! He does not! The elephant's trunk is really his nose, though it is a very long nose. What he does is to dip the trunk into the stream and suck in the water about halfway up the trunk; then he curls up the tip of the trunk and gets it near his mouth; then he blows through the nose, and squirts the water into his mouth. Of course he has to do that many times, to get enough to drink. But he tries each time to dip only the tip of the trunk into the stream, so as not to muddy the water willfully!


Why the Elephant Drinks with His Trunk

But, you may say, why cannot he drink like other animals, by going right into the stream till he gets his mouth into the water? Because his mouth is so high up, and his neck is so stiff, that he would have to go quite two or three yards deep into the stream before he could get his mouth into the water, and then his heavy feet would stir up the mud in the stream where he was standing, and so dirty the very water he was drinking.

Now you see what a wise animal the elephant is! The only way he could get clear water to drink was by having a long nose! And that is exactly what happened many, many years ago -- his nose became long enough to reach the water from the bank. How that happened I shall tell you in another book, as you will not understand it till you are a year or two older.

All the grown-up elephants drink in this way, and also some of the elephant children whose trunks have grown long enough to reach the stream. But what about a baby elephant? Why, its Mamma fills her own trunk with water, puts the tip into the baby's mouth and squirts the water into it.

But now after watching the elephants -- who are on our right, down the stream -- let us turn our eyes to the left, and look up the stream.




Chapter II

The Law of the Jungle


Hush! Here come all the animals! The buffaloes, the blue deer, the red deer, the wild pigs, the hyenas, the wolves, the red dogs, and many others. Watch and see how each kind of animal comes; it is not always in the same way. The moon is now shining clear above the trees, and we can see a long way up the stream.

See the buffaloes! They come a little above the elephants. But they do not come one behind another in a line, like the elephants. They come three or four together. They also have beaten down the bushes there years ago, to make a drinking place; and it is wide enough for three or four of them to drink at the same time, side by side.


How Buffaloes Come to Drink -- in Rows

But why must they drink three or four at the same time? Because the buffaloes are like a body of soldiers, one row behind another. Sometimes twenty or thirty rows make up a herd. We see only the first row drinking now, but soon we shall see the others behind.

And why do the buffaloes come like a body of soldiers? Because they are afraid of their enemy -- the tiger! Once upon a time the buffaloes lived scattered about, and many of them got eaten by the tiger, one at a time. Then those that escaped from the tiger became wise; they joined together like a body of soldiers, so that they could beat off the tiger. How they came to do that, I shall tell you at another time.

But now let us watch the first row drinking. They are all bull buffaloes, the Papas of the herd; you can tell that by their huge horns, a yard long on each side of the head. You see how the buffaloes stand side by side, so that their horns almost touch one another. That is the way the buffaloes have marched to the stream from their feeding place -- horn to horn. Why? Because no prowling tiger can get past those horns.

Watch the first row as it finishes drinking; the whole row wheels around to the side like soldiers. Then the buffaloes that have had their drink march to the back of the herd, and stand there in a row facing the jungle.

Meanwhile the second row in the front has stepped to the water to drink. These also are bull buffaloes. When they finish drinking, they also wheel, march to the back of the herd, and there stand behind the first row. In this way four or five rows of bulls drink, one after the other, and go to the back of the herd.

Next come about a dozen rows of cow buffaloes and their calves, or children. You see again, like the elephants, the Mammas and children among the buffaloes are also in the middle, safe from all harm.

Then at the end there are four or five rows of bull buffaloes again, to guard the Mammas and the children from enemies in the back.


Buffalo Knights Guard the Timid Deer

But wait a moment! Before the buffaloes go away, a most wonderful thing happens. You have read stories, how once upon a time there were brave knights who used to come to the help of ladies who were in danger. Well, you will be glad to know that these bull buffaloes are just like those brave knights. Do you see that timid little shadow creeping in by the side of the buffaloes?

She is a blue deer, a very timid lady indeed; for she knows that a tiger is waiting in the high ground behind, to catch her. It is the last chance of the tiger to get his supper; so he waits by the high ground behind, and watches for some weak animal like the deer to come to drink.

But the blue deer knows that; so she hides in the bushes, and waits for the buffaloes to come to drink. Then as the buffaloes come to the water, row after row, horn to horn, she tries to creep in toward them; she even tries to creep in under the horns of the buffaloes, knowing that there she will be quite safe from the tiger. It takes her a long time to reach the buffaloes in that way, without being caught by the tiger.

But do you see the wonderful thing? The buffaloes wait a little for her! They take a little longer to drink, to give her a chance to reach the water by their side. Like the brave knights, they feel proud of helping a lady.

Now see! The blue deer also has finished drinking. She goes away with the buffaloes, under their horns. They all reach the jungle again. She looks carefully: the tiger is watching her, but he dares not come too near. She sees where he is -- then suddenly she gives a leap -- another leap -- and another -- quickly! The tiger leaps after her -- but she leaped first! She is gone! She is safe!

The tiger is furious. He stands a moment before the buffaloes, growling with rage. But the bulls in front of the herd paw the ground, and rattle their horns with one another. They are going to charge!

But that tiger does not wait for the charge of the bull buffaloes. He does not want to be trampled into a mess under their hoofs, or cut up into pieces with their horns. Instead, he sneaks away, growling. He sneaks back to the stream, to wait for some other weak animal.

So, you see, the jungle folks are in many ways just like us; for a brave man always helps a lady or anybody who needs his help.

But now let us watch the stream higher up.


Wild Pigs -- Careless

Here come the wild pigs. They are not exactly a herd; but still there are many dozens of them, all one large family with all their relations -- cousins and uncles and aunts. Some of the wild pigs are called boars; they are the Papas among the wild pigs. You can always tell them by the two sharp tusks, or teeth, one on each side, which grow upward from their under jaw. Each tusk is as long as a knife, and so sharp that a tiger does not always care to fight with a boar.

The wild pigs drink in any fashion, and go off in any fashion -- just as they like. They trust to luck or to the sharp tusks of some of the boars to guard them from danger. But they have not learned enough yet to do things in proper order.


Red Dogs -- Bold, Fearing Nobody

Meanwhile other animals have also come. The moon is now quite high in the sky. A band of shadows in the moonlight seems to fall upon the water. It is a pack of red dogs; they have come boldly, as they are afraid of nothing. For if a hungry tiger attacks them, the whole pack will jump on the tiger and tear him down -- that is, the tiger could kill dozens of the dogs in a few minutes, but then the rest of the wild red dogs would tear the tiger to pieces.

So the red dogs are not afraid as they come flocking to the stream. They lap up the water with their lolling tongues. Then they look up at the moon. Do you see what they are doing? Can you hear them? They are howling at the moon in a chorus. Dogs always howl at the moon. Men do not quite know just why dogs do that. But perhaps they do it because they are glad and satisfied, and are trying to sing! When you sing, and there is a dog near by, you may hear him start howling. He does that, I suppose, because he likes your singing, and wants to join in the chorus!

So the wild dogs of the jungle also howl when they are glad. Then, after the red dogs have howled as long as a song, they scamper off into the jungle again. That shows, I suppose, that their howling was really a song!


Other Animals Come Alone

The red dogs are the last of the animals that come in a bunch. Now you see other animals coming one by one. A sneaking shadow there! It must be a hyena. That is an animal that eats what remains from some other animal's supper; so the hyena waits to see if a tiger or a leopard has caught any supper, or else it will have to go hungry.

But hush! Here is a red deer coming carefully to the water. This animal is much bigger than the blue deer, and more able to take care of herself. But, still, she comes very quietly, looking to right and left to make sure that the tiger is not just in that place. She reaches the water and starts drinking. But do you see how her ear is bent to the side? The red deer is listening most carefully, even while she is drinking!

But look, look! The bush behind the deer parts very slowly, and a huge yellow form crouches there! It is the tiger!

He is not near enough to jump on the deer; so he takes one step forward -- as softly as a cat!

But the deer has heard the footfall! For she can hear even a leaf when it falls to the ground. And in that one second, even while she was drinking, the red deer has turned and leaped to the side. The tiger has also leaped at the same time, and he aimed at the place where the deer was. But the deer has just left that place, and the next second she gives another leap, like a flash, and gets out of the tiger's reach.

The tiger stands where he leaped, and growls with rage. He knows it would be no use chasing the deer, as the deer can run much faster. So he stands there, and growls for quite a while. Then, as he did not get any supper that night, he can at least have a drink. So he drinks and goes away, still growling.

Now all is quiet at last at the midnight pool, as all the animals have gone away.


The Law of the Jungle -- Clear Water for All

But before we leave the place, I want you to remember something. I showed you first the elephants; they were on our right -- that is, down the stream, the way the water flows. And the elephants drank first among all the animals.

Then all the other animals came to the stream, but more to our left -- that is, up the stream. Why was that? Think!

I shall tell you. By the time the elephants finish drinking by dipping their trunks into the stream many times, the water begins to get muddy. In fact, after drinking, the elephants jump into the water to have a bath and a swim, as I shall tell you in the next chapter.

So the water gets muddy near the elephants and all the way down stream from that place, as the water flows that way. And as the other animals do not want muddy water to drink, they always go up the stream, where the water is still clear.

That is The Law of the Jungle, though it is not written down in a book, like the laws among men. The Law of the Jungle says that as the elephants are the lords of the jungle, they shall drink first: but they must be careful to drink down the stream, so that all the other animals may have a place higher up, where they can get clear water to drink.

And that law has never been broken, for many thousands of years, among all the different sorts of animals.

But with men the laws among the different sorts of people, called nations, are often broken, because some of them want all the best things and the best places, and do not care if they muddy the water that their neighbors have to drink.

So, my dear children, we can learn many things from the animals, even how to be better men and women when we grow up.




Chapter III

The Elephants' Bath


I have just told you that, after drinking, the elephants jump into the water and have a bath and a swim. That is, all the grown-up elephants do that, while the little ones stay on the bank and play about.

But, you may ask, why does not the tiger try to grab one of the little ones then? Because even when the Mammas go into the water they keep their eyes on the babies, who play quite near by, so that the Mammas can come to them any minute.

And the Mammas can smell a tiger a little before he gets there, so that they have enough time to climb out of the water. Besides, the babies themselves can smell the tiger when he is coming; then they call out to their Mammas by making a queer rumbling sound in their throats, and the Mammas come to them at once, before the tiger can get there.

So all the grown-up elephants can go into the water, without any worry. And at first they have a regular shower bath.

How do they do that? Why, each elephant fills his trunk with water; then he curls up the trunk in the air over his head and squirts the water out, and it falls in a shower all over his body. You can see how he does it in the picture. All the grown-up elephants do that, and even those that are half grown.

After the shower bath, they swim about; but the Mamma elephants do not do that. Why? Because they have to get busy and bathe their little children. They call to the children to stop playing, and come and have a bath -- just as our Mammas do.

How do they call? Why, I must tell you at once that all kinds of animals have a language of their own. They do not speak exactly as we do, but make different sounds through their mouth or nose, and each sound means something.

If the Mamma elephant wants to say "Come here," she makes one kind of sound, and the baby elephant has learned to know exactly what that means. And if the Mamma elephant wants to say "Keep still," she makes another kind of sound, and the baby knows also what that means.

In this way all animals can talk among themselves. Of course they cannot say many things, as we do, but quite enough to tell what they want.

So each Mamma elephant calls to her child to come and stand on the bank. Now, many of our children often hate to be bathed; and the elephant children are just the same! In fact, the very small ones actually cry and shriek, just like our babies!


Elephant Child Obeys Mamma -- or Gets Spanked

But when the Mamma elephant calls to the baby to stop playing and come and stand by the bank, the baby comes at once, even though it hates to be bathed. The baby elephant obeys its Mamma almost the first time, whatever she tells it to do.

But if the baby does not obey, does its Mamma spank it? Of course she does -- like all Mammas! The elephant Mamma does the spanking with her trunk.

But I must tell you at once that an elephant child never gets spanked more than once in its life -- and that is enough! And some are so good that they never get spanked!

The elephant child learns very quickly to obey its Mamma and Papa, and afterwards its trainer or teacher. The elephant child even obeys the very minute it is told to do anything; in fact, sometimes in the jungle there is a sudden danger, even if the elephant child does not see the danger. But its Mamma or Papa sees it.

Then the Mamma or Papa calls out to the child to stop, or come away, or do something, at once; and if the child does not do it at once, it may get killed. Among men folks, if a child runs out into the street, and an auto or a street car comes suddenly, then if the child will not obey its Mamma at once and do exactly as she says, the child may be run over and killed. In the jungle the elephant child also has sudden dangers like that, though in a different way.

In the next chapter I shall tell you a wonderful story about a boy elephant who escaped a great danger because he obeyed his Papa at once.

But sometimes it happens that a boy elephant is really naughty -- just like a bad boy among men. As you know, a bad boy among men usually grows up to be a bad man, and then he gets into a lot of trouble. In the elephant herd it is just the same; a bad little elephant grows up to be a bad big elephant; it is then called a rogue. In another book I shall tell you how the President of the herd orders all the police elephants to stand in a ring around the rogue and give him a most awful spanking. And they do that, not with their trunks this time, but with their tusks -- which hurt most dreadfully.


How the Elephant Child is Bathed

But now I shall tell you about the baby elephant when its Mamma calls it to come and be bathed. It comes to the edge of the bank, and stands facing its Mamma. Then the Mamma fills her trunk with water, brings the trunk quite near the baby, and squirts the water all over it.

The baby may howl and jump about and make faces, but it never runs away! Again and again the Mamma squirts the water, till all the mud and dust of the jungle is washed away from the baby's body. Then she tells the baby to play about on the bank again, while she attends to the bigger children.

What has she got to do to them? She must teach them to swim!

Of course all animals with four legs know how to swim naturally; their bodies float in the water quite easily, and they have only to work their legs to move along in the water. But with elephants it is a little different. Why? Just think!

I shall tell you. Although they can float quite naturally, their noses point downward right into the water. As I said before, the elephant's trunk is its nose -- that is, the elephant has to breathe through the trunk. So of course, if in trying to swim a little elephant kept its trunk down in the water, it would not be able to breathe at all, and would die.

That is why the Mamma elephant has to teach her child how to swim properly. And the way she does it is quite wonderful.

I must first tell you that the trunk is not only like a nose to the elephant, but also is useful as a hand; the elephant can hold a lot of things with it, and can even pick up with its tip a tiny thing as small as a pin.


How the Elephant Child Learns to Swim

So the Mamma elephant stretches out her trunk before her, just like an arm, and tells her child to lie across it. In that way she holds up the child in the water, so that the little elephant has only to think of curling up the tip of its own little trunk out of the water to breathe. Then she tells her child to kick out with its legs, so as to move forward through the water.

But sometimes, in kicking out, the little elephant forgets to hold up the tip of its trunk out of the water at the same time; then down goes its trunk into the water, and it cannot breathe!

Then what happens? The Mamma elephant can do nothing, as she is already using her own trunk to hold up her child. So, what is to be done?

Really, the elephants are so wise that they take no chances of that happening. The Papa elephant takes care of that. When he sees that the Mamma is teaching the little elephant how to swim, he always comes near them. He may be swimming about, as if he were enjoying himself; but he is really watching them all the time.

And if the little elephant forgets to hold up its trunk out of the water, the Papa comes quickly, and with one upward stroke of his own trunk he lifts up the little elephant's trunk clear out of the water. Is not that very wise and thoughtful of the Papa elephant?

In that way the little elephant soon learns to do both things -- that is, to kick out with its legs so as to move along, and also to hold up its trunk to breathe. And then, of course, it can swim properly.

And yet the elephants are so very wise that they never take the risk of tiring out a little elephant, if they have to swim a very long way. Sometimes a whole herd of elephants has to swim across a very wide river. Then the Mamma elephant tells her child to swim in front of her, while she encourages the child from behind with many fond words.

But sometimes after swimming halfway across the river -- 

"Mamma, I am getting tired!" cries the little one.

"Then come on my back, darling!" says the Mamma.

She dives, and comes up right under the little elephant; so now her child sits on her back. In that way she swims along, and carries her child across the wide river, as you see in the picture.




Chapter IV.

Elephants: The Tricks of the Jungle


Now I shall tell you how a little elephant learns all the tricks of the jungle from its Mamma and Papa. By the tricks of the jungle I mean all the things that an animal has to learn in order to get enough to eat every day, what to do when food is scarce, how to be comfortable and happy, and also how to escape from every danger; in fact, these things are very much like what men have to learn, only in a different way.

But the animal folks are better off in one way: what they have to learn is not like a lesson in school, but just play. In fact they learn everything by just playing it as a game! I shall tell you how.

When a baby elephant is quite small, its Mamma has to feed it with milk. Afterwards, when it has teeth, she teaches it to feed from the jungle. All elephants eat tender shoots, herbs, and fresh young leaves; they seize a bough with the trunk, and pull it down in such a way that the end of the bough reaches right into the mouth.


Elephant Child Learns to Feed

First, the Mamma elephant eats like that from several boughs, while the little elephant watches her do it. Then she looks at a low bough within easy reach, and says in the elephant language, "Eat that!"

The little one looks at the bough, grabs it anyhow with its trunk, and pulls it down. But it cannot get the end of the bough into its mouth! Instead, the bough pokes it on the forehead, or eyes, or cheeks.

"Hold it straight!" says Mamma, laughing.

The little one tries several times, but still it cannot get the bough to come right. Then its Mamma puts her own trunk over that of her child, and turns it to right or left, till the bough comes exactly into the little elephant's mouth.

"You must learn to use your trunk just like a hand," she says. "So you must bend your trunk, or turn it, or twist it, to get the thing you are holding exactly where you want it."

And that is the first great thing the little elephant has to learn -- how to use its trunk as we use our hands. After that everything else comes easy.

Now I am going to tell you about the childhood of the most wonderful elephant in the world, who actually lives to-day in the courtyard of a palace in India. He is the biggest elephant that ever was; that is why he lives in a grand palace, and does nothing except carry a King, or some other great man, on his back on days of festival.

In fact he was the leader among all the elephants in a long procession at a grand festival called the Durbar, held in honor of the King of England. On that day a lovely cloth of silk woven with gold was put on the elephant's back, and around his tusks were placed rings of solid gold studded with real diamonds, rubies, and pearls.

At another time he carried on his back the Crown Prince of Germany, when he visited India a few years ago; and at other times he has carried Grand Dukes of Russia and Arch Dukes of Austria when they visited India.

So you see, he is quite the grandest elephant in the world. He has a real name, just like a man, and it is written down in books with the names of all the grand officers of the palace. His name is Salar Jung; so we shall call him Salar for short.

He was born in the jungle, and his Papa and Mamma were quite wild then. It was only after he grew up that Salar came to live in a palace.


Elephant Child "Swats" Tormenting Flies

But now about Salar's early boyhood. After his Mamma had taught him to swim, to eat from the boughs of trees, and to drink for himself by dipping his trunk into the water, she had another useful thing to teach him. In the jungle there are swarms of tormenting flies; they come buzzing around the elephants, and bother them, just as they bother us. Now, we can whisk off the flies with our hands, but how about an elephant?

Of course, you will say, his trunk is his hand; and so he can use the trunk to slap the flies or whisk them off. True, but the trunk will not reach more than halfway down the side of the body; and the elephant is too stiff to bend his body as we do; and his tail is too short to reach even a yard each way. Then how can he get rid of the flies where he cannot reach them? Just think!

If he only could make his trunk longer! But how could he do that? Very simply! Of course he cannot actually make the trunk longer, but he breaks off a small bough of a tree and holds it at the end of his trunk; then he uses the bough like a fan, and whisks off, or brushes off, the flies with it.

And that is what Salar's Mamma taught him to do. After that he was very comfortable.

Not quite; he had just one more thing to learn from his Mamma, to make him quite comfortable. The sun gets very hot, and when the elephants are feeding from tree to tree, or marching through the jungle, they feel the hot sun on their backs dreadfully -- although they have a thick skin.

Now, how could they guard themselves from the hot sun? Just think!

Why, just as we do, you will say, by using a kind of umbrella! Of course you mean that an elephant could break off a large bough, and hold it over his head and over his back! But his trunk would soon get tired of holding anything as big as that! Besides, he has to use his trunk all the time to feed! If you had only one hand, you could not eat with it and at the same time hold an umbrella over your head with it! Then how does the elephant manage it?


Elephant Covers his Back from Hot Sun

I shall tell you. He breaks off many small boughs, one at a time, and lays them on his back with his trunk; he is careful to lay them in proper order, and to criss-cross them, so that the boughs will not fall off. In fact, he tries to arrange them very much like the thatched roof of a cottage. That is very clever of him, is it not?

But then he does something else, still more clever! When a cottager builds his thatched roof, he has to plaster the ceiling to prevent any rain or sunshine from creeping in through the little spaces between the thatches. So also the thatch on the elephant's back has many gaps, through which the hot sun can still beat down on his skin. So what does he do to fill up the gaps?

He cannot do anything to plaster his back; but I shall tell you what he does do. He just draws into his trunk a lot of dust from the ground; then he curls up the trunk over his back, and blows the dust over the gaps in the thatch on his back. Of course he has to do that many times to fill up all the gaps; but at last, when he does not feel the sun any more, he knows that his back is quite covered.

Is not that a very wonderful thing for the elephants to think out, all by themselves? And that is what Salar's Mamma taught him to do.

But, a few years later, he came to the age when boys among men usually have to go to school. Then Salar passed to the care of his Papa. In feeding through the jungle, when all the elephants march and eat from tree to tree, Salar walked with his Papa, and began to learn lessons from him. And his Papa's way of teaching him was quite different from that of his Mamma, and often very funny!


How Elephants Walk under Water

The first thing he taught was at the stream at midnight. By this time Salar could swim quite well; so he was enjoying himself with the grown-ups. But his Papa kept watching him with the corner of his eye. Little by little he drew nearer and nearer to Salar, and waited till the youngster came to a part where the water was not at all deep. Then suddenly his Papa gave Salar a butt with his head. Down went Salar under the water, snorting and spluttering and hollering.

"Hold up your trunk, you simp!" cried his Papa.

But Salar was too frightened to remember to hold up his trunk; so his Papa caught Salar's trunk in his own and hoisted it clear out of the water. Then what was Salar's joy and surprise to find that he could breathe quite well, though his feet were actually touching the bottom of the stream. Of course he kicked out, and tried to get up to the top of the water again. But -- 

"Stay there!" cried his Papa, giving him another butt, though still holding the youngster's trunk carefully out of the water.

Then Salar lost all fear of the water; he was not a bit afraid of being ducked, so long as the tip of his trunk was out of the water. So he learned to do a wonderful thing -- he learned to remain completely under the water, so that his feet were actually resting on the bottom of the stream, with only the tip of his trunk out of the water. No other animal can do that.

And the most astonishing thing about it is that the elephants have taught themselves to do that trick; so that a whole herd of elephants can walk into a stream in time of danger, and disappear from sight, the smaller ones standing in the shallow parts, and the full-grown ones standing in the deeper parts.

I have known of lots of hunters, who were chasing a herd of elephants and who saw the elephants run ahead toward a river, to find to their surprise, on reaching the river, that the whole herd had disappeared as if by magic. They saw nothing, and did not dream that the little things floating here and there, no bigger than your fist, could mean anything. But of course they were the tips of the trunks of the elephants hidden under the water.

To have thought out even that one trick for themselves proves that the elephants are the wisest of all animals, next after men folks. And they have thought out many more tricks, as I shall tell you very soon.

But now I shall tell you the next trick that Salar's father taught him. An elephant often has to break down trees in the jungle to clear a way for himself; or sometimes he has to do that to make an open space where he can lie down comfortably. So this is the way Salar's father taught him to break down trees.


How Elephants Break Down or Pull Out Trees

First he chose a small tree, not much thicker than your wrist; this he pulled out easily with his trunk, just as you might use your hand to pull out a small shrub. Then he chose a tree about six inches thick. He tried it first carefully with his trunk; but the tree was too strong to pull out in that way.

So the old elephant put his foot on the side of the tree, and pressed with all his weight -- as you see in the picture. The tree bent more and more, and then suddenly broke off near the ground with a loud crack.

"I can do that!" cried Salar, frisking around his father, impatient to show what he could do.

Salar looked around and saw a tree of about the same size. He made a dash at the tree, put his right foot on it, and -- 

His father winked, but said nothing. For all elephants love a joke.

Now the wily old elephant knew that this tree was a banana tree, although the fruit had not yet started growing on it. The tree looked quite hard and strong, but it was really very soft and easy to break, like all banana trees. But Salar did not know that yet!

Instead, when he pressed on it with his foot and put his whole weight on it, just as he had seen his father do to the other tree, -- snap went the tree like a twig, and Salar tumbled head over heels and went rolling over the ground.

"Haw! Haw! Haw!" laughed the merry old elephant. "Did I not show you, silly, how to try it first carefully, with your trunk, before putting your foot on it?"

"Of course you did!" Salar said, remembering.

"That is what men folks mean when they say, 'You have put your foot into it.' You must remember never to put your foot into anything before trying it first with your trunk," the old elephant went on to say. "Now watch me knock down a still bigger tree."

This tree was as thick as a man's body. After trying it first with his trunk and then with his foot, the wise old elephant put his back on it and heaved. Little by little the tree bent on that side, but not very much. The elephant stopped heaving, came around and looked at the tree. Then he began to heave from the other side of the tree.

You have seen a man trying to loosen a nail from a board? He first hits the nail on one side, and then on the other side; and he goes on hitting the nail from side to side, till it is quite loose.

Well, that cunning old elephant did just the same thing to that tree; he first heaved the tree from one side, and then he heaved from the other side; and he went on heaving from side to side, till he loosened the tree from the ground. Then he pushed the tree with his foot, and it came out of the ground and fell with a loud thud.

And that is how Salar learned to heave with his body, though of course he could not loosen so big a tree just yet.

There were many other tricks that Salar learned from his father, and I shall tell you one of the best of them in the next chapter.




Chapter V

Elephants: The Tricky Trap


Salar and his father were going through the jungle, feeding from tree to tree, and from bush to bush. One day they saw a little clear space and in the middle of it a banana tree -- just one tree. But beautiful bunches of ripe bananas were growing on it from a large stalk.

Salar just loved bananas. In fact, all elephants do, as they cannot get them in the jungle more than once in many months; for bananas grow mostly in plantations kept by men. So Salar ran toward the tree joyously.

But the wise old elephant had seen at once that the space all around the tree was rather level and clear of bushes. That was strange in the jungle, he thought!

Now, why did it look strange? Can you tell? Why was it strange that the space should be all flat and level, and clear of bushes? Just think!

Because in the jungle that was not natural! In the jungle the space should be all covered with grass and bushes, or at least with small shrubs of different sizes, just as you have seen in fields which are allowed to grow wild. So somebody must have made the place level and flat, and cleared away the bushes! That is what the wise old elephant thought!

Then, also, he had seen that there was just one banana tree, with no other anywhere near it. That also seemed strange! Why? Because banana trees always grow in groups of many dozens, whether they are in the jungle or in a plantation.

"Halt!" the old elephant cried, just in time. Salar was not more than five or six yards from the tree when he heard his father's voice. I have told you before that, when an elephant child is told to do anything by his Mamma or Papa, he obeys at once, or else he might fall into some awful danger -- just as a child in a town might get run over by an auto or a street car.

So as soon as Salar heard his father's voice, he halted just where he was. And that saved him, as you will see.


The Elephant Taps Suspicious Ground with his Trunk

His father came up to him, and looked around carefully. Then he tapped on the ground with the end of his trunk.

"An elephant must always tap with his trunk when he is coming to suspicious ground, before he puts his foot on it," he said to Salar.

"What does suspicious ground mean?" Salar asked.

"Ground where there might be danger, though you do not see the danger," his father answered.

He went on a couple of yards, tapping the ground before him all the time. Then he suddenly stopped.

"Gr-r-r-rump!" he cried, "it sounds strange and hollow!"

Most carefully he put his foot forward and felt the ground with it, as an elephant always does when he thinks there is danger. Now the ground bent down a little just where he pressed it with his foot!

"I thought so!" he muttered.

Then he felt most carefully all along the front edge of the open space, first tapping it with his trunk, then pressing on it with his foot -- of course with the toe end of the foot. And all along that front edge of the open space the ground bent down a little wherever he pressed it with his foot.

Then he came to the right side of the open space where the banana tree grew, and tried the ground there also along the edge. And this ground too bent down a little wherever he pressed it with his foot.

He came to the back of the open space, and tried it in the same way. And there also the ground bent down a little along the edge, wherever he pressed it with his foot.

He came around at last to the left side, and tried that also. And there again the ground bent down in the same way.

"All four sides are suspicious!" he cried. "My son, this is a most tricky trap!"

And though he did not see them, a dozen men were hiding in the tops of trees all around. They were the hunters kept by a great Prince, who had ordered them to catch the big elephant and also the young one.

The hunters had first dug a huge pit. It was ten feet deep and twenty-five feet wide on each side; so it was as big as a large room. Then they had covered the top of the pit by laying many long bamboos right across from side to side and very close to each other; so it was just like the roof of a large room. And on the top of the bamboos they had spread a layer of earth -- just like what you have seen in flower beds in a garden; and on that they had planted grass, to make it look quite natural -- only, they forgot that it might look natural for a garden, but not for a wild jungle. Or perhaps they thought that an elephant would not know any better!

And then they had gone to a plantation and fetched from there a banana tree, with a huge bunch of ripe bananas on it. They had set up the tree in the middle of that space; and as it would not keep straight, they had first driven a long bamboo rod right through into the ground, and then tied the banana tree to the top of the rod.

After doing all that, the hunters were hiding in the trees around. They were watching to see the big elephant and the little elephant come right up to the banana tree to eat the bananas, and get caught! For if any elephant stepped upon that place, the top would give way under his full weight, and he would fall right through into the pit.

But Salar's father grabbed him with his trunk, and pulled him away.

"Come away!" he said. "This is a most hideous trap!"

But Salar, who loved bananas quite as much as you love ice cream, began to cry.

"I want the bananas; I want them; I do, I do!" he kept saying over and over again.

Now his Papa was very fond of Salar, but he did not know how to reach the bananas and not fall into the pit. He and Salar walked home slowly.

"I must think it over a bit," he said, scratching his head with a bough.

He came there the next day with Salar, and looked all around the place; but he could think of no safe way to get the bananas. The hunters also came there the next day, for by this time they were quite excited to see what the wily old elephant would do. In fact, it was from the chief hunter of that Prince that I heard afterwards what the elephant did do.

I must tell you here that these hunters had been watching the big elephant for many years, and trying to catch him by different kinds of traps; and that is how we know all about him and Salar. For when an elephant is very big and has fine tusks, people sometimes try for ten years to catch him, so that he may be used as the leading elephant of a grand palace.

Almost all the elephants you see in the zoo or in a circus were once quite wild in the jungle, and have been caught by some kind of trap. They are then tamed, and finally trained to do tricks that men want them to do. I shall tell you all about that in another book, when you are a little older.

But now about Salar and his father. On the third day the big elephant came there again, with Salar; and again the hunters came and hid in the trees around. This time the big elephant looked farther into the jungle. Then he saw the long bamboos growing in a clump -- the very clump from which the hunters had got the bamboos to make the trap. As the elephant looked at the clump of bamboos, a thought came slowly into his head.

He pulled out a long bamboo, and returned to the place where the trap was. He stood just outside the trap, and thought again for some time. Then he held one end of the bamboo in his trunk, pointed the other end to the banana tree just where the stalk of the bunch began, and gave a jab.

But he did not aim right, and the bamboo slipped off from the stalk. So he tried again, and gave another jab at the stalk. In this way, after trying many times, he managed at last to hit the stalk and break it. Down fell the bunch of bananas to the ground.

Meanwhile Salar was jumping around his father for joy. But his father told him to keep still. He had not succeeded in getting those bananas yet! How could he get them out of the place of danger?

It puzzled him a long time. He poked at the bunch with the bamboo, but that only broke off one or two of the bananas. Then he poked at the stalk of the bunch, but the end of the bamboo slipped off it, as there was nothing on the bamboo to grip the stalk with.

So he drew back the bamboo and looked at that end of it, to see why it did not grip the stalk. Of course the end of the bamboo was all smooth, and could not grip anything at all.


Elephant Tricks the Tricky Trappers

Then at last another thought seemed to come into the wise old elephant's head. He put that end of the bamboo into his mouth and began to chew it; for an elephant has very strong teeth at the back of his mouth. As his mouth was very big, that clever elephant chewed as much of the end of the bamboo as his mouth would hold -- and that was as long as your arm. So the end of the bamboo became like fibers, that is, like a bunch of hair, only very thick and rough.

Then that cunning elephant sat down on the ground and pushed the bamboo along the ground straight before him toward the bananas. When the hairy end of the bamboo reached the stalk of the bananas, he began to twist the other end of the bamboo with the tips of his trunk; for an elephant can use the tips of his trunk in the same way that you use your fingers.

He twisted and twisted many times, taking care to keep the hairy end of the bamboo pressed against the stalk of the bananas.

In this way the hairy end of the bamboo got knotted around the stalk. That was just what the wise old elephant wanted.

Then he pulled the bamboo slowly along the ground, as you see in the picture, taking care to give one or two more twists in case the knots came undone. He pulled the bamboo lap by lap; that is, he pulled the bamboo for about a yard, then he let go and took hold of the bamboo farther up; he pulled again for another yard, and so on. In this way he at last pulled the bunch of bananas quite out of the trap.

I need not tell you how he and Salar enjoyed that feast!

And the hunters, who were hiding in the trees around, laughed and laughed at the trick the wily old elephant had played on them! For, as you see, he got the bananas and yet escaped from that trap! He beat the men at their own game!

But now I must tell you about other animals, -- first about buffaloes. They are the brave knights who helped that timid little lady, the blue deer. They are just as wonderful as the elephants, in their own way.




Chapter VI

Buffaloes: The Knights of the Jungle


There are three or four kinds of buffaloes that live in different countries. The kind that lives in America you may have already heard about. I am sorry to say that hunters have killed so many of them, that there are very few buffaloes left in the United States now; and these few are kept in parks.

So in this book I shall tell you about another kind of buffalo, that lives in the jungles of India. These are the buffaloes that have to live in herds just because they have to guard themselves from the tiger. Yet they are much bigger than all other kinds of buffaloes in the world. Many of them are more than ten feet long, and a span taller than a tall man.

They have two huge horns which stand outward, one from each side of the head. Each horn is at least a yard long; and there are some buffaloes that have horns two yards long! (See the picture facing the next page.)

So you can understand that this kind of buffalo is a strong and mighty animal. But still, if just one buffalo tried to fight a tiger, the tiger could kill him every time. Why?

Because the tiger is much quicker than the buffalo. The tiger could jump to the side to escape the buffalo's horns. Then the tiger could turn quickly, and strike the buffalo on the neck from behind. And though the buffalo's neck is very thick, the tiger himself is so strong that he could break the buffalo's neck at one blow.

So, to guard against the tiger, the buffaloes have to live together like a band of soldiers, so that the tiger never gets the chance of catching just one buffalo alone.

Now I shall tell you how these buffaloes live. They live in a part of the country where there is plenty of water, and lots of trees and grass. There is sure to be a stream or two in the jungles there, like the one where we saw the buffaloes drinking at midnight.

When the buffaloes are feeding in the jungle, and wandering here and there to find good grass to eat, they always try to remain somewhere near one of these streams.

Why do they do that? To drink, of course.

And as the country is hot, they may want to drink more than once in the day.

Still, there is another reason why they like to be near water. Can you tell what it is?

"To bathe in the water, when it is hot," you may say.

That is quite true; the buffaloes do enjoy a good bath. In fact, they like to remain in the water for a long time, when the sun is very hot. Then they lie down in the shallow part, and remain neck deep in the water. And every now and again they dip their heads in the water to keep them cool.

But even when the sun is not at all hot, when the sky is cloudy, the buffaloes like to go into a stream or a pond. Why?

"Of course to wash themselves, and make themselves clean," you may say.


Buffaloes Cover Body with Mud against Flies

No, my dear, you are wrong this time! Like some little boys, buffaloes do not want to make themselves clean! In fact, the buffaloes go into the stream or the pond to cover themselves with mud! To wallow, as it is called. They do that by rolling in the mud where the water is shallow.

And why do they want to cover themselves with mud? Because of the tormenting flies! Buffaloes of this kind do not have long hair on their necks, like the American buffaloes. In fact, they do not have much hair anywhere on their bodies -- just like the ordinary cows which you have seen near your home. So they are very much tormented by the flies.

I have told you that an elephant can "swat" the flies with a bough which he holds in his trunk. But the buffalo has no trunk, and his tail can whisk off the flies for only a yard around. So, what can the buffalo do to guard other parts of his body from the flies?

The only thing he can do is to go down into the mud, roll about, and cover himself with the mud. Then he does not feel the flies at all, even if they swarm all over him. And he need not trouble to work his tail at all, as he is protected all over by the mud.

And when he comes out to feed again, if the sun happens to be very hot at that time, he does not mind it. Why? Because the mud on his body keeps off the sun. So, you see, the mud is useful to the buffalo in two ways.

But now come with me into the jungle while I show you all that the buffaloes do.

You must imagine that I am taking you quietly through the jungle, where the buffalo herd is grazing right ahead of us. We are following them from behind. You must be careful not to make a sound. If you should tread on a rotten twig, the buffaloes would hear the sound as far away as a quarter of a mile.

In another book I shall tell you why all animals that keep their ears close to the ground while they are feeding can hear a sound a long way off.

But now let us hide behind this bush for a minute, and watch the herd. They are eating the grass as they walk along. But do you see the wonderful way in which they are arranged? It is just like the shape of the moon when it is new, that is, something like the letter C, and which we call a crescent.

You saw at the midnight pool that, when the buffaloes drink or march, they are in rows close together, like soldiers. But when they are eating grass, they could not be in rows; because then they would be too close together to pick out the best bits of grass. So, how could they have enough to eat, and yet guard themselves from danger? To do this they thought of arranging themselves in the form of a crescent.


How Buffaloes Guard against Tiger while Feeding

It is a big crescent, as there are so many buffaloes that make it up. The ends of the crescent bend in toward each other, just as if the two tips of the letter C were to close up a little, leaving only a small opening between the tips.

The buffaloes have their faces toward the outside of the crescent. So, as we are following the buffaloes from behind, we are looking at them through the gap between the tips.

There are only bulls in the line making up the crescent; the cows and the calves come behind them, so that they are inside the crescent. So you see, while the buffaloes are grazing and moving along, if they meet any danger, the Papa buffaloes will face the danger. And as the Mammas and the children are inside the crescent, they are quite safe.

This is the way the buffaloes feed and move along:

The Papas on the outside of the crescent tear off a mouthful of grass, with one or two bites, and walk on a step or two while they are munching the mouthful. Then, with another bite or two, they take a fresh mouthful and walk on a step or two while they are munching that. In this way they leave enough grass for the Mammas and the young buffaloes that are following them.

But now let us come out of this thicket, and go after the herd very quietly from behind. We shall see some wonderful things.

You notice at once that the Mammas and the children do not show any fear at all, as they graze along; they are quite sure that the Papas are taking good care of them all the time. The little ones even play about here and there.

See that very young calf! He is playing about near the middle of the space. He is only a few weeks old, and not much bigger than the calf of the ordinary cow. Watch and see how playful he is! He is just like any other calf. His Mamma is grazing along quietly, and he is now standing still for a minute, looking at nothing. A calf and a baby can do that quite well -- just stare, and yet look at nothing.

But now this buffalo calf rushes to his Mamma very suddenly, and has a mouthful of milk. He does not seem to want more than a mouthful at a time. So he looks up suddenly, and stares. Then just as suddenly he plunges into a frantic race over the ground, all by himself.

The race also ends suddenly -- after going only ten yards. Then he stops there for a minute, stares, and trots back to his Mamma for another mouthful of milk. After that he looks up again for a minute, stares at nothing, and plunges into another mad gallop all by himself.

So you see that he spends his time doing two things -- having a mouthful of milk, and then a mad gallop. And he does both very suddenly. He likes to have his joys suddenly.

A kitten or a puppy dog is different, and is nearly always doing something. It tumbles head over heels, or chases its own tail, or keeps frisking about in some way or other most of the time. But the buffalo calf is not like this; and when you see him standing quite still, staring at nothing, you can never tell whether he is going to be hungry for a mouthful of milk the next minute, or whether he is going to break into a frantic race.

But, you may ask, while he and all the other calves are playing about like that, is there no danger?

No, there is no danger, for the Papas are taking good care of the Mammas and the children, as I have told you before.

But, you may say, the Papas do not seem to be doing anything; they are just feeding and moving along. Then how are they taking care of the Mammas and the children?

Yes, but look carefully! See how close the horn of one Papa is to the horn of the next one! Why, there is not more than a couple of yards between the two! If there were any sudden danger, it would not take more than two or three steps for them to close up, and stand horn to horn.


How Buffaloes Know Danger is Coming -- Three Ways

"But how could they know if any danger were coming?" you may still ask.

They could know it in three ways: they could smell the danger, or hear it, or see it. I shall tell you how they do all that.

First, if the danger came from the direction in which the wind was blowing, they would sniff the air, and so smell the danger. If the danger were a tiger, the buffaloes could smell him half a mile off; that is about as far as ten blocks in a city. And if the wind were not blowing that way, the buffaloes could still smell the tiger five blocks away. They could smell the tiger, or any other danger, even if it came from behind.

The second way of finding out the danger is to hear it. As I said a little while ago, if you should put your foot on a rotten twig, the buffaloes could hear the sound of it as far off as five blocks. And even if the danger came from behind, or from the side, or from anywhere, they could still hear it coming, if it made the least bit of sound that you and I could not hear.

The third way of finding out the danger is to see it. The buffaloes do that by keeping a lookout nearly all the time. I shall show you how.

Just watch for a minute the buffalo in the middle of the crescent; he is the leader of the herd. We can see him only from the back; but as he is the biggest and tallest buffalo there, we can make him out quite easily. He is grazing quietly, and then moving along.

But see, what is he doing now? Why, he is looking up, straight ahead of him! No, he sees no danger there. So he gives a glance to his right, and then to his left. No, there is no danger there either. So he puts down his head, and starts feeding again.

Thus, you see, every now and again he looks to see that no danger is coming from anywhere in front of the herd.

But what if any danger came from the side of the herd, -- right near the end of the crescent, -- or even from the back of the herd?


Buffalo Sentinels

Let us see what the two buffaloes at the two ends of the crescent are doing. They are the watchers, or sentinels, as they are sometimes called. They keep a lookout nearly all the time.

Do you see the one on our left? After every two or three mouthfuls he stops, and takes a look around; he even looks right to the back. Then he takes four or five strides to catch up with the herd, and starts grazing again. Then in a minute or two he takes another look around in the same way.

And the sentinel on our right is doing just the same. Yes, the herd is quite safe; the two sentinels are sure to see if any danger comes from their side or from the back.

"But will not the sentinels have less to eat, if they are watching half the time?" you may ask.

Yes, that is quite true. So all the Papa buffaloes take turns being sentinels. After a while the two sentinels from the ends move up toward the middle, and the next ones then begin to keep watch. And they keep changing places like that from day to day. That makes it quite fair for everybody.

When they go to sleep also they are arranged in the form of a crescent; but the two ends are closed up, so that the Papas make a ring, while the Mammas and the children sleep inside the ring.

When the Papas lie down, they are closer together than when they are feeding; and they still keep their heads pointed to the outside of the ring, so that they can get up in a minute, and be quite ready to drive off any tiger. Of course they have sentinels keeping watch all the time.

But now let us see other wonderful things that the buffaloes do, while they are feeding.

We must be very careful how we follow the herd. The ground is now changing, and getting quite rough; so the grass is getting scarce here and there. The buffaloes have not enough grass all the way; so they have to walk on a few yards without eating, till they come to the next patch.

Some of the buffaloes are even having a bite at fresh young shrubs in passing, as they will eat anything green, when they have not enough grass.

But see! The buffaloes are spreading out, as there are not even enough shrubs in one place. You can see gaps in the line of buffaloes now. And the gaps are getting bigger and bigger! Let us watch a few minutes.

Now the gaps are very wide, as some of the buffaloes are lagging behind; and some are turning too much to the side in trying to reach a mouthful from a shrub or a bush here and there.

Why, what is happening now? Some of the buffaloes cannot even see one another now, because of the bushes between them! What are the sentinels doing? And what is the leader doing? Suppose a tiger suddenly comes -- 

But do you hear that?

"Moo! Moo!"

That is the leader. He has just found out that the herd is spread out too far; so he is calling. He is saying, "Where are you?"

"Moo! Moo!" Do you hear that answer? It comes from the sentinel on the right, who is very far away now; but still he has heard the call. His answer means, "Here I am!"

And "Here I am!" comes the answer also from the sentinel on the left.

"Then close up!" cries the leader.

Each sentinel moves up toward the place from which he heard the leader's voice come. And on his way there he tells all the buffaloes he meets to move up also. Besides, all the buffaloes hear the leader's voice too; so they begin to close up at once.

Is not that a wonderful way of bringing up all those that are lagging behind?

But let us watch the herd again. They have closed up now, and there is no big gap in their line. The ground is level again.

Let us move on from thicket to thicket, and come as near the buffaloes as we can.

What is that? See! The sentinel on the right is looking hard at that jungle grass far away to the side. This kind of jungle grass grows very tall, taller than a man. But why is the sentinel staring at the tall grass? What does he see there?

Yes, there, far away, something is happening! The jungle grass is waving gently, but just in one place! What is making the tall grass wave like that? Is it the wind? No, it cannot be the wind! Why not? Because if it were the wind, all the grass there would wave. Then what is making the tall grass wave in just one place?

It can be only one thing! Some animal is hiding there in the tall grass! And as the animal is coming nearer and nearer to the buffaloes, he is making the grass wave!

See, the sentinel has guessed that also! What is he doing now? Can you hear him? He gives a bellow, deep and long.

"Danger! Look out!" That is what he means.

The whole herd hears him. They all close up as near together as they can!

Quick! Let us get up on that tree near by! We are in danger as well as the buffaloes!

One branch higher -- and another! Now we are quite safe! But see what the buffaloes are doing!


Buffaloes Make a Ring when Tiger Comes

The two ends of the crescent have come close together, and all the Papa buffaloes have made a perfect ring around the Mammas and the children. The Papas are facing the outside of the ring; so they can meet the danger from whatever side it comes.

Why do they do that? Look again at the grass! The tall grass is waving nearer and nearer. So, the animal that is in the grass is coming nearer and nearer.

He comes right to the end of the tall grass. There he makes a gap in the grass, and walks out into the open. It is a tiger!

He was trying to sneak up to the buffaloes; but the sentinel found that out. And now the bull buffaloes are ready for him. The tiger growls in rage. He prowls round and round the ring of bull buffaloes, as you see in the picture. But he dare not try to break through those horns.

He roars with fury, shaking the ground; it is just like thunder. The jungle around is taking fright at the roar. See! All the small animals rush out in fright -- wild pigs, wild goats, and all sorts of small deer.

In their fright they run hither and thither very stupidly. That is exactly why the tiger roars -- he wants to make the small animals behave so stupidly, in their fright, that some of them may make a mistake and run straight into his jaws.

See! The small animals scatter to right and left, trying to reach a bush or thicket. But some are cut off from safety, as the tiger stands in their way. What can they do?


Small Animals Find Safety in Buffalo Ring

Yes, there is the ring of buffaloes! So those small animals rush straight toward the ring and creep inside -- and the buffaloes raise their heads to make a way for them under the horns. Some of them, like the wild goats, jump over the buffaloes' horns to get inside the ring. Anyway, the small animals reach safety inside with the Mammas and the children of the buffaloes.

The tiger stands outside the ring, and still roars in fury. But now nobody is afraid. The bull buffaloes paw the ground impatiently with their hoofs, and rattle their horns. They are going to charge!

But that tiger does not wait for the charge. He does not want to be trampled into a mess. So he slouches away, growling and snarling.

So, as you see, the bull buffaloes guard the Mammas and the children from danger, and they also guard all small and weak animals that come to them for safety.

Did I not tell you that the buffaloes are the Knights of the Jungle?




Chapter VII

Taming the Buffalo


Buffaloes do not always remain wild and wander about in the jungle. Men need buffaloes. Farmers want to use them for plowing the ground, in the same way that farmers in America use horses for plowing.

This kind of buffalo also lives in Italy, and because they are so fond of water they are called water buffaloes there. But in Italy they are not wild any more, as they have been tamed and used by men for a long time.

I shall tell you how the men catch the buffaloes from the jungle in India, where they are still wild.

They catch the buffaloes in many ways. The easiest way is to find some stream or pond where the buffaloes are fond of going. Then the men take strong nets made of ropes, and spread the nets under the water. So when the buffaloes come to bathe or roll in the mud, some of them are caught in the nets.

Then the men rush in from their hiding place and drag out the nets. Of course, those buffaloes which are not caught run away. But those that are caught struggle fiercely. After a time they get tired of struggling, as the nets are too strong for them to break.

When the buffaloes have become very weak from struggling, a lot of men rush up and tie a stout rope around the neck of each buffalo. The rope has two ends, one on each side of the buffalo, and each end is quite long.

A dozen men haul at the rope, and the buffalo has to get up and march with them. In this way the men bring the buffaloes one by one to the village.

How do the men tame the buffaloes? That is quite easy, if they already have a few tame buffaloes which they may have caught and tamed some time before. And as the people have been doing this for many, many years, they always have some tame buffaloes. So this is the way the men treat the wild buffaloes:


Wild Buffaloes Tamed Quickly by Kindness

They put the wild buffaloes and the tame ones together in a pen, or corral. Inside the corral there is a pond. In the deep part of the pond there is plenty of good water to drink; and in the shallow part of the pond there is plenty of mud in which the buffaloes may roll about and wallow.

The men keep the buffaloes there together for many days, the wild ones and the tame ones. Every day the men throw into the corral plenty of fresh grass, which the buffaloes can eat all day.

Now, what more could the wild buffaloes want? They could not be treated any better! They have plenty to eat, plenty to drink, and plenty of mud in which to wallow. The tame buffaloes soon make friends with them, and talk to them in their own language.

"You will not be any better off in the jungle," the tame ones say to the wild ones. "Here you do not have to walk about all day to get enough to eat, and then walk a good way to find water to drink, or a place in which to wallow. And, also, we have no fear of tigers here. What more do you want?"

So in a few weeks the wild ones become quite tame. Still, even after that, the old and the new ones are always kept together, and soon they become like one herd.

Afterwards, when the farmers use them for plowing, they always hitch to the plow one buffalo that has been tame for a long time, and one that is newly-tamed. Then it becomes easy for the new one to learn the work by just doing as his friend does.

The farmer uses the buffaloes for plowing for only a few hours, and he gives them plenty of time for wallowing and enjoying themselves. So, even if they have to do a little work, the new buffaloes soon see that they are really much better off living in the village than running wild in the jungle.

After the plowing season is over, the buffaloes have no work at all. They can wallow all day, if they want to.

When all the new buffaloes are quite tame, they are not kept in the corral any more, as they would never think of running away now. They are allowed to lie about and sleep in a little plot of ground somewhere in the village. By daytime they are taken out into the fields outside the village, and allowed to graze as they please; and as there is always a stream or a pond near, the buffaloes can go into the water or the mud whenever they like.

So, as you understand, the buffaloes very soon become quite tame. Why? Because they are treated kindly. Please remember that. Most wild animals can be tamed if treated kindly.

Now I am coming to the nicest part about the buffaloes. It is the nicest part because it shows how the buffaloes can even be made to love us.

I have just told you that the buffaloes are taken out into the fields to graze. Well, then, somebody has to do that in the morning, and somebody has to bring them home in the evening.

Can you tell who does that? Why, there is a herdsman to do it, you may say. Quite true. But the herdsman does not bother to do a simple thing like that every day.


Little Boys Take Charge of Buffaloes

Then who does it? I shall tell you. The little boys of the village! They are about five or six years of age. They are not old enough to go to school, and not old enough to do any work; so they can play all day.

The most useful thing they can do is to take charge of the buffaloes. The boys soon learn all the buffalo calls -- "Come out to graze," "Come to wallow," or "Come home now." And the wonderful thing is that these huge animals soon learn to obey these calls. When the boys call to them, the buffaloes do just as they are ordered.

The buffaloes soon learn to love the little boys. You know how fond of us an animal can become -- especially a dog or a horse. Still, I do not think that any animal can show such love for us as the huge buffaloes do for the little boys who act as their herdsmen.

Why? Because the little boys share the same mud with the buffaloes! Boys and buffaloes mix very well with mud! The little boys tumble about in the mud on the side of the bank where the buffaloes may be wallowing. Or the boys will splash about in the water where the buffaloes are lying neck deep to keep cool. Or they will climb up on the buffaloes' backs for a while, then tumble off and play again.

Even when the buffaloes are grazing in the field, the boys may be near them, playing hide and seek, and running in and out between the buffaloes' legs, or under their horns. So the boys are with the buffaloes all day long.


How the Big Buffaloes Love the Little Boys

It is quite wonderful to see a little boy actually twisting a huge buffalo's tail. As I have told you, a buffalo is often more than ten feet long, and taller than a tall man; and it has horns that reach out more than a yard from each side of the head. This huge animal could charge and smash up a big wagon as easily as if it were a match box; and yet he will stand still and let his tail be twisted by any little tot in the village.

Sometimes you may see a sight like this: A huge buffalo is grazing hungrily, and a little boy comes up and stands right in front of him.

"Put up your head!" says the boy. But the buffalo goes on feeding hungrily.

"Put up your head, or I will spank you!" says the boy. But the buffalo still goes on feeding hungrily.

Then that tot raises his small hand and spanks the huge buffalo on the jaw. The buffalo puts up his head, and rubs his nose lovingly against the boy.

Well, why not? You have seen a baby pulling his Papa's hair. The Papa just loves the baby all the more for it. So it is with the buffalo and the little tot. And it would not matter a bit whether the tot were a little boy or a little girl. The big buffalo is fond of both.

And now I shall tell you a wonderful true story about a buffalo and a boy.




Chapter VIII

The Buffalo and the Boy


In a village there were many tame buffaloes, and among them thirty bull buffaloes. The little boys of the village took charge of them every day. The smartest boy among them was called Gulab. He was six years of age.

Gulab knew quite well each of the thirty bull buffaloes, and was a friend of each. Sometimes he alone had charge of them, and took them out to graze and to wallow. That was because his father was the herdsman.

The buffaloes loved Gulab, and they did exactly as he told them to do. When he was going to take them to the fields, he would just stamp his little bare foot and call out to them "Stand in rows!" And the huge animals would stand in rows, one line behind another.

Then Gulab would come around to the side, and see if each line was straight. If the line was not quite straight, and a buffalo happened to be standing too much this way or that, Gulab would walk up to the buffalo and spank him on the jaw. Then the buffalo would move into line, exactly as Gulab wanted him to do. Or, if a buffalo happened to be standing too far behind, Gulab would come around to the back and twist the buffalo's tail, and the buffalo would move up into line.

Then, when the whole herd was in the right order, Gulab would come to the front of the herd, and walk up to the biggest bull.

"Bend down your head, Baldo!" he would order.

And Baldo, the biggest bull, in the middle of the front line, would bend down his head, and Gulab would climb up by one of the horns, scramble up Baldo's neck, and sit down on his back.

"March!" Gulab would order -- and the whole herd would march.

Now, a few miles away there was a grand palace. In the palace was a little Prince, whose father was a Rajah -- that is, a kind of king. The little Prince's birthday was coming, and his father ordered grand feasts for many days.

The Rajah had six English friends, who were quite big men. The Englishmen were very fond of tiger hunting, so the Rajah wanted to order a tiger hunt for them. But it is not easy to have a tiger hunt just when you want to have it. Why not? Because the tiger will not come out and be hunted just when you want him to. He would rather stay in his den.

So for a few days no one heard of a tiger prowling about. Then suddenly a strange piece of news came from that village where Gulab lived. It happened in this way:

One day Gulab took out the buffaloes to graze and to wallow. The buffaloes lay down in the shallow water for a while, and Gulab splashed about or tumbled in the mud near them. Then he got tired of doing that, and came out on the bank and played about there for a while.

Suddenly he heard a strange sound. It was one of the buffaloes, who had stood up in the water and was giving a low, deep bellow. Two or three other buffaloes stood up also, and gave a low, deep bellow. Then all at once the whole lot of them began to come out of the water.

Gulab stopped in his play to see what was wrong. But he could see nothing.

"What's the matter, Baldo?" he asked. "What's wrong, Chando?"

But the two biggest bulls scrambled up the bank, and came rushing toward the boy. All the other bulls came also, and some went past him on the right side, and some went past him on the left side. Then suddenly Gulab knew what it all meant!

A snarl -- a growl -- a roar, he heard. A flash of yellow leaped out of the jungle, and came toward him with a huge jump. It was a tiger!

But already the buffaloes were making a ring around Gulab. Then he knew what had happened. The tiger had seen him from the jungle beyond, and had been trying to creep up to him quietly from thicket to thicket. But the buffaloes had smelled the tiger in time, and had run out of the pond to save Gulab. And now they had made a ring around him.

Gulab stood in the ring and looked with large round eyes, for he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. He was only a little boy, and had never seen a tiger face to face.

The tiger growled and snarled and roared. Then it came round and round the ring, trying to find a gap between the horns to get at the boy. But there was no gap between the horns.

Then little by little the fear left Gulab's heart. Something inside him told him to be brave. He walked up to Baldo.

"Baldo, let me up!" Gulab said to him, standing behind the buffalo. And Baldo lowered his body behind, and bent his hind legs at the knees.

Gulab took hold of Baldo's tail in both hands, and put his foot on Baldo's hind knee, which was now bent quite low. In that way Gulab climbed up to the buffalo's back, and sat on it, holding on to Baldo's shoulders.

Then, being quite safe on the buffalo's back, Gulab glanced around and called to the buffaloes at the back of the ring, "Open out!" And the buffaloes opened out at the back of the ring, and made a crescent. Then they moved still farther around, and the crescent became one long line, facing the tiger.

Gulab gave one glance to right and left, to see that all were ready. Then -- 

"Charge, brothers, charge!" he cried to the buffaloes.

Then his big brothers, the buffaloes, charged with thundering hoofs and fiery nostrils. The tiger gave a huge leap to the side to get away; but the buffaloes on that side opened out and headed off the tiger. On to the front again the tiger was forced to turn -- and run for his life before the furious herd.

The buffaloes chased and chased that tiger, across field and jungle, over hedges and ditches, through brambles and bushes and thickets, till at last the tiger jumped across a ravine and ran away growling and howling and snarling, like a low thief who is chased out of a village at night.

The ravine was a deep hollow in the ground, like a huge ditch; and it ran all the way across the ground; so the buffaloes could not get over it, as they cannot jump as far as a tiger. Then the buffaloes returned to the village, and Gulab gave the news about the tiger.

Some of the village people ran to the palace, and said that the tiger might be still hiding somewhere on the other side of the ravine. So the six Englishmen went around to that side to hunt the tiger. They found him and wounded him four or five times. But it takes a lot more than that to kill a tiger. The tiger ran out, got past the hunters, and came back again across the ravine. Here he hid in a dense thicket, and would not come out and be hunted to please anybody.

Now, when a tiger is hiding in a thicket and will not come out and be hunted, there is only one way to make him come out.

What is that way? Can you tell?

Why, of course, the bull buffaloes!

So the herdsman brought up the thirty bull buffaloes, and drew them up in a long line in front of the thicket. And on the other side of the thicket the six Englishmen got up into trees, and pointed their guns at the thicket.

Then the herdsman ordered the buffaloes to charge, and they charged right through the thicket, trampling it down and cutting it up into lanes; so the tiger had to run out on the other side. But on that side the six Englishmen were waiting for him; and they all fired at the tiger at once, and all hit him. They used a kind of bullet that broke up into a hundred pieces right inside the tiger.

But the tiger still kicked and kicked, and would not agree to be dead at once, as any other animal would. People say that a cat has nine lives; then a tiger must have ninety-nine lives. So this tiger jumped about, torn up as he was, and glared at the Englishmen in the trees, trying to get at them, while they were loading their guns for another shot.

But the buffaloes went on charging, and caught up with the tiger. They rushed upon him, and now the torn-up tiger could not get away. So the buffaloes trampled upon him, and then the tiger agreed to lie still and be dead, really and truly.

The six Englishmen began to climb down from the trees, as they thought the excitement was all over. But the herdsman called out to them at once:

"Please go up again -- quick! Don't let my buffaloes see you!"

For I must tell you now that buffaloes do not like strangers. They may be very fond of their own friends in the village; but if they should see a stranger, they would charge him just as quickly as they would charge a tiger. And the Englishmen would look quite strange to the buffaloes.

So the Englishmen remembered that, and stayed up in the trees till the buffaloes were taken away.

The buffaloes were taken to the pond; and as the herdsman would not bother to stay with them there, he left the buffaloes in the pond to do as they pleased till evening.

The six Englishmen had their lunch there, when they got down from the trees. They gave their guns to their servants, to carry away to the palace. Afterwards the Englishmen walked about, smoking their cigars, as they did not want to return to the palace so soon.

But four or five hours passed, and still they had not come back to the palace. It was nearly evening, and still they had not come.

And in the village Gulab said to his Papa, who was the herdsman, "Papa, I shall bring the buffaloes home now."

He went to the pond. But the buffaloes were not there! He shouted, whistled, and gave all the buffalo calls he knew. But no answer!

He looked about, and searched everywhere, but he could not see the buffaloes. What had become of them?

Then he happened to look far to the side, toward a lot of tall trees. Something was happening under the trees! He could see a lot of things moving there, but he was too far away to see what they were.

He ran toward the trees. Yes, they were the buffaloes! But why were they there? And why were they behaving like that?

For he saw that they were pawing the ground angrily, and tossing their heads and rattling their horns. And what was very strange, the buffaloes were not looking at anything on the ground in front of them. They were looking up, at the trees!

Then Gulab glanced up into the trees, and saw at once why the buffaloes were behaving like that. But he did not waste a minute. He ran to the buffaloes, shouting:

"Down, Baldo! Down, Chando!"

But the two biggest bulls and all the others glared at the trees and snorted in fury.

"Down!" Gulab shrieked. "Down, or I shall spank you!"

He rushed to Baldo, and spanked him on the jaw. He rushed to Chando, and spanked him on the jaw. He rushed from buffalo to buffalo, and spanked each one on the jaw.

Then the huge animals that had charged the raging tiger, and that were now fierce themselves, obeyed the little boy. They blinked, then one by one lowered their heads. Gulab climbed up by Baldo's horns, and seated himself on his back.

"Now turn around, all!" he ordered. And the buffaloes slowly turned away from the trees.

Gulab looked back over his shoulder, and said to the six Englishmen who were up in the trees: "You may come down now. My buffaloes won't hurt you a bit, because if they try to I will spank them!"

Then the little boy took away the buffaloes, and the six big Englishmen came down from the trees quite safely.

And now, do you understand what had happened? I shall tell you. The Englishmen had forgotten what the herdsman had told them -- about keeping away from the buffaloes. The Englishmen had walked about, and had finally come near the pond where the buffaloes were.

Then the buffaloes had come out and charged them. The Englishmen had run and run, and had just managed to reach the trees. But the buffaloes had come there after them! So the big Englishmen had to stay up in the trees, and wait for some little village boy to come and take away the furious buffaloes.

I have told you this story, my dear (and it is a true story) just to show you what kind of an animal the buffalo is -- at least, this sort of buffalo. Even when he is furious, he will do anything for the little boy whom he loves.

But as it is a true story, I must tell you one more thing that happened -- and I am sure you will be delighted to hear about it. The six Englishmen went to the palace, and laughed and laughed, and told all about it to the little Prince whose birthday it was.

Then the Rajah, who was the little Prince's father, said that Baldo and Chando should not be made to plow any more, or do another bit of work in their lives. Why? Because Baldo and Chando had first helped to save Gulab from the tiger at the pond, and then afterwards they had helped to hunt the tiger.

So after that, Baldo and Chando were allowed to walk about the village as they pleased, and nibble at anybody's hay or grass, and splash in anybody's pond, and wallow in anybody's ditch, rut, or mire.

And what was little Gulab's reward for saving the six Englishmen? Well, the little Prince, whose birthday it was, came and took Gulab by the hand, and brought him to the grand palace, and gave him lots and lots to eat -- cakes and ice cream and candy -- so that Gulab went home that night very full and very happy.




Chapter IX

Deer and Antelope


The buffalo has many relatives among other animals which also have horns. In fact, all animals that have horns are some relation to each other -- first cousin, second cousin, third cousin, and so on.

The buffalo's nearest relatives are the ordinary cows and bulls that you see in the fields.

"But the sheep and the goat also have horns," you may say. "Are they also cousins?"

Yes, they are. In the same way the deer and the antelope are also cousins to each other. I am now going to tell you about them.

The deer and the antelope are not exactly the same kind of animal, as you might perhaps think. As I said, they are only cousins. If you look at them carefully in the pictures on pages 103 and 109 you will see which is the antelope and which is the deer -- just as you can tell a sheep from a goat.

First see the picture on page 103. These are antelope. Look at the horns carefully. They are something like a cow's horns; only, a cow's horns are sometimes bent and twisted in different ways. But the antelope's horns point upward, and are much longer than a cow's horns. They sometimes look almost like a pair of long and thick spikes, pointed at the top.

Now look at the picture on page 109. These are deer. Look at the horns carefully -- only, they are not called horns when the animal is a deer, but antlers, which is a special name. So take a good look at the deer's antlers. There are two of them, and they grow from the top of his head, like the antelope's horns.

But look again. The antlers start from the head as two spikes, but higher up each antler branches out into many parts. In fact, near the top each antler looks something like the branches of a small tree without leaves.

So now you can always tell which is an antelope and which is a deer: the antelope's horns have no branches, but the deer's antlers have many branches.


Horns and Antlers Different in Three Ways

The antelope's horns and the deer's antlers are also different in other ways, which you cannot see in the pictures. So I shall tell you about them:

1. The antelope's horns are hollow inside, and made of the same kind of thing as the hoofs or nails of an animal, only they are thicker and harder. But a deer's antlers are solid, and made of bone.

2. Both the Papas and the Mammas among antelopes have horns. But among most kinds of deer, only the Papas have the antlers; the Mammas have none.

3. Among antelopes, when once the Papas and the Mammas have grown their horns, they keep them always. But among deer, the Papas throw away their antlers every year, and grow new ones. That seems very wonderful! I shall tell you more about it soon.

But now I shall tell you, little by little, all the wonderful things the deer and the antelope can do. I shall begin with the deer, as there are many kinds of deer in America.

Of course, in America there are not such wild jungles as in countries which are hot all the year round. Still, there are many places in the West and a few other parts of America where there is some kind of jungle and plenty of forest. A forest is a kind of jungle, only it has more trees, and fewer thickets; but wild animals can live there just the same.


Elk and Other American Deer

The biggest kind of deer in America is the moose; in fact, it is the biggest kind of deer in the world. The second biggest is the elk; he is nearly as big as the moose. Some people think that the moose and the elk are exactly the same kind of deer, but that is not quite correct. In this book I must not make it too hard for you to understand, by telling you how they are different. So I shall tell you all about the elk, as his picture is on page 109.

Once upon a time elks lived in all parts of America, but now they have been killed off by hunters in most parts, and are found wild only in the Far West.

The elk is a fine fellow. At the shoulder he is as tall as a man, and is as heavy as six men. He lives in places where there is plenty of forest -- that is, plenty of trees. Why trees? Because he needs them in winter -- for then the bark is his food!

In summer he has plenty to eat -- leaves, twigs, and grass. But when the winter comes, and the leaves fall, and the ground is covered with snow, the poor elk would starve and die, if he did not have at least the bark of trees to eat. And very little bark he gets for many days at a time.

Here I must tell you that some kinds of deer are among the most hardy animals; that means that at times they can live on very little. There is a kind of deer, called the reindeer, that lives in the frozen North, where there is snow and ice almost all the year round; and the reindeer has nothing more to eat for many days than a little bit of moss or seaweed.

But there is another animal, not a deer, that is still more hardy: he can go a whole week without eating or drinking -- and do work all the time! That seems very wonderful. But I shall tell you about that animal in another chapter.

Now about the elk. His antlers are fine! You can see in the picture how huge they are. And yet, would you believe it, he grew them in only five months! I told you a little while ago that a deer throws off his antlers every year, and grows new ones. I shall now tell you how the elk does that.

In the middle of the winter, the elk's antlers break off bit by bit. In a few weeks they have all fallen off, leaving the elk's head bare, with just a ridge or rough stump on it. Then, early in the spring the new antlers start growing from the top of the stump. They grow very fast, and in five months are as huge as ever.

But while the new antlers are growing, they are not hard. As yet they are soft and tender, and all that time they have an outside covering like hairy leather, to guard them from harm. But as soon as the elk feels that his antlers are quite grown, and are strong and hard, he strips off the outside covering by rubbing the antlers against trees.

Of course, while his antlers are still growing, and are soft and tender, the elk cannot use them to fight another animal; so during that time he hides in the bushes. But as soon as his new antlers have become hard and strong, he is very brave again, and is ready to fight!

Does the elk fight much? He does! He fights most awfully when he has his new antlers. What he fights about, and with whom he fights, I shall tell you in another book.

There are a few other kinds of deer in America, but the funniest of them is called the mule deer, which lives along the Rocky Mountains. He is called the mule deer because he has very long ears, like a mule's ears. And perhaps you have seen a mule bucking -- that is, jumping about while holding his legs quite stiff. Well, the mule deer can buck just like that.

And while he is running at a gallop, he will often jump off the ground with stiff legs, and then hop on and on many times like that, with stiff legs, finishing up with another gallop.

That makes him look very funny, and because he jumps like that people in Canada sometimes call him the jumping deer.


Other Kinds of Deer

I must now tell you about some other kinds of deer that live in jungles and forests in other countries.

The fallow deer lives in Europe. When he is wild, he lives in a forest; but when he is tame, he lives in a park. He is a small deer, about the size of a donkey. His coat is very soft and glossy and beautiful. In winter his coat looks dark brown, and his legs and the under part of his body are light brown. But in summer his coat becomes a lovely light red in color, with white spots jotted all over it. Then he is very handsome.

In India also there is a handsome deer, which the people call the lion deer. He looks quite gentle and mild. Then why do the people call him the lion deer? Because he has a lovely coat, golden yellow in color. You could see him far across the open field, if he only stood there. But he is so timid that he does not often come out in the open.

And why has he a yellow coat? Because he lives in a place where there is plenty of yellow grass; and if he stood right in the middle of the grass, and did not move, nobody could see him. Even if a tiger were looking for him, and the deer stood quite still in the grass, the tiger could not find him.

In another chapter I shall tell you how other animals have on their bodies the color of the place where they live, or where they want to hide.


Barking Deer -- One of the Wonders of Nature

Now I am coming to one of the nicest kinds of deer in the world, and I am sure you will just love him! He lives in India, and is called the barking deer; only, he is not exactly a deer, but an antelope. You remember what I have told you before, about an antelope having a different kind of horns? Still we must call him the barking deer, as people have already given him that name.

He is very small, about the size of a goat. If there is any danger from an enemy, the barking deer is small enough to hide in any little bush or behind a fallen tree or log; or else he can run away very quietly through the under bushes. And he runs so quickly that his enemy soon loses sight of him.

He is called the barking deer, because he can bark or yap almost like a dog. But, you may ask, why does he want to bark at all, if he is afraid of some enemy? Will not the enemy hear him, and then catch him?

Yes, that is quite true. And yet the fact that he does bark is one of the most wonderful things in the jungle. It is so wonderful that in another book I shall tell you more about it. But now I shall tell you just this:

There are some animals which are so deadly that they could kill off many, many other animals. So, as the only way to save the other animals from being all killed, God has made some special animals to fight those deadly animals.

There is the cobra, which is a snake, and which has such a deadly poison that it could kill almost all other animals in the jungle by just biting them. So, to save the other animals from being killed by the cobra, God made the mongoose. He is a plucky little creature, about the size of a cat. And he will fight and kill every cobra he sees! But really he is such a wonderful animal that I must keep him for another book, when you are old enough to know him better and to love him.

But sometimes the deadly animal is too strong to be killed himself. There is the tiger. He can kill and eat many kinds of animals. But who can kill him? No animal! At least, the elephant and the buffalo could kill the tiger if the tiger should let them catch him and trample on him. But the tiger does not let any animal catch him. Then how can the other animals be saved from the tiger?

God made two special animals to save the others from the tiger. The first is the buffalo, of which I have already told you, and which is the Knight of the Jungle. The second animal is the barking deer. How the barking deer saves the other animals from the tiger, I shall now tell you:

When the tiger is prowling about, all other kinds of deer and antelope just run away, and are glad enough if they escape being eaten. But not the plucky little barking deer! He too runs away, but as soon as he gets a little ahead of the tiger, he stops under a bush and lets out that bark or yap -- then runs on at once to another bush.

The tiger is furious, and jumps on the bush where he heard the bark -- but the deer is not there now! The deer barks from that second bush -- and runs to another one. In this way the barking deer leads the tiger on and on through the jungle from bush to bush.

And why does he bark like that? To tell the other animals in good time that the tiger is coming, and then to tell them exactly where the tiger is.

"Look out, here's a tiger!" That is the meaning of his first bark.

"Here he is! He is coming after me -- this way!" That is what he means by the next bark.

"He is chasing me this way! You run the other way!" And that is what the barking deer keeps on saying, as he runs from bush to bush, so that all the other animals know exactly where the tiger is at each minute.

In this way the barking deer runs through the jungle, warning all the other animals, and so spoiling the tiger's dinner all the way.




Chapter X

Deer and Antelope: Their Special Gifts


You have learned by this time that every animal has some special gift, that is, he can do one thing better than most other animals. The deer and the antelope have their special gifts.

First, there is their gift of hearing. I have already told you that the wild buffaloes can hear a long way; but the deer and the antelope can hear still farther.

Let us suppose that a tiger is trying to creep up to a deer through the jungle, as quietly as he can. The tiger is still a long way off, and quite hidden by the bushes, so the deer cannot see him at all. But the deer can hear him coming, even if the tiger takes each step very lightly. Why? Because the deer's ears are so sharp that he can hear even a leaf rustling under the tiger's foot, a long way off. So the deer can run away in good time.

To make him hear still better, the deer can turn or bend his ears to the side from which the sound is coming. You have seen an ordinary cow prick up her ears when she heard somebody coming; and many other animals -- even a dog -- can do the same.

But the deer can do that best. The shape of his ear is like that of a funnel, so as to pour the sound into his ear, as it were. Then even if there is only a single drop of sound, it gets right into his ear.

And by turning or bending his ear, the deer knows which way the sound is coming. You also can tell which way a sound is coming, if it is loud enough; but the deer can do that even when the sound is very faint. That is very useful to him, as he then knows exactly which way a sneaking tiger is coming, and can run the other way.

I must now tell you that the tiger himself, tries to come so quietly that the deer may not hear him at all; and to help him to do so, his feet are padded with muscles, just like cushions. So it is a kind of trial between the tiger and the deer as to which is the more clever. If the tiger can come so quietly that the deer cannot hear him, then the tiger is more clever than the deer. But if the deer can hear the tiger, even if the tiger comes most quietly, then the deer is more clever than the tiger.

That kind of trial between two different animals as to which is the more clever, goes on in the jungle all the time: and the more clever one wins every time. If the tiger is more clever than the deer, the tiger eats the deer; but if the deer is more clever than the tiger, the deer escapes being eaten. And that is true of all other animals. In fact, one of the great wonders of the jungle is that the animal which is the fittest wins the oftenest; and so he goes on living, whatever may happen to the others.[1]

[Footnote 1: To the Teacher. -- Please give the class other examples of the "Survival of the Fittest" among other creatures -- birds, insects, fish, etc.]

Now I come to the second special gift of the deer and the antelope. If by any chance a deer cannot hear a sneaking tiger, he can still smell the tiger.

Most animals can smell their enemy a long way off, even if they do not hear him or see him; but the deer and the antelope can smell the farthest. Even if a sneaking tiger is so cunning that he stops in a thicket and stands quite still for a minute, so that he does not make any sound at all, -- and so the deer cannot hear him, -- even then the deer can smell him when he is still a long way off.

I must tell you now that the tiger himself can smell the deer. But he cannot do that very far off, -- so the deer always smells him first!

Also, the tiger can hear the deer, if the deer happens to be moving. But the tiger cannot hear quite so far as the deer can. So the deer always hears him first!

But in one thing the tiger is better off than the deer: the tiger can see farther than the deer. In the night most animals can see a little, but the tiger can see a little better and farther than the others. And in the daytime, if a deer were feeding in a very big level field, and a tiger came to the field from the other side, the tiger would see the deer before the deer could see him. Then the tiger would come round to the nearest thicket, and try to creep up to the deer from thicket to thicket.


Each Animal has the Gift he Needs Most

So, you understand, the deer can hear farther and smell farther; but the tiger can see farther.

And that is so because it is a wonderful rule in the jungle that each animal has the gift that he needs most.

But can you think why the tiger needs to see farther, and why the deer needs to hear farther and smell farther? I shall tell you.

The tiger is the catcher, and the deer is the one that is caught. So the tiger tries to get to the deer, and the deer tries to run from the tiger.

But to get to the deer, it would be no use to the tiger if he could only smell or hear the deer, for then he would only know that the deer was somewhere near, but could not find the exact spot; and to catch the deer the tiger must know exactly where the deer is. So the best way for him to know that is to see the deer.

But for the deer himself, all that he needs to know is that a tiger is somewhere near. So it is quite enough for him to know from which side the tiger is coming, by just smelling him or hearing him. Then the deer can run the other way at once. He does not want to see the tiger at all!

So, you understand, the tiger's best gift is to be able to see the deer; and the deer's best gift is to be able to smell and hear the tiger.

But then, you may ask, if the deer can always run away long before the tiger can get at him, does a tiger never catch a deer?

Yes, a tiger does catch a deer once in a while, if the deer happens to make a mistake! And the deer can make only one mistake like that in his life, because after the first he gets eaten!

So, you may be sure, the deer tries very hard never to make even that one mistake.

And what is that one mistake? It is to run straight into the jaws of the tiger! It may just happen that when the deer hears the tiger coming, he does not listen quite carefully, and so he does not know which way the sound is coming. Then, in running away, the deer may happen to go just the wrong way -- and fall into the tiger's jaws.

Or else it may happen that the deer is so frightened that he loses his head, as it were, and goes just any way -- and by bad luck chooses the wrong way, and falls into the tiger's jaws.

But I must tell you that, although the tiger tries very hard to eat the deer, the deer tries still harder not to be eaten! Why? Because if the tiger does not catch the deer for to-day's dinner, he can still catch some other animal for tomorrow's breakfast, even if he goes hungry to-night. But if the deer once gets eaten, there is no to-morrow for, him at all! The tiger is only trying to get a meal, but the deer is trying to save his life. That is why the deer nearly always gets away from the tiger -- because he is trying harder than the tiger.

So the tiger does not get deer to eat much oftener than most children get roast turkey. The tiger lives mostly on pork, for the wild pigs of the jungle are such careless animals, as I have told you before. Now and again the tiger gets mutton also, for the wild sheep are silly creatures, like other kinds of sheep. In the same way the tiger sometimes catches a wild goat.

The tiger would really get deer to eat a little oftener than he actually does if it were not that the deer has two other gifts by which he can escape from the tiger at the last minute. Those two gifts are his quickness in getting started, and his speed in running. So, even if the deer makes a mistake and runs toward the tiger, he can still escape from the tiger if he finds out his mistake in time.

For, as you saw at the midnight pool, the deer may be drinking quietly, when he hears or smells a tiger. Then the deer can leap at once and get away, before the tiger can leap. Or it may happen that the deer is trying to escape from a tiger and has run to within twenty yards of the tiger, when he finds out his mistake. Then the deer can turn at once and leap sideways to get out of the tiger's reach. The deer is so quick that he can turn aside without stopping, and keep on running.

Then after that, once he has turned away from the tiger, the tiger can never catch him. For the deer can run ever so much faster than the tiger.

In fact, the deer or the antelope is the fastest animal in the world, except one other. About that other animal I shall tell you some wonderful things in the next book. But among all animals I have told you about in this book the deer is the fastest.

"But how do people know that the deer can run faster than other animals?" you may ask. "Has anyone had a race between different animals?"

Yes, some people did that in England a few years ago. They took the fastest racehorse in the country, and ran a race between him and the fastest greyhound; and the greyhound beat the horse in the race. Then they took that greyhound, and ran a race between him and an English deer; and the deer beat the greyhound in the race. So, you see, the deer was faster than the greyhound, and the greyhound was faster than the horse! So the deer was the fastest of the three.

And the deer that lives in the jungle is even faster than the English deer. Why? Because the English deer lives in peaceful glades and forests, and has no other animal trying to catch and eat him; so he does not try to be as fast as he could be. But the deer that lives in the jungle has to try very hard all the time to be as fast as he can be, or else he would be eaten by the tiger! And, as you must know, we can do the best in anything when we try the hardest.

So, all kinds of wild deer in the jungle have been trying their hardest to run as fast as they can. And as their fathers and grandfathers have been trying to do that, the wild deer to-day have become the fastest runners among all the animals I have told you about.




Chapter XI

The Camel


The camel has very little to do with the kind of jungle I have been telling you about; but he has much to do with the desert. A desert is another kind of wild place. As I told you before, jungle means any wild place; but usually, of course, there are lots of trees and bushes and thickets in it. But we call the wild place a desert when trees and bushes and thickets will not grow there, because the ground is all covered with sand. In the desert there is nothing but sand all over the ground, and not a single tree or a tiny blade of grass anywhere, as far as you can see.

And that is the place where camels can do some very wonderful things, as I shall now tell you. The camels do not actually live in the desert all the time, but in countries quite near there.

First I must tell you that there is only one country to-day, called Central Asia, where camels are still found wild. In all other places they are not wild any more, for in those countries people have lived for many thousand years; so the people caught all the camels once upon a time, and tamed them.

Since that time the camels have been used by people in those countries for their work, just as we use horses here; and rich people in those countries count their wealth by the number of camels they have. Just as we say here that a rich man has a million dollars, or two millions, or three millions, so in those countries a man is thought to be rich who has one thousand camels, or two thousand, or three thousand.

It was just the same in those countries in olden times. You have read in your Bible history that Job was once a rich man, as he owned thousands of camels.

You will see from the pictures facing page 128 that there are two kinds of camels; one kind has a huge hump on the middle of his back; and the other kind has two humps, with a gap between. The One-Hump camel is called an Arabian camel, or a dromedary. Once upon a time he lived in the country called Arabia; that is the country from where you get your lovely old stories of Ali Baba and Aladdin. But now the One-Hump camel also lives in other countries near there. These are all very hot countries, with many miles of desert here and there.

The Two-Humps camel is called a Bactrian camel, as he lives in a country which was once called Bactria. That country also has many deserts, like Arabia; but as it is far to the north of Arabia, it is very cold in winter, and the snow then lies very thick on the ground. So try and remember this:

The One-Hump camel lives in a country where there are many miles of desert, and where it is very hot almost the whole year. So the One-Hump camel has to guard himself only from the hot burning sand.

The Two-Humps camel lives in a country where there are also many miles of desert, but where it is very hot in the summer and very cold in the winter. So the Two-Humps camel has to guard himself from the hot burning sand in the summer, and from the cold and snow in the winter.

The Two-Humps camel has in winter a coat of long, shaggy hair on his back to guard him from the cold; and in summer the shaggy hair comes off his back, just as if he were to cast off his thick coat. But the One-Hump camel has only short hair, as the country is too hot all the time to need a thick coat.

Now I must tell you how camels are used. First, they carry goods for trade. In those countries there are hardly any railroads, so the merchants carry their packages on camels. Of course they could not put a package right on a camel's hump, as it would fall off; so they always join two packages together with a band or belt, and sling the band across the camel's back, so that there is a package on each side of the camel.

When a One-Hump camel is used, the band or belt has two parts, like a loop; and the loop rests over the hump, so that the band cannot slip backward or forward. When a Two-Humps camel is used, the band of course rests in the gap between the two humps, so that it cannot slip at all; and then the two packages can be made very big. That is why people like the Two-Humps camel better for carrying goods, and like the One-Hump camel better for riding. But in some places the One-Hump camel is used both for riding and for carrying goods.

In this way merchants carry their goods for many hundred miles across desert and country. Then sometimes they come to the sea and send the goods in ships to different countries. That is how you get many of the figs, dates, and grapes you eat; so the next time you eat them, think of the patient camel that brought them for you across the desert. That is why the camel is called the Ship of the Desert.

The beautiful carpets and rugs and shawls which you see in rich homes have also been brought by the patient camels; and some of the lovely vases and ornaments that rich people have were also carried by camels. And not only across the desert, but even over ordinary land camels carry these goods. The camel is such a large animal that he can carry packages as heavy as four men.

Of course when he carries such a heavy load, he cannot go any faster than a man's walk; but the camel can keep on walking all day, with just a short rest once in a while. Those used for riding cannot run as fast as a horse, but they can keep on running at a steady trot much longer than a horse, and then after a short rest can start running again. So by the end of the day a camel can run twice as far as a horse, and sometimes still farther.


The Camel's Wonderful Gifts

Now I am going to tell you of the most wonderful things a camel can do.

First, I must tell you that no other animal could cross a desert at all. To begin with, if such an animal as a horse tried to walk on the sand, his hoofs would sink into the sand up to the ankles, and it would be hard work for him to go even a mile. But a camel's foot is different. It has a soft pad of muscles under it, just like a cushion; and when the camel walks or runs on the sand, the pad spreads out under his foot, and that gives him a firm hold on the sand in walking or running. So remember that the camel has padded feet.

I must tell you here that the feet of all animals are formed in the way they can best use, in the country in which they live. Those animals that have to walk on hard ground have hoofs, and those that have to walk on soft ground have padded feet. The elephant is the only animal that has to walk on hard ground, at least very often, and yet has padded feet. Can you tell why? Because of his huge weight! He is so heavy that if the bones under his feet were not covered with a thick pad, he would jar the bones every time he put his foot down, even if the ground were not very hard.

In the same way the camel's padded foot is very useful to him even when he is not in the desert, but on hard ground; for he too is rather heavy, though of course not so heavy as an elephant.

There are other reasons why no other animal could cross a desert as easily as a camel. In the desert there are sometimes fierce storms; and as it is all sand there, the strong wind blows the sand about in every direction. As there is no place there where one could get away from the sand, any other animal would soon have a lot of sand blown into his nostrils; then he would be choked. But a camel's nostrils are made differently, so that whenever he likes he can close his nostrils, as easily as you can close your mouths, and that keeps away the sand. The camel is clever enough to lie down on the ground when a storm is blowing, and to lay his neck and chin along the ground; then his nose is quite close to the ground, where the storm is not quite so fierce as in the air.

Of course, when he wants to breathe, he opens his nostrils a tiny bit to take in a little air; then he closes the nostrils again, and holds his breath for a little while. He has to keep on doing that as long as the storm lasts.

But what does his master do, who has been riding on his back? He cannot close his nostrils; so the only thing he can do is to get off the camel and huddle against the camel's body on the side far from the wind; then he brings his face quite close to the ground and holds his nose with his hand. When he wants to breathe, he opens his fingers just enough to make a slit and let the air in, but not enough to let the sand in.

There is another reason why no other animal could cross a desert: his eyes would be blinded by the fierce glare of the sun. But a camel has very thick hair on his eyebrows, which hang over the eyes, and keep off the fierce rays of the sun. His eyelashes also are very thick, and help to keep off the sun in the same way.

But there is a still more wonderful reason why no other animal, except a camel, could cross a desert. In a desert water is very scarce, and a traveler crossing a desert on a camel may not find any water for a whole week. Of course, he carries on his saddle half a dozen bottles of water to drink; but after drinking some of the water each day, he has not much to spare for the poor camel. Then what is the poor camel to do?

Of course, you may say that his master should carry more water for the camel to drink. But the load of goods which the camel has to carry is already so heavy that there is not much room for any more water. Then what can the poor camel do?

Why, he carries his own drinking water, not in the load on his back, but inside his stomach! Is not that a wonderful thing? His stomach is made differently from that of any other animal. The stomach of any other animal, Or even a man's stomach, is so made that the water drunk at any time is all used up in the next few hours; that is why any other animal, or even a man, has to have another drink after those few hours.

But a camel's stomach is so made that it has one big place for food and drink like the stomach of any other animal, but it also has many smaller places arranged all around the stomach; these smaller places are just like bottles, and are called cells.

So when a camel takes a good long drink, the big place in the middle of the stomach takes in the water first; then as he drinks more and more, the bottles or cells all around begin to get filled also. And the wonderful thing is that as soon as each cell is full, its mouth closes up by itself! In that way, if the camel drinks long enough, all the cells get full, one by one, and then have their mouths closed up.

When a camel is about to start on a long journey through the desert, he takes a very long drink, till he feels that he cannot drink any more; then he knows that all the bottles or cells inside are quite full, as well as the big place in the middle of his stomach. Now he is ready to cross the desert.

After many hours all the water in the big place in the middle of the stomach gets used up. Then what happens? Why, one of the bottles inside opens its mouth by itself, and pours the water into the stomach! And after many hours more, when that water has also been used up, the second bottle opens its mouth and pours the water into the stomach. In this way all the bottles or cells inside the camel one by one pour their water into the stomach from day to day, whenever the camel feels thirsty. Is not that most wonderful?

And there is yet another very wonderful thing about the camel. His hump! It is just as wonderful whether it is one hump or two humps. I shall tell you.

The camel's hump is his store of food! Yes, just as he carries his own drinking water inside his stomach, so he also carries his own store of food in his hump.

This is how he does it:

When the camel is quite well and strong, if he eats any food which is a little more than he actually needs for his hunger, that food after a while goes to his hump and helps to make it bigger. In this way the hump becomes a store of all the extra food that he has eaten. Then, on going on a long journey through the desert, if the camel has nothing to eat and begins to feel hungry and weak, a little of the hump is used up to give him strength, just as if he were to eat a meal. In this way he can go for many days without food, but of course his hump will get smaller and smaller.

But his master does not actually take him through the desert without giving him any food or drink; in fact he always gives the camel some of the figs and dates which he takes with him for his own meals, and also some of the drinking water which he carries on his saddle. But if it did happen that his master had no food or drink to spare, the camel could still live for several days, using his hump for food, and the water in the cells of his stomach for drink.

The camel can do yet another wonderful thing. He can tell a long way off when he is coming to a place where there is water. In the desert, after going over sand and sand for many days, a traveler sometimes finds a beautiful place called an oasis. It is just like a lovely little garden right in the middle of the desert, with a spring of water, and several fig trees, date trees, and other palm trees growing all around the pool.

When a traveler is crossing the desert and sees nothing but sand for several days, it sometimes happens that his camel suddenly stops, stands quite still for a minute, raises his head, and sniffs the air. Then he turns a little to the right or to the left, and begins to run straight that way. His master may look ahead very hard, but he will see nothing but sand and sand, as before.

But the camel, by just sniffing the air, has found out that there is an oasis within reach, though it is still too far away for him to see it. Then he runs on most gladly, and comes to the oasis in an hour, so that he and his master can rest there for some time, and drink from the pool, and eat the figs and dates growing on the trees.

Of course, the camel can also eat the leaves of the trees; in fact, when he is not in the desert, but just in the ordinary country, he usually eats from the shrubs and bushes, and gets figs and dates only as a dainty, just as you sometimes have ice cream. The camel with two humps will gladly eat many more things than the camel with one hump. In fact, when he is hungry, he will eat not only any kind of vegetable, but also meat. He has even been known to chew up and eat bones, blankets, and leather! And he is perhaps the only animal that will drink salt water; for the country in which the Two-Humps camel lives has several lakes, the water of which is bitter and salty.

So you see how useful an animal the camel is, whether he has one hump or two humps. He is so useful that people have been saying for a long time that camels should be brought into America, where there are several deserts in the western states. In fact, a strange thing has already happened. The United States Government did bring a lot of camels for use in the western states several years ago, about the time when your grandfather was a boy.

But the people who can best manage such large animals as elephants and camels are the people who are born in the same countries as those animals and who understand their habits. And unluckily, when the camels were brought into America, nobody thought of bringing men also from those countries to manage the camels. So nobody seemed to know how to use these animals, and after a time they were turned loose in Arizona. The camels went into the deserts and forests there, and became quite wild, and to-day there are some of them in Arizona.

Now, do you not think it would be a good idea to get a few men from those countries and learn from them how to manage camels? Then the camels of Arizona also could be used in crossing the deserts there, where there are no railroads.

Besides being the only animal that can cross the desert, the camel is different from any other four-legged animal even in the way he walks.

You have seen how a horse walks? When his left foreleg is lifted off the ground, his right hind leg is also lifted off the ground; then in the next step, when his right foreleg is lifted off the ground, his left hind leg is also lifted off the ground. That means that the two legs which move at the same time are those placed at the opposite corners of his body. But when a camel walks, he lifts the two legs on the same side of his body at the same time. And when he takes the next step, he lifts the two legs on the other side of his body.

Now, my dear, I have told you many things about the camel which are different from anything in any other animal. So, before I close this chapter, I want you to remember these things about the camel:

1. His foot is padded in such a way that he can walk or run on sand.

2. He can close his nostrils to keep out the sand in a storm.

3. His thick and bushy eyebrows and thick eyelashes keep the glare of the sun from his eyes.

4. His stomach has many cells like bottles, in which he can store up water.

5. He can store up food in his hump.

6. He walks by moving both legs on the same side of his body at the same time.

In another chapter I shall tell you about an animal that can also do one of these things: he can store up food in his body, though in a different way. That animal is the bear. He sleeps through the whole winter, and has to have a store of food somewhere in his body to last all that time.




Chapter XII

The Camel and the Thief


Now I shall tell you a story about a camel and a thief. It is a true story, and happened many, many years ago. The story shows what we can learn by watching the animals.

Once upon a time, a traveler was going on foot across the country. In his belt he had a purse full of money. One day, as the sun began to get hot, he lay down on the grass under a tree near the roadway, and fell asleep.

After a few hours he woke up, and what was his surprise to find that the purse was gone! While he was asleep, somebody had quietly stolen his purse and gone away.

The traveler ran to the nearest village, and there told the police about it. Now, among the police there was a very clever man, and the police brought him with them to the place where the money had been stolen. The clever man looked all around the place very carefully to see if he could find any marks on the ground. On the grass near the tree he found no marks; in fact, if a person walks on the grass just once or twice it does not leave any mark. But on the roadway near by he found footprints.

"They are a camel's footprints," he said, looking at the marks carefully. "And the marks of all the four feet are not quite the same. Three of them are quite deep and clear; but the fourth one is very faint."

He followed the camel's footprints along the road for a long time. But now and again he stopped and looked at the shrubs and bushes which grew here and there, on both sides of the road.

"Hello, that is strange!" he suddenly said. "The camel has eaten from the bushes and shrubs here and there on the left side of the road, but he hasn't eaten at all from those on the right side of the road."

He went on for some time longer, then suddenly stopped to look at the road where the camel had walked.

"Hello, this is also strange!" he said. "Here are a lot of bees buzzing near the ground on the right side of the road. And here are a lot of ants scrambling over the ground on the left side of the road."

"Never mind about the camel, and the bees and the ants," the policemen said impatiently. "We want to know about the thief who stole the money. You have not found any other footprints except the camel's?"

"That is quite true," the clever man said. "But as the camel could not steal the money, there must be a man riding on the camel. He must be the thief."

"But why didn't the thief leave any footprints?" the policemen asked.

"Because he must have ridden his camel from the roadway right to the edge of the grass," the clever man answered. "Then he must have jumped down upon the grass, where he knew he would not leave any footprint. He must have walked very quietly on the grass up to the tree where the traveler was sleeping, and stolen the money. Then he must have walked back quietly to the camel and ridden off."

"But what sort of a man is the thief?" the police asked. "How can we find him, if you do not tell us what he is like?"

"I cannot tell you a thing about the thief, or what he looks like, as he hasn't even left a footprint," the clever man answered. "But I can tell you all about the camel. The camel is blind in his right eye, and lame in his left hind foot. And on his back he is carrying two packages, one on each side; the package on the right side has honey in it, and the package on the left side has corn in it. So you must search for a man who is riding a camel loaded like that. He is the thief."

So the police searched for a man who was riding a camel which was blind in his right eye, lame in his left hind foot, and carrying honey in a package on his right side, and corn in a package on his left side. After following the camel's footprints on the ground for a long time, the police at last came to a village.

They searched through the village, and found many men riding camels. But there was only one man riding a camel blind in his right eye, lame in left hind foot, and carrying honey on the right side, and corn on the left side. So the police knew that he was the thief, and took him before the judge. Then the thief said that it was quite true that he stole the money.

Afterwards the judge turned to the clever man and asked him how he knew all that about the camel.

"You didn't see the camel at all, but only his footprints," the judge said. "Then how did you know that the camel was blind in his right eye, lame in his left hind foot, and carrying honey on the right side, and corn on the left side?"

"It was quite simple," the clever man answered very modestly. "First, about the camel being blind in his right eye. He had nibbled at the shrubs and bushes growing on the left side of the road, for at each bite I found the leaves cut off clean by his teeth. On the right side of the road there were also plenty of good shrubs and bushes, but the camel had not taken a single bite at any of them. That showed that he did not even see those shrubs and bushes on his right side. And that of course meant that his right eye was blind."

"That is very clever of you," the judge said. "But how did you know that the camel was lame in his left hind foot?"

"That was just as simple," the clever man again answered very modestly. "As the camel walked along, the marks of his two front feet and right hind foot were quite deep and clear on the ground. But the mark of his left hind foot was very faint. That showed that the camel was limping, and the left hind foot only just touched the ground. So I knew that he was lame in that foot."

"That is also very clever of you," the judge said. "But how did you know that the camel was carrying honey on his right side, and corn on his left?"

"That was the simplest of all," the clever man answered most modestly. "As the camel was limping, nearly every step he took jerked the load on his back. So a few drops of the honey fell to the ground from the package on his right side, and a few grains of the corn fell to the ground from the package on his left side."

"But you could not see very well here and there on the ground just a few drops of honey or just a few grains of corn?" the judge said.

"I could not," the clever man answered, "but the bees and the ants could! On the right side of the road I found a swarm of bees here and there; so I knew that they were trying to pick up the honey. And on the left side of the road I saw a whole lot of ants here and there; so I knew that they were trying to pick up and carry away the grains of corn."

Now was it not really clever of that man to find all that out about the camel, without ever seeing the camel before? But, as you understand, he knew all about the habits of different animals; and so he knew what camels and bees and ants always do.




Chapter XIII

Bears


Bears are such funny animals, at least some kinds of bears, that you may like to know all about them.

Bears are found in many countries, and in some countries there are several kinds of bears.

But you must remember this: hardly any bear lives in the tropics; that means countries where the sun is almost overhead all the months of the year, so that it is very hot all the time.

But why does not the bear usually live there? Can you guess?

Because the bear is a very hairy animal; and his hair is just like a thick coat, so that he cannot live where it is very hot all the time.

Of course, once upon a time the bear lived only in places where it was very cold, and so he grew thick hair to keep out the cold; but now that he has a thick coat of hair, he cannot go down to hot countries to live. He does not mind living in a cold country; and the colder the country is, the thicker is his coat of hair.

What does the bear eat? Most kinds of bears eat berries, fruits, soft roots of trees, and fish when they can catch it. One or two kinds of bears eat other things also, which I shall tell you about very soon.

The bears that live in cold countries, where there is heavy snow in winter, cannot get anything at all to eat in winter. Why? Because there are no fruits and berries in winter, and the roots of trees are frozen hard and covered up by the snow.

Then if those bears cannot get anything to eat in winter, what do they do? They sleep!

You know that when you are asleep you do not feel hungry; but as soon as you wake up you feel hungry again. It is just the same with the bear; he does not feel very hungry while he sleeps. And he sleeps right through the winter months!

Still, while he is asleep all that time, does he not feel a little bit hungry? He does. So he uses up the store of food inside his body! I have told you that the camel carries a store of food in his hump. The bear has no hump, of course, but he has a thick chunk of fat all around his body just under his skin; and that chunk of fat is his store of food.

So, when the bear sleeps snugly in his den in the winter months, the chunk of fat is slowly used up inside his body, and keeps him from being very hungry.

Of course, he eats such a lot just before the winter, that the chunk of fat is very thick when he goes to bed. But the chunk is all used up when he wakes up at the end of the winter, and then he is very hungry again!

But there is a kind of bear that lives in a place where there is snow and ice almost all the time. What can he do?

He cannot sleep always! So he has to get something to eat now and then, and I shall tell you how he does that.


The Polar Bear

This kind of bear is called the polar bear. (See the picture on page 155.) He lives in a place far up North, where it is always very cold. The land is nearly covered with snow, and the water at the top of the sea is frozen. There are no berries or fruits there for the polar bear to eat; so he has to live on fish, and seal, which is a water animal. The way the bear catches the fish or the seal is this:

He makes a hole in the ice with his paws, so that he can reach the water below. Then he sits down very quietly by the edge of the hole, and waits for a fish or a seal to swim past the hole. Then the bear pounces on it very quickly with his paw or his jaws, and catches it.

If the ice is too thick for the bear to make a hole through it, he has to try another way. He comes right down to the part of the sea where some of the ice has broken off. There he chooses a place at the edge of the ice, close to the water; and he waits there for a fish or a seal to swim past. Then he pounces on it and catches it.

Now I shall tell you a few special things that the polar bear has.

His coat of hair is much thicker than the coat of any other bear. Why? Because he lives in a colder place than any other bear; so he needs a thicker coat. Also, he sometimes has to swim through the icy water to get to some floating field of ice, so that he can catch fish from it. Then, although his hair gets wet, he has a thick lining of fat inside his coat to keep him warm.

The next special thing about the polar bear is that his hair is all white -- like the color of everything around him, which, as I have told you, is just snow and ice. So when the polar bear sits down very quietly on the snow and ice, nobody can see him even from a short distance, because he is the same color as the snow and ice. And that is why the fish or the seal does not see him, and so gets caught.

That is one of the wonderful things about many wild animals -- they are of the same color as the place where they live. You know that the color of a lion is yellow, like the color of sand; and the lion lives in countries where there are lots of sandy places. You know, too, that the color of a tiger is yellow, but with black stripes upon the yellow, so that if you looked at him from a distance, you might think he was made up of yellow and black stripes. And the tiger lives in the tall grass, which also looks like yellow and black stripes.

But now I shall tell you more about the polar bear. He has three other special things: the soles of his feet are hairy; he has a small head; and he has a long neck.

First, about the soles of his feet. The soles of the feet of other bears are smooth, just like the feet of all other animals that have to walk on ordinary ground. But the soles of the polar bear are covered with long hair, just as is his body. Why? Because he has to walk on ice, which is very slippery, and he needs to have the soles of his feet covered with hair, or else he would slip on the ice, just as you must wear rubbers over your shoes when you have to walk on icy ground.

Now, my dear, just stop for a minute, and think. Among all the wonderful things that I have told you so far, you have always noticed that an animal always has just the very thing he needs! We have to make rubbers, and warm coats, and gloves, and socks, and a dozen things that we need. But to every animal God has given everything that he needs, right on his body.

But now let us go on with the polar bear. He has a smaller head than any other kind of bear. Why? To make it easier for him to put his head through the hole in the ice, when he is catching fish. Other kinds of bears do not have to put their heads into a hole to get anything to eat; so they do not need to have a small head.

The polar bear has also a longer neck than any other kind of bear. Why? To give him a longer reach in catching the fish with his jaws -- without tumbling into the water himself. Other bears, who live on dry land, do not need to reach out like that, and so they have shorter necks.

I shall now tell you about these other kinds of bears.


American Bears

First you shall hear about the bears that live in America. The biggest kind is called the grizzly bear. In fact, he is the largest bear in the world. Some grizzly bears are ten feet tall when they stand up on their hind legs!

The color of a grizzly bear is yellow, but with many shades; sometimes between brown and yellow, and sometimes between red and yellow. Teddy bears, with which you have played, are sometimes made of that color. Teddy bears of course are very nice, as they are toys; but I am sorry to say that the real grizzly bear is not nice; he is very fierce. In fact, he is the only kind of bear that is so fierce. Even grown-up men do not want to go near him.

The grizzly is found in many parts of North America, near the Rocky Mountains, from the United States right up to Alaska. He lives on berries and all kinds of fruits, and also on the soft roots of trees. But the grizzly bear eats meat also, if he can manage to catch deer or cattle. That is why cowboys in Colorado and Wyoming do not like the grizzly bear -- he tries to kill and eat their cows.

Besides, he kills a lot of fish. In the Columbia River in Oregon there are lots of trout and shad, which people like to have for their dinner. But the grizzly bear gets to the river first, and eats a great many of the trout and the shad. How does he catch the fish? Why, he just lies down along the bank, and waits for the fish to rise to the top of the water. The trout and the shad like to rise to the top of the water now and again, and swim there. So the grizzly just waits for a fish to rise -- and then he pounces on it and catches it with his paw. He is so very quick that he hardly ever misses. All kinds of bears are very clever in catching fish.


Other Bears

Another kind of bear is called the brown bear. He lives in Europe, Asia, and also in some parts of America, especially in Alaska. There he is rather big, though not quite so big as the grizzly bear. He too lives on berries, fruits, and roots, and he also catches fish. For in the rivers of Alaska there are lots of salmon.

But the brown bear is not at all fierce, like the grizzly bear. He is peace-loving, and sometimes quite friendly.

The nicest kind of bear is called the black bear. He is found in all parts of the United States, and in many other countries. He is sometimes rather small, and is quite full of fun. Almost all the good stories you may hear about bears are about the black bear.

Many people mistake the black bear for the brown bear; so when you sometimes hear people talking about a "brown" bear, you may know that they really mean a "black" bear.

Like other bears, the black bear lives on berries, fruits, and roots, and also on nuts, if he can find any. But what he likes best is honey! It is quite amusing to see the bear hold a honeycomb in one paw, scoop out the honey with the other, and put it into his mouth. It looks just like a boy holding a pot of jam in one hand, and sticking his fingers into the jam and putting it on his tongue!

"But do not the bees get angry, and try to sting him?" you may ask.

Of course they do. The bees swarm around the bear and try to sting him all over. But they cannot! He is too hairy! They cannot get through the hair to sting him on the skin. So he goes on licking the honey and smacking his lips!

The black bear is always a funny animal. Perhaps you have seen him in the zoo. He will squat on the ground like a man, and if he sees a crowd of people before him, he will swing his arms just as a man does when he talks to a friend. Perhaps the bear has seen some men do that, and has learned to do the same!

And sometimes he will sit on the ground, hold his tail in his mouth, and fumble head over heels, or roll over and over, or spin round and round -- just for fun! In fact, the black bear is among the few grown-up animals that love to play. Many young animals of course, such as kittens, puppy dogs, calves, and many others, love to play. But most grown-up animals do not seem to care for play, except the black bear.

When he is caught and tamed, he is still very playful at times. He will do all sorts of funny tricks, all by himself; and if he sees anyone watching him, he will try to show how clever he is -- just like a child playing "smarty!"

Once in a lumber camp in the West the men caught and tamed a black bear. After a time the bear was allowed to walk about the camp, quite free, as he did not think of running away. One day the men had stopped work to have their dinner. The bear walked by, and the men petted him and said nice things to him. Then what do you think happened! The bear felt so proud of being praised that he went to a sloping log, and walked along it right to the top. You must know that in a lumber camp there are lots and lots of huge logs, or trees which the men have cut down. And one of these logs happened to rest on a slope, that is, with one end higher than the other.

When the bear reached the top of the log, he sat across it. Then he held on to the log with his front paws, bent his body, and slid down the log -- just as a boy slides down the banister! Of course the men laughed, and cheered him. Then just guess what that bear did!

He walked up to the top of the log again, and sat across it, as before. But now he held on to the log with his knees, not his paws, and sat straight up without bending, and slid down the log in that way -- just as a boy might hold on to the banister with his knees, not using his hands at all, and slide down the banister in that way, just to show how smart he could be!

You may be sure those men cheered the bear, and gave him lots to eat.

There is another kind of black bear that is also funny, though in another way. He is called the Himalayan black bear, because he lives in India near some huge mountains called the Himalayas. In many ways he is very much like the black bear of America, but he has a white chin and long side-whiskers on his jaws. Some people think that of all kinds of bears he is the most handsome.

Although he often goes up very high on the side of the mountains, he sometimes comes down to the country below, where there are many villages. But the bear is quite friendly, and never hurts the people in the villages, although he is strong enough to kill a man. So the people are also very kind and friendly to him, and never try to hurt him. When you grow up you may read that there are some people in India who are always kind to all animals, tame or wild.[2]

[Footnote 2: To the Teacher. -- Please explain to the class that the sect called Jains do not hurt the smallest creature, and will suffer the sting of a wasp rather than kill it.]

I am telling you this because you will see very soon what we gain by being friendly even to a wild animal. The Himalayan black bear, like the other black bear, is also very fond of honey, and of everything sweet. In the country where he lives there grows a berry called mawa, which is very sweet -- even sweeter than the strawberry; and the people of the villages make jam from it.

These berries grow quite wild, on bushes here and there in the fields, and even in the jungles near by. When the berries are ripe, the people send out their children to gather them from the bushes in the fields; and the children carry baskets so as to bring back as many berries as they can.

But when the berries are ripe, the bears also want to eat them! So it sometimes happens that half a dozen children are picking the berries from a thick bush, when suddenly a bear comes round the bush and starts gobbling up the berries as fast as he can!

Do the children get frightened and run away? Not a bit! They want their share of the berries, too!

By this time the bush may be getting empty, and the children have not quite filled their baskets. The bear keeps on gobbling up the berries, and even pushing past the children to get at a bunch. What then? Why, the children raise their hands, and just spank the wild bear!

"Go away, you have had enough!" they say. "Can't you go to another bush? There must be others right in the jungle, where we can't go!"

And, can you imagine it, a wild bear there has never hurt a child! When the children spank him and push him away, telling him that he has had enough from that bush, he does go away to some other bush. Of course, the spanking does not really hurt him.

I have told this to you, my dear, just to show you that there is never any real reason for quarreling and fighting, among children, or even among men. If children and wild bears can get along together, why cannot children and children, or men and men, or nations and nations? Surely there are enough berries and other good things for all, if we only look around!

Remember this always, even when you grow up, if you want to be good men and women, and good citizens of your country.




Chapter XIV

Bears: The Tricky Trap


Now I am going to tell you something funny about the bear. You have seen lots of wild animals in the zoo, and you may sometimes have wondered how these animals were caught. In another book I shall tell you all about the different ways of catching different kinds of wild animals; but now I shall only tell you how a wild bear is caught. Of course, there are two or three ways of catching him alive, but I shall describe to you now just one way.

You must know by this time that everybody in the world -- whether man, woman, or child -- has some fault. Some have a bad temper, others are rude, and still others are obstinate; and many, especially children, are too greedy! And so it is among animals: they all have one fault or another.

So the people who want to catch a wild animal find out first what fault that kind of animal has -- whether he is greedy, or obstinate, or bad tempered. And they catch the animal because of that very fault!

A bear is very obstinate; in fact the bear, the pig, the donkey, and the mule are among the most obstinate of animals. So, because the bear is very obstinate, he will never give up when he meets anything that blocks his way; and if he has made up his mind to do anything, he will never give up, even if he finds he cannot do it and that it is very foolish to try to do it.

So the people remember the bear's obstinacy, and catch him in this way:

They find a large tree which has a bough fifteen or twenty feet from the ground; then they tie a pot of honey on the bough, quite two or three yards away from the fork where the bough joins the trunk. So, if a bear wants to get at the honey, he will have to climb up the trunk, and then walk along the bough to the place where the pot is tied.

But the people also take a heavy stone, tie a stout rope around it, and hang up the stone by the rope from another bough higher up. They place the stone in such a way that it swings right in front of the honey and a little above it. Then the people hide in thickets near by.

Presently a bear smells the honey from a distance, and comes to find it. On reaching the place he sees the pot of honey on the tree. As the bear is a good climber, he soon scrambles up the trunk of the tree and walks along the bough toward the honey.

But just as he is coming to it, he sees something right before his path. It is the block of stone! And he cannot get at the honey without pushing the stone aside. So, what does he do? Why, quite naturally he pushes the stone aside with his paw. But, as I have told you, the stone is hung up by a rope; and so it swings any way you may push it.

Then what happens? Why, as soon as the bear pushes the stone aside with his paw, the stone swings back and hits him on the paw. The bear gives a growl, and again pushes the stone aside, and this time harder than before.

Then what happens? The stone swings back and hits the bear harder than before! In fact, the stone will always swing back just as hard as it is pushed.

But the bear does not know that! So with another growl he pushes the stone again -- and now much harder than before. Then of course the stone comes back much harder, and whacks him again.

This makes the bear really angry. He hits at the stone, and sends it flying through the air in a big curve. But when the stone has gone up and up in that curve, it begins to come down, down, the same way -- and gives the bear a thumping whack on the jaw.

Now, if the bear were not such an obstinate animal, he would go away after that third blow, and try to forget the honey. But the bear will never, never, give in! Instead, he gets quite mad with rage. He thinks some enemy is hiding behind the stone!

"Who is hitting me?" he growls. "Come out of that, and fight fair!"

With that he hits a frantic blow at the stone; for the bear is a good boxer. He sends the stone swinging through the air again, and farther than before. Again the stone swings back and gives the bear a hard whack.

In this way the fight goes on. Of course the stone cannot get hurt; so it is the bear that gets hurt, every time. And as he will never give in, he goes on fighting with the stone, and gets hurt more and more, till at last he is knocked right off the tree, and falls stunned to the ground.

Then the clever people rush in from their hiding place, throw a net over the bear, and carry him away. And that is how the zoo gets some of its bears.




Chapter XV

Bright Birds


Now I shall tell you something about birds; not ordinary birds, but a special sort.

Of course, birds are not exactly animals of the kind that I have been telling you about, as they have only two legs, instead of four. But they have two wings, which are more useful to them than two more legs.

If they had four legs they could run fast; but with the two wings they can fly, which is ever so much faster and better than running. And they still have two legs with which to stand on the ground, when they have to come down to rest or to feed.

The birds that I am going to tell you about live wild in the jungle, and are free to build their nests where they like.

Among the birds we like best, some can sing, and some have bright feathers. Those that sing may live near your own homes in the country -- the lark, the thrush, the nightingale, and some others. But the birds that have bright feathers live generally in other countries.

Most birds that have lovely voices do not have bright feathers; and most birds that have lovely feathers cannot sing.

So among animals everything is very fair and just. With us it sometimes seems different. Some children appear to have all the good luck, and others all the bad luck. Some children can sing well, and are also very pretty; others cannot sing at all, and are also plain to look at. But really things are not quite so unfair; for a child who is plain, and cannot sing, may still have some other gift.

Among birds, those that can sing you may have seen often enough near your own homes in the country; so I shall now tell you about the birds that have bright feathers.

Most birds with bright feathers live in hot countries, where it is sunny almost the whole year. In fact, it is the bright light of the sun in those countries that gives the colors to the feathers of the birds, which are as lovely as the colors of the rainbow.

Among the bright birds that live quite wild in the jungles of hot countries, the most beautiful are the flamingo, the parrot, the cockatoo, the peacock, the golden pheasant, the egret, and a few others.


The Flamingo

I shall tell you first about the flamingos, as they live together in flocks. They were once found in America, and only a few years ago there were many flocks of them in Florida, but now there are very few left in this country. They are now found in Africa and in the countries of southern Asia; a few are found also in Europe.

This is the way the flamingos live. They choose a place in the jungle where there is a lake or a river, and build their nests all around the lake, or by the bank of the river. The nest is just a heap of mud raised up from the ground, with a hollow at the top where the mother bird lays her eggs. Sometimes many thousands of flamingos are found together around one place, which is then called a flamingo colony.

The flamingo is a very tall bird, taller than a man when standing up. The flamingo's legs are long and thin, and the neck is also long. The long neck and the long legs are very useful to him. He stands in the water on his legs, which look almost like a pair of stilts; then he bends down his long neck, dips his beak into the water, and catches a fish or any other small creature that he can find there. And although the fish or the small creature sees the flamingo's legs in the water, it does not run away. Why? Because it mistakes the legs for reeds growing in the water!

When thousands of flamingos in a colony are standing around the lake or by the river, where they live, it is a very grand sight from a distance. The flamingo's feathers are a bright red in color, with white or pink at the edges; so the thousands of flamingos look like an army of soldiers with red coats.

In former years, when soldiers sometimes wore red coats, travelers who happened to come toward a lake in Africa would suddenly see at a distance an army of soldiers, as they thought, standing by the lake. What they really saw were the flamingos fishing!

But no traveler could get very near the flamingos, for they have sentinels! I have told you that the wild buffaloes have sentinels to warn them when an enemy is coming. The flamingos have the same. Their sentinels stand here and there just outside the place where the others are fishing; and they keep a lookout all the time. If any enemy comes, they cry out,

"Honk! Honk! Honk!" That means, "Enemy coming! Fly away!"

And of course all the flamingos rise up in the air and fly away to a safe place, till the enemy goes away.

To see a whole flock of flamingos flying in the sky far above one's head is a most wonderful sight. You have seen a cloud at sunset shining with lovely tints of red and pink and orange: well, the flock of flamingos flying in the sky looks something like that. And they all keep level at the same great height, in rows and ranks, just like an army, as there are thousands and thousands of flamingos in the flock.

Sometimes the rows and ranks widen out for a few minutes, and fill a large portion of the sky; then they close up again, and look like one long banner of red floating in the sky.

And all the time they have sentinels that fly outside the rows and ranks. They make the pattern in the sky still more beautiful.

My dear children, the more you think of these wonders of the jungle and of the world, the more you will understand how great and wise is God, Who made all these things.


The Parrot

Another bright bird that lives in the jungle in a flock is the parrot. You know all about him, as you must have often seen him caged, or chained by the leg to a stand. But he is different in his happy home in the jungle. He lives in almost every sunny country, and flies about in flocks.

Wild parrots also make their nests in flocks. In India there is a deserted city called Amber. Once upon a time a great King lived there in a lovely marble palace; and the nobles and courtiers also had lovely marble palaces and mansions.

But one day the King said that they must all leave that city, and go and build another city. So everybody left the city of Amber, and to-day it still stands perfect -- lovely marble palaces and mansions, with hundreds of bushes of wild roses growing all around them.

Nobody lives there, except thousands and thousands of wild parrots, that have made their nests upon the roofs of the palaces, in the porticoes and balconies, and upon the tops of the marble pillars and columns.

Just think of that lovely sight! The blue sky above, the red roses on the ground below, and the white marble palaces between the blue sky and the red roses; and many thousands of green parrots flitting across the sky, and from palace to rose bush. Broad bands of red, white, and blue, with bright flashes of green between them!

Another lovely sight is a flock of wild parrots in the jungle, going home to roost at sunset. I once saw that sight. Their beautiful green wings and the patches of yellow on their heads shone amidst the gorgeous colors of the sunset. And as the parrots flew on and on, many thousands of them, their own colors mingled with the colors of the sunset in ever-changing bands. They flew toward the setting sun, and passed out of sight right into the sun, as it were.

After seeing a sight like that -- seeing God's lovely creatures flying about like happy children at play -- who wants to see a bird boxed up in a cage?


The Cockatoo

Another bright bird which you may have seen in a cage, or chained to a stand, is the cockatoo. He is a cousin of the parrot, but much larger, and far more gorgeous. He has a beautiful crest of red and orange feathers on his head. His wings are a rosy pink in color; and he has a long pink and white tail.

In other ways he is very much like the parrot. He lives chiefly in the countries of southern Asia, and in the islands between Asia and Australia.


The Peacock

And now I come to the most beautiful bird of all, the peacock. When he spreads out his long tail, it looks just like a lady's fan, only far lovelier than any fan made by men. In color the tail is a kind of blue and green, with touches of gold and violet, and with "eyes" dotted all over it in shades of many other colors.

The peacock can also close up his tail like a fan. Then the long feathers of the tail all come together in many folds, and stand out a yard long behind him.

The peacock is found wild in India and in countries near there, but has now been brought into America and Europe. You may even have seen the peacock in the parks and gardens of some cities, where he lives quite peacefully, at least in the summer months. In the winter, of course, he must have a warm place indoors.

The peacock is really the Papa bird, and the Mamma bird is called the peahen. She has not the gorgeous tail and the lovely feathers that he has; so she looks quite plain. You will find that among animals the Papas are often much prettier than the Mammas.

That seems very strange, does it not? Among us, of course, the Mammas are always prettier than the Papas!

But in another book I shall explain why the Papas among animals are often prettier than the Mammas.


The Golden Pheasant

There is another beautiful bird which has been brought to America, and now lives here; it is the golden pheasant. Once upon a time he lived only in China; but a few years ago people brought a number of golden pheasants to America, and put them in the forests of Oregon and Washington. So now there are many thousands of golden pheasants flying about and making their nests there.

There are other kinds of pheasants in England and in some parts of Europe, and these the people shoot and eat. But the golden pheasant is much too beautiful to eat. His feathers are as lovely as the sunset -- gold and yellow and orange, with blue and deep crimson; and all these colors are laid out on his feathers in such a beautiful pattern that to look at him you would think you were dreaming, and not looking at a real bird.

Man, who toils with his hands, cannot make such lovely colors as those of the birds of the air, and of the flowers in the fields, which do not toil.


The Snowy Egret

And now, my dear children, I shall finish this chapter by telling you about a beautiful bird that once lived quite wild in great numbers in the United States. This bird has lovely soft feathers, which are pure white; so it is called the snowy egret. The feathers are as soft as silk. They are also long, with a gentle droop at the end.

Because these feathers are so lovely, rich women want to wear them in their hats; and these rich women are willing to pay a great deal of money for the egret feathers. So, for the sake of the money, hunters go wherever these lovely birds are to be found, and catch and kill them, and get the feathers. In fact, they have killed off so many of these lovely birds, to get feathers for rich women's hats, that to-day there are hardly any snowy egrets left in the United States.

Worse than that, the hunters killed the Papa and Mamma egrets just when their babies were born, because at that time the feathers of the snowy egrets were the softest and loveliest. And so, for each Papa and Mamma egret which the cruel hunters killed, they left a dozen baby birds in their nests to starve and die. Think of that!

Now, my dear children, I want the little girls among you to remember this, especially the little girls who are lucky enough to have rich Papas and Mammas. You can grow up to be beautiful, and look beautiful, without wearing these egret feathers. There are women who try to look beautiful, but who do not think of the pain they give to God's innocent creatures.

So, if ever you want to wear egret feathers, think of the dozen baby egrets who must starve and die if you are to have them.




Chapter XVI

The Caged Parrot


I shall finish this book by telling you a story -- a true story, which, I hope, will make you think.

Many years ago a sea captain returned to his home in the north of Scotland, after sailing the sea for a long time. He brought with him a parrot. The parrot had lived in South America, where the people speak the Spanish language. So all the words the parrot knew were in Spanish.

The captain knew Spanish quite well, and often talked to the parrot in that language. But after a time the captain died, and there was nobody in that part of Scotland who could talk to the parrot.

The parrot grew silent, and never opened his mouth to say a word. But he was thinking of his friend who was dead, and whose words in Spanish had reminded him of his sunny home. The people around him did not know that, and thought nothing of his silence. So the parrot in his cold and bleak cage pined and pined for his sunny home land, but never a word did he say.

Forty years passed, and a new set of people came to live there. They took no notice of the silent old parrot. They put food and drink in the cage, but knew nothing about him except that he had been in the cage for many years. For a parrot lives much longer than a man -- sometimes one hundred years.

One day a sailor came to the house. He had lived in South America, and knew Spanish. He saw the parrot sitting in his cage, all alone and silent, with his head bent down, and his beak on his breast. Then the sailor spoke to the parrot in Spanish.

The parrot looked up, as if he had awakened from a long, long dream. Something reminded him of the days of his youth, when he was a happy bird flying about over the sunny fields of South America. Then he remembered the language of his youth, which he had not spoken for forty years.

Suddenly he flapped his wings in joy, and spoke again. He spoke all the Spanish words he knew, one after another. He spoke to that sailor as to a friend come to him from his own home land. He flapped his wings against the bars, and finally dropped to the floor of the cage, dead. He had died in the thought of his bygone happy days.

My dear children, I am closing this book with this story, because I want you to learn a great lesson from it: be kind to all animals.

I know that you would never willfully hurt any animal. But that is not enough. You may think that you are very kind to some creature, because you feed it and pet it; but all the same you may be very cruel, though you do not mean to be so.

You may think it is great fun to have a pretty bird in a cage. But is it any fun for the bird? How would you like to be shut up in a cage all your life, instead of playing about in God's free air and living in your own home? The bird wants to fly about and live in his nest in his own home land. Think of that when you wish to put a bird in a cage.

Children who are kind to all animals grow up to be men and women who are kind to other people. And it is only by being kind to others that we ourselves deserve to be happy and are happy.

Remember all that I have said, till I come back and talk to you again in the next book. Then I shall tell you many more Wonders of the Jungle.

Till then, as they say in the Orient, God and His peace be with you!

<eob>

Five Little Peppers Grown Up

By

Margaret Sidney



Chapter I.

Polly Gives Music Lessons.


"Miss Pepper -- Miss Pepper!"

Polly turned quickly, it was such an anxious little cry.

"What? Oh, Amy Loughead."

Amy threw herself up against Polly's gown. "Oh, if I may," she began, flushing painfully. "You see my brother is coming to-morrow -- I've a letter -- so if you will let me."

"Let you what?" cried Polly, with a little laugh; "go on, Amy, don't be afraid."

"You see it is just this way," Amy twisted her fingers together, drew her breath hard, and rushed on nervously; "Jack -- he's my brother, you know -- promised me -- I never told you -- if I would only learn to play on the piano, he'd take me to Europe with him next time, and now he's coming to-morrow, and -- and, oh! what shall I do?"

Amy was far gone now, and she ended with a little howl of distress, that brought two or three of the "Salisbury girls" flying in with astonishment.

"Go back," said Polly to them all, and they ran off as suddenly as they had popped in, to leave Amy and the music teacher alone.

"Now, Amy," said Polly kindly, getting down on her knees beside the girl where she had thrown herself on the broad lounge, "you must just understand, dear, that I cannot help you unless you will have self-control and be a little woman yourself."

"You told me I would be sorry if I didn't practice," mourned Amy, dragging her wet little handkerchief between her fingers, "but I didn't suppose Jack was coming for six months, and I'd have time to catch up, and now -- oh dear me!" and she burrowed deeper into Miss Salisbury's big sofa-pillow.

"Take care!" warned Polly, with a ready hand to rescue the elaborate combination of silk and floss, "it would be a very dreadful thing if this should get spoiled."

Amy Loughead brought her wet cheek off suddenly. "There isn't a single tear on it, Miss Pepper," she gasped.

"That's very fortunate," said Polly, with a relieved breath. "Well, Amy child, how can I help you?" She sat down now, and drew the girl's hot little hand within her own.

"I can almost play that horrible 'Chopin,'" said Amy irrelevantly; "that is, I could, if -- oh Miss Pepper," she broke off suddenly and brought her flushed face very near to the one above her, "could you help me play it -- just hear me, you know, and tell me things you did, over again, about it, if I practice all the afternoon? Could you?"

"This evening, do you mean?" asked Polly, a trifle sharply.

"Yes," said Amy faintly, and twisting her handkerchief. "Oh dear me, I know you're so tired. What shall I do?"

"But you don't understand," cried Polly, vexed with herself that she couldn't help her annoyance from being seen. "I shall put some one else out if I give up my evening. I have an engagement, Amy. No, I don't see how I can do it, child; I'm sorry." And then before she knew how, she put both arms around the little figure. "Don't cry, dear, I suppose I must. I'll get out of the other thing. Yes, fly at Chopin, and keep your courage up, and I'll be over at seven. Then to-morrow Brother Jack will say 'How fine!' and off you'll go over the seas!"

Outside, Polly, after enlisting Miss Salisbury's favor for the evening's plan, was hurrying along the pavement, calling herself an hundred foolish names for helping an idle girl out of a scrape. "And to think of losing the only chance to hear D'Albert," she mourned. "Well, it's done now, and can't be helped. Even Jasper when he hears of it, will think me a silly, I suppose. Now to make my peace with Pickering."

She turned down the avenue running out from the street that had the honor to contain "Miss Salisbury's Boarding and Day School for Young Ladies," and met face to face, suddenly, a young man, about whose joy at meeting her, there could be no doubt.

"Oh, Polly!" he cried, "here, let me take that detestable thing!" trying to get the music-roll out of her hand.

"Take care how you talk against this," cried Polly, hugging it closer. "Indeed you shall not touch it, till you are glad that I am a music teacher. Oh, I must tell you -- I was on my way to your house because I was afraid you wouldn't understand a note. I can't go to-night."

"Can't go to-night?" repeated Pickering, in his astonishment forgetting all his manners. "Why, Polly Pepper, what do you mean?"

"Why, I must give it up," cried Polly nervously; "don't ask me -- or perhaps I ought to tell you, Pickering, then you'll see I can't help myself." And Polly rapidly unfolded her plan for the evening, omitting all details as to Amy's careless waste of her lessons despite all efforts to make her practice. At the end of the recital, Pickering Dodge came to a full pause on the sidewalk, regardless of all passers-by, and turned a glowering face on Polly, who was forced to stand still also, and look at him.

"What idiocy!" he exclaimed, "to give up D'Albert for that ignoramus! Polly, are you losing your senses?"

"I don't know," said poor Polly, who had lost the first flush of enthusiasm over her plan, and to whom nothing now seemed so delightful as the sight and sound of D'Albert and his wonderful melody. "Well, it's done, so don't tempt me to feel badly, Pickering."

"Indeed, and it's not done," said Pickering angrily; "you made the engagement, Polly. I never knew you to break one before," he added stingingly.

The tears flew into Polly's brown eyes, and every bit of color deserted her round cheek. "Don't call it that, Pickering," she implored, putting out her hand.

"I shall call it just what it is," declared Pickering, in his stiffest fashion. "It's a broken engagement, Polly Pepper, nothing more nor less."

"Then," said Polly, all her tears dried, "I must go with you, if you hold me to it." She raised her head, and looked him full in the eyes. "I will be ready," and she moved off with her most superb air, without deigning a good-by.

"Oh, Polly," cried Pickering, starting forward to overtake her, "see here, if you very much wish it, why, of course, Polly -- Polly, do look around!"

"What do you wish to say?" asked Polly, not looking around as he gained her side.

"Why, of course," cried Pickering, his words stumbling over each other, "if you can't go, I'll -- I'll give it up, and stay at home."

"And why should you stay at home?" cried Polly, suddenly giving him a glimpse of her face; "you've lovely seats; do ask Alexia."

"Alexia!" exclaimed Pickering angrily. "Indeed I will not. I don't want any one if I can't have you, Polly." He was really miserable now, and needed comfort, so she turned around and administered it as only Polly could.

By the time the talk was over, she hurried off with a radiant face, and Pickering with an expression only one remove from that of absolute gloom, retraced his steps to lay one of "the lovely seats" for the D'Albert concert, before Miss Rhys, for her acceptance.

Phronsie came slowly down the hall to meet Polly as usual; this day with one of her company white gowns on. Polly always knew when these were donned that something unusual was to be expected from the daily routine of the household.

"Are you really and truly home, Polly?" asked Phronsie, taking the music-roll to tuck it under her own arm.

"Yes, Pet;" Polly set a kiss on the red lips. "And I am as hungry as a beaver, Phronsie."

"So you must be," said Phronsie, with a little sigh, "for you were so long in coming home. Well, do hurry now, Polly." This last as Polly was skipping over the stairs to her own room to freshen up a bit. Then Phronsie turned into the dining-room to be quite sure that the butler had made the belated luncheon as fine as Polly could desire it.

"She didn't ask why I had on this gown," mused Phronsie, softly disposing again the flowers at Polly's plate, "and it's funny, I think, for Polly always sees everything;" and she began to look troubled at once.

"This is just as splendid as it can be," cried Polly, coming in, and picking up one of the roses at her plate. "Phronsie, you are just a dear to have everything so nice," and she fastened it at her belt. "Why, dear me! You've a fine gown on! What is going to happen?"

"And you didn't see it," said Phronsie, a bit reproachfully, as she gently smoothed the front breadth of mull.

"Forgive me, dear," begged Polly. "Well, what is it, Pet? Do tell me; for I'm dying of curiosity, as the Salisbury girls say."

Phronsie stood up on tiptoe, and achieved Polly's ear.

"Who do you think is coming to-night?" she whispered impressively.

"To-night? Oh, dear me! I can't possibly guess," said Polly, beginning to think that this one evening of all the year held supreme moments for her. "Who is it, Phronsie? do tell me quickly."

"Well," said Phronsie, drawing off to see the surprised delight sure to come on Polly's face, "it's Jasper himself."

"Not Jasper?" exclaimed Polly, quite gone with joy. "Oh, Phronsie Pepper, you can't mean that?"

"But I do," said Phronsie, forgetting her age, to hop up and down on the rug, "we've a letter while you were at the school, and I wasn't to tell you suddenly, so I put on one of my nice gowns, so you would know."

"But how could I possibly suppose that Jasper would come now," cried Polly, seizing Phronsie's hands to execute one of the old-time dances. "Now I almost know he is going to stay over Christmas."

"He is -- he is!" cried Phronsie in a little scream; "you've guessed it, Polly. And Mamsie said -- she's gone down town with Grandpapa; he's going to get tickets for the concert to-night, so that you can all go together, even if you can't sit together, and she said that" -- 

"Oh, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly in dismay and she stood quite still.

"Aren't you glad?" asked Phronsie, her joy suddenly hushed.

"And I've done it myself -- spoiled all this loveliness," cried Polly passionately, little white lines coming around her mouth, "and Jasper here!"

"Oh, Polly, Polly!" Phronsie clasped her gown imploringly, "don't, Polly."

"I just won't go to the school," declared Polly at white heat; "I don't care for the concert, but I'll send a note over to say that I am detained at home."

"What is it, Polly?" begged Phronsie, all sorts of dreadful surmises seizing her, "do tell me, Polly, won't you?"

"It's -- nothing; you wouldn't understand, child," said Polly quickly. "There, don't ask."

Phronsie crept away in a grieved fashion, to be presently folded into Polly's warm arms. "I'm bad to-day, Phronsie dear. There, Pet, now you are all right, aren't you?" as she hugged her close.

"I am, if you are, Polly," said Phronsie doubtfully.

"Well, I'm all right now," said Polly, her brow clearing; "the bad has gone at last, I hope, to stay away, Phronsie. Now I must hurry and eat this nice luncheon you've fixed for me;" and she sprang toward the table.

"Don't you want to write a note first?" asked Phronsie, wondering at Polly's strange mood, and following her to the table-edge, "you said so."

"No; I've given it up," said Polly, sitting down and beginning on her chop and toast. "Bless you, dear, you've given me an orchid," glancing down between her mouthfuls to the bouquet at her plate; "you should have saved them all for Jasper."

"Turner said I might have it," said Phronsie triumphantly, "and I knew you'd give it to Jasper, so it's all right."

"It surely shall do double duty," said Polly merrily, with a tender glance for the orchid. "Well, how's Baby?"

"He is very nice," said Phronsie, with a grown-up air, "and didn't cry a bit for Mamsie. And now if you are really all right, Polly, I'll go up to the nursery and look at him."

"So I would," said Polly approvingly. "Yes, I'm all right; see, I'm on my chop No. 2."

Phronsie smiled with great satisfaction at this, and went off. At a quarter of seven, Polly, in a storm of remonstrance from all but one, hurried off to help poor Amy Loughead through her Slough of Despond.

Jasper alone, just arrived for dinner, was the only one who remained silent when the storm of disapproval broke forth over Polly and her doings. After the first astonished exclamation, he had absolutely refused to say anything save "Polly knows best."

"I don't know how to thank you," said Polly out in the wide hall, where he hurried to meet her, as she ran downstairs with her plainest walking things on, "for I don't believe they would have let me go. I never saw Mamsie feel so, Jasper." And now Polly could not keep the tears back.

"She'll see it all right to-morrow," said Jasper soothingly.

He put his hand out and grasped hers, as in the old days in the little brown house, and Polly answered through her tears, "I know, Jasper."

And then the maid appearing, who was to accompany her to Miss Salisbury's, Polly came out from her tears, and said, "I'm ready, Barbara."

"You are not needed, Barbara," said Jasper, reaching up for his top-coat from the oaken rack.

"What are you going to do?" gasped Polly, her hand on the door-knob, and glancing back.

"Walk over with you to that center of culture and wisdom," said Jasper coolly, close beside her now, his hat in his hand.

"O, Jasper!" exclaimed Polly in dismay, her face growing quite pale, "don't; you'll be late for the concert. Barbara, Barbara!" Polly looked past him to summon the departing maid.

"Barbara is a good girl, and understands the duty of obedience," said Jasper laughingly. "There's no help for it, Polly; you must accept my escort," and he opened the door.

"But Grandpapa! he will be terribly disappointed not to have you go to the concert with him," cried Polly, getting down the steps with a dreadful weight at her heart.

"I made it all right with father," said Jasper, "as soon as I heard of your plan; and Mr. Alstyne is on his way over to take my place; at least he ought to be in response to my note. Don't worry, Polly; come."

"Oh! what perfectly elegant seats," exclaimed Alexia Rhys, waving her big ostrich fan contentedly, and sweeping the audience with a long gaze. "Everybody is here to-night, Pickering."

"That's not so," said Pickering savagely, and bestowing a thump on his unoffending opera hat, already reduced to the smallest possible bulk.

"Don't spoil it," advised Alexia coolly, with a sidelong gaze at his face. "Well, of course I mean everybody except Polly; and I'm sure, Pickering, it isn't my fault that she didn't come; Polly always was queer about some things."

Pickering did not answer, but bestowed his glance on the programme in his hand.

"And now she is queerer than ever," said Alexia, glad to think that the dainty blue affair on her head, she called a bonnet, was already doing its work, as she heard a lady in the seat back of them, question if it were not one of the newest of Madame Marchaud's creations. So she sat more erect, and played nonchalantly with her fan. "Yes, and it's all because of those dreadfully horrid music lessons."

Pickering coughed, and rattled his programme ominously, which Alexia pretended not to hear.

"Why Mr. King lets her do it, I can't see," she went on.

"Do stop," said Pickering shortly, and casting a nervous glance back of her shoulder.

"Never mind if they do hear," said Alexia sweetly, "all the better; then they'll know we don't approve of her doing so, at any rate."

"I do approve," said Pickering, his face flaming, "if she wants to; and we've got to, any way, because we can't help ourselves. I do wish, Alexia, you wouldn't discuss our friends in this public way."

"And I don't think it is a very sweet thing to invite a girl to a concert, and then get up a fight," said Alexia, back at him.

"Goodness -- who's fighting?" exclaimed Pickering under his breath.

"You are -- I wish you could see your face; it's as black as a thunder cloud," said Alexia, with the consciousness that her own was as calm as a June morning. "And I'm sure if you don't want to attract people to our conversation, you might at least look a little pleasanter."

Pickering threw two or three nervous glances on either side, to prove her words, and was by no means reassured to see the countenance of Billy Harlow, one of his young business friends, across the aisle, suffused with an attempt to appear as if he hadn't been a witness to the little by-play.

"Well, I'm morally certain I won't trouble you with another invitation to a concert," he said, too furious to quite know his own words.

"You needn't," said Alexia, swinging her fan with an even hand, and still smiling sweetly, this time including in it Billy, who had no girl with him. "I really could endure life at home better than this bliss." And then D'Albert came on the stage, and it was the proper thing to keep quiet, so the hostilities died down.

Going out of the Opera House, Billy Harlow ran up to the two. "Lovely time you've had," he said on Alexia's side, and with a little grimace.

"Haven't I?" said Alexia back again, with the air of a martyr. Pickering stalking along by her side, had the air of a man who didn't care what was being said about him.

"Just look at him now," said Alexia softly, "isn't he sweet? And fancy my bearing it for two hours. I don't think any other girl in our set, could."

"Why didn't Miss Pepper come this evening?" asked Mr. Harlow curiously; "Pickering said he'd asked her."

"Oh! she gave it up to help some girl," said Alexia carelessly. "She's the music teacher at Miss Salisbury's school, you know."

"Oh! is she?" asked Mr. Harlow innocently, forgetting to mention the daily interviews he sustained with his sisters Kitty and Grace who were "Salisbury girls," on Miss Pepper's movements.

"And at the last minute he asked me to take her place," said Alexia with perfect frankness, "and I was goose enough to do it."

"Isn't Miss Pepper going to give a Recital pretty soon?" asked Mr. Harlow, incidentally, as they worked their way along to the entrance.

"Yes, she is," said Alexia sharply, "at the Exeter -- we can't stop her; she says she's proud to do it, and it shows the girls' wonderful ability; and all that sort of thing -- and -- and -- oh dear me! after she's once done that, she'll always be 'Miss Pepper the music teacher.' Isn't it horrid!"

"I believe that is our carriage," said Pickering stiffly, and without so much as a half-glance at Billy. "Come, Alexia."



Chapter II

Getting Ready For Christmas.


"Baby ought to have a Christmas Tree," said Phronsie slowly.

"Ah -- King-Fisher, how is that? Do you want a Christmas Tree?" Jasper dropped to all-fours by the side of the white bundle in the center of the library rug, as he propounded the momentous question.

The Baby plunged forward and buried both fat hands in the crop of brown hair so suddenly brought to his notice.

"Is that the way to show your acknowledgment, sir?" cried Jasper, springing to his feet, Baby and all. "Well, there you go -- there, and there, and there!" tossing the white bundle high in the air.

"Goodness! what a breeze you two contrive to raise," exclaimed Joel; "Mamsie," as Mother Fisher put her head in the doorway, "the little chap is getting the worst of it, I tell you."

"Joel's jealous," said Jasper, with a laugh. "Take care, King-Fisher, that really is my hair, sir."

Mrs. Fisher nodded and chuckled to the baby, and hurried off.

"He didn't really mean to pull your hair, Jasper," said Phronsie in a worried way; and getting up from the floor where she had been deserted by the baby, she hurried over to the two flying around in the center of the room.

"But he does pull dreadfully, though," said Polly, laughing, "don't you, you little King!" pinching Baby's toes as Jasper spun him past her.

"My goodness!" exclaimed Mr. King, coming in the opposite doorway, "I should think it was a menagerie here! What's the matter, Phronsie?"

"Baby is pulling Jasper's hair," said Phronsie slowly, and revolving around the two dancers, "but he really doesn't mean to, Grandpapa."

"Oh! I hope he does," said old Mr. King cheerfully, coming in and sitting down in his favorite chair. "I'm sure it speaks well for the young man's powers of self-defense, if he gives Jasper a good tweak."

"Father!" cried Jasper in pretended astonishment. "Well, King-Fisher, as popular opinion is against me, I'll set you down again, and nurse my poor scalp," and down went the white bundle again to the floor, Phronsie going back to her post as nurse.

"There's been a terrible scheme worked up since you were out, sir," announced Joel to the old gentleman.

"Hey -- what's that?" demanded Mr. King, staring at Polly.

"Oh! it isn't Polly this time," said Joel with a laugh. "Generally it is Polly that sets all dreadful things going; but this time, it is some other ringleader."

"Then I am sure I sha'n't approve if Polly isn't in it," declared the old gentleman flatly.

"But I am in it, Grandpapa," Polly made haste to say. "I think it is very, very nice."

"That alters the case," said Mr. King. "So what is it, Joe? Out with it."

"It's nothing more nor less than to upset this house from top to bottom," said Joel, "and get up a dreadful howling, tearing Christmas Tree."

"Oh, Joe Pepper!" ejaculated Polly reproachfully, "and you've always had such fun over our Christmas Trees. How can you!"

"It's for Baby," cried Phronsie, with a pink flush on her cheek. "He's never seen one, you know, Grandpapa."

"No, I should think not," said the old gentleman, looking down at the white bundle. "Well, and so you want a Christmas Tree for him, Phronsie child?"

"I think we ought to have one," said Phronsie, "because you know, he's never, never seen one. And we all have had so many beautiful Trees, Grandpapa."

"To be sure, to be sure," said Mr. King. "Well now, Phronsie child, come here and tell me all about it," and he held out his hand.

Phronsie cast an anxious glance at the bundle. "Can I leave him, Grandpapa?" she asked.

"Leave him? Mercy, yes; it does babies good to be left alone. He'll suck his thumbs or his toes."

"I'll stay with him," said Polly, running out of her corner to get on her knees before the baby. "There now, sir, do you know what a blessed old care you are?" smothering him with kisses.

"Yes, I really think we ought to have a Christmas Tree," Phronsie was saying, "Grandpapa dear," huddling up against his waistcoat as usual.

"Then we surely will have one," declared old Mr. King, "so that is settled. Do you hear, young people," raising his voice, "or does that little scamp of a baby take all your ears?"

"We hear, Grandpapa," said Polly from the floor, "and I'm very glad. It will be good fun to get up a Christmas Tree."

"Seeing you never have had that pleasing employment," said Jasper sotto voce, on the rug before the fire.

"Never mind; it'll be just as good fun again," said Polly.

"And not a bit of work -- oh, no!"

"Don't throw cold water on it," begged Polly under her breath, while the baby scrambled all over her, "don't, Jasper; Phronsie has set her heart on it."

"All right; but I thought you wanted every bit of time to get ready for your Recital, and the other things; and then, besides, there's Phronsie's performance down at Dunraven."

"Well, so I did," confessed Polly, with a sigh, "but I can get the time some way."

"Out of 'the other things,'" said Jasper grimly. "Polly, you'll have no fun from the holidays. It isn't too late to stop this now." He darted over toward his father.

"Jasper!" cried Polly imploringly.

"What is it, my boy?" asked Mr. King, quite deep in the plans for the Tree, Joel having added himself to their company.

"Oh, nothing; Polly wants it, and we must make it a good one," said Jasper, rather incoherently, and beginning to retreat.

"Of course it will be a good one," said his father, a trifle testily, "if we have it at all. When did we ever get up a poor Tree, pray tell?"

Polly drew a relieved breath, and gathering the baby up in her arms, she hurried over to the old gentleman's chair with a "Now when do you want to have the Tree, Phronsie?"

"Must we have it Christmas Day?" asked Phronsie, looking at her anxiously.

"Christmas Day? Dear me, no! Why, what would the Dunraven children do, Phronsie, if you took that day away from them?" cried old Mr. King in astonishment.

Phronsie turned slowly back to him. "I thought perhaps we ought to let Baby have the Tree Christmas Day," she said.

"No, indeed," again said Mr. King. "Come here, you little scamp," catching the baby out of Polly's hand, to set him on his other knee; "there now, speak up like a man, and tell your sister that you are not particular about the time you have your Tree."

"Ar -- goo!" said the Fisher baby.

"That's it," said the old gentleman with approval, while the others shouted. "So now, as long as your brother says so, Phronsie, why, I should have your Tree the day before Christmas."

"Oh, Polly wants to go" -- began Jasper.

"Ugh!" cried Polly warningly to him. "Yes, Phronsie; you much better have it the day before, as Grandpapa says."

"And you don't suppose Baby will feel badly afterwards when he gets bigger, and cry because we didn't give him Christmas Day," said Phronsie, "do you, Grandpapa?"

"Indeed, I don't," declared the old gentleman, pinching the set of pink toes nearest to his hand; "if he does, why, we'll all let him know what we think of such conduct."

"Then," said Phronsie, clasping her hands, "I should very much rather not take Christmas Day from the Dunraven children, because you know, Grandpapa, they expect it."

"Of course they do," said old Mr. King. "Bless me! why, we shouldn't know it was Christmas at all, if we didn't go down to Bedford and carry it; and as for those children" -- 

The picture that this brought up, of Dunraven without a Christmas, threw such a shadow over Phronsie's face, that Polly hastened to say reassuringly:

"Oh, Grandpapa! we wouldn't ever think of not carrying a Christmas to Dunraven, would we, Pet?" and she threw her arms around Phronsie.

"Of course not," chimed in Jasper and Joel, in a way to bring back the smiles to the little downcast face.

And the baby crowed, and seized Phronsie's floating yellow hair with both hands, and they all got in one another's way to rescue it; and Mrs. Pepper hurried in again, this time for Baby; and he was kissed all around, Phronsie giving him two for fear he might think she was hurt; and one of the maids popped in with "There is a gentleman in the reception room to see Miss Mary."

Jasper turned off with an impatient gesture.

"I do suppose it is Mr. Loughead," said Polly, "for he wanted to come some time and talk about Amy. O, dear! I hope I shall say the right thing."

"Doesn't the fellow know better than to come when we are home for the Christmas holidays?" grumbled Joel. Jasper looked as if he could say as much, but instead, walked to the window, and looked out silently.

"He's very anxious about Amy," said Polly, running off to the door, where she paused and looked back for sympathy toward her little protege.

"I should think he would be," grunted Joel; "she's a goose, and beside that, she doesn't know anything."

"O, Joe! she hasn't any father nor mother," cried Polly in distress.

Joel gave an inaudible reply, and Polly ran off, carrying a face on which the sunshine struggled to get back to its accustomed place.

"Beg pardon for troubling you," said a tall young man, getting off from the divan to meet her, as she hurried into the reception room, "but you were good enough to say that I might talk with you about my sister, and really I am very much at sea to know what to do with her, Miss Pepper."

It was a long speech, and at the end of it, Polly and the caller were seated, she in a big chair, and he back on the divan opposite to her.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Loughead," said Polly brightly, "and I hope I can help you, for I am very fond of Amy."

"It's good of you to say so," said Jack Loughead, "for she's a trying little minx enough, I suspect; and Miss Salisbury tells me you've had no end of trouble with her."

"Miss Salisbury shouldn't say that," cried Polly involuntarily. Then she stopped with a blush. "I mean, I don't think she quite understands it. Amy does really try hard to study."

"Oh!" said Jack Loughead. Then he tapped his boot with his walking-stick.

"So you really think my sister will amount to something, Miss Pepper?" He looked at her keenly.

Polly started. "Oh, yes, indeed! Why, she must, Mr. Loughead."

He laughed, and bit his moustache.

"And really, I don't think that Amy is quite understood," said Polly warmly, and forgetting herself; "if people believe in her, it makes her want to do things to please them."

"She says herself she has bothered you dreadfully," said Jack, with a vicious thrust of the walking-stick at his boot.

"She has a little," confessed Polly, "but not dreadfully. And I do think, Mr. Loughead, now that you have come, and that she sees how much you want her to study and practice, she will really do better. I do, indeed," said Polly earnestly.

Outside she could hear the "two boys," as she still called them, and Grandpapa's voice in animated consultation over the ways and means, she knew as well as if she were there, of spending the holidays, and it seemed as if she could never sit in the reception room another moment longer, but that she must fly out to them.

"Amy has no mother," said Jack Loughead after a moment, and he turned away his head, and pretended to look out of the window.

"I know it." Polly's heart leaped guiltily. Oh! how could she think of holidays and good times, while this poor little girl, but fifteen, had only a dreary sense of boarding-school life to mean home to her. "And oh! I do think," Polly hastened to say, and she clasped her hands as Phronsie would have done, "it has made all the difference in the world to her. And she does just lovely -- so much better, I mean, than other girls would in her place. I do really, Mr. Loughead," repeated Polly.

"And no sister," added Jack, as if to himself. "How is a fellow like me -- why, I am twenty-five, Miss Pepper, and I've been knocking about the world ever since I was her age; my uncle took me then to Australia, into his business -- how am I ever to 'understand,' as you call it, that girl?"

It was impossible not to see his distress, and Polly, with a deaf ear to the chatter out in the library, now bent all her energies to helping him.

"Mr. Loughead," she said, and the color deserted her round cheek, and she leaned forward from the depths of the big chair, "I am afraid you won't like what I am going to say."

"Go on, please," said Jack, his eyes on her face.

"I think if you want to understand Amy," said Polly, holding her hands very tightly together, to keep her courage up, "you must love her first."

"Hey? I don't understand," said Jack, quite bewildered.

"You must love her, and believe she's going to do nice things, and be proud of her," went on Polly steadily.

"How can I? She's such a little beggar," exclaimed Jack, "won't study, and all that."

"And you must make her the very best friend you have in all this world, and let her see that you are glad that she is your sister, and tell her things, and never, never scold." Then Polly stopped, and the color flew up to the waves of brown hair on her brow.

"I wish you'd go on," said Jack Loughead, as she paused.

"Oh! I've said enough," said Polly, with a gasp, and beginning to wish she could be anywhere out of the range of those great black eyes. "Do forgive me," she begged; "I didn't mean to say anything to hurt you."

Jack Loughead got up and straightened himself. "I'm much obliged to you, Miss Pepper," he said. "I think I'm more to blame than Amy, poor child."

"No, no," cried Polly, getting out of her chair, "I didn't mean so, indeed I didn't, Mr. Loughead. Oh! what have I said? I think you have done beautifully. How could you help things when you were not here? Oh! Mr. Loughead, I do hope you will forgive me. I have only made matters worse, I'm afraid," and poor Polly's face drooped.

Jack Loughead turned with a sudden gesture. "Perhaps you'll believe me when I say I've never had anything do me so much good in all my life, as what you said."

"What are those two talking about all this unconscionable time," Joel was now exclaiming in the library, as he glanced up at the clock. "I could finish that Amy Loughead in the sixteenth of a minute."

Old Mr. King turned uneasily in his chair. "Who is this young Loughead?" he asked of Jasper.

Jasper, seeing that an answer was expected of him, drew himself up, and said quickly, "Oh! he's the brother of that girl at the Salisbury School, father. You know Polly goes over there to help her practice."

"Ah!" said his father, "well, what is he doing here this morning, pray tell?"

"That's what I should like to know," chimed in Joel.

"Well, last evening," said Jasper, with an effort to make things right for Polly, "he was there when they were playing, and he seemed quite put out at his sister."

"Don't wonder," said Joel; "everybody says she's a silly."

"And Polly tried to help Amy, and make the best of her. And the brother asked if he might have a talk some time about his sister. Polly couldn't help telling him 'yes,'" said Jasper, but with a pang at the handsome stranger's delight as she said it.

"A bad business," said the old gentleman irritably. "We do not want your Lougheads coming here and taking up our time."

"Of course not," declared Joel.

"And I suppose he is an idle creature. Polly said something about his traveling a good deal. It's a very bad business," repeated Mr. King.

"Oh! he's all right in a business way," said Jasper, feeling angry enough at himself that he was sorry at Jack Loughead's success. "He has to travel; he's a member of the Bradbury and Graeme Company."

"The Sydney, Australia, house?" asked Mr. King in a surprised tone. "So you've looked him up, have you, Jasper?"

"Oh! I happened to run across Hibbard Crane yesterday," said Jasper carelessly, "and he gave me a few facts. That's about all I know, father."

And in came Polly, looking like a rose; and following her a tall young man, with large, black eyes, whom she immediately led up to Mr. King's chair. "Grandpapa," she said, "this is Mr. Loughead, Amy's brother, you know" -- 

And Jasper went forward and put out his hand, as an old acquaintance of the evening before, and Joel was introduced, and mumbled something about "Glad to know you," immediately retreating into the corner, and then there was a pause, which Polly broke by crying: "O, Grandpapa! I am going to ask Amy to play at Dunraven for Phronsie's poor children. Why, where is Phronsie?" looking around the room.

"Oh! she went out a little while after Baby's exit," said Jasper, trying to speak lightly.

"Mr. Loughead thinks she'd do it, if I asked her," Polly went on in her brightest way. "Now, that will be lovely, and the children will enjoy it so much."

"Isn't there anything I could do?" asked Jack Loughead, after the Dunraven entertainment had been a bit discussed.

Mr. King bowed his courtly old head. "I don't believe there is anything. You are very kind, I'm sure."

"Don't speak of kindness, sir," he said. "My time hangs heavy on my hands just now."

"He would like to be with his sister," said Jasper, after a glance at Polly's face, and guilty of an aside to his father.

"Oh! -- yes," said Mr. King, "to be sure. Well, Mr. Loughead, and what would you like to do for these poor children of Phronsie's Christmas Day? We shall be very glad of your assistance."

"I could bring out a stereopticon," said Jack; "no very new idea, but I've a few pictures of places I've seen, and maybe the children would like it for a half-hour or so."

"Capital, capital," pronounced the old gentleman quite as if he had proposed it. And before any one knew how it had come about, there was Jack Loughead talking over the run down to Bedford with them all on Christmas morning, as a matter of course, and as if it had been the annual affair to him, that it was to all the others.

"Quite a fine young man," said Mr. King, when Jack had at last run off with a bright smile and word for all, "and Phronsie will be so pleased to think of his doing all this for her poor children. Bless her! Well, David, my man, are you back so soon?"

"So soon, Grandpapa?" cried David, hurrying in from a morning down town with another "Harvard Fresh," also home for the holidays. "Why, it is luncheon time."

"Impossible!" exclaimed old Mr. King, pulling out his watch. "Er -- bless me! the boy is right. Now, Polly, my child, you and I must put off our engagement till afternoon. Then we'll have our Christmasing!"



Chapter III.

Christmas At Dunraven.


"Grandpapa," cried Phronsie, flying down the platform, "the box of dolls isn't here!"

"Goodness me!" exclaimed old Mr. King, whirling around, "'tisn't possible, child, that we've come off without that. It must be with the other luggage."

"O, no, Grandpapa dear!" declared Phronsie in great distress, and clasping her hands to keep the tears back, "it really, surely hasn't come; Polly says so."

"Well, then, if Polly says so, it must have been left at home," said the old gentleman, "and there's no use in my going to look over the luggage," he groaned.

"What's the matter?" cried Joel, rushing up, his jolly face aglow.

"The worst thing that could possibly happen," said Mr. King irritably; "Phronsie's box of dolls is left behind." Then he began to fume up and down the platform, wholly lost to everything but his indignation.

"Whew!" ejaculated Joel, "that is a miss!" and he looked down at Phronsie, but her broad hat had drooped, the brown eyes seeking the platform floor. "See here, Phronsie."

Phronsie didn't speak for a breathing-space. "What is it, Joey?" then she said, not looking up.

"I'll go back after it; don't you worry, child."

"Oh, but you can't," cried Phronsie, throwing her head back quickly, "the train will come, and then you won't be here."

"I'll take the next train; of course I can't get back for this," said Joel, swallowing hard. "I'll bring the box all right," and he dashed off.

"Joel -- oh, Joel!" cried Phronsie, running after him, "don't go!" she implored.

"Here! here! what's the matter?" cried old Mr. King, forgetting his indignation to hurry after her. "Phronsie, wait; what is it, dear?"

"Joel's gone," panted Phronsie, flying back, her broad hat falling off to her shoulders, "oh, do stop him, Grandpapa dear! I'd rather not take the dolls than to have Joel left."

"Stop him? I can't. Bless me, here -- somebody!" turning off to the little knots of his party scattered over the platform, "where are you all?"

Polly came running up at this, with a pale face. "Oh, Grandpapa!" she began at sight of him.

"Joel's gone home," announced Phronsie, clasping her hands in distress, "after the box of dolls, and" -- 

"Joel's gone home!" echoed Polly, standing quite still.

"Yes," said Phronsie, "oh, Polly, do stop him and bring him back."

"She can't," cried the old gentleman; "that boy's legs have carried him half over the town by this time. Nobody could stop him, child."

And then, most of the little knots heard the commotion, and came hurrying up with "What is it?" and "Oh dear, what's the matter?" in time to hear Polly groan, "And Joe thought so much of going down to Dunraven with us!"

"Well, where is he?" cried Jasper, whirling around to look in all directions; while Ben took a few long strides to peer around the station, and David and the other "Harvard Fresh." who had been invited to keep him company, ran, one up, and the other down, the long platform.

"See here now," shouted old Mr. King so sharply that all the flying feet were arrested at once, "every one of you come back! Goodness me, the idea of the Bedford party being scattered to the four winds in this fashion!"

"I'd help if I could," said Mr. Hamilton Dyce, "but I really don't know what it's all about yet."

"Oh dear -- dear!" Polly was yet wailing. Then she remembered, and threw her arms around Phronsie who was standing quite still by her side. "Phronsie, precious pet," and she picked up her pretty stuff gown to kneel on the platform-floor to look into the little face, "don't feel badly, dear. Joel will come on the next train."

"But he won't be with us," said Phronsie slowly, and turning her brown eyes piteously to Polly.

"I know it," Polly smothered a sigh, "but we can't help it now. Grandpapa is feeling dreadfully; oh, Phronsie, you wouldn't make him sick, dear, for all the world!"

Phronsie unclasped her hands, and went unsteadily over to the old gentleman. "Joel will come on the next train, Grandpapa," she said.

"Bless me, yes, of course," said Mr. King, seizing her hand; "I don't see what we are making such a fuss for. He'll come on the next train."

"What's the riot?" asked Livingston Bayley, sauntering up, and whirling his walking-stick, "eh?"

"Joel's absconded," said Mr. Dyce briefly.

"Eh?"

"Gone back after Phronsie's box of dolls," explained somebody else.

"Oh dear me," cried Alexia Rhys, trying to get near Polly, "just like that boy." She still called him that, in spite of his being a Harvard man, "He's always making some sort of a fuss."

"Perhaps the train will be late," suggested Mrs. Dyce, who, as Mary Taylor, never could bear to see Phronsie unhappy. "Hamilton, if you don't do something to help that child, I shall be sorry I married you," she whispered in her husband's ear.

"Late? it's late already," said Ben, pulling out his watch, "it's five minutes past time."

"Well, it may be our luck to have it late enough," said Jasper, with a glance at Polly, "as it's Christmas day and a big train; so he may possibly get here -- he'll find a cabby that can make good time," he added, with a forlorn attempt at comfort.

Jack Loughead sauntered up and down, on the edge of the group, longing to be of service, but feeling himself too new a friend to offer his sympathy.

"Who the Dickens is that cad?" asked Mr. Bayley in smothered wrath, to Mrs. Dyce.

"Why, don't you know? He's another friend of Polly's," said Mary Taylor Dyce, smiling up sweetly into his face, "and he's going down to help entertain Phronsie's poor children. Isn't he nice?"

"Nice?" repeated Livingston Bayley with a black look at the tall figure stalking on. "How do I know? Who is the fellow, any way?"

But there was no time to reply.

"Here comes the train!" cried Alexia. The warning bell struck, and the rush of travelers from the waiting-room, began. "Oh dear me!" Then she forgot all about her late unpleasantness with Pickering Dodge, and running up to him, she seized his arm, "Oh, Pickering, do make the conductor wait for that horrid boy."

"I can't," said Pickering, "the train's late, any way. There, get on, Alexia," putting out his hand to help her up the steps.

"Oh, I forgot," she cried, drawing back, "that we'd had a fight. Tisn't proper for you to help me, Pickering, and you oughtn't to ask it, till you've begged my pardon."

"Then it will be a long day before you receive my assistance," said Pickering, lifting his cap, and turning on his heel at the same time.

Jasper tried to get up to Polly's side, as she was hurrying Phronsie to the car, old Mr. King holding fast to Phronsie's other hand, but Livingston Bayley got there first.

"Allow me, Miss Phronsie," he was saying, with extended hand. "'Pon me word, it's a beastly crowd going to-day, sir."

"She will do very well with my assistance," said the old gentleman, still holding Phronsie's little glove. "And I suppose Christmas Day belongs to everybody, eh, Bayley?" hurrying in.

Polly, her foot on the lower step, turned and sent a despairing glance down the platform, and Jasper who saw it through the crowd, fell back a little to give a last look for Joel.

"All aboard!" sang out the conductor, waving his hand.

"Come -- oh, come!" called Polly with a frantic gesture, from the doorway of the car, as the train moved off. "Oh, Jasper!" as he swung himself up beside her.

"The next train runs down in an hour; don't feel badly, Polly," Jasper had time to beg before they were drawn into the confusion of the car.

But no one could pretend, with any sort of success, that Joel wasn't missed; and Polly had all that she could do to chase away the sorrowful expression of Phronsie's little face. And everybody tried his and her best to make it as festive a time as possible; and the other passengers nudged one another, and sent many an envious glance at the merry party.

"It's Mr. King's family going down to Bedford," said the conductor to one inquiring mind. "I take 'em every year," proudly. "He's powerful rich; but this ain't his affair. It all b'longs to that little girl with the big hat." Then he dashed off, and called a station; and after the stopping and moving of the train again, he came back and sat on the arm of the seat to finish his account.

"You see, there was an old lady, a cousin of the old gentleman's, and she made a will in favor of this child with the big hat." The conductor pointed his thumb at Phronsie, leaning over Mr. King's shoulder, the better to hear a wonderful story he was concocting for her benefit. "Why, she's got some two or three millions."

"What -- that child?" cried the listeners, in amaze.

"Yes -- the old lady was tough, but" -- he dashed off again, called a station, slammed the door, and was back in position in less time than it takes to tell it -- "she was took sudden, while Mr. King's folks was in Europe, and now that child has turned a handsome old place down yonder" -- he pointed with his thumb in the direction of Bedford --  "Dunraven Lodge, the old lady always called it, into a sort of a Home, and she's chucked it full of children, mostly those whose fathers and mothers are dead; and every Christmas Day Mr. King takes down a big crowd, and" -- 

Here somebody called him off, not to be seen again till he put his head in the doorway, and shouted "Bedford!"

*    *    *    *    *

Joel, swinging a big box as only Joel could, rushed into the spacious hall at Dunraven Lodge. "How are you all!"

Phronsie disentangled herself from a group around the big fire-place where the long hickory logs snapped and blazed.

"Oh, Josey!" she cried, precipitating herself into his long arms.

"Here is the toggery," cried Joel, setting down the doll-box, while he gathered Phronsie up in his arms.

"And you, Josey," cried Phronsie, with a happy little hum, "you are all here yourself," as the group left the fire, and surrounded them.

"Well -- well -- well!" cried old Mr. King, lifting his head in its velvet lounging cap from the sofa where he had been napping. "Are you really here, Joe!"

"Just like you," greeted Alexia, running down the broad oaken stairs. "Here, he's come!" to Polly, appearing at the head. "We were finishing the tree, and we heard the noise. Dear me, Joe, I should think it was a cyclone," as she joined the group, Polly close behind.

Joel tossed her a saucy answer, while Polly got on her tiptoes and caught his crop of short black hair in her two hands. "Oh, Joe," she said, dropping a kiss on it, "it was lovely in you to go back."

Joel felt well repaid for losing the jolly run down, and the grand entree into Dunraven, his soul loved, but he covered up what he thought, by pulling Phronsie into the middle of the hall. "Come on, Phron," he said, "for a spin like old times."

"See here," cried Alexia, "we ought to get back to that Tree, Polly Pepper, or it won't be ready. Dear me, I dropped a box of frost all over the stairs; Joel made such a noise."

At the mere mention of such a possibility as the Tree not being ready, everybody started; the last one in the procession, picking up the doll-box, their movements somewhat quickened, as loud calls were now set up above stairs, for "Polly -- Polly!"

"Come on," sang out Joel, who had paid his respects in a flying fashion to Grandpapa's sofa, and leaping the stairs. "Goodness me, Alexia, I should think you did spill this frost. Why didn't you go over more ground?"

"I don't believe we can save one bit," mourned Alexia, peering up the stair-length, each step sparkling with myriad little frosty gems, as if Jack Frost himself had sprinkled it with a Christmas hand. "Oh, dear, why did you come in with such a noise, Joe Pepper?"

"Just like a girl," said Joel; "jumps at everything and drops whatever she has in her hand. You all go up the other stairs; I'll sweep this in a minute, and save what I can."

"Oh, Joe, don't stop; we want you for the Tree," begged Polly. "Phronsie has been waiting downstairs all this time for you to come. Let one of the maids do it;" Joe already had his head in a closet he knew of old, opening into the big hall.

"Give me the broom," said a voice close beside him.

"Eh -- what?" cried Joel, pulling out what he wanted -- a soft floor brush. "Oh, is that you, Loughead?" turning around.

"I believe so," said Jack, laughing. "Here, give me the broom. I'm no help about a Tree; I'll have the stuff up there soon," and before Joel knew it, he was racing over the back stairs, wondering how it was he had let that disagreeable Jack Loughead get hold of that broom.

"It makes me think of our first Tree, in some way," said Polly softly, with glistening eyes, looking up at the beautiful branching spruce, its countless arms shaking out brilliant pendants, and gay with streamers and candles, wherever a decoration could be placed, the whole tipped with a shining star. "Oh, Bensie, can you ever forget that?"

Ben looked down from the top of the step-ladder where he was adjusting some last bit of ornament.

"Never, Polly," he said, his eyes meeting hers.

"That was so beautiful," cried Polly. "And we had it in our 'Provision Room,' and Mrs. Henderson brought my bird over, and the other things the last minute, and" -- 

"I had to," broke in Mrs. Henderson with a laugh, and shaking the snips of green from her white apron, "for you and Ben would have discovered the whole surprise. You were dreadful that day."

"I'm glad somebody else was dreadful in those times, besides me," observed Joel from among the branches, where he was tying on the several presents Alexia handed to him.

"Well, you see," said Polly, with rosy cheeks, "it was our first Tree, and we were so afraid the children would find it out, and spoil all the surprise."

"And did we?" cried Phronsie, in intense excitement, emerging from the depths of the Tree, the better to look at Polly, "did we, Polly, and spoil it all?"

"No, Pet," cried Polly, "you were just as good as could be."

"I remember," said Joel, "you told us stories, Polly, in the kitchen, and" -- 

"We tooted on our tin horns," finished David; "oh, Joe, do you remember those horns?"

"And that molasses candy," said Joel, smacking his lips, "I remember I ate mine up before breakfast."

"And did I have any?" asked Phronsie, turning from one to the other.

"Yes, indeed, you did," answered Joel.

"Why, did you think we'd forget you, Phronsie?" asked Polly, a bit reproachfully.

"And don't you remember it?" said David.

"No," said Phronsie. "I don't; but I remember Seraphina's bonnet."

"It was trimmed with some of Grandma Bascom's chicken's feathers," said Joel.

"And Mamsie made it out of an old bonnet string," said Polly. "Oh dear, if only Mamsie were here to-day!" And a cloud came over her face.

"But we've Baby Fisher now," said Ben cheerfully, looking down at her. "He's worth staying at home for, Polly."

"Of course he is," said Polly, her gayety returning. "And dear Papa Fisher was master of ceremonies then; but he wouldn't enjoy it to-day without Mamsie. So we oughtn't to wish him here."

"And did we," cried Phronsie "find it out, Polly, and spoil it all?"

"I wish you wouldn't begin about that Little Brown House, and what elegant times you had in it," exclaimed Alexia, twitching at a present Joel had just tied on, to be sure it was secure; "I shall think this Tree is perfectly horrid, if you do, Polly Pepper."

"Go on -- do go on," begged several voices. Meanwhile, Jack Loughead had come silently up into the long hall, and deposited a neat boxful of the gleaming frost on the table, without any comments.

"Dear me, there is so much to tell," cried Polly, with a little laugh, "if we begin about Jappy's Tree."

"Who's Tree?" cried Livingston Bayley, who had been wrinkling his brows in great perplexity all through the recital.

"Why, Jasper's," said Polly and Ben together; Joel and David coming in as echoes.

"You see," said Phronsie distinctly, "that Jasper and dear Grandpapa sent the beautiful things to us."

"Mrs. Pepper and Polly and Ben had gotten the Tree ready before," said Jasper hastily. "Oh! didn't I want to be there!" he added.

"Yes; Polly almost cried because you couldn't be," said Joel in among the branches.

"But she couldn't quite cry," said Davie, "because you see we children would have found it out. Polly always sang in those days."

"Do you remember how we used to run behind the wood-pile when we wanted to plan the Tree, Polly," asked Ben, "to get away from Joel and Dave?"

"You spent most all your time in the Little Brown House in sneaking off from us," said Joel vindictively.

"Well, we had to, if we ever did anything," said Ben coolly.

"I should think so," remarked Livingston Bayley, delighted to give a thrust at somebody.

"And weren't the gilt balls pretty?" cried Polly, quite gone now in the reminiscences, though her fingers kept on at their task; "you did cover those nuts beautifully, Bensie. I don't see how you could, with such snips of paper."

"How did he make the balls?" asked Alexia, forgetting herself in her interest, and coming up to Polly.

"Why, we had some bits of bright paper, little bits, you know, and Ben covered hickory nuts with them, and pasted them all as smoothly; you can't think!"

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Alexia.

"And Polly strung all the pop-corn, and fixed the candle-ends somebody gave Mamsie, and" -- 

"Candle-ends? Why didn't you have whole ones?" cried Alexia.

"Why, we couldn't," said Polly, "and we were glad enough to get these. Oh! the Tree looked just beautifully with them, I tell you."

"You see," said Phronsie, drawing near to look into Alexia's face, "we were very, very poor, Alexia. So Polly and Bensie made the Tree. Don't you understand?"

"It was really Bensie's Tree," said Polly honestly, "for I didn't believe at first we could do it."

"Oh, yes, you did, Polly," corrected Ben hastily; "at any rate, you saw it in a minute."

"And it's the first time you didn't believe a thing could be done, I imagine," declared Jasper, with a bright nod at Polly.

"Well, Bensie thought of this Tree, and made me see that we could do it," persisted Polly, giving a little quirk to a rebellious pendant.

Mrs. Henderson put the corner of her white apron to her eyes. "I always have to," she said to Mrs. Dyce, "when the Little Brown House days bring those blessed children back to me."

Jack Loughead drew nearer yet; so near that he lost never a word.

"You ought to have seen what a Santa Claus Ben made!" Polly was saying.

"I cut your performance yesterday at Baby's Tree, all out, old fellow," declared Ben, descending from the step-ladder and bestowing an affectionate clap on Jasper's shoulder.

"I don't doubt it," Jasper gave back.

"We made the wig out of Mamsie's cushion hair," laughed Polly. "And we had such a piece of work putting it all back the next morning."

"And Polly shook flour all over me, for the snow," said Ben, laughing.

"Come back, Alexia, and hand me some more gimcracks, do," cried Joel, poking his head out of the branches to look at his late assistant.

"Well, do go on about your Tree in the Brown House," begged Alexia, tearing herself away to answer Joel's demands, "seeing you have begun. What did you do next, Polly?"

"Well, we all marched into the 'Provision Room,'" went on Polly, her cheeks aglow, "expecting to see our Tree just as we had left it; all but Ben, he was going to jump into the window at the right time, when the first thing" -- 

"Polly sat right down on the floor, saying, 'Oh!'" cried Joel, taking the words out of her mouth.

"I couldn't help it, I was so surprised," said Polly, with shining eyes. "There was a most beautiful Tree, full of just everything; and there was Mamsie, almost crying, she was so happy; and there was Cherry singing away in his cage, and the corner of the room was all a-bloom with flowers, and" -- 

"And Grandma Bascom was there -- wasn't she funny? She used to give us hard old raisins sometimes," said Joel, afraid to show what he was feeling.

"And Phronsie screamed right out," went on Polly, "and Davie said it was Fairyland."

By this time, Alexia had dropped the present she was holding, and had run back to Polly's side again, and somehow most of the other workers followed her example, the circle of listeners closing around the little bunch of Peppers. "And Jasper sent a Christmas greeting, beside the Tree," Polly ended, "and it was perfectly lovely."

"And Santa Claus and Polly took hold of hands and danced around the Tree," said Joel; "I'll never forget that."

"Well, you would better take hold of hands and dance down to the recitation room," said Parson Henderson's deep voice, as he suddenly appeared in their midst, "the children are all ready to give their carols. Come."



Chapter IV.

The Festivities.


Phronsie looked down into the sea of eager faces "Oh, Grandpapa," she exclaimed softly, and plucking his sleeve, "don't you think we might hurry and begin?"

"Dear me, Phronsie," cried the old gentleman, whirling around in his big chair to look at her, "why, they aren't all in, child," glancing down the aisle where Jasper as chief usher with Ben and the others were busily settling the children. "Bless me, what is Joel doing?"

Phronsie looked too, to see Joel hurrying up to the platform with a little colored child perched on his shoulder. She was crying all over his new coat, and at every step uttered a sharp scream.

"Toss the little beggar out," advised Livingston Bayley, as Joel shot by with his burden.

"Here, Joe, I'll give her a seat" cried David from a little knot of children, all turning excitedly around at the commotion, "there's just one here."

"Much obliged," said Joel, stalking on, "but she says she wants to see Phronsie about something."

Polly, who caught the last words, looked down reproachfully at him from the platform where Phronsie always insisted that she should sit close to her. "Can't help it," Joel telegraphed back, "I can't stop her crying."

Phronsie heard now, and getting out of her chair, she stepped to the platform edge. "Let me take her," she begged.

"Phronsie, you can't have her up here!" Polly exclaimed, while old Mr. King put forth an uneasy hand to stop all such proceedings, and two or three of the others hurried up to remonstrate with Joel.

"She wants to see me," said Phronsie, putting her cool cheek against the dark little one; "it's the new child that came yesterday," and she took her off from Joel's shoulder, and staggered back to her seat by Polly's side.

"Phronsie, do put her down," whispered Polly, "it's almost time to begin," glancing off at the clock under its wealth of evergreen at the farther end of the hall. "Here, do let me take her."

But Phronsie was whispering so fast that she didn't hear.

"What is it? Please tell me quickly, for it is almost time to have the Tree."

At mention of the Tree, the little creature sat straight in Phronsie's white lap. "May I have some of it, if I am black?" she begged, her beady eyes running with tears.

"Yes," said Phronsie, "I've tied a big doll on it for you my very own self." Then she put her lips on the dark little cheek. "Now you must get down, for I have to talk to the children, and tell them all about things, and why they have a Christmas."

But the little thing huddled up against Phronsie's waist-ribbons. "I'm the only one that's black," she said. "I want to stay here."

"Now you see, Joel," began old Mr. King harshly. Phronsie laid a soft hand on his arm. "Please, Grandpapa dear, may she have a little cricket up here? She feels lonely down with the other children, for she's only just come."

"Oh, dear -- dear!" groaned Polly, looking down at the little black object in Phronsie's lap. "Now what shall we do?" This last to Jasper as he hurried up.

"I suppose we shall have to let her stay," he began.

"When Phronsie looks like that, she won't ever let her go," declared Ben, with a wise nod over at the two.

"She's just as determined as she was that day when she would send Mr. King her gingerbread boy," cried Polly, clasping her hands.

Jasper gave her a bright smile. "I wouldn't worry, Polly," he said. "See, Joel has just put a cricket -- it's all right," looking into Polly's troubled eyes.

Phronsie, having seated her burden on the cricket at her feet, got out of her own chair, and took one step toward the platform edge, beginning, "Dear children." But the small creature left behind clutched the floating hem of the white gown, and screamed harder than ever.

"Bless me!" ejaculated Mr. King in great distress. "Here, will somebody take this child down where she belongs?" While Polly with flushed cheeks, leaned over, and tried to unclasp the little black fingers.

"Go up there, Joe, and stop the row," said Livingston Bayley from the visitor's seat at the end of the hall; "you started it."

Jack Loughead took a step or two in the direction of the platform, then thought better of it, and got back into his place again, hoping no one had noticed him in the confusion.

Phronsie leaned over as well as she could for the little hands pulling her back. "Jasper," she begged, "do move the cricket so that she may sit by me."

And before anybody quite knew how it was done, there was the new child sitting on her cricket, and huddled up against the soft folds of Phronsie's white gown, while Phronsie, standing close to the platform edge, began again, "Dear children, you know this is Christmas Day -- your very own Christmas Day. And every Christmas Day since you came to the Home, I have told you the story of the dear beautiful Lady; and every single Christmas I am going to tell it to you again, so that you will never, never forget her."

Here Phronsie turned, and pointed up to a large, full-length portrait of Mrs. Chatterton hanging on the wall over the platform. It was painted in her youth by a celebrated French artist, and represented a beautiful young woman in a yellow satin gown, whose rich folds of lace fell away from perfectly molded neck and arms.

All the children stared at the portrait as usual in this stage of the proceedings. "Now you must say after me, 'I thank my beautiful Lady for this Home,'" said Phronsie slowly.

"I thank my beautiful Lady for this Home," said every child distinctly.

"Because without her I could not have had it," said Phronsie. "You must always remember that, children. Now say it." She stood very patiently, her hands folded together, and waited to hear them repeat it.

"Because without her I could not have had it," said the children, one or two coming in shrilly as a belated echo.

"Will you?" asked Phronsie, looking down into their faces.

"And I thank her for the beautiful Tree," said Phronsie. "Now say it, please."

"I thank her for the beautiful Tree," shouted the children, craning their necks away from the portrait to get a glimpse of the curtain-veiled Tree in the other room. "Please can't we have it now?" begged several voices.

"No; not until you all hear the story. Well, now, God took the beautiful Lady away to Heaven; but she is always going to be here too," again Phronsie pointed to the portrait, "just as long as there is any Home. And she is going to smile at you, because you are all going to be good children and try to study and learn all that dear Mr. Henderson teaches you; and you are going to obey every single thing that dear Mrs. Henderson tells you, just as soon as she speaks," said Phronsie slowly, and turning her head to look at the different rows.

"I hope we'll be forgiven for sitting here and listening to old lady Chatterton's praises," whispered Mrs. Hamilton Dyce to her husband. "It makes me feel dreadfully wicked to swallow it all without a protest."

"Oh, we've swallowed that annually for three years now," said Mr. Dyce with a little laugh, "and grown callous. Your face is just as bad as it was the first time Phronsie eulogized her."

"I can't help it," declared his wife, "when I think of that dreadful old" -- 

"Oh, come," remonstrated her husband, "let's bury the past; Phronsie has."

"Phronsie!" ejaculated Mrs. Dyce. "Oh, that blessed child! Just hear her now."

"So on this Christmas Day," Phronsie was saying in clear tones, "you are to remember that you wouldn't have had this Tree but for the beautiful Lady; and on every single other day, you must remember that you wouldn't ever have had this Home; not a bit of any of it" -- here she turned and looked around the picture-hung walls, and out of the long windows to the dark pines and firs of the broad lawn, tossing their snow-laden branches, "but for the beautiful lady. And you must every one of you help to make this Home just the very best Home that ever was. Will you?" And then she smiled down into their faces while she waited for her answer.

"Oh, yes, yes," screamed the children, every one. The little black creature got off from her cricket at Phronsie's feet to look into her face. "And I will too," she cried.

"And now you all want to thank Miss Phronsie for her kind words, we know," Jasper cried at this point, hurrying into the middle of the aisle, "and so, children, you may all stand up and say 'Thank you,' and wave your handkerchiefs."

Up flew all the rows of children to their feet, and a cloud of tiny white squares of cambric fluttered in the air, and the children kept piping out, "Thank you -- Thank you." And old Mr. King began a cheer for Phronsie, and another for the children; and then somebody down at the end of the long hall set up another for Mr. King, and somebody else started one for Mr. Henderson, and another for Mrs. Henderson, and there was plenty of noise, and high above it all rang the peals of happy, childish laughter. And when it was all done, everybody pausing to take breath, then Amy Loughead sent out the finest march ever heard, from the grand piano, and Polly and Jasper and all the rest marshaled the children into a procession, and Phronsie clinging to old Mr. King's hand on the one side, and holding fast to the small black palm on the other, away they all went, the visitors falling into line, around and around the big hall, till at last -- oh! at last, they turned into the Enchanted Land that held the wonderful Christmas Tree. And when they were all before it, and Phronsie in the center, she lifted her hand, and the room became so still one could hear a pin drop. And then the little children who had sung the carols in the morning stepped forward and began, "It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old" -- 

And Phronsie drew a long breath, and folded her hands, not stirring till the very last word died on the air.

And then Jasper and the others slowly drew aside the white curtain; and oh! the dazzling, beautiful apparition that greeted every one's eyes! No one could stop the children's noisy delight, and the best of it was, that no one wanted to. So for the next few moments it was exactly like the merry time over the Tree in the "Provision Room" of the Little Brown House years ago, just as Polly had said; only there was ever so much more of it, because there were ever so many more children to make it!

And Polly and Ben were like children again themselves; and David and Joel were everywhere helping on the fun; in which excitement the other Harvard man and even Livingston Bayley were not ashamed to take a most active part, as Jasper, who had borrowed Santa Claus' attire for this occasion, now made his appearance with a most astonishing bow. And then the presents began to fly from the Tree, and Jack Loughead seemed to be all arms, for he was so tall he could reach down the hanging gifts from the higher branches, so that he was in great demand; and Pickering Dodge, one eye on all of Polly's movements, worked furiously, and Alexia Rhys and Cathie Harrison didn't give themselves hardly time to breathe; and there was quite enough for Mr. Alstyne and the Cabots and Hamilton Dyce to do, and everybody else, for that matter, to pass around the presents. And in the midst of it all, a big doll, resplendent in a red satin gown, and an astonishing hat, was untied from the tree.

"O, I want to give it to her myself!" cried Phronsie.

"So you shall," declared Jasper, handing it to her.

"Susan, this is your very own child," said Phronsie, turning to the little colored girl at her side. "Now you won't feel lonely ever, will you?" and she laid the doll carefully into the outstretched arms.

And at last the green branches had shaken off their wealth of gifts, and the shining candles began to go out, one by one.

"Grandpapa," cried Polly, coming up to old Mr. King and Phronsie, with a basket of mottoes and bonbons enough to satisfy the demands of the most exacting Children's Home, "we ought to get our paper caps on."

"Bless me!" ejaculated old Mr. King, pulling out his watch, "it can't be time to march. Ah, it's a quarter of four this minute. Here, child," to Phronsie, "pick out your bonbon so that I can snap it with you."

Phronsie gravely regarded the pretty bonbons in Polly's basket. "I must pick out yours first, Grandpapa," she said slowly, lifting a silver paper-and-lace arrangement with a bunch of forget-me-nots in the center. "I think this is pretty."

"So it is; most beautiful, dear," said the old gentleman, in great satisfaction. "Now we must crack it, I suppose." So he took hold of one end, and Phronsie held fast to the other of the bonbon, and a sharp little report gave the signal for all the bonbons to be opened. Thereupon, everybody, old and young, hurried to secure one, and great was the snapping and cracking that now followed.

"Oh, Grandpapa, isn't your cap pretty?" exclaimed Phronsie in pleased surprise, drawing forth a pink and yellow crinkled tissue bit. "See," smoothing it out with a gentle hand, "it's a crown, Grandpapa!"

"Now that's perfectly lovely!" cried Polly, setting down her basket. "Here, let me help you, child -- there, that's straight. Now, Grandpapa, please bend over so that Phronsie can put it on."

Instead, the old gentleman dropped to one knee. "Now, dear," he said gallantly. So Phronsie set the pink and yellow crown on his white hair, stepping back gravely to view the effect.

"It is so very nice, dear Grandpapa," she said, coming back to his side. So old Mr. King stood up, with quite a regal air, and Phronsie had a little blue and white paper bonnet tied under her chin by Grandpapa's own hand. And caps were flying on to all the heads, and each right hand held a tinkling little bell that had swung right merrily on a green branch-tip. And away to Amy Loughead's second march -- on and on, jangling their bells, the procession went, through the long hall, till old Mr. King and Phronsie who led, turned down the broad staircase, and into the dining-room; and here the guests stood on either side of the doorway while the little Home children passed up through their midst.

And there were two long tables, one for the Home children, with a place for Phronsie at its head, and another for old Mr. King at the foot. And the other table was for the older people; both gay with Christmas holly, and sweet with flowers. And when all were seated, and a hush fell upon the big room, Phronsie lifted her hand.

We Thank Thee, oh Lord, For this Christmas Day, And may we love Thee And serve Thee alway. For Jesus Christ The Holy Child's sake. Amen.

It rang out clear and sweet in childish treble, floating off into the halls and big rooms.

"Now, Candace," Phronsie lifted a plate of biscuits, and a comfortable figure of a colored woman, resplendent in the gayest of turbans and a smart stuff gown, made its appearance by Phronsie's chair.

"I'm here, honey," and Candace's broad palm received the first plate to be passed, which opened the ceremony of the Christmas feast.

Oh, this Christmas feast at Dunraven! It surpassed all the other Dunraven Christmases on record; everybody said so. And at last, when no one could possibly eat more, all the merry roomful, young and old, must have a holly sprig fastened to the coat, or gown, or apron, and the procession was formed to march back to the hall; and Mr. Jack Loughead's stereopticon flashed out the most beautiful pictures, that his bright descriptions explained to the delighted children; and then games and romps, and more bonbons, and favors and flowers; and at last the sleighs and barges for Mr. King's party were drawn up in the moonlight, at the door of Dunraven, and the Christmas at the Home was only a beautiful memory.

"Miss Mary" -- Mr. Livingston Bayley put out his brown driving glove -- "this way," trying to lead her off from the gay group on the snow-covered veranda.

"Why, I don't understand," began Polly, in the midst of trying to make Phronsie see that it was not necessary to go back and comfort Susan with another good-by, and turning a bewildered face up at him.

"Why, I certainly supposed you accepted my offer to drive you to the station," said Mr. Bayley hurriedly, and still extending his hand. "Come, Miss Pepper."

"Come, Polly, I've a seat for you," cried Alexia, just flying into the biggest barge. "Do hurry, Polly."

"Polly," called Jasper. She could see that he stood by one of the sleighs, beckoning to her.

Meantime, Phronsie had been borne off by old Mr. King, and Polly could hear her say, "Somebody get Polly a seat, please."

"I considered it a promise," Livingston Bayley was saying under cover of the gay confusion. "And accordingly I prepared myself. But of course if you do not wish to fulfill it, Miss Pepper, why, I" -- 

"Oh, no, no," cried Polly hastily, "if you really thought I promised you, Mr. Bayley, I will go, thank you," and without a backward glance at the others, she moved off to the gay little cutter where the horse stood shaking his bells impatiently.

"Where's Polly?" somebody called out. And somebody else peered down the row of vehicles, and answered, "Mr. Bayley's driving her."

And they were all off.

Polly kept saying to herself, "Oh, dear, dear, what could I have said to make him think I would go with him?" And Livingston Bayley smiled happily to himself under the collar of his driving coat; and the sparkling snow cut into little crystals by the horse's flying feet, dashed into their faces, and the scraps of laughter and merry nonsense from the other sleighs, made Polly want nothing so much as to cower down into the corner of the big fur robes, for a good cry.

And before she knew it, Mr. Bayley had turned off, leaving the gay procession on the main road.

"Oh!" cried Polly then, and starting forward, "Mr. Bayley, why, we're off the road!"

"I know a short cut to the depot," he answered hastily, "it's a better way."

"But we may miss the train -- oh, do turn back, and overtake them," begged Polly, in a tremor.

"This is a vastly better road," said Mr. Bayley, and instead of turning back, he flicked the horse lightly with his whip. "You'll say, Miss Mary, that it's much better this way." He tried to laugh. "Isn't the sleighing superb?"

"Oh, yes -- oh dear me!" cried poor Polly, straining her eyes to catch a sight of the last vehicle with its merry load. "Indeed, Mr. Bayley, I'm afraid we sha'n't get to the depot in time. There may be drifts on this road, or something to delay us."

"Oh, no, indeed!" cried Livingston Bayley confidently, now smiling again at his forethought in driving over this very identical piece of roadway, when the preparations for the Christmas festivity were keeping all the other people busy at Dunraven, and leaving him free to provide himself with sleighing facilities for the evening. "Don't be troubled, I know all about it; I assure you, Miss Mary, we shall reach the depot as soon as the rest of the party do, for it's really a shorter cut."

Polly beat her foot impatiently on the warm foot-muff he had wrung with difficulty from the livery keeper, and counted the moments, unable to say a word.

"Miss Mary" -- suddenly Mr. Livingston Bayley turned -- "everything is forgiven under such circumstances, I believe," and he laughed.

Polly didn't speak, only half hearing the words, her heart on the rest of the party, every instant being carried further from her.

"And you must have seen -- 'pon me word it is impossible that you didn't see that -- that" -- 

"Oh, dear," burst out Polly suddenly, and peering anxiously down the white winding highway. "If there should be a drift on the road!"

Livingston Bayley bit his lip angrily. "'Pon me word, Miss Mary," he began, "you are the first girl I ever cared to speak to, and now you can't think of anything but the roads."

Still Polly peered into the unbroken whiteness of the thoroughfare, lined by the snow-laden pines and spruces, all inextricably mixed as the sleigh spun by. It was too late to turn back now, she knew; the best that could be done, was to hurry on -- and she began to count the hoof-beats and to speculate how long it would be before they would see the lights of the little station, and find the lost party again.

"I might have spoken to a great many other girls," Livingston Bayley was saying, "and I really don't know why I didn't choose one of them. Another man in my place would, and you must do me the justice to acknowledge it; 'pon me word, you must, Miss Mary."

Polly tore off her gaze from the snowy fields where the branches of the trees were making little zigzag paths in the moonlight, to fasten it on as much of his face as was visible between his cap and his high collar.

"And I really shouldn't think you would play with me," declared Mr. Bayley, nervously fingering the whip-handle, "I shouldn't, don't you know, because you are not the sort of girl to do that thing. 'Pon me word, you're not, Miss Mary."

"I? what do you mean?" cried poor Polly, growing more and more bewildered.

"Why I -- I -- of course you must know; 'pon me word, you must, Miss Mary, for it began five years ago, before you went abroad, don't you know?"

Polly sank back among her fur robes while he went on.

"And I've done what no other fellow would, I'm sure," he said incoherently, "in my place, kept constant, don't you know, to one idea. Been with other girls, of course, but only really made up my mind to marry you. 'Pon me word, I didn't, Miss Mary."

"And you've brought me out, away from the rest of the party, to tell me this," exclaimed Polly, springing forward to sit erect with flashing eyes. "How good of you, Mr. Bayley, to announce your intention to marry me."

"You can't blame me," cried Mr. Bayley in an injured way. "That cad of a Loughead means to speak soon -- 'pon me word, the fellow does. And I've never changed my mind about it since I made it up, even when you began to give music lessons."

"Oh, how extremely kind," cried Polly.

"Don't put it that way," he began deprecatingly. "I couldn't help it, don't you know, for I liked you awfully from the first, and always intended to marry you. You shall have everything in the world that you want, and go everywhere. And my family, you know, has an entree to any society that's worth anything."

"I wouldn't marry you," cried Polly stormily, "if you could give me all the gold in the world; and as for family," here she sat quite erect with shining eyes, "the Peppers have always been the loveliest people that ever lived -- the very loveliest -- oh" -- she broke off suddenly, starting forward -- "there's something on the road; see, Mr. Bayley!"

And spinning along, the horse now making up his mind to get to the depot in time, they both saw a big wagon out of which protruded two or three bags evidently containing apples and potatoes; one of the wheels determining to perform no more service for its master, was resting independently on the snowy thoroughfare, for horse and driver were gone.

"I beg your pardon," exclaimed Mr. Livingston Bayley suddenly, at sight of this, "for bringing you around here. But how was I to know of that beastly wreck?"

"We must get out," said Polly, springing off from her side of the sleigh, "and lead the horse around."

But this was not so easy a matter; for the farmer's wagon had stopped in the narrowest part of the road, either side shelving off, under its treacherous covering of snow. At last, after all sorts of ineffectual attempts on Mr. Bayley's part to induce the horse to stir a step, Polly desperately laid her hand on the bridle. "Let me try," she said. "There, you good creature," patting the horse's nose; "come, that's a dear old fellow," and they never knew quite how, but in the course of time, they were all on the other side of the wreck, and Mr. Livingston Bayley was helping her into the sleigh, and showering her with profuse apologies for the whole thing.

"Never mind," said Polly, as she saw his distress, "only never say such perfectly dreadful things to me again. And now, hurry just as fast as you can, please!"

And presently a swift turn brought the twinkling lights of the little station to view, and there was the entire party calling to them as they now spied their approach, to "Hurry up!" and there also was the train, holding its breath in curbed impatience to be off.



Chapter V.

Bad News.


"Oh, Mamsie," cried Polly in dismay, "must Papa Fisher know?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Fisher firmly, "your father must be told every thing."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Polly, turning off in dismay, "it seems so -- so unfair to Mr. Bayley. Mightn't it be just as if he hadn't spoken, Mamsie?" She came back now to her mother's side, and looked anxiously into the black eyes.

"But he has spoken," said Mother Fisher, "and your father must be told. Why, Polly, that isn't like you, child, to want to keep anything from him," she added reproachfully.

"Oh! I don't -- I couldn't ever in all this world keep anything from Father Fisher," declared Polly vehemently, "only," and the color flew in rosy waves over her face, "this doesn't seem like my secret, Mamsie. And Mr. Bayley would feel so badly to have it known," and her head drooped.

"Still it must be known by your father," said her mother firmly, "and I must tell Mr. King. Then it need go no further."

"Oh, Mamsie!" exclaimed Polly, in a sharp tone of distress, "you wouldn't ever in all this world tell Grandpapa!"

"I most certainly shall," declared Mrs. Fisher. "He ought to know everything that concerns you, Polly, and each one of you children. It is his right."

Polly sat down in the nearest chair and clasped her hands. "Grandpapa will show Mr. Bayley that he doesn't like it," she mourned, "and it will hurt his feelings."

Mrs. Fisher's lip curled. "No more do I like it," she said curtly. "In the first place to speak to you at all; and then to take such a way to do it; it wasn't a nice thing at all, child, for Mr. Bayley to do," here Mrs. Fisher walked to the window, her irritation getting the better of her, so that Polly might not see her face.

"But he didn't mean to speak then -- that is" -- began Polly.

"He should have spoken to your father or to Mr. King," said Mrs. Fisher, coming back to face Polly, "but I presume the young man didn't know any better, or at least, he didn't think, and that's enough to say about that. But as for not telling Mr. King about it, why, it isn't to be thought of for a minute. So I best have it over with at once." And with a reassuring smile at Polly she went out, and closed the door.

"Oh, dear me," cried poor Polly, left alone; and springing out of her chair, she began to pace the floor. "Now it will be perfectly dreadful for Mr. Bayley. Grandpapa will be very angry; he never liked him; and now he can't help showing what he feels. Oh! why did Mr. Bayley speak."

"Polly," called Jasper's voice, out in the hall.

For the first time in her life, she felt like running away from his call. "Oh! I can't go out; he'll guess something is the matter," she cried to herself.

"Polly?" and there was a rap at the door.

"Yes," said Polly from within.

"Can I see you a minute?"

Polly slowly opened the door, and tried to lift her brown eyes to his face.

"Oh, Polly," he pretended not to notice any thing amiss with her, "I came to tell you first; and you can help me to break it to father."

"Oh, what is it?" cried Polly, looking up quickly. "Oh, Jasper," as she saw that his face was drawn with the effort not to let her see the distress he was in.

He tried to cover up his anxiety, but she saw a yellow paper in his hand. "Oh, Jasper, you've a telegram," she cried breathlessly.

"Polly," said Jasper. He took her hand and held it firmly, "you will help father and me to bear it, I know."

"Oh, Jasper, I will," promised Polly, clinging to his hand. "Don't be afraid to tell me, Jasper."

"Listen; Marian has been thrown from her sleigh this morning; the horses ran," said Jasper hurriedly. "The telegram says 'Come.' She may be living, Polly; don't look so."

For the room grew suddenly so dark to her that she wavered and would have fallen had he not caught her. "I won't faint," she cried, "Jasper, don't be afraid. There, I'm all right. Now, oh, what can I do?"

"Could you go with me when I tell father?" asked Jasper. "I am so afraid I shall break it to him too sharply; and you know it won't do for him to be startled. If you could, Polly."

For the second time, everything seemed to turn black before her eyes, but Polly said bravely, "Yes, I'll go, Jasper." And presently, they hardly knew how, the two found themselves at old Mr. King's door.

There was a sound of voices within. "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Polly, "I forgot Mamsie was here."

Jasper looked his surprise, but said nothing, and as they stood there irresolutely, Mrs. Fisher opened the door and came out.

"Why, Polly!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, Mrs. Fisher," cried Jasper, "we can't explain now, we must see father. But Polly will go and tell you," and in another minute they were both standing before Mr. King.

The old gentleman was walking up and down his apartment, fuming at every step. "The presumption of the fellow! How did he dare without speaking to me! Oh, eh, Polly" -- and then he caught sight of Jasper, back of her.

"Father," began Jasper, "I've had a telegram from brother Mason."

"Oh, now what has he been doing?" cried Mr. King irritably. "I do wish Mason wouldn't be so abrupt in his movements. I suppose he is going abroad again. Well, let's hear."

Jasper tried to speak, but instead, looked at Polly.

"Dear Grandpapa," cried Polly, going unsteadily to the old gentleman's side, and taking his hand in both of hers. "Oh, we must tell you something very bad, and we don't know how to tell it, Grandpapa." She looked up piteously into his face.

Old Mr. King put forth his other hand, and seized the back of a chair to steady himself. "Tell me at once, Polly," he said hoarsely. "It isn't -- Marian?" It was all he could do to utter the name.

"She is hurt," said Polly, going to the heart of the matter without delay, "but oh, Grandpapa, it may not be very badly, and they want Jasper to go on to New York."

Mr. King turned to Jasper. "Give me the telegram, my boy," he said through white lips; when it was all read, "Now tell Philip to pack me a portmanteau."

"Father," said Jasper, "you are not going?"

"No questions are to be asked, Jasper," said his father. "Be so good as to see that Philip packs quickly, and that you are ready. And now, Polly," the old gentleman turned to her, "I want to take you along, child, if your mother is willing. Will you go?"

"Oh, Grandpapa," cried Polly, "if I only may; oh, do take me."

"I don't want to go without you," said Mr. King. "There, run, child, and ask your mother if you may go. Send Phronsie to me; I must explain matters to her and bid her good-by."

Alexia and some of the other girls were hurrying in the east doorway of the King mansion, an hour later. "Oh, where's Polly, Mrs. Fisher?" cried Cathie Harrison.

"Polly has gone," said Mrs. Fisher, coming down the stairs. She looked as if she wanted to cry, but her hands held the basket of sewing as firmly as if no bad news had fallen upon the home.

"Gone?" cried all the girls. "Oh, Mrs. Fisher, where? Do tell us where Polly is?"

For answer Mrs. Fisher made them all go into the little reception room in an angle of the hall, where she told them the whole story.

"If that isn't perfectly dreadful," cried Alexia Rhys, throwing her muff into a chair, and herself on an ottoman. "Why, we were going to make up a theater party for to-morrow night. Mrs. Fisher, and now Polly is gone."

Her look of dismay was copied by every girl so exactly, that Mrs. Fisher had no relief in turning to any of the other four.

"And there is her Recital -- what will she do about that?" cried Alexia, rushing on in her complaint. "Perhaps she'll give it up, after all," she added, brightening. "Now I most know she will, Mrs. Fisher," and she started up and began to pirouette around the room.

"Of course she has had to postpone it," said Mrs. Fisher, looking after her, "and she told Joel to write the notes to the pupils explaining matters. But never you fear, Alexia, that Polly will give up that Recital for good and all," she added, with a wise nod at her.

"Well, she must give it up for now anyway," said Alexia, coming to a pause to take breath, "that's some comfort. To think of Joe writing Polly's notes to the girls, oh, dear me!"

"Let us go and help him," proposed Cathie Harrison suddenly. "He must hate to do such poky work."

"Oh, dear me," began Alexia, taking up her little bag to look at the tiny watch in one corner. "We haven't the time. Yes -- come on," she burst out incoherently; "where is he, Mrs. Fisher?"

"In the library, hard at work," said Mrs. Fisher, with a bright smile at them all.

"Come on, girls," said Alexia, rushing on. "Now that's what I admire Mrs. Fisher for," she said, when they were well in the hall, "she shows when she's not pleased, and when she likes what a body does, as well."

"I think she's just elegant," declared Cathie Harrison, who had privately done a good deal of worshiping at Mrs. Fisher's shrine.

"She's a dear," voted Alexia. "Well, do come on. Oh, Joe!" as they reached the library door.

Joel sat back of the writing table, a mass of Polly's note paper and envelopes sprawled before him, his head on his hands and his elbows on the table. Back of him paced Pickering Dodge with a worried expression of countenance.

"You do look so funny," burst out Alexia with a laugh; "doesn't he, girls?" to the bright bevy following her.

"I guess you would if you were in my place," growled Joel, scarcely giving them a glance. "Go away, Alexia; you can't get me into a scrape this morning -- I've to dig at this."

"I don't want to get you into a scrape," cried Alexia, with a cold shoulder to Pickering, who had been claimed by the other girls, "we're going to help you."

"Is that so?" cried Joel radiantly; "then I say you're just jolly, Alexia," and he beamed at her.

"Yes, we want to help," echoed Cathie, drawing up a chair to the other side of the table. "Now do set us to work, Joel."

"Indeed and I will," he cried, spreading a clear place with a reckless hand.

"Take care," warned Alexia, "take care; you are spoiling all Polly's note paper. I wouldn't let you at my things, I can tell you, Joel Pepper!"

"As if I'd ever do this sort of thing for you, Alexia," threw back Joel.

"Well, do let us begin," begged Cathie, impatiently drumming on the table, as the other two girls and Pickering Dodge drew near.

"Yes, do," cried the girls, "and we'll toss those notes off in no time."

"I'll help you clear the table," cried Pickering; "do let me. I can't write those notes, but I can get the place ready;" and he began to pile the books on a chair. As he went around to Alexia's place she looked up and fixed her gaze past him, not noticing his attempt to speak.

"All right; if she wants to act like that, I'm willing," said Pickering to himself savagely and coolly going on with his work.

"Oh, dear me," groaned Cathie Harrison, "isn't it perfectly dreadful to have that dear sweet Mrs. Whitney hurt?"

"Ow!" exclaimed Joel.

"Do stop," cried Alexia with a nudge. "Haven't you any more sense, Cathie Harrison, than to speak of it?"

Cathie smothered a retort, and bit her lips to keep it back.

"Well, dear me, we are not working much," cried Alexia, pulling off her gloves; "how many notes have you to write, Joe?"

"Oh, a dozen, I believe," said Joel; "that is, counting this one."

"To whom is that?" asked Alexia, peering over his shoulder. "Oh, to Amy Loughead."

"Yes, I promised Polly this should go first. That Loughead girl was expecting her over this morning. Oh, she's a precious nuisance," grumbled Joel, dipping his pen in the ink.

"Well, then, I will write to Desiree Frye," said Alexia. "She was going to play a solo, Polly said, at the Recital. Oh, dear me, what shall I say?"

"Polly said tell them all what had happened, and that she should stay away as long as Aunty needed her, but she hoped to be home soon, and she would write them from New York."

"Oh, Joe, what a lot," exclaimed Alexia, leaving her pen poised in mid air.

"Cut it short, then," said Joel. "I don't care, only that's the sense of it."

"Oh, dear," began one of the girls, "I can't bear to write of the accident, and in the holidays, too."

Alexia made an uneasy gesture, scrawled two or three words, then threw down her pen and got out of her chair. "It's no use," she cried, running up to Pickering, who, his hands in his pockets, had his back to them all, and was looking out of the window. "I can't let myself do anything till I've said I'm sorry I was so cross," and she put out her hand.

"Eh?" exclaimed Pickering, whirling around in astonishment. "Oh, dear me!" and he pulled his right hand out of his pocket, and extended it to her.

"Mrs. Whitney has got hurt, and she was always sweet, and never said cross things, and oh, dear me!" cried Alexia incoherently, as he shook her hand violently.

"And I'm glad enough to have it made up," declared Pickering decidedly. "It's bad enough to have so much trouble in the world, without getting into fights with people you've known ever since you can remember."

"Trouble?" repeated Alexia wonderingly. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Whitney's accident, you mean; I know it's awful for all of us."

Pickering Dodge turned on his heel and walked off abruptly, and she ran back to her work with a final stare at him.

"I know now," she said to herself wisely, "and I've been mean enough to hurt him when he was bearing it. Oh, dear me, things are getting so mixed up!"

"Polly, you won't leave me, will you, till I get able to sit up?" cried Mrs. Whitney one day, a week after.

"No, Aunty, indeed I won't," declared Polly, leaning over to drop a kiss on the soft hair against the pillows.

Mrs. Whitney put up her hands to draw down the young face.

"Oh, Aunty!" exclaimed Polly in dismay, "be careful; you know doctor said you mustn't raise your arms."

"Well, just let me kiss you, dear, then," said Mrs. Whitney with a wan little smile. "Oh, Polly," when the kiss and two or three others had been dropped on the rosy cheek, "you are sure you can stay with me?"

"I'm sure I can, and I will," said Polly firmly. "Oh, Aunty, I shall be so glad to be with you; you can't think how glad."

She softly patted the pillows into the position Mrs. Whitney best liked, and then stood off a bit and beamed at her.

"It's dreadfully selfish in me to keep you," said Mrs. Whitney, "when you love your work so; and what will the music scholars do, Polly?"

"Oh, they are all right," said Polly gaily, "they're working like beavers. Indeed, Aunty, I believe they'll practice a great deal more than if I were home to be talking to them all the while."

"You are a dear blessed comfort, Polly," said Mrs. Whitney, turning on her pillow with a sigh of relief. "Now I do believe I shall get up very soon. But Jasper must go back; it won't do for him to stay away any longer from his business. Promise me, Polly, that you will make him see that he ought to go."

"I'll try, Aunty," said Polly, "and now that you are so much better, why, I do believe that Jasper will be willing to go."

"Oh, do make him," begged Mrs. Whitney, and then she tucked her hand under her cheek, and the first thing Polly knew she heard the slow, regular breathing that told she was asleep.

"Now that's just lovely," cried Polly softly, "and I will run and speak to Jasper this very minute, for he really ought to go back to his business."

But instead of doing this, she met a young girl, as she was running through the hall, who stopped her and asked, "Can I see Mr. King?"

"What!" cried Polly, astonished that the domestics had admitted any one, as it was against the orders.

"Oh, I am a relation," said the girl coolly, "and I told the man at the door that I should come in; and he said then I must wait, for I could not see Mr. King now, and he put me up in that little reception room, but I just walked out to meet the first person coming in the hall. Will you be so kind as to arrange it?"

She looked as if she fully expected to have her wish fulfilled, and her gaze wandered confidently around the picture-hung wall, until such time as Polly could answer.

"I'll see," said Polly, who couldn't help smiling, "what I can do for you; but you mustn't be disappointed if Grandpapa doesn't feel able to see you. He is very much occupied, you know, with his daughter's ill" -- 

"Oh, I understand," said the other girl, guilty of interrupting, "but he will see me, I know," and her light blue eyes were as calm as ever.

"Who shall I tell him wants to see him?" asked Polly, her own eyes wide at the stranger and her ways.

"Oh, you needn't tell him any name," said the girl carelessly.

"Then I certainly shall not tell him you wish to see him, unless I carry your name to him," Polly said quite firmly, and she looked steadily into the fair face before her.

"Oh, dear me," said the girl; "well, you may say I am Mr. Alexander Chatterton's daughter Charlotte."

Polly kept herself from starting as the name met her ear. "Very well," she said, "I will do what I can," moving off. "O, Grandpapa!"

For down the hall came Mr. King in velvet morning jacket and cap.

"Hoity-toity, I thought no one was to be admitted," he exclaimed, as he neared the door.

"Grandpapa," Polly endeavored to draw him off, but the young girl ran past her.

"Mr. King," she said quickly, "I am Charlotte Chatterton."

"The dickens you are!" exclaimed the old gentleman, looking her full in the face.

"Yes, sir; and my father is very ill." For a moment her voice trembled, but she quickly recovered herself. "It isn't money I want, Mr. King," and she threw her head back proudly, "but oh, will you come and see father?"

Mr. King looked at her again, then over at Polly. "Bring her in here," he said, pointing to the same little reception room that Charlotte had deserted, "I want you to stay, too, Polly," and the door closed upon them.



Chapter VI.

Of Many Things.


"And father has asked her to go home when you and he go!" cried Jasper in irritation.

"Yes," said Polly; "oh, Jasper, never mind; I daresay it will be for the best; and I'm so sorry for Charlotte."

"She'll be no end of bother to you, I know," said Jasper. "And you must take her everywhere, Polly, and look out for her. What was father thinking of?" He could not conceal his annoyance, and Polly put aside her own dismayed feelings at the new programme, to help him into his usual serene mood.

"But think, Jasper, how she has never had any fun all her life, and now her father is sick."

"She'd much better stay and take care of him," declared Jasper.

"But he's sick because he has worried so, I do believe," Polly went on, "for you ought to have seen his face when we took Charlotte home, and Grandpapa talked with him, and asked him to let Charlotte pass the rest of the winter with us. Oh, I am glad, Jasper, for I do like Charlotte."

"The girl may be well enough," said Jasper shortly, "but she will bother you, nevertheless, Polly, I am afraid."

"Never mind," said Polly brightly, with a little pang at her heart for the nice times with the girls that now must be shared with another. "Grandpapa thought he ought to do it, I suppose, and that's enough."

"It does seem as if the Chattertons would never be done annoying us," said Jasper gloomily. "Now when we once get this girl fastened on us, there'll be an end to the hope of shaking her off."

"Perhaps we sha'n't want to," said Polly merrily, "for Charlotte may turn out perfectly lovely; I do believe she's going to." And then she remembered her promise to Mrs. Whitney, and she began: "Aunty is worrying about your staying away so long from your business, Jasper, and she wants you to go back."

A shade passed over his face. "I suppose I ought to go, Polly," he said, and he pulled a letter from his pocket and held it out to her, "I was going to show this to you, only the other matter came up."

Polly seized it with dread.

"We need your services very much" [the letter ran] "and cannot wait longer for your return. We are very sorry to be so imperative, but the rush of work at this time of the year, makes it necessary for all our force to be in place.

"Very sincerely

"David Marlowe."

"You see they are getting all the books planned out, and put in shape for the next year; and business just rushes," cried Jasper, with shining eyes, showing his eagerness to be in the midst of the bustle of manufacture.

"What, so early!" cried Polly, letting the letter drop. "Why, I thought you didn't do anything until spring, Jasper -- about making the books, I mean."

He laughed. "The travelers go out on the road then," he said, "with almost all the books ready to sell."

"Out on the road?" repeated Polly in amaze. "Oh, what do you mean, Jasper?"

"Well, you see the business of selling is a good part of it done by salesmen, who travel with samples and take advance orders," said Jasper, finding it quite jolly to explain business intricacies to such an eager listener.

"Oh!" said Polly.

"And when I get back I shall be plunged at once into all the thick of the manufacturing work," he went on, straightening himself up; "Mr. Marlowe is as good as he can be, and he has waited now longer than he ought to."

"Oh, you must go, Jasper," cried Polly quickly; "at once, this very day," and her face glowed.

"If you think sister Marian is really well enough to spare me," he said, trying to restrain his impatience to be off.

"Yes -- yes, I do," declared Polly. "Doctor Palfrey said this morning that all danger was over now from inflammation, and really it worries her dreadfully to think of your being here any longer. It really does hurt her, Jasper," repeated Polly emphatically.

"In that case I'm off, then, this afternoon," said Jasper, with a glad ring in his voice. "Polly, my work is the very grandest in all the world."

"Isn't it?" cried Polly, with kindling eyes; "just think -- to make good books, Jasper, that will never stop, perhaps, being read. Oh, I wish I was a man and could help you."

"Polly?" he stopped a minute, looked down into her face, then turned off abruptly. "You are sure you won't bother yourself too much with Charlotte?" he said awkwardly coming back.

"Yes; don't worry, Jasper," said Polly, wondering at his unusual manner.

"All right; then as soon as I've seen father I'll throw my traps together and be off," declared Jasper, quite like the business man again.

But old Mr. King was not to hear about it just then, for when Jasper rapped at his door, it was to find that his father was fast asleep.

"See here, Jasper," said Mr. Whitney, happening along at this minute, "here's a nice piece of work. Percy declares that he shall be made miserable to go back to college to-morrow. His mother is able now for him to be settled at his studies; won't you run up and persuade him -- that's a good fellow."

"I'm going back to my work to-night," cried Jasper, pulling out his watch, "that is, if father wakes up in time for me to take the train."

"Is that so? Good," cried Mr. Whitney. "Well, run along and tell Percy that, for the boy is so worried over his mother that he can't listen to reason."

So Jasper scaled the stairs to Percy's den.

"Well, old fellow, I thought I'd come up and let you know that I'm off to my work," announced Jasper, putting his head in the doorway.

"Eh!" cried Percy, "what's that?"

"Why, I'm off, I say; back to dig at the publishing business. Your mother doesn't want us fellows hanging around here any longer. It worries her to feel that we are idling."

"Is that so?" cried Percy. "How do you know?"

"Polly says so; she let me into the secret; says sister Marian requested me to go back."

"Did Polly really say so?" demanded Percy in astonishment.

"Yes, in good plain English. So I'm off."

"Well, if Polly really said that mamma wanted you to go, why, I'll get back to college as soon as I can," said Percy. "But if she should be worse?" He stopped short.

"They can send for you instantly; trust Polly for that," said Jasper. "But she won't be worse; not unless we worry her by not doing as she wishes. Well, good-by, I'm off."

"So am I," declared Percy, springing up to throw his clothes into traveling order. "All right, I'll take the train with you, Jappy."

"Now you see how much better I'm off," observed Van, coming in to perch on the edge of the bed while Percy was hurrying all sorts of garments into the trunk with a quick hand. "I tell you, Percy, I struck good luck when I chose father's business. Now I don't have to run like a dog at the beck of a lot of professors."

"Every one to his taste," said Percy, "and I can't bear father's business, for one."

"No, you'd rather sit up with your glasses stuck on your nose, and learn how to dole out the law; that's you, Percy. I say, I wouldn't try to keep the things on," with a laugh as he saw his brother's ineffectual efforts to pack, and yet give the attention to his eyeglasses that they seemed to demand.

"See here now, Van," cried Percy warmly, "if you cannot help, you can take yourself off. Goodness! I have left out my box of collars!"

"Here it is," cried Van, throwing it to him from the bed, where it had rolled off under a pile of underclothing. "Well, you don't know how the things make you look. And Polly doesn't like them a bit."

"How do you know?" demanded Percy, growing quite red, and desisting from his employment a minute.

"Oh, that's telling; I know she doesn't," replied Van provokingly.

For answer Van felt his arms seized, and before he knew it Percy was over him and holding him down so that he couldn't stir.

"Now how do you know that Polly doesn't like my eyeglasses?" he demanded.

"Ow -- let me up!" cried Van.

"Tell on, then. How do you know she doesn't like them?"

"Because -- Let me up, and I'll tell."

"No, tell now," said Percy, having hard work to keep Van from slipping out from under his hands.

"Boys," called Polly's voice.

"Oh dear me -- she's coming!" exclaimed Percy, jumping to his feet, and releasing Van, who, red and shining, skipped to the door. "Come in, Polly."

"I thought I'd find you up here," said Polly in great satisfaction. "Percy, can't I do something for you? Jasper says you are going back to college right away."

"Yes, you can," said Percy, "take Van off; that would help me more than anything else you could do."

Polly looked at Van and shook her brown head so disapprovingly that he came out of his laugh.

"Oh, I'll be good, Polly," he promised.

"See that you are, then," she said. Then she went over to the trunk and looked in.

"Percy, may I take those things out and fold them over again?" she asked.

"Yes, if you want to," said Percy shamefacedly. "I suppose I have made a mess of them; but it's too hard work for you, Polly."

"I should like nothing better than to attack that trunk," declared Polly merrily. "Now, Van, you come and help me, that's a dear boy."

And in five minutes Polly and Van were busily working together; he putting in the things, while she neatly made them into piles, and Percy sorted and gave orders like a general.

"He does strut around so," said Van under his breath, "just see him now."

"Hush -- oh, Van, how can you? and he's going back to college, and you won't see him for ever so many weeks."

Van swallowed something in his throat, and bent all his energies to settling the different articles in the trunk.

"Percy," said Polly presently in a lull, "I do just envy you for one thing."

"What for, pray?" asked Percy, settling his beloved eyeglasses for a better view of her.

"Why, you'll be with Joel and Davie," said Polly. "Oh, you don't know how I miss those boys!" She rested both hands on the trunk edge as she knelt before it.

"I wish you'd been our sister," said Van enviously, "then we'd have had good times always."

"Oh, I don't see much of Joel," said Percy. "Dave once in a while I run across, but Joel -- dear me!"

"You don't see much of Joel," repeated Polly, her hands dropping suddenly in astonishment. "Why, Percy Whitney, why not, pray tell?"

"Why, Joel's awful good -- got a streak of going into the prayer-meetings and that sort of thing," explained Percy, "and we call him Deacon Pepper in the class."

"He goes to prayer-meetings, and you call him Deacon Pepper," repeated Polly in amazement, while Van burst out into a fit of amusement.

"Yes," said Percy, "and he has a lot of old fogies always turning up that want help, and all such stuff, and I expect that he is going to be a minister."

He brought this out as something too dreadful to be spoken, and then fell back to see the effect of his words.

"Can you suppose it?" cried Polly under her breath, still kneeling on the floor, "oh, boys, can you?" looking from one to the other.

"Yes; I'm afraid it's true," said Percy, feeling that he ought to be thrashed for having told her, while Van laughed again.

"Oh -- oh! it's too lovely. Dear, beautiful, old Joel!" cried Polly, springing suddenly to her feet; "just think how good he is, boys! Oh, it's too lovely to be true!"

Percy retreated a few steps hastily.

"And oh, how much better we ought to be," cried Polly in a rush of feeling. "Just think, with Joel doing such beautiful things, oh, how glad Mamsie will be! And he never told -- Joel never told."

"And he'll just about kill me if you tell him I've let it out," said Percy abruptly. "Oh, dear me, how he'll pitch into me!" exclaimed Percy in alarm.

"I never shall speak of it," declared Polly in a rapture, "because Joel always hated to be praised for being good. But oh, how lovely it is!"

And then Grandpapa called, and she ran off on happy feet.

"Whew!" exclaimed Percy, with a look over at Van.

"I tell you what, if you want to get into Polly's good graces, you've just got to brush up on your catechism, and such things," remarked Van; "eyeglasses don't count."

Percy turned off uneasily.

"Nor suppers, and a bit of card-playing, eh, Percy?"

"Hold your tongue, will you?" cried his brother irritably.

"Nor swell clothes and a touch-me-if-you-dare manner," said Van mockingly, sticking his fingers in his vest pockets.

Percy made a lunge at him, then thought better of it.

"Leave me alone, can't you?" he said crossly.

Van opened his mouth to toss back a teasing reply, when Percy opened up on him. "I'd as soon take my chances with her, on the suppers and other things, as to have yours. What would Polly say to see you going for me like this, I'd like to know?"

It was now Van's turn to look uncomfortable, and he cast a glance at the door.

"Oh, she may come in," said Percy, bursting into a laugh, "then you'd be in a fine fix; and I wouldn't give a rush for the good opinion she'd have of you."

Van hung his head, took two or three steps to the door, then came back hurriedly.

"I cry 'Quits,' Percy," he said, and held out his hand.

"All right," said Percy, smoothing down his ruffled feelings, and putting out his hand too.

Van seized it, wrung it in good brotherly fashion, then raced over the stairs at a breakneck pace.

"Polly", he said, meeting her in the hall where she had just come from Mr. King's room, "I've been blackguarding Percy, and you ought to know it."

"Oh, Van!" cried Polly, stopping short in a sorry little way; "why, you've been so good ever since you both promised years ago that you wouldn't say bad things to each other."

"Oh, that was different," said Van recklessly; "but since he went to college, Percy has been a perfect snob Polly."

Polly said nothing, only looked at him in a way that cut him to the heart, as she moved off slowly.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" asked Van at last.

"I've nothing to say," replied Polly, and she disappeared into Mrs. Whitney's room and closed the door.

That evening Jasper and Percy, who went together for a good part of the way, had just driven to the station, when the bell rang and a housemaid presently laid before Polly a card, at sight of which all the color deserted her cheek. "Oh, I can't see him," she declared involuntarily.

"Who is it?" asked old Mr. King, laying down the evening paper.

"O, Grandpapa!" cried Polly, all in a tremor at the thought of his displeasure, "it does not matter. I can send word that I do not see any one now that Aunty is ill, and" -- 

"Polly, child," said the old gentleman, seriously displeased, "come and tell me at once who has called upon you."

So Polly, hardly knowing how, got out of her chair and silently laid the unwelcome card in his hand.

"Mr. Livingston Bayley," read the old gentleman.

"Humph! well, upon my word, this speaks well for the young man's perseverance. I'm very tired, but I see nothing for it but that I must respond to this;" and he threw aside the paper and got up to his feet.

"Grandpapa," begged Polly tremblingly at his elbow, "please don't let him feel badly."

"It isn't possible, Polly," cried Mr. King, looking down at her, "that you like this fellow -- enough, I mean, to marry him?"

"O, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Polly in a tone of horror.

"Well, then, child, you must leave me to settle with him," said the old gentleman with dignity. "Don't worry; I sha'n't forget myself, nor what is due to a Bayley," with a short laugh. And then she heard him go into the drawing-room and close the door.

When he came back, which he did in the space of half an hour, his face was wreathed in smiles, and he chuckled now and then, as he sat down in his big chair and drew out his eyeglasses.

"Well, Polly, child, I don't believe he will trouble you in this way again, my dear," he said in a satisfied way, looking at her over the table. "He wanted to leave the question open; thought it impossible that you could refuse him utterly, and was willing to wait; and asked permission to send flowers, and all that sort of thing. But I made the young man see exactly how the matter stood, and that's all that need be said about it. It's done with now and forever." And then he took up his paper and began to read.

"Mamsie," said Phronsie, that very evening as she was getting ready for bed, and pausing in the doorway of her little room that led out of Mother Fisher's, "do you suppose we can bear it another day without Polly?"

"Why, yes, Phronsie," said Mother Fisher, giving another gentle rock to Baby's cradle, "of course we can, because we must. That isn't like you, dear, to want Polly back till Aunty has got through needing her."

Phronsie gave a sigh and thoughtfully drew her slippered foot over the pattern of the carpet. "It would be so very nice," she said, "if Aunty didn't need her."

"So it would," said her mother, "but it won't make Polly come any quicker to spend the time wishing for her. There, run to bed, child; you are half an hour late to-night."

Phronsie turned obediently into her own little room, then came back softly. "I want to give Baby, Polly's good-night kiss," she said.

"Very well, you may, dear," said Mrs. Fisher. So Phronsie bent over and set on Baby's dear little cheek, the kiss that could not go to Polly.

"If dear Grandpapa would only come home," and she sighed again.

"But just think how beautiful it is that Aunty was not hurt so much as the doctors feared," said her mother. "Oh, Phronsie, we can't ever be thankful enough for that."

"And now maybe God will let Grandpapa and Polly come back pretty soon," said Phronsie slowly, going off toward her own little room. And presently Mrs. Fisher heard her say, "Good-night, Mamsie dear, I'm in bed."

A rap at the door, and Jane put in her head, in response to Mrs. Fisher's "What is it?"

"Oh, is Dr. Fisher here?" asked Jane in a frightened way.

"No; he is downstairs in the library," said Mother Fisher. "What is the matter, Jane? Who wants him?"

"Oh, something dreadful is the matter with Helen Fargo, I'm afraid, ma'am," said Jane. "Griggs has just run over to say that the doctor must come quick."

"Hush!" said Mrs. Fisher, pointing to Phronsie's wide-open door; but she was standing beside them in her little nightdress, and heard the next words plainly enough.

"Run down stairs, Jane," commanded Mother Fisher, "and tell the doctor what Griggs said; just as fast as you can, Jane."

And in another minute in rushed the little doctor, seized his medicine case, saying as he did so, "I sha'n't come back here, wife, if it is diphtheria, but go to my office and change my clothes. There's considerable of the disease around. Good-night, child." He stopped to kiss Phronsie, who lifted a pale, troubled face to his. "Don't worry; I guess Helen will be all right," and he dashed off again.

"Now, Phronsie, child," said Mrs. Fisher, "come to mother and let us talk it over a bit."

So Phronsie cuddled up in Mamsie's lap, and laid her sad little cheek where she had been so often comforted.

"Mamsie," she said at last, lifting her head, "I don't believe God will let Helen die, because you see she's the only child that Mrs. Fargo has. He couldn't, Mamsie."

"Phronsie, darling, God knows best," said Mrs. Fisher, holding her close.

"But he wouldn't ever do it, I know," said Phronsie confidently; "I'm going to ask Him not to, and tell Him over again about Helen's being the very only one that Mrs. Fargo has in all the world." So she slipped to the floor, and went into her own room again and closed the door. "Dear Jesus," she said, kneeling by her little white bed, "please don't take Helen away, because her mother has only just Helen. And please make dear papa give her the right things, so that she will live at home, and not go to Heaven yet. Amen."

Then she clambered into bed, and lay looking out across the moonlight, where the light from Helen Fargo's room twinkled through the fir-trees on the lawn.



Chapter VII.

Phronsie.


"I can't tell her," groaned Mrs. Pepper, the next morning, at sight of Phronsie's peaceful little face. "I never can say the word 'diphtheria' in all this world."

Phronsie laughed and played with Baby quite merrily, all such time as Miss Carruth, the governess, allowed her from the schoolroom that morning.

"Everything is beautiful, King dear," she would say on such little flying visits to the nursery. "Grandpapa and Polly, I do think, will be home pretty soon; and Helen is going to get well, because you know I asked God to let her, and he wouldn't ever, in all this world, take her away from her mother. He wouldn't, King," she added confidentially in Baby's small ear.

All day long the turreted Fargo mansion gleamed brightly in the glancing sunlight, giving no hint of the battle for a life going on within. Mrs. Fisher knew when her husband sent for the most celebrated doctor for throat diseases; knew when he came; and knew also when each hour those who were fighting the foe, were driven back baffled. And several times she attempted to tell Phronsie something of the shadow hanging over the little playmate's home. But Phronsie invariably put aside all her attempts with a gentle persistence, always saying, "He wouldn't, you know, Mamsie."

And at nightfall Helen had gone; and two white little hands were folded quietly across a young girl's breast.

No one told Phronsie that night; no one could. And she clambered into her little white bed, after saying her old prayer; then she lay in the moonlight again, watching Helen's house.

"The light is out, Mamsie," she called, "in Helen's room. But I suppose she is asleep." And presently Mrs. Fisher, stealing in, with unshed tears in her eyes, found her own child safe -- folded in restful slumber, her hand tucked under her cheek.

But the next morning, when she must hear it!

"Phronsie," said Mrs. Fisher, "come here, dear." It was after breakfast, and Phronsie was running up into the school-room.

"Do you mean I am not to go to Miss Carruth?" asked Phronsie wonderingly, and fingering her books.

"Yes, dear. Oh, Phronsie" -- Mrs. Fisher abruptly dropped her customary self-control, and held out her arms. "Come here, mother's baby; I've something bad to tell you, and you must help me, dear."

Phronsie came at once, with wide-open, astonished brown eyes, and climbed up into the good lap obediently.

"Phronsie," said Mrs. Fisher, swallowing the lump in her throat, and looking at the child fixedly, "you know Helen has been very sick."

"Yes, mamma," said Phronsie, still in a wonder.

"Well -- and she suffered, dear, oh, so much!"

A look of pain stole over Phronsie's face, and Mrs. Fisher hastened to say, "But oh. Phronsie, she can't ever suffer any more, for -- for -- God has taken her home, Phronsie."

"Has Helen died?" asked Phronsie, in a sharp little voice, so unlike her own that Mrs. Pepper shivered and held her close.

"Oh, darling -- how can I tell you? Yes, dear, God has taken her home to Heaven."

"And left Mrs. Fargo without any little girl?" asked Phronsie, in the same tone.

"My dear -- yes -- He knows what is best," said poor Mrs. Fisher.

The startled look on Phronsie's little face gave way to a grieved expression, that slowly settled on each feature.

"Let me get down, Mamsie," she said, quietly, and gently struggling to free herself.

"Oh, Phronsie, what are you going to do?" cried Mrs. Fisher. "Do sit with mother."

"I must think it out, Mamsie," said Phronsie, with grave decision, getting on her feet, and she went slowly up the stairs, and into her own room; then closed the door.

And all that day she said nothing; even when Mother Fisher begged her to come and talk it over with her, Phronsie would say, "I can't, Mamsie dear, it won't talk itself." But she was gentle and sweet with Baby, and never relaxed any effort for his amusement. And at last, when they were folding Helen away lovingly in flowers, from all who had loved her, Mrs. Fisher wrote in despair to Polly, telling her all about it, and adding, "You must come home, if only for a few days, or Phronsie will be sick."

"I shall go, too," declared old Mr. King, "for Marian can spare me now. Oh, that blessed child! And I can come back here with you, Polly, if necessary."

And Polly had nothing for it but to help him off, and Charlotte's father being ever so much better, she joined them; and as soon as it was a possible thing, there they were at home, and Thomas was driving them up at his best speed, to the carriage porch.

"Polly!" Phronsie gasped the word, and threw hungry little arms around Polly's neck.

"There, there, Pet," cried Polly cheerily, "you see we're all home. Here's Grandpapa!"

"Where's my girl?" cried old Mr. King hastily. "Here, Phronsie," and she was in his arms, while the tears rained down her cheeks.

"Bless me!" exclaimed the old gentleman, putting up his hand at the shower. "Well, that is a welcome home, Phronsie."

"Oh, Grandpapa, I didn't mean to!" said Phronsie, drawing back in dismay. "I do hope it hasn't hurt your coat."

"Never mind the coat, Phronsie," said Mr. King. "So you are glad to get us home, eh?"

Phronsie snuggled close to his side, while she clung to his hand without a word.

"Well, we mustn't forget Charlotte," cried Polly, darting back to a tall girl with light hair and very pale blue eyes, standing composedly in one corner of the hall, and watching the whole thing closely. "Mamsie, dear, here she is," taking her hand to draw her to Mrs. Fisher.

"Don't mind me," said Charlotte, perfectly at her ease. "You take care of the little girl," as Polly dragged her on.

Mrs. Fisher took a good long look at Charlotte Chatterton. Then she smiled, "I am glad to see you, Charlotte."

Charlotte took the firm fingers extended to her, and said, "Thank you," then turned off to look at Phronsie again.

And it wasn't till after dinner that Phronsie's trouble was touched upon. Then Polly drew her off to a quiet corner.

"Now, then, Phronsie," she said, gathering her up close in her arms, "tell me all about it, Pet. Just think," and Polly set warm kisses on the pale little cheek, "how long it is since you and I have had a good talk."

"I know it," said Phronsie wearily, and she drew a long sigh.

"Isn't it good that dear Aunty is so much better?" cried Polly cheerily, quite at a loss how to begin.

"Yes, Polly," said Phronsie, but she sighed again, and did not lift her eyes to Polly's face.

"If anything troubles you," at last broke out Polly desperately, "you'd feel better, Phronsie, to tell sister about it. I may not know how to say the right things, but I can maybe help a little."

Phronsie sat quite still, and folded and unfolded her hands in her lap. "Why did God take away Helen?" she asked suddenly, lifting her head. "Oh, Polly, it wasn't nice of him," she added, a strange look coming into her brown eyes.

"Oh, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, quite shocked, "don't, dear; that isn't like you, Pet. Why, God made us all, and he can do just as he likes, darling."

"But it isn't nice," repeated Phronsie deliberately, and quite firmly, "to take Helen now. Why doesn't He make another little girl then for Mrs. Fargo?" and she held Polly with her troubled eyes.

"Phronsie" -- cried Polly; then she stopped abruptly. "Oh, what can I say? I don't know, dearie; it's just this way; we don't know why God does things. But we love him, and we feel it's right. Oh, Phronsie, don't look so. There, there," and she drew her close to her, in a loving, hungry clasp. "I told you I didn't think I could say the right things to you," she went on hurriedly, "but, Phronsie, I know God did just right in taking Helen to heaven. Just think how beautiful it must be there, and so many little children are there. And Helen is so happy. Oh, Phronsie, when I think of that, I am glad she is gone."

"Helen was happy here," said Phronsie decidedly. "And she never -- never would want to leave her mother alone, to go off to a nicer place. Never, Polly."

Polly drew a long breath, and shut her lips. "But, Phronsie, don't you see," she cried presently, "it may be that Mrs. Fargo wouldn't ever want to go to Heaven unless Helen was there to meet her? It may be, Phronsie; and that would be very dreadful, you know. And God loved Mrs. Fargo so that he took Helen, and he is going to keep her happy every single minute while she is waiting and getting ready for her mother."

Phronsie suddenly slipped down from Polly's lap. "Is that true?" she demanded.

"Yes, dear," said Polly, "I think it is, Phronsie," and her cheeks glowed. "Oh, can't you see how much nicer it is in God to make Mrs. Fargo happy for always with Helen, instead of just a little bit of a while down here?"

Phronsie went over to the window and looked up at the winter sky. "It is a long way off," she said, but the bitter tone had gone, and it was a grieved little voice that added, "and Mrs. Fargo can't see Helen."

"Phronsie," said Polly, hurrying over to her side, "perhaps God wants you to do some things for Mrs. Fargo -- things, I mean, that Helen would have done."

"Why, I can't go over there," said Phronsie wonderingly. "Papa Fisher says I am not to go over there for ever and ever so long, Polly."

"Well, you can write her little notes and you can help her to see that God did just right in taking Helen away," said Polly; "and that would be the very best thing you could do, Phronsie, for Mrs. Fargo; the very loveliest thing in all this world."

"Would it?" asked Phronsie.

"Yes, dear."

"Then I'll do it; and perhaps God wants me to like Heaven better; does he, Polly, do you think?"

"I really and truly do, Phronsie," said Polly softly. Then she leaned over and threw both arms around Phronsie's neck. "Oh, Phronsie, can't you see -- I never thought of it till now -- but He has given you somebody else instead of Helen, to love and to do things for?"

Phronsie looked up wonderingly. "I don't know what you mean, Polly," she said.

"There's Charlotte," cried Polly, going on rapidly as she released Phronsie. "Oh, Phronsie, you can't think; it's been dreadfully hard and dull always for her at home, with those two stiff great-aunts pecking at her."

"Tell me about it," begged Phronsie, turning away from the window, and putting her hand in Polly's.

"Well, come over to our corner then." So the two ran back, Phronsie climbing into Polly's lap, while a look of contentment began to spread over her face.

"You see," began Polly, "Charlotte's mother has always been too ill to have nice times; she couldn't go out, you know, very much, nor keep the house, and so the two great-aunts came to live with them. Well, pretty soon they began to feel as if they owned the house, and Charlotte, and everybody in it."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Phronsie, in distress.

"And Charlotte's father, Mr. Alexander Chatterton, couldn't stop it; and beside, he was away on business most of the time, and Charlotte didn't complain -- oh, she behaved very nice about it; Phronsie, her father told Grandpapa all about it; and by and by her mother died, and then things got worse and worse; but Mr. Chatterton never knew half how bad it was. But when he was sick it all came out, and it worried him so that he got very bad indeed, and then he sent for Grandpapa -- Charlotte couldn't stop him; he made her go. You see he was afraid he was going to die, and he couldn't bear to have things so very dreadful for Charlotte."

"And is he going to die?" broke in Phronsie excitedly.

"Oh no, indeed! he was almost well when we came away; it was only his worrying over Charlotte that made him so bad. Oh, you ought to have seen him, Phronsie, when Grandpapa offered to take Charlotte home with us for the winter. He was so happy he almost cried."

"I am so glad he was happy," cried Phronsie in great satisfaction, her cheeks flushing.

"And so now I think God gave Charlotte to you for a little while because you haven't Helen. I do, Phronsie, and you can make Charlotte glad while she is here, and help her to have a good time."

"Can I?" cried Phronsie, her cheeks growing a deep pink. "Oh, Polly, how? Charlotte is a big girl; how can I help her?"

"That's your secret to find out," said Polly merrily. "Well, come now," kissing her, "we must hurry back to Grandpapa, or he'll feel badly to have you gone so long."

"Polly," cried Phronsie, as they hurried over the stairs, "put your ear down, do."

"I can't till we get downstairs," laughed Polly, "or I'll tumble on my nose, I'm afraid. Well, here we are. Now then, what is it?" and she bent over to catch the soft words.

"I'm sorry," said Phronsie, her lips quite close to Polly's rosy cheek, "that I said God wasn't nice to take Helen away. Oh, I love him, Polly, I truly do."

"So you do," said Polly, with, a warm clasp. "Well, here's Grandpapa," as the library door opened, and Mr. King came out to meet them.

Polly, running over the stairs the next day to greet Alexia and some of the girls who were determined to make the most of her little visit at home, was met first by one of the maids with a letter.

"Oh, now," cried Alexia, catching sight of it, "I almost know that's to hurry you back, Polly. She sha'n't read it, girls." With that she made a feint of seizing the large white envelope.

"Hands off from my property," cried Polly merrily, waving her off, and sitting down on the stair she tore the letter open.

Alexia worked her way along till she was able to sit down beside her, when she was guilty of looking over her shoulder.

"Oh, Alexia Rhys, how perfectly, dreadfully mean!" cried one of the other girls, wishing she could be in the same place.

Alexia turned a deaf ear, and coolly read on, one arm around Polly.

"Oh, girls -- girls!" she suddenly screamed, and jumping up, nearly oversetting Polly, she raced over the remaining stairs to the bottom, where she danced up and down the wide hall, "Polly isn't going back -- she isn't -- she isn't," she kept declaring.

"What!" cried all the girls. "Oh, do stop, Alexia. What is it?"

Meantime Cathie Harrison ran up and quickly possessed herself of the vacated seat.

"Why, Mr. Whitney writes to say that Polly needn't go back -- oh, how perfectly lovely in him!" cried Alexia, bringing up flushed and panting. "Oh, dear me, I can't breathe!"

"Oh! oh!" cried all the girls, clapping their hands.

"But that doesn't mean that I shall not go back," said Polly, looking up from her letter to peer through the stair-railing at them. "I think -- yes, I really do think that I ought to go back."

"How nonsensical!" exclaimed Alexia impatiently. "If Mr. Whitney says you are not needed, isn't that enough? Beside he wrote it for Mrs. Whitney; I read it all."

"No, I don't think it is enough," answered Polly slowly, and turning the letter with perplexed fingers, "for I know dear Aunty only told him to write because she thought I ought to be at home."

"And so you ought," declared Alexia, very decidedly. "She's quite right about it, and now you're here, why, you've just got to stay. So there, Polly Pepper. Hasn't she, girls?"

"Yes, indeed," cried the girls.

Polly shook her brown head, as she still sat on her stair busily thinking.

"Here comes Mr. King," cried Cathie Harrison, suddenly craning her neck at the sound of the opening of a door above them. "Now I'm just going to ask him," and she sprang to her feet.

"Cathie -- Cathie," begged Polly, springing up too.

"I just will," declared Cathie, obstinately scampering up over the stairs. "Oh, Mr. King, mayn't Polly stay home? Oh, do say yes, please!"

"Yes, do say yes, please," called all the other girls in the hall below.

"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed the old gentleman, well pleased at the onslaught. "Now then, what's the matter, pray tell?"

"I just won't have Cathie Harrison tell him," said Alexia, trying to run up over the stairs. "Let me by, Polly, do," she begged.

"No, indeed," cried Polly, spreading her arms. "It's bad enough to have one of you up there besieging Grandpapa."

"Then I'll run up the back stairs," cried Alexia, turning in a flash.

"Oh, yes, the back stairs!" exclaimed the other girls, following her. "Oh, do hurry! Polly's coming after us."

But speed as she might, Polly could not overtake the bevy, who, laughing and panting, stood before Mr. King a second ahead of her.

"A pretty good race," said the old gentleman, laughing heartily, "but against you from the first, Polly, my girl."

"Don't listen to them, Grandpapa dear," panted Polly.

"Mayn't she stay at home -- mayn't she?"

"Hush, girls," begged Polly. "Oh, Grandpapa dear, don't listen to them. Aunty told Uncle Mason to write the letter, and you know" -- 

"Well, yes, I know all you would say, Polly. But I've also had a letter from Mason, and I was just going to show it to you." He pulled out of his vest pocket another envelope corresponding to the one in Polly's hand, which he waved at her.

"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Polly, quite aghast at his so easily going over to the enemy. With that, all the girls deserted the old gentleman, and swarmed around Polly.

"See here, now," commanded Mr. King, "every single one of you young things come back here this minute. Goodness me, Polly, I should think they'd be the death of you."

Polly didn't hear a word, for she was reading busily: "Marian says 'don't let Polly come back on any account. It worries me dreadfully to think of all that she is giving up; and I will be brave, and do without her. She must not come back.'"

Polly looked up to meet old Mr. King's eyes fixed keenly upon her.

"You see, Polly," he began, "I really don't dare after that to let you go back."

"Oh -- oh -- oh!" screamed all the girls.

"There, I told you so," exclaimed Alexia.



Chapter VIII.

Polly Looks Out For Charlotte.


"Second floor -- Room No. 3," said Buttons, then stood like an automaton to watch the tall young man scale the stair.

"He did 'em beautifully," he confided afterward to another bell-boy. "Mr. King himself can't get over them stairs better."

"Come in!" cried Jasper, in response to the rap.

"Halloo, old fellow!" cried Pickering Dodge, rushing in tumultuously. "Well, well, so this is your den," looking around the small room in surprise.

"Yes. Now this is good to see you!" exclaimed Jasper, joyfully leaping from his chair to seize Pickering's hand. "Well, what brought you? There's nothing wrong?" he asked, anxiously scanning Pickering's face.

"No -- that is, everything's right; all except Polly."

"There isn't anything the matter with Polly?" Jasper turned quite white, scarcely speaking the words.

"No, she's all right, only" -- Pickering turned impatiently off from the chair Jasper pulled forward with a hasty hand, and stalked to the other side of the little room. "She's -- she's -- well, she's so hard to come at nowadays. Everybody has a chance for a word with her but old friends. And now the Recital is in full blast."

Jasper drew a long breath, and began to get his color again. "Oh, yes -- well, it's all going on well, the Recital, I mean, isn't it?" he asked.

"I believe so," said Pickering in a gloomy way. "The girls are wild over it; you can't hear anything else talked about at home. But," he broke off abruptly, "got a cigar, Jasper?" and he began to hunt the mantel among the few home-things spread around to enliven the hotel apartment.

"Haven't such an article," said Jasper.

"I forgot you don't smoke," said Pickering with a sigh. "Dear me! how will you bear trouble when it comes, old chap?" He came back to the table, and thrust his hands in his pockets, looking dismally at Jasper.

"I'm afraid a cigar wouldn't help me much," said Jasper, with a laugh; "but if you must have one, I can get it, eh?"

"Yes, I must," said Pickering in despair, "for I've something on my mind. Came over on purpose to get your help, and I can't do it without a weed."

"Very well," said Jasper, shoving the chair again toward Pickering. "Sit down, and I'll have one sent up," and he went over and touched the electric button on the wall.

"Yes, sir?" Buttons ran his head in the doorway, and stared at them without winking.

"A cigar for this gentleman," said Jasper, filliping a coin into the boy's hand.

"Is that the way you order cigars?" demanded Pickering, whirling around in his chair.

"Yes, when I order them at all," said Jasper, laughing; "a weed is a weed, I suppose."

"Indeed, and it is not, then," retorted Pickering. "I'll have none of your ordering. You needn't bring it up, boy; I'll go down to the office and pick some out for myself."

"All right, sir," said Buttons, putting down the coin on the table with a lingering finger.

"Keep it," said Jasper, with a smile.

"He's a gentleman," observed Buttons, on the way downstairs, Pickering treading his heels. "He ain't like the rest of 'em that boards here. They orders me around with a 'Here, you!' or a 'Hoi, there, boy!' They're gents; he's the whole word -- a first-class gentleman, Mr. King is," he repeated.

"Now, then, for it," said Jasper, when at last the gleam of Pickering's cigar was steady and bright, "open your budget of news, old fellow," he added, with difficulty restraining his impatience.

"It ought not to be any news," declared Pickering, with extreme abruptness, "for I've never tried to conceal it. I love Polly."

Jasper started so suddenly his arm knocked from the table a slender crystal vase, that broke into a dozen pieces.

"Never mind," he said, at Pickering's dismayed exclamation, "go on."

Whew -- puff! floated the rings of cigar smoke over Pickering's head. "And I can't stand it, and I won't, waiting any longer to tell her so. Why, man," he turned savagely now on Jasper, "I've loved her for years, and must I be bullied and badgered out of my rights by men who have only just been introduced to her -- say?"

"Whom do you mean?" asked Jasper huskily, his fingers working over the table-cloth, under the pretense of pulling the creases straight.

"Why, that Loughead chap," said Pickering, bringing his hand down heavily on the table; "he has more sweet words from Polly Pepper in a week than I get in a month -- and I such an old friend!"

"Polly is so anxious to help his sister," Jasper made out to say.

"Well, that's no reason why the fellow should hang around forever," declared Pickering angrily.

"Why, he's gone abroad!" exclaimed Jasper, "long ago."

"Ah, but he's coming back," said Pickering, with a sage nod, and knocking off the ashes from his cigar end.

"Is that so?" cried Jasper, in astonishment.

"Yes, 'tis," declared Pickering, nodding again, "and I don't like it. You know as well as I do," squaring around on Jasper, "that he don't care a rap about his sister's getting on; he's only thinking of Polly, and I love her."

Seeing that something was expected of him, Jasper made out to say, "You do?"

"Of course I do; and you know it, and every one knows it, or ought to; I haven't ever tried to conceal it," said Pickering proudly.

"How do you know that Loughead is coming back?" asked Jasper abruptly.

"How do I know? The best way in the world." Pickering moved uneasily in his chair. "Hibbard Crane had a letter yesterday; that's the reason I threw my traps together and started for you."

"For me?" cried Jasper, in surprise.

"Yes. You've got to help me. I can't stand it, waiting around any longer. It has almost killed me as it is." Pickering threw his head on the chair-back and took savage pulls at the cigar between his teeth.

"I help you?" cried Jasper, too astonished to do much more than to repeat the words. "How in all this world can I do anything in the matter?" he demanded, as soon as he could find his voice.

"Why, you can tell Polly how it is; you're her brother, or as good as one; and she'll see it from you. And you must hurry about it, too, for I expect that Loughead will turn up soon. He means mischief, he does."

"See here, Pick," cried Jasper, getting out of his chair hastily to face Pickering, "you don't know what you are asking. Why, I couldn't do it. The very idea; I never heard of such a thing! You -- you must speak to Polly yourself."

"I can't," said Pickering, in a burst, and bringing up his head suddenly. "She won't give me the ghost of a chance. There's always those girls around her; and she's been away an age at Mrs. Whitney's. And everlastingly somebody is sick or getting hurt, and they won't have anybody but Polly. You know how it is yourself, Jasper," and he turned on him an injured countenance.

"Well, don't come to me," cried Jasper, beginning to pace the floor irritably. "I couldn't ever speak on such a subject to Polly. Beside it would be the very way to set her against you. It would any girl; can't you see it, Pick?" he added, brightening up.

"Girls are queer," observed Pickering shrewdly, "and the very thing you think they won't like, they take to amazingly. Oh, you go along, Jasper, and let her see how matters stand; how I feel, I mean."

"You will do your own speaking," said Jasper, in his most crusty fashion, and without turning his head.

"I did; that is, I tried to last night after I met Crane," began Pickering, in a shamefaced way, "but I couldn't get even a chance to see Polly."

"How's that?" asked Jasper, still marching up and down the floor; "wasn't she home?"

"Why, she sent Charlotte Chatterton down to see me," said Pickering, very much aggrieved, "and I hate that Chatterton girl."

"Why couldn't Polly see you?" went on Jasper, determined, since his assistance was asked, to go to the root of the matter.

"Oh, somebody in the establishment, I don't know who, had a finger-ache, I suppose," said Pickering, carelessly throwing away his cigar end and lighting a fresh one, "and wanted Polly. Never mind why; she couldn't come down, she sent word. So I gave up in despair. See here now, Jasper, you must help me out."

"I tell you I won't," declared Jasper, with rising irritation, "not in that way."

"You won't?"

"No, I won't. I can't, my dear fellow."

"Well, there's a great end of our friendship," exclaimed Pickering, red with anger, and he jumped to his feet. "Do you mean to say, Jasper King, that you won't do such a simple thing for me as to say a word to your sister Polly, when I tell you it's all up with me if you don't speak that word -- say?"

"You oughtn't to ask such a thing; it's despicable in you," cried Jasper, aghast to find his anger rising at each word. "And if you insist in making such a request when I tell you that I cannot speak to Polly for you, why, I shall be forced to repeat what I said at first, that I won't have anything to do with it."

"Do you mean it," Pickering put himself in front of Jasper's advancing strides, "that you will not speak to Polly for me?"

"I do."

"I tell you," declared Pickering, now quite beside himself, "it's absolutely necessary for me to have your word with her, Jasper King."

"And I tell you I can't give that word," said Jasper. Then he stopped short, and looked into Pickering's face. "I'm sorry, old chap," and he put out his hand.

Pickering knocked it aside in a towering passion. "You needn't 'old chap' me," he cried. "And there's an end to our friendship, King." He seized his hat and dashed out of the room.

"Miss Salisbury!" Alexia Rhys, in real distress, threw herself against her old teacher, who was hurrying through the long school-room.

"Well, what is it?" asked Miss Salisbury, settling her glasses for a look at her former pupil. "You mustn't hinder me; I'm on my way to the recitation room," and her hand made a movement toward her watch.

"Oh, don't think of time, Miss Salisbury!" begged Alexia, just as familiarly as in the old days, "when Polly Pepper needs to be looked out for."

"If Polly Pepper needs me in any way, why, I must stop," said the principal of the "Young Ladies' Select Boarding and Day School," "but I don't see how she can need me, Alexia," she added in perplexity, "Polly is fully capable of taking care of herself."

"Oh, no, she isn't," cried Alexia abruptly. "Beg your pardon, but Polly is a dear, sweet, dreadful idiot. Oh dear me! what do you suppose, Miss Salisbury, she has gone and done?"

"I am quite at a loss to guess," said Miss Salisbury calmly, "and I must say, Alexia, I am very much pained by your failure to profit by my instructions. To think that one of my young ladies, especially one on whom I have spent so much care and attention as yourself, should be so careless in speech and manner, as you are constantly. 'Gone and done' -- oh, Alexia!" she exclaimed in a grieved way.

"Oh, I know," cried Alexia imperturbably, "you did your best, dear Miss Salisbury, and it isn't your fault that I'm not fine. But oh, don't waste the time, please, over me, when I want to tell you about Polly."

"What is it about Polly?" demanded Miss Salisbury, fingering her watch-chain nervously. "Really, Alexia, I think Polly would do very well if you didn't try so hard to take possession of her. I quite pity her," she added frankly.

Alexia burst into a laugh. "It's the only way to catch a glimpse of her. Miss Salisbury," she cried, "for everybody is trying to take possession of Polly Pepper. And now -- oh, it's getting perfectly dreadful!"

Miss Salisbury took an impatient step forward.

"Oh, Miss Salisbury," cried Alexia in alarm, "wait just a minute, do, dear Miss Salisbury," she cried, throwing her arms around her, thereby endangering the glasses set upon the fine Roman nose, "there can't any one help in this but just you."

"It is very wrong," said Miss Salisbury, yet yielding to the embrace, "for me to stay and listen to you in this way, but -- but I've always been fond of you, Alexia, and" -- 

"I know it," cried Alexia penitently, "you've just been a dear, always, Miss Salisbury, to me. If you hadn't, why, I don't know what I should have done, for I had nobody but aunt," with a little pathetic sniff, "to look after me."

"My dear Alexia," cried Miss Salisbury, quite softened, "don't feel so. You are very dear to me. You always were," patting her hand. "And so what is it that you want to tell me now? Pray be quick, dear."

"Well, then, will you promise to make Polly Pepper do what she ought to, Miss Salisbury?" cried Alexia, quite enchanted with her success thus far.

Miss Salisbury turned a puzzled face at her. "Will I make Polly Pepper do as she ought to?" she repeated. "My dear Alexia, what a strange request. Polly Pepper is always doing as she ought."

"Well, Polly is just hateful to herself," declared Alexia, "and if it wasn't for us girls, she'd -- oh, dear me! I don't know what would happen. What do you suppose, Miss Salisbury, she's gone and -- oh dear, I didn't mean to -- but what do you suppose Polly has just done?"

Before Miss Salisbury could reply, Alexia rushed on frantically. "If you'll believe me, Polly has gone and asked that Charlotte Chatterton to sing at her Recital; just think of that!" exclaimed Alexia, quite gone at the enormity of such a blunder.

"Why, doesn't Charlotte Chatterton sing well?" asked Miss Salisbury, in surprise.

"Oh, frightfully well," said Alexia, "that's just the trouble. And now Polly's Recital will all be part of that Chatterton girl's glory. And it was to be so swell!" And Alexia sank into a chair, and waved back and forth in grief.

"Swell! Oh, Alexia," exclaimed Miss Salisbury in consternation.

"Oh, do excuse me," mumbled Alexia, "but Polly really has spoiled that elegant Recital. It won't be all Polly's, now. Oh, dear me!"

Miss Salisbury drew a long breath. "I'm very glad Polly has asked Miss Chatterton to sing," she said at last. "It was the right thing to do."

"Very glad that Polly has asked that Chatterton girl to sing?" almost shrieked Alexia, starting out of her chair.

"Yes," said Miss Salisbury decidedly. "Very glad indeed, Alexia."

"And now you won't make Polly see that Charlotte Chatterton ought not to be stuck into that Recital?" cried Alexia wildly. "Oh, dear me! and you are the only one that can bring Polly to her senses -- oh, dear me!"

"Certainly not," said Miss Salisbury, with a little dignified laugh. "The Recital is Polly's, and she knows best how to manage it."

"Well, we won't applaud, we girls won't," declared Alexia, stiffening up, "when that Charlotte Chatterton sings; but we'll all just look the other way -- every single one of us."

"Alexia Rhys!" slowly ejaculated Miss Salisbury in real sorrow.

"Well, we can't; it wouldn't be right," gasped Alexia. "Don't look so, Miss Salisbury. Oh, dear me, why will Polly act so! Oh, dear me! I wish Charlotte Chatterton was in the Red Sea."

Miss Salisbury gathered herself up in quiet disapproval; and with a parting look prepared to leave the room.

"Oh, Miss Salisbury," cried Alexia, flying after her, to pluck her gown, "do turn around. Oh, dear me!" and she began to cry as hard as she could.

"When you have come to your better self, Alexia, I will talk with you," said Miss Salisbury distinctly, and she went out, and closed the door.

"Did she say she would -- did she -- did she?" cried a group of the "old girls," as Miss Salisbury's present scholars called Polly and her set, as they came tiptoeing in. "Why, where are you, Alexia?"

"Here," said a dismal voice from the depths of a corner easy chair. They all rushed at her.

"I've had an awful time with her," sobbed Alexia, her face buried in her handkerchief, "and I suppose it really will kill me, girls."

"Nonsense!" cried one or two. "Well, what did she say about making Polly listen to reason?"

"Oh, dreadful -- dreadful!" groaned Alexia gustily. "You can't think!"

"You don't mean to say that she approves, after all that Polly Pepper has worked over that old Recital, to" -- 

 -- "Have some one else come in and grab the glory?" finished another voice.

"Oh, dear -- dear!" groaned Alexia in between. "And Miss Salisbury would kill you, Clem, if she heard you say 'grab.'"

"Well, do tell us, what did Miss Salisbury say?" demanded another girl impatiently.

"She said it was right for Polly to ask Charlotte Chatterton to sing, and she was glad she was going to do it."

"Oh, horrors!" exclaimed the group in dismal chorus.

"The idea! as much as she loves Polly Pepper!" cried Sally Moore.

"And I hate the word 'right,'" exploded Alexia, whirling her handkerchief around her fingers. "Now! It's poked at one everlastingly. I think it's just sweet to be wicked."

"Oh, Alexia Rhys!"

"Well, just a little bit wicked," said Alexia.

Cathie Harrison shook back the waves of light hair on her brow. "Girls," she began hesitatingly. But no one would listen; the laments were going on so fast over Polly and her doings.

"It is right!" cried Cathie at last, after many ineffectual attempt to be heard. "Do stop, girls, making such a noise," she added impatiently.

"That's a great way to preach," said Clem, laughing, "lose your temper to begin with, Cathie."

"I didn't -- that is, I'm sorry," said Cathie. "But, anyway, I want to say I ought to have been ashamed to act so about that Chatterton girl. Where should I have been if Polly Pepper hadn't taken me up?"

She looked down the long aisle to a seat in the corner. "There's where I sat," pointing to it, "and you all know it, for a whole week, and I thought I should die; I did," tragically, "without any one speaking to me. And one day Polly Pepper came up and asked wouldn't I come to her house to the Bee you were all going to get up to fit out that horrible old poor white family down South. And I wanted to get up and scream, I was so glad."

"Cathie Harrison," exclaimed Alexia, springing to her feet defiantly, "what do you want to bring back those dreadful old times for! You are the most uncomfortable person I ever saw."

"You needn't mind it now, Alexia," cried Cathie, rushing at her, "for you've been too lovely for anything ever since -- you dear!"

"I lovely? oh, girls, did you hear?" cried Alexia, sinking into her chair again, quite overcome. "She said I was lovely -- oh, dear me!"

"And so you are," repeated Cathie stoutly; "just as nice and sweet and lovely to me as you can be. So!" throwing her long arms around Alexia.

"I didn't want to be; Polly made me," said Alexia.

"I know it; but I don't care. You are nice now, any way."

"And I suppose we must be nice to that Chatterton girl now, if she does break up our fun," said Alexia with a sigh, getting out of her chair. "Come on, girls; let us go and tell Polly it's just heavenly that Charlotte is to sing."



Chapter IX.

Polly's Recital.


Charlotte Chatterton stood back of the portiere pulling a refractory button of her glove into place, as a gay group precipitated themselves into the dressing-room of The Exeter.

"Now remember, girls," cried Alexia, rushing at the toilet table to bestow frantic twitches at the fluffy waves of hair over her forehead, "that we must applaud the very minute that she gets through singing. Oh dear me, just look at my bangs; they are perfect frights. Hateful things!" with another pull at the offending locks.

"It's a swell house," exclaimed one of the girls delightedly.

"Just let Miss Salisbury catch you saying 'swell,'" warned Alexia. "Take care now, Sally Moore, this is a very proper and select occasion."

"Well, do let some of us have that glass a minute," retorted Sally, "and mend your manners before you take occasion to correct my speech."

"My bangs are worse than yours, Sally," cried another girl, crowding up; "do let me get one corner of that glass," trying to achieve a view of her head over Alexia's shoulder.

Alexia calmly picked at the fluffy bunch of hair on her brow, giving it a little quirk before she said, "Don't fight, girls; it quite spoils one's looks; I never do when I'm dressed up."

"Of course not," said Sally Moore, "for you get everything you want without fighting."

"The idea!" exclaimed Alexia, with an injured expression, "when I never have my own way. Why, I give up and give up the whole time to somebody. Well, never mind; let's talk about the Recital. Oh, it's going to be quite elegant for Polly Pepper. There's a regular society cram in the Hall."

"Well, I don't think 'society cram' is a bit better than a 'swell affair,'" said Clem Forsythe, slipping out of her opera cloak.

"Nor I either," cried three or four voices.

"Oh, I don't object to 'swell affair' myself," said Alexia; "I have used the words on more than one occasion, unless my memory is treacherous. I only wanted to spare Miss Salisbury's nerves."

"Pity you didn't give more attention to Miss Salisbury's nerves five or six years ago," said Sally. "Do get away from that glass."

"It's no time to talk about me now," observed Alexia. "All our minds should be on Polly, and her Recital. Girls, did you see Jack Loughead down at the door?"

"Didn't we?" cried the girls.

"He's as handsome as a picture, isn't he?" cried Alexia, with another little pull at her rebellious hair.

"Isn't he?" hummed the girls.

"Well, he won't look at you, for all your fussing over those bangs," said Sally vindictively.

"Did you suppose I thought he would?" cried Alexia coolly. "Why, it's Polly Pepper, everybody knows, that brings him here."

"What's become of Mr. Bayley?" asked one of the girls suddenly.

"Hush -- sh! you mustn't ask," cried Alexia mysteriously, and turning away from the mirror, with a lingering movement; "there, it looks shockingly, but it is as good as I can fix it."

"Your hair always does look perfectly horrid," declared Sally Moore, deftly slipping into the vacated place.

"Well, do tell all you know about Mr. Bayley and Polly," begged the girl who had raised the question, "I'm just dying to know."

"Alexia Rhys doesn't know a thing more than we do, Frances," said Clem, "only she pretends she's in the secret."

"I was down at Dunraven at the Christmas splurge," said Alexia, "and you were not, Clem. That's all I shall say," and she leisurely disposed herself in a big chair, and began to draw on her gloves, with the air of one who could reveal volumes were she so disposed.

"Polly wouldn't ever send him off," said one of the girls, "I don't believe. Why, he's horribly rich; and just think of marrying into the Bayley family -- oh my!"

"I should think the shock of being asked to enter that family, would kill any girl, to begin with," said Clem. "Why, he goes back to William the Conqueror, doesn't he? And there's an earl in the family, and I don't know what else. And then beside, there's his mother; the idea of sitting opposite to her at the table every single day -- oh dear me! I know I should drop my knife and fork and things, from pure fright."

"I'm sure I don't see why anybody is proud to have his family go back all the time," said Alexia Rhys; "for my part I should want to start things forward a little myself."

"Well, who does know anything about it, why Mr. Bayley has gone off suddenly?" demanded Frances.

"No one knows," said Clem.

Alexia hummed a tune provokingly.

"We all guess, and it's easy enough to guess the truth; but Polly won't ever let it out, so that's all there is about it."

"Well, now, girls," said Alexia suddenly, "we must remember what we promised each other."

"What do you mean?" asked Frances; "I didn't promise anything to anybody."

"You weren't with us when we promised, my dear," answered Alexia, "and I'll rise and explain. You see we don't any of us like that Charlotte Chatterton; not a single one of us. She's a perfect stick, I think."

"So do I," said another girl; "this is the way she walks." Thereupon followed a representation given to the life, of Charlotte Chatterton's method of getting her long figure over the ground, which brought subdued peals of laughter from the girls looking on.

"And she has no more feeling than an oyster," pursued Alexia, when she had recovered her breath, "or she might see that Polly was just giving up all her fun and ours too, by dragging her into everything that is going on."

"I know it," said the girls.

"And I'm so sick of her taking in everything so as a matter of course," observed Alexia; "oh! she's quite an old sponge."

"It's bad enough to be called an oyster, without having old sponge fastened to one," said Sally Moore, coming away from the mirror, thereby occasioning another rush for that useful dressing-room appointment.

"Well, she is both of those very things," declared Alexia, "nevertheless we must applaud her dreadfully when she's finished singing. That's what we promised each other, Frances. It will please Polly, you know."

"You better hurry, or you will lose your seats," announced a friendly voice in the doorway, which had the effect to send the whole bevy out as precipitately as they had hurried in.

When she was quite sure that no one remained, Charlotte Chatterton shook herself free from the friendly portiere-folds, and stepped to the center of the deserted room.

"I'll not sing one note!" she declared, standing tall, "not one single note!" Just then, in ran Amy Loughead.

"Oh dear, and oh dear!"

"What is the matter?" asked Charlotte, not moving.

"Oh, I'm so frightened," gasped Amy, shivering from head to foot, "there are so many people in there, oh -- oh! I can't play!" beating her hands together in terror.

"You must," said Charlotte unsympathizingly.

"I can't -- I can't. Oh, I shall die! The hall is full, and they keep coming in. Oh -- Miss Pepper!"

For Polly, in her soft white gown, was coming quickly into the dressing-room.

"Your hands are just as cold as ice," said Polly, gathering up Amy's shaking little palms into her own. "There now, we'll see if we can't coax them into playing order," rubbing them between her own warm ones.

"Oh, I can feel all those people's eyes staring through me," cried Amy, huddling up against Polly.

"You mustn't think of their eyes, child," laughed Polly. But there was a little white line around her mouth. Just then a messenger came in with a note.

"Any answer?" asked Polly. "Oh, stay; I would better read it before you go." And she tore it open.

"I am so sorry that I cannot keep my engagement to play the duet with Miss Porter, but the doctor has just been here, and he says I must not go out. I should have written this morning that I had a sore throat, but I thought I could manage to go. I'm so sorry -- oh, Miss Pepper, I'm so sorry!

"Julia Anderson."

The note fell to Polly's lap, and for a minute she could not speak. "There is no answer," at last she said to the messenger.

"Oh, Miss Pepper, what is it?" cried Amy Loughead, brought out of her own fright, by the dread of a new trouble.

"Julia Anderson is sick and cannot be here," said Polly.

"Oh, dear! and she was going to play with Miss Porter. What will you do?" cried Amy in consternation.

"Why, I shall have to take her place," said Polly, forcing herself to speak.

"Oh, dear -- dear!" exclaimed Amy, trying not to burst into tears. "Everything is just as bad and horrid as it can be. Oh, dear, dear, and I can't play; I should disgrace you!"

"Oh, no, no, Amy," said Polly, trying to smile, "that you'll never do." She threw the note on the floor now, and began to rub the cold little hands again.

"But -- but, I'm so frightened," gasped Amy.

Charlotte Chatterton walked to the window.

"I may be a stick, and an oyster, and an old sponge, and everybody wish me out of the way, but I'm not such a villain as to bother her now by telling her I won't sing. If they only won't applaud!" She shut her teeth tightly, and turned back again.

"I wouldn't, Miss Loughead," she began. But her voice sounded cold and unsympathetic, and Amy clung to Polly tighter than ever.

Ben now looked in. "Come, Polly," he said. "You really ought to be out here, and it's almost three o'clock."

Amy gave a gasp. "What shall I do?"

"You may stay in here, if you really wish," said Polly in a low voice, Charlotte Chatterton looking on with all her eyes, "and I will excuse you."

"And will -- will you be disappointed in me?" Amy brought out the question shamefacedly.

"Very much," said Polly.

"And will you never try me again -- and never give me music lessons?" asked Amy fearfully.

"I do not seem to teach you successfully," said Polly very slowly, "so it would be no use to continue the lessons." And she put aside the clinging hands. "You may stay here, Amy; I am coming, Ben," looking over at him.

"I'll play," cried Amy Loughead desperately. "I'd rather, oh, dear me, if they were bears and gorillas looking on -- and I just know I shall die -- but I'd rather, Miss Pepper, than to have you give me up."

Charlotte Chatterton drew a long breath.

"What's the matter?" asked Ben in dismay.

"Miss Loughead was a little scared, I believe," said Charlotte, with a touch of scorn in her manner.

Ben gave an uneasy exclamation. "Everything seems to be all right now," he said, in a relieved way, looking off at Polly and Amy.

"Oh, yes; a scare don't amount to much if one has a mind to put it down," said Charlotte.

"I should think you'd be scared," said Ben, looking at her admiringly, "to stand up and sing before all those people. But I suppose you never are; you don't seem to mind things like the rest of us."

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing.

"We are all ready," said Polly cheerfully coming up with Amy. "Oh, Charlotte, you are such a comfort," she found time to whisper.

Charlotte clasped her hands tightly together so that an ominous rent appeared in one of her pretty gloves. "I'll sing," she kept saying to herself all the way out to the platform, "oh, I'll sing -- I'll sing." And later on, while looking down into the eyes of the girls waiting to applaud, "I'll sing -- I'll sing," she had to declare to herself till her name was announced.

As the last note died away, "Who is that girl?" went around the hall. Charlotte Chatterton had made a sensation.

Alexia Rhys, angry at the effect of the song, still clapped steadily together her soft-gloved hands, looking at Polly with the air of a martyr all the while.

"Charlotte -- oh, I'm glad!" whispered Polly radiantly, "they want you to sing again," trying to pull her forward, as the storm of applause went on.

"I'll not sing!" cried Charlotte passionately. "Never! Don't ask it, Polly."

"Why, Charlotte!" implored Polly, astonished at the passion in the girl usually so cold and indifferent. Still the applause continued, Polly's set keeping at it like veterans.

Ben ran up the platform steps with shining eyes. "Grandpapa requests Charlotte to sing again," he whispered to Polly.

"There, you hear, Charlotte." said Polly. "Grandpapa wishes it."

"Very well," said Charlotte, resuming her ordinary manner, and looking as if it really made no difference to her whether she sang or was quiet, she walked to her place.

Polly slipped back of the piano, and began the accompaniment, and again Charlotte's singing carried all by storm.

Polly, looking down into Jasper's face, saw him smile over to his father, and nod in a pleased surprise; and she was aghast to feel a faint little wish begin to grow in her heart, that Charlotte Chatterton had not been asked to sing.

"Of course Jasper is surprised, as he has never heard her sing," said Polly to herself, "and her voice is so beautiful in this big hall, oh, it's so very beautiful!" as Charlotte came back, apparently not hearing the expressions of delight that rang over the concert-room.

"That Chatterton girl will be all the rage now," whispered Alexia savagely to Clem who sat next to her. "Look at Mrs. Cabot. She has her 'I'll-take-you-up-and-patronize-you air' on, and I know she's making up her mind to give Charlotte a musicale."

Other people also, scattered here and there in the hall, were making up their minds to introduce Miss Chatterton to their friends; as a girl with such a wonderful voice, it would be quite worth one's while to bring out.

Polly, by this time, explaining to the audience, the failure of Miss Anderson to take her part in the duet, caught little ends of the whispers going on beneath her, such as "Perfectly exquisite." "Most wonderful range." "Shall certainly ask her to sing." And again she saw Jasper's beaming face, while Ben took no pains to conceal his delight. And she sat down to the piano mechanically, and began in a dazed way to help Miss Porter through with the duet that was to have been one of the finest things on the carefully prepared programme.

Suddenly, in the midst of a slow movement, Polly glanced down and caught her mother's eye.

"Polly," it said, just as plainly as if Mrs. Fisher had spoken, "is this my girl? For shame, if the Little Brown House teachings are forgotten like this."

Polly straightened up, sent Mamsie down a bright smile that made Mrs. Fisher nod, and flash back one in return, then bent all her energies to making that duet speak its message through the concert-room. People who had rather languished in their chairs, now gathered themselves up with fresh interest, and clapped their hands at the brilliant passages, and exclaimed over the ability of the music teacher who could change an apparent failure to such a glorious success. Everybody said it was wonderful; and when the duet was over, the house rang with the charming noise by which the gratified friends tried to express their delight. But Polly saw only Mamsie's eyes, filled with joy.

Meantime, Charlotte Chatterton had hurried out to the dressing-room, tossing on her walking things with a quick hand; and held fast for a minute as she crept out into the broad passage, by the duet now in full progress, she went softly down the stairs.

When it was all over, everybody crowded around Polly.

"Oh, Miss Pepper, your Recital is lovely! oh, how beautifully Miss Chatterton sang!" and,

"Oh, Miss Pepper, I am delighted with your pupils' progress; and what an exquisite voice Miss Chatterton has!"

And then it was, "Oh, it must have been so hard, Miss Pepper, for you to excuse Miss Anderson at the last minute; and we can't thank you enough for letting us hear Miss Chatterton sing."

"Oh, I shall fly crazy to hear them go on," cried Alexia to a little bunch of girls back of the crowd; "will nothing stop them?" wringing her hands angrily together. "It's all Chatterton, Chatterton now; and after Polly's magnificent playing too. Oh dear me, I knew it would be so!"

Polly turned, with a happy face, to pull Charlotte forward to hear the kind things. "Why, where" -- 

"Oh, she's gone home," answered Alexia, stepping forward hastily -- "Hasn't she, girls?" appealing to them. "She must have; she went out like a shot. Don't, Polly, how can you?" she begged, turning back to twitch Polly's arm, "you've done enough, I should think."

"What did she run off for?" cried Jasper, scaling the platform steps. Polly glanced quickly up into his beaming face.

"Oh, Jasper, she has gone home -- I couldn't help it," and her face fell.

He looked annoyed. "Never mind, Polly," he said, his brow clearing, "father wanted to introduce her to some friends, that's all. Well, and wasn't it a grand success, though!" and he beamed at her.

"Yes," said Polly, settling Amy's music with an unsteady hand.

"And Charlotte really surprised us all," he went on gaily. "Why, Polly, who would think that we have -- or you rather, for you have done it all -- the honor to bring out a nightingale! Here, let me do that for you." He was fairly bubbling over with delight, and as he essayed to take the music out of Polly's hand, he laughed again. "Dear me, how stupid I am," as a piece fluttered to the floor.

"And didn't Amy do nicely?" asked Polly beginning to feel a bit tired now.

"Yes, indeed," assented Jasper enthusiastically, as he recovered the piece. "Just splendidly! I didn't know she had so much music in her. Oh, here comes a horde of congratulations, Polly." He threw her the brightest of smiles as he moved to make way for a group of friends hurrying up to shower Polly with compliments, and every one had something delightful to add of Charlotte Chatterton's singing.

"Jasper couldn't help but be happy over Charlotte's singing," said Polly to herself, and looking after him, "it's so beautiful," as they came up.

"Where are you going, Polly?" called Alexia at last, when it was all over, and the janitor was closing the big outer door, as Polly ran ahead of the girls and down the long steps of The Exeter.

Polly turned and waved her music-roll at them for a reply.

"Now somebody is going to carry her off," grumbled Alexia; "hurry up, girls, let's see who it is." So they ran as lightly as Polly herself, after her, down the steps, only in time to see old Mr. King help her into the carriage with Mrs. Fisher and Phronsie, and drive rapidly off.

"Whatever in the world is the matter?" cried Alexia, running up to Jasper who was watching them speed away.

"Why, Polly thinks Charlotte is sick," explained Jasper, "because she went home before the Recital was out."

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Alexia angrily. "What is the matter with Polly, Jasper? She grows worse and worse. Why can't she let Charlotte Chatterton alone, pray tell. I, for one, should think mischief enough had been done by that girl."

"You should think mischief enough had been done by Charlotte?" repeated Jasper in astonishment. "I must say, Alexia, that I fail to understand you."

"To hear people praise to the very skies that Chatterton girl," cried Alexia in a passion -- she was actually stamping her foot now -- "oh, oh! why don't some of you say something?" she cried, appealing suddenly to the girls. "You all feel as I do about Polly's pushing forward that girl; and there you stand and make me do all the talking."

Jasper looked grave at once. "There is no occasion for any one to exert herself to talk over this," he said. "It is Polly's affair, and hers alone." He raised his hat to her, and to the rest of the group, and walked off.



Chapter X.

Phronsie Has A Plan.


Phronsie was the first to reach Charlotte's door.

"Charlotte?" she called softly through the keyhole. There was no answer, and after one or two ineffectual attempts, Phronsie turned fearfully away.

"I do believe something is in the room with Charlotte," she said, as Polly came running up the stairs. Then she sat down on the top step and clasped her hands. "I heard it raging up and down."

"Oh, no, Phronsie," said Polly reassuringly, "there couldn't be anything in there with Charlotte. I'll try," and she laid a quick hand on the knob. "Oh, Charlotte, do open the door; you are worrying us all so," called Polly imploringly.

Charlotte flung wide the door. Two red spots burned on her cheeks, and her pale blue eyes snapped. But when she saw Polly, she said, "I'm sorry I frightened you, but I'm best alone."

"Isn't there really anything in here with you, Charlotte?" asked Phronsie, getting off from her stair, to peer past Polly. "Oh, I'm sure I heard it raging up and down."

"That was I," said Charlotte; "I was the wild beast, Phronsie."

"Oh, dear," breathed Phronsie.

"And oh!" exclaimed Polly.

"Charlotte," said Phronsie, coming in to slip her hand into Charlotte's, "it was just beautiful when you sang; I thought it was birds when you went clear up into the air. I did really, Charlotte."

"Oh, don't!" begged Charlotte, looking over at Polly.

"Come down to dinner, Charlotte," said Polly quickly. "Really you must, else I am afraid Grandpapa will be up here after you."

"I don't want any dinner," said Charlotte, drawing back.

"Indeed, but you must come down," said Polly firmly, holding out her hand. "Come, Charlotte."

"Let me smooth your hair," begged Phronsie, standing on tiptoe; "do bend down just a very little, please. There, that's it," patting Charlotte's head with both hands; "now you look very nice; you really do -- doesn't she, Polly."

"Yes, indeed," said Polly cheerily, "just as fine as can be. There, they are coming after us," as quick footsteps sounded in the hall below. "Hurry, Charlotte, do. We're coming, boys," she called.

They had just finished dinner, when a note was handed Polly. It ran thus:

"Do, dear Polly, run over to-morrow morning early. I want to consult you in regard to asking Miss Chatterton to sing at my next 'At Home.' I should be charmed to have her favor us.

"Felicia A. Cabot."

"The very thing!" exclaimed Jasper, with only a thought for Polly's pleasure, when Polly had cried, "How nice of Mrs. Cabot!" "Don't you say so, father?" he added.

"Assuredly," said old Mr. King with great satisfaction in Polly's pleasure, and at her success in drawing Charlotte out. And then he thought no more about it, and the bell ringing and Mr. Alstyne coming in, he went off into the library for a quiet chat.

And after this, there were no more quiet days for Charlotte Chatterton. Everybody who was musical, wanted to revel in her voice; and everybody who wasn't, wanted the same thing because it was so talked about. So she was asked to sing at musicales and receptions without end, until Alexia exclaimed at last, "They are all raving, stark-mad over her, and it's all Polly's own fault, the whole of it."

Phronsie laid down the note she was writing to Mrs. Fargo, a fortnight later, and said to herself, "I would better do it now, I think," and going out, she went deliberately to old Mr. King's room, and rapped at the door.

"Come in!" called the old gentleman, "come in! Oh, bless me, it's you, Phronsie!" in pleased surprise.

"Yes, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, coming in and shutting the door carefully, "I came on purpose to see you all alone."

"So you did, dear," said Mr. King, highly gratified, and pushing away his writing table, he held out his hand. "Now, then, Phronsie, you are never going to be too big, you know, to sit on my knee, so hop up now."

"Oh, no, Grandpapa," cried Phronsie in a rapture, "I could never be too big for that," so she perched up as of old on his knee, then she folded her hands and looked gravely in his face.

"Well, my dear, what is it?" asked the old gentleman presently, "you've come to tell me something, I suppose."

"Yes, Grandpapa, I have," said Phronsie decidedly, "and it is most important too, Grandpapa, and oh, I do wish it so much," and she clasped her hands tighter and sighed.

"Well, then, Phronsie, if you want it, I suppose it must be," said Mr. King, quite as a matter of course. "But first, child, tell me what it is," and he stroked her yellow hair.

"Grandpapa," asked Phronsie suddenly, "how much money did Mrs. Chatterton say I was to have?"

"Oh, bless me!" exclaimed Mr. King, with a start. "Why, what makes you ask such a question? Oh, she left you everything she had, Phronsie; a couple of millions or so it is; why?"

"Grandpapa," asked Phronsie, looking intently at him, "isn't Charlotte very, very poor?"

"Charlotte poor?" repeated the old gentleman. "Why, no, not exactly; her father isn't rich, but Charlotte, I think, may do very well, especially as I intend to keep her here for a while, and then I shall never let her suffer, Phronsie; never, indeed."

"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, "wasn't Mrs. Chatterton aunt to Charlotte?"

"Yes; that is, to Charlotte's father," corrected Mr. King. "But what of that, child, pray? What have you got into your head, Phronsie?"

"If Mrs. Chatterton was aunt to Charlotte," persisted Phronsie slowly, "it seems as if Charlotte ought to have some of the money. It really does, Grandpapa."

"But Cousin Eunice didn't think so, else she'd have left it to Charlotte," said Mr. King abruptly, "and she did choose to leave it to you. So there's an end of it, Phronsie. I didn't want you to have it, but the thing was fixed, and I couldn't help myself. And neither can we do anything now, but take matters as they are."

"I do think," said Phronsie, without taking her eyes from his face, "that maybe Mrs. Chatterton is sorry now, and wishes that she had left some money to Charlotte. Don't you suppose so, Grandpapa?" and one hand stole up to his neck.

"Maybe," said the old gentleman, with a short laugh, "and I shouldn't wonder if Cousin Eunice was sorry over a few other things too, Phronsie."

"Wouldn't it make her very glad if I gave Charlotte some of the money?" Phronsie's red lips were very close to his ear now, "oh, I do want to so much; you can't think, Grandpapa, how much!"

For answer, Mr. King set her down hastily on the floor, and took two or three turns up and down the room. Phronsie stood a moment quite still where he left her, then she ran up to him and slipped her hand within his.

"Oh, I do so wish I might," she said, "there's so much for a little girl like me. It would be so nice to have Charlotte have some with me."

Still no answer. So Phronsie went up and down silently by his side for a few more turns. Then she spoke again. "Does it make you sorry, Grandpapa dear, to have me want Charlotte to have the money with me?" she asked timidly.

"No, no, child," answered Mr. King hastily, "and yet I don't know what to say. I don't feel that it would be right for you to give any of your money to her."

"Right?" cried Phronsie, opening her brown eyes very wide. "Why, isn't the money my very own, Grandpapa?"

"Yes, yes, of course; but you are too young to judge of such things," said the old gentleman decidedly, "as the giving away of property and all that."

"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Phronsie, in gentle reproach, and standing very tall. "Why, I am thirteen."

"And when you get to be ten years older, you might blame me," said Mr. King, "and I can't say but what you'd have reason if I let you do such a thing as to give away any money to Charlotte."

"Blame you? Why, Grandpapa, I couldn't." Phronsie drew a long breath, then threw herself convulsively into his arms, her face working hard in her efforts not to cry. But it was no use, and Mr. King caught her in time to see the quick drops roll down Phronsie's cheek and to feel them fall on his hand.

"Oh, dear me!" he cried in great distress, "there, there, child, you shall give away the whole if you wish; I've enough for you without it -- only don't cry, Phronsie. You may do anything you like, dear. There," mopping up her wet little face with his handkerchief, "now that's a good child; Phronsie, you are not going to cry, of course not. There, do smile a bit; that's my girl now," as a faint light stole into Phronsie's eyes. "I didn't mean you'd really blame me, only" -- 

"I couldn't," still said Phronsie, and it looked as if the shower were about to fall again.

"I know, child; you think your old Grandpapa does just about right," said Mr. King soothingly, and highly gratified.

"He's ever and always right," said Phronsie, still not moving.

"Bless you, child," cried the old gentleman, much moved, "I wish I could say I believed what you say. But many things in my life might have been bettered."

"Oh, no, Grandpapa," protested Phronsie in a tone of horror, "they couldn't have been better. Don't, Grandpapa, don't!" she caught him around the neck imploringly.

"Well, I won't, child," promised Mr. King, holding her close. "And now, Phronsie, I'll tell you; I'll think of all this that you and I have talked over, and I'll let you know by and by what you ought to do about it, and you mustn't say anything about it to anybody, not to a single soul, child. It shall be just a secret between you and me."

"I won't, Grandpapa," said Phronsie obediently, and patting his broad back with her soft hand.

"And, meantime," said Mr. King, quite satisfied, "why, Charlotte is having pretty good times, I think. Polly is looking out for that."

"Polly is making her have beautiful times," said Phronsie happily, "oh, very beautiful times indeed, Grandpapa."

"I expect she's an awful nuisance," the old gentleman broke out suddenly.

"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Phronsie, breaking away from him to look into his face.

"Well, well, perhaps I shouldn't say quite that," said Mr. King, correcting himself. "But, well, now, Phronsie, you run back to your play, child, and I'll set to work at once to think out this matter."

"I was writing a note to Mrs. Fargo," said Phronsie, putting up her lips for a kiss. "You are sure you won't make your head ache thinking about it, Grandpapa?" she asked anxiously.

"Sure as I can be, Phronsie," said old Mr. King, smiling. "Good-by, dear."

*    *    *    *    *

"See here, Pickering," Mr. Cabot threw wide the door of his private office with a nervous hand. "It is time I had a good talk with you. Come in; I never get one nowadays."

"Can't stop, Uncle," said Pickering hastily. "Besides, what would be the use, you never see anything encouraging about me or my career. And I believe I am going to the dogs."

"Indeed you are not, Pickering," cried Mr. Cabot quickly, the color rising to his cheek. "There, there, my sister's boy shall never say that. But come in, come in." He laid hold of Pickering's arm and gently forced him into the little room.

Not to be ungracious, the young man threw himself into a chair. "Well, what is it, Uncle? Do out with it; I'm in no mood for a lecture, though, this morning."

"I'm not going to lecture you, my boy," said Mr. Cabot, closing the door, then going to the mantel to lean one elbow on it, a favorite attitude of his, while he scanned his nephew. "But something worse than common has come to you. Can I help in any way?"

"No, no, don't ask me," ejaculated Pickering, striking his knee with one glove, and turning apprehensively in his chair. "Oh, hang it, Uncle, why can't you let me alone?"

"I've seen this thing, whatever it is, coming upon you for sometime," said Mr. Cabot, too nervous to notice the entreaty in Pickering's voice and manner, "and I cannot wait any longer to find out the trouble. It's my right, Pickering; you have no father to see to you, and I've always wanted to have the best success be yours." He turned away his head now, a break coming in his voice.

"You have, Uncle, you have," assented Pickering, brought out a trifle from his distress, "but then I'm not equal to the strain my relatives put upon me. Not worth it, either," he added, relapsing into his gloom. Then he shoved his chair so that he could not look his uncle in the face, and bent a steady glance out of the window.

Mr. Cabot gave a nervous start that carried him away from the mantel a step or two. But when he was there, he felt so much worse, that he soon got back into the old position.

"I don't see, Pickering," he resumed, "why you shouldn't get along. You're through college."

"Which is a wonder," interpolated Pickering.

"Well, I can't say but that I was a good deal disturbed at one time," said Mr. Cabot frankly; "but never mind that now, you are through," and he heaved a sigh of relief, "and nicely established with Van Metre and Cartwright. It's the best law firm in the town, Pickering." Mr. Cabot brought his elbow off from the mantel enough to smite his palms together smartly in enthusiasm. "I got you in there."

"I know you did, Uncle," said Pickering; "you've done everything that's good. Only I repeat I'm not worth it," and he drummed on the chair-arm.

"For Heaven's sake, Pickering!" cried his uncle, darting in front of the chair and its restless occupant, "don't say that again. It's enough to make a man go to the bad, to lose hope. What have you been doing lately? Do you gamble?"

"What do you take me for?" demanded Pickering, starting to his feet with flashing eyes, and throwing open his top-coat as if the weight oppressed him. "I've been a lazy dog all my life, and a good-for-naught; but I hope I've not sunk to that."

"Oh, nothing, nothing -- I'm sure I didn't mean," cried Mr. Cabot, starting back suddenly in astonishment. "Dear me, Pickering," taking off his eyeglasses to blow his nose, "you needn't pick me up so violently. I've been much worried about you," settling his glasses again for another look at his nephew. "And I can't tolerate any thoughts I cannot speak."

"I should think not," retorted Pickering shortly; "the trouble is in having the thoughts."

"And I am very much relieved to find that my fears are groundless -- that you've been about nothing that my sister or I should be ashamed of," and he picked up courage to step forward gingerly and pat the young man on the shoulder. "You are in trouble, though, and I insist on knowing what it is."

Pickering dropped suddenly beneath his uncle's hand, into the nearest chair.



Chapter XI.

Things Are Getting Mixed.


"How can you ask me, Uncle?" cried Pickering passionately.

"Because I will know." Mr. Cabot was quite determined.

"Well, then, if you must have it, it's -- it's Polly Pepper." Pickering could get no further.

"It's Polly Pepper!" ejaculated Mr. Cabot. Then a light broke over his face, and he laughed aloud, he was so pleased. "You mean, you are in love with Polly Pepper?"

"As if everybody didn't know it?" cried Pickering hotly. "Don't pretend, Uncle, that you are surprised;" he was really disrespectful now in manner. "Oh, beg pardon, sir," recovering himself.

"Never mind," said Mr. Cabot indulgently, "you are over-wrought this morning. My boy," and he came over and clapped his nephew on the back approvingly, "that's the best thing you ever told me; you make me very happy, and" -- 

"Hold, Uncle," cried Pickering, darting away from the hand, "don't go so fast. You are taking too much for granted."

Mr. Cabot for answer, bestowed another rap, this time on Pickering's arm, indulging all the while in the broadest of smiles.

Just then some one knocked at the door, and in response to Mr. Cabot's unwilling "Come in," Ben's head appeared. "Beg pardon, Mr. Cabot, but Mr. Van Metre wants you out here."

Pickering lunged past Ben. "Don't stop me," he cried crossly, in response to Ben's "Well, old fellow."

Ben stared after him with puzzled eyes as he shot down the long store; and all that afternoon he could not get Pickering and his strange ways out of his mind, and on the edge of the twilight, jumping out of his car at the corner nearest home, he buttoned up his coat and rushed on, regardless that Billy Harlowe was making frantic endeavors to overtake him.

"What's got into the old chap," said Ben to himself, pushing on doggedly with the air of a man who has thoughts of his own to think out. "I declare, if I should know Pickering Dodge lately; I can't tell where to find him."

And with no light on his puzzle, Ben turned into the stone gateway, and strode up to the east porch to let himself in as usual, with his latch key. As he was fitting it absently, all the while his mind more intent on Pickering and his changed demeanor than on his own affairs, he heard a little rustling noise that made him turn his head to see a tall figure spring down the veranda floor in haste to gain the quickest angle.

"Charlotte, why, what are you doing out here?" exclaimed Ben, leaving his key in the lock to look at her.

"Don't speak!" begged Charlotte hastily, and coming up to him. "Somebody will hear you. I came out here to walk up and down -- I shall die in that house; and I am going home to-morrow." She nervously twisted her handkerchief around her fingers, and Ben still looking at her closely, saw that she had been crying.

"Charlotte, what are you talking about?" he cried, opening his honest blue eyes wide at her. "Why, I thought you had ever so much sense, and that you were way ahead of other girls, except Polly," he added, quite as a matter of course.

"Don't!" cried Charlotte, wincing, and, "but I shall go home to-morrow."

"Look here," Ben took out his key and tucked it into his pocket, then faced Charlotte, "take a turn up and down, Charlotte; you'll pull out of your bad fit; you're homesick." Ben's honest face glowed with pity as he looked at her.

"I'm -- I'm everything," said Charlotte desperately. "O, Ben, you can't think," she seized his arm, "Polly is just having a dreadful time because I'm here."

"See here, now," said Ben, taking the hand on his arm in a strong grip, as if it were Polly's, "don't you go to getting such an idea into your head, Charlotte."

"I can't help it," said Charlotte; "it was put there," she added bitterly.

Ben gave a start of surprise. "Well, you are not the sort of girl to believe such stuff, any way," he said.

Charlotte pulled away her hand. "I'm going home," she declared flatly.

"Indeed you are not," said Ben, quite as decidedly.

"O, yes, I am."

"We'll see;" he nodded at her. "Take my advice, Charlotte, and don't make a muff of yourself.

"It's very easy for you to talk," cried Charlotte, a little pink spot of anger rising on either cheek, "you have everybody to love you, and to be glad you are here; very easy, indeed!"

With that, she walked off, swinging her gown disdainfully after her.

"Whew!" ejaculated Ben, "well, I must say I'm surprised at you, Charlotte. I didn't suppose you could be jealous."

"Jealous?" Charlotte flamed around at him. "O, Ben Pepper, what do you mean?"

"You are just as jealous as you can be," said Ben honestly, "absolutely green."

"I'd have you to know I never was jealous in my life," said Charlotte, quite pale now, and standing very still.

"You don't know it, but you are," said Ben imperturbably; "when people begin to talk about other folks being loved and happy and all that, they're always jealous. Why in the world don't you think how everybody is loving you and wanting to make you happy?" It was quite a long speech for Ben, and he was overcome with astonishment at himself for having made it.

"Because they are not," said Charlotte bitterly, "at least, they can't love me, if they do try to make me happy."

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Ben.

"And Polly" -- then Charlotte pulled herself up.

"Well, what about Polly?" demanded Ben.

"Oh, nothing." Charlotte twisted uneasily, and shut her lips tightly together.

"If you think my sister Polly doesn't love you and want to make you happy, there's no use in my talking to you," said Ben, in a displeased way.

"I didn't say so," cried Charlotte quickly. "Oh, don't go. You are the only one who can help me," as he made a movement toward the door. "I never told anybody else, and they don't guess."

"And it's a pity that they should now," said Ben. "I tell you, Charlotte, if you never say anything like this again, I'll believe that you're the girl I thought you, with plenty of sense, and all that. There, give us your hand. Hurry up, now; here comes Phronsie."

Charlotte slowly laid her hand in Ben's big palm, as Phronsie opened the oaken door, and peered out into the darkness.

"I can't think what makes Ben so late," she said softly to herself.

"I'm going into the other door," said Charlotte, springing off down the veranda.

"Halloo, Pet!" Ben rushed into the hall, and seized Phronsie for a good hug.

"O, Ben, you're so late!" cried Phronsie.

"Well, I'm here now," said Ben comfortably.

"You can't think what has happened," said Phronsie, with a delightful air of mystery.

"To be sure I can't; but you are going to tell me," declared Ben with assurance.

"O, Bensie, I'd so much rather you would guess," said Phronsie, clasping her hands.

"Well, then, you have a new cat," said Ben at a hazard, while he disposed of his coat and hat.

"O, Ben," cried Phronsie in reproach, "why, I've given up having new cats; indeed I have."

"Since when?" asked Ben.

"Why, last week. I really have. I'm not going to get any more," said Phronsie.

Ben shouted. At the sound of his voice, somebody called over the stairs, "O, Ben, are you home? Come up here."

"Come on, Pet," cried Ben, "we're wanted," seizing Phronsie, and hurrying off to the stairs.

"I did so want to tell you myself," mourned Phronsie on the way.

"Then you shall." Ben set her on the floor suddenly. "I'll come up in a minute or so," he called. "There now, Phronsie, we'll have the wonderful news. Out with it, child."

"I don't suppose you ever could guess," said Phronsie, pausing a moment, "I really don't, Ben, because this is something you never would think of."

"No, I'm quite sure I should never guess in all the world," said Ben decidedly, "so let us have it."

"Grandpapa has promised to give us a surprise party," announced Phronsie, with careful scrutiny to see the effect of her news.

"A surprise party? Goodness me!" exploded Ben, "what do you mean, Phronsie?"

"A surprise party to go and see Jasper; and we are to start to-morrow. Now, Ben!" and Phronsie, her news all out, beamed up into his face.

"Oh, so it's Jasper's surprise party," cried Ben.

"Yes, and it's ours too; because you see we didn't any of us think Grandpapa was going to do it," said Phronsie.

"Well, it's my surprise party, too," said Ben lugubriously, "for I'm astonished; and beside I'm left out in the cold."

"O, Ben, can't you go?" cried Phronsie, her face falling instantly.

"No, Pet; wait till you get to be a business man and you'll see that surprise parties can't be indulged in very often."

"Won't Mr. Cabot let you go?" asked Phronsie, with an anxious droop of the head. "O, I think he will; truly I do."

"I sha'n't ask him," said Ben; "I'm sure of that."

"But Grandpapa will," said Phronsie, her face changing.

"No, no, Pet; you mustn't say anything about that. I'd rather stick to the business. There, come on; they're wild, I suppose, upstairs, to tell the news."

Just then some one called Phronsie. "Oh, dear," she sighed involuntarily, as Ben sped over the stairs without her.

"I thought you were never coming home, Ben," said Polly, meeting him in the upper hall. "Oh, we've such a fine thing to tell you!"

"I'm going to guess," said Ben wisely.

"Oh, you never can," declared Polly; "never in all this world. Don't try."

"Can't I, though? Give me a chance. You are to have a surprise party, and go to see Jasper. There!"

"How did you guess?" cried Polly in wide-eyed astonishment.

Ben burst into a hearty laugh. "Well, I met Phronsie, if you must know."

"Of course," laughed Polly; "how stupid in me! Well, was ever anything so fine in all this world?" and she danced down the hall, and came back flushed and panting.

"And Grandpapa has written to tell Mr. Cabot how it is, and to ask for a day or two off for you," she said, with a little pat on his back.

"O, Polly!" exclaimed Ben, in dismay, "Grandpapa shouldn't -- I mean, I ought not to go. I'd really rather not."

"Well, Grandpapa says that you are working too hard, Bensie, and it's quite true," Polly gave him another pat, this time a motherly one; "and so you are going."

But Ben shook his head.

"And we start to-morrow," ran on Polly, "and Jasper doesn't know a word about our coming; and we are going to stay at the hotel two or three days." And here Phronsie ran eagerly up the stairs.

"And it's going to be lovely, and not rain any of the time; and we are to take Jasper a box full of everything," she announced in great excitement. "We began to pack it the very minute that Grandpapa told us we were to go."

"That's fine! Well, I'll drop something into that box," said Ben.

"Of course," said Polly, in great satisfaction.

"And Jasper wouldn't like it not to have something of Ben's in it," said Phronsie.

"Well, now, Bensie, run down after dinner and ask Pickering Dodge to go. That's a good boy." Polly patted the broad back coaxingly this time.

Ben's face fell. "How do you know that Grandpapa would like to have him along?" he asked abruptly.

"As if I'd ask you to invite him," cried Polly, "unless Grandpapa had said he could go. The very idea, Ben!"

"Well, something is the matter with Pick," confessed Ben unwillingly, "and I don't want to ask him."

"Something the matter with Pickering?" repeated Polly in dismay. "O, Ben, is he sick?"

"No," said Ben bluntly, "but he's cross."

"O, Ben, then something very bad must have happened," said Polly, "for Pickering is almost never cross."

"Well, I don't know what to make of him," said Ben; "he's been queer for a week now, more or less, and to-day he wouldn't speak to me; just shot off telling me to let him alone;" and Ben rapidly laid before Polly the little scene of the morning in the store.

"Now, Ben," said Polly, when it was all over, "I know really that something dreadful is the matter with Pickering, and I shall send him a note to come here to-night. He must tell us what it is. I'm going to write it now." And Polly sped off to her room, followed by Phronsie.

Ben went slowly down the hall to get ready for dinner. "I don't know how it is," he said, "but everything seems to be getting mixed up in this house, and all our good, quiet times gone. And now what can Charlotte have heard to make her want to go home?"

And all the time during dinner, Ben kept up a steady thinking, until Polly, looking across the table, caught his eye.

"Don't worry," her smile said, "I've sent a note to Pickering, and we'll find out what the trouble is."

Ben sat straight in his chair, and nodded back at her. "I can't tell her now that Pick is not what I'm stewing over," he said to himself, "and I can't tell her any time, either, for Charlotte has heard something that makes her think Polly is bothered by her being here. I must just fuss at it myself till I straighten it out."

So when Pickering Dodge, with a radiant face at being sent for by Polly's own hand, ran lightly up the steps of the King mansion, about an hour later, Ben hurried off to find Charlotte Chatterton.

"I can't come down," called Charlotte from the upper hall, "I'm tired; good-night."

"So am I tired," declared Ben, "but I'm going to talk to you, Charlotte," he added, decidedly.

"No; I don't want to talk," said Charlotte, shaking her head. "Good-night. Thank you, Ben," she added a bit pleasanter, "but I'm not going down."

"Indeed you are!" said Ben obstinately. "I'm not going to stir from this spot," he struck his hand on the stair railing, "until you are down here. Come, Charlotte."

"No," began Charlotte, but the next moment she was on the stairs, saying as she went slowly down, "I don't want to talk, Ben. There isn't anything to say."

"Now that's something like," observed Ben cheerfully, as she reached his side. "Come in here, do, Charlotte," leading the way into Mother Fisher's little sewing-room.

"But I'm not going to talk," reiterated Charlotte, following him in.

"You are going to talk enough so that I can know how to get this ridiculous idea out of your head," said Ben, as he closed the door on them both.

Mr. Cabot hurried into his wife's room, his face lighted with great satisfaction. "Well, Felicia," he said, "I believe I needn't worry about that boy any more."

"Who, Pickering?" asked Mrs. Cabot, with a last little touch to the lace at her throat.

"Of course Pickering. Well, he's in better hands than mine. Oh, I'm so glad to be rid of him;" and he threw himself into an easy chair and beamed at her.

"What in the world do you mean, Mr. Cabot?" demanded his wife. "You haven't had another fuss with Pickering? Oh, I'm quite sure he'll do well in the Law, if you'll only have patience a little longer."

"Nonsense, Felicia," said Mr. Cabot, "as if I'd get him out of that office, when it was such a piece of work to fasten him in there. Well, to make a long story short, he loves Polly Pepper. Think of that, Felicia!" And Mr. Cabot, in his joy, got out of the chair and began to rush up and down the room, rubbing his hands together in glee.

"O, Mr. Cabot -- Mr. Cabot," cried his wife, flying after him, "you don't mean to say that Pickering and Polly are betrothed? Was ever anything so lovely! Oh! never mind about dinner; I couldn't eat a mouthful. I must go right around there, and get my arms around that dear girl. Tell Biggs to put the horses in at once."

"Stop just one moment, Felicia, for Heaven's sake!" cried Mr. Cabot, putting himself in front of her; "that's just like a woman; only hear the first word, and off she goes!"

"Do order the carriage," begged Mrs. Cabot, with dancing eyes. "I can't wait an instant, but I must tell Polly how glad we are. And of course you'll come too, Mr. Cabot. Oh, dear, it's such blessed news!"

"I didn't say they were engaged," began Mr. Cabot frantically, "I -- I" -- 

"Didn't say that Polly and Pickering were engaged?" repeated Mrs. Cabot. "Well, what did you say, Mr. Cabot?"

"I said he loved her," said Mr. Cabot. "O, Felicia, it's the making of the boy," he added jubilantly.

Mrs. Cabot sank into her husband's deserted chair, unable to find a word.



Chapter XII.

Polly Tries To Do What Is Right.


"O, Pickering!" Polly actually ran into the drawing-room with outstretched hands. "Why did Jencks put you in here?"

"I asked to come in here," said Pickering. "I don't want to see a lot of people to-night; I only want you, Polly."

"But Mamsie could help you -- she'd know the right thing to say to you," said Polly.

"No, no!" cried Pickering in alarm, and edging off into a corner. "Do sit down, Polly, I -- I want to talk to you."

So Polly sat down, her eyes fastened on his face, and wishing all the while that Mamsie would come in.

"I don't wonder you think I'm in a bad way," began Pickering nervously; "it was awfully good in you to send for me, Polly, awfully."

"Why, I couldn't help it," said Polly. "You know it's just like having one of the boys in trouble, to have you worried, Pickering."

"Yes, yes," said Pickering, "I know."

"Well, I want to tell you something," began Polly radiantly, thinking it better to cheer him up a bit with her news before getting at the root of his trouble. "Do you know that Grandpapa is going to take us all to-morrow to see Jasper? It's to be a surprise party."

"Ah," said Pickering, all his gladness gone.

"Yes; and Grandpapa wants you to go with us, Pickering," Polly went on.

"Oh, dear me -- I can't -- can't possibly!" exclaimed Pickering, in a tone of horror. "Don't ask me, Polly. Anything but that."

"O, yes, you can," laughed Polly, determined to get him out of his strange mood. "Why, Pickering, we don't want to go without you. It would spoil all our fun."

"Well, I can't go," cried Pickering, in an agony at being misunderstood. "I'd do anything in the world you ask, Polly, but that."

"Why not, you ridiculous boy?" asked Polly, quite as if it were Joel who was before her.

"Because Jasper and I don't speak to each other," Pickering bolted out; "we had a fight."

Polly sprang to her feet. "What do you say?" she cried.

"It's beastly, I know," declared Pickering, his face aflame, "but, Polly, if you knew -- I really couldn't help it; Jasper was" -- 

"Don't tell me that it was any of Jasper's doings," cried Polly vehemently, clasping her hands tightly together, so afraid she might say something to make the matter worse. "I know, Pickering, it was quite your own fault if you won't speak."

"O, Polly!" exclaimed Pickering, the hot blood all over his face, "don't say that; please don't."

"I must; because I know it is the truth," said Polly uncompromisingly. "If it isn't, why, then come with us to-morrow, Pickering," and her brow cleared.

"I can't, Polly, I can't possibly," cried Pickering in distress; "ask me anything but that, and I'll do it."

"This is the only thing that you ought to do," said Polly coldly. "O, Pickering, suppose that anything should happen so that you never could speak!" she added reproachfully.

"I'm sure I don't want to speak to a man when I've broken friendship with him," said Pickering sullenly. "What is there to talk about, I'd like to know?"

"If you've broken friendship with Jasper, I'm quite, quite sure it is your own fault," hotly declared Polly again; "Jasper never turned away from a friend in his life." And Polly broke off suddenly and walked down the long room, aghast to find how angry she was at each step.

"Don't you turn away from me, Polly," begged Pickering in such a piteous tone that Polly felt little twinges of remorse, and in a minute she was by his side again.

"I didn't mean to be cross," she said quickly, "but you mustn't say such things, Pickering."

"I must tell you the truth," said Pickering doggedly, "and that is that I've broken friendship with Jasper, and I can't speak to him."

"Pickering," said Polly, whirling abruptly to get a good look at his face, "you must speak to Jasper," and she drew a long breath.

"I tell you I can't," said Pickering, his face paling with the effort to control himself.

"Then," said Polly, very deliberately, yet with a glow of determination, "you can't speak to me; so good-night, Pickering," and she ran out of the room.

Pickering stared after her a moment in a dazed way, then picked up his hat, and darted out of the house, shutting the door hard behind him.

Polly, hurrying over the stairs to her own room, kept saying to herself over and over, "Oh! how could I have said that -- how could I? when I want to help him -- and now I have made everything worse."

"Polly," called Mrs. Fisher, as Polly sped by her door, "you are going to take the noon train, you know, to-morrow, Mr. King says; so you can pack in the morning easily."

"I'm not going, Mamsie; that is -- I hope we are not any of us going," said Polly incoherently, as she tried to hurry by.

"Not going! Polly, child, what do you mean?" cried Mrs. Fisher aghast.

"O, Mamsie, don't ask me," begged Polly, having hard work to keep the tears back. "Do forgive me, but need I tell?" and Polly stopped and clung to the knob of the door.

"No, Polly, if you cannot tell mother your trouble willingly, I will not ask it, child." And Mrs. Fisher turned off, and began to busy herself over her work.

Polly, quite broken down by this, deserted her door-knob, and rushed into the bedroom.

"O, Mamsie, it's about -- about other people, and I didn't know as I ought to tell. Need I?" cried Polly imploringly, seizing her mother's gown just as Phronsie would.

"No more had you a right to tell, Polly," said her mother, "if that is the case," and she turned a cheerful face toward her; "I can trust my girl, that she won't keep anything that is her own, away from me. There, there;" and she smoothed Polly's brown hair with her hand. "How I used to be always telling you to brush your hair, and now how nice it looks, Polly," she added approvingly.

"It's the same fly-away hair now," said Polly, throwing back her rebellious locks with an impatient toss of the head. "Oh! how I do wish I had smooth hair like Charlotte's."

"Fly-away hair, when it's taken care of as it ought to be," observed Mrs. Fisher, "is one thing, and when it's all sixes and sevens because a girl doesn't have time to brush it, is another. Your hair is all right now, Polly, There, go, child;" and she dismissed her with a final loving pat. "I can trust you, and when your worry gets too big for you, why, bring it to mother."

So Polly, up in her own room at last, crept into a corner, and there went over every word, bitterly lamenting what she had done. At last she could endure it no longer, and she sprang up. "I'll write a note to Pickering and say I am sorry," she cried to herself. "Maybe Ben will take it to him. O, dear! I forgot; Ben is vexed with him; but perhaps he will leave it at the door. Any way, I'll ask him."

So Polly scribbled down hastily:

Dear Pickering:

I am so sorry I said those words to you; I don't see how I came to. Do forget them, and forgive Polly.

"Ben, Ben!" Polly ran over the stairs, nervously twirling the little note. "O, dear me, where are you, Ben?"

"Here," called Ben, "in Mamsie's sewing-room."

"Oh! I beg your pardon," exclaimed Polly, throwing wide the door on the tete-a-tete Ben was having with Charlotte.

"Come in, Polly," cried Ben, his blue eyes glowing with welcome. "That's all right; you don't interrupt us. Charlotte and I were having a bit of a talk, but we're through. Now what's the matter?" with a good look at Polly's face.

"O, Ben, if you could," began Polly fearfully, "it's only this," waving the note with trembling fingers. "Now do say you will take this note to Pickering Dodge."

"Why, I thought you sent him a note before dinner," said Ben in surprise.

"So I did; and he came," said Polly, her head drooping in a shamefaced way, "and I was cross to him."

"O, Polly, you cross to him!" exclaimed Ben; "as if I'd believe that!" while Charlotte stared at her with wide eyes.

"I truly was," confessed Polly. "There, don't stop, Ben, to talk about it, please, but do take this note," thrusting it at him.

But Ben shook his head. "I thought I told you, Polly, that Pick don't want to speak to me. How in the world can I go at him?" At this Charlotte stared worse than ever.

"You needn't go in the house," said Polly, "just leave it at the door. Ah, do, Ben;" she went up to him and coaxingly patted his cheek.

"All right, as long as you don't want me to bore him," said Ben, slowly getting out of his chair. "Here, give us your note, Polly. Of course you'll make me do as you say."

"You're just as splendid as you can be," cried Polly joyfully. "There, now, Bensie," pushing the note into his hand, "do hurry, that's a good boy."

And in a quarter of an hour, Ben rushed in, meeting Polly in the hall, kis face aglow, and eyes shining. "Here, Polly, catch it," tossing her a note; "that's from Pick."

"Why, did you see him?" asked Polly, in amazement.

"Yes; couldn't help it -- he was rushing out the door like a whirlwind, and we came together on the steps," said Ben, with a burst of laughter at the remembrance, "and we spoke before we meant to; couldn't help it, you know; just ran into each other -- and he read your note, and then he flew into the house, and was gone a moment or two, and came back mumbling it was all his fault, and he'd written; that you'd understand, or something of that sort, and he gave me this note to carry back; and I guess Pick is all right, Polly." Ben drew a long breath of relief after he got through; he was so unaccustomed to long speeches.

Polly tore open her note, and stooped to read it by the dancing flames of the hall fire.

To show that I forgive you, Polly, I'll go to-morrow with you all to see Jasper.

Pickering.

"Won't Jasper be surprised?" Phronsie kept exclaiming over and over, when they were once fairly in the cars; much to old Mr. King's delight, who never tired of congratulating himself on planning the outing. "Grandpapa dear, I do think it was, oh! so lovely in you to take us all."

"Well, Jasper has been working hard lately," said the old gentleman, "and it will be no end of good to him even if it doesn't agree with you, my pet," pinching Phronsie's ear.

"Oh, but it does agree with me," said Phronsie in great satisfaction, "very much, indeed, Grandpapa."

"So it seems," said the old gentleman. "Well, now, Phronsie," glancing around at the rest of his party, "everything is moving on well, and I believe I'll take a bit of a nap; that is, if that youngster," with a nod toward the end of the car, "will allow me to."

"I don't believe that baby will cry any more," said Phronsie, with a hopeful glance whence the disturbing sounds came, "he can't, Grandpapa; he's cried so much. Now do lean your head back; I'm going to put this rug under it;" and Phronsie began to pull out a traveling blanket from the roll.

Polly, across the car aisle, laid down her book, and clambered out her seat. "Let me take baby," she said, coming up unsteadily to the pale little woman who was endeavoring to pacify a stout, red-cheeked boy a year old, just beginning on a fresh series of roars.

An old gentleman in the seat back, laid down the paper he had been trying to read, to see the fresh attempts on the small disturber.

"He'll tire you out, Miss," said the pale little woman deprecatingly. "There, there, Johnny, do be still," with an uneasy pull at Johnny's red skirt.

"Indeed he won't," laughed Polly merrily. Hearing this, Johnny stopped beating the window in the vain effort to get out, and deliberately looked Polly over. "I like babies," added Polly, "and if you'll let me," to the little mother, "I'm going to play with this one." And without waiting for an answer, she sat down in the end of the seat, and held out her hands alluringly to Johnny.

"Young lady, there are babies and babies," observed the old gentleman solemnly, and leaning over the back of the seat, he regarded Polly over his spectacles with pitying eyes, "and I'd advise you to have nothing to do with this particular one."

But Johnny was already scrambling all over Polly's traveling gown, and she was laughing at him. And presently the pale little woman was stretched comfortably on the opposite seat, her eyes closed restfully.

"Well done!" cried the old gentleman; "I'll read my paper while the calm spell lasts;" as the train rumbled on, the sound only broken by Johnny's delighted little gurgles, as Polly played "Rabbit and Fox" for his delectation.

Phronsie looked down the intervening space, and heaved a sigh at Polly's employment.

"Don't worry; I like it," telegraphed Polly, nodding away to her. So Phronsie turned again to her watch, lest Grandpapa's head should slip from the blanket pillow in a sudden lurch of the cars.

"I'd help her if I knew how," Charlotte, several seats off, groaned to herself, "but that lump of a baby would only roar at me. Dear, dear, am I never to be any good to Polly?"

She leaned her troubled face against the window-side, her chin resting on her hand, and gave herself up to the old thoughts. "What did Ben say?" she cried suddenly, flying away from the window so abruptly that she involuntarily glanced around to be quite sure that none of her fellow-passengers were laughing at her. "'You may be sure, Charlotte, if you keep on the lookout, there will a time come for you to help Polly.' That's what he said, and I'll hold fast to it."

On and on the train rumbled. The little mother woke up with a new light in her eyes, and a pink color on her cheeks. "I haven't had such a sleep in weeks," she said gratefully. Then she leaned forward.

"I'll take Johnny now," she said; "you must be so tired."

But Johnny roared out "No," and beat her off with small fists and feet.

"He's going to sleep," said Polly, looking down at him snuggled up tightly within her arm, his heavy eyelids slowly drooping, "then I'll put him down on the seat, and tuck him up for a good long nap."

At the word "sleep" Johnny screamed out, "No, no!" and thrust his fat knuckles into his eyes, while he tried to sit up straight in Polly's lap.

"There, there," cried Polly soothingly, "now fly back, little bird, into your nest."

Johnny showed all the small white teeth he possessed, in a gleeful laugh, and burrowed deeper than before within the kind arm as he tried to play "Bo-peep" with her.

"You see," said Polly, to the little mother's worried look; "he'll soon be off in Nodland," she added softly.

"I've never had any one be so good to me," said Johnny's mother brokenly, "as you, Miss."

"Is Johnny your only little boy?" asked Polly, to stop the flow of gratitude.

"Yes, Miss; I've buried four children."

"Oh!" exclaimed Polly, quite hushed.

The little mother wiped away the tears from her eyes, and looked out of the window, steadily fixing her gaze on the distant landscape. And the train sped on.

"But the worst is, the father is gone." She turned again to Polly, then glanced down at her black dress. "Johnny and me have no one now."

"Don't try to tell me," cried Polly involuntarily, "if it pains you."

She would have taken the thin hand in hers, but Johnny's uneasy breathing showed him still contesting every inch of progress the "children's sandman" was making toward him, and she didn't dare to move.

"It does me good," said the little woman, "somehow, I must tell you, Miss. And now I'm going to Fall River. Somebody told me I'd get work there in the Print Mills. You see, I haven't any father nor mother, nor anybody belonging to Johnny's father nor me."

"Are you sure of getting work when you reach Fall River?" asked Polly, feeling all the thrill of a great lonely world, for two such little helpless beings to be cast adrift in it.

"No'm," said the little woman; "but it's a big mill, they say, and has to have lots of women in it, and there must be a place for me. I do think that times are going to be good now for Johnny and me, and" -- 

A crash like that when the lightning begins on deadly work; a surging, helpless tossing from side to side, when the hands strike blindly out on either side for something to cling to; a sudden fall, down, down, to unknown depths; a confused medley of shouts, and one long shuddering scream.

"Oh! what" -- began Polly, holding to Johnny through it all. And then she knew no more.



Chapter XIII.

The Accident.


A roaring sound close to her ear made Polly start, and open her eyes. Johnny's fat arms were clutched around her neck so tightly she could scarcely breathe, while he was screaming as hard as he could.

 -- "is the matter?" cried Polly, finishing her sentence.

A pair of strong arms were lifting her up, and pulling her from beneath something, she could not tell what, that was lying heavily over her, while Johnny rolled off like a ball.

"O, Ben!" cried Polly gratefully, as the arms carried her off. And then she saw the face above her: "Why, Pickering!"

"Are you hurt anywhere?" gasped Pickering, speaking the words with difficulty.

"What is it?" cried Polly, in a dazed way.

"There's been an accident," said Pickering. "Oh, Polly, say you're not hurt!" as he set her carefully down.

"An accident!" exclaimed Polly, and she sprang to her feet and glanced wildly around. "Pickering -- where -- where" -- she couldn't ask "are Phronsie and Ben and Grandpapa?"

But Pickering cried at once, "All right -- every single one. Here comes Phronsie, and Ben too."

And Phronsie running up, with streaming hair and white cheeks, threw glad arms around her neck. "Oh, Polly, are you hurt?" And Ben seized her, but at that she winced; and her left arm fell heavily to her side.

"Where's Baby?" cried Polly, trying to cover up the expression of pain; "do somebody look after him."

"Charlotte has him," said Phronsie, looking off to a grassy bank by the railroad track, where Charlotte Chatterton sat with Johnny in her lap.

Polly followed the glance, then off to the broken car, one end of which lay in ruins across the rails, and to the crowds of people running to the scene, in the midst of which was the fearful hush that proclaimed death.

"Oh! do come and help," called Polly, and before they knew it, she was dashing off, and running over the grass, up to the track. "There was a woman -- Johnny's mother," she cried, pushing her way into the crowd, Phronsie and Ben and Pickering close behind -- "in the seat opposite me."

Two or three men were picking up a still figure they had just pried out from the ruins of the car-end, dropped helplessly on its side, just as it fell when the fatal blow came. "Let me see her," said Polly hoarsely. They turned the face obediently; there was a long, terrible gash on the forehead that showed death to have come instantly to Johnny's mother, and that "good times" had already begun for her, and her weary feet were safely at rest in the Heavenly Home.

Polly drew a long breath, and bending suddenly dropped a kiss on the peaceful cheek; then she drew out her handkerchief, and softly laid it over the dead face. "Take her to that farmhouse." She pointed to a large white house off in the fields. "I will go there -- but I must help here first."

"Yes, Miss," said the men obediently, moving off with their burden.

"Polly -- Polly, come away," begged Pickering and Ben.

"Grandpapa is sitting on the bank over there," pointed Phronsie, with a beseeching finger. "Oh, do go to him, Polly; I'll stay and help the poor people."

"And no one was hurt," said Ben quickly, "only in this end of the car. See, Polly, everybody is out," pointing past the crowd into the car, to the vacant seats.

"There was an old gentleman in the seat back of me," cried Polly, in distress. "Hasn't any one seen him?" running up and down the track; "an old gentleman with a black velvet cap" -- amid shouts of "Keep out -- the car is taking fire. Don't go near it."

A little tongue of flame shooting from one of the windows at the further end of the car proclaimed this fact, without the words.

"Has no one seen him?" called Polly, in a voice so clear and piercing that it rose above the babel of the crowd, and the groans of one or two injured people drawn out from the ruin, and lying on the bank, waiting the surgeon's arrival. "Then he must be in the car. Oh, Ben -- come, we must get him out!" and she sprang back toward the broken car end.

"Keep back, Polly!" commanded Ben, and "I shall go," cried Pickering Dodge. But Polly ran too, and clambered with them, over the crushed car seats and window frames of the ruin.

"He's not here," cried Ben, while the hot flame seemed to be sweeping with cruel haste, down to catch them.

"Look -- oh, he must be!" cried Polly wildly, peering into the ruin. "Oh, Ben, I see a hand!"

But a rough grasp on her shoulder seized her as the words left her mouth. "Come out of here, Miss, or you'll be killed," and Polly was being borne off by rescuers who had seen her rush with the two young men, in amongst the ruin. "I tell you," cried Polly, struggling to get free, "there is an old gentleman buried in there; I saw his hand."

"Everybody is out, Miss," and they carried her off. But Ben and Pickering were already in a race with the flames, for the possession of the old gentleman, whose body, after the car seat was removed, could plainly be seen.

"There's the axe," cried Ben hoarsely, pointing to it, where it had fallen near to Pickering.

Pickering measured the approach of the flames with a careful eye. "He is probably dead," he said to Ben. "Shall we?"

"Hand the axe," cried Ben. Already the car was at a stifling heat, and the roar of the flames grew perilously near. Would no one come to help them? Must they die like animals in a trap? Well, the work was to be done. Two -- three ringing blows breaking away a heavy beam, quick, agile pulling up of the broken window frame, and in the very teeth of the flames, young arms bore out the old body.

A great shout burst from the crowd as they staggered forth with their burden. Pickering had only strength to look around for Polly, before he dropped on the grass.

And when he looked up, the tears were raining on his face.

"O, Pickering!" cried Polly. "Now there isn't anything more to long for. You are all right?"

Pickering lifted his head feebly, and glanced around. The walls of the "spare room" at the farm-house, gay in large flowered paper, met his eyes. "Why, where am I?" he began.

"At good Farmer Higby's," said Polly. And then he saw that her arm was in a sling. "That's nothing," she finished, meeting his look, "it's all fixed as good as can be, and has nothing to do but get well -- has it, Ben?"

Ben popped up his head from the depths of the easy chair, where he had crouched, afraid lest Pickering should revive and see him too suddenly.

"How are you, old fellow?" he now cried, advancing toward the bed. "There, don't try to speak," hurriedly, "everything is all right. Wait till you are better."

"How long have I been here?" asked Pickering, looking at Polly's arm.

"Only a day," said Polly, "and now you must have something to eat," starting toward the door.

"I couldn't eat a mouthful," said Pickering, shutting his mouth and turning on the pillow.

"Indeed you will," declared Polly, hurrying on. "The doctor said as soon as you could talk, you must have something to eat; and I shall tell Mrs. Higby to bring it up." So she disappeared.

"Goodness me! have I had the doctor?" asked Pickering, turning back to look after her.

"Yes," said Ben. Then he tried to turn the conversation. But Pickering broke in. "Did Polly break her arm at -- at the first?" he asked, holding his breath for the answer.

"Yes," said Ben, "don't talk about it," with a gasp -- "Polly says that she is so glad it isn't her right arm," he added, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "And the doctor promises it will be all right soon. It's lucky there is a good one here."

Pickering groaned. "It's a pity I wasn't in the old fellow's place, Ben," he said, "for I've got to tell Polly how I wanted to leave him, and I'd rather die than see her face."

"See here," cried Ben, "if you say one word to Polly about it, I'll pitch you out of the window, sick as you are."

"Pitch ahead, then," said Pickering, "for I shall tell Polly."

"Not to-day, any way. Now promise," said Ben resolutely.

"Well -- but I shall tell her sometime," said Pickering. "I'd rather she knew it -- but I wish we could have saved him."

"He's in the other room," said Ben suddenly.

"Poor old thing -- to die like that."

"Die? He's as well as a fish," said Ben; "sitting up in an easy chair, and to my certain knowledge, eating dried herrings and cheese at this very minute."

"He's eating dried herrings and cheese!" repeated Pickering, nearly skipping out of bed. "Why, wasn't he dead when we brought him out?"

"No, only stunned. There, do get back," said Ben, pushing Pickering well under the blankets again, "the doctor says on no account are you to get up until he came. Do keep still; he'll be here presently," with a glance at Mrs. Higby's chimney clock.

"The doctor -- who cares for him!" cried Pickering, nevertheless he scrambled back again, and allowed Ben to tuck him in tightly. And presently in came Polly, and after her, a bright apple-cheeked woman bearing a tray, on which steamed a bowl of gruel.

And in less time than it takes to tell it, Pickering was bolstered up against his pillows, and obediently opening his mouth at the right times to admit of the spoonfuls Polly held out to him. And Phronsie came in and perched on the foot of the four-poster, gravely watching it all. And old Mr. King followed, drawing up the easy chair to the bedside, where he could oversee the whole thing. And before it was over, the door opened, and a young man, with a professional air, looked in and said in great satisfaction, "That's good," coming up to the bed and putting out his hand to Pickering.

"Here's the doctor," cried old Mr. King, with a flourish of his palm. "Well, Doctor Bryce, your patient is doing pretty well, I think."

"I should say so," answered the doctor, with a keen glance at Pickering. "O, he's all right. How is the arm?" to Polly.

"That is all right too," said Polly cheerfully, and trying to talk of something else.

"Let me feed Pickering, do," begged Phronsie, slipping from the bed, "while Doctor looks at your arm, Polly."

"I can wait," said the doctor, moving down to the foot of the four-poster, where he stood looking at the feeding process, "and I can go in and see Mr. Loughead meanwhile."

Pickering dodged the spoon, nearly in his mouth. "Who?" he cried.

"Dear me," cried Polly, trying to save the gruel drops from falling on Mrs. Higby's crazy quilt, "how you frightened me, Pickering."

"Who did he say?" demanded Pickering, as Dr. Bryce went out.

"Pickering," said Polly, with shining eyes, "who do you think you and Ben saved so bravely? Jack Loughead's uncle, who has just got here from Australia, and he's" -- 

Pickering gave a groan and turned on his pillow. "Don't give me any more, Polly," he said, putting up his hand.

Polly set the spoon in the gruel bowl, with a disappointed air.

"Never mind," said the young doctor, coming back again, "he's eaten enough. Now may I see your arm?" He turned to Polly gently. "We must go in the other room for that," with a nod at Pickering.

A thrill went over Phronsie, which she tried her best to conceal, and she turned quite pale. Polly smiled at her as she went over toward the door, followed by the doctor, old Mr. King and Ben. Pickering Dodge clenched his hand under the bedclothes, and looked after them, then steadfastly gazed at the large flowers blooming with reckless abandon up and down over the dark-green wall-paper.

"Phronsie," said Polly, hearing her footsteps joining the others out in the hall, "will you go in and see how Charlotte is getting on with Johnny? Do, dear," she whispered in Phronsie's ear, as she gained her side.

"I'd rather stay with you, Polly," said Phronsie wistfully, "and hold your other hand."

"But I do so want you to help Charlotte," said Polly beseechingly. "Will you, Phronsie?" and she set a kiss on Phronsie's pale cheek.

"I will, Polly," said Phronsie, with a sigh. But she looked back as she went slowly along to the opposite end of the hall. "Please don't hurt Polly," she said imploringly to the doctor.

"I won't, little girl," he replied, "any more than I can help."

"Good-by," called Polly cheerfully, and she threw her a kiss with her right hand.

*    *    *    *    *

Mrs. Farmer Higby stood on her flat door-stone, shading her eyes with her hand.

"Seems's if I sha'n't ever get over the shock," she said to herself, looking off to the railroad track, shining in the morning sunlight. "To look up from my sewing and see -- la! and 'twas the first time I ever sat down to that rag-rug since I had to drop it and run over and take care of Simon, when they brought me word he was 'most cut to pieces in the mowing machine. My senses! I'm afraid to finish the thing."

The frightened look in her eyes began to deepen, and she shook as if the chill of a winter day were upon her, instead of the soft air of a mild morning in spring.

"I want to get out in the woods and holler," she declared; "seems's if then I'd feel better. To look up, expecting to see the cars coming along real lively and pleasant, just as they always do so sociable-like when I'm sewing, and then -- oh, dear me!" she wrung her fat hands together, "there, all of a sudden, were two of 'em bumping together, one end smashed into kindling wood, and t'other end sticking up straight in the air. Oh! my senses, I don't wonder I thought I was going crazy, and that I let the rug fly and jumped into the middle of the floor, till I heard the screaming, and I run to help, and there was that poor soul they were bringing here, and she dead as a stone. Oh, dear, dear!"

Mrs. Higby turned away so that she could not see the shining railroad track, and looked off over the meadow, while a happier expression came over her features. "I'm awful tickled this house is big," she said, with a good degree of comfort, "so's Jotham and me could take 'em in. Now I'm glad we didn't sell last spring, when Mary Ann was married, and move down to the village. Seems's if Providence was in it. Gracious, see that man running here! I hope there ain't anything else happened!" and with her old flutter upon her, Mrs. Higby turned to meet a young man advancing to the door-stone, with more speed than was ordinarily exhibited by the natives of Brierly.

"Is this Mr. Jotham Higby's house?" asked the stranger. And although he was very pale and evidently troubled, he touched his hat, and waited for her answer.

"Yes," said Mrs. Higby; "what do you want? Do excuse me," all in the same breath, "but I'm all upset; there was an awful railroad accident along here yesterday. You haven't come to tell of anything else bad, have you?" And she was sharper than ever.

"No," said the young man, "my friends are here; you took them in so kindly. Do show me the way to them." He was quite imperative now, moving over the flat stone, and into the square entry like one accustomed to being obeyed. "Which way?" he asked, glancing up the stairs.

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mrs. Higby, "excuse me, sir; the rooms upstairs" -- nodding like a mandarin in the direction named, "any of 'em -- all of 'em; they've got 'em all; you can't make a miss."

The young man was already opening the door of the room where Dr. Bryce was examining Polly's arm, old Mr. King and Ben looking on anxiously.

Polly saw him first. "Oh, Jasper!" she cried, with a sudden start.

"Take care!" exclaimed Dr. Bryce, looking off from the bandages he was nicely adjusting, to bestow a keen glance on Jasper.

Jasper gave one hand to his father in passing, but went straight to Polly's side, and laid his other hand on her shoulder.

"It's all right, Jasper," said Polly, seeing he couldn't speak. "Doctor says my arm is doing beautifully."

"Well, well," said old Mr. King, trying to speak cheerfully, but only succeeding in a nervous effort, "this isn't just the most successful way to give you a surprise party, Jasper, but it's the best we could do. And we had to send you a telegram, for fear you'd see it in the papers. So you thought you'd come on and see for yourself, eh?" as Jasper showed no inclination to talk.

"Yes," said Jasper, still confining himself to monosyllables.

"And that's the sensible thing to do," said Ben, with a grateful look at Jasper, "than to wait till we are able to move on -- Pickering and all."

"Is Pickering Dodge with you?" exclaimed Jasper, quickly.

Polly turned in her chair, and looked into his eyes. "Yes; Pickering came with us expressly to see you, Jasper." Then without waiting for an answer, "He is in the next room; do go and see him."

"Very well," said Jasper, "I'll be back in a moment or two, father," going out.

Pickering Dodge still lay, gazing at the sprawling flowers on the wall, and doing his best not to count them. The door opened suddenly. "Well, well, old fellow." Jasper came up to the bedside with the air of one who had been in the habit of running in every little while. "It's good to see you again, Pick," he added, affectionately, laying his hand, that good right hand, on the nervous one playing with the coverlids.

"Of course you couldn't do what I asked, Jasper; no one could," said Pickering, rolling over to look at him. "And I was a fool to ask it."

"But I might have been kinder," said Jasper, compressing his lips; "forget that, Pick."

"Don't say any more," said Pickering, his face flushing, "and I know it's all up with me, any way, Jasper." And he turned pale again. "We pulled an old fellow out of the wreck, at least Ben did the most of it -- Polly wanted us to; and who do you suppose he is? Why, Jack Loughead's uncle. Of course he'll be here soon, and it's easy to see the end."

At that, Pickering bolted up in bed to a sitting position, and clutched at the collar of his morning jacket with savage fingers.

"Don't, Pick," begged Jasper, in an unsteady voice.

"I'm going to get up," declared Pickering deliberately. "Clear out, Jasper," with a forbidding gesture, "or I'll pitch into you."

"You'll lie down," said Jasper decidedly; "there, get in again," with a gentle push on Pickering's long legs. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, though, to act like this!" trying to speak playfully.

Pickering scrambled back into bed, fuming every instant. "To lie like a log here, while that fellow dashes around carrying everything before him -- it's -- it's -- abominable and atrocious! Let me out, I say!" And he dashed toward the edge of the bed, nearly knocking Jasper over.

"Hold on, there," cried Jasper, pinning down the clothes with a firm hand, "don't you see" -- while Pickering struggled to toss them back "Take care, you'll tear this quilt! -- that I'll help you on to your feet all in good time? And if you behave yourself, you'll be around, and a match for any Jack Loughead under the heavens. There, now, will you be still?"

"Send that dunce of a doctor to me as soon as you can," said Pickering, rolling back suddenly once more, into the hollow made in the center of the four-poster. "Dear me, he's sweet on Polly too!" he groaned under the clothes.

"Whew!" exclaimed Jasper, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. "I won't agree to hold you in bed again, Pick. I'll send the doctor," he added, going out, "but you see that you don't lose your head while I'm gone."

"I'll promise nothing," said Pickering softly to himself, the moment the door closed, and slipping neatly out of bed, he tiptoed over and turned the key in the lock. "There," snapping his fingers in the air, "as if I'd have that idiot of a doctor around me." Then he proceeded to dress himself very rapidly, but with painstaking care.

"I'm all right," and he gave himself a final shake; "that doctor would have made a fool of me and kept me in bed, like enough, for a week. And with that Jack Loughead here!" He gave a swift glance into the cracked looking-glass hanging over the high shelf, and with another pull at his necktie-end, unlocked the door and went out.

"Halloo!"

"Oh, beg pardon!" A long figure that had just scaled the stairs, came suddenly up against Pickering, stalking along the narrow hall.

"How d'ye do?" said Pickering quite jauntily, and extending the tips of his fingers; "just got here, I take it, Loughead?"

"Yes," returned Jack Loughead. Pickering was made no more steady in his mind, nor on his feet, by seeing the other's evident uneasiness, but he covered it up by a careless "Well, I suppose you have come to look up your uncle, hey?"

"Yes, oh, yes," said Jack, "of course, my uncle. Well, were any of the others hurt?"

"Yes; one woman was killed." Pickering could not trust himself to mention Polly's broken arm yet.

Jack Loughead's face carried the proper amount of sympathy. "No one of your party was hurt, I believe?" he said quickly.

"Oh, look us over, and see for yourself," said Pickering, beginning to feel faintish, and as if he would like to sit down. And then the door at the end of the hall was opened, and out came all the others and the doctor, who was saying, "I'll just step in and look at the young man, though he's doing well enough -- oh, my gracious!"

"Thank you, I am doing well enough," said Pickering, with his best society manner on, and extending his hand, "much obliged, I'm sure; what I should have done without you, I don't know, of course; send in your bill, and I shall be only too happy to make it all right."

Jack Loughead rushed up to Polly. "No one told me -- is your arm -- " he couldn't say "broken," being quite beyond control of himself.

"How are you, Mr. Loughead?" said old Mr. King rather stiffly, at being overlooked, and putting out his courtly old hand.

"Oh, beg pardon." Jack mumbled something about being an awkward fellow at the best, and extended a shaking hand.

"You are anxious to see your uncle, of course," continued the old gentleman, leading off down the hall, "this way, Mr. Loughead."

"Of course, yes, indeed," stammered Jack Loughead, having nothing to do but to follow.



Chapter XIV.

Joel.


Joel threw down his books in an uneasy way. "I must give it up; there's no other way," he exclaimed.

"Halloo, Joe!"

"You here?" cried Joel, whirling in surprise. "Come out of your hole, Dave," peering into the niche between the book-shelves and the bed. "What are you prowling in there for?"

"Oh! my cuff-button rolled in here somewhere," said David, emerging crab-wise, and lifting a red face. "Give us a hand, Joe, and help pull out the bed. Plague on this room for being such a box! There!" with an impatient shove.

Joel burst into a fit of laughter, and then stared; it was such an unusual thing to see a frown on David's placid face. "What's come over you, any way? Stand out of the way; I'll have this bed over there in a jiffy," rolling it into the center of the small room as he spoke.

David sprang to one side lightly. "Whew! what a dust you kick up," he cried, snapping his clothes gingerly.

"So you are in your best toggery," exclaimed Joel, standing straight, his labors over the bed being completed.

"Yes, I'm going to the Parrotts' to dinner," said David, hurrying off for the whisk broom to remove the last speck of dust from his dress suit. "Of course you've forgotten it, Joe, though I don't suppose you'd go, any way."

"No, I wouldn't go, any way," said Joel, tossing back his black locks from his forehead. "You forget, Dave, it's the Association night."

David let another little frown settle on his face. "No, I didn't forget that, Joe, but I do wish you'd think it possible to take a Thursday evening off once in a while for the sake of your friends, if for no other reason."

"Well, I can't," said Joel, getting down on all-fours to hunt for the button, "so don't let's go over old arguments. Where in time is that thing? oh" -- and he came up bright and shining to his feet, holding the button between his thumb and finger. "My compliments to you," presenting it to David. "There, stick it in before it gets lost again, and hurry off; you look pretty as a pink."

"Stop your nonsense, Joe," cried David sharply, who hated being reminded of his girlish beauty. "Well, I'll make the usual excuses for you. Good-by," and not forgetting to pick up his walking stick with his hat, he ran off on his way to the florist's for the boutonniere that must go on before he presented himself at the Parrotts' dinner party.

Joel shoved back the bed into position with one long thrust that would have been a godsend to a lagging boat crew; then dashed to the table and sat down, doggedly throwing open the first book that came to hand.

"I'd rather chop wood," he exclaimed in the old way, leaning his head on his hands. "Whew! weren't those good days, though, in the little brown house, when we had all outdoors to work in!" He dropped his arms to pinch the muscles of one with his other fingers. "Isn't that beautiful?" he said affectionately. Then he swung them over his head, tilting back his chair restfully.

"What did Mamsie say?" he cried, bringing the chair down with a remorseful thud. "'I'd work myself to skin and bone but I'd go through creditably.' Here goes!"

And by the time that Davie was handing in Miss Lulu Parrott to dinner Joel clapped together his last book, threw on his hat, and rushed out to a hasty supper at Commons, en route to the Christian Association meeting.

Little Perkins ran up to him at the close of the meeting. "Stop a bit. Pepper, do," he begged; "Johnson's gone back to his cups, and we can't do anything with him."

A cloud fell over Joel's face. "Where is he?" he asked.

"Oh, in the little room back. He won't show his face here, and yet he can't keep away, he says. You must get your hand on him, Pepper," and Little Perkins hurried off.

Joel dashed into the "little room back." "How d'ye, Johnson?" putting out his hand "Come out for a walk, do; why, this room is stifling."

"I can't," said Johnson miserably; "you don't know, Mr. Pepper, I've been drinking, or you wouldn't ask me."

"Nonsense -- but I would, though," said Joel sharply. "Come out, I say, Johnson; it's enough to make you drink again to stay in such a room."

Johnson not getting out of his chair, Joel went in and laid hold of his arm. "It's no use, Johnson," he said, "I can't talk to you here; it's too hot and close. And I do want a walk, so let's have it together. There, button up your coat," as they were well out in the hall, and Johnson flung his hat on his head with a reckless hand.

As they hurried down the steps they ran against a crowd of college boys. Johnson shrank up miserably against the stone fence, and tried to look as small as possible. Glances of recognition passed, and Joel spoke to right and left as the boys went by. But a few hisses, low and insistent, were all he got.

"Do let me go," begged Johnson, still hugging the fence, "you can't save me; and they hate you enough for such work."

"Come on!" roared Joel at him, and plucking him off from the fence with a determined hand.

"It's time we went for him," said one of the college boys, with a backward glance at Joel and his companion, "the Deacon is absolutely insulting. The idea of his speaking to us."

"Let's have it over to-night," said another. "What do you say?" to the others.

"Where's Davina?" asked another.

"Oh, Pink-and-White is out dining," said the first voice. "My pretty little girl is safe at the Parrotts'."

"Sure?"

"As a gun. Met him with a posy in his button-hole, and sweet as a little bud himself, and he told me so."

"All right. He'll stay away late, then; the Parrotts always have music or a dance after their dinners. Come on." The last speaker rolled up his sleeves, and boxed imaginary rounds in a scientific manner in the air.

"Agreed?" the tall fellow who proposed it looked over the whole crew. "Do you all want to have it done to-night?" as they came to a standstill on the pavement.

"Yes -- yes."

"Hush -- that cop is looking. Move on, will you? Now, not a man of you backs out, you understand; if he does, he gets worse than the Deacon will. All right."

"We're all such jolly good fellows, We're all such jolly good fellows" -- 

Everybody smiled who passed them singing their way down town.

"It always does me good to hear those students sing. They're so happy, and so affectionate toward each other," said one lady, hanging on her escort's arm.

He, being a college man, said rapturously, "Oh yes!"

Joel, back in his own room, threw himself in his easy chair, first turning down the gas. "Just so much less of a bill for Grandpapa. Our debt is rolling up fast enough without burning up the money. Dear me, if Johnson drinks after this, I shall be in despair." He threw up his long legs, and rested them on the mantel, while he thrust his hands in his pockets, to think the better.

A knock at the door. "Come in!" called Joel, not looking around, till a rushing sound of feet trying to step carefully, called him out of himself.

"Now -- now!" Two or three swifter than the others, darted for the chair, but Joel was not in it. On the other side of it, looking at them, his hands out of his pockets, he stood, saying, "What do you want?"

"Oh, come, Pepper, it's no use," said a tall fellow, wiry and agile, "too many against you in this little call. Come along," and he advanced on Joel.

"You come along yourself, Dobbs," said Joel pleasantly, and holding up a fist that looked hard to begin with, "and you'll get this; that's all."

"You come along yourself, Dobbs," said Joel pleasantly.

"Come on, fellows!" Dobbs looked back and winked to the others. "Now!" there was a shoulder-to-shoulder rush; a wild tangle of arms, followed by a wilder tangle of legs, and Joel was through the ranks, his black eyes blazing, and tossing his black hair from his forehead.

"Do you want some more?" he cried, flirting his fists in the air, "or will you leave my room?"

"Lock the door!" "Get up, Bingley," and, "Stop your roaring." "No, we'll give it to you now, and no mistake." "If you won't come quietly, you shall some way, Deacon."

These were some of the smothered cries.

"Now!" and there was another blind rush; this time, over Bingley, who didn't heed the invitation to get up.

Joel, watching his chance to reach the door, had no time before they were on him, and he heard the key click in the lock.

"It's for Mamsie now, sure -- and for Polly!" he said, setting his teeth hard. On they came. But Joel, in rushing through as before, was so mindful of stepping over Bingley carefully, that it lost him an instant; and a grasp firm as iron, was on his arm. The others rallied, and closed around him.

"Unhand me!" yelled Joel, beating them off. But he might as well have fought tigers, unless he could knock off, with cruel aim, the one hanging to his arm. It was no time to mince matters, and Joel, only careful to avoid the face, struck a terrible blow that felled Dobbs flat.

"Now will you go?" roared Joel, aghast at what he had done, yet swinging his arms with deadly intent on either side, "or, do you want some more?"

There lay two valiant fellows on the floor. The rest drew off and looked at them.

"You'll pay for this, Deacon," they declared under their breath.

"I suppose so," said Joel, still swinging his arms for practice; "probably you'll wait for me with kindly intent some dark night behind a tree, as you know I don't carry a pistol. Why don't you have it out now? Come on if you want to."

But no one seemed to want to.

"There'll be a row over this," said one or two, consulting together; "as long as those thin-skinned fellows don't get up," pointing to the floor, "we must wait." Suddenly the door was unlocked, and the whole crew stampeded.

"See here," cried Joel, bounding after them, "come back and take care of your two men."

But the crew disappeared.

Bingley lifted his head feebly.

"Just like Dobbs," he said, "get us into a scrape, and then cut."

"Hush -- don't say anything," said Joel, rushing frantically back, "I think he's dead -- oh, Bingley, I'm sorry I hurt you too."

He was rapidly pouring water into the basin, and dashing it into Dobbs' unconscious face. "I must go for the doctor," he groaned. "Bingley, he can't be dead -- do say he isn't!" in a flood of remorse.

Bingley managed to roll over and look at his late leader. "He looks like it," he said; "I shouldn't think you'd be sorry, Pepper."

"Oh!" groaned Joel, quite horror-stricken, and dashing the water with a reckless hand, feeling like a murderer all the time.

"Bingley, could you manage to do this?" at last he cried in despair. "I must run for a doctor, there's not a minute to lose."

"I wouldn't go for any doctor," advised Bingley cautiously; "see; his eyelids are moving -- this row will be all over town if you do."

But Joel was flying off. "Come back!" called Bingley, "I vow he's all right; he's opened his eyes, Pepper."

Joel turned; saw for himself that Dobbs was really looking at him, and that his lips moved as if he wanted to say something.

"What is it, Dobbs?" cried Joel, throwing himself down on his knees by Dobbs' side.

"Let him alone, and help me up," said Bingley crossly, "I'm hurt a great deal more. He's tough as a boiled owl. Give us a hand, Pepper."

But Joel had his ear down to Dobbs' mouth.

"Where are the fellows?" asked Dobbs in a whisper.

"Gone," answered Joel, briefly.

"Gone -- and left me here like a dog?" said Dobbs.

"Yes," said Joel.

"They couldn't wait, my friend," observed Bingley sarcastically, "for people of such trifling consequence, as you and I."

"The deuce! you here, Bingley?" exclaimed Dobbs, in his natural voice, and trying to get his head up.

"Oh, you are coming to, are you?" said Bingley carelessly. "Well, Dobbs, I think you better get on your feet, and help me out, since Pepper won't; for I vow I can't stir."

"Oh, I'll help you," declared Joel, getting up to run over and put his hands under Bingley's arms, paling as he exclaimed, "I didn't mean to hurt you so, Bingley, on my honor I didn't."

"And you didn't," said Bingley, wincing with the pain, as Joel slowly drew him to his feet; "it wasn't your stinger of a blow, Pepper, but some of those dastardly cads stepped all over me; I could feel them hoofing me. There, set me in that chair, and I'll draw a long breath if I can."

"Now, I shall go for a doctor," declared Joel, setting Bingley within the easy-chair, and making a second dash for the door.

"I tell you, you will not," cried Bingley, from his chair. "Wait a minute, till I see where I'm hurt. I'm coming out of it better than I thought. Come back, Pepper."

"Really?" Joel drew off from the door, and looked at him.

"Yes; go and take care of Dobbs; he was only shamming," said Bingley, leaning his head comfortably on the chair-back. Dobbs already was on his feet, and slowly standing quite straight.

"Sure you don't want any help?" asked Joel, putting out his hand.

"Thanks, no," said Dobbs scornfully, not looking at the hand, but making for the door.

"Let him alone, Pepper," advised Bingley; "a mean, low-lived chap like that isn't hurt; you couldn't kill him," as Joel looked out anxiously to watch Dobbs' progress along the hall, at last following him along a bit.

"He's in his own room, thank fortune," exclaimed Joel, coming back, "and I suppose I can't do any more. But oh, I do wish, Bingley, it hadn't happened."

Joel leaned his elbow on the mantel, and looked down at the easy-chair and its occupant.

"Perhaps you'd rather be lying there," said Bingley, pointing to the floor, "instead, with a flopper under your ear, like the nasty one you gave me, Pepper."

"I am so sorry for that, too," cried Joel, in a fresh burst of remorse.

"I got no more, I presume, than was good for me," said Bingley, feeling the bump under his ear. "And don't you worry, Pepper, for your mind must be toned up to meet those fellows. They'll be at some neat little game to pay you up for this, you may rest assured."

"I suppose so," said Joel indifferently. "Well, now are you sure I can't do anything for you, Bingley?"

"Sure as a gun," said Bingley decidedly; "I'm getting quite limbered out; so I'll go, for I know my room is better than my company, Pepper," and he dragged himself stiffly out of his chair.

"Don't go," said Joel hospitably; "stay as long as you want to; I should be glad to have you."

Bingley turned a pair of bright eyes on him. "Thank you," he said, "but Davina will be in soon, and things will have to be explained a little, and I'm not quite up to it to-night. No, I must go," moving to the door; "I don't feel like making a pretty speech, Pepper," he said, hesitating a bit, "or I'd express something of what's on my mind. But I think you understand."

"If you want to do me a favor," said Joel steadily, "you'll stop calling David, Davina. It makes him fearfully mad, and I don't wonder."

"He's so pretty," said Bingley, with a smile, and wincing at the same time, "we can't help it. It's a pity to spoil that lovely name."

"But you must," declared Joel, growing savage; "I tell you, it just ruins college life for Dave, and he's so bright, and leads his class, I don't see how you can."

"Oh, we're awfully proud of him," said Bingley, leaning heavily on the table, "of course, and trot him out behind his back for praises and all that, but when it comes to giving up that sweet name -- that's another thing," he added regretfully. "However, I'll do it, and make the other fellows, if I can."

"Good for you!" cried Joel gratefully. "Good-night, Bingley; sure you don't want any help to your room?"

"Sure," declared Bingley, going out unsteadily and shutting the door.

Joel threw himself on his knees by the side of the easy-chair, and burrowed his head deep within it. "Oh, if I only had Mamsie's lap to lay it in," he groaned, "and Mamsie's hands to go over it."

"Joe -- Joe!" David flung wide the door, "where are you?" he cried.

Joel sprang to his feet.

"Here's a telegram," said David, waving a yellow sheet at him. "I just met the boy bringing it up. The folks were going to see Jasper -- on a surprise party; something happened to the cars, and Polly has her arm broken -- but that's all," delivered David, aghast at Joel's face.

"Polly? oh, not Polly?" cried Joel, putting up both hands, and feeling the room turn around with him.

"Yes, Polly," said David; "don't look so, Joe," he begged, feeling his own cheeks getting white, "it's only broken -- it can't be bad, for we are not to go, Grandpapa says; see," shaking the telegram at him.

"But I shall go -- we both must," declared Joel passionately, beginning to rush for his hat behind the door; "the idea -- Polly hurt, and we not to go! Come on, Dave, we can catch the midnight train," looking at his watch.

"But if it makes Polly worse," said David doubtfully.

Joel's hand carrying the hat to his head, wavered, and he finally tossed the head-gear into the nearest corner. "I suppose you are right, Dave," he said helplessly, and sinking into a chair.



Chapter XV.

The Farmhouse Hospital.


Jack Loughead marched into his uncle's room. "Well -- well -- well," exclaimed the old gentleman with a prolonged look, and sitting straight in his chair. "So this really is you, Jack? I must say, I am surprised."

"Surprised?" echoed Jack, getting his uncle's hands in both of his. "Why, Uncle, I cabled Crane Brothers just as soon as I got your letter, that I was coming."

"This is the first thing I've heard of it," said old Mr. Loughead. "Well, how did you track me here, for goodness' sake?"

"Why, I saw an account of your accident in the New York paper as soon as I landed," said Jack.

"Oh! confound those papers," exclaimed his uncle ungratefully. "Well, I came near being done for, Jack," he added. "In fact, I was left in the wreck."

Jack shuddered.

"But that little girl there," pointing toward the next room, where the talking seemed to be going on busily, "insisted that I was buried in the smash-up, so they tell me, and she made them come and look for me. None too soon, I take it, by all accounts." The old gentleman placidly tore off two or three grapes from the bunch in the basketful, put at his elbow, and ate them leisurely.

"Phronsie is a good child," said Jack Loughead, with feeling, "and an observing one, too."

"Phronsie? Who's talking of Phronsie?" cried his uncle, pushing back the fruit-basket. "It was the other one -- Polly; she wouldn't let them give over till they pulled me out. So the two young men tell me; very well-meaning chaps, too, they are, Jack."

"You said it was a little girl," Jack managed to remark.

"Well, and so she is," said old Mr. Loughead obstinately, "and a nice little thing, too, I should say."

"Miss Pepper is twenty years old," said his nephew suddenly. Then he was sorry he had spoken.

"Nonsense! not a day over fifteen," contradicted the old gentleman flatly. "And I must say, Jack, you've been pretty expert, considering the time spent in this house, in taking the census."

"Oh! I knew her before," said Jack, angry to find himself stammering over what ought to be a simple account enough.

"Hem -- hem!" exclaimed the old gentleman, bestowing a keen scrutiny on his nephew. "Well, never mind," he said at last; "now, let's to business."

"Are you strong enough?" asked Jack, in duty bound, yet longing to get the talk into safe business channels.

"Strong enough?" repeated the old gentleman, in a dudgeon, "I'm really better than I was before the shake-up. I'm going home tomorrow, I'd have you to know, Jack."

"You would better not move too soon," said his nephew involuntarily. Then he added hastily, "At least, take the doctor's advice."

"Hem -- hem!" said his uncle again, with a shrewd smile, as he helped himself to a second bunch of grapes.

"Well, now, as to that matter you sent me over to London about," began Jack, nervously plunging into business.

"Draw up that chair, and put your mind on the matter, and we'll go over it," interrupted old Mr. Loughead, discarding the grape-bunch suddenly, and assuming his commercial expression at once.

So Jack drew up his chair, as bidden; and presently the financial head of the Bradbury & Graeme Company, and the enterprising young member who was the principal part of "Company," were apparently lost to all else in the world, but their own concerns.

Meantime, Pickering Dodge was having a truly dreadful time of it.

The doctor, washing his hands of such a troublesome patient, had just run downstairs, jumped into his little old gig in displeasure, and was now half across a rut worn in the open meadow, dignified by the name of the "Short Road."

"Do go to bed," implored Ben, studying Pickering's pale face.

"Hoh, hoh!" Pickering made out to exclaim, "if I couldn't say anything original, I wouldn't talk. You're only an echo to that miserable little donkey of a medical man."

"I'll help you; I'm strong," said Charlotte.

"But you really ought to go back to bed," Ben insisted.

"Really ought?" repeated Pickering, in high disdain; "as if I'd put myself again under that quack's thumb. No, sir!" and snapping his fingers derisively at Ben, he straightened up jauntily on his somewhat uncertain feet. "All I want is a little air," stumbling off to the window.

"Well, I'm going to tell Phronsie that my arm is all right," said Polly, hurrying off; "beside I want to see Johnny" -- 

"It's time for me to look after that young man, too," said old Mr. King, following her; "I haven't heard him roar to-day. Come on, Jasper; you must see Johnny."

As they disappeared, Ben ran over to Pickering, and was aghast to find that the face laid against the window-casing was deathly white, and that all his shaking of the broad shoulders could not make Pickering open his eyes.

"Jasper," called Ben, in despair.

"Hush!" Some one came hurrying up. "Don't call Jasper; then Polly will know. Let me help."

Ben looked up. "O, Charlotte! that's good. Pick's done up. Call Mrs. Higby, will you? we must get him to bed."

"I'll help you; I'm strong." Charlotte held out her long arms.

Ben looked them over approvingly. "You're right," he said; "it's better not to stir Mrs. Higby up. There, easy now, Charlotte; put your hands under there. You are sure it won't hurt you?"

"Sure as I can be," said Charlotte, steadily moving off in pace with Ben, as they carried Pickering between them.

"Excuse me!" Ben rushed in without knocking upon the Bradbury & Graeme Company. "Do you mind" -- to Jack -- "I'm awfully sorry to ask it, but I can't leave him. Will you run to the doctor's and fetch him? Mrs. Higby, the landlady downstairs, you know, will tell you where to find him." Ben was all out of breath when he got through, and stood looking at young Loughead.

"What's the doctor wanted for?" cried Company, springing to his feet, and seizing his hat from the table. "Why, of course I'll go -- delighted to be of use -- who for?"

"Pickering Dodge -- got up too soon -- keeled over," said Ben briefly. "I've got to stay with him -- he's in bed -- and we don't want Grandpapa or Polly to know."

But Jack Loughead after the first word, was half over the stairs.

"See here," cried old Mr. Loughead suddenly, as Ben was rushing out, "can't I see your sister? I'm horribly lonesome," turning in his chair; "that is, if her arm will let her come," he added, as a second thought struck him. "Don't ask her if you think she's in pain."

"Doctor has fixed Polly's arm," said Ben, "and I know she'll like to come in and sit with you. It's a shame," and his honest face flamed with regret, "I had to ask such a favor as" -- 

"Tut, tut! go along with you," commanded the old gentleman imperatively, "and send Polly here; then I'll make by the operation," and he began to chuckle with pleasure.

So Ben ran off, and presently Polly, her arm in a sling, came hurrying in.

"Bless my soul," cried the old gentleman, "if your cheeks aren't as rosy as if you had two good arms, and this was an every-day sort of excursion for pleasure."

"It's so nice," said Polly, sitting down on one of Mrs. Higby's spare-room ottomans, on which that lady had worked a remarkable cat in blue worsted reposing on a bit of green sward, "to think that everybody is getting on so well," and she hugged her lame arm rapturously.

"Hem -- hem! I should say so," breathed old Mr. Loughead, regarding her closely. "Where have they buried that woman?" he demanded suddenly.

Polly started. "Out in the meadow," she said softly. "Mrs. Higby wanted it here instead of in the churchyard. It is under a beautiful oak-tree, Mr. Loughead, and Mr. Higby is going to make a fence around it, and Grandpapa is to put" -- 

"Up the stone, I suppose you mean," interrupted the old gentleman. "Well, and when that's done, why, what can be said upon it, pray tell? You don't know a thing about it -- who in Christendom the woman was -- not a thing."

"Johnny's mother," said Polly sorrowfully, the corners of her mouth drooping; "that's going to be on it, and Grandpapa is to have the letters cut, telling about the accident; and Mrs. Higby hopes that sometime somebody will come to inquire about it. But I don't believe anybody ever will come in all this world," added Polly softly, "because there is no one left who belongs to Johnny," and she told the story the pale little mother had just finished when the car went over.

Old Mr. Loughead "hemmed," and exclaimed impatiently, and fidgeted in his chair, all through the recital. When it was over, and Polly sat quite still, "What are you going to do with that horrible boy?" he asked sharply. "Almshouse, I suppose, eh?"

"O, no!" declared Polly, in horror. "Phronsie is going to take him into the Home."

"Phronsie is going to take that little rat into her home?" cried old Mr. Loughead in disgust. "You don't know what you are talking of. I shall speak to Mr. King."

"Johnny is just a dear," cried Polly, having great difficulty not to spring from her chair, and turn her back on the old gentleman, then and there.

"But into your home," repeated old Mr. Loughead, his disgust gaining on him with each word; "it's monstrous -- it's" -- 

"Oh! I didn't mean our home," explained Polly, obliged to interrupt him, he was becoming so furious. "Johnny is going down to Dunraven, to the Children's Home," and then she began on the story of Phronsie's company of children, and how they lived, and who they were, with many little side stories of this small creature, who was "too cunning for anything," and that funny little boy, till the old gentleman sat helplessly listening in abject silence. And the latch was lifted, and young Mr. Loughead put his head in the doorway, looking as if he had finished a long tramp.

"Come in, Jack," said his uncle, finding his tongue. "We've a whole orphan asylum in here, and I don't know what all; every charity you ever heard of, rolled into one. Do come in, and see if you can make head or tail to it."

"Oh! Mr. Loughead knows all about it," cried Polly brightly, while her cheeks glowed, "for he went down to Dunraven with us at Christmas, and he showed the children stereopticon pictures, and told them such nice stories of places that he had seen."

"He -- my Jack!" exploded the old gentleman, starting forward and pointing to his nephew. "Great Caesar! he never did such a thing in his life."

"Ah!" said Polly, shaking her brown head, while she looked only at the old gentleman, "you ought to have seen, sir, how happy the children were that day."

"My Jack went to an orphan asylum to show pictures to the children!" reiterated the old gentleman, unable to grasp another idea.

"Do be still, Uncle," begged his tall nephew, jogging his elbow.

"Here -- here's Polly!" cried Jasper's voice. And at the same moment in sped little Dr. Fisher, his glasses shining with determination, as he gazed all over the room for Polly.

"My dear, dear child," he cried, as he spied her.

And "Papa Fisher!" joyfully from Polly, as she sprang from Mrs. Higby's ottoman, and precipitated herself into the little doctor's arms.

"Softly, softly, child," he warned; "you'll hurt it," tenderly covering the poor arm with his right hand, while he fumbled in his pocket with the other, for his handkerchief. "Dear me!" and he blew his nose violently. "Yes; well, you're sure you're all right except this?" and he held Polly at arm's length and scanned her closely.

"I am all right if you will only tell me that Mamsie is well, and isn't worried about us," said Polly, an anxious little pucker coming on her forehead.

"Your mother is as bright as a button," declared Father Fisher emphatically.

"Come, come!" ejaculated Mr. King, appearing in the doorway; "this isn't just the way to take possession of Mr. Loughead's apartment. Jasper, I don't see what you were thinking of. Come, Fisher, my room is next; this way."

Polly blushed red as a rose as old Mr. Loughead said briskly, "Oh! I sent for her to cheer me up, and now, I wish you'd all stay."

"Beg pardon for this inroad," said little Doctor Fisher, going up to the old gentleman's chair and offering his hand. "Well, well, Loughead," to Jack, "this is a surprise party all round!"

"No inroad at all, at least a pleasant one," old Mr. Loughead kept saying, while Polly ran up to Jasper:

"Did Pickering's uncle come with Papa Fisher?"

"No," said Jasper, with his eyes on Jack Loughead, "the Doctor was all alone, Polly."

And then the door of Pickering's room opened, and out came Dr. Bryce, with bad news written all over his face.

"I fear brain fever," he said to Dr. Fisher after the introduction was over, making the two physicians acquainted. "Come," and the door of Pickering's room closed on them both.

And twilight settled down on the old square white house, and on the new-made grave under the oak in the meadow; and Brierly people, by twos and threes, came to inquire for "the sick young man," going away with saddened faces. And a messenger from the telegraph office drove up just as Mr. Higby was pulling on the boots to his tired feet for a long walk to the village, handing in the message:

Mrs. Cabot and I will take the midnight train. RICHARD A. CABOT,

And then there was nothing more to do, only to wait for the coming of Pickering's uncle and aunt.

And the next day Pickering's calls were incessant for "Polly, Polly," sometimes upbraiding her as the brown eyes were fastened piteously on his wild face; and then begging her to just smile at him and remember how he had loved her all these years. "And now I am going to die," he would cry.

"O, Polly! Polly!" Mrs. Cabot would wring her hands and beg at such times, a world of entreaty in her voice. And then old Mr. King would interfere, carrying Polly off, and declaring it was beyond all reason for her to be so annoyed.

And Phronsie would climb up on the bed and lay her cool little hand gently on the hot forehead. Then the sick boy's cries would drop into unintelligible murmurs, while his fingers picked aimlessly at the coverlet.

"There! he is better," Phronsie would say softly to the watchers by the bed, "and I guess he is going to sleep."

But the quiet only ushered in worse ravings when Pickering lived over once more the horror of the train-wrecking, and then it took many strong arms to hold him in his bed. "Come on, Ben," he would shout, struggling hard; "leave him alone -- we shall be caught -- the fire! the fire!" until his strength died away, and he sank to a deathly stupor.

*    *    *    *    *

Phronsie sat down to write a letter to Mrs. Fargo. One like it was dropped every morning into the basket set on Mrs. Higby's front entry table, ready for the neighbor's boy to take to the village post-office.

Dear Mrs. Fargo:

[wrote Phronsie, looking off from the wooden cradle that Mrs. Higby had dragged down from its cobwebby corner under the garret eaves, with the remark, "I guess Johnny'll sleep well; all the Higbys since the first one, has been rocked in it."] I must tell you that dear Pickering isn't any better. [Then she glanced back again, and softly jogged the cradle, as Johnny turned over with a long sigh.] And Papa Fisher and the other doctor don't think he is going to get well. And Mrs. Cabot cries all the time, and Polly cries sometimes too. And we don't know what to do. But I guess God will take care of us. And Charlotte is going to take Johnny down to the Dunraven Home in a day or two. She says she can, though I know she don't like babies, especially boy-babies; she said so once. And so he will be happy. And that's all I can write to-day, Mrs. Fargo, because every minute I'm afraid Polly will want me.

From Phronsie

And just the very minute when Phronsie was dotting the "i" in her name. Mrs. Higby came toiling up the stairs, holding her gingham gown well away from her feet.

"Say!" she cried in a loud whisper, and pausing midway to wave a large square envelope at Phronsie, curled up on the hall window-seat.

Phronsie got down very softly, and tiptoed over to the stair-railing to grasp the letter Mrs. Higby thrust between the bars, going back to her old post, to open it carefully.

Dear Phronsie:

I think God meant that I was to have Johnny for my very own. So won't you give him to me, dear? Let Charlotte bring him soon, please, for my heart is hungry for a baby to hold. I will make him happy all my life, Phronsie, so I know you will give him to

Helen's Mother.



Chapter XVI.

On The Borderland.


Phronsie came into the Higby kitchen, her hands full of wind-blossoms and nodding trilliums.

"Pickering will like these," she said to herself in great satisfaction, and surveying her torn frock with composure, "for they are the very first, Mrs. Higby," addressing that individual standing over by the sink in the corner. "Please may I wash my hands? I had to go clear far down by the brook to get them."

But Mrs. Higby, instead of answering, threw her brown-checked apron high over her head.

Phronsie stood quite still.

"Why do you put your apron there, Mrs. Higby?" she asked at last. "And you do not answer me at all," she added in gentle reproach.

"Land!" exclaimed Mrs. Higby, in a voice spent with feeling, "I couldn't, 'cause I was afraid I sh'd burst out crying, and I didn't want you to see my face. O, dear! he's had a poor spell since you went out flowerin' for him, and your pa and Dr. Bryce say he's dyin'. O, dear!"

Down came the apron, showing Mrs. Higby's eyelids very red and swollen.

Phronsie still stood holding her flowers, a breathing-space, then turned and went quickly to the back stairs.

"Sh! don't go," called Mrs. Higby in a loud whisper after her; "it's dreadful for a little girl like you to see any one die. Do come back."

"They will want me," said Phronsie gravely, and going up carefully without another word. When she reached Pickering's door, she paused a moment and looked in.

"I don't believe it is as Mrs. Higby said," she thought, drawing a long breath, a faint smile coming to her face as she went gently in.

But old Mr. King put up his hand as he turned in his chair, at the foot of the bed, and Phronsie saw that his face was white and drawn. And Dr. Bryce turned also, looking off a minute from the watch that he held, as if he were going to bid her go away.

"Phronsie," said Grandpapa, holding out both arms hungrily.

Phronsie hurried to him, a gathering fear at her heart, and getting into his lap, laid her cheek against his.

"Oh! my dear, you oughtn't to be here -- you are too young," said Mr. King brokenly, yet holding her close.

"I am not afraid, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, her mouth to his ear, "and I think Pickering would like me to be here. I brought him some flowers." She moved the hand holding the bunch, so that the old gentleman could see it. "He likes wild flowers, and I promised to get the first ones I could."

"O, dear!" groaned old Mr. King, not trusting himself to look.

"May I lay them down by him?" whispered Phronsie.

"Yes, yes, child," said the old gentleman, allowing her to slip to the floor. The group around the bedside parted to let her pass, and then Phronsie saw Polly. Mrs. Cabot was holding Polly's well hand, while her head was on Polly's shoulder.

"Grandpapa said I might," said Phronsie softly to the two, and pointing to her flowers.

"Yes, dear."

It was Polly who answered; Mrs. Cabot was crying so hard she could not speak a word.

Phronsie's little heart seemed to stop beating as she reached the bedside. She had not thought that she would be afraid, but it was so different to be standing there looking down upon the pillow where Pickering lay so still and white, and with closed eyes, looking as if he had already gone away from them. She glanced up in a startled way and saw Dr. Fisher at the head of the bed; he was holding Pickering's wrist. "Yes," he motioned, "put them down."

So Phronsie laid down her blossoms near the poor white face, and stole back quickly, only breathing freely when she was as close to Polly as she could creep, without hurting the broken arm.

"I'm dying -- I'm not afraid," suddenly said Pickering's white lips. Dr. Fisher sprang and put a spoonful of stimulant to them, while Mrs. Cabot buried her face yet deeper on Polly's shoulder, her husband turning on his heel, to pace the floor and groan. "Polly, Polly!" called Pickering quite distinctly, in a tone of anguish.

"O, Polly, Polly! he's dying -- go to him do!" Mrs. Cabot tore her hand out of Polly's, almost pushing her from the chair. "Quick, dear!"

Polly put Phronsie aside, and stepped softly to the bedside; Pickering's eyes eagerly watched for her face.

He smiled up at her, "Polly," and tried to raise his hand.

She laid her warm, soft palm on the cold one lying on the coverlid. He clasped his thin fingers convulsively around it.

"I am here, Pickering," said Polly, unable to find voice for anything else.

"Don't -- ever -- leave me," she could just make out the words, bending close to catch them.

"I never will," said Polly quietly.

A sudden gleam came into his face, and he tried to smile, grasping her hand tighter as his eyes closed.

"It has come," said Dr. Fisher in a low voice to Mr. Cabot; "tell your wife," and he bent a professional ear over the white face on the pillow, while Dr. Bryce hurried forward; then brought his head up quickly, a peculiar light in the sharp eyes back of the spectacles. "He is sleeping!"

*    *    *    *    *

Polly was sitting, a half-hour by the bedside, Pickering's thin fingers still tightly grasping her hand. They had made her comfortable in an easy chair, Jasper bringing one of Mrs. Higby's biggest cushions for her to lean her head against. He now stood at the side of her chair, Phronsie curled up on the floor at her feet.

"Don't stay." Polly's lips seemed to frame the words rather than speak them, looking up at him.

He shook his head, resting his hand on the back of the chair. Polly tried to smile up a bit of comfort into his eyes. "Jasper loved Pickering so," she said to herself, "that he cannot leave him; but oh! he looks so dreadfully, I wish he would go and rest," and she began to have a worried look at once.

"What is it?" asked Jasper, catching the look at once, and bending to whisper in her ear.

"You will be sick if you do not go and rest," whispered back Polly.

"I cannot -- don't ask it." Jasper brought the words out sharply, with just a bitter tone to them.

"He thinks it is strange that I ask it; he is so fond of Pickering," said Polly to herself. "And now I have grieved him -- O, dear!"

"I won't leave Pickering," she said, lifting her brown eyes quickly.

A spasm came over Jasper's face, and his brow contracted.

"Don't," he begged, and Polly could feel that the hand resting on the back of the chair grasped it so tightly that it shook beneath her.

"I ought to have remembered that Jasper couldn't leave him; he loves him so," mourned Polly. "Oh! why did I speak?"

In the room at the end of the hall Mrs. Cabot was excitedly walking the floor, twisting her handkerchief between her nervous fingers, and talking unrestrainedly to Charlotte Chatterton.

"I do believe this will melt Polly's heart," she cried. "Oh! it must, it must! Don't you think it must, Miss Chatterton?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Charlotte Chatterton in a collected manner, as she bent over the cradle to tuck the shawl over Johnny's legs where he had kicked it off in his sleep.

"Oh! you know quite well what I mean, Miss Chatterton," declared Mrs. Cabot, in her distress losing her habitually polite manner. "Why, everybody knows that Pickering has loved Polly since they were boy and girl together."

Not knowing what was expected of her, Charlotte Chatterton wisely kept silent.

"And now, why, it's just a Providence, I do believe -- that is, if he gets well -- that brought all this about, for of course Polly must be touched by it. She must!" brought up Mrs. Cabot quite jubilantly.

And this time she waited for Charlotte to speak, at last exclaiming, "Don't you see it must be so?"

"I think love goes where it is sent," said Charlotte slowly.

"Sent? Well, that is just it. Isn't it sent here?" cried Mrs. Cabot impatiently.

"I don't know," said Charlotte. Then she said distinctly, "I know love is very different from pity" -- 

"Of course it is -- but then, sometimes it isn't," said Mrs. Cabot nervously. "Well, any way, Polly has almost as good as promised to marry Pickering," she finished triumphantly -- "so -- and you are very cruel to talk to me in this way, Miss Chatterton."

Charlotte Chatterton turned away from Johnny and faced Mrs. Cabot. "You don't mean to say you think Polly would feel bound by what she said when we all thought he was dying?"

"I do, certainly -- knowing Polly as I do -- if Pickering took it so. And I am quite sure he will say so when he gets well; quite sure. Polly isn't a girl to break her word," added Mrs. Cabot confidently.

"Then I'm sure Providence hasn't had anything to do with this," said Charlotte shortly, "and Polly shall never be tormented into thinking it her duty either," and she turned off to pick up a new gown "in the works" for Johnny.

"What you think duty, Miss Chatterton, wouldn't be Polly Pepper's idea of duty in the least," said Mrs. Cabot, getting back into the refuge of her society manner again, now that her confidence in Polly grew every moment, "so we will talk no more about it if you please," she added icily, as she went toward the door. "Only mark my words, my dear boy and that dear girl will be engaged, and quite the appropriate match it will be too, and please every one."

*    *    *    *    *

"You must go back, my boy," said old Mr. King two days later. "It's just knocking you up to stay," studying Jasper's face keenly. "Goodness me! I should think you'd fallen off a dozen pounds. Upon my word I should, my boy," he repeated with great concern.

"Never mind me, father," said Jasper a trifle impatiently, "and as to my work, Mr. Marlowe will give me a few more days. He's goodness itself. I shall telegraph him this morning for an extension."

"You will do nothing of the kind," declared Mr. King testily. "What can you do here, pray tell, by staying? You would be quite a muff in a few more days, Jasper," he added, "you are so down-hearted now. No, I insist that you go now."

"Very well," said Jasper quite stiffly, "I will take myself off by the afternoon train, then, father, since I am in the way."

"How you talk, Jasper!" cried his father in astonishment. "You know quite well that I am only thinking of your own good. What's got into you -- but I suppose this confounded hospital we're in, has made you lose your head."

"Thank you, father," said Jasper, recovering himself by a great effort, "for putting it so, and I beg you to forgive me for my hasty words." He came up to the old gentleman and put out his hand quickly, "Do forgive me, father."

"Forgive you? Of course I will, though I don't know when you've spoken to me like that, Jasper," said his father, not yet able to shake himself free from his bewilderment. "Well, well, that's enough to say about that," seeing Jasper's face, "and now get back to your work, my boy, as soon as you can, and you'll thank me for sending you off. And as soon as Pickering Dodge is able to be moved home, why, the rest of us will finish our trip, and give you that surprise party -- eh, Jasper?" and Mr. King tried to laugh in the old way, but it was pretty hard work.

*    *    *    *    *

"Well, now, Polly," said Dr. Fisher, a week after as he held her at arm's length, and brought his spectacles to bear upon her face, "remember what I say, child; you are to take care of yourself, and let Mrs. Cabot look out for things. It will do the woman good to have something to do," he added, dropping his voice. "I don't like to carry home your face, child; it won't do; you're getting tired out, and your mother will be sure to find it out. I really ought to stay and take care of you," and the little doctor began to look troubled at once.

"Indeed, Papa Fisher," cried Polly, brightening up, "you will do nothing of the kind. Why, my arm is doing famously. You know you said you never saw a broken arm behave so well in all your life."

"It isn't your arm, Polly, that worries me," said Father Fisher; "that's first-rate, and I shouldn't wonder if it turned out better perhaps for breaking, but it's something different, and it quite puzzles me; you look so down-hearted, child."

"Do I?" said Polly, standing quite straight, and rubbing her forehead with her well hand; "there, now, I will get the puckers and wrinkles out. There, Papa Fisher, are they all gone?" She smiled as cheerily as ever, but the little man shook his head, then took off his spectacles, wiped them, and set them back on his nose.

"No; it won't do; you can't make your old father believe but what you've something on your mind, Polly. I think I shall have to send your mother down here," he said suddenly.

"O, Father Fisher!" cried Polly, the color flying over her face, "you wouldn't ever do that, I am sure! Why, it would worry Mamsie so, and besides she can't leave King Fisher" -- 

He interrupted her as she clung to his arm. "I know that, but what can I do? If you'd only promise now, Polly," he added artfully, "that you won't tire yourself all out trying to suit Mrs. Cabot's whims -- why, I'd think about taking back what I said about sending your mother down."

"Oh! I won't -- I won't," promised Polly gladly. "And now, dear Papa Fisher, you'll take it all back, won't you?" she begged.

"Yes," said Dr. Fisher, glad to see Polly's color back again, and to have her beg him for some favor. So the next half-hour or so they were very cheery -- just like old times; just as if there had been no sickness and the shadow of a loss upon them in the past days.

"Though why we should be always acting as if we were in the midst of it now, I don't see," said the little doctor at last. "We're all straightened out, thank God, and Pickering mending so fast that he's a perfect marvel. It would be a sin and a shame for us to be in the dumps forever. Well, now, Polly, remember. Whew! hear that youngster!" This last being brought out by Johnny's lusty shouts in the next room. "I don't envy Mrs. Fargo her bargain, and I do pity myself having to see him safely there."

"Oh! Charlotte will take all the care of him," said Polly quickly. "She's just beautiful with him; you don't know how beautiful, Papa Fisher, because you've been so busy, since you've been here, and Charlotte has kept him away from everybody so he needn't worry any one. And isn't it lovely that he is to have such a beautiful home?" added Polly with shining eyes.

"Um -- yes, for Johnny," said Dr. Fisher. "Well, good-by, Polly." He gathered her up in his arms for a final kiss. "Oh! here's Charlotte come to bid you good-by, too."

"Polly," said Charlotte, drawing her off to a quiet corner, as the little doctor went away, leaving the two girls together, "I must say something, and I don't know how to say it."

Polly looked at her with wide eyes.

"It's just this," said Charlotte, plunging on desperately; "Polly, don't let Mrs. Cabot pick at you and talk about duty. Oh! I hate to hear her speak the word," exploded Charlotte, with a volume of wrath in her tone.

"What do you mean, Charlotte?" cried Polly in a puzzled way.

"Oh! she may -- never mind how -- she's quite peculiar, you know," said Charlotte, finding her way less clear with each word. "Never mind, Polly; only just fight her if she begins on what is your duty; if she does, then fight her tooth and nail."

"But it may be something that I really ought to do," said Polly.

Charlotte turned on her in horror. "O, never!" she cried. "Don't you do it, Polly Pepper. Just as sure as she says you ought to do it, you may know it would be the worst thing in all the world. Promise me, Polly, that you won't do it."

"But, Charlotte, I ought not to promise until I am quite sure that it wouldn't be my duty to do what Mrs. Cabot advises. Don't you see, Charlotte, that I ought not to promise?"

But Charlotte was too far gone in anxiety to see anything, and she could only reiterate, "Do promise, Polly, do; there's Mr. Higby calling us; the carriage is at the door. Do, Polly! I never will ask you anything else if you'll only promise me this."

But Polly could only shake her head, and say, "I ought not," and then Johnny had to be kissed and wrenched from Phronsie, who insisted on carrying him downstairs to set him in the carriage, and Mrs. Cabot came in, and old Mr. King wanted a last word with Charlotte, so that at last she was in Mr. Higby's carryall, shut in on the back seat looking out over Johnny's head, with a pair of very hopeless eyes. But her lips said, "Do, Polly!"

And still Polly, on the flat door-stone, had to shake her head.

"I shall tell Mrs. Fisher, and beg her to come right down here," determined Charlotte Chatterton to herself, "just as soon as I get in the house. That is exactly what I shall do," she declared savagely, as Mr. Higby whipped up the mare for the quarter-mile drive to the little station.



Chapter XVII.

Jasper.


"Halloo, King, Mr. Marlowe wants you." Jasper, his hands full of papers, hurried down the long warehouse, through the piles of books, fresh from the bindery, stacked closely to the ceiling. The busy packers who were filling the boxes, looked up as he threaded his way between them. "Mr. Marlowe is down there," indicating the direction with a nod, while the hands kept mechanically at their task.

"I want to see you about that last lot of paper," Mr. Marlowe began, before Jasper had reached him; "it is thin and of poorer quality than I ordered. The loss must be charged back to Withers & Co."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Jasper. "They assured me that everything should be right, and like the sample that we ordered it from."

"And Jacob Bendel writes that the edition we gave him of History of Great Cities to print will be shipped to us within a fortnight, when his contract was to be filled on Thursday. Of course we lose all the Chicago orders by this delay."

"What's the reason?" asked Jasper, feeling all the thrill of the disappointment as keenly as if he were the head of the house.

"Oh! a strike among the printers; his best men have gone out, and he's at the mercy of a lot of inferior workmen who are being intimidated by the strikers; but he thinks he can get the edition to us in ten days or so."

Mr. Marlowe leaned against an empty packing case and viewed the assistant foreman of the manufacturing department calmly, with the air of a man to whom disappointments were in the usual order of things.

"Can't we give it to another printer?" asked Jasper.

"Who?"

"Morse Brothers?"

"They are full and running over with work. I inquired there yesterday; we may want a little extra done as the rush over those Primary Readers is coming on. No, I can't think of a place where we could crowd it in, if we took it away from Bendel."

Jasper's gaze thoughtfully followed the drift of a shaving blown by the draft along the warehouse floor.

"I think I'll send you down to New York to see Bendel, and find out how things are. I don't get any satisfaction from letters," said Mr. Marlowe in a minute. "Beside you can attend to some other matters; and then there is that Troy job; you can do that."

"Very well, sir."

"Can you take the night express?" Mr. Marlowe pulled out his watch. It was ten minutes of three.

"Can I leave the Ransom bills I was checking off? Mr. Parker said they were the most important of the lot."

"Parker must give them to Richard; he knows pretty well how to do them, unless he can find time for them himself."

"I was to be at the Green printing-office at nine to-morrow morning," said Jasper.

"What for?"

"They sent down to Mr. Parker yesterday that we had made a mistake about price for doing those five hundred Past and Present; and wanted him to go to their office, and see Mr. Green himself."

"If Mr. Green thinks any mistake has been made, let him come to us," said Mr. Marlowe coolly. "You tell Parker to send a note to that effect; courteously written, of course, but to the point. We don't go running around after people who think mistakes are made. Let them bring their grievances here, if they have any. Is that all that detains you?"

Jasper held out his hand full of papers. "These were to come in between when they could, sir."

"Hem -- hem" -- Mr. Marlowe read them over with a practiced eye; rolled them up, and handed the roll to Jasper. "Tell Parker to set Danforth on those. Anything more?"

"I was to go to-morrow if there was time to get prices for best calendered paper of Patterson & Co. and Withers; but the next day will do."

"Parker must attend to all that," said Mr. Marlowe decidedly.

"Very well, sir. I believe that is all that hurries particularly."

"Come this way; I'll give you instructions what to say to Bendel," and Mr. Marlowe led the way out to a quiet corner of the warehouse, where he sat down by a desk, and rapidly laid the points of the business before his assistant.

The next morning in New York, Jasper ran across Mr. Whitney on Broadway.

"Well said; that you, Jasper? Why aren't you up at the house?"

"I came on the night express," said Jasper, finding it hard to wait a minute, "on a matter of importance for Mr. Marlowe. Sorry, Brother Mason, but I can't stop now."

"You'll be up to-night, of course," said Mason Whitney.

"I can't; I'm off for Troy," said Jasper concisely, "and I don't come back this way."

"Goodness! what a man your Marlowe is. And your sister Marian wants to hear about Polly and all the others; you've seen them so lately."

"It's impossible," began Jasper; "you see I can't help it, Brother Mason; Mr. Marlowe's orders must be carried out."

"He's a beast, your Marlowe is," declared Mr. Whitney hotly. "I don't know what Marian will say when I tell her you are here in New York and won't stop for even a word with her."

"Sister Marian will say it's all right," said Jasper, a trifle impatiently, and feeling the loss of every moment a thing to be atoned for. "Mr. Marlowe is loaded up with trouble of all kinds. Now I must go."

"Hold on a minute," cried Mason Whitney. "Well, how are you getting on? Seems to me the publishing business doesn't agree with you. You look peaked enough," scanning Jasper's face closely.

"I'm well enough," said Jasper abruptly. "Tell sister Marian I will write her very soon," pulling out his watch; "good-by," and he was lost in the crowd surging down Broadway. Mr. Whitney standing still a moment to look after him, turned, and went directly to his office.

"That call on Hendryx & Co. can wait," he muttered to himself on the way, "but Jasper can't. The boy looks badly, and his father ought to know it; although it seems funny enough for me to be meddling with Jasper's affairs. But I won't leave anything to worry about afterward; they can't say I ought to have told them."

So a letter went out by next mail from Mr. Whitney's office, saying that Jasper looked poorly enough when he was met in New York; that he seemed incapable of breathing any other air than that saturated with business; that he had evidently mistaken his vocation when he chose to be a publisher. "Beside, there isn't any money now in the publishing business," added Mr. Whitney as a clincher; "there are too many of the fellows cutting each other's throats to make it pay; and books are slaughtered right and left, and Jasper much better get into some other business, in my opinion."

Meanwhile Jasper finished, to the letter, the instructions for Jacob Bendel, did up the other matters entrusted to him, and set out on his Troy expedition. Here he was detained a day or two, Mr. Marlowe's instructions being to wait over and telegraph if the business could not be adjusted satisfactorily. But the fourth day after leaving home, Jasper, just from the night express, mounted the stairs to his hotel in the early morning, his bag in his hand, and the expression on his face of a man who has accomplished what he set out to do.

"There's an old gent up in your room," announced Buttons, tumbling off, a sleepy heap, from one of the office chairs, to look at him.

"An old gentleman in my room," repeated Jasper, turning on the stairs. "Why was any person put in my room?"

"We didn't put the person there," said the boy, yawning fearfully, "he put himself there. He's a tiger, he is, and he blows me up reg'lar 'cause you ain't home," he added.

Jasper scaled the rest of the stairs, and tried the knob of his door with no gentle hand. Then he rapped loudly. "Open the door -- this is my room."

"Oh! I'm coming," said a voice he knew quite well, and presently old Mr. King stood before him, his velvet cap and morning jacket both awry from impatient fingers.

"Father!" ejaculated Jasper. And "Goodness me, Jasper!" from the old gentleman, "what an unearthly hour to come home in."

Jasper hurried in, set his bag in the corner, then turned and looked at his father anxiously. Meanwhile old Mr. King was studying his son's countenance with no small degree of alarm.

"What is it," cried Jasper at last, coming close to him, "that has brought you?"

"What? -- why, you."

"Me?" cried Jasper, in amazement.

"Yes; dear me, Jasper, with all the worries I have had lately, it does seem a pity that you couldn't take care of yourself. It really does," repeated Mr. King, his feelings nowise soothed by picking up his watch and finding it half-past six o'clock. When he made sure of the time, he set down the watch quickly, and stared at Jasper worse than ever.

"Now, father," said Jasper, "there's a mistake somewhere, but never mind now; you must get back to bed again. I don't know when you've been up at this hour." He tried to laugh, while he laid his hand on the old gentleman's arm. "Do get back to bed, father."

"It certainly is a most outrageous hour in which to arise," remarked his father, not able to suppress a yawn, "and I don't mind if I do turn in -- but where will you sleep, Jasper?" whirling around on his son. "I've come to look after you, and I shouldn't begin very well to monopolize your bed," with a short laugh.

"Oh, I'll camp out on the lounge," said Jasper carelessly; "in two minutes I could be asleep there or anywhere else. Don't mind me, father."

"If you say so, then I will," said the old gentleman, "and you are too tired to talk before you've had a nap." So he lay down on the bed, Jasper dutifully tucking him up, and presently his regular breathing told that he had picked up the threads of his broken slumber.

Jasper threw himself on the lounge, but unable to close his eyes, his gaze fell on a sheet of paper, lying on the floor just within reach. It was impossible to avoid reading the words: "And Jasper better get into some other business, in my opinion," and signed "Mason Whitney."

Jasper jumped to his feet and strode up and down the room in growing indignation; then seized his hat and darted out to cool himself off before his father should awake. When he returned, old Mr. King was half-dressed, and berating Buttons for his failure to have the morning paper at the door.

"Now for breakfast," cried Jasper, his own toilet quickly made, "then I presume you want to see me in my business surroundings, father?" as they went down the stairs together.

"I most certainly do," said the old gentleman decidedly; and they turned into the breakfast room.

So after a meal in which Jasper, by skillful management of all conversational topics, allowed no chance word of business to intrude, old Mr. King and he started for the publishing house of D. Marlowe & Co., Jasper filling up all gaps that might suggest time for certain questions that seemed to be trembling on the tip of Mr. King's tongue, while that gentleman was making a running commentary to himself something in this wise: "Just like Mason; send me off here when there is not the slightest need of it. The boy is well enough; quite well enough," he added, in his energy speaking the last words aloud.

"What is it, father?" Jasper paused in the midst of a descriptive fire concerning the new buildings going up on either hand, with many side stories of the men who were erecting them; and he paused for an answer.

"Nothing -- nothing of importance," said his father hastily. "I only observed that you appeared to be doing quite well; and as if the business agreed with you," he added involuntarily.

"I should think it did, father," cried Jasper enthusiastically, while his cheek glowed; "it's the grandest work a man can do, in my opinion."

"Hem, hem! well, we shall see," observed Mr. King drily, determined not to yield too easily. "You've been at it only six months. You know the old adage, Jasper: 'You must summer and winter' a thing before you decide."

Jasper drew a long breath. "I shall never be anything but a publisher, father," he said quietly.

"Hoity, toity! well, that is for me to decide, I take it," responded his father. "You've never disobeyed me yet, Jasper, and I don't believe you ever will. And if I think it's best for you to change your business, of course you'll do it."

Jasper's brow darkened, and he closed his lips tightly for a moment. Then something Polly said once when his father was in a particularly determined mood, came to his mind: "You better make him happy, Jasper, any way." That "any way" carried the day now.

"It shall be as you wish, father," he said, the frown disappearing; "I want you to be pleased, any way," unconsciously using Polly's word.

"I don't know as I should be at all pleased to have you leave the publishing business, Jasper," said old Mr. King, veering around quickly. "I can't tell till I've seen just how it suits you. But I am going to the root of the matter, now that I am here. Oh! is this the place?" as they came up against a large window, behind whose plate glass, rows and rows of books in all styles of bindings, met the view of the passer-by.

"This is it," said Jasper, with a thrill that he was part of the "it," and the satisfaction in his completed commission, that had been lost by his father's words, now bounded high again. "Now then, father, you must meet Mr. Marlowe," turning up the steps.

Old Mr. King walked down the store-length as if he owned the whole with several others of its kind thrown in, and on Jasper's pausing before a small office-door, marked "private," heard him say through its open window, "Good-morning, Mr. Marlowe."

"Ah, good-morning," came back quickly, and Mr. King saw a pleasant-faced gentleman of middle age, whose keen gray eyes seemed to note everything with lightning-like rapidity -- "business all right?"

"Yes, sir," said Jasper.

"Very well; you may come to me in a quarter of an hour and report. I shall be through with these gentlemen," indicating one sitting by his side at the desk, and another awaiting his turn.

"Tell him that I am here, Jasper," said Mr. King pompously, with an admonitory touch upon Jasper's arm.

"It's impossible, father; he can't see you now," said Jasper hurriedly, trying to draw his father off to a quieter corner.

"Impossible? Can't see me? What is there to prevent, pray tell?" cried the old gentleman irately.

"He has business men with him; they'll be through in a quarter of an hour," Jasper brought out in distress that was by no means lightened by the knowledge that half of the clerks through the long salesroom were becoming acquainted with the conversation.

"It's atrocious. I never was kept waiting in my life," fumed Mr. King. "He doesn't know I am here -- I will announce myself."

He started forward.

"Father," cried Jasper, darting after him, "let me get you a chair over here by the table and some books to look at."

"I want no books," said the old gentleman, now thoroughly determined, by this time looking in the open window of the private office. "Good-morning, sir," stiffly to the middle-aged gentleman sitting before the desk.

This gentleman looked up, nodded carelessly and said, "Excuse me, but I am at present engaged."

"I am Mr. Jasper King's father," announced the old gentleman with extreme dignity; and again the look of being able to buy out this and several other such establishments, spread over his face.

"I shall be very glad to see you, sir," said the middle-aged man imperturbably, "in a quarter of an hour. Excuse me," and he turned back to finish his sentence to the other business man.

"Jasper," cried Mr. King, taking short, quick steps to where Jasper stood, "give me a sheet of paper so that I may write to this fellow, and take you out of his contemptible trade -- or stay, I will write from the hotel," and he started for the door.

"Father," exclaimed Jasper in a low tone, but so distinctly that every one standing near might hear, "Mr Marlowe is just right; he always is."

"Eh?" cried his father, turning and grasping the back of a chair to steady himself.

"Mr. Marlowe is just right about these things. He really couldn't see you, father."

"I have never been obliged to wait for any one in all my life, Jasper," declared his father impressively, "and I never will."

"I wonder what Polly would do now," thought Jasper in despair.

"And that you could tolerate such impertinence to me," continued Mr. King with growing anger, "is more than I can understand; but since you've come into trade it's vastly changed you. If you do not choose to come to the hotel with me, I must go alone," which with great dignity he now proceeded to do.

The first business man who had finished his conference with Mr. Marlowe now came down the salesroom. "How d'ye, King," he said cordially to Jasper in passing.

Jasper's face lighted as he gave an equally cordial response.

"Such familiarity, Jasper!" exclaimed his father in a fresh burst of irritation. "Dear me, I only trust you're not completely spoiled before I get you out of this."

The business man turned around and gave a significant look to a knot of the salesmen, but happening to catch Jasper's eye, he said, "It's a fine day, King," carelessly, and passed out, but not before "Stuck-up old money-bag" fell upon the old gentleman's ear.

"We would better go to the hotel now, I think, father," said Jasper quietly. "Frank," to the nearest salesman, "will you tell Mr. Marlowe when it is ten minutes past," glancing at the clock, "that I was obliged to go with my father, but I will be back at ten o'clock?"

"You need give yourself no such trouble, Jasper, as all this," said his father decidedly; "I will wait if it is absolutely necessary that you see him," with a patronizing wave of his gloved hand toward the private office.

"It is absolutely necessary," said Jasper.

"Very well; I wait, then," said his father, accepting with the air of a martyr, the chair by the table of books.

And just then the private office-door opened and out came the other business man, followed by Mr. Marlowe.

"Frank," he called briskly, "ask Jasper's father to step here."



Chapter XVIII.

Mr. King Attends To Matters.


Old Mr. King kept on turning the books with a careless hand.

"Father," begged Jasper in a low voice, and putting his hand on the old gentleman's arm, such a world of entreaty in his face, that his father turned in spite of himself.

"After all I much better have it over with now, I really think," said Mr. King; "yes, Jasper, we will go back," with a marked emphasis on the word "back."

"I can't thank you enough, father," exclaimed Jasper gratefully.

"Well, well, say no more," said old Mr. King abruptly, as they reached the private office.

Mr. Marlowe's hands were mechanically adjusting the loose papers on his desk, so as not to lose an instant's time as Mr. King and Jasper came up, but he turned a face, over which a bright smile shot suddenly, lighting up the gray eyes, then quickly whirled around in his office chair. "Glad to see you," he said, putting out a cordial right hand.

Mr. King bowed, but evidently did not see the hand; which Mr. Marlowe not appearing to notice, the old gentleman was more furious than ever.

"Set a chair for your father, Jasper," said Mr. Marlowe quietly, "and get one for yourself." Then he leaned back in his office chair and pleasantly surveyed old Mr. King, waiting for him to speak.

"I have come, sir," said Mr. King, as he settled his courtly old figure in the chair Jasper had put for him beside the desk, "to see you about my son; I am not satisfied with his appearance, nor, I am sorry to say, with his surroundings."

"Indeed,?" said the head of the publishing house of D. Marlowe & Co., still with a pleasant smile on his face.

"I am very sorry," repeated Jasper's father, "to have to say it, but my attention has been called to the fact, and I cannot now ignore it."

"Hardly by Jasper," remarked Mr. Marlowe, bringing the revolving chair so that he could see Jasper's face.

"Indeed, no," cried Jasper involuntarily, "it is something father has heard elsewhere, Mr. Marlowe, and I know he will feel quite differently when he comes to see things as they really are."

The grave look on Mr. Marlowe's face disappeared as he turned back to old Mr. King.

"Well," he said at last, as the other showed no sign of continuing the conversation, and still playing with the paper cutter on his desk.

"Permit me to say, sir," Mr. King broke out, finding to his astonishment it was not an easy matter to talk to this imperturbable man entrenched behind his own desk, "that I am disappointed in the atmosphere in which I find my son. It smells of trade, sir, too much to suit my fancy."

"Did you suppose for an instant, Mr. King," asked Mr. Marlowe, dropping the paper-cutter to pick up the pencil, "that our books came out ready for libraries, without any intervening process?"

"I certainly supposed Jasper was to be in charge of a literary department of the house, when I gave my consent to his coming here -- " declared Mr. King very decidedly.

"Father!" exclaimed Jasper, unable longer to keep silent, "how could I take charge of any department, until I had learned it all myself?"

"You have been through Harvard," his father turned on him, "and it seems to me are fully competent to do the literary work required here."

"And as for the manufacturing department," continued Jasper, finding it more difficult to keep still, "it was the only place for me; I had to begin at the bottom, if I'm ever to be a publisher -- which is what my work is to be -- "

"Not so fast -- not so fast," cried the old gentleman excitedly. "You are not to be a publisher, I take it, if I do not wish it. You've given your word you will not."

"I have given my word, father," said Jasper with a long breath, "and I'll not go back on it," but his lips whitened.

All this while Mr. Marlowe still played with the little articles on his desk, sitting very quietly and watching the two. He now threw them down with an abrupt movement, whirled the revolving chair around suddenly and sent a lightning-like glance of stern inquiry toward old Mr. King.

"Be so kind, sir, as to define exactly what your intentions are as to your son's future. Time is very valuable here, and every fraction squandered has to be made up in some way."

"My intentions are," said the old gentleman, in a lofty way, "to take my son out of the business -- entirely out, sir," he waved his hand in a stately and comprehensive manner; then glanced to see the effect on the head of the house.

But there was no effect whatever, except a quick business-like acceptance of the situation on Mr. Marlowe's implacable face. "Father!" began Jasper. But old Mr. King was beyond hearing a word.

"I had intended," he went on condescendingly, "to have my son put in a large interest in the business, supposing it turned out to be the proper one for him. In fact, his and my financial support would have made it one of the finest publishing houses in the world."

Mr. Marlowe bowed. "Thank you," he said politely. "James," turning to the window opening into the book-keeping department, "make out Jasper King's account and settle at once. I believe you wish to go as soon as you can, do you not," to Jasper, "that is, after you have given me the report of the business you did on the trip?"

Jasper could not speak for a moment. Then he said: "But I can't leave my work in this way -- it's," and he sprang to his feet.

"Jasper," Mr. Marlowe stopped a moment and seemed to swallow something in his throat, then went on, "your father wishes it, and you will make him happy" -- Jasper started at Polly's own words -- "that's enough for one life time. I'm sorry to lose you, my boy," he suddenly grasped Jasper's hand, "but allow me to say, sir," turning to old Mr. King, "that for you and your money I have very little consideration. You don't own enough to make it worth while for the house of David Marlowe & Co. to extend an invitation to you to enter it. And now, if you will excuse me, I will hear Jasper's account of the business he was sent on."

With that, seeing it was expected of him, old Mr. King got out of his chair, by the side of the desk, and passed into the long salesroom.

"I hope you'll believe," began Jasper brokenly, feeling as if the whole world were going awry, "that this strange idea was never gained from me. Why, I love the business." His gray eyes glowed as he spoke the word.

"My boy," Mr. Marlowe's face was alight with feeling, "don't explain, I understand it all; you've the misfortune to be born into a rich family, and your father probably never had to raise his hand to earn a penny. He isn't to be blamed, only I did hope" -- 

"That I was different," finished Jasper, his head drooping a bit with the shame of it. "Oh, Mr. Marlowe, father is so splendid -- he's just a magnificent man," he added, the head coming up, with Jasper's old habit of throwing it back, "if you only knew him and he could have shown you his old self."

"Don't I know it," responded Mr. Marlowe heartily, "and I also know that you must stick by him. Only I did hope -- and now I will finish what I was going to say -- that you could stay and help me, for you are after my own heart, Jasper," he added abruptly, a rare tremble in his voice.

Jasper put out his hand instinctively. "Thank you, Mr. Marlowe," he said as the head of the house grasped it warmly, "I shall never forget this."

And then, as if nothing but the ordinary business had occurred, Jasper sat down and went carefully over every detail of the commission he had been sent on, heard Mr. Marlowe's terse, "That's good, Jasper; you've done it all well," and passed out for the last time, from the private office, and joined his father in silence, for the walk to the hotel.

That night Jasper's father wanted to go to a concert, so Jasper got a box, and sat through it all, not seeing anything but Polly's face, and hearing, "I'd make him happy, any way."

Down in the audience sprinkled here and there, or in the galleries, were some of the D. Marlowe & Co. salesmen and workers staring often up at him, and the handsome white-haired old gentleman by his side.

"There's that old snob," they would exclaim at first recognition, to their companions, "look at him," and under pretense of gazing at the stage, the opera glasses would be turned on the box. "Looks as if he owned the whole town, eh?"

"He is awfully handsome, isn't he?" every salesman's companion would exclaim, looking at Jasper pale and quiet, in the most secluded part of the box.

"Yes," said every one of the men, only seeing the old gentleman, "but he's too toploftical to live" -- or something to that effect -- and then they would forget all about it till the companion's opera glasses leveled in the same direction, brought the conversation around to the old topic.

"They had a flare-up with Mr. Marlowe this morning," confided one salesman to his friend in the entr'acte, "and he's off," with a nod over to Jasper's private box.

"Oh dear me!" exclaimed the young girl, with a pang at her heart, "has he left your business?"

"Yes," said the salesman, and a real regret passed over his careless face, "and it's a shame, for no one would have thought he owned a penny; he was just digging at the business all the time, like the rest of us."

"Is he very rich?" asked the young girl.

"Well, I should say," began the salesman, unable to find words to express Jasper's financial condition. Then the curtain rang up.

The next morning, old Mr. King broke the egg into his cup thoughtfully. "I suppose I might as well look about a bit, now that I'm here, Jasper. I haven't been in this town for twenty years or so."

"Very well, father," said Jasper, trying not to be listless. "Where shall we go to-day?"

"Oh, I'll look around by myself," said his father quickly. "You go to bed -- you look all done up," scanning his son's face anxiously.

"Indeed, you will not go alone," said Jasper, rousing himself with shame. "We'll have a good day together."

"Indeed we will not," retorted the old gentleman.

"I shall have a cab and go by myself. You'll go to bed, or I'll call in the doctor. Goodness me, Jasper, you don't look like the same boy that started out in business six months ago; you're all worn out."

Jasper said nothing, only redoubled his efforts on the breakfast before him that now assumed colossal proportions, and as if it could never be eaten in the world, hoping to persuade his father into allowing him to go on the tour of inspection. But it was no use. Mr. King on finishing his morning repast, stalked out to the office, and ordered a carriage, and presently departed, with last injunctions to Jasper, "to lie down and take things easy."

As his father closed the door, Jasper sank into a chair by the table and allowed his head to drop into his hands; but only for a minute, then he sprang to his feet, and paced the floor rapidly.

"If Polly is only happy," he said to himself over and over. How long he walked thus he never knew -- it was only by hearing a vigorous knock on the door that he stopped, and called, "Come in."

"They told me," said Jack Loughead, answering the knock, "at the Marlowes,' that I should find you here, unless you had left the town. Are you sick?" he asked with concern.

"No; sit down, do, Loughead," said Jasper, dragging forward a chair, and falling into one himself, just beginning to be conscious of a stiff pair of legs.

Jack Loughead set his hat on the table, and himself in the chair that Jasper proffered. Then he fell to tapping the tip of his shining boot with his walking stick.

"King, I came here to ask you something, that if I didn't trust you so well I could never ask in all the world. But I feel I can trust you."

"Oh, don't -- don't," begged Jasper, putting up an unsteady hand to ward off the dreaded subject. "Don't tell me anything, Loughead."

"Well, I will ask you something, then," said Jack Loughead coolly. "I'm a business man, King, and I must come to the point in a business way. First, let me tell you that Uncle and I start for Australia in a fortnight;" Jasper drew a long breath of relief. "Yes, I must get back; and you will see that I cannot go without," Jack Loughead paused -- then went on abruptly. "Does Miss Pepper care for Pickering Dodge?"

"How do I know -- how can I tell?" cried Jasper desperately, and springing from his chair, he began to pace the floor again. "Excuse me, Loughead, I'm not myself to-day. I've left D. Marlowe & Co. and" -- 

"Yes, I know," interrupted Jack, and drawing a long breath of relief on his part at being able to speak on this subject now that the ice was broken; "well, I'm glad, of course, King, if you didn't care to stay," he said.

"But I did," cried Jasper, stopping short, to emphasize this. "Mr. Marlowe is a royal man, through and through, and I'd work for him all my life. But my father thought best not; that's enough," he added in the abruptest fashion, beginning to walk again.

"Yes; well, I see," said Jack. "I know a little what well-meaning relatives can do to make a young man's life miserable. I'm sorry, King," and he looked truly wretched over it.

"And you must forgive anything strange about me to-day," said Jasper, walking on hurriedly, "for I am all upset."

"Yes, I know," repeated Jack Loughead, "nothing breaks a man up like wrenching him from his work. King," he sprang to his feet and joined Jasper walking on by his side down the room, "you are Miss Pepper's brother, or as good as one. Can you tell me if I shall wrong Pickering Dodge if I speak to her?"

Jasper was saved from answering by old Mr. King coming in with a "Oh, how d'ye, Loughead? Well, well, Jasper, you've had a good nap, I take it." And then all three went down to luncheon, and Jasper managed not to be left alone with Jack Loughead until at the last when he said, "I shall go and tell the whole story to Mrs. Fisher; of course I must speak to her first."

*    *    *    *    *

"Halloo, Dave!" It was such a remarkable cry that David turned at once, although he was almost on a dead run across the campus.

"Hey, there!" shouted Percy Whitney as David turned. "Whew! How you do go, Dave."

"What's the matter?" cried David, running lightly back to stand in front of Percy. "Dear me, Percy, you have lost your eyeglasses!" with a glance at the other's flushed face; "wait, I'll find the things."

"I yelled my lungs sore," said Percy in irritation, dropping down on his knees to pass his hands carefully over the campus grass, "and now I've lost these. Bad luck to you, Dave, for it!"

"Oh! go without 'em," said David, getting gingerly down on all-fours to prowl around on the greensward.

"Go without 'em?" repeated Percy, sitting straight in indignation. "How could I see, pray tell? Don't be a donkey, Dave."

David said nothing, but fell to a more diligent search, while Percy bewailed his loss, watching eagerly David's nimble fingers moving in and out of the little tufts of grass.

"Shades of the departed specs," cried David, also sitting straight and peering with his keen blue eyes in a birdlike way along the sward. "It's a mysteri -- oh, Great Caesar!" then he fell on his back on the campus, and rolled and laughed, to bring up red and shining, only to tumble over and roll again.

"Of all the idiots in the universe, Dave Pepper," fumed Percy. "What's the matter?"

"Your trouble has gone to your head," said David faintly. "Feel and see; oh dear!"

Percy's hand flew up to his thick mane of brown hair, that not all his disgust and tireless training could persuade to lie smoothly, when he picked off his beloved glasses, after an angry twitch or two.

"How you can sit there and laugh when Joe is in danger, I don't see," he exclaimed irritably, adjusting them to his nose. "I've nearly killed myself to catch you, and" -- 

"Joe in danger!" cried David, on his feet in an instant. "Oh, Percy, what do you mean?" his cheeks whitening, and his blue eyes agleam.

"Joel's brought it on himself," said Percy, his irritation not going down. "I must say, Dave, if he'd behave more like the rest of us, he'd be" -- 

Then Polly's words, "Oh, dear, beautiful Joel!" came to mind, and he coughed violently, holding fast the eyeglasses in their place.

"What danger?" demanded David, in his impatience shaking Percy's arm.

"Well, you must know, after last night's performance over Joe, that they wouldn't let him alone."

"Last night's performance over Joel?" repeated David in astonishment. "What yarn are you spinning now, Percy?"

"Goodness sake, you are yarning yourself," retorted Percy indignantly, "to pretend that you don't know that last night a dozen or more fellows called on Joe, and he handled 'em without gloves, so that Bingley and Dobbs can't hardly step to-day."

"It's the first word I've heard of it," said David slowly, but emphatically, and staggering back a step or two to look at Percy. "I was out all the evening. Oh, magnificent old Joe!"

"Magnificent old Joe!" repeated Percy, "you better say 'poor Joe,' when you know what they are intending to give him."



Chapter XIX.

Mother Fisher And Charlotte.


David's blue eyes flashed dangerously. "Tell all you know, Percy," he said briefly.

"Dobbs heads it, as he did the first one," said Percy; "they've changed their tactics, and will get at Joe on their way home from that confounded meeting. Dave, can't you keep him from that?" and Percy, forgetting himself, peered anxiously over his glasses.

"No," said David shortly, "and I sha'n't try."

"You're an idiot," cried Percy, in a passion, "a stupid, blind old donkey! Joe will be mauled dreadfully," he howled, beating his hands together in distress; "no help for it but to keep him away from that old association meeting."

"Anything more to tell?" asked David.

"No," Percy shot out. "Bingley told me all he knew; but they wouldn't let him catch much of it, because he's left the gang" -- 

David's feet by this time were flying over the Campus, so that Percy was obliged to shout the remainder of the sentence after him. The consequence was that several heads were popped out of as many windows in the long gray dormitory fronting the Campus, their owners all engaged in the pleasing duty of staring at Percy and the flying figure across the grass.

"Now I'm in for it, for there's Dobbs, I vow," exclaimed Percy to himself, in dismay; "he'll guess I've given Dave warning," and he tried to strike a careless attitude, picking off his glasses to hold them up and gaze long and earnestly through them into the nearest tree.

"You can't come it," jeered Dobbs, from his window. "No birdsnesting, I promise you, Whitney; ha, ha!" And the other heads popped farther out than ever, to add a few hisses.

Percy, maddened by the failure of his plan to divert suspicion, now lost his head entirely, and sticking his eyeglasses on again, ran off like lightning to his room, followed by "Little coward, we'll treat you too -- Look out!"

*    *    *    *    *

"Well, Jasper; now I'm bound for the next thing -- Percy and Joel and David," declared old Mr. King as Jack Loughead was cleverly off; "we are so near, it's a pity not to drop down on them."

"Don't you think you ought to hurry back to Brierly?" asked Jasper, having hard work not to show that he cared anything about it one way or the other.

"No, I don't," answered his father, in his crispest fashion. "No one needs me there; Mrs. Cabot is a host in herself, and those boys may -- who knows? At any rate, I must see how they are getting on, so we will go as soon as you can get your things packed and sent home," and the old gentleman glanced around the room at the various keepsakes and family adornings that Jasper had brought with him to make life less lonely while he made a business man of himself.

"Very well, father," said Jasper, he could not trust himself to say more; and for the first time had to hurry away that his father might not see his face. But old Mr. King was the farthest removed from carrying the look of a person holding any interest whatever in Jasper's trouble, for he went on to say, "And I do hope you will get it over with as quickly as possible, Jasper, so that we may be off," then he fell to reading the evening paper with great gusto.

Jasper seized his hat, rushed down stairs two steps at a time, nearly overturning Buttons leaning on the post at the foot.

"Oh! beg pardon," said Jasper, quite as if it had been a gentleman he had run against.

"You hain't hurt me none," said Buttons, staggering back to his support, where he craned his neck in curiosity to watch young Mr. King's impatience.

Once out in the park, a half-mile away, his hands thrust in their pockets, Jasper slackened his pace, and breathed freer. Before him seemed to be the little brown house; it was the first time he had seen Mrs. Pepper -- and they had just finished their long talk, when the mother had thanked him for rescuing Phronsie from the organ-grinder. The five little Peppers were begging him to come over again to see them, but Mrs. Pepper laid her hand on his arm. "Be sure, Jasper," she warned, "that your father is willing." He could see her black eyes looking down into his face. What would she say now?

Jasper threw himself down on one of the seats under a friendly tree. "At least, Polly, you sha'n't be ashamed of me," he said in a moment or two, "and dear Mrs. Fisher," then he walked quietly off to make the last preparations that his father had ordered.

*    *    *    *    *

"Well, now, Charlotte," said Mrs. Fisher, "you needn't worry, not a single bit," and she went on calmly sorting out the small flannel petticoats in her lap. "That is rather thin," she said, holding up one between her eyes and the light; "King Fisher, how you do kick things out!"

"Mrs. Fisher!" exclaimed Charlotte Chatterton in amazement, "how can you sit picking over flannel petticoats, when perhaps Polly will -- oh, do excuse me," she broke off hastily, "for speaking so."

"Polly? I'd trust my girl to know what was sense, and what was nonsense," declared Mother Fisher crisply, and not taking off her attention in the slightest from Baby's petticoats.

"Ar-goo -- ar-goo!" screamed little King.

"So we would -- wouldn't we, Birdie?" she said, nodding at him.

"But people do such very strange things in -- in -- love," said Charlotte, her face full of distress, "I mean when love is in the question, Mrs. Fisher."

"Polly doesn't," said Mrs. Fisher scornfully. "Polly has never been in love; why, she is only twenty."

Charlotte gave an uneasy whirl and rushed off to the window.

"And there's that dreadful, hateful Mrs. Cabot," she cried, plunging back, her pale eyes afire. "Oh! I feel so wicked, Mrs. Fisher, whenever I think of her, I'd like to tear her, I would, for picking at Polly," she declared with venom.

"You needn't be afraid," repeated Mrs. Fisher calmly, "Polly knows Mrs. Cabot through and through, and will never be influenced by anything she says."

"Oh, dear, dear, dear!" cried Charlotte, wringing her long hands, "and there's that Mr. Loughead, and everything is mixed up, and I can't frighten you."

"Now, just see here, Charlotte," cried Mother Fisher, casting aside the flannel petticoats to look up, "you must just put your mind off from all this; I should never know you, my girl, you are always so sensible and quiet. Why, Charlotte, what has gotten into you?"

"That's just it," cried Charlotte, a pink passion in her sallow cheeks, "everybody thinks because I don't rant every day, that I haven't any more feeling than a stick or a stone. Oh! do excuse me, Mrs. Fisher, but I love Polly so!" And she flung herself down on her knees, burying her face among the little flannel petticoats in Mother Fisher's lap.

"There -- there, my dear," said Mrs. Fisher, smoothing Charlotte's pale straight hair, "of course you love Polly; everybody does."

"And I don't -- don't want her to marry that Pickering Dodge," mumbled Charlotte.

"Certainly not; and she's no more likely to marry him than you are," said Mrs. Fisher coolly, giving gentle pats to Charlotte's head, while King Fisher screamed and twitched his mother's gown in anger to see the petting going on.

"Well, now I have two babies," said Mother Fisher, with a smile, lifting him up to her lap, where he amused himself by beating on Charlotte's head with both fat fists, till his mother seized them with one hand, while she gently smoothed the girl's hair with the other. "Polly can be trusted anywhere; and when she is in too much of a dilemma, then she brings everything to mother."

Charlotte sat up straight and wiped her eyes.

"And we've got somebody else to worry about much more, and all our sympathies ought to go out to him," said Mrs. Fisher gravely.

"Charlotte, I don't mind telling you that I am dreadfully sorry that Grandpapa has taken Jasper away from his business." She sat King Fisher abruptly on the floor, all the little petticoats tumbling after him, and walked away so that Charlotte could not see her face. "Poor Jasper, he loved his work so."

"And that's just it," gasped Charlotte, somehow finding her feet to hurry over to Mrs. Fisher, "Jasper has lost his work, and now oh dear! -- oh! can't you see, Mrs. Fisher" -- and then frightened at her boldness, she ran back to Baby.

"Charlotte Chatterton!" exclaimed Mrs. Fisher. There was something so dreadful in her tone, that Charlotte, without a word, ran out of the room -- to meet little Dr. Fisher hurrying upstairs with his hands full of letters. "A whole budget from Brierly," he announced joyfully; "two for you, my girl," casting them into her hands. "And the folks are coming home next week; that is, our folks -- good news -- eh, Charlotte?" then he sped on to find his wife.

And at dinner Charlotte, sitting pale and immovable amidst all the chat, let the news of Mr. and Mrs. Mason Whitney's and Dick's determination to come on to greet the arrivals from the Brierly farmhouse, fall on apparently unheeding ears.

"Charlotte!" cried Dr. Fisher at last, looking at her through his big spectacles, "why, I thought you would rejoice with us," he added reproachfully.

"Adoniram," exclaimed Mrs. Fisher across the table, for the first time in her life looking as if she would like to step on his toes. The little doctor stared at her a moment -- "Oh -- er -- never mind, my dear," he cried abruptly, turning to Charlotte. "I suppose you do not feel well."

"Yes, I do feel well," said Charlotte truthfully, not daring to look at Mrs. Fisher, but keeping her eyes on the tablecloth.

"I have a letter from Mr. King -- a very long one; he is going to see Joel and David," Mother Fisher made haste to say; "I hope he hasn't heard anything wrong about them," and a little anxious pucker came on her forehead.

Charlotte Chatterton glanced up quickly, and seeing it, "Oh, I do believe everything is all right, Mrs. Fisher," she exclaimed involuntarily.

Mother Fisher looked straight at her with one of her brightest smiles. "I guess so," she said, her brow clearing.

And after they had pulled back their chairs from the table, and the little doctor had gone into his office for a minute, Mrs. Fisher followed Charlotte out into the hall.

"Charlotte," and she put both hands on the girl's shoulders, "you and I won't meddle with the Lord's will for Polly. Promise me that you'll not say one word of what we were talking, to any one."

"I won't!" said Charlotte Chatterton.

"And now," said Mother Fisher, dropping her arms and resuming her usual cheery manner, "you and I, Charlotte, have got to put our minds on getting ready for the Whitneys and the home-coming, and we must make it just the brightest time that ever was. I'm no good at thinking up ways to celebrate," added Mrs. Fisher, with a little laugh, "Polly always did that; so you must do it for me, you and the doctor, Charlotte. And you better run in to his office now and make a beginning, for next week will come before we know it," and with a motherly pat, and a "run along, child," Mrs. Fisher waited to see Charlotte well on the way before she turned to her own duties.

"Come in!" cried little Dr. Fisher, as she rapped at the office door. "Oh, it's you, Charlotte," with a sigh of relief; "I'm sure I don't feel much like dragging on my boots and going off to the Land's End to-night, on a call."

"Mrs. Fisher thought I ought to come and see you, sir, about getting up a plan to celebrate the home-coming next week," said Charlotte, feeling her heart bounding already with delight. Would they really all be together in a week?

"Now that's something like," exclaimed Dr. Fisher joyfully, and pushing aside with a reckless hand his books and vials on the table; "sit down, do, Charlotte; there," as Charlotte settled her long figure in the opposite chair. "Now then!"

"I never got up a plan to celebrate anything in my life," said Charlotte, folding her hands in dismay.

"Nor I either," confessed the little doctor in an equal tremor, "Polly was always great at those things. But I suppose that's the reason my wife set us two together, Charlotte, for she's the wisest of women, and perhaps we ought to learn how to get up celebrations."

"If only Phronsie were home," breathed Charlotte wistfully. "I'm so afraid our affair will be worse than nothing."

"I dare say," replied the little doctor cheerily, "but we can try, and that goes a great way, Charlotte -- trying does."

Charlotte drew a long breath and moved uneasily in her chair. "If we only knew how to begin," she said at last doubtfully.

"I've always found," said Dr. Fisher, springing from his chair, "that all you had to do to start a thing was to -- begin."

"Yes, that's just it," ruminated Charlotte, bringing up her hands to hold her head with, "I think we are in a tight place, Dr. Fisher."

"Hum, that may be," assented the little man, "I like tight places. Now, then, Charlotte, how do you say begin?"

Charlotte sat lost in thought for a minute, then she said, "Any way, I think it would be best for us to get up something very simple, so long as we are beginners."

"I think so too," agreed Dr. Fisher, "so that's settled. Now for the first thing; what do you say we should do, Charlotte?"

"How would it do," asked Charlotte suddenly, "to invite everybody after they have gotten over the first of the home-coming -- after dinner, I mean -- into the drawing-room, and then tell them that we are not smart enough to think up things, and ask them to give a recitation apiece, or something of that sort?"

"Charlotte Chatterton!" exclaimed the little doctor, cramming his hands into the side pockets of his office coat and staring at her.

"I am ashamed of you! that would be shabby enough -- not so bad either," he added quickly, a sudden thought striking him, "as you'll do your part in singing."

"Oh! I couldn't sing," cried Charlotte, drawing back into her shell of coldness again, "they don't any of them care for it; they've heard me so much," she finished, trying to smooth her refusal over.

"You'll sing," declared the little doctor decidedly, "we could never be tired of hearing you; and for the rest, I have a notion that this might suit. See here," and he threw himself into his office chair, and looked Charlotte squarely in the face, "why not ask Alexia and Cathie and the others, to take hold and get up some fandango -- eh?"

Charlotte caught herself on the edge of saying "No," then drew a long breath and said, "Well," trying not to seem indifferent over the plan.

"Don't like it -- eh?" asked Dr. Fisher, regarding her keenly.

"It might be the best thing in the world," said Charlotte slowly. "Those girls act splendidly; they've had little plays so often, and Polly has drilled them, that they'll know just how to go to work, and it will please Polly. Oh, yes, do let us have that," she cried, beginning to wax quite enthusiastic.

"It will please them too," said the little man, not withdrawing his gaze.

"Yes, it will please them," said Charlotte, after a minute, "and I will run over in the morning and ask them."

"That's good!" cried Dr. Fisher, bringing his hands together with a joyful clap; and getting out of his chair he began to skip up and down like a boy. "And let Amy Loughead do the piano music, do; that will please Polly to see how the child has gone ahead. I can't hardly believe Miss Salisbury; she tells me the chit practices every minute she can save from other things. Be sure to have her asked, Charlotte, child."

"I will ask Amy," promised Charlotte, with a pang at the thought of the delight over Jack Loughead's handsome face at her invitation.

"And you are to sing," cried the little doctor jubilantly. "Now we are all capitally fixed. It takes you and me to get up celebrations, doesn't it?" and he stood as tall as he could and beamed at her. "I'd go over as early as I could, Charlotte," he advised, "and tell those girls, because you know a week isn't much to get ready in."

"I will," said Charlotte, "go the very first thing after breakfast."

And after breakfast, the next morning, she tied her hat on, and not trusting herself to think of her expedition, actually ran down the long carriage drive to the avenue -- then walking at her best pace, she stood before Alexia Rhys' door and rang the bell.

"There, now, I can't go back," she said to herself, and in a minute or two she was in the reception room, and Alexia Rhys was running over the stairs and standing with a puzzled expression on her face, before her.

"Oh, my goodness me -- oh, oh!" exclaimed Alexia, with a little laugh. "Is this you, Miss Chatterton?"

"Yes," said Charlotte Chatterton, "I came to ask if you would get up something nice to celebrate the home-coming of all the family from Brierly; and Mr. Whitney's family are to come too, next week. Will you, Miss Rhys?"

"Well, I never!" cried Alexia Rhys, sinking into the first chair she could find. "You want me -- I shouldn't think you would," she added truthfully.

"I didn't at first," said Charlotte Chatterton, "but I do now, Miss Rhys -- oh! very much, you and Miss Harrison, and all those girls -- you can get up something beautiful; and Dr. Fisher and I don't in the least know how, and we want you to do it." Then she sat quite still.

"Well, I declare!" cried Alexia Rhys, unable to find another word. Then she looked out of the window. "Oh, here's Clem," and, rushing out, Charlotte could hear a whispered consultation with, "Did you ever?" and "I'm awfully ashamed," while Clem's voice said, "So am I."

"Well, come in," said Alexia audibly at last, dragging Clem after her into the reception room, "we've got to do what's right now, any way."

"I'm awfully ashamed, Miss Chatterton," said Clem Forsythe, going straight to Charlotte's chair and putting out her hand; "we girls haven't been right to you since you came, and I, for one, want to ask your pardon."

"Dear me, so do I," cried Alexia, crowding in between with an eager hand stretched out, "but what good will that do -- we said things, at least I did the most. Oh, my hateful tongue!"

"If you'll only take hold and make a nice celebration for Polly and all the others, that will be all I'd want," said Charlotte. "Thank you, you are so good," she brought up happily.

"And then we'll do something for you some time," declared Alexia, "all for yourself, won't we, Clem -- something perfectly elegantly splendid?"



Chapter XX.

Straightening Out Affairs.


Two days after, old Mr. King was walking over the college campus, bound for Joel's and David's room in the "Old Brick Dormitory."

"I am glad I sent Jasper ahead to the hotel; I much rather pop in on the boys by myself," soliloquized the old gentleman in great satisfaction. "Ah, here it is," beginning to mount the stairs.

"Come in," yelled a voice, as he rapped with his walking-stick on the door of No. 19, "and don't make such a piece of work breaking the door down -- oh, beg pardon!" as Mr. King obeyed the order.

A tall figure sprawled in the biggest chair, his long legs carried up to the mantel, where his boots neatly reposed; while a cloud of smoke filling the room, made Mr. King cough violently in spite of himself.

"'Tis a nasty air," said the tall young man, getting his legs down in haste from the mantel, and himself out of the chair, though with much difficulty; "take a glass of water, sir," hobbling over to a side table, and pouring one out, to work his way with it to old Mr. King.

"Thank you," said the old gentleman, when he could speak, and accepting it quickly, "you say truly, the air is beastly," glancing around the room in displeasure at the plentiful signs of its inmates' idea of having a good time at college. "Are Joel and David Pepper soon to be in?" As he spoke, he lifted up the cover of a French novel thrown on the lounge near him, and dropped it quickly as he read the title.

"Hey? oh! I see -- a little mistake," exclaimed the tall youth, going unsteadily back to his chair. "Their room is 19, in the extension. I am Robert Bingley, sir."

"I'm very glad," cried old Mr. King heartily, "for I don't mind telling you, my young friend, that I shouldn't want Joel's and David's room to look like this."

"I don't blame you in the least, sir," said Bingley, nowise abashed, "but you needn't worry, for the Peppers aren't my kind. You must be Grandfather King?" he added.

"Yes, I am," said old Mr. King, straightening up, and throwing back his white hair with a proud gesture. "So you've heard about me?" he asked, in a gratified way.

"I should rather think we had," said Bingley, "why, all of us know about you, sir." Here he got out of his chair again. "You won't care to, after you know all, but I should like to shake hands with you, sir."

"Most certainly," responded the old gentleman heartily, "although your room isn't to your credit." Thereupon he bestowed a courtly hand-shake upon the young man, with the utmost cordiality, making Bingley, who seemed to have a good deal of trouble with his legs, to retreat to his chair in a high state of satisfaction.

"It was mean of me to ask you such a favor, sir," said Bingley, gazing up at the ceiling, "before I had told you all, but I couldn't help it, some way, and I knew you wouldn't touch my hand after you'd heard. Well, I was one of a gang who went to Joe Pepper's room last week for the purpose of lamming him."

"You went to Joe Pepper's room for the purpose of lamming him?" repeated old Mr. King, darting out of his chair.

"Yes, sir" -- Bingley still kept his gaze glued to the ceiling -- "but we didn't do it, though; Joe lammed us."

"Oh!"

"So the rest of the gang are going for him to-night; I'm not able to," said Bingley, trying to appear careless.

"Joel to be in such business -- how could he!" fumed old Mr. King. "A gentleman -- and I thought so much of his turning out well. It will kill his mother -- oh, how could he?" turning fiercely on Bingley.

"See here, now," cried that individual, tearing his gaze from the ceiling, to send a sharp glance at the white-haired old gentleman, "Joe is all right; straight as a brick. You can bet your money on that, sir."

"Oh -- oh!" cried Mr. King, more and more horrified, "is this what you all come to college for? I should consider, sir," very sternly, "it a place to keep up the dignity of one's family in, and that of such a venerable institution," waving both shapely hands to include the entire pile of buildings by which they were surrounded.

Bingley gave vent to an uncontrollable laugh. "Beg pardon, sir, but the dignity isn't worth a rush. We are in the old hole, and all we look out for is to have a good time, and scrape through."

"Old hole -- and scrape through! Oh, dear -- oh, dear!" groaned old Mr. King.

"That's what our set do," said Bingley, to give him time to recover, "Joe and Davina -- ah, I mean David -- don't train in our crowd; the other one, Whitney" -- 

"Don't tell me that he does," interrupted Percy's grandfather sharply. "It wouldn't be possible."

"No, he doesn't affect us," said Bingley coolly, "it's all he can do to take care of those eyeglasses of his; and he'd muss his clothes. Whitney is something of a softy, sir."

Old Mr. King drew a long breath of relief. But he looked so troubled, that Bingley for the life of him couldn't keep up his assumed carelessness.

"Sit down again, do, sir," he begged involuntarily, "and I will tell you all about it," and Mr. King, resuming his chair, presently had a graphic account of Joel's course in college, with a description of the trouble in his room, till the whole thing was laid bare.

"How I wish I had been here to see my boy," exclaimed the old gentleman, with sparkling eyes; "I might have helped him a bit." He stretched out a handsome fist and looked at it as admiringly as any college athlete could view his own. "Well," dropping his arm, "I am interrupting you, Mr." -- groping for the name.

"Bingley, sir."

"Ah, yes; Bingley. Well, Mr. Bingley, pray go on. Did you not say that another attempt was to be made on my grandson?"

Bingley nodded. "To-night after he comes from the Association rooms," he added.

"We shall see -- we shall see," exclaimed the old gentleman drily, in a manner that delighted Bingley and made him tingle all over to "be in at the death" himself.

"Dobbs has planned it to" -- 

"Dobbs?" interrupted the old gentleman sharply, "what family? Not the Ingoldsby Dobbs, I trust" -- 

"This chap's name is Ingoldsby Dobbs," said Bingley; "he's a high-flyer, I tell you! Lives up to his name, I suppose he thinks."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," mourned Mr. King; "I have known his father ever since we were boys; he's capital stock. Well, go on, Mr. Bingley, and let me know what this young rascal is up to," he added, with extreme irritation.

"He is going to have his men close in on Joe in the middle of the park. Pepper often comes that way to 'Old Brick' -- short, you know, for 'Old Brick Dormitory' -- with a poor miserable cuss -- excuse me, sir -- he's trying to get up on to sober legs. There are twenty fellows pledged to do the job, I've found out."

Bingley didn't think it worth while to mention how the plan was discovered, nor that heavy vengeance was vowed upon his head if he divulged it.

"I gave it away to Whitney. I couldn't get at Davi -- er, Dave, to see if it wasn't possible to keep Joe away from that meeting."

"It would come some time -- it better be to-night," said the old gentleman briefly. "Well, is that all?"

"Yes, sir; only that they are to toss a cloak over Joe's head, and carry him off for a little initiation fun."

"Ah!" Old Mr. King sat quite straight. "Thank you, Mr. Bingley," he said, getting out of his chair. He didn't offer to shake hands, and Bingley, though pretending not to notice any omission of that sort, felt considerably crest-fallen about it.

The moment the door was shut and he heard Mr. King go down the stairs, Robert Bingley ran his fingers through his hair, giving a savage pull at the innocent locks.

"Curse my luck!" he growled, taking out the angry fingers to shake them at his legs, "tied here by these two beggars, and he thinks that I'm sneaking out of standing up for Joe!"

Old Mr. King fumed to himself all the way down the stairs, becoming more angry with each step. When he reached the lower hall he turned and passed through the building instead of going out, and meeting a young collegian on a run, asked, "Have the goodness to tell me, sir, does Mr. Ingoldsby Dobbs room in this building?"

"No. 23-4-5 in the extension," said the undergraduate, not slackening speed, and pointing the direction. So the old gentleman climbed the staircase to the wing, and presently rapped on the door marked 23.

Uproarious shouts of laughter greeted him as he opened the door in response to a loud "Come in!" The noise stopped as suddenly as it was possible for the inmates of the room to check it when they saw the visitor, but not before "We'll season Pepper well and make the deacon howl!" came distinctly to his ears.

"Good afternoon, young gentlemen," said old Mr. King, bowing his white head; and holding his hat in his hand, he advanced to the table, around which sat six or eight of them. "I beg of you not to go," as some of them made a sudden movement to leave; "I should like to see you all, though I called especially upon Mr. Ingoldsby Dobbs."

A tall, wiry youth with sallow face and high-bred nose, disentangled himself from the group and came forward. "I don't remember where I have met you, sir," he said, yet extending his hand, with his best manner on.

"Aristocratic old party," whispered one man to his neighbor, "Dobbsey needn't be afraid to claim him."

"I am very thankful to say I never have met you before, young man," observed Mr. King coolly, not seeing the slender hand waiting for his, "your father honors me with his friendship. This may tell you who I am," and he threw a card upon the table.

Young Dobbs' sallow face turned a shade paler as he picked up the card and read it.

"Glad to see you -- sit down, won't you?" he mumbled, dragging up a comfortable chair. "Any friend of father's is welcome here," he went on awkwardly, while the rest of the men stared at him, one of them exclaiming under his breath, "First time Dobbs' cheek deserted him, I'll wager."

The old gentleman looked first into Ingoldsby Dobbs' thin face, then surveyed them all quite leisurely. "I understand you paid my grandson, Joel Pepper, a call a short time since, when instead of abusing him, some of you got your deserts."

The men started, and angry exclamations went around the room: "He's turned coward, the mean sneak! We'll pay him up!" and remarks of a like nature being quite audible.

Old Mr. King turned on them. "Silence!" he commanded. "My grandson Joel doesn't know I am here. I heard the story since my arrival. If any one says one word against him, I'll cane him from the top of the stairs to the bottom," and he looked as if he could do it.

"'Twas Bingley, then," said Dobbs sullenly.

The old gentleman completely ignored him, addressing his words to the crowd. "There are four men in this class who are going to be protected from your insults. Those are my three grandsons and Mr. Robert Bingley; and this is to be done without appealing to the college authorities either. That puts a stop to your fine plan, Mr. Dobbs," at last looking at him, "and any other idea of the same sort your fertile brain may chance to think up. The first intimation of any hostility, and your father and the fathers of these men here with you," waving his hand at them all, "and of the others in this interesting plan, will be informed, and you will be dealt with exactly like any other disturber of the peace -- villains in college or out of it ought to be served to the same punishment, in my opinion. Now have any of you remarks to make?"

It was so like Joel's invitation to "Come on and have it out now," that not a single man of them stirred.

"Then I will have the pleasure of bidding you good-by," said Mr. King, and the next moment he was outside of No. 23, while perfect silence reigned within.

Polly came slowly down Mrs. Higby's front stairs and looked at Phronsie standing at the further end of the entry.

"What's the matter, Phronsie?" at last she asked.

For the first time in her life Phronsie seemed unable to answer Polly, and she stood quite still, her gaze fastened on the big-flowered muslin curtain that swung back and forth in the breeze that came through the open window.

"Now, Phronsie," said Polly very decidedly, and going up to her, "you must tell me what the matter is."

"I can't," said Phronsie, in a low tone, "don't ask me, Polly."

"Can't tell me everything?" cried Polly. "Dear me, what nonsense, Phronsie. Come now, begin, there's a dear."

"But I am not to tell," persisted Phronsie, shaking her head. Then she drew a long breath, and looked as if she were going to cry.

"Who has been telling you things?" cried Polly, her brown eyes flashing, "that you are not to tell? It is Mrs. Cabot. I know it is, for there is no one else here who would do it."

"Don't ask me," pleaded Phronsie in great distress, and clutching Polly's gown. "Oh, don't say anything more about it, Polly."

"Indeed I shall," declared Polly. "No one has a right to command you in this way, and I shall just speak to Mrs. Cabot about it."

"Oh, no, no," protested Phronsie, huddling up closer to Polly in dismay; "please, Polly, don't say anything to her about it, please."

"Mamsie wouldn't ever allow you to be annoyed about anything," said Polly, with increasing irritation, "and if Mrs. Cabot has said anything to you, Phronsie, to make you feel badly, why, I must know it. Don't you see, child, that I really ought to be told?"

Phronsie folded her hands tightly together, trying to keep them quiet, and her cheeks turned so very white that Polly hastened to put her well arm around her, saying quickly, "There, there, child, you needn't tell me now if you don't want to. Wait a bit."

"I had rather tell it now," said Phronsie, "but oh, I do wish that Grandpapa was here," she added sadly.

"Whatever can have been said to you, Phronsie?" exclaimed Polly in dismay. "You frighten me, child. Do tell me at once what it was."

"Jasper isn't going to be at Mr. Marlowe's any more," said Phronsie, with distinctness.

"Jasper isn't going to be at Mr. Marlowe's any more." repeated Polly wildly, and holding Phronsie so closely that she winced. "Oh, what do you mean! who has told you such nonsense?"

"Mrs. Cabot," said Phronsie; "she told me this morning -- and I was not to tell you, Polly. But I did not promise not to. Indeed I didn't."

"What perfect nonsense!" exclaimed Polly, recovering herself, and trying to laugh, "well, Phronsie, child, didn't you know better than to believe any story that Mrs. Cabot might tell? How in the world could she know of Jasper's affairs, pray tell?" and she laughed again, this time quite gaily.

"Ah, but," said Phronsie, shaking her head, "she had a letter from Mr. Cabot; it came in this morning's mail; she opened it and said out loud this dreadful thing about Jasper, and then she saw me, and she said I was not to tell you."

Polly dropped Phronsie's arm and rushed down the hall.

"Where are you going?" cried Phronsie, hurrying after -- "Oh, Polly!"

"I am going to make Mrs. Cabot tell me everything she knows," said Polly hoarsely, and not looking back; "she shall let me have every syllable. It can't be true!" She threw wide the door of Mrs. Higby's "keeping-room" where that lady was engaged in putting a patch on the chintz-covered sofa, and talking gossip with a neighbor at the same time.

"I thought as this was a-going so fast, Mr. Higby sets it out so, and we were all so comfortable to-day, I'd get at it kinder early," said Mrs. Higby apologetically; "anything I can do, Miss Polly?" she asked, flying away from her patch, and dropping her scissors on the floor.

"No," said Polly, turning back hastily. "Never mind, Mrs. Higby."

"Now 'twas something you wanted me for," cried Mrs. Higby, ambling toward the door, "I ain't a mite busy, Miss Polly; that old patch can wait. La! I can tell Mr. Higby to set on the other end till I get time to attend to it. What was it, Miss Polly?"

Polly turned back, Mrs. Higby's tone was so full of entreaty. "Oh, nothing, only if it isn't too much trouble, would you ask Mrs. Cabot to come down stairs a moment, I want to see her."

"Oh, cert'in," cried Mrs. Higby, ambling off toward the stairs. And presently Mrs. Cabot in a pink morning gown came down the hall toward Polly, and put both arms around her.

"Phronsie, get a glass of water; be quick, child!"

"What is it, dear?" she asked caressingly.

"Come out of doors," begged Polly, "I can't breathe here. Come, Mrs. Cabot."

And Mrs. Cabot, her arms still around Polly, was drawn out to the old porch, Phronsie following. Then Polly shook herself free.

"Is it true?" she began -- "I made Phronsie tell me -- that Jasper," she caught her breath, but went on again hurriedly, "has left Mr. Marlowe?"

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Cabot in consternation, "what shall I do? Yes; but I wasn't to tell you; Mr. King is coming back. Do wait, Polly, and ask him about it."

"I shall not wait," declared Polly passionately, facing her. "Tell me all you know, Mrs. Cabot; every single word."

"I don't know a thing about it," cried Mrs. Cabot in a frightened way, "only Mr. Cabot writes that Mr. King has made Jasper leave Mr. Marlowe. That's all I know about it, Polly," she added desperately, "and I wish Mr. Cabot had been asleep before he wrote it. Phronsie, oh! get a glass of water; be quick, child!" as Polly sank down on the old stone floor of the porch.



Chapter XXI.

Polly Tries To Help Jasper.


"I think it was a mean shame," began Dick wrathfully.

"Dick -- Dick!" exclaimed his mother gently.

Mr. Whitney tapped his knee with a letter he had just placed within its envelope, then threw it on the table. "It's the best job I ever did," he cried jubilantly, "to get Jasper out of that business."

Dick sent his two hands deep within their pockets. "Oh! how can you say so?" he cried.

"And how can you question what your father does?" exclaimed Mrs. Whitney. "Why, that isn't like you, Dick!" with a face full of reproach.

"Oh! let the boy say what he wants to, Marian," broke in her husband easily. "So, Dicky, my lad, you don't think I did just the right thing for Jasper -- eh?"

He leaned back in his chair, and surveyed his young son with a twinkle in his eye.

"No, I don't," declared Dick, beginning to rage up and down the room on young indignant feet. "I say it's mean to meddle with a fellow's business. I wouldn't stand it!" he added stoutly.

Mr. Whitney laughed long and loud, despite his wife's shocked, "Dicky, don't, dear!"

"Well, if I didn't know that in a year's time Jasper will come to me and say, 'I thank you!' I should never have gone through with the job in the world," said his father, when he came out of his amusement. "It isn't the pleasantest piece of work a man could select, 'to meddle,' as you call it, with another's affairs."

"Jasper never will thank you in the world -- never!" exclaimed Dick, cramming his irritated hands deeper in their pockets, and turning on his father.

"You see," said his father, nodding easily.

"And you see, papa," cried Dick, turning hastily in front of him, looking so exactly like his father that Mrs. Whitney forgot to chide, in admiring them both.

"And I think it's too bad," went on Dick. "Everybody pitches into Jasper, and wants him to do things; and Grandpapa is always picking at him. I'd -- I'd fight -- sometimes," he added.

"Softly -- softly there, my boy," said Mr. Whitney; "you'll have plenty of practice for all your fighting powers by and by; a fourteen-year-old chap doesn't know everything."

"Well, I know one thing," declared Dick, more positively, "Grandpapa has always been meddling with Jasper, and you know it, papa."

"That's because he expects great things from Jasper, and that he will hold up the King name; we all do," replied his father.

Dick turned on an impatient heel. "And so he would have done, if you'd let him be a publisher," he declared.

His father laughed again, and leaned out of his chair to pinch his son's ear, but Dick, resenting this indignity, retreated to a safe position, declaring, "And I'm going to be one when I'm through college -- so!"

"Mr. King's a-coming down the road, and Mr. Jasper!" screamed Mrs. Higby, coming out suddenly to the porch. "I see 'em from the keepin'-room window. My! what's the matter with Miss Polly?"

"Nothing," said Polly, opening her eyes; "that is, not much," and sitting up straight. "Are Grandpapa and Jasper really coming?" she asked.

"Dear me, Polly," exclaimed Mrs. Cabot, before Mrs. Higby could answer, and putting shaking hands on Polly's shoulders, "I never was so frightened in my life! I thought your arm was worse -- and you so near well! O, dear! are you sure you are right?" peering around into her face. "Here comes Phronsie with the water -- that's good!"

Polly took the glass and smiled up reassuringly into Phronsie's troubled face. "Oh! how good that is, Phronsie," she cried. "There now, I'm all right. Don't let Grandpapa or Jasper know," and she sprang to her feet, while Mrs. Higby hurried off to see if her preparations for dinner were all right, now that Mr. King had come back a day sooner than he wrote he intended.

"Phronsie, you go and meet them; do, dear," begged Polly; and as Phronsie ran off obediently, Polly walked up and down the porch with hasty steps, holding her hands as tightly locked together as the injured arm would allow. "Oh! if I only had time to think -- but I ought to try, even if I don't say just exactly the right words, for Mr. Marlowe may not be able to take him back if I wait," and then Grandpapa came hurrying out with, "Where's Polly?" and she was kissed and her cheeks patted -- he not seeming to notice anything amiss in her -- he was so glad to get back; and through it all, Polly saw only Jasper's face, and, although everything seemed to turn around before her, she made up her mind that she would tell Grandpapa just what she thought, and beg him to change his mind, the very first instant she could.

And so, before the first greetings of the homecoming were fairly over, Polly, afraid her courage would give out if she waited a moment longer, put her hand on Mr. King's arm. "What is it, dear?" asked the old gentleman, busy with Phronsie, who hung around his neck, while she tried to tell him everything that had happened during his absence; and he peered over her shoulder into Polly's face.

"Grandpapa," cried Polly in a tremor, "could you let me talk to you a little just now? Please, Grandpapa."

"Well, yes, dear, after Phronsie has" -- 

"Oh! Phronsie will wait," cried Polly, guilty of interrupting; "I know she will."

For the first time in her life, Phronsie said rebelliously, "Oh! I don't want to wait, Polly. Dear Grandpapa has just got home, and I must tell him things."

"So you shall, Phronsie," declared old Mr. King, drawing her off beyond Polly's reach. "There, now you and I will get into this quiet corner," and he sat down and drew Phronsie to his knee. "Now, Pet, so you are glad to get your old Grandpapa home, eh?"

Polly, in an agony at being misunderstood, followed, and without stopping to think, she threw her arms around Phronsie and cried, "O, Phronsie! do trust me, dear, and let Grandpapa go. I must see him now!"

Mr. King gave Polly's burning cheeks a keen glance, then he set Phronsie on the floor abruptly. "Phronsie, see, dear, Polly really needs me. Come, child," and he gathered up Polly's hand into his own, and marched out of the room with her.

"Suppose we go in here," said the old gentleman, "and have our talk," unceremoniously opening the door of Mrs. Higby's best room as he spoke; "nobody is likely to disturb us here."

Polly, not caring where she went, but with the words she must speak weighing heavily on her mind, followed him unsteadily into the parlor, and while he threw open a blind or two to light up the gloom that usually hung over Mrs. Higby's best room, she busied herself trying to think how she should begin.

"There, now, my dear," said Mr. King, coming up to her, and drawing her off to a big haircloth sofa, standing stiffly against the wall, "we will sit down here, and then we can go over it comfortably together and settle what is on your mind," he added, feeling immensely gratified at the impending confidence.

"Grandpapa," cried Polly in desperation, and springing from the sofa, where he had placed her by his side, to stand in front of him, "I don't know where to begin. Oh! do help me." She clasped her hands, and stood the picture of distress, unable to say another word.

"Why, how can I help you to tell me, child," cried old Mr. King in astonishment, "when I don't know in the least what it is you want to say?"

"Oh! I know it," cried Polly, twisting her hands, unable to hold them quite still. "O, dear! what shall I do? Grandpapa, it's just" -- 

"Well, what, my dear?" asked the old gentleman, and taking one of her hands encouragingly. "Are you afraid of me? Why, Polly!"

Polly started at his tone of reproach, and threw her well arm around his neck, exactly as Phronsie would have done, which so pleased the old gentleman that it was easier for her to begin again to tell him what was on her mind. But when she had gotten as far as "It's just this" -- she stopped again.

"Well, now, Polly," said Mr. King, sitting straight on the sofa, with displeasure, "I must say, I am surprised at you. I should never think this was you, Polly, never in all the world," which so unnerved her, that she plunged at once into what she had set herself to do, saying the most dreadful thing that was possible.

"O, Grandpapa!" she cried, "do you think it can be right to take Jasper away from his work?"

"Hoity-toity! Well, I must say, Polly," exclaimed the old gentleman in the greatest displeasure, and rising abruptly from the sofa, brushing her aside as he did so, "that I never have been so surprised in my life, as to have you come to teach me my duty. Right? Of course it is -- it must be, if I wish it. I have always looked out for Jasper's good," with that he walked up and down the parlor, fuming at every step, and looking so very dreadful, that Polly, rooted to the spot, had only to stand still, and watch him in despair.

"If you could have seen Jasper, the way he was when I found him," said Mr. King, tired at last of vituperating, and coming up to Polly sternly, "you would be glad to have me get him out of the wretched business. It smelt so of trade, and everybody was grossly familiar; while that Mr. Marlowe -- I have no words for him, Polly. He insulted me."

"Oh! -- oh!" cried Polly, with clasped hands and flaming cheeks. "How could he, Grandpapa? Jasper has always said he was such a gentleman."

"Jasper's ideas of what a gentleman should be, and mine, are very different," exploded the old gentleman, beginning to walk up and down the parlor again. "I tell you, Polly, that my boy is sadly changed since he went into that contemptible trade."

"But Jasper loves his work," mourned Polly, her color dying down.

"Loves his work? Well, he shouldn't," cried Mr. King in extreme irritation. "It's no sort of a work for him to love, brought up as he has been. A profession is the only thing for him. Now he studies law" -- 

"O, Grandpapa!" cried Polly, quite white now, and she precipitated herself in front of the old gentleman's angry feet, "Jasper just hates the law. I know, for he has often said so; and if you do fasten him down all his life to what he don't like, and make him be a lawyer, it will kill him. He'll do it, Grandpapa" -- Polly rushed on, regardless of the lightning gleam of anger in the sharp eyes above her; and, although she knew that after this she should never be the same Polly to him as of old, she kept on steadily -- "because you want him to; he'll do anything to please you, and make you happy, Grandpapa, and he won't say anything, but it will kill him; it surely will, for he loves his work with Mr. Marlowe so." Then Polly stopped, aghast at the effect of her words.

"And what am I to do now, pray, to please you?" asked old Mr. King, and drawing off to look at her quite coldly.

"Oh! nothing to please me," cried poor Polly; "only for Jasper. Do let him go back to Mr. Marlowe, Grandpapa."

"He shall never go back to Mr. Marlowe with my consent," declared the old gentleman stiffly, his anger rising again, "and you have displeased me very much, Polly Pepper, by all this. Now you may go; and remember, not another word about Jasper and his work. I will arrange everything concerning him without interference." And Polly, not knowing how crept out of Mrs. Higby's parlor, and shut the door.

"Polly!" somebody called, as she hurried on unsteady feet over the stairs to her own little room that she had begged under the farmhouse eaves. But she didn't even answer, only rushed on, and locked the door behind her. Then she threw herself on her knees by the bed, and buried her face in her hands. This was worse than the day so long ago when she sat in the old rocking-chair in the little brown house, with eyes bound closely to shut out all outside things; and all of them had been afraid she was going to be blind. For now she felt sure that she had spoiled whatever chance there might have been for Jasper. "Oh! why did I speak -- why did I?" she cried, over and over in her distress, as she buried her face deeper yet in Mrs. Higby's gay patch bedquilt.

After a while -- Polly never could tell how long she had staid there -- somebody rapped at the door. It was Phronsie; and she cried in a grieved little voice, "Polly, are you here? I've been under the apple-trees -- and just everywhere for you. Do let me in."

"I can't now, Pet," cried Polly, trying not to let her voice sound choked with tears; "you run away, dear; Polly will let you in by and by."

"Are you sick, Polly?" cried Phronsie anxiously, and kneeling down to put her mouth to the keyhole.

"No, not a bit," said Polly hastily, and trying to speak cheerfully.

"Really, Polly?"

"Really and truly, Phronsie; there, run away, dear, if you love me."

Phronsie, at this, unwillingly crept off, and still Polly knelt on, with the wild remorse tugging at her heart that she had been the one to injure Jasper's prospects for life.

And then the dinner-bell rang, and Polly, who was never known to be late at a meal, heard Mrs. Higby come out into the hall again, and shake the big bell till it seemed to fill the whole farmhouse with its noise.

"Oh! I can't go down -- I can't!" moaned poor Polly to herself, quite lost to everything but the dreadful distress at the mischief she had wrought. And then Phronsie came again, this time imploring, with tears -- for Polly felt quite sure that she could hear her crying -- that Polly would only open the door, "and let me see you just once, Polly!"

And even Mrs. Cabot came, and Polly thought she should go wild to have her stand outside there and beg and insist that Polly should come down to them all.

"I don't want any dinner," said Polly over and over. "I just must be alone a little while," and at last she spoke quickly to Mrs. Cabot's persistent pleadings, "Have the goodness, Mrs. Cabot, not to call me again." And then she was sorry the minute she had spoken the words, and she opened her door a little crack to call after Mrs. Cabot, as she sailed downstairs in great displeasure, "Oh! do forgive me, dear Mrs. Cabot, for speaking so. I am very sorry, but I cannot come down just yet."

"I shall send you up your dinner, then," said Mrs. Cabot, only half appeased, and pausing on the stairs.

"No, no!" begged Polly, and she seemed so distressed at the mere thought, that Mrs. Cabot unwillingly let her have her way about it.

It was in the middle of the afternoon, and Polly, exhausted by weeping, had fallen asleep just where she was, on her knees by the bed, her head on the gay bedquilt, when a low knock on the door startled her and made her rub her eyes and listen.

"Polly," said a voice -- it was Jasper's -- "won't you undo the door? I want to speak to you."

"O, Jasper!" cried Polly, springing to her feet, and running over to the door, "I can't; don't ask me -- not just yet."

"I won't ask you again," said Jasper, "if you don't wish it, Polly."

His voice showed his disappointment, and Polly, full of dismay at the trouble she had made for him, couldn't find it in her heart to cause him this new worry.

"You won't want to speak to me, Jasper," she cried, unlocking the door with trembling fingers, "when you know what I have done."

"What, Polly?" he cried, trying not to show how he felt at sight of the swollen eyelids and downcast face. Meanwhile he drew her out gently into the hall. "There, let us sit down here," pausing before the wide window-seat; "it's quiet here, and nobody will be likely to come here." He waited till Polly sat down, then made a place for himself beside her.

"Jasper," cried Polly, lifting her brown eyes, now filling with tears again, "you can't think what I've done. I've ruined your whole life for you!"

"How, Polly?" Jasper's face grew pale to his lips. "Oh! do tell me at once," yet he seemed to be afraid of what she was about to say.

"O, Jasper! I thought perhaps I could help you. I never knew till this morning, just before you came, that you had lost your place. Mrs. Cabot had a letter from her husband, and she told me. And I spoke to Grandpapa and begged him to let you go back, and, O, Jasper!" here Polly's tears, despite all her efforts to keep them back, fell in a shower, "you can't guess how dreadfully Grandpapa feels, and he says -- oh! he says that you are to study law, and never, never go back to Mr. Marlowe."

"Is that all?" exclaimed Jasper in such a tone of relief that Polly sprang to her feet and stared at him through dry eyes.

"All?" she gasped. "O, Jasper! I thought you loved your work."



Chapter XXII.

Mr King And Polly.


"So I do love my work," cried Jasper in a glow, "but, Polly," and he sprang to his feet and walked away so that she couldn't see his face, "I thought that you were going to say something about yourself."

Then he turned around and faced her again.

"O, Jasper!" exclaimed Polly reproachfully, "what could I possibly have to say about myself! How can I think of anything when you are in trouble?"

"Forgive me, Polly," broke in Jasper eagerly, and he took her hand, "and don't worry about me; I mean, don't think that what you said to Grandpapa made any difference."

"But indeed it did, Jasper," declared Polly truthfully; "oh! I know it did, and I have done it all."

"Polly -- Polly!" begged Jasper in great distress, "don't, dear!"

"And now you must give it all up and go into the law -- oh! the horrid, hateful law; oh! what will you do, Jasper?" And she gazed up into his face pityingly.

"I shall have to go," said Jasper, drawing his breath hard, and looking at her steadily. "You know you yourself told me long ago to make my father happy any way, Polly." He smiled as he emphasized the last word.

"Oh! I know," cried Polly in despair, "but I didn't think it could ever be anything as bad as this, Jasper."

"'Any way' means pretty hard lines sometimes, Polly," said Jasper. "Well, there's no help for it now, so you must help me to go through with it."

"And just think," mourned Polly, looking as if the shower were about to fall again, "how I've made it worse for you with Grandpapa. O, Jasper! I shall never be any help to you."

"Polly!" exclaimed Jasper, in such a tone that she stopped to look at him in astonishment. "There, now, I'll tell you all about it," he added with his usual manner, and sitting down beside her again, "and then you'll see that nothing on earth made any difference to father. This was the way of it," and Jasper proceeded to lay before her every detail of Mr. King's visit to him, and all the circumstances at the store, not omitting Mr. Whitney's part in the affair, as shown by the letter that Jasper had seen.

"Oh, oh! how mean," interrupted Polly at this point, with flashing brown eyes; "how could he?" and her lips curled disdainfully.

"Oh! Mason thought he was doing me the greatest favor in the world, I don't doubt," answered Jasper. "You know, Polly, he never could bear to hear of the publishing business, and he was so disappointed when I wouldn't go into the law."

"I know," said Polly, "but this was dreadful, to meddle -- after you had once decided; very, very dreadful!"

"I think so," said Jasper, with a laugh; feeling surprisingly light-hearted, it was so beautiful to be talking it all over with Polly, "but the trouble is, Mason don't. Well, and then came that dreadful misunderstanding about Mr. Marlowe; that hurt me worse than all. O, Polly! if you only knew the man," and Jasper relapsed into gloom once more.

"O, dear, dear!" cried Polly sympathetically, and clasping her hands. "What can we do; isn't there anything to do?"

"No," said Jasper, "absolutely nothing. When father once makes up his mind about anything, it's made up for all time. I must just lose the friendship of that man, as well as my place." With that his gloom deepened, and Polly, feeling powerless to utter a word, slipped her hand within his as it lay on his knee.

He looked up and smiled gratefully. "You see, Polly, we can't say anything to him."

"Oh! no, no," cried Polly in horror at the mere thought; "I've only made it a great deal worse."

"No, you haven't made it worse, dear; but we shouldn't do any good to talk to him about it."

"I don't believe I could live," cried Polly, off her guard, "to have him look at me, and to hear him speak so again, Jasper."

Jasper started, while a frown spread over his face. "I can bear anything but that you should be hurt, Polly," he exclaimed, his fingers tightening over hers.

"Oh! I don't mind it so much," cried Polly, recovering herself hastily, "if I hadn't made mischief for you."

"And that you never must think of again. Promise me, Polly."

"I'll try not to," said Polly.

"You must just put the notion out of your mind whenever it comes in," said Jasper decidedly; "you'll promise that, Polly, I know you will."

"Well," said Polly reluctantly, "I will, Jasper."

"All right," exclaimed Jasper, in great satisfaction.

"Polly -- Polly." Phronsie's yellow head came up above the stairs, and presently Phronsie came running up to them in great haste.

"O, Polly!" and she threw her arms hungrily around Polly and hugged her closely. "O, dear!" letting her arms fall, "I wasn't to stop a minute. Grandpapa wants you to drive with him, Polly, and you are to go right down as soon as you get your hat on."

"Grandpapa!" screamed Polly, jumping off from the window-seat so hastily that Phronsie nearly fell over, while Jasper was hardly less excited. "Why, Phronsie, you can't mean it. He" -- 

"Father really wants you, Polly, I know," broke in Jasper, with a look into the brown eyes. But his voice shook, and if Phronsie hadn't been so worried over Polly, she would certainly have noticed it.

"Polly hasn't had any dinner," she said in a troubled way.

"Oh! I don't care for dinner," cried Polly, with another look at Jasper, and beginning to dance off to her room for her hat.

"But you must have some," declared Phronsie in gentle authority, going toward the stairs, "and I shall just ask Grandpapa to wait for you to get it. Mrs. Higby saved your dinner for you, Polly" -- 

"Oh! I couldn't eat a morsel," protested Polly from her little room, "and don't ask Grandpapa to wait an instant, whatever you do, Phronsie. See, I'm ready," and she ran out into the hall, putting on her hat as she spoke.

"Get her a glass of milk, Phronsie," called Jasper, standing by the stair-railing; "that's a good child."

Polly flashed him a grateful look as she dashed down the stairs, drawing on her gloves, and not daring to look forward to meeting Grandpapa.

But when she came out to the back piazza, Phronsie following her with the glass, and begging her to drink up the rest left in it, old Mr. King, standing by the little old-fashioned chaise, received her exactly as if nothing had happened.

"Well, I declare, Polly," he said, turning to her with a smile, "I never saw anybody get ready so quickly as you can. There, hop in, child," and he put aside her dress from the wheel in his most courtly manner possible.

"Polly hasn't had all the milk," said Phronsie, by the chaise-step, holding up the glass anxiously.

"Well, I don't believe she wants it," said old Mr. King.

"No, I don't," said Polly, from the depths of the old chaise. "I couldn't drink it, dear."

Mr. King bent his white head to kiss Phronsie, and then they drove away, and left her standing in the lilac-shaded path, her glass in her hand, and looking after them.

All sorts of things Mr. King talked of in the cheeriest manner possible, just as if Polly and he were in the habit of taking a drive like this every morning; and he never seemed to notice her swollen eyelids, or whether she answered, but kept on bravely with the conversation. At last Polly, at something he said, laughed in her old merry fashion; then Mr. King drew a long breath, and relaxed his efforts.

"I declare, Polly," he said, leaning back in a comfortable way against the old cushion, and allowing the neighbor's horse, hired for the occasion, to amble along in its own fashion, "now we are so cosy, I believe I'll tell you a secret."

Polly stopped laughing and gazed at him.

"How would you like to take a little journey, just you and I, to-morrow?" he asked, looking down into her face.

"A journey, Grandpapa?" asked Polly wonderingly.

"Yes; about as far as -- -say, well, to the place where Jasper has been all winter. The fact is, Polly," went on Mr. King very rapidly, as if with the fear that if he stopped he would not be able to finish at all, "I want you to look over the ground -- Jasper's work, I mean. It seems an abominable place to me -- a perfectly abominable one," confided the old gentleman in a burst of feeling, "but there," pulling himself up, "maybe I'm not the one to say it. You see, Polly, I never did a stroke of work in my life, and I really can't tell how working-places ought to look. And I suppose a working man like Mr. Marlowe might be different from me, and yet be a decent sort of a person, after all. Well, will you go?" he asked abruptly.

"O, Grandpapa!" cried Polly, aghast, and turning in the chaise to look at him with wide eyes.

"Yes, I really mean it," nodded old Mr. King, in his most decided fashion, "although I don't blame you for thinking me funny, child."

"I was only thinking how good you are Grandpapa!" exclaimed Polly fervently, and creeping up close to his side.

"There -- there, Polly, child," said the old gentleman, "no more of that, else we shall have a scene, and that's what I never did like, dear, you know. Well, will you go with me -- you haven't said yes yet."

"Oh! yes, yes, yes," cried Polly, in a rapturous shout, not taking her glowing eyes off from his face.

"Take care, you'll scare the natives," warned old Mr. King, beaming at her. "Brierly folks couldn't have any such transports, Polly," as they turned down a shady lane and ambled by a quiet farmhouse.

"Well, they ought to," replied Polly merrily, peering out at the still, big house. "O, Grandpapa! I just want to get out and jump and scream. I don't feel any bigger than Phronsie."

"Well, I much rather have you here in this carriage with me," said the old gentleman composedly. "Now that's settled that we are going, Polly. Of course I asked the doctor; I sent down a letter to him after dinner, to ask if your arm would let you take a little journey with me, and of course he said 'yes,' like a sensible man. Why shouldn't he, pray tell -- when we were all going home in a day or two? Now, of course, that must be postponed a bit."

"Never mind," Polly hastened to say, "if Jasper is only fixed up."

"Now, Polly," Mr. King shifted his position a bit, so that he might see her the better, "perhaps Mr. Marlowe won't take Jasper back. Judging from what I know of the man, I don't think he will," and the old gentleman's face, despite his extreme care, began to look troubled at once.

"Oh! maybe he will," cried Polly warmly. "Grandpapa, I shouldn't wonder at all -- he must!" she added positively.

"I don't know, Polly," he said, in a worried way. "I think it's very doubtful; indeed, from what I know of business now, I don't believe at all that he will. But then, we can try."

"Oh! we can try," echoed Polly hopefully, and feeling as if, since God was good, he would let Jasper back into his chosen life-work.

"Well, we'll start early to-morrow morning on our little trip, Polly," said the old gentleman, catching her infectious spirit, and giving the old horse a fillip with the whip. "Meantime, not a word, my dear, of our little plan!"

So Polly promised the deepest secrecy, and that no one should even have a hint from her looks, of what Grandpapa and she were to do.

And the next morning, although everybody was nearly devoured by curiosity, no one dared to ask questions; so old Mr. King and Polly, with two well-filled portmanteaus, departed for a journey of apparently a few days; and Polly didn't dare to trust herself alone with Jasper, but ran a race with him around all the angles of the old farmhouse, always cleverly disappearing with a merry laugh when there was the least chance of his overtaking her and cornering her for an explanation.

And Pickering Dodge, in his invalid chair drawn close to the window, heard the merry preparations for the journey, and fretfully declared "that people seem to be happy, with never a thought for a poor dog like me," while old Mr. Loughead, who, despite Doctor Bryce's verdict, had never seemed quite well enough in his own estimation for his departure from the "Higby hospital," on the contrary brightened up, exclaiming, "Now, that is something like -- to hear Miss Polly laugh like that -- bless her!"

"Good-by, Pickering," said Polly, coming into his room, old Mr. King close behind; "I am going away with Grandpapa for a day or two," and she came up in her traveling hat and gown close to his chair.

"So I heard," said Pickering, lifting his pale face, and trying to seem glad, for Polly's joy was bubbling over. But he made rather a poor show of it.

"Good-by to you, my boy," said Mr. King, laying a soft palm over the thin fingers on Pickering's knee. "Now see that you get up a little more vigor by the time we are back. Goodness! all you want is a trifle more backbone. Why, an old fellow like me would beat you there, I do believe. I am surprised at you," cried the old gentleman, shaking his fingers at Mr. Loughead, with whom he was on the best of terms, but never feeling the necessity to weigh his words, "that you, being chief nurse, don't set up with that boy and make him get on his feet quicker."

"So I could do," cried old Mr. Loughead, whose chief object in life since Pickering had been pronounced out of danger, had been to browbeat the trained nurse, and usurp the authority in Pickering's sick-room, "if Mrs. Cabot would keep out, or take it into her head to return home. To state it mildly," continued the old gentleman, not lowering his tone in the least, "that lady doesn't seem to be gifted with the qualities of a nurse. Providence never intended that she should be one, in my opinion."

"Don't tell him to bully me worse than he does," cried Pickering. "He shows a frightful hand when he wants his own way."

"That's it," cried old Mr. King delightedly; "only just keep it up. You'll get well fast, as long as you can fight. Come on, Polly, my girl, or we shall be late for the train."

The evening before, Jack Loughead ran up the steps to Miss Salisbury's "Select School for Young Ladies," and pulled the bell hastily.

Amy ran down as quickly to the little room where she was always allowed to see her brother.

"Well, Amy, child," cried Jack, when they had gone through with the preliminaries always religiously observed on his visits: how she had progressed in her music under the new teacher Miss Pepper had recommended during her enforced absence, and how far she had pleased Miss Salisbury, and all the other things an elder brother who had come to his conscience rather late, would be apt to look into. "And so you really think you are getting on in your practice?"

"O, yes, Jack!" cried Amy confidently. "Come and see; I've a new Beethoven for you," and she laid hold of his arm with eager fingers. "Now, you'll be immensely surprised, Jack -- immensely."

"No doubt, no doubt," answered Jack hastily, and not offering to get up from the sofa, "but you needn't play it now."

"Why, Jack," cried Amy, no little offended, "what's the matter? You've asked me regularly to play you my pieces, and now to-night when I offer to, you won't have any of it," and she began to pout.

"That's shabby in me," declared Jack, with remorse; and getting off the sofa, to his feet, he dutifully spread the music on the rack, and paid his little sister such attention, that she was soon smilingly launched into the new piece, and lost to everything else but her own melody.

"That's fine!" pronounced Jack, as Amy declared herself through, and whirled around on the music-stool for his applause. But his heart wasn't in it, and Amy's blue eyes soon found it out.

"You're not a bit like yourself to-night, Brother Jack," she cried, with another pout and staring at him.

"You're right; I'm not, Amy," declared Jack. "Come over to the sofa, and I'll tell you about it."

So the two turned their backs on the piano; and pretty soon, Amy, her hand in her brother's big brown palm, was nestled up against him, and hearing a confidence that made her small soul swell with delight.

"Amy," said Jack, putting his arm closer around her, "when Miss Pepper had the courage to tell me of my duty to you, I made up my mind that you should never want for anything that my hand could supply."

"And I never have," cried little Amy, poking her head up from its nest to look at him. "All the girls say you are just splendid to me; that they never saw such a brother; and I don't believe they ever did, Jack," she added proudly.

"So now, what I am about to do," said Jack, speaking with great effort, "isn't to bring anything but the greatest happiness to you, Amy, as well as to me. If only I can secure it!" he added under his breath.

"What are you going to do, Jack?" demanded Amy, springing away from him to stare into his bronzed face. "Oh! I know; you are going to Europe again, and will take me this time -- oh! goody, goody!" She screamed like a child, clapping her hands gaily.

"Hush, Amy," cried Jack, trying to speak lightly, "or Miss Salisbury will come in, and send me off, saying I spoil your manners. There, come back here to me; I can talk better then," and he drew her to his side again. "No, it is something much more beautiful than any trip to Europe would be."

"It can't be. Jack," cried Amy positively, and burrowing her sunny head into his waistcoat.

"Listen -- and don't interrupt again," said her big brother. "Amy -- how can I tell it? Amy, if Miss Pepper will -- will marry me, I will bless God all my life!"

This time Amy sprang to the middle of the floor of Miss Salisbury's small reception-room. "Marry you, Brother Jack!" she screamed. "Oh! how perfectly elegant! It's too lovely for anything -- oh! my darling Miss Pepper," and so on, till Jack couldn't make her hear a word.

"Amy -- Amy," at last he said, getting up to her, to lay an imperative hand on her arm, "what would Miss Pepper say -- don't get so excitable, child -- to see you now? Do hush!"

"I know it," said Amy, stopping instantly, and creeping humbly back to the sofa; "Miss Pepper was always telling me how to stop screaming at everything I liked; and not to cry at things I didn't like," she confessed frankly.

"Well, then, if you love her," said Jack, going back to sit down by her again, "you will try to do what she says. And you do love her, I am quite sure, Amy."

"I love her so," declared Amy, "that I would do any and everything she ever asked me to, Brother Jack."

"I thought so," said Jack. "Well, now, Amy, I must tell you that I went to see Mrs. Fisher to-day, to ask her if I may speak to Miss Pepper. And she gives me full permission; and so I shall go to Brierly to-morrow, and try my fate."

"It won't be any trying at all," cried Amy superbly, and stretching her neck to look up with immense pride at her tall brother. "She can't help loving you, Jack! Oh! I am so happy."

Jack Loughead's dark face had a grave look on it as he glanced down at her. "I hope so," he said simply.



Chapter XXIII.

That Settles Many Things.


"It's perfectly dreadful," cried Alexia Rhys, wrinkling her brows, "to try to get up anything with Polly away. If we only had Joel to help us, that would be something" -- 

"Well, it's got to be done," said Clem Forsythe, in a matter-of-fact way.

"Of course it has," cried Alexia gustily. "Dear me," in a tone of horror, "did you suppose that we'd let Polly Pepper go on year after year getting up perfectly elegant things for us, and then we not celebrate for her, when she comes home, and with a broken arm, too? The idea, Clem!"

"Well, then I think we much better set to work to think up something," observed Clem wisely, "if we are going to do anything."

"We can't think of a single thing -- not one," bemoaned Alexia; "it will be a perfectly horrid fright, whatever we get up. Oh, dear! what shall we do, girls?"

"Alexia, you are enough to drive anybody wild," cried Sally Moore; "it's bad enough to know there isn't an idea in all our heads put together, without having you tell us of it every minute. Cathie Harrison, why don't you say something, instead of staring that wall out of countenance?"

"Because I haven't anything to say," replied Cathie, laughing grimly and leaning back in her chair resignedly. "Oh, dear! I think just as Alexia does, it will be utterly horrid whatever we do."

"Don't you be a wet blanket," cried two or three of the girls, "if Alexia is. Oh, dear! Miss Chatterton, you are the only one of sense in this company. Now do give us an idea," added one.

"I don't know in the least how to help," said Charlotte Chatterton slowly, and leaning her elbows on her knees she rested her head in her hands. "I never got up a play or tableau, nor anything of the kind in my life; and we never celebrated anything either; there was never anything to celebrate -- but I should think perhaps it would be better not to try to do great things."

"Why, Miss Chatterton," exclaimed Alexia Rhys, in great disapproval, and starting forward in the pretty pink-trimmed basket chair. "I'm perfectly surprised at you -- nothing can be too good for Polly Pepper. We must get up something perfectly magnificent, or else I shall die!" she cried tragically.

"Nothing can be too good for Polly," repeated Charlotte, taking her head out of her hands and looking at Alexia, "but isn't it better not to try to be too grand, and have something simple, because, whatever we do, Polly must always have had things so much nicer."

"In other words, it's better to hit what you aim at, than to shoot at the clouds and bring down nothing," said Clem sententiously.

"Yes -- yes, I think so," cried Cathie, clapping her hands; "it's awfully vulgar to try to cut a dash -- that is, if you can't do it," she added quickly.

"Don't say 'awfully,'" corrected Alexia, readjusting herself in her pink-and-white chair. "Well, I suppose you are right, Miss Chatterton; you're always right; being, as I said, a person of sense."

Charlotte gave a short laugh, but with a little bitter edge to it. Why would the girls who now seemed to be so glad to have her in the center of all their plans, persist in calling her Miss Chatterton? It gave her a chill every time, and she fairly hated the name.

"And now since we are going to follow your advice," went on Alexia, "be so good as to tell us a little bit more. Now what shall we do in the way of a simple, appropriate fandango -- a perfect idyl of a thing, you know?"

"Well," said Charlotte quietly, "you know in the olden time at Christmas" -- 

"But this isn't Christmas," cried Alexia, interrupting with an uneasy gesture.

"Do be still," cried the other girls, pulling at her, "and let Miss Chatterton finish" -- 

"At Christmas ages ago, when special honor was done to entertain the King wherever he was lodged," went on Charlotte, "there was a Lord of Misrule, who gathered together a company of ladies and gentlemen, who rummaged the old castles for grotesque costumes and furbelows. And then masked, they all came in and marched before the King, and danced, oh -- everything -- we might have Minuets and Highland Flings, and all the rest. And they did everything the Lord of Misrule directed, and" -- 

"Charlotte Chatterton, you are a jewel!" cried Alexia, tumbling out of her chair, and flying at her, which example was followed by all the other girls.

"Thank you," cried Charlotte, with glistening eyes.

"Thank you? I guess we do thank you," cried Sally Moore heartily, "for getting us out of this scrape."

"Oh! I don't mean that," said Charlotte indifferently, "I mean because you called me by my first name, the same as you girls always talk to each other."

There was a little pause. "Oh! we didn't know as you'd like it," broke in Alexia hastily, "you are so tall, and you never seem in a hurry, nor as if you cared a straw about being like a girl, and we didn't dare. But now, oh, Charlotte -- Charlotte!" And she gave her a hug that well repaid Charlotte for all the past.

"That's a regular bear-hug," she cried at last, releasing her and taking a long breath, "and equal to a few dozen common every-day ones."

"If Charlotte can breathe after that," said Clem, turning on Charlotte a pair of glowing eyes, "she'll do well. We are just as glad to call you Charlotte, aren't we, girls," whirling around on the group, "as Alexia, for all her bear-hug."

"Yes -- yes," cried the whole bevy.

"Well, now, girls," said Alexia, running over to give Clem a small shake, "let's to business. There isn't any time to waste. Charlotte Chatterton, will you tell us the rest of it, and who will be the Lord of Misrule? -- dear me, if we only had Joel here!"

"I think Doctor Fisher would be the Lord of Misrule," said Charlotte; "he said he'd do anything we wanted of him, to help out."

The girls one and all gave a small howl, and clapped their hands, crying, "Capital -- capital!"

"Let's go and ask him now!" cried Alexia, who wasn't anything if not energetic; and running to her closet, she picked off her hat from the shelf and tossed it on her head. "Oh, how slow you are, girls -- do hurry!" as the others flew to the bed where their different head-gear had been thrown.

"But it's his office hours," said Charlotte, hating in her new-found happiness at being one with the girls, to put a damper on their plan.

"Bother! supposing it is," exclaimed Alexia, in front of her pink-and-white draped mirror, while she ran the long hat pins through her fluffy hair, "it's as important to take care of us girls, as if we were a lot of patients. We shall be, if we don't get this fixed. Come on, girls!" she seized a lace scarf from some mysterious corner, and pranced to the door, shaking her gloves at the group.

"I don't think we ought to go, now," said Charlotte distinctly, not offering to join the merry scramble for the wearing apparel on the bed.

"Charlotte Chatterton!" cried Alexia, thoroughly annoyed, "aren't you ashamed of yourself? Don't listen to her, girls, but come on," and she ran out to the head of the stairs.

The other girls all stopped short.

"I don't think Polly would like it, and it isn't right," said Charlotte, hating to preach, but standing her ground. At this Alexia, out in the hall, came running back.

"Oh! dear -- dear, it's perfectly dreadful to be with such good people! There, now, Charlotte, don't look like that," rushing up to the tall girl and standing on tiptoe to drop a kiss on the sallow cheek -- "we won't go; we'll stay at home and be martyrs," and she began to tear off her hat with a tragic air.

"Why not go to Madam Dyce's and ask her to loan us some of her old brocades and bonnets?" proposed Cathie Harrison suddenly. "She's got a perfect lot of horrible antiques."

"The very thing!" cried Alexia, the others coming in as chorus.

Charlotte Chatterton rushed as happily as any of them for her walking things. "And then Doctor Fisher's office hours may be over, and we may stop there on our way home," she cried.

Doctor Fisher's office hours were not only over, but the little doctor assured one and all of the eager group that precipitated themselves upon him, that nothing would give him greater delight than to be a Lord of Misrule at the celebration to be gotten up for the home-coming.

"And it's a very appropriate way to celebrate, my dears," he said, beaming at them over his large spectacles; "for it will be for the coming of the King; King by name as well as nature," and he laughed enjoyably at his own pun. "And I'm sure nobody ever did rule his kingdom so well as our Grandpapa. So let's have a splendid mummery, or masquing, or whatever you call it; and in my opinion, you were very smart to think it up."

Thereupon Alexia pulled Charlotte Chatterton unwillingly into the center of the group that surrounded the little doctor. "We didn't; it was all Charlotte," she said.

Doctor Fisher took a long look at the pink spot on Charlotte's sallow cheek, and into her happy eyes, then he turned and surveyed the bevy.

"We'll have a good time, my dears," he said.

*    *    *    *    *

"Now, Polly," exclaimed old Mr. King, drawing her back an instant before stepping into Farmer Higby's big carryall, waiting at the station as the train came in, "you mustn't even look as if you had any secret on your mind -- oh, come now, that won't do, my dear," turning her around to study the dancing eyes and rosy cheeks. "I can't take you home looking like that, I really can't, my dear."

Polly tried to pull down her face, but with such poor success that the old gentleman sighed in dismay.

"Well, you must be careful to keep away from everybody as much as you can," he whispered, as he helped her into the ancient vehicle, "and whatever you do, don't say much to Jasper, or you'll surely let the whole thing out," and he got in beside her. "There, drive on, do, Mr. Higby."

"You'll tell Jasper that he is to go back to Mr. Marlowe?" Polly leaned over and was guilty of whispering behind Farmer Higby's broad back. "Oh, Grandpapa! you won't keep him waiting to know that, will you?" she begged anxiously.

"No; that shall be at once, as soon as I see my boy," replied the old gentleman; "but, the rest, Polly; how Mr. Marlowe is coming to look in upon us at our own home, and to meet us the very evening we arrive -- that's to be kept as dark as possible."

"Yes, indeed," cried Polly, getting back into her own corner with a happy little wriggle, all unconscious of Grandpapa's conspiracy with Mother Fisher in regard to the home-coming.

"For if I can't have the surprise party I started for," declared the old gentleman to himself, "I'll have a jollification at the other end." So he had telegraphed to Mrs. Fisher an additional message to his many letters, all on the same subject -- "Have what celebration you like, and invite whom you like. And let it be gay, for the College boys have got leave, and they bring a friend."

And at such intervals when he could take his mind from Jasper and his affairs, it afforded Mr. King infinite delight to tap a certain letter in his breast pocket, that opened, might have revealed in bold characters, a great deal of gratitude for his kindness in inviting the writer on with Joel, which was gladly accepted and signed Robert Bingley.

"Where's Jasper?" said Mr. King, as he and Polly got out of the carryall into the bustle of the farmhouse delight over their return.

"He's gone fishing with Phronsie," said Mrs. Cabot; "we didn't any of us expect you till this afternoon."

"Goodness me! couldn't they go fishing any other day?" cried the old gentleman irascibly. "Well, I suppose there's no help for it. Ah! Loughead, that you?" extending a cordial hand to the tall figure waiting at the end of the porch till the family greetings were over; "glad to see you."

But Jack Loughead had no eyes for anybody but Polly's happy face; and he barely touched the extended palm, while he mumbled something about being glad to be there; then awkwardly stood still.

Mrs. Cabot, who evidently did not regard him in the friendliest of lights, turned her back upon him, keeping her arm around Polly. "Pickering is waiting to see you," she said, and trying to draw her off.

"I'll come in a minute," said Polly, breaking away from her, and taking a step toward Jack Loughead.

"How do you do?" she said, putting out her hand.

Jack Loughead seized it eagerly. "May I see you -- just now?" he asked in a quick, low voice. "I have your mother's permission to tell you something" -- -

"From Mamsie," cried Polly, her beaming face breaking into fresh smiles; "yes, indeed, Mr. Loughead."

"About -- myself," stumbled Jack truthfully, "but your mother gave me permission to speak to you. Will you go down the lane, Miss Pepper, while I can tell you?"

So Polly, despite Mrs. Cabot's calls "Come, Polly," nodded to Grandpapa, who said, "All right, child, don't be gone long," and moved off with Jack Loughead "down the lane," fresh with spring blossoms and gay with bird songs.

"I don't know how," said Jack Loughead, after a moment's pause, during which Polly had lifted her face to look at him wonderingly, "to tell you. I have never been among ladies, and my mother died when I was fifteen; since that I have been working hard, and known no other life. You have been so kind to Amy," he said suddenly, as if there were a refuge in the words.

"Oh, don't put it that way," cried Polly, full of sympathy, "Amy is a dear little thing; I am very fond of her."

He turned glad eyes on her. "Yes, I know. And when you spoke to me and showed me my duty, I" -- 

"Oh!" cried Polly, with cheeks aflame, "don't make me think of that time. How could I speak so, and to you, who know so much more of duty than I ever could imagine? Pray forget it, Mr. Loughead," she begged.

"I can't," said Jack Loughead gravely, "for it was the kindest thing I ever supposed one could say to another -- and then -- I from that time -- loved you, Miss Pepper!"

Polly Pepper stopped short in the lane. "Oh, don't -- don't!" she begged, and covered her face with her hands.

"I must tell you," said Jack Loughead, still gravely, and standing quietly to look at her; "and I have come to ask you to marry me."

"Oh!" cried Polly again, and not daring to look at him, "I am so sorry," she cried, "I wouldn't hurt you for all the world, Mr. Loughead."

"I know it," he said, waiting for her to finish.

"For -- for, I do like you so much -- so very much," cried poor Polly, wishing the birds wouldn't sing so loud. "You have taught me so much, oh, so much, I can't tell you, Mr. Loughead, about being true and noble, and" -- 

He waited patiently till she began again.

"But I couldn't marry you; oh, I couldn't," here Polly forced herself to look at him, but her head went down again at sight of his face.

"You sha'n't be troubled," said Jack Loughead gently, "I'll take myself out of the way, and make all excuses at the house."

"Oh! do forgive me," Polly sprang after him, to call.

He turned and tried to smile, then walked off, leaving Polly standing in the lane.

*    *    *    *    *

"Jasper," said Mrs. Cabot in great irritation, when Jasper and Phronsie wandered into Mrs. Farmer Higby's neat kitchen a half-hour later, with torn garments and muddy shoes, "they got home while you were away, and that tiresome Mr. Loughead came a little before them; and he made Polly go to walk with him; actually made her!" Mrs. Cabot leaned her jeweled hands on Mrs. Higby's spotless pine table, and regarded him in great distress.

Jasper bent his broad straw hat over the basket of fish a minute.

"Oh!" screamed Phronsie, clapping grimy little hands and darting off, "have they come?"

"My! what a sight of fish," exclaimed Mrs. Higby, getting down on her knees before the basket. "Now I s'pose you want some fried for dinner, don't you, Mr. Jasper?"

"Yes," said Jasper, bringing his gaze off from the fish, "I think they better be, Mrs. Higby," and he went out of the kitchen without looking at Mrs. Cabot.

Up at the head of the stairs he ran against Jack Loughead.

"It's all against me, King," said Jack unsteadily.

Jasper lifted heavy eyes, that, all at once, held a lightning gleam. Then he put his good right hand on Jack's shoulder.

"I'm sorry for you," he said.

"One thing, King," said Jack gratefully, "will you have an eye to my uncle? He won't come with me now, but insists on going with your father who kindly invited us both to go home with you all. And when he is ready, just telegraph me and I will meet him at New York."

"I'll do it gladly," said Jasper, quite shocked at Jack's appearance; "anything more, Loughead? Do let me help you."

"Nothing," said Jack, without looking back.



Chapter XXIV.

Home!


"I don't want to leave you, Mrs. Higby," said Phronsie slowly.

Mrs. Higby looked as if she were about to throw her apron over her head again. "You blessed child!" she exclaimed, half-crying and allowing her hands to rest on the rim of the dish-pan.

"You have been so very good to us," continued Phronsie, shaking her yellow head decidedly. "I love you, Mrs. Higby, very much indeed." With that she clasped the farmer's wife around her stout waist and held her closely.

"Dear -- dear!" cried Mrs. Higby, violently caressing Phronsie; "you precious lamb, you, to think I sha'n't hear you pattering around any more, nor asking questions."

"I've made you ever so much trouble, Mrs. Higby," said Phronsie, in a penitent little voice, and enjoying to the fullest extent the petting she was receiving. "And I'm so sorry."

"Trouble!" exploded the farmer's wife, smoothing Phronsie's yellow hair with her large red hands, "the land! it's only a sight of comfort you've been. Why, I've just set by you!"

"I've come in here," said Phronsie, reflectively peering around at the spotless kitchen floor, "with muddy boots on and spoiled it; and I've talked when you wanted to weigh out things, and make cake, and once, don't you remember, Mrs. Higby, I left the pantry door open and the cat got in and ate up part of the custard pudding."

"Bless your heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Higby, with another squeeze, "I've forgot all about it."

"But I haven't," said Phronsie, with a sigh, "and I'm sorry."

"Well, now," said the farmer's wife, "I'll tell you how we will settle that; if you'll come again to the farm, and give my old eyes a sight of you, that'll make it all right."

"You're not old," cried Phronsie, wriggling enough out of Mrs. Higby's arms to look at the round red cheeks and bright eyes. "Oh, Mrs. Higby! and you're just as nice!" With that she clasped her impulsively around the neck. "And Pickering likes you too, Mrs. Higby," continued Phronsie, "he says you're as good as gold."

"You don't say so!" cried Mrs. Farmer Higby, intensely gratified; "well, he's as nice a boy as ever lived, I'm sure, and I'm just as tickled as I can be that that fever was broke up so sudden, for you see, Phronsie, he's got the making of being a right smart man yet."

"Grandpapa is going to have Pickering go home with us," said Phronsie, confidentially, and edging away from the farmer's wife to facilitate conversation. "And he's going to stay at our house with us till he gets nice and strong."

"Well, I'm dreadful glad of that," declared Mrs. Higby heartily, "for that a'nt of his -- well, there, Phronsie, she ain't to my taste; she is such a making sort of woman -- she comes in here and she wants to make me do this, and do that, till I'm most out of my wits, and I'd like to take my broom and say 'scat' as I do to the cat," and a black frown settled on Mrs. Higby's pleasant face.

Phronsie began to look quite grave. "She loves Pickering," she said thoughtfully, "and when he was so bad she cried almost all the time, Mrs. Higby."

"Oh! she loves him well enough," answered Mrs. Higby, "but she fusses over him so, and wants her way all the same. It would be good if she thought somebody else knew something once in a while," and she began to splash in the dish-pan vigorously to make up for lost time, quickly heaping up a pile of dishes to drain on the little old tray.

"Let me wipe them, do, Mrs. Higby," begged Phronsie eagerly, and without waiting for the permission she felt quite sure of, Phronsie picked up the long brown towel and set to work.

Upstairs Jasper and his father were going over again all the incidents of Mr. King's and Polly's trip, that the old gentleman was willing to communicate, and Jasper, despite his eagerness to know all the whys and wherefores, held himself in check as well as he could, scarcely realizing that he was really to go back to Mr. Marlowe's.

And Polly and Mrs. Cabot were busily packing, with the aid of a farmer's daughter who lived near, while Polly, who dearly loved to do it all herself, was forced to stand by and direct matters; and old Mr. Loughead divided his time between stalking out to the piazza where Pickering was slowly pacing back and forth in his "constitutional," to insist that he shouldn't "walks his legs off," and calling Polly from her work, "just to help me a bit, my dear" -- when he got into a tight place over the packing that he insisted should be done by none but his own two hands.

And the whole farmhouse was soon thrown into such a bustle and ferment, that any one looking in would have known without the telling, that "Mr. King's family are going home." And after a day or so of all this, Farmer Higby carried a wagon-load of trunks down to the little station, and his wife drove the carryall, in the back of which Pickering was carefully tucked with Mrs. Cabot, who insisted on being beside him, and old Mr. Loughead in front -- the others of the party merrily following in a large old vehicle of no particular pattern whatever -- and before anybody could hardly realize it, the train came rushing in, and there were hurried good-bys, and hand-shakes, and they were off -- Phronsie crying as she held to her, "I wish you were going too, I do, dear Mrs. Higby." And the farmer and his wife were left on the platform, staring after them with sorry eyes.

"Well, now, Phronsie," said Mr. King, as they quieted down, and Phronsie turned back after the last look at the little station, "I think it is time to answer your question, so as to let you go home without anything on your mind."

"About Charlotte, you mean, Grandpapa?" whispered Phronsie softly, with wide eyes, and glancing back to see that no one else heard.

"To be sure -- about Charlotte," said the old gentleman. "Well, I've concluded you ought to have your way, and make Charlotte a gift of some money, if you want to."

"Oh, Grandpapa!" cried Phronsie, in a suppressed scream, and having great difficulty not to clap her hands; "oh, how good!" then she sat quite still, and folded them in silent rapture.

"And I'll see that it is fixed as soon as may be after we get home," said the old gentleman, "and I'm sure I'm glad you've done it, Phronsie, for I think Charlotte is a very good sort of a girl."

"Charlotte is just lovely," cried Phronsie, with warmth, "and I think, Grandpapa, that dear Mrs. Chatterton up in heaven, is glad too, that I've done it."

Old Mr. King turned away with a mild snort, and then not finding any words to say, picked up the newspaper, and Phronsie, full of her new happiness, looked out the window as the cars sped along.

"There's Thomas!" cried Jasper, at sight of that functionary waiting on his carriage-box as he had waited so many other times for them; now for the jolliest of all home-comings.

"And the girls," finished Polly, craning her neck to look out the car window at a knot of them restlessly curbing their impatience on the platform as the train moved into the station and -- "why, Mamsie. Oh, Jasper! how slow we are!"

Pickering Dodge shook his long legs impatiently as he got out of his seat. "Don't try to help me, Mr. Loughead," he said testily, as the old gentleman offered his arm; "I'm not sick now. No, thanks, I'll go out alone."

Jasper now ran up, but he didn't offer to help, but waited patiently for Pickering's slow movements as he worked his way unsteadily down the aisle.

"Don't stop by me," said Pickering, rather crossly, "go ahead, Jasper, and get the fun."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Jasper, yet feeling his heart bound at the merry din as Polly was surrounded, and the babel of voices waxed louder; for everybody was now out of the car but Pickering and himself -- "here we are now," as they neared the car step.

Alexia Rhys, back on the platform hanging to Polly who had one hand in Mother Fisher's at the expense of all the other girls who couldn't get the chance, looked up and saw Pickering Dodge, and dropping Polly's arm she ran lightly across the stream of passengers and put out her hand.

"How do you do, Pickering? it's so good to see you back."

Pickering shot her an astonished glance, then he said gratefully, "Thank you, Alexia," and he actually let her help him down the steps, which so astonished her that it took away her breath and left her without a word to say.

And the rest was all bustle and confusion -- Mr. King declaring it was worse than a boarding-school -- everybody talking together -- and Jasper ran off to see to the luggage for the whole party, followed by Ben trying to help. And old Mr. Loughead had to be introduced all around, and little Doctor Fisher tried to get them all settled in the carriages, but at last gave it up in despair.

"Charlotte, my girl, go and tell Polly to get in, will you?" he said, turning to Charlotte Chatterton. "Phronsie won't stir till Polly is settled."

"Oh, Polly! let me drive you home; I've got my dog-cart here," cried Clem Forsythe alluringly, and trying to pull her off as Charlotte ran up with her message.

"No, no," cried Sally Moore, "I brought my phaeton on purpose; you know I did, Clem -- come with me, Polly, do."

"You'll have to get in here," called Doctor Fisher, waiting at the carriage, "to end it."

"Yes, I think I shall," said Polly merrily, and running to him followed by Phronsie. "Girls, come over this evening, won't you?" she looked back to call after them.

"Yes, we'll be over this evening," cried the girls back again, and Phronsie hopping in after her, the carriage-door was shut, and off they rolled.

And old Turner was waiting at the steps as the carriage rolled up the winding drive, with a monstrous bouquet of his choicest blossoms for Polly, and one exactly like it only a little smaller, for Phronsie; and Prince came rushing out getting in every one's way and nearly devouring Phronsie; and there was King Fisher running away on toddling feet from his nurse to meet them, screaming with all his might; and Mrs. Fargo with Johnny in her arms crowing with delight -- all stood on the broad stone porch.

"Oh -- oh!" cried Polly, jumping out, her cheeks aflame; "are we really at home!"

"Oh -- oh!" echoed Phronsie, flying at them all, and trying to keep hold of Prince at the same time.

And there in the wide hall drawn back within the shadow of the oaken door, were Mr. and Mrs. Whitney and Dick ready to pounce upon them in a moment.

And no one ever hinted a suspicion that the college boys were steaming along as fast as they could, for the evening's festivities; and old Mr. King appeared superbly indifferent to the fact that Mr. Marlowe was waiting at a hotel for that hour to arrive; and everybody rushed off to get ready for dinner, with the exception of Polly and Jasper and Phronsie.

"Oh! we must go in the conservatory just for a minute," begged Phronsie, flying off on eager feet.

"We'll only take one peep," said Polly, just as eagerly, "come on, Jasper."

And then Polly had to run into the long drawing-room, and just look at her piano, and lay her fingers lovingly on the keys.

"Don't try it with your lame hand, Polly," begged Jasper, close beside.

"No, I won't," promised Polly, running light scales with the fingers of the other hand. "But oh! Jasper, I do verily believe I could. My arm feels so well."

"Well, don't, Polly," begged Jasper again.

"No, of course I won't," said Polly, with a little laugh, "but it won't be many weeks, you dear" -- this to the piano, as she unwillingly got up from the music-stool, and let Jasper lead her off -- "before you and I have all our good times together!"

*    *    *    *    *

Polly, in a soft white gown, sat on a low seat by Mother Fisher's side, her head in Mamsie's lap. It was after dinner, and the gas was turned low.

"Mamsie," said Polly, and she threw one hand over her head to clasp Mother Fisher's strong fingers closer, "it's so good to be home -- oh! you can't think how I wanted you."

Just then somebody looked into Mother Fisher's bedroom.

"Oh! beg pardon," said Jasper, as he saw them. But there was so much longing in the voice that Polly called out, "Oh! come, Jasper. May he, Mamsie?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Fisher; "come in, Jasper."

Jasper came in quickly and stood a moment looking down at them. "It's so lovely to be home, Jasper," said Polly, looking up at him and playing with her mother's fingers.

"Isn't it?" cried Jasper, with feeling, "there never was anything so nice! Mrs. Fisher, may I sit down by you here?" and he went over to her where she sat on the sofa -- it was the same big comfortable affair where Joel had flung himself, when he declared he could not keep on at school; and where Mamsie had often sat when the children brought her their troubles, declaring it was easier to tell her everything on the roomy, old-fashioned sofa, than anywhere else.

"Yes, indeed!" cried Mrs. Fisher cordially, and making way for him to sit down by her side.

"Now isn't this nice!" breathed Polly, lifting her head out of her mother's lap to look at him on Mamsie's other side. "Now, Jasper, you begin, and we'll tell her all about it, as we always do, you know, when we get home from places."

"I want to tell her something -- and to you too, Polly," began Jasper quietly. "Mrs. Fisher -- may I speak?" He leaned over and looked into the black eyes above Polly's shining brown hair.

"Yes," said Mother Fisher as quietly.

"How funny you are, Jasper," cried Polly with a laugh, "asking Mamsie in such a solemn way. There now, begin, do."

"Polly," said Jasper, "look at me, do, dear!"

Polly lifted her brown eyes quietly. "Why, Jasper?"

"I waited because I thought I ought," said Jasper, trying not to speak too quickly. "It seemed at one time as if you were going to be happy, and I should spoil it, Polly, if I spoke; but now -- oh, Polly!" He put out his hand, and Polly instinctively laid her own warm palm within it. "Do you think you could love me -- I've loved you ever since the Little Brown House days, dear!"

"Oh, Jasper!" Polly cried, with a glad ring in her voice, "how good you are," and she clung to his hand across Mamsie's lap.

"Will you, Polly?" cried Jasper, holding her hand so tightly that she winced a bit, "tell me quickly, dear."

"Will I what?" asked Polly wonderingly.

"Love me, Polly."

"Oh! I do -- I do," she cried; "you know it, Jasper. I love you with all my heart."

"Polly, will you marry me? Tell her, Mrs. Fisher, do, and make her understand," begged Jasper, turning to Mother Fisher imploringly.

"Polly, child," said Mamsie, putting both arms around her, careful not to disturb Jasper's hand over Polly's, "Jasper wants you to be his wife -- do you love him enough for that?"

Polly, not taking her brown eyes from Jasper's face, laid her other hand upon his, "I love him enough," she said, "for that; oh, Jasper!"

Old Mr. King walked proudly down the long drawing-room with Polly on his arm. Everybody was in the highest possible spirits. The Lord of Misrule had made a triumphant entree, covering himself with glory and winning great applause for his long train of masquers; whose costumes if not gotten up on strict historical lines, made up any lack by the variety of other contrivances, each one following his own sweet will in dressing. They had gone through with the minuet and the pantomimes; and Charlotte, in a peaked hat and a big flowered brocade gown rich with tambour lace, had sung "like a nightingale," as more than one declared, and now the room was in a buzz of applause.

Old Mr. King took this time to walk up and down the long room with Polly several times quite pompously; and once in a while the little Lord of Misrule would rush up to them, say something very earnest, seize Polly's hand and give it a shake and then dart away; which proceeding Joel would imitate, at such times leaving Robert Bingley to his own devices -- until Joel, evidently struck by remorse, would as suddenly fly back and introduce his college friend violently to right and left, to make up for lost time.

"That's three times you've introduced me to that girl in blue," said Bingley, on one of these occasions, when he could get Joel aside for a minute. "Do let me alone -- I was having a good enough time where I was."

"Did I?" cried Joel, opening his black eyes at him, "oh! beg pardon," and off he rushed at Polly again.

"How queerly they do act!" cried Alexia, to a knot of the girls. "And just look at Mr. King, he holds on to Polly every minute -- I'm going to see what it's all about."

So she hurried across the room as fast as her high-heeled slippers would let her. "Polly -- Polly, did you really like it all?" she asked breathlessly. "Oh! dear me, this ruff will be the death of me," picking at it with impatient fingers.

"Don't, Alexia," cried Polly, "it's so pretty -- it was all just as fine as could be, and splendidly gotten up!"

"Well, it nearly killed us," declared Alexia, fanning herself violently, "and this old ruff will end me. There!" and she made a little break in the starched affair under her chin, "that's one degree less of misery."

"What would Queen Bess do to you?" cried Polly, saying the first thing that came in her head, to keep off questions she saw trembling on Alexia's tongue.

"Queen Bess was an old goose to wear such a thing," retorted Alexia. "Oh, Polly! do come with us. Let her, do, Mr. King," to the old gentleman who made all sorts of signs that served to show he meant to keep Polly to himself. "We girls want her now," she added saucily.

"You keep away," said old Mr. King, with an emphatic nod and a twinkle in his eye, "and the other girls; I'm going to have Polly tonight; you can come over in the morning and see her." And he moved off coolly, carrying Polly with him.

Alexia stood a moment transfixed with astonishment. "Joel -- Joel, what is it?" she cried in a stage whisper, as that individual pranced by in one of his fits of remorse looking up Bingley. "Do tell me what's come over Polly, and why does Mr. King act so queerly?"

Joel flashed her a smile, but wouldn't say anything, and his eyes twinkled so exactly like Mr. King's, that Alexia lost all patience.

"Oh! you horrid boy," she cried, and ran back dismally to the girls, with nothing to tell.

And Charlotte Chatterton walked as if she disdained the ground, her peaked hat towering threateningly, while her sallow face was wreathed with smiles; and it seemed as if she couldn't sing enough, throwing in encores in a perfectly reckless fashion.

"What is it? oh! I shall die if I don't know," exclaimed Alexia, over and over. "Girls, if some of you don't find out what's going on, I shall fly crazy!"

And the room buzzed and buzzed with delight, the growing mystery not lessening the hilarity.

"That's an uncommonly fine fellow I've just been talking with," said Mason Whitney, coming up to old Mr. King still keeping Polly by his side; "I haven't met such a man in one spell; he's a thorough-going intellectual chap, and he's been around the world a good deal, it's easy to see by his fine manner. Where did you pick him up?"

"Whom are you talking of, Mason?" asked Mr. King, in his crispest fashion.

"Why, that new man -- Mr. -- Mr. -- I didn't catch the name when I was introduced, that you invited here to-night," said Mr. Whitney, with a little touch of the asperity yet remaining over the failure of his plan for Jasper, and he jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Marlowe.

"He? -- oh! that's Jasper's publisher, Mr. Marlowe," said the old gentleman, trying to speak carelessly; then he burst into a laugh at Mr. Whitney's face.

"Whew!" exclaimed that gentleman, as soon as he could speak, "I've got to eat humble pie before my fourteen-year-old son Dick, and you've taken my breath away, Polly," looking at her blooming cheeks and happy eyes, "with that piece of news, and" -- 

"What news -- oh, what news?" cried Alexia, coming up, too frantic to remember her manners. "Please tell us girls, for we are dying to know."

"You come away!" retorted Mr. Whitney unceremoniously, and Mr. King laughed, and Polly shook her white fan at them as the two moved off, and it was just as bad as ever!

"Pickering, do you know?" at last demanded Alexia, as he leaned against the doorway surveying the bright crowd.

"Yes, I know enough -- that is, I can guess -- don't ask me."

"Oh, what!" breathlessly cried Alexia, seizing his arm; "do tell me, Pickering, that is a dear -- oh, I thought I was talking to the girls -- I don't know what I'm doing anyway, Polly has so upset me."

"Well, she has upset me, too, Alexia," said Pickering gloomily, "but it isn't her fault; she couldn't help it."

Alexia, feeling that here was coming something quite worth her while to hear, waited patiently.

"You all know I've loved Polly for years," said Pickering steadily; "I made no secret of it."

"I know it," said Alexia, full of sympathy, and not daring to breathe, lest she should spoil it all. "Well, go on."

"And when I was sick, I hoped that things might be different -- for Polly was sorry for me. But one day Aunt was talking about it to me, in a way that made me mad, and I knew that Polly would be bothered awfully if she ever got at her, so I told Polly the first chance I got, that she was never to be sorry for me any more, for I'd made up my mind not to think of her in that way again; which was an awful lie," declared Pickering suddenly, standing quite erect, "for I can't help it."

"Oh, dear -- dear!" exclaimed Alexia, quite gone in sympathy, "aren't things just shameful in the world! Of course you oughtn't to be allowed to marry Polly, for you are not half good enough for her, Pickering," she added frankly, "but I'm so sorry for you!" and she put out her hand instinctively.

Pickering took it, and held it a minute in a calm grasp, with the air of a man considering it better to take the little, since he couldn't get all he wanted.

"And you will be my own brother, Jasper," said Phronsie.

"But now tell why Polly and Mr. King and all the family act so funnily?" cried Alexia, pulling away her hand and suddenly awaking to the fact that this important piece of news had not been made known to her.

"Can't you see for yourself?" cried Pickering, with an impatient stare. "Why, Alexia, where are your eyes?" which was all she could get him to say, as Pickering walked off immediately.

Jasper all this while seemed to find it impossible to be separated from Mother Fisher; and together they wandered up and down the drawing-room, Phronsie clinging to his hand. "I always longed since the Little Brown House days, to call you Mamsie," he said affectionately, looking down into Mrs. Fisher's face, "and now I can!"

"And you will really and truly be my very own brother, Jasper," said Phronsie, as they walked on.

<eob>

Old Peter's Russian Tales

By

Arthur Ransome



The Hut In The Forest.


Outside in the forest there was deep snow. The white snow had crusted the branches of the pine trees, and piled itself up them till they bent under its weight. Now and then a snow-laden branch would bend too far, and huge lumps of snow fell crashing to the ground under the trees. Then the branch would swing up, and the snow covered it again with a cold white burden. Sitting in the hut you could hear the crashing again and again out in the forest, as the tired branches flung down their loads of snow. Yes, and now and then there was the howling of wolves far away.

Little Maroosia heard them, and thought of them out there in the dark as they galloped over the snow. She sat closer to Vanya, her brother, and they were both as near as they could get to the door of the stove, where they could see the red fire burning busily, keeping the whole hut warm. The stove filled a quarter of the hut, but that was because it was a bed as well. There were blankets on it, and in those blankets Vanya and Maroosia rolled up and went to sleep at night, as warm as little baking cakes.

The hut was made of pine logs cut from the forest. You could see the marks of the axe. Old Peter was the grandfather of Maroosia and Vanya. He lived alone with them in the hut in the forest, because their father and mother were both dead. Maroosia and Vanya could hardly remember them, and they were very happy with old Peter, who was very kind to them and did all he could to keep them warm and well fed. He let them help him in everything, even in stuffing the windows with moss to keep the cold out when winter began. The moss kept the light out too, but that did not matter. It would be all the jollier in the spring when the sun came pouring in.

Besides old Peter and Maroosia and Vanya there were Vladimir and Bayan. Vladimir was a cat, a big black cat, as stately as an emperor, and just now he was lying in Vanya's arms fast asleep. Bayan was a dog, a tall gray wolf-dog. He could jump over the table with a single bound. When he was in the hut he usually lay underneath the table, because that was the only place where he could lie without being in the way. And, of course at meal times he was in the way even there. Just now he was out with old Peter.

"I wonder what story it will be to-night?" said Maroosia.

"So do I," said Vanya. "I wish they'd be quick and come back."

Vladimir stirred suddenly in Vanya's lap, and a minute later they heard the scrunch of boots in the snow, and the stamping of old Peter's feet trying to get the snow off his boots. Then the door opened, and Bayan pushed his way in and shook himself, and licked Maroosia and Vanya and startled Vladimir, and lay down under the table and came out again, because he was so pleased to be home. And old Peter came in after him, with his gun on his back and a hare in his hand. He shook himself just like Bayan, and the snow flew off like spray. He hung up his gun, flung the hare into a corner of the hut, and laughed.

"You are snug in here, little pigeons," he said.

Vanya and Maroosia had jumped up to welcome him, and when he opened his big sheepskin coat, they tumbled into it together and clung to his belt. Then he closed the big woolly coat over the top of them and they squealed; and he opened it a little way and looked down at them over his beard, and then closed it again for a moment before letting them out. He did this every night, and Bayan always barked when they were shut up inside.

Then old Peter took his big coat off and lifted down the samovar from the shelf. The samovar is like a big tea-urn, with a red-hot fire in the middle of it keeping the water boiling. It hums like a bee on the tea-table, and the steam rises in a little jet from a tiny hole in the top. The boiling water comes out of a tap at the bottom. Old Peter threw in the lighted sticks and charcoal, and made a draught to draw the heat, and then set the samovar on the table with the little fire crackling in its inside. Then he cut some big lumps of black bread. Then he took a great saucepan full of soup, that was simmering on the stove, and emptied it into a big wooden bowl. Then he went to the wall where, on three nails, hung three wooden spoons, deep like ladles. There were one big spoon, for old Peter; and two little spoons, one for Vanya and one for Maroosia.

And all the time that old Peter was getting supper ready he was answering questions and making jokes -- old ones, of course, that he made every day -- about how plump the children were, and how fat was better to eat than butter, and what the Man in the Moon said when he fell out, and what the wolf said who caught his own tail and ate himself up before he found out his mistake.

And Vanya and Maroosia danced about the hut and chuckled.

Then they had supper, all three dipping their wooden spoons in the big bowl together, and eating a tremendous lot of black bread. And, of course, there were scraps for Vladimir and a bone for Bayan.

After that they had tea with sugar but no milk, because they were Russians and liked it that way.

Then came the stories. Old Peter made another glass of tea for himself, not for the children. His throat was old, he said, and took a lot of keeping wet; and they were young, and would not sleep if they drank tea too near bedtime. Then he threw a log of wood into the stove. Then he lit a short little pipe, full of very strong tobacco, called Mahorka, which has a smell like hot tin. And he puffed, and the smoke got in his eyes, and he wiped them with the back of his big hand.

All the time he was doing this Vanya and Maroosia were snuggling together close by the stove, thinking what story they would ask for, and listening to the crashing of the snow as it fell from the trees outside. Now that old Peter was at home, the noise made them feel comfortable and warm. Before, perhaps, it made them feel a little frightened.

"Well, little pigeons, little hawks, little bear cubs, what is it to be?" said old Peter.

"We don't know," said Maroosia.

"Long hair, short sense, little she-pigeon," said old Peter. "All this time and not thought of a story? Would you like the tale of the little Snow Girl who was not loved so much as a hen?"

"Not to-night, grandfather," said Vanya.

"We'd like that tale when the snow melts," said Maroosia.

"To-night we'd like a story we've never heard before," said Vanya.

"Well, well," said old Peter, combing his great gray beard with his fingers, and looking out at them with twinkling eyes from under his big bushy eyebrows. "Have I ever told you the story of 'The Silver Saucer and the Transparent Apple'?"

"No, no, never," cried Vanya and Maroosia at once.

Old Peter took a last pull at his pipe, and Vanya and Maroosia wriggled with excitement. Then he drank a sip of tea. Then he began.




The Tale Of The Silver Saucer And The Transparent Apple.


There was once an old peasant, and he must have had more brains under his hair than ever I had, for he was a merchant, and used to take things every year to sell at the big fair of Nijni Novgorod. Well, I could never do that. I could never be anything better than an old forester.

"Never mind, grandfather," said Maroosia.

God knows best, and He makes some merchants and some foresters, and some good and some bad, all in His own way. Anyhow this one was a merchant, and he had three daughters. They were none of them so bad to look at, but one of them was as pretty as Maroosia. And she was the best of them too. The others put all the hard work on her, while they did nothing but look at themselves in the looking-glass and complain of what they had to eat. They called the pretty one "Little Stupid," because she was so good and did all their work for them. Oh, they were real bad ones, those two. We wouldn't have them in here for a minute.

Well, the time came round for the merchant to pack up and go to the big fair. He called his daughters, and said, "Little pigeons," just as I say to you. "Little pigeons," says he, "what would you like me to bring you from the fair?"

Says the eldest, "I'd like a necklace, but it must be a rich one."

Says the second, "I want a new dress with gold hems."

But the youngest, the good one, Little Stupid, said nothing at all.

"Now little one," says her father, "what is it you want? I must bring something for you too."

Says the little one, "Could I have a silver saucer and a transparent apple? But never mind if there are none."

The old merchant says, "Long hair, short sense," just as I say to Maroosia; but he promised the little pretty one, who was so good that her sisters called her stupid, that if he could get her a silver saucer and a transparent apple she should have them.

Then they all kissed each other, and he cracked his whip, and off he went, with the little bells jingling on the horses' harness.

The three sisters waited till he came back. The two elder ones looked in the looking-glass, and thought how fine they would look in the new necklace and the new dress; but the little pretty one took care of her old mother, and scrubbed and dusted and swept and cooked, and every day the other two said that the soup was burnt or the bread not properly baked.

Then one day there were a jingling of bells and a clattering of horses' hoofs, and the old merchant came driving back from the fair.

The sisters ran out.

"Where is the necklace?" asked the first.

"You haven't forgotten the dress?" asked the second.

But the little one, Little Stupid, helped her old father off with his coat, and asked him if he was tired.

"Well, little one," says the old merchant, "and don't you want your fairing too? I went from one end of the market to the other before I could get what you wanted. I bought the silver saucer from an old Jew, and the transparent apple from a Finnish hag."

"Oh, thank you, father," says the little one.

"And what will you do with them?" says he.

"I shall spin the apple in the saucer," says the little pretty one, and at that the old merchant burst out laughing.

"They don't call you 'Little Stupid' for nothing," says he.

Well, they all had their fairings, and the two elder sisters, the bad ones, they ran off and put on the new dress and the new necklace, and came out and strutted about, preening themselves like herons, now on one leg and now on the other, to see how they looked. But Little Stupid, she just sat herself down beside the stove, and took the transparent apple and set it in the silver saucer, and she laughed softly to herself. And then she began spinning the apple in the saucer.

Round and round the apple spun in the saucer, faster and faster, till you couldn't see the apple at all, nothing but a mist like a little whirlpool in the silver saucer. And the little good one looked at it, and her eyes shone like yours.

Her sisters laughed at her.

"Spinning an apple in a saucer and staring at it, the little stupid," they said, as they strutted about the room, listening to the rustle of the new dress and fingering the bright round stones of the necklace.

But the little pretty one did not mind them. She sat in the corner watching the spinning apple. And as it spun she talked to it.

"Spin, spin, apple in the silver saucer." This is what she said. "Spin so that I may see the world. Let me have a peep at the little father Tzar on his high throne. Let me see the rivers and the ships and the great towns far away."

And as she looked at the little glass whirlpool in the saucer, there was the Tzar, the little father -- God preserve him! -- sitting on his high throne. Ships sailed on the seas, their white sails swelling in the wind. There was Moscow with its white stone walls and painted churches. Why, there were the market at Nijni Novgorod, and the Arab merchants with their camels, and the Chinese with their blue trousers and bamboo staves. And then there was the great river Volga, with men on the banks towing ships against the stream. Yes, and she saw a sturgeon asleep in a deep pool.

"Oh! oh! oh!" says the little pretty one, as she saw all these things.

And the bad ones, they saw how her eyes shone, and they came and looked over her shoulder, and saw how all the world was there, in the spinning apple and the silver saucer. And the old father came and looked over her shoulder too, and he saw the market at Nijni Novgorod.

"Why, there is the inn where I put up the horses," says he. "You haven't done so badly after all, Little Stupid."

And the little pretty one, Little Stupid, went on staring into the glass whirlpool in the saucer, spinning the apple, and seeing all the world she had never seen before, floating there before her in the saucer, brighter than leaves in sunlight.

The bad ones, the elder sisters, were sick with envy.

"Little Stupid," says the first, "if you will give me your silver saucer and your transparent apple, I will give you my fine new necklace."

"Little Stupid," says the second, "I will give you my new dress with gold hems if you will give me your transparent apple and your silver saucer."

"Oh, I couldn't do that," says the Little Stupid, and she goes on spinning the apple in the saucer and seeing what was happening all over the world.

So the bad ones put their wicked heads together and thought of a plan. And they took their father's axe, and went into the deep forest and hid it under a bush.

The next day they waited till afternoon, when work was done, and the little pretty one was spinning her apple in the saucer. Then they said, -- 

"Come along, Little Stupid; we are all going to gather berries in the forest."

"Do you really want me to come too?" says the little one. She would rather have played with her apple and saucer.

But they said, "Why, of course. You don't think we can carry all the berries ourselves!"

So the little one jumped up, and found the baskets, and went with them to the forest. But before she started she ran to her father, who was counting his money, and was not too pleased to be interrupted, for figures go quickly out of your head when you have a lot of them to remember. She asked him to take care of the silver saucer and the transparent apple for fear she would lose them in the forest.

"Very well, little bird," says the old man, and he put the things in a box with a lock and key to it. He was a merchant, you know, and that sort are always careful about things, and go clattering about with a lot of keys at their belt. I've nothing to lock up, and never had, and perhaps it is just as well, for I could never be bothered with keys.

So the little one picks up all three baskets and runs off after the others, the bad ones, with black hearts under their necklaces and new dresses.

They went deep into the forest, picking berries, and the little one picked so fast that she soon had a basket full. She was picking and picking, and did not see what the bad ones were doing. They were fetching the axe.

The little one stood up to straighten her back, which ached after so much stooping, and she saw her two sisters standing in front of her, looking at her cruelly. Their baskets lay on the ground quite empty. They had not picked a berry. The eldest had the axe in her hand.

The little one was frightened.

"What is it, sisters?" says she; "and why do you look at me with cruel eyes? And what is the axe for? You are not going to cut berries with an axe."

"No, Little Stupid," says the first, "we are not going to cut berries with the axe."

"No, Little Stupid," says the second; "the axe is here for something else."

The little one begged them not to frighten her.

Says the first, "Give me your transparent apple."

Says the second, "Give me your silver saucer."

"If you don't give them up at once, we shall kill you." That is what the bad ones said.

The poor little one begged them. "O darling sisters, do not kill me! I haven't got the saucer or the apple with me at all."

"What a lie!" say the bad ones. "You never would leave it behind."

And one caught her by the hair, and the other swung the axe, and between them they killed the little pretty one, who was called Little Stupid because she was so good.

Then they looked for the saucer and the apple, and could not find them. But it was too late now. So they made a hole in the ground, and buried the little one under a birch tree.

When the sun went down the bad ones came home, and they wailed with false voices, and rubbed their eyes to make the tears come. They made their eyes red and their noses too, and they did not look any prettier for that.

"What is the matter with you, little pigeons?" said the old merchant and his wife. I would not say "little pigeons" to such bad ones. Black-hearted crows is what I would call them.

And they wail and lament aloud, -- 

"We are miserable for ever. Our poor little sister is lost. We looked for her everywhere. We heard the wolves howling. They must have eaten her."

The old mother and father cried like rivers in springtime, because they loved the little pretty one, who was called Little Stupid because she was so good.

But before their tears were dry the bad ones began to ask for the silver saucer and the transparent apple.

"No, no," says the old man; "I shall keep them for ever, in memory of my poor little daughter whom God has taken away."

So the bad ones did not gain by killing their little sister.

"That is one good thing," said Vanya.

"But is that all, grandfather?" said Maroosia.

"Wait a bit, little pigeons. Too much haste set his shoes on fire. You listen, and you will hear what happened," said old Peter. He took a pinch of snuff from a little wooden box, and then he went on with his tale.

Time did not stop with the death of the little girl. Winter came, and the snow with it. Everything was all white, just as it is now. And the wolves came to the doors of the huts, even into the villages, and no one stirred farther than he need. And then the snow melted, and the buds broke on the trees, and the birds began singing, and the sun shone warmer every dry. The old people had almost forgotten the little pretty one who lay dead in the forest. The bad ones had not forgotten, because now they had to do the work, and they did not like that at all.

And then one day some lambs strayed away into the forest, and a young shepherd went after them to bring them safely back to their mothers. And as he wandered this way and that through the forest, following their light tracks, he came to a little birch tree, bright with new leaves, waving over a little mound of earth. And there was a reed growing in the mound, and that, you know as well as I, is a strange thing, one reed all by itself under a birch tree in the forest. But it was no stranger than the flowers, for there were flowers round it, some red as the sun at dawn and others blue as the summer sky.

Well, the shepherd looks at the reed, and he looks at those flowers, and he thinks, "I've never seen anything like that before. I'll make a whistle-pipe of that reed, and keep it for a memory till I grow old."

So he did. He cut the reed, and sat himself down on the mound, and carved away at the reed with his knife, and got the pith out of it by pushing a twig through it, and beating it gently till the bark swelled, made holes in it, and there was his whistle-pipe. And then he put it to his lips to see what sort of music he could make on it. But that he never knew, for before his lips touched it the whistle-pipe began playing by itself and reciting in a girl's sweet voice. This is what it sang: -- 

"Play, play, whistle-pipe. Bring happiness to my dear father and to my little mother. I was killed -- yes, my life was taken from me in the deep forest for the sake of a silver saucer, for the sake of a transparent apple."

When he heard that the shepherd went back quickly to the village to show it to the people. And all the way the whistle-pipe went on playing and reciting, singing its little song. And everyone who heard it said, "What a strange song! But who is it who was killed?"

"I know nothing about it," says the shepherd, and he tells them about the mound and the reed and the flowers, and how he cut the reed and made the whistle-pipe, and how the whistle-pipe does its playing by itself.

And as he was going through the village, with all the people crowding about him, the old merchant, that one who was the father of the two bad ones and of the little pretty one, came along and listened with the rest. And when he heard the words about the silver saucer and the transparent apple, he snatched the whistle-pipe from the shepherd boy. And still it sang: -- 

"Play, play, whistle-pipe! Bring happiness to my dear father and to my little mother. I was killed -- yes, my life was taken from me in the deep forest for the sake of a silver saucer, for the sake of a transparent apple."

And the old merchant remembered the little good one, and his tears trickled over his cheeks and down his old beard. Old men love little pigeons, you know. And he said to the shepherd, -- 

"Take me at once to the mound, where you say you cut the reed."

The shepherd led the way, and the old man walked beside him, crying, while the whistle-pipe in his hand went on singing and reciting its little song over and over again.

They came to the mound under the birch tree, and there were the flowers, shining red and blue, and there in the middle of the mound was the Stump of the reed which the shepherd had cut.

The whistle-pipe sang on and on.

Well, there and then they dug up the mound, and there was the little girl lying under the dark earth as if she were asleep.

"O God of mine," says the old merchant, "this is my daughter, my little pretty one, whom we called Little Stupid." He began to weep loudly and wring his hands; but the whistle-pipe, playing and reciting, changed its song. This is what it sang: -- 

"My sisters took me into the forest to look for the red berries. In the deep forest they killed poor me for the sake of a silver saucer, for the sake of a transparent apple. Wake me, dear father, from a bitter dream, by fetching water from the well of the Tzar."

How the people scowled at the two sisters! They scowled, they cursed them for the bad ones they were. And the bad ones, the two sisters, wept, and fell on their knees, and confessed everything. They were taken, and their hands were tied, and they were shut up in prison.

"Do not kill them," begged the old merchant, "for then I should have no daughters at all, and when there are no fish in the river we make shift with crays. Besides, let me go to the Tzar and beg water from his well. Perhaps my little daughter will wake up, as the whistle-pipe tells us."

And the whistle-pipe sang again: -- 

"Wake me, wake me, dear father, from a bitter dream, by fetching water from the well of the Tzar. Till then, dear father, a blanket of black earth and the shade of the green birch tree."

So they covered the little girl with her blanket of earth, and the shepherd with his dogs watched the mound night and day. He begged for the whistle-pipe to keep him company, poor lad, and all the days and nights he thought of the sweet face of the little pretty one he had seen there under the birch tree.

The old merchant harnessed his horse, as if he were going to the town; and he drove off through the forest, along the roads, till he came to the palace of the Tzar, the little father of all good Russians. And then he left his horse and cart and waited on the steps of the palace.

The Tzar, the little father, with rings on his fingers and a gold crown on his head, came out on the steps in the morning sunshine; and as for the old merchant, he fell on his knees and kissed the feet of the Tzar, and begged, -- 

"O little father, Tzar, give me leave to take water -- just a little drop of water -- from your holy well."

"And what will you do with it?" says the Tzar.

"I will wake my daughter from a bitter dream," says the old merchant. "She was murdered by her sisters -- killed in the deep forest -- for the sake of a silver saucer, for the sake of a transparent apple."

"A silver saucer?" says the Tzar -- "a transparent apple? Tell me about that."

And the old merchant told the Tzar everything, just as I have told it to you.

And the Tzar, the little father, he gave the old merchant a glass of water from his holy well. "But," says he, "when your daughterkin wakes, bring her to me, and her sisters with her, and also the silver saucer and the transparent apple."

The old man kissed the ground before the Tzar, and took the glass of water and drove home with it, and I can tell you he was careful not to spill a drop. He carried it all the way in one hand as he drove.

He came to the forest and to the flowering mound under the little birch tree, and there was the shepherd watching with his dogs. The old merchant and the shepherd took away the blanket of black earth. Tenderly, tenderly the shepherd used his fingers, until the little girl, the pretty one, the good one, lay there as sweet as if she were not dead.

Then the merchant scattered the holy water from the glass over the little girl. And his daughterkin blushed as she lay there, and opened her eyes, and passed a hand across them, as if she were waking from a dream. And then she leapt up, crying and laughing, and clung about her old father's neck. And there they stood, the two of them, laughing and crying with joy. And the shepherd could not take his eyes from her, and in his eyes, too, there were tears.

But the old father did not forget what he had promised the Tzar. He set the little pretty one, who had been so good that her wicked sisters had called her Stupid, to sit beside him on the cart. And he brought something from the house in a coffer of wood, and kept it under his coat. And they brought out the two sisters, the bad ones, from their dark prison, and set them in the cart. And the Little Stupid kissed them and cried over them, and wanted to loose their hands, but the old merchant would not let her. And they all drove together till they came to the palace of the Tzar. The shepherd boy could not take his eyes from the little pretty one, and he ran all the way behind the cart.

Well, they came to the palace, and waited on the steps; and the Tzar came out to take the morning air, and he saw the old merchant, and the two sisters with their hands tied, and the little pretty, one, as lovely as a spring day. And the Tzar saw her, and could not take his eyes from her. He did not see the shepherd boy, who hid away among the crowd.

Says the great Tzar to his soldiers, pointing to the bad sisters, "These two are to be put to death at sunset. When the sun goes down their heads must come off, for they are not fit to see another day."

Then he turns to the little pretty one, and he says: "Little sweet pigeon, where is your silver saucer, and where is your transparent apple?"

The old merchant took the wooden box from under his coat, and opened it with a key at his belt, and gave it to the little one, and she took out the silver saucer and the transparent apple and gave them to the Tzar.

"O lord Tzar," says she, "O little father, spin the apple in the saucer, and you will see whatever you wish to see -- your soldiers, your high hills, your forests, your plains, your rivers, and Everything in all Russia."

And the Tzar, the little father, spun the apple in the saucer till it seemed a little whirlpool of white mist, and there he saw glittering towns, and regiments of soldiers marching to war, and ships, and day and night, and the clear stars above the trees. He looked at these things and thought much of them.

Then the little good one threw herself on her knees before him, weeping.

"O little father, Tzar," she says, "take my transparent apple and my silver saucer; only forgive my sisters. Do not kill them because of me. If their heads are cut off when the sun goes down, it would have been better for me to lie under the blanket of black earth in the shade of the birch tree in the forest."

The Tzar was pleased with the kind heart of the little pretty one, and he forgave the bad ones, and their hands were untied, and the little pretty one kissed them, and they kissed her again and said they were sorry.

The old merchant looked up at the sun, and saw how the time was going.

"Well, well," says he, "it's time we were getting ready to go home."

They all fell on their knees before the Tzar and thanked him. But the Tzar could not take his eyes from the little pretty one, and would not let her go.

"Little sweet pigeon," says he, "will you be my Tzaritza, and a kind mother to Holy Russia?"

And the little good one did not know what to say. She blushed and answered, very rightly, "As my father orders, and as my little mother wishes, so shall it be."

The Tzar was pleased with her answer, and he sent a messenger on a galloping horse to ask leave from the little pretty one's old mother. And of course the old mother said that she was more than willing. So that was all right. Then there was a wedding -- such a wedding! -- and every city in Russia sent a silver plate of bread, and a golden salt-cellar, with their good wishes to the Tzar and Tzaritza.

Only the shepherd boy, when he heard that the little pretty one was to marry the Tzar, turned sadly away and went off into the forest.

"Are you happy, little sweet pigeon?" says the Tzar.

"Oh yes," says the Little Stupid, who was now Tzaritza and mother of Holy Russia; "but there is one thing that would make me happier."

"And what is that?" says the lord Tzar.

"I cannot bear to lose my old father and my little mother and my dear sisters. Let them be with me here in the palace, as they were in my father's house."

The Tzar laughed at the little pretty one, but he agreed, and the little pretty one ran to tell them the good news. She said to her sisters, "Let all be forgotten, and all be forgiven, and may the evil eye fall on the one who first speaks of what has been!"

For a long time the Tzar lived, and the little pretty one the Tzaritza, and they had many children, and were very happy together. And ever since then the Tzars of Russia have kept the silver saucer and the transparent apple, so that, whenever they wish, they can see everything that is going on all over Russia. Perhaps even now the Tzar, the little father -- God preserve him! -- is spinning the apple in the saucer, and looking at us, and thinking it is time that two little pigeons were in bed.


"Is that the end?" said Vanya.

"That is the end," said old Peter.

"Poor shepherd boy!" said Maroosia.

"I don't know about that," said old Peter. "You see, if he had married the little pretty one, and had to have all the family to live with him, he would have had them in a hut like ours instead of in a great palace, and so he would never have had room to get away from them. And now, little pigeons, who is going to be first into bed?"




Sadko.


In Novgorod in the old days there was a young man -- just a boy he was -- the son of a rich merchant who had lost all his money and died. So Sadko was very poor. He had not a kopeck in the world, except what the people gave him when he played his dulcimer for their dancing. He had blue eyes and curling hair, and he was strong, and would have been merry; but it is dull work playing for other folk to dance, and Sadko dared not dance with any young girl, for he had no money to marry on, and he did not want to be chased away as a beggar. And the young women of Novgorod, they never looked at the handsome Sadko. No; they smiled with their bright eyes at the young men who danced with them, and if they ever spoke to Sadko, it was just to tell him sharply to keep the music going or to play faster.

So Sadko lived alone with his dulcimer, and made do with half a loaf when he could not get a whole, and with crust when he had no crumb. He did not mind so very much what came to him, so long as he could play his dulcimer and walk along the banks of the little[1] river Volkhov that flows by Novgorod, or on the shores of the lake, making music for himself, and seeing the pale mists rise over the water, and dawn or sunset across the shining river.

"There is no girl in all Novgorod as pretty as my little river," he used to say, and night after night he would sit by the banks of the river or on the shores of the lake, playing the dulcimer and singing to himself.

Sometimes he helped the fishermen on the lake, and they would give him a little fish for his supper in payment for his strong young arms.

And it happened that one evening the fishermen asked him to watch their nets for them on the shore, while they went off to take their fish to sell them in the square at Novgorod.

[Footnote 1: The Volkhov would be a big river if it were in England, and Sadko and old Peter called it little only because they loved it.]

Sadko sat on the shore, on a rock, and played his dulcimer and sang. Very sweetly he sang of the fair lake and the lovely river -- the little river that he thought prettier than all the girls of Novgorod. And while he was singing he saw a whirlpool in the lake, little waves flying from it across the water, and in the middle a hollow down into the water. And in the hollow he saw the head of a great man with blue hair and a gold crown. He knew that the huge man was the Tzar of the Sea. And the man came nearer, walking up out of the depths of the lake -- a huge, great man, a very giant, with blue hair falling to his waist over his broad shoulders. The little waves ran from him in all directions as he came striding up out of the water.

Sadko did not know whether to run or stay; but the Tzar of the Sea called out to him in a great voice like wind and water in a storm, -- 

"Sadko of Novgorod, you have played and sung many days by the side of this lake and on the banks of the little river Volkhov. My daughters love your music, and it has pleased me too. Throw out a net into the water, and draw it in, and the waters will pay you for your singing. And if you are satisfied with the payment, you must come and play to us down in the green palace of the sea."

With that the Tzar of the Sea went down again into the waters of the lake. The waves closed over him with a roar, and presently the lake was as smooth and calm as it had ever been.

Sadko thought, and said to himself: "Well, there is no harm done in casting out a net." So he threw a net out into the lake.

He sat down again and played on his dulcimer and sang, and when he had finished his singing the dusk had fallen and the moon shone over the lake. He put down his dulcimer and took hold of the ropes of the net, and began to draw it up out of the silver water. Easily the ropes came, and the net, dripping and glittering in the moonlight.

"I was dreaming," said Sadko; "I was asleep when I saw the Tzar of the Sea, and there is nothing in the net at all."

And then, just as the last of the net was coming ashore, he saw something in it, square and dark. He dragged it out, and found it was a coffer. He opened the coffer, and it was full of precious stones -- green, red, gold -- gleaming in the light of the moon. Diamonds shone there like little bundles of sharp knives.

"There can be no harm in taking these stones," says Sadko, "whether I dreamed or not."

He took the coffer on his shoulder, and bent under the weight of it, strong though he was. He put it in a safe place. All night he sat and watched by the nets, and played and sang, and planned what he would do.

In the morning the fishermen came, laughing and merry after their night in Novgorod, and they gave him a little fish for watching their nets; and he made a fire on the shore, and cooked it and ate it as he used to do.

"And that is my last meal as a poor man," says Sadko. "Ah me! who knows if I shall be happier?"

Then he set the coffer on his shoulder and tramped away for Novgorod.

"Who is that?" they asked at the gates.

"Only Sadko the dulcimer player," he replied.

"Turned porter?" said they.

"One trade is as good as another," said Sadko, and he walked into the city. He sold a few of the stones, two at a time, and with what he got for them he set up a booth in the market. Small things led to great, and he was soon one of the richest traders in Novgorod.

And now there was not a girl in the town who could look too sweetly at Sadko. "He has golden hair," says one. "Blue eyes like the sea," says another. "He could lift the world on his shoulders," says a third. A little money, you see, opens everybody's eyes.

But Sadko was not changed by his good fortune. Still he walked and played by the little river Volkhov. When work was done and the traders gone, Sadko would take his dulcimer and play and sing on the banks of the river. And still he said, "There is no girl in all Novgorod as pretty as my little river." Every time he came back from his long voyages -- for he was trading far and near, like the greatest of merchants -- he went at once to the banks of the river to see how his sweetheart fared. And always he brought some little present for her and threw it into the waves.

For twelve years he lived unmarried in Novgorod, and every year made voyages, buying and selling, and always growing richer and richer. Many were the mothers in Novgorod who would have liked to see him married to their daughters. Many were the pillows that were wet with the tears of the young girls, as they thought of the blue eyes of Sadko and his golden hair.

And then, in the twelfth year since he walked into Novgorod with the coffer on his shoulder, he was sailing in a ship on the Caspian Sea, far, far away. For many days the ship sailed on, and Sadko sat on deck and played his dulcimer and sang of Novgorod and of the little river Volkhov that flows under the walls of the town. Blue was the Caspian Sea, and the waves were like furrows in a field, long lines of white under the steady wind, while the sails swelled and the ship shot over the water.

And suddenly the ship stopped.

In the middle of the sea, far from land, the ship stopped and trembled in the waves, as if she were held by a big hand.

"We are aground!" cry the sailors; and the captain, the great one, tells them to take soundings. Seventy fathoms by the bow it was, and seventy fathoms by the stern.

"We are not aground," says the captain, "unless there is a rock sticking up like a needle in the middle of the Caspian Sea!"

"There is magic in this," say the sailors.

"Hoist more sail," says the captain; and up go the white sails, swelling out in the wind, while the masts bend and creak. But still the ship lay shivering and did not move, out there in the middle of the sea.

"Hoist more sail yet," says the captain; and up go the white sails, swelling and tugging, while the masts creak and groan. But still the ship lay there shivering and did not move.

"There is an unlucky one aboard," says an old sailor. "We must draw lots and find him, and throw him overboard into the sea."

The other sailors agreed to this. And still Sadko sat, and played his dulcimer and sang.

The sailors cut pieces of string, all of a length, as many as there were souls in the ship, and one of those strings they cut in half. Then they made them into a bundle, and each man plucked one string. And Sadko stopped his playing for a moment to pluck a string, and his was the string that had been cut in half.

"Magician, sorcerer, unclean one!" shouted the sailors.

"Not so," said Sadko. "I remember now an old promise I made, and I keep it willingly."

He took his dulcimer in his hand, and leapt from the ship into the blue Caspian Sea. The waves had scarcely closed over his head before the ship shot forward again, and flew over the waves like a swan's feather, and came in the end safely to her harbour.

"And what happened to Sadko?" asked Maroosia.

"You shall hear, little pigeon," said old Peter, and he took a pinch of snuff. Then he went on.

Sadko dropped into the waves, and the waves closed over him. Down he sank, like a pebble thrown into a pool, down and down. First the water was blue, then green, and strange fish with goggle eyes and golden fins swam round him as he sank. He came at last to the bottom of the sea.

And there, on the bottom of the sea, was a palace built of green wood. Yes, all the timbers of all the ships that have been wrecked in all the seas of the world are in that palace, and they are all green, and cunningly fitted together, so that the palace is worth a ten days' journey only to see it. And in front of the palace Sadko saw two big kobbly sturgeons, each a hundred and fifty feet long, lashing their tails and guarding the gates. Now, sturgeons are the oldest of all fish, and these were the oldest of all sturgeons.

Sadko walked between the sturgeons and through the gates of the palace. Inside there was a great hall, and the Tzar of the Sea lay resting in the hall, with his gold crown on his head and his blue hair floating round him in the water, and his great body covered with scales lying along the hall. The Tzar of the Sea filled the hall -- and there is room in that hall for a village. And there were fish swimming this way and that in and out of the windows.

"Ah, Sadko," says the Tzar of the Sea, "you took what the sea gave you, but you have been a long time in coming to sing in the palaces of the sea. Twelve years I have lain here waiting for you."

"Great Tzar, forgive," says Sadko.

"Sing now," says the Tzar of the Sea, and his voice was like the beating of waves.

And Sadko played on his dulcimer and sang.

He sang of Novgorod and of the little river Volkhov which he loved. It was in his song that none of the girls of Novgorod were as pretty as the little river. And there was the sound of wind over the lake in his song, the sound of ripples under the prow of a boat, the sound of ripples on the shore, the sound of the river flowing past the tall reeds, the whispering sound of the river at night. And all the time he played cunningly on the dulcimer. The girls of Novgorod had never danced to so sweet a tune when in the old days Sadko played his dulcimer to earn kopecks and crusts of bread.

Never had the Tzar of the Sea heard such music.

"I would dance," said the Tzar of the Sea, and he stood up like a tall tree in the hall.

"Play on," said the Tzar of the Sea, and he strode through the gates. The sturgeons guarding the gates stirred the water with their tails.

And if the Tzar of the Sea was huge in the hall, he was huger still when he stood outside on the bottom of the sea. He grew taller and taller, towering like a mountain. His feet were like small hills. His blue hair hung down to his waist, and he was covered with green scales. And he began to dance on the bottom of the sea.

Great was that dancing. The sea boiled, and ships went down. The waves rolled as big as houses. The sea overflowed its shores, and whole towns were under water as the Tzar danced mightily on the bottom of the sea. Hither and thither rushed the waves, and the very earth shook at the dancing of that tremendous Tzar.

He danced till he was tired, and then he came back to the palace of green wood, and passed the sturgeons, and shrank into himself and came through the gates into the hall, where Sadko still played on his dulcimer and sang.

"You have played well and given me pleasure," says the Tzar of the Sea. "I have thirty daughters, and you shall choose one and marry her, and be a Prince of the Sea."

"Better than all maidens I love my little river," says Sadko; and the Tzar of the Sea laughed and threw his head back, with his blue hair floating all over the hall.

And then there came in the thirty daughters of the Tzar of the Sea. Beautiful they were, lovely, and graceful; but twenty-nine of them passed by, and Sadko fingered his dulcimer and thought of his little river.

There came in the thirtieth, and Sadko cried out aloud. "Here is the only maiden in the world as pretty as my little river!" says he. And she looked at him with eyes that shone like stars reflected in the river. Her hair was dark, like the river at night. She laughed, and her voice was like the flowing of the river.

"And what is the name of your little river?" says the Tzar.

"It is the little river Volkhov that flows by Novgorod," says Sadko; "but your daughter is as fair as the little river, and I would gladly marry her if she will have me."

"It is a strange thing," says the Tzar, "but Volkhov is the name of my youngest daughter."

He put Sadko's hand in the hand of his youngest daughter, and they kissed each other. And as they kissed, Sadko saw a necklace round her neck, and knew it for one he had thrown into the river as a present for his sweetheart.

She smiled, and "Come!" says she, and took him away to a palace of her own, and showed him a coffer; and in that coffer were bracelets and rings and earrings -- all the gifts that he had thrown into the river.

And Sadko laughed for joy, and kissed the youngest daughter of the Tzar of the Sea, and she kissed him back.

"O my little river!" says he; "there is no girl in all the world but thou as pretty as my little river."

Well, they were married, and the Tzar of the Sea laughed at the wedding feast till the palace shook and the fish swam off in all directions.

And after the feast Sadko and his bride went off together to her palace. And before they slept she kissed him very tenderly, and she said, -- 

"O Sadko, you will not forget me? You will play to me sometimes, and sing?"

"I shall never lose sight of you, my pretty one," says he; "and as for music, I will sing and play all the day long."

"That's as may be," says she, and they fell asleep.

And in the middle of the night Sadko happened to turn in bed, and he touched the Princess with his left foot, and she was cold, cold, cold as ice in January. And with that touch of cold he woke, and he was lying under the walls of Novgorod, with his dulcimer in his hand, and one of his feet was in the little river Volkhov, and the moon was shining.

"O grandfather! And what happened to him after that?" asked Maroosia.

"There are many tales," said old Peter. "Some say he went into the town, and lived on alone until he died. But I think with those who say that he took his dulcimer and swam out into the middle of the river, and sank under water again, looking for his little Princess. They say he found her, and lives still in the green palaces of the bottom of the sea; and when there is a big storm, you may know that Sadko is playing on his dulcimer and singing, and that the Tzar of the Sea is dancing his tremendous dance down there, on the bottom, under the waves."

"Yes, I expect that's what happened," said Ivan. "He'd have found it very dull in Novgorod, even though it is a big town."




Frost.


The children, in their little sheepskin coats and high felt boots and fur hats, trudged along the forest path in the snow. Vanya went first, then Maroosia, and then old Peter. The ground was white and the snow was hard and crisp, and all over the forest could be heard the crackling of the frost. And as they walked, old Peter told them the story of the old woman who wanted Frost to marry her daughters.

Once upon a time there were an old man and an old woman. Now the old woman was the old man's second wife. His first wife had died, and had left him with a little daughter: Martha she was called. Then he married again, and God gave him a cross wife, and with her two more daughters, and they were very different from the first.

The old woman loved her own daughters, and gave them red kisel jelly every day, and honey too, as much as they could put into their greedy little mouths. But poor little Martha, the eldest, she got only what the others left. When they were cross they threw away what they left, and then she got nothing at all.

The children grew older, and the stepmother made Martha do all the work of the house. She had to fetch the wood for the stove, and light it and keep it burning. She had to draw the water for her sisters to wash their hands in. She had to make the clothes, and wash them and mend them. She had to cook the dinner, and clean the dishes after the others had done before having a bite for herself.

For all that the stepmother was never satisfied, and was for ever shouting at her: "Look, the kettle is in the wrong place;" "There is dust on the floor;" "There is a spot on the tablecloth;" or, "The spoons are not clean, you stupid, ugly, idle hussy." But Martha was not idle. She worked all day long, and got up before the sun, while her sisters never stirred from their beds till it was time for dinner. And she was not stupid. She always had a song on her lips, except when her stepmother had beaten her. And as for being ugly, she was the prettiest little girl in the village.

Her father saw all this, but he could not do anything, for the old woman was mistress at home, and he was terribly afraid of her. And as for the daughters, they saw how their mother treated Martha, and they did the same. They were always complaining and getting her into trouble. It was a pleasure to them to see the tears on her pretty cheeks.

Well, time went on, and the little girl grew up, and the daughters of the stepmother were as ugly as could be. Their eyes were always cross, and their mouths were always complaining. Their mother saw that no one would want to marry either of them while there was Martha about the house, with her bright eyes and her songs and her kindness to everybody.

So she thought of a way to get rid of her stepdaughter, and a cruel way it was.

"See here, old man," says she, "it is high time Martha was married, and I have a bridegroom in mind for her. To-morrow morning you must harness the old mare to the sledge, and put a bit of food together and be ready to start early, as I'd like to see you back before night."

To Martha she said: "To-morrow you must pack your things in a box, and put on your best dress to show yourself to your betrothed."

"Who is he?" asked Martha with red cheeks.

"You will know when you see him," said the stepmother.

All that night Martha hardly slept. She could hardly believe that she was really going to escape from the old woman at last, and have a hut of her own, where there would be no one to scold her. She wondered who the young man was. She hoped he was Fedor Ivanovitch, who had such kind eyes, and such nimble fingers on the balalaika, and such a merry way of flinging out his heels when he danced the Russian dance. But although he always smiled at her when they met, she felt she hardly dared to hope that it was he. Early in the morning she got up and said her prayers to God, put the whole hut in order, and packed her things into a little box. That was easy, because she had such few things. It was the other daughters who had new dresses. Any old thing was good enough for Martha. But she put on her best blue dress, and there she was, as pretty a little maid as ever walked under the birch trees in spring.

The old man harnessed the mare to the sledge and brought it to the door. The snow was very deep and frozen hard, and the wind peeled the skin from his ears before he covered them with the flaps of his fur hat.

"Sit down at the table and have a bite before you go," says the old woman.

The old man sat down, and his daughter with him, and drank a glass of tea and ate some black bread. And the old woman put some cabbage soup, left from the day before, in a saucer, and said to Martha, "Eat this, my little pigeon, and get ready for the road." But when she said "my little pigeon," she did not smile with her eyes, but only with her cruel mouth, and Martha was afraid. The old woman whispered to the old man: "I have a word for you, old fellow. You will take Martha to her betrothed, and I'll tell you the way. You go straight along, and then take the road to the right into the forest ... you know ... straight to the big fir tree that stands on a hillock, and there you will give Martha to her betrothed and leave her. He will be waiting for her, and his name is Frost."

The old man stared, opened his mouth, and stopped eating. The little maid, who had heard the last words, began to cry,

"Now, what are you whimpering about?" screamed the old woman. "Frost is a rich bridegroom and a handsome one. See how much he owns. All the pines and firs are his, and the birch trees. Any one would envy his possessions, and he himself is a very bogatir,[2] a man of strength and power."

The old man trembled, and said nothing in reply. And Martha went on crying quietly, though she tried to stop her tears. The old man packed up what was left of the black bread, told Martha to put on her sheepskin coat, set her in the sledge and climbed in, and drove off along the white, frozen road.

The road was long and the country open, and the wind grew colder and colder, while the frozen snow blew up from under the hoofs of the mare and spattered the sledge with white patches. The tale is soon told, but it takes time to happen, and the sledge was white all over long before they turned off into the forest.

They came in the end deep into the forest, and left the road, and over the deep snow through the trees to the great fir. There the old man stopped, told his daughter to get out of the sledge, set her little box under the fir, and said, "Wait here for your bridegroom, and when he comes be sure to receive him with kind words." Then he turned the mare round and drove home, with the tears running from his eyes and freezing on his cheeks before they had had time to reach his beard.

[Footnote 2: The bogatirs were strong men, heroes of old Russia.]

The little maid sat and trembled. Her sheepskin coat was worn through, and in her blue bridal dress she sat, while fits of shivering shook her whole body. She wanted to run away; but she had not strength to move, or even to keep her little white teeth from chattering between her frozen lips.

Suddenly, not far away, she heard Frost crackling among the fir trees, just as he is crackling now. He was leaping from tree to tree, crackling as he came.

He leapt at last into the great fir tree, under which the little maid was sitting. He crackled in the top of the tree, and then called; down out of the topmost branches, -- 

"Are you warm, little maid?"

"Warm, warm, little Father Frost."

Frost laughed, and came a little lower in the tree and crackled and crackled louder than before. Then he asked, -- 

"Are you still warm, little maid? Are you warm, little red cheeks?"

The little maid could hardly speak. She was nearly dead, but she answered, -- 

"Warm, dear Frost; warm, little father."

Frost climbed lower in the tree, and crackled louder than ever, and asked, -- 

"Are you still warm, little maid? Are you warm, little red cheeks? Are you warm, little paws?"

The little maid was benumbed all over, but she whispered so that Frost could just hear her, -- 

"Warm, little pigeon, warm, dear Frost,"

And Frost was sorry for her, leapt down with a tremendous crackle and a scattering of frozen snow, wrapped the little maid up in rich furs, and covered her with warm blankets.

In the morning the old woman said to her husband, "Drive off now to the forest, and wake the young couple."

The old man wept when he thought of his little daughter, for he was sure that he would find her dead. He harnessed the mare, and drove off through the snow. He came to the tree, and heard his little daughter singing merrily, while Frost crackled and laughed. There she was, alive and warm, with a good fur cloak about her shoulders, a rich veil, costly blankets round her feet, and a box full of splendid presents.

The old man did not say a word. He was too surprised. He just sat in the sledge staring, while the little maid lifted her box and the box of presents, set them in the sledge, climbed in, and sat down beside him.

They came home, and the little maid, Martha, fell at the feet of her stepmother. The old woman nearly went off her head with rage when she saw her alive, with her fur cloak and rich veil, and the box of splendid presents fit for the daughter of a prince.

"Ah, you slut," she cried, "you won't get round me like that!"

And she would not say another word to the little maid, but went about all day long biting her nails and thinking what to do.

At night she said to the old man, -- 

"You must take my daughters, too, to that bridegroom in the forest. He will give them better gifts than these."

Things take time to happen, but the tale is quickly told. Early next morning the old woman woke her daughters, fed them with good food, dressed them like brides, hustled the old man, made him put clean hay in the sledge and warm blankets, and sent them off to the forest.

The old man did as he was bid -- drove to the big fir tree, set the boxes under the tree, lifted out the stepdaughters and set them on the boxes side by side, and drove back home.

They were warmly dressed, these two, and well fed, and at first, as they sat there, they did not think about the cold.

"I can't think what put it into mother's head to marry us both at once," said the first, "and to send us here to be married. As if there were not enough young men in the village. Who can tell what sort of fellows we shall meet here!"

Then they began to quarrel.

"Well," says one of them, "I'm beginning to get the cold shivers. If our fated ones do not come soon, we shall perish of cold."

"It's a flat lie to say that bridegrooms get ready early. It's already dinner-time."

"What if only one comes?"

"You'll have to come another time."

"You think he'll look at you?"

"Well, he won't take you, anyhow."

"Of course he'll take me."

"Take you first! It's enough to make any one laugh!"

They began to fight and scratch each other, so that their cloaks fell open and the cold entered their bosoms.

Frost, crackling among the trees, laughing to himself, froze the hands of the two quarrelling girls, and they hid their hands in the sleeves of their fur coats and shivered, and went on scolding and jeering at each other.

"Oh, you ugly mug, dirty nose! What sort of a housekeeper will you make?"

"And what about you, boasting one? You know nothing but how to gad about and lick your own face. We'll soon see which of us he'll take."

And the two girls went on wrangling and wrangling till they began to freeze in good earnest.

Suddenly they cried out together, -- 

"Devil take these bridegrooms for being so long in coming! You have turned blue all over."

And together they replied, shivering, -- 

"No bluer than yourself, tooth-chatterer."

And Frost, not so far away, crackled and laughed, and leapt from fir tree to fir tree, crackling as he came.

The girls heard that some one was coming through the forest.

"Listen! there's some one coming. Yes, and with bells on his sledge!"

"Shut up, you slut! I can't hear, and the frost is taking the skin off me."

They began blowing on their fingers.

And Frost came nearer and nearer, crackling, laughing, talking to himself, just as he is doing to-day. Nearer and nearer he came, leaping from tree-top to tree-top, till at last he leapt into the great fir under which the two girls were sitting and quarrelling.

He leant down, looking through the branches, and asked, -- 

"Are you warm, maidens? Are you warm, little red cheeks? Are you warm, little pigeons?"

"Ugh, Frost, the cold is hurting us. We are frozen. We are waiting for our bridegrooms, but the cursed fellows have not turned up."

Frost came a little lower in the tree, and crackled louder and swifter.

"Are you warm, maidens? Are you warm, my little red cheeks?"

"Go to the devil!" they cried out. "Are you blind? Our hands and feet are frozen!"

Frost came still lower in the branches, and cracked and crackled louder than ever.

"Are you warm, maidens?" he asked.

"Into the pit with you, with all the fiends," the girls screamed at him, "you ugly, wretched fellow!"... And as they were cursing at him their bad words died on their lips, for the two girls, the cross children of the cruel stepmother, were frozen stiff where they sat.

Frost hung from the lowest branches of the tree, swaying and crackling while he looked at the anger frozen on their faces. Then he climbed swiftly up again, and crackling and cracking, chuckling to himself, he went off, leaping from fir tree to fir tree, this way and that through the white, frozen forest.

In the morning the old woman says to her husband, -- 

"Now then, old man, harness the mare to the sledge, and put new hay in the sledge to be warm for my little ones, and lay fresh rushes on the hay to be soft for them; and take warm rugs with you, for maybe they will be cold, even in their furs. And look sharp about it, and don't keep them waiting. The frost is hard this morning, and it was harder in the night."

The old man had not time to eat even a mouthful of black bread before she had driven him out into the snow. He put hay and rushes and soft blankets in the sledge, and harnessed the mare, and went off to the forest. He came to the great fir, and found the two girls sitting under it dead, with their anger still to be seen on their frozen, ugly faces.

He picked them up, first one and then the other, and put them in the rushes and the warm hay, covered them with the blankets, and drove home.

The old woman saw him coming, far away, over the shining snow. She ran to meet him, and shouted out, -- 

"Where are the little ones?"

"In the sledge."

She snatched off the blankets and pulled aside the rushes, and found the bodies of her two cross daughters.

Instantly she flew at the old man in a storm of rage. "What have you done to my children, my little red cherries, my little pigeons? I will kill you with the oven fork! I will break your head with the poker!"

The old man listened till she was out of breath and could not say another word. That, my dears, is the only wise thing to do when a woman is in a scolding rage. And as soon as she had no breath left with which to answer him, he said, -- 

"My little daughter got riches for soft words, but yours were always rough of the tongue. And it's not my fault, anyhow, for you yourself sent them into the forest."

Well, at last the old woman got her breath again, and scolded away till she was tired out. But in the end she made her peace with the old man, and they lived together as quietly as could be expected.

As for Martha, Fedor Ivanovitch sought her in marriage, as he had meant to do all along -- yes, and married her; and pretty she looked in the furs that Frost had given her. I was at the feast, and drank beer and mead with the rest. And she had the prettiest children that ever were seen -- yes, and the best behaved. For if ever they thought of being naughty, the old grandfather told them the story of crackling Frost, and how kind words won kindness, and cross words cold treatment. And now, listen to Frost. Hear how he crackles away! And mind, if ever he asks you if you are warm, be as polite to him as you can. And to do that, the best way is to be good always, like little Martha. Then it comes easy.


The children listened, and laughed quietly, because they knew they were good. Away in the forest they heard Frost, and thought of him crackling and leaping from one tree to another. And just then they came home. It was dusk, for dusk comes early in winter, and a little way through the trees before them they saw the lamp of their hut glittering on the snow. The big dog barked and ran forward, and the children with him. The soup was warm on the stove, and in a few minutes they were sitting at the table, Vanya, Maroosia, and old Peter, blowing at their steaming spoons.




The Fool Of The World And The Flying Ship.


There were once upon a time an old peasant and his wife, and they had three sons. Two of them were clever young men who could borrow money without being cheated, but the third was the Fool of the World. He was as simple as a child, simpler than some children, and he never did any one a harm in his life.

Well, it always happens like that. The father and mother thought a lot of the two smart young men; but the Fool of the World was lucky if he got enough to eat, because they always forgot him unless they happened to be looking at him, and sometimes even then.

But however it was with his father and mother, this is a story that shows that God loves simple folk, and turns things to their advantage in the end.

For it happened that the Tzar of that country sent out messengers along the highroads and the rivers, even to huts in the forest like ours, to say that he would give his daughter, the Princess, in marriage to any one who could bring him a flying ship -- ay, a ship with wings, that should sail this way and that through the blue sky, like a ship sailing on the sea.

"This is a chance for us," said the two clever brothers; and that same day they set off together, to see if one of them could not build the flying ship and marry the Tzar's daughter, and so be a great man indeed.

And their father blessed them, and gave them finer clothes than ever he wore himself. And their mother made them up hampers of food for the road, soft white rolls, and several kinds of cooked meats, and bottles of corn brandy. She went with them as far as the highroad, and waved her hand to them till they were out of sight. And so the two clever brothers set merrily off on their adventure, to see what could be done with their cleverness. And what happened to them I do not know, for they were never heard of again.

The Fool of the World saw them set off, with their fine parcels of food, and their fine clothes, and their bottles of corn brandy.

"I'd like to go too," says he, "and eat good meat, with soft white rolls, and drink corn brandy, and marry the Tzar's daughter."

"Stupid fellow," says his mother, "what's the good of your going? Why, if you were to stir from the house you would walk into the arms of a bear; and if not that, then the wolves would eat you before you had finished staring at them."

But the Fool of the World would not be held back by words.

"I am going," says he. "I am going. I am going. I am going."

He went on saying this over and over again, till the old woman his mother saw there was nothing to be done, and was glad to get him out of the house so as to be quit of the sound of his voice. So she put some food in a bag for him to eat by the way. She put in the bag some crusts of dry black bread and a flask of water. She did not even bother to go as far as the footpath to see him on his way. She saw the last of him at the door of the hut, and he had not taken two steps before she had gone back into the hut to see to more important business.

No matter. The Fool of the World set off with his bag over his shoulder, singing as he went, for he was off to seek his fortune and marry the Tzar's daughter. He was sorry his mother had not given him any corn brandy; but he sang merrily for all that. He would have liked white rolls instead of the dry black crusts; but, after all, the main thing on a journey is to have something to eat. So he trudged merrily along the road, and sang because the trees were green and there was a blue sky overhead.

He had not gone very far when he met an ancient old man with a bent back, and a long beard, and eyes hidden under his bushy eyebrows.

"Good-day, young fellow," says the ancient old man.

"Good-day, grandfather," says the Fool of the World.

"And where are you off to?" says the ancient old man.

"What!" says the Fool; "haven't you heard? The Tzar is going to give his daughter to any one who can bring him a flying ship."

"And you can really make a flying ship?" says the ancient old man.

"No, I do not know how."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"God knows," says the Fool of the World.

"Well," says the ancient, "if things are like that, sit you down here. We will rest together and have a bite of food. Bring out what you have in your bag."

"I am ashamed to offer you what I have here. It is good enough for me, but it is not the sort of meal to which one can ask guests."

"Never mind that. Out with it. Let us eat what God has given."

The Fool of the World opened his bag, and could hardly believe his eyes. Instead of black crusts he saw fresh white rolls and cooked meats. He handed them out to the ancient, who said, "You see how God loves simple folk. Although your own mother does not love you, you have not been done out of your share of the good things. Let's have a sip at the corn brandy...."

The Fool of the World opened his flask, and instead of water there came out corn brandy, and that of the best. So the Fool and the ancient made merry, eating and drinking; and when they had done, and sung a song or two together, the ancient says to the Fool, -- 

"Listen to me. Off with you into the forest. Go up to the first big tree you see. Make the sacred sign of the cross three times before it. Strike it a blow with your little hatchet. Fall backwards on the ground, and lie there, full length on your back, until somebody wakes you up. Then you will find the ship made, all ready to fly. Sit you down in it, and fly off whither you want to go. But be sure on the way to give a lift to everyone you meet."

The Fool of the World thanked the ancient old man, said good-bye to him, and went off to the forest. He walked up to a tree, the first big tree he saw, made the sign of the cross three times before it, swung his hatchet round his head, struck a mighty blow on the trunk of the tree, instantly fell backwards flat on the ground, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

A little time went by, and it seemed to the Fool as he slept that somebody was jogging his elbow. He woke up and opened his eyes. His hatchet, worn out, lay beside him. The big tree was gone, and in its place there stood a little ship, ready and finished. The Fool did not stop to think. He jumped into the ship, seized the tiller, and sat down. Instantly the ship leapt up into the air, and sailed away over the tops of the trees.

The little ship answered the tiller as readily as if she were sailing in water, and the Fool steered for the highroad, and sailed along above it, for he was afraid of losing his way if he tried to steer a course across the open country.

He flew on and on, and looked down, and saw a man lying in the road below him with his ear on the damp ground.

"Good-day to you, uncle," cried the Fool.

"Good-day to you, Sky-fellow," cried the man.

"What are you doing down there?" says the Fool.

"I am listening to all that is being done in the world."

"Take your place in the ship with me."

The man was willing enough, and sat down in the ship with the Fool, and they flew on together singing songs.

They flew on and on, and looked down, and there was a man on one leg, with the other tied up to his head.

"Good-day, uncle," says the Fool, bringing the ship to the ground. "Why are you hopping along on one foot?"

"If I were to untie the other I should move too fast. I should be stepping across the world in a single stride."

"Sit down with us," says the Fool.

The man sat down with them in the ship, and they flew on together singing songs.

They flew on and on, and looked down, and there was a man with a gun, and he was taking aim, but what he was aiming at they could not see.

"Good health to you, uncle," says the Fool. "But what are you shooting at? There isn't a bird to be seen."

"What!" says the man. "If there were a bird that you could see, I should not shoot at it. A bird or a beast a thousand versts away, that's the sort of mark for me."

"Take your seat with us," says the Fool.

The man sat down with them in the ship, and they flew on together. Louder and louder rose their songs.

They flew on and on, and looked down, and there was a man carrying a sack full of bread on his back.

"Good health to you, uncle," says the Fool, sailing down. "And where are you off to?"

"I am going to get bread for my dinner."

"But you've got a full sack on your back."

"That -- that little scrap! Why, that's not enough for a single mouthful."

"Take your seat with us," says the Fool.

The Eater sat down with them in the ship, and they flew on together, singing louder than ever.

They flew on and on, and looked down, and there was a man walking round and round a lake.

"Good health to you, uncle," says the Fool. "What are you looking for?"

"I want a drink, and I can't find any water."

"But there's a whole lake in front of your eyes. Why can't you take a drink from that?"

"That little drop!" says the man. "Why, there's not enough water there to wet the back of my throat if I were to drink it at one gulp."

"Take your seat with us," says the Fool.

The Drinker sat down with them, and again they flew on, singing in chorus.

They flew on and on, and looked down, and there was a man walking towards the forest, with a fagot of wood on his shoulders.

"Good-day to you, uncle," says the Fool. "Why are you taking wood to the forest?"

"This isn't simple wood," says the man.

"What is it, then?" says the Fool.

"If it is scattered about, a whole army of soldiers leaps up out of the ground."

"There's a place for you with us," says the Fool.

The man sat down with them, and the ship rose up into the air, and flew on, carrying its singing crew.

They flew on and on, and looked down, and there was a man carrying a sack of straw.

"Good health to you, uncle," says the Fool; "and where are you taking your straw?"

"To the village."

"Why, are they short of straw in your village?"

"No; but this is such straw that if you scatter it abroad in the very hottest of the summer, instantly the weather turns cold, and there is snow and frost."

"There's a place here for you too," says the Fool.

"Very kind of you," says the man, and steps in and sits down, and away they all sail together, singing like to burst their lungs.

They did not meet any one else, and presently came flying up to the palace of the Tzar. They flew down and cast anchor in the courtyard.

Just then the Tzar was eating his dinner. He heard their loud singing, and looked out of the window and saw the ship come sailing down into his courtyard. He sent his servant out to ask who was the great prince who had brought him the flying ship, and had come sailing down with such a merry noise of singing.

The servant came up to the ship, and saw the Fool of the World and his companions sitting there cracking jokes. He saw they were all moujiks, simple peasants, sitting in the ship; so he did not stop to ask questions, but came back quietly and told the Tzar that there were no gentlemen in the ship at all, but only a lot of dirty peasants.

Now the Tzar was not at all pleased with the idea of giving his only daughter in marriage to a simple peasant, and he began to think how he could get out of his bargain. Thinks he to himself, "I'll set them such tasks that they will not be able to perform, and they'll be glad to get off with their lives, and I shall get the ship for nothing."

So he told his servant to go to the Fool and tell him that before the Tzar had finished his dinner the Fool was to bring him some of the magical water of life.

Now, while the Tzar was giving this order to his servant, the Listener, the first of the Fool's companions, was listening, and heard the words of the Tzar and repeated them to the Fool.

"What am I to do now?" says the Fool, stopping short in his jokes. "In a year, in a whole century, I never could find that water. And he wants it before he has finished his dinner."

"Don't you worry about that," says the Swift-goer, "I'll deal with that for you."

The servant came and announced the Tzar's command.

"Tell him he shall have it," says the Fool.

His companion, the Swift-goer, untied his foot from beside his head, put it to the ground, wriggled it a little to get the stiffness out of it, ran off, and was out of sight almost before he had stepped from the ship. Quicker than I can tell it you in words he had come to the water of life, and put some of it in a bottle.

"I shall have plenty of time to get back," thinks he, and down he sits under a windmill and goes off to sleep.

The royal dinner was coming to an end, and there wasn't a sign of him. There were no songs and no jokes in the flying ship. Everybody was watching for the Swift-goer, and thinking he would not be in time.

The Listener jumped out and laid his right ear to the damp ground, listened a moment, and said, "What a fellow! He has gone to sleep under the windmill. I can hear him snoring. And there is a fly buzzing with its wings, perched on the windmill close above his head."

"This is my affair," says the Far-shooter, and he picked up his gun from between his knees, aimed at the fly on the windmill, and woke the Swift-goer with the thud of the bullet on the wood of the mill close by his head. The Swift-goer leapt up and ran, and in less than a second had brought the magic water of life and given it to the Fool. The Fool gave it to the servant, who took it to the Tzar. The Tzar had not yet left the table, so that his command had been fulfilled as exactly as ever could be.

"What fellows these peasants are," thought the Tzar. "There is nothing for it but to set them another task." So the Tzar said to his servant, "Go to the captain of the flying ship and give him this message: 'If you are such a cunning fellow, you must have a good appetite. Let you and your companions eat at a single meal twelve oxen roasted whole, and as much bread as can be baked in forty ovens!'"

The Listener heard the message, and told the Fool what was coming. The Fool was terrified, and said, "I can't get through even a single loaf at a sitting."

"Don't worry about that," said the Eater. "It won't be more than a mouthful for me, and I shall be glad to have a little snack in place of my dinner."

The servant came, and announced the Tzar's command.

"Good," says the Fool. "Send the food along, and we'll know what to do with it."

So they brought twelve oxen roasted whole, and as much bread as could be baked in forty ovens, and the companions had scarcely sat down to the meal before the Eater had finished the lot.

"Why," said the Eater, "what a little! They might have given us a decent meal while they were about it."

The Tzar told his servant to tell the Fool that he and his companions were to drink forty barrels of wine, with forty bucketfuls in every barrel.

The Listener told the Fool what message was coming.

"Why," says the Fool, "I never in my life drank more than one bucket at a time."

"Don't worry," says the Drinker. "You forget that I am thirsty. It'll be nothing of a drink for me."

They brought the forty barrels of wine, and tapped them, and the Drinker tossed them down one after another, one gulp for each barrel. "Little enough," says he, "Why, I am thirsty still."

"Very good," says the Tzar to his servant, when he heard that they had eaten all the food and drunk all the wine. "Tell the fellow to get ready for the wedding, and let him go and bathe himself in the bath-house. But let the bath-house be made so hot that the man will stifle and frizzle as soon as he sets foot inside. It is an iron bath-house. Let it be made red hot."

The Listener heard all this and told the Fool, who stopped short with his mouth open in the middle of a joke.

"Don't you worry," says the moujik with the straw.

Well, they made the bath-house red hot, and called the Fool, and the Fool went along to the bath-house to wash himself, and with him went the moujik with the straw.

They shut them both into the bath-house, and thought that that was the end of them. But the moujik scattered his straw before them as they went in, and it became so cold in there that the Fool of the World had scarcely time to wash himself before the water in the cauldrons froze to solid ice. They lay down on the very stove itself, and spent the night there, shivering.

In the morning the servants opened the bath-house, and there were the Fool of the World and the moujik, alive and well, lying on the stove and singing songs.

They told the Tzar, and the Tzar raged with anger. "There is no getting rid of this fellow," says he. "But go and tell him that I send him this message: 'If you are to marry my daughter, you must show that you are able to defend her. Let me see that you have at least a regiment of soldiers,'" Thinks he to himself, "How can a simple peasant raise a troop? He will find it hard enough to raise a single soldier."

The Listener told the Fool of the World, and the Fool began to lament. "This time," says he, "I am done indeed. You, my brothers, have saved me from misfortune more than once, but this time, alas, there is nothing to be done."

"Oh, what a fellow you are!" says the peasant with the fagot of wood. "I suppose you've forgotten about me. Remember that I am the man for this little affair, and don't you worry about it at all."

The Tzar's servant came along and gave his message.

"Very good," says the Fool; "but tell the Tzar that if after this he puts me off again, I'll make war on his country, and take the Princess by force."

And then, as the servant went back with the message, the whole crew on the flying ship set to their singing again, and sang and laughed and made jokes as if they had not a care in the world.

During the night, while the others slept, the peasant with the fagot of wood went hither and thither, scattering his sticks. Instantly where they fell there appeared a gigantic army. Nobody could count the number of soldiers in it -- cavalry, foot soldiers, yes, and guns, and all the guns new and bright, and the men in the finest uniforms that ever were seen.

In the morning, as the Tzar woke and looked from the windows of the palace, he found himself surrounded by troops upon troops of soldiers, and generals in cocked hats bowing in the courtyard and taking orders from the Fool of the World, who sat there joking with his companions in the flying ship. Now it was the Tzar's turn to be afraid. As quickly as he could he sent his servants to the Fool with presents of rich jewels and fine clothes, invited him to come to the palace, and begged him to marry the Princess.

The Fool of the World put on the fine clothes, and stood there as handsome a young man as a princess could wish for a husband. He presented himself before the Tzar, fell in love with the Princess and she with him, married her the same day, received with her a rich dowry, and became so clever that all the court repeated everything he said. The Tzar and the Tzaritza liked him very much, and as for the Princess, she loved him to distraction.




Baba Yaga.


"Tell us about Baba Yaga," begged Maroosia.

"Yes," said Vanya, "please, grandfather, and about the little hut on hen's legs."

"Baba Yaga is a witch," said old Peter; "a terrible old woman she is, but sometimes kind enough. You know it was she who told Prince Ivan how to win one of the daughters of the Tzar of the Sea, and that was the best daughter of the bunch, Vasilissa the Very Wise. But then Baba Yaga is usually bad, as in the case of Vasilissa the Very Beautiful, who was only saved from her iron teeth by the cleverness of her Magic Doll."

"Tell us the story of the Magic Doll," begged Maroosia.

"I will some day," said old Peter.

"And has Baba Yaga really got iron teeth?" asked Vanya.

"Iron, like the poker and tongs," said old Peter.

"What for?" said Maroosia.

"To eat up little Russian children," said old Peter, "when she can get them. She usually only eats bad ones, because the good ones get away. She is bony all over, and her eyes flash, and she drives about in a mortar, beating it with a pestle, and sweeping up her tracks with a besom, so that you cannot tell which way she has gone."

"And her hut?" said Vanya. He had often heard about it before, but he wanted to hear about it again.

"She lives in a little hut which stands on hen's legs. Sometimes it faces the forest, sometimes it faces the path, and sometimes it walks solemnly about. But in some of the stories she lives in another kind of hut, with a railing of tall sticks, and a skull on each stick. And all night long fire glows in the skulls and fades as the dawn rises."

"Now tell us one of the Baba Yaga stories," said Maroosia.

"Please," said Vanya.

"I will tell you how one little girl got away from her, and then, if ever she catches you, you will know exactly what to do."

And old Peter put down his pipe and began: -- 




Baba Yaga And The Little Girl With The Kind Heart.


Once upon a time there was a widowed old man who lived alone in a hut with his little daughter. Very merry they were together, and they used to smile at each other over a table just piled with bread and jam. Everything went well, until the old man took it into his head to marry again.

Yes, the old man became foolish in the years of his old age, and he took another wife. And so the poor little girl had a stepmother. And after that everything changed. There was no more bread and jam on the table, and no more playing bo-peep, first this side of the samovar and then that, as she sat with her father at tea. It was worse than that, for she never did sit at tea. The stepmother said that everything that went wrong was the little girl's fault. And the old man believed his new wife, and so there were no more kind words for his little daughter. Day after day the stepmother used to say that the little girl was too naughty to sit at table. And then she would throw her a crust and tell her to get out of the hut and go and eat it somewhere else.

And the poor little girl used to go away by herself into the shed in the yard, and wet the dry crust with her tears, and eat it all alone. Ah me! she often wept for the old days, and she often wept at the thought of the days that were to come.

Mostly she wept because she was all alone, until one day she found a little friend in the shed. She was hunched up in a corner of the shed, eating her crust and crying bitterly, when she heard a little noise. It was like this: scratch -- scratch. It was just that, a little gray mouse who lived in a hole.

Out he came, his little pointed nose and his long whiskers, his little round ears and his bright eyes. Out came his little humpy body and his long tail. And then he sat up on his hind legs, and curled his tail twice round himself and looked at the little girl.

The little girl, who had a kind heart, forgot all her sorrows, and took a scrap of her crust and threw it to the little mouse. The mouseykin nibbled and nibbled, and there, it was gone, and he was looking for another. She gave him another bit, and presently that was gone, and another and another, until there was no crust left for the little girl. Well, she didn't mind that. You see, she was so happy seeing the little mouse nibbling and nibbling.

When the crust was done the mouseykin looks up at her with his little bright eyes, and "Thank you," he says, in a little squeaky voice. "Thank you," he says; "you are a kind little girl, and I am only a mouse, and I've eaten all your crust. But there is one thing I can do for you, and that is to tell you to take care. The old woman in the hut (and that was the cruel stepmother) is own sister to Baba Yaga, the bony-legged, the witch. So if ever she sends you on a message to your aunt, you come and tell me. For Baba Yaga would eat you soon enough with her iron teeth if you did not know what to do."

"Oh, thank you," said the little girl; and just then she heard the stepmother calling to her to come in and clean up the tea things, and tidy the house, and brush out the floor, and clean everybody's boots.

So off she had to go.

When she went in she had a good look at her stepmother, and sure enough she had a long nose, and she was as bony as a fish with all the flesh picked off, and the little girl thought of Baba Yaga and shivered, though she did not feel so bad when she remembered the mouseykin out there in the shed in the yard.

The very next morning it happened. The old man went off to pay a visit to some friends of his in the next village, just as I go off sometimes to see old Fedor, God be with him. And as soon as the old man was out of sight the wicked stepmother called the little girl.

"You are to go to-day to your dear little aunt in the forest," says she, "and ask her for a needle and thread to mend a shirt."

"But here is a needle and thread," says the little girl.

"Hold your tongue," says the stepmother, and she gnashes her teeth, and they make a noise like clattering tongs. "Hold your tongue," she says. "Didn't I tell you you are to go to-day to your dear little aunt to ask for a needle and thread to mend a shirt?"

"How shall I find her?" says the little girl, nearly ready to cry, for she knew that her aunt was Baba Yaga, the bony-legged, the witch.

The stepmother took hold of the little girl's nose and pinched it.

"That is your nose," she says. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes," says the poor little girl.

"You must go along the road into the forest till you come to a fallen tree; then you must turn to your left, and then follow your nose and you will find her," says the stepmother. "Now, be off with you, lazy one. Here is some food for you to eat by the way." She gave the little girl a bundle wrapped up in a towel.

The little girl wanted to go into the shed to tell the mouseykin she was going to Baba Yaga, and to ask what she should do. But she looked back, and there was the stepmother at the door watching her. So she had to go straight on.

She walked along the road through the forest till she came to the fallen tree. Then she turned to the left. Her nose was still hurting where the stepmother had pinched it, so she knew she had to go straight ahead. She was just setting out when she heard a little noise under the fallen tree. "Scratch -- scratch."

And out jumped the little mouse, and sat up in the road in front of her.

"O mouseykin, mouseykin," says the little girl, "my stepmother has sent me to her sister. And that is Baba Yaga, the bony-legged, the witch, and I do not know what to do."

"It will not be difficult," says the little mouse, "because of your kind heart. Take all the things you find in the road, and do with them what you like. Then you will escape from Baba Yaga, and everything will be well."

"Are you hungry, mouseykin?" said the little girl

"I could nibble, I think," says the little mouse.

The little girl unfastened the towel, and there was nothing in it but stones. That was what the stepmother had given the little girl to eat by the way.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," says the little girl. "There's nothing for you to eat."

"Isn't there?" said mouseykin, and as she looked at them the little girl saw the stones turn to bread and jam. The little girl sat down on the fallen tree, and the little mouse sat beside her, and they ate bread and jam until they were not hungry any more.

"Keep the towel," says the little mouse; "I think it will be useful. And remember what I said about the things you find on the way. And now good-bye," says he.

"Good-bye," says the little girl, and runs along.

As she was running along she found a nice new handkerchief lying in the road. She picked it up and took it with her. Then she found a little bottle of oil. She picked it up and took it with her. Then she found some scraps of meat.

"Perhaps I'd better take them too," she said; and she took them.

Then she found a gay blue ribbon, and she took that. Then she found a little loaf of good bread, and she took that too.

"I daresay somebody will like it," she said.

And then she came to the hut of Baba Yaga, the bony-legged, the witch. There was a high fence round it with big gates. When she pushed them open they squeaked miserably, as if it hurt them to move. The little girl was sorry for them.

"How lucky," she says, "that I picked up the bottle of oil!" and she poured the oil into the hinges of the gates.

Inside the railing was Baba Yaga's hut, and it stood on hen's legs and walked about the yard. And in the yard there was standing Baba Yaga's servant, and she was crying bitterly because of the tasks Baba Yaga set her to do. She was crying bitterly and wiping her eyes on her petticoat.

"How lucky," says the little girl, "that I picked up a handkerchief!" And she gave the handkerchief to Baba Yaga's servant, who wiped her eyes on it and smiled through her tears.

Close by the hut was a huge dog, very thin, gnawing a dry crust.

"How lucky," says the little girl, "that I picked up a loaf!" And she gave the loaf to the dog, and he gobbled it up and licked his lips.

The little girl went bravely up to the hut and knocked on the door.

"Come in," says Baba Yaga.

The little girl went in, and there was Baba Yaga, the bony-legged, the witch, sitting weaving at a loom. In a corner of the hut was a thin black cat watching a mouse-hole.

"Good-day to you, auntie," says the little girl, trying not to tremble.

"Good-day to you, niece," says Baba Yaga.

"My stepmother has sent me to you to ask for a needle and thread to mend a shirt."

"Very well," says Baba Yaga, smiling, and showing her iron teeth. "You sit down here at the loom, and go on with my weaving, while I go and get you the needle and thread."

The little girl sat down at the loom and began to weave.

Baba Yaga went out and called to her servant, "Go, make the bath hot and scrub my niece. Scrub her clean. I'll make a dainty meal of her."

The servant came in for the jug. The little girl begged her, "Be not too quick in making the fire, and carry the water in a sieve." The servant smiled, but said nothing, because she was afraid of Baba Yaga. But she took a very long time about getting the bath ready.

Baba Yaga came to the window and asked, -- 

"Are you weaving, little niece? Are you weaving, my pretty?"

"I am weaving, auntie," says the little girl.

When Baba Yaga went away from the window, the little girl spoke to the thin black cat who was watching the mouse-hole.

"What are you doing, thin black cat?"

"Watching for a mouse," says the thin black cat. "I haven't had any dinner for three days."

"How lucky," says the little girl, "that I picked up the scraps of meat!" And she gave them to the thin black cat. The thin black cat gobbled them up, and said to the little girl, -- 

"Little girl, do you want to get out of this?"

"Catkin dear," says the little girl, "I do want to get out of this, for Baba Yaga is going to eat me with her iron teeth."

"Well," says the cat, "I will help you."

Just then Baba Yaga came to the window.

"Are you weaving, little niece?" she asked. "Are you weaving, my pretty?"

"I am weaving, auntie," says the little girl, working away, while the loom went clickety clack, clickety clack.

Baba Yaga went away.

Says the thin black cat to the little girl: "You have a comb in your hair, and you have a towel. Take them and run for it while Baba Yaga is in the bath-house. When Baba Yaga chases after you, you must listen; and when she is close to you, throw away the towel, and it will turn into a big, wide river. It will take her a little time to get over that. But when she does, you must listen; and as soon as she is close to you throw away the comb, and it will sprout up into such a forest that she will never get through it at all."

"But she'll hear the loom stop," says the little girl.

"I'll see to that," says the thin black cat.

The cat took the little girl's place at the loom.

Clickety clack, clickety clack; the loom never stopped for a moment.

The little girl looked to see that Baba Yaga was in the bath-house, and then she jumped down from the little hut on hen's legs, and ran to the gates as fast as her legs could flicker.

The big dog leapt up to tear her to pieces. Just as he was going to spring on her he saw who she was.

"Why, this is the little girl who gave me the loaf," says he. "A good journey to you, little girl;" and he lay down again with his head between his paws.

When she came to the gates they opened quietly, quietly, without making any noise at all, because of the oil she had poured into their hinges.

Outside the gates there was a little birch tree that beat her in the eyes so that she could not go by.

"How lucky," says the little girl, "that I picked up the ribbon!" And she tied up the birch tree with the pretty blue ribbon. And the birch tree was so pleased with the ribbon that it stood still, admiring itself, and let the little girl go by.

How she did run!

Meanwhile the thin black cat sat at the loom. Clickety clack, clickety clack, sang the loom; but you never saw such a tangle as the tangle made by the thin black cat.

And presently Baba Yaga came to the window.

"Are you weaving, little niece?" she asked. "Are you weaving, my pretty?"

"I am weaving, auntie," says the thin black cat, tangling and tangling, while the loom went clickety clack, clickety clack.

"That's not the voice of my little dinner," says Baba Yaga, and she jumped into the hut, gnashing her iron teeth; and there was no little girl, but only the thin black cat, sitting at the loom, tangling and tangling the threads.

"Grr," says Baba Yaga, and jumps for the cat, and begins banging it about. "Why didn't you tear the little girl's eyes out?"

"In all the years I have served you," says the cat, "you have only given me one little bone; but the kind little girl gave me scraps of meat."

Baba Yaga threw the cat into a corner, and went out into the yard.

"Why didn't you squeak when she opened you?" she asked the gates.

"Why didn't you tear her to pieces?" she asked the dog.

"Why didn't you beat her in the face, and not let her go by?" she asked the birch tree.

"Why were you so long in getting the bath ready? If you had been quicker, she never would have got away," said Baba Yaga to the servant.

And she rushed about the yard, beating them all, and scolding at the top of her voice.

"Ah!" said the gates, "in all the years we have served you, you never even eased us with water; but the kind little girl poured good oil into our hinges."

"Ah!" said the dog, "in all the years I've served you, you never threw me anything but burnt crusts; but the kind little girl gave me a good loaf."

"Ah!" said the little birch tree, "in all the years I've served you, you never tied me up, even with thread; but the kind little girl tied me up with a gay blue ribbon."

"Ah!" said the servant, "in all the years I've served you, you have never given me even a rag; but the kind little girl gave me a pretty handkerchief."

Baba Yaga gnashed at them with her iron teeth. Then she jumped into the mortar and sat down. She drove it along with the pestle, and swept up her tracks with a besom, and flew off in pursuit of the little girl.

The little girl ran and ran. She put her ear to the ground and listened. Bang, bang, bangety bang! she could hear Baba Yaga beating the mortar with the pestle. Baba Yaga was quite close. There she was, beating with the pestle and sweeping with the besom, coming along the road.

As quickly as she could, the little girl took out the towel and threw it on the ground. And the towel grew bigger and bigger, and wetter and wetter, and there was a deep, broad river between Baba Yaga and the little girl.

The little girl turned and ran on. How she ran!

Baba Yaga came flying up in the mortar. But the mortar could not float in the river with Baba Yaga inside. She drove it in, but only got wet for her trouble. Tongs and pokers tumbling down a chimney are nothing to the noise she made as she gnashed her iron teeth. She turned home, and went flying back to the little hut on hen's legs. Then she got together all her cattle and drove them to the river.

"Drink, drink!" she screamed at them; and the cattle drank up all the river to the last drop. And Baba Yaga, sitting in the mortar, drove it with the pestle, and swept up her tracks with the besom, and flew over the dry bed of the river and on in pursuit of the little girl.

The little girl put her ear to the ground and listened. Bang, bang, bangety bang! She could hear Baba Yaga beating the mortar with the pestle. Nearer and nearer came the noise, and there was Baba Yaga, beating with the pestle and sweeping with the besom, coming along the road close behind.

The little girl threw down the comb, and grew bigger and bigger, and its teeth sprouted up into a thick forest, thicker than this forest where we live -- so thick that not even Baba Yaga could force her way through. And Baba Yaga, gnashing her teeth and screaming with rage and disappointment, turned round and drove away home to her little hut on hen's legs.

The little girl ran on home. She was afraid to go in and see her stepmother, so she ran into the shed.

Scratch, scratch! Out came the little mouse.

"So you got away all right, my dear," says the little mouse. "Now run in. Don't be afraid. Your father is back, and you must tell him all about it."

The little girl went into the house.

"Where have you been?" says her father; "and why are you so out of breath?"

The stepmother turned yellow when she saw her, and her eyes glowed, and her teeth ground together until they broke.

But the little girl was not afraid, and she went to her father and climbed on his knee, and told him everything just as it had happened. And when the old man knew that the stepmother had sent his little daughter to be eaten by Baba Yaga, he was so angry that he drove her out of the hut, and ever afterwards lived alone with the little girl. Much better it was for both of them.

"And the little mouse?" said Ivan.

"The little mouse," said old Peter, "came and lived in the hut, and every day it used to sit up on the table and eat crumbs, and warm its paws on the little girl's glass of tea."

"Tell us a story about a cat, please, grandfather," said Vanya, who was sitting with Vladimir curled up in his arms.

"The story of a very happy cat," said Maroosia; and then, scratching Bayan's nose, she added, "and afterwards a story about a dog."

"I'll tell you the story of a very unhappy cat who became very happy," said old Peter. "I'll tell you the story of the Cat who became Head-forester."




The Cat Who Became Head-Forester.


If you drop Vladimir by mistake, you know he always falls on his feet. And if Vladimir tumbles off the roof of the hut, he always falls on his feet. Cats always fall on their feet, on their four paws, and never hurt themselves. And as in tumbling, so it is in life. No cat is ever unfortunate for very long. The worse things look for a cat, the better they are going to be.

Well, once upon a time, not so very long ago, an old peasant had a cat and did not like him. He was a tom-cat, always fighting; and he had lost one ear, and was not very pretty to look at. The peasant thought he would get rid of his old cat, and buy a new one from a neighbour. He did not care what became of the old tom-cat with one ear, so long as he never saw him again. It was no use thinking of killing him, for it is a life's work to kill a cat, and it's likely enough that the cat would come alive at the end.

So the old peasant he took a sack, and he bundled the tom-cat into the sack, and he sewed up the sack and slung it over his back, and walked off into the forest. Off he went, trudging along in the summer sunshine, deep into the forest. And when he had gone very many versts into the forest, he took the sack with the cat in it and threw it away among the trees.

"You stay there," says he, "and if you do get out in this desolate place, much good may it do you, old quarrelsome bundle of bones and fur!"

And with that he turned round and trudged home again, and bought a nice-looking, quiet cat from a neighbour in exchange for a little tobacco, and settled down comfortably at home with the new cat in front of the stove; and there he may be to this day, so far as I know. My story does not bother with him, but only with the old tom-cat tied up in the sack away there out in the forest.

The bag flew through the air, and plumped down through a bush to the ground. And the old tom-cat landed on his feet inside it, very much frightened but not hurt. Thinks he, this bag, this flight through the air, this bump, mean that my life is going to change. Very well; there is nothing like something new now and again.

And presently he began tearing at the bag with his sharp claws. Soon there was a hole he could put a paw through. He went on, tearing and scratching, and there was a hole he could put two paws through. He went on with his work, and soon he could put his head through, all the easier because he had only one ear. A minute or two after that he had wriggled out of the bag, and stood up on his four paws and stretched himself in the forest.

"The world seems to be larger than the village," he said. "I will walk on and see what there is in it."

He washed himself all over, curled his tail proudly up in the air, cocked the only ear he had left, and set off walking under the forest trees.

"I was the head-cat in the village," says he to himself. "If all goes well, I shall be head here too." And he walked along as if he were the Tzar himself.

Well, he walked on and on, and he came to an old hut that had belonged to a forester. There was nobody there, nor had been for many years, and the old tom-cat made himself quite at home. He climbed up into the loft under the roof, and found a little rotten hay.

"A very good bed," says he, and curls up and falls asleep.

When he woke he felt hungry, so he climbed down and went off in the forest to catch little birds and mice. There were plenty of them in the forest, and when he had eaten enough he came back to the hut, climbed into the loft, and spent the night there very comfortably.

You would have thought he would be content. Not he. He was a cat. He said, "This is a good enough lodging. But I have to catch all my own food. In the village they fed me every day, and I only caught mice for fun. I ought to be able to live like that here. A person of my dignity ought not to have to do all the work for himself."

Next day he went walking in the forest. And as he was walking he met a fox, a vixen, a very pretty young thing, gay and giddy like all girls. And the fox saw the cat, and was very much astonished.

"All these years," she said -- for though she was young she thought she had lived a long time -- "all these years," she said, "I've lived in the forest, but I've never seen a wild beast like that before. What a strange-looking animal! And with only one ear. How handsome!"

And she came up and made her bows to the cat, and said, -- 

"Tell me, great lord, who you are. What fortunate chance has brought you to this forest? And by what name am I to call your Excellency?"

Oh! the fox was very polite. It is not every day that you meet a handsome stranger walking in the forest.

The cat arched his back, and set all his fur on end, and said, very slowly and quietly, -- 

"I have been sent from the far forests of Siberia to be Head-forester over you. And my name is Cat Ivanovitch."

"O Cat Ivanovitch!" says the pretty young fox, and she makes more bows. "I did not know. I beg your Excellency's pardon. Will your Excellency honour my humble house by visiting it as a guest?"

"I will," says the cat. "And what do they call you?"

"My name, your Excellency, is Lisabeta Ivanovna."

"I will come with you, Lisabeta," says the cat.

And they went together to the fox's earth. Very snug, very neat it was inside; and the cat curled himself up in the best place, while Lisabeta Ivanovna, the pretty young fox, made ready a tasty dish of game. And while she was making the meal ready, and dusting the furniture with her tail, she looked at the cat. At last she said, shyly, -- 

"Tell me, Cat Ivanovitch, are you married or single?"

"Single," says the cat.

"And I too am unmarried," says the pretty young fox, and goes busily on with her dusting and cooking.

Presently she looks at the cat again.

"What if we were to marry, Cat Ivanovitch? I would try to be a good wife to you."

"Very well, Lisabeta," says the cat; "I will marry you."

The fox went to her store and took out all the dainties that she had, and made a wedding feast to celebrate her marriage to the great Cat Ivanovitch, who had only one ear, and had come from the far Siberian forests to be Head-forester.

They ate up everything there was in the place.

Next morning the pretty young fox went off busily into the forest to get food for her grand husband. But the old tom-cat stayed at home, and cleaned his whiskers and slept. He was a lazy one, was that cat, and proud.

The fox was running through the forest, looking for game, when she met an old friend, the handsome young wolf, and he began making polite speeches to her.

"What had become of you, gossip?" says he. "I've been to all the best earths and not found you at all."

"Let be, fool," says the fox very shortly. "Don't talk to me like that. What are you jesting about? Formerly I was a young, unmarried fox; now I am a wedded wife."

"Whom have you married, Lisabeta Ivanovna?"

"What!" says the fox, "you have not heard that the great Cat Ivanovitch, who has only one ear, has been sent from the far Siberian forests to be Head-forester over all of us? Well, I am now the Head-forester's wife."

"No, I had not heard, Lisabeta Ivanovna. And when can I pay my respects to his Excellency?"

"Not now, not now," says the fox. "Cat Ivanovitch will be raging angry with me if I let any one come near him. Presently he will be taking his food. Look you. Get a sheep, and make it ready, and bring it as a greeting to him, to show him that he is welcome and that you know how to treat him with respect. Leave the sheep near by, and hide yourself so that he shall not see you; for, if he did, things might be awkward."

"Thank you, thank you, Lisabeta Ivanovna," says the wolf, and off he goes to look for a sheep.

The pretty young fox went idly on, taking the air, for she knew that the wolf would save her the trouble of looking for food.

Presently she met the bear.

"Good-day to you, Lisabeta Ivanovna," says the bear; "as pretty as ever, I see you are."

"Bandy-legged one," says the fox; "fool, don't come worrying me. Formerly I was a young, unmarried fox; now I am a wedded wife."

"I beg your pardon," says the bear, "whom have you married, Lisabeta Ivanovna?"

"The great Cat Ivanovitch has been sent from the far Siberian forests to be Head-forester over us all. And Cat Ivanovitch is now my husband," says the fox.

"Is it forbidden to have a look at his Excellency?"

"It is forbidden," says the fox. "Cat Ivanovitch will be raging angry with me if I let any one come near him. Presently he will be taking his food. Get along with you quickly; make ready an ox, and bring it by way of welcome to him. The wolf is bringing a sheep. And look you. Leave the ox near by, and hide yourself so that the great Cat Ivanovitch shall not see you; or else, brother, things may be awkward."

The bear shambled off as fast as he could go to get an ox.

The pretty young fox, enjoying the fresh air of the forest, went slowly home to her earth, and crept in very quietly, so as not to awake the great Head-forester, Cat Ivanovitch, who had only one ear and was sleeping in the best place.

Presently the wolf came through the forest, dragging a sheep he had killed. He did not dare to go too near the fox's earth, because of Cat Ivanovitch, the new Head-forester. So he stopped, well out of sight, and stripped off the skin of the sheep, and arranged the sheep so as to seem a nice tasty morsel. Then he stood still, thinking what to do next. He heard a noise, and looked up. There was the bear, struggling along with a dead ox.

"Good-day, brother Michael Ivanovitch," says the wolf.

"Good-day, brother Levon Ivanovitch," says the bear. "Have you seen the fox, Lisabeta Ivanovna, with her husband, the Head-forester?"

"No, brother," says the wolf. "For a long time I have been waiting to see them."

"Go on and call out to them," says the bear.

"No, Michael Ivanovitch," says the wolf, "I will not go. Do you go; you are bigger and bolder than I."

"No, no, Levon Ivanovitch, I will not go. There is no use in risking one's life without need."

Suddenly, as they were talking, a little hare came running by. The bear saw him first, and roared out, -- 

"Hi, Squinteye! trot along here."

The hare came up, slowly, two steps at a time, trembling with fright.

"Now then, you squinting rascal," says the bear, "do you know where the fox lives, over there?"

"I know, Michael Ivanovitch."

"Get along there quickly, and tell her that Michael Ivanovitch the bear and his brother Levon Ivanovitch the wolf have been ready for a long time, and have brought presents of a sheep and an ox, as greetings to his Excellency ..."

"His Excellency, mind," says the wolf; "don't forget."

The hare ran off as hard as he could go, glad to have escaped so easily. Meanwhile the wolf and the bear looked about for good places in which to hide.

"It will be best to climb trees," says the bear. "I shall go up to the top of this fir."

"But what am I to do?" says the wolf. "I can't climb a tree for the life of me. Brother Michael, Brother Michael, hide me somewhere or other before you climb up. I beg you, hide me, or I shall certainly be killed."

"Crouch down under these bushes," says the bear, "and I will cover you with the dead leaves."

"May you be rewarded," says the wolf; and he crouched down under the bushes, and the bear covered him up with dead leaves, so that only the tip of his nose could be seen.

Then the bear climbed slowly up into the fir tree, into the very top, and looked out to see if the fox and Cat Ivanovitch were coming.

They were coming; oh yes, they were coming! The hare ran up and knocked on the door, and said to the fox, -- 

"Michael Ivanovitch the bear and his brother Levon Ivanovitch the wolf have been ready for a long time, and have brought presents of a sheep and an ox as greetings to his Excellency."

"Get along, Squinteye," says the fox; "we are just coming."

And so the fox and the cat set out together.

The bear, up in the top of the tree, saw them, and called down to the wolf, -- 

"They are coming, Brother Levon; they are coming, the fox and her husband. But what a little one he is, to be sure!"

"Quiet, quiet," whispers the wolf. "He'll hear you, and then we are done for."

The cat came up, and arched his back and set all his furs on end, and threw himself on the ox, and began tearing the meat with his teeth and claws. And as he tore he purred. And the bear listened, and heard the purring of the cat, and it seemed to him that the cat was angrily muttering, "Small, small, small...."

And the bear whispers: "He's no giant, but what a glutton! Why, we couldn't get through a quarter of that, and he finds it not enough. Heaven help us if he comes after us!"

The wolf tried to see, but could not, because his head, all but his nose, was covered with the dry leaves. Little by little he moved his head, so as to clear the leaves away from in front of his eyes. Try as he would to be quiet, the leaves rustled, so little, ever so little, but enough to be heard by the one ear of the cat.

The cat stopped tearing the meat and listened.

"I haven't caught a mouse to-day," he thought.

Once more the leaves rustled.

The cat leapt through the air and dropped with all four paws, and his claws out, on the nose of the wolf. How the wolf yelped! The leaves flew like dust, and the wolf leapt up and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.

Well, the wolf was frightened, I can tell you, but he was not so frightened as the cat.

When the great wolf leapt up out of the leaves, the cat screamed and ran up the nearest tree, and that was the tree where Michael Ivanovitch the bear was hiding in the topmost branches.

"Oh, he has seen me. Cat Ivanovitch has seen me," thought the bear. He had no time to climb down, and the cat was coming up in long leaps.

The bear trusted to Providence, and jumped from the top of the tree. Many were the branches he broke as he fell; many were the bones he broke when he crashed to the ground. He picked himself up and stumbled off, groaning.

The pretty young fox sat still, and cried out, "Run, run, Brother Levon!... Quicker on your pins, Brother Michael! His Excellency is behind you; his Excellency is close behind!"

Ever since then all the wild beasts have been afraid of the cat, and the cat and the fox live merrily together, and eat fresh meat all the year round, which the other animals kill for them and leave a little way off.

And that is what happened to the old tom-cat with one eye, who was sewn up in a bag and thrown away in the forest.

"Just think what would happen to our handsome Vladimir if we were to throw him away!" said Vanya.




Spring In The Forest.


Warmer the sun shone, and warmer yet. The pines were green now. All the snow had melted off them, drip, drip, the falling drops of water making tiny wells in the snow under the trees. And the snow under the trees was melting too. Much had gone, and now there were only patches of snow in the forest -- like scraps of a big white blanket, shrinking every day.

"Isn't it lucky our blankets don't shrink like that?" said Maroosia.

Old Peter laughed.

"What do you do when the warm weather comes?" he asked. "Do you still wear sheepskin coats? Do you still roll up at night under the rugs?"

"No," said Maroosia; "I throw the rugs off, and put my fluffy coat away till next winter."

"Well," said old Peter, "and God, the Father of us all, He does for the earth just what you do for yourself; but He does it better. For the blankets He gives the earth in winter get smaller and smaller as the warm weather comes, little by little, day by day."

"And then a hard frost comes, grandfather," said Ivan.

"God knows all about that, little one," said old Peter, "and it's for the best. It's good to have a nip or two in the spring, to make you feel alive. Perhaps it's His way of telling the earth to wake up. For the whole earth is only His little one after all."

That night, when it was story-time, Ivan and Maroosia consulted together; and when old Peter asked what the story was to be, they were ready with an answer.

"The snow is all melting away," said Ivan.

"The summer is coming," said Maroosia.

"We'd like the tale of the little snow girl," said Ivan.

"'The Little Daughter of the Snow,'" said Maroosia.

Old Peter shook out his pipe, and closed his eyes under his bushy eyebrows, thinking for a minute. Then he began.




The Little Daughter Of The Snow.


There were once an old man, as old as I am, perhaps, and an old woman, his wife, and they lived together in a hut, in a village on the edge of the forest. There were many people in the village; quite a town it was -- eight huts at least, thirty or forty souls, good company to be had for crossing the road. But the old man and the old woman were unhappy, in spite of living like that in the very middle of the world. And why do you think they were unhappy? They were unhappy because they had no little Vanya and no little Maroosia. Think of that. Some would say they were better off without them.

"Would you say that, grandfather?" asked Maroosia.

"You are a stupid little pigeon," said old Peter, and he went on.

Well, these two were very unhappy. All the other huts had babies in them -- yes, and little ones playing about in the road outside, and having to be shouted at when any one came driving by. But there were no babies in their hut, and the old woman never had to go to the door to see where her little one had strayed to, because she had no little one.

And these two, the old man and the old woman, used to stand whole hours, just peeping through their window to watch the children playing outside. They had dogs and a cat, and cocks and hens, but none of these made up for having no children. These two would just stand and watch the children of the other huts. The dogs would bark, but they took no notice; and the cat would curl up against them, but they never felt her; and as for the cocks and hens, well, they were fed, but that was all. The old people did not care for them, and spent all their time in watching the Vanyas and Maroosias who belonged to the other huts.

In the winter the children in their little sheepskin coats....

"Like ours?" said Vanya and Maroosia together.

"Like yours," said old Peter.

In their little sheepskin coats, he went on, played in the crisp snow. They pelted each other with snowballs, and shouted and laughed, and then they rolled the snow together and made a snow woman -- a regular snow Baba Yaga, a snow witch; such an old fright!

And the old man, watching from the window, saw this, and he says to the old woman, -- 

"Wife, let us go into the yard behind and make a little snow girl; and perhaps she will come alive, and be a little daughter to us."

"Husband," says the old woman, "there's no knowing what may be. Let us go into the yard and make a little snow girl."

So the two old people put on their big coats and their fur hats, and went out into the yard, where nobody could see them.

And they rolled up the snow, and began to make a little snow girl. Very, very tenderly they rolled up the snow to make her little arms and legs. The good God helped the old people, and their little snow girl was more beautiful than ever you could imagine. She was lovelier than a birch tree in spring.

Well, towards evening she was finished -- a little girl, all snow, with blind white eyes, and a little mouth, with snow lips tightly closed.

"Oh, speak to us," says the old man.

"Won't you run about like the others, little white pigeon?" says the old woman.

And she did, you know, she really did.

Suddenly, in the twilight, they saw her eyes shining blue like the sky on a clear day. And her lips flushed and opened, and she smiled. And there were her little white teeth. And look, she had black hair, and it stirred in the wind.

She began dancing in the snow, like a little white spirit, tossing her long hair, and laughing softly to herself.

Wildly she danced, like snowflakes whirled in the wind. Her eyes shone, and her hair flew round her, and she sang, while the old people watched and wondered, and thanked God.

This is what she sang: -- 

"No warm blood in me doth glow, Water in my veins doth flow; Yet I'll laugh and sing and play By frosty night and frosty day --  Little daughter of the Snow.

"But whenever I do know That you love me little, then I shall melt away again. Back into the sky I'll go --  Little daughter of the Snow."

"God of mine, isn't she beautiful!" said the old man. "Run, wife, and fetch a blanket to wrap her in while you make clothes for her."

The old woman fetched a blanket, and put it round the shoulders of the little snow girl. And the old man picked her up, and she put her little cold arms round his neck.

"You must not keep me too warm," she said.

Well, they took her into the hut, and she lay on a bench in the corner farthest from the stove, while the old woman made her a little coat.

The old man went out to buy a fur hat and boots from a neighbour for the little girl. The neighbour laughed at the old man; but a rouble is a rouble everywhere, and no one turns it from the door, and so he sold the old man a little fur hat, and a pair of little red boots with fur round the tops.

Then they dressed the little snow girl.

"Too hot, too hot," said the little snow girl. "I must go out into the cool night."

"But you must go to sleep now," said the old woman.

"By frosty night and frosty day," sang the little girl. "No; I will play by myself in the yard all night, and in the morning I'll play in the road with the children."

Nothing the old people said could change her mind.

"I am the little daughter of the Snow," she replied to everything, and she ran out into the yard into the snow.

How she danced and ran about in the moonlight on the white frozen snow!

The old people watched her and watched her. At last they went to bed; but more than once the old man got up in the night to make sure she was still there. And there she was, running about in the yard, chasing her shadow in the moonlight and throwing snowballs at the stars.

In the morning she came in, laughing, to have breakfast with the old people. She showed them how to make porridge for her, and that was very simple. They had only to take a piece of ice and crush it up in a little wooden bowl.

Then after breakfast she ran out in the road, to join the other children. And the old people watched her. Oh, proud they were, I can tell you, to see a little girl of their own out there playing in the road! They fairly longed for a sledge to come driving by, so that they could run out into the road and call to the little snow girl to be careful.

And the little snow girl played in the snow with the other children. How she played! She could run faster than any of them. Her little red boots flashed as she ran about. Not one of the other children was a match for her at snowballing. And when the children began making a snow woman, a Baba Yaga, you would have thought the little daughter of the Snow would have died of laughing. She laughed and laughed, like ringing peals on little glass bells. But she helped in the making of the snow woman, only laughing all the time.

When it was done, all the children threw snowballs at it, till it fell to pieces. And the little snow girl laughed and laughed, and was so quick she threw more snowballs than any of them.

The old man and the old woman watched her, and were very proud.

"She is all our own," said the old woman.

"Our little white pigeon," said the old man.

In the evening she had another bowl of ice-porridge, and then she went off again to play by herself in the yard.

"You'll be tired, my dear," says the old man.

"You'll sleep in the hut to-night, won't you, my love," says the old woman, "after running about all day long?"

But the little daughter of the Snow only laughed. "By frosty night and frosty day," she sang, and ran out of the door, laughing back at them with shining eyes.

And so it went on all through the winter. The little daughter of the Snow was singing and laughing and dancing all the time. She always ran out into the night and played by herself till dawn. Then she'd come in and have her ice-porridge. Then she'd play with the children. Then she'd have ice-porridge again, and off she would go, out into the night.

She was very good. She did everything the old woman told her. Only she would never sleep indoors. All the children of the village loved her. They did not know how they had ever played without her.

It went on so till just about this time of year. Perhaps it was a little earlier. Anyhow the snow was melting, and you could get about the paths. Often the children went together a little way into the forest in the sunny part of the day. The little snow girl went with them. It would have been no fun without her.

And then one day they went too far into the wood, and when they said they were going to turn back, little snow girl tossed her head under her little fur hat, and ran on laughing among the trees. The other children were afraid to follow her. It was getting dark. They waited as long as they dared, and then they ran home, holding each other's hands.

And there was the little daughter of the Snow out in the forest alone.

She looked back for the others, and could not see them. She climbed up into a tree; but the other trees were thick round her, and she could not see farther than when she was on the ground.

She called out from the tree, -- 

"Ai, ai, little friends, have pity on the little snow girl."

An old brown bear heard her, and came shambling up on his heavy paws.

"What are you crying about, little daughter of the Snow?"

"O big bear," says the little snow girl, "how can I help crying? I have lost my way, and dusk is falling, and all my little friends are gone."

"I will take you home," says the old brown bear.

"O big bear," says the little snow girl, "I am afraid of you. I think you would eat me. I would rather go home with some one else."

So the bear shambled away and left her.

An old gray wolf heard her, and came galloping up on his swift feet. He stood under the tree and asked, -- 

"What are you crying about, little daughter of the Snow?"

"O gray wolf," says the little snow girl, "how can I help crying? I have lost my way, and it is getting dark, and all my little friends are gone."

"I will take you home," says the old gray wolf.

"O gray wolf," says the little snow girl, "I am afraid of you. I think you would eat me. I would rather go home with some one else."

So the wolf galloped away and left her.

An old red fox heard her, and came running up to the tree on his little pads. He called out cheerfully, -- 

"What are you crying about, little daughter of the Snow?"

"O red fox," says the little snow girl, "how can I help crying? I have lost my way, and it is quite dark, and all my little friends are gone."

"I will take you home," says the old red fox.

"O red fox," says the little snow girl, "I am not afraid of you. I do not think you will eat me. I will go home with you, if you will take me."

So she scrambled down from the tree, and she held the fox by the hair of his back, and they ran together through the dark forest. Presently they saw the lights in the windows of the huts, and in a few minutes they were at the door of the hut that belonged to the old man and the old woman.

And there were the old man and the old woman, crying and lamenting.

"Oh, what has become of our little snow girl?"

"Oh, where is our little white pigeon?"

"Here I am," says the little snow girl. "The kind red fox has brought me home. You must shut up the dogs."

The old man shut up the dogs.

"We are very grateful to you," says he to the fox.

"Are you really?" says the old red fox; "for I am very hungry."

"Here is a nice crust for you," says the old woman.

"Oh," says the fox, "but what I would like would be a nice plump hen. After all, your little snow girl is worth a nice plump hen."

"Very well," says the old woman, but she grumbles to her husband.

"Husband," says she, "we have our little girl again."

"We have," says he; "thanks be for that."

"It seems waste to give away a good plump hen."

"It does," says he.

"Well, I was thinking," says the old woman, and then she tells him what she meant to do. And he went off and got two sacks.

In one sack they put a fine plump hen, and in the other they put the fiercest of the dogs. They took the bags outside and called to the fox. The old red fox came up to them, licking his lips, because he was so hungry.

They opened one sack, and out the hen fluttered. The old red fox was just going to seize her, when they opened the other sack, and out jumped the fierce dog. The poor fox saw his eyes flashing in the dark, and was so frightened that he ran all the way back into the deep forest, and never had the hen at all.

"That was well done," said the old man and the old woman. "We have got our little snow girl, and not had to give away our plump hen."

Then they heard the little snow girl singing in the hut. This is what she sang: -- 

"Old ones, old ones, now I know Less you love me than a hen, I shall go away again. Good-bye, ancient ones, good-bye, Back I go across the sky; To my motherkin I go --  Little daughter of the Snow."

They ran into the house. There were a little pool of water in front of the stove, and a fur hat, and a little coat, and little red boots were lying in it. And yet it seemed to the old man and the old woman that they saw the little snow girl, with her bright eyes and her long hair, dancing in the room.

"Do not go! do not go!" they begged, and already they could hardly see the little dancing girl.

But they heard her laughing, and they heard her song: -- 

"Old ones, old ones, now I know Less you love me than a hen, I shall melt away again. To my motherkin I go --  Little daughter of the Snow."

And just then the door blew open from the yard, and a cold wind filled the room, and the little daughter of the Snow was gone.

"You always used to say something else, grandfather," said Maroosia.

Old Peter patted her head, and went on.

"I haven't forgotten. The little snow girl leapt into the arms of Frost her father and Snow her mother, and they carried her away over the stars to the far north, and there she plays all through the summer on the frozen seas. In winter she comes back to Russia, and some day, you know, when you are making a snow woman, you may find the little daughter of the Snow standing there instead."

"Wouldn't that be lovely!" said Maroosia.

Vanya thought for a minute, and then he said, -- 

"I'd love her much more than a hen."




Prince Ivan, The Witch Baby, And The Little Sister Of The Sun.


Once upon a time, very long ago, there was a little Prince Ivan who was dumb. Never a word had he spoken from the day that he was born -- not so much as a "Yes" or a "No," or a "Please" or a "Thank you." A great sorrow he was to his father because he could not speak. Indeed, neither his father nor his mother could bear the sight of him, for they thought, "A poor sort of Tzar will a dumb boy make!" They even prayed, and said, "If only we could have another child, whatever it is like, it could be no worse than this tongue-tied brat who cannot say a word." And for that wish they were punished, as you shall hear. And they took no sort of care of the little Prince Ivan, and he spent all his time in the stables, listening to the tales of an old groom.

He was a wise man was the old groom, and he knew the past and the future, and what was happening under the earth. Maybe he had learnt his wisdom from the horses. Anyway, he knew more than other folk, and there came a day when he said to Prince Ivan, -- 

"Little Prince," says he, "to-day you have a sister, and a bad one at that. She has come because of your father's prayers and your mother's wishes. A witch she is, and she will grow like a seed of corn. In six weeks she'll be a grown witch, and with her iron teeth she will eat up your father, and eat up your mother, and eat up you too, if she gets the chance. There's no saving the old people; but if you are quick, and do what I tell you, you may escape, and keep your soul in your body. And I love you, my little dumb Prince, and do not wish to think of your little body between her iron teeth. You must go to your father and ask him for the best horse he has, and then gallop like the wind, and away to the end of the world."

The little Prince ran off and found his father. There was his father, and there was his mother, and a little baby girl was in his mother's arms, screaming like a little fury.

"Well, she's not dumb," said his father, as if he were well pleased.

"Father," says the little Prince, "may I have the fastest horse in the stable?" And those were the first words that ever left his mouth.

"What!" says his father, "have you got a voice at last? Yes, take whatever horse you want. And see, you have a little sister; a fine little girl she is too. She has teeth already. It's a pity they are black, but time will put that right, and it's better to have black teeth than to be born dumb."

Little Prince Ivan shook in his shoes when he heard of the black teeth of his little sister, for he knew that they were iron. He thanked his father and ran off to the stable. The old groom saddled the finest horse there was. Such a horse you never saw. Black it was, and its saddle and bridle were trimmed with shining silver. And little Prince Ivan climbed up and sat on the great black horse, and waved his hand to the old groom, and galloped away, on and on over the wide world.

"It's a big place, this world," thought the little Prince. "I wonder when I shall come to the end of it." You see, he had never been outside the palace grounds. And he had only ridden a little Finnish pony. And now he sat high up, perched on the back of the great black horse, who galloped with hoofs that thundered beneath him, and leapt over rivers and streams and hillocks, and anything else that came in his way.

On and on galloped the little Prince on the great black horse. There were no houses anywhere to be seen. It was a long time since they had passed any people, and little Prince Ivan began to feel very lonely, and to wonder if indeed he had come to the end of the world, and could bring his journey to an end.

Suddenly, on a wide, sandy plain, he saw two old, old women sitting in the road.

They were bent double over their work, sewing and sewing, and now one and now the other broke a needle, and took a new one out of a box between them, and threaded the needle with thread from another box, and went on sewing and sewing. Their old noses nearly touched their knees as they bent over their work.

Little Prince Ivan pulled up the great black horse in a cloud of dust, and spoke to the old women.

"Grandmothers," said he, "is this the end of the world? Let me stay here and live with you, and be safe from my baby sister, who is a witch and has iron teeth. Please let me stay with you, and I'll be very little trouble, and thread your needles for you when you break them."

"Prince Ivan, my dear," said one of the old women, "this is not the end of the world, and little good would it be to you to stay with us. For as soon as we have broken all our needles and used up all our thread we shall die, and then where would you be? Your sister with the iron teeth would have you in a minute."

The little Prince cried bitterly, for he was very little and all alone. He rode on further over the wide world, the black horse galloping and galloping, and throwing the dust from his thundering hoofs.

He came into a forest of great oaks, the biggest oak trees in the whole world. And in that forest was a dreadful noise -- the crashing of trees falling, the breaking of branches, and the whistling of things hurled through the air. The Prince rode on, and there before him was the huge giant, Tree-rooter, hauling the great oaks out of the ground and flinging them aside like weeds.

"I should be safe with him," thought little Prince Ivan, "and this, surely, must be the end of the world."

He rode close up under the giant, and stopped the black horse, and shouted up into the air.

"Please, great giant," says he, "is this the end of the world? And may I live with you and be safe from my sister, who is a witch, and grows like a seed of corn, and has iron teeth?"

"Prince Ivan, my dear," says Tree-rooter, "this is not the end of the world, and little good would it be to you to stay with me. For as soon as I have rooted up all these trees I shall die, and then where would you be? Your sister would have you in a minute. And already there are not many big trees left."

And the giant set to work again, pulling up the great trees and throwing them aside. The sky was full of flying trees.

Little Prince Ivan cried bitterly, for he was very little and was all alone. He rode on further over the wide world, the black horse galloping and galloping under the tall trees, and throwing clods of earth from his thundering hoofs.

He came among the mountains. And there was a roaring and a crashing in the mountains as if the earth was falling to pieces. One after another whole mountains were lifted up into the sky and flung down to earth, so that they broke and scattered into dust. And the big black horse galloped through the mountains, and little Prince Ivan sat bravely on his back. And there, close before him, was the huge giant Mountain-tosser, picking up the mountains like pebbles and hurling them to little pieces and dust upon the ground.

"This must be the end of the world," thought the little Prince; "and at any rate I should be safe with him."

"Please, great giant," says he, "is this the end of the world? And may I live with you and be safe from my sister, who is a witch, and has iron teeth, and grows like a seed of corn?"

"Prince Ivan, my dear," says Mountain-tosser, resting for a moment and dusting the rocks off his great hands, "this is not the end of the world, and little good would it be to you to stay with me. For as soon as I have picked up all these mountains and thrown them down again I shall die, and then where would you be? Your sister would have you in a minute. And there are not very many mountains left."

And the giant set to work again, lifting up the great mountains and hurling them away. The sky was full of flying mountains.

Little Prince Ivan wept bitterly, for he was very little and was all alone. He rode on further over the wide world, the black horse galloping and galloping along the mountain paths, and throwing the stones from his thundering hoofs.

At last he came to the end of the world, and there, hanging in the sky above him, was the castle of the little sister of the Sun. Beautiful it was, made of cloud, and hanging in the sky, as if it were built of red roses.

"I should be safe up there," thought little Prince Ivan, and just then the Sun's little sister opened the window and beckoned to him.

Prince Ivan patted the big black horse and whispered to it, and it leapt up high into the air and through the window, into the very courtyard of the castle.

"Stay here and play with me," said the little sister of the Sun; and Prince Ivan tumbled off the big black horse into her arms, and laughed because he was so happy.

Merry and pretty was the Sun's little sister, and she was very kind to little Prince Ivan. They played games together, and when she was tired she let him do whatever he liked and run about her castle. This way and that he ran about the battlements of rosy cloud, hanging in the sky over the end of the world.

But one day he climbed up and up to the topmost turret of the castle. From there he could see the whole world. And far, far away, beyond the mountains, beyond the forests, beyond the wide plains, he saw his father's palace where he had been born. The roof of the palace was gone, and the walls were broken and crumbling. And little Prince Ivan came slowly down from the turret, and his eyes were red with weeping.

"My dear," says the Sun's little sister, "why are your eyes so red?"

"It is the wind up there," says little Prince Ivan.

And the Sun's little sister put her head out of the window of the castle of cloud and whispered to the winds not to blow so hard.

But next day little Prince Ivan went up again to that topmost turret, and looked far away over the wide world to the ruined palace. "She has eaten them all with her iron teeth," he said to himself. And his eyes were red when he came down.

"My dear," says the Sun's little sister, "your eyes are red again."

"It is the wind," says little Prince Ivan.

And the Sun's little sister put her head out of the window and scolded the wind.

But the third day again little Prince Ivan climbed up the stairs of cloud to that topmost turret, and looked far away to the broken palace where his father and mother had lived. And he came down from the turret with the tears running down his face.

"Why, you are crying, my dear!" says the Sun's little sister. "Tell me what it is all about."

So little Prince Ivan told the little sister of the Sun how his sister was a witch, and how he wept to think of his father and mother, and how he had seen the ruins of his father's palace far away, and how he could not stay with hen happily until he knew how it was with his parents.

"Perhaps it is not yet too late to save them from her iron teeth, though the old groom said that she would certainly eat them, and that it was the will of God. But let me ride back on my big black horse."

"Do not leave me, my dear," says the Sun's little sister. "I am lonely here by myself."

"I will ride back on my big black horse, and then I will come to you again."

"What must be, must," says the Sun's little sister; "though she is more likely to eat you than you are to save them. You shall go. But you must take with you a magic comb, a magic brush, and two apples of youth. These apples would make young once more the oldest things on earth."

Then she kissed little Prince Ivan, and he climbed up on his big black horse, and leapt out of the window of the castle down on the end of the world, and galloped off on his way back over the wide world.

He came to Mountain-tosser, the giant. There was only one mountain left, and the giant was just picking it up. Sadly he was picking it up, for he knew that when he had thrown it away his work would be done and he would have to die.

"Well, little Prince Ivan," says Mountain-tosser, "this is the end;" and he heaves up the mountain. But before he could toss it away the little Prince threw his magic brush on the plain, and the brush swelled and burst, and there were range upon range of high mountains, touching the sky itself.

"Why," says Mountain-tosser, "I have enough mountains now to last me for another thousand years. Thank you kindly, little Prince."

And he set to work again, heaving up mountains and tossing them down, while little Prince Ivan galloped on across the wide world.

He came to Tree-rooter, the giant. There were only two of the great oaks left, and the giant had one in each hand.

"Ah me, little Prince Ivan," says Tree-rooter, "my life is come to its end; for I have only to pluck up these two trees and throw them down, and then I shall die."

"Pluck them up," says little Prince Ivan. "Here are plenty more for you." And he threw down his comb. There was a noise of spreading branches, of swishing leaves, of opening buds, all together, and there before them was a forest of great oaks stretching farther than the giant could see, tall though he was.

"Why," says Tree-rooter, "here are enough trees to last me for another thousand years. Thank you kindly, little Prince."

And he set to work again, pulling up the big trees, laughing joyfully and hurling them over his head, while little Prince Ivan galloped on across the wide world.

He came to the two old women. They were crying their eyes out.

"There is only one needle left!" says the first.

"There is only one bit of thread in the box!" sobs the second.

"And then we shall die!" they say both together, mumbling with their old mouths.

"Before you use the needle and thread, just eat these apples," says little Prince Ivan, and he gives them the two apples of youth.

The two old women took the apples in their old shaking fingers and ate them, bent double, mumbling with their old lips. They had hardly finished their last mouthfuls when they sat up straight, smiled with sweet red lips, and looked at the little Prince with shining eyes. They had become young girls again, and their gray hair was black as the raven.

"Thank you kindly, little Prince," say the two young girls. "You must take with you the handkerchief we have been sewing all these years. Throw it to the ground, and it will turn into a lake of water. Perhaps some day it will be useful to you."

"Thank you," says the little Prince, and off he gallops, on and on over the wide world.

He came at last to his father's palace. The roof was gone, and there were holes in the walls. He left his horse at the edge of the garden, and crept up to the ruined palace and peeped through a hole. Inside, in the great hall, was sitting a huge baby girl, filling the whole hall. There was no room for her to move. She had knocked off the roof with a shake of her head. And she sat there in the ruined hall, sucking her thumb.

And while Prince Ivan was watching through the hole he heard her mutter to herself, -- 

"Eaten the father, eaten the mother, And now to eat the little brother"

And she began shrinking, getting smaller and smaller every minute.

Little Prince Ivan had only just time to get away from the hole in the wall when a pretty little baby girl came running out of the ruined palace.

"You must be my little brother Ivan," she called out to him, and came up to him smiling. But as she smiled the little Prince saw that her teeth were black; and as she shut her mouth he heard them clink together like pokers.

"Come in," says she, and she took little Prince Ivan with her to a room in the palace, all broken down and cobwebbed. There was a dulcimer lying in the dust on the floor.

"Well, little brother," says the witch baby, "you play on the dulcimer and amuse yourself while I get supper ready. But don't stop playing, or I shall feel lonely." And she ran off and left him.

Little Prince Ivan sat down and played tunes on the dulcimer -- sad enough tunes. You would not play dance music if you thought you were going to be eaten by a witch.

But while he was playing a little gray mouse came out of a crack in the floor. Some people think that this was the wise old groom, who had turned into a little gray mouse to save Ivan from the witch baby.

"Ivan, Ivan," says the little gray mouse, "run while you may. Your father and mother were eaten long ago, and well they deserved it. But be quick, or you will be eaten too. Your pretty little sister is putting an edge on her teeth!"

Little Prince Ivan thanked the mouse, and ran out from the ruined palace, and climbed up on the back of his big black horse, with its saddle and bridle trimmed with silver. Away he galloped over the wide world. The witch baby stopped her work and listened. She heard the music of the dulcimer, so she made sure he was still there. She went on sharpening her teeth with a file, and growing bigger and bigger every minute. And all the time the music of the dulcimer sounded among the ruins.

As soon as her teeth were quite sharp she rushed off to eat little Prince Ivan. She tore aside the walls of the room. There was nobody there -- only a little gray mouse running and jumping this way and that on the strings of the dulcimer.

When it saw the witch baby the little mouse ran across the floor and into the crack and away, so that she never caught it. How the witch baby gnashed her teeth! Poker and tongs, poker and tongs -- what a noise they made! She swelled up, bigger and bigger, till she was a baby as high as the palace. And then she jumped up so that the palace fell to pieces about her. Then off she ran after little Prince Ivan.

Little Prince Ivan, on the big black horse, heard a noise behind him. He looked back, and there was the huge witch, towering over the trees. She was dressed like a little baby, and her eyes flashed and her teeth clanged as she shut her mouth. She was running with long strides, faster even than the black horse could gallop -- and he was the best horse in all the world.

Little Prince Ivan threw down the handkerchief that had been sewn by the two old women who had eaten the apples of youth. It turned into a deep, broad lake, so that the witch baby had to swim -- and swimming is slower than running. It took her a long time to get across, and all that time Prince Ivan was galloping on, never stopping for a moment.

The witch baby crossed the lake and came thundering after him. Close behind she was, and would have caught him; but the giant Tree-rooter saw the little Prince galloping on the big black horse, and the witch baby tearing after him. He pulled up the great oaks in armfuls, and threw them down just in front of the witch baby. He made a huge pile of the big trees, and the witch baby had to stop and gnaw her way through them with her iron teeth.

It took her a long time to gnaw through the trees, and the black horse galloped and galloped ahead. But presently Prince Ivan heard a noise behind him. He looked back, and there was the witch baby, thirty feet high, racing after him, clanging with her teeth. Close behind she was, and the little Prince sat firm on the big black horse, and galloped and galloped. But she would have caught him if the giant Mountain-tosser had not seen the little Prince on the big black horse, and the great witch baby running after him. The giant tore up the biggest mountain in the world and flung it down in front of her, and another on the top of that. She had to bite her way through them, while the little Prince galloped and galloped.

At last little Prince Ivan saw the cloud castle of the little sister of the Sun, hanging over the end of the world and gleaming in the sky as if it were made of roses. He shouted with hope, and the black horse shook his head proudly and galloped on. The witch baby thundered after him. Nearer she came and nearer.

"Ah, little one," screams the witch baby, "you shan't get away this time!"

The Sun's little sister was looking from a window of the castle in the sky, and she saw the witch baby stretching out to grab little Prince Ivan. She flung the window open, and just in time the big black horse leapt up, and through the window and into the courtyard, with little Prince Ivan safe on its back.

How the witch baby gnashed her iron teeth!

"Give him up!" she screams.

"I will not," says the Sun's little sister.

"See you here," says the witch baby, and she makes herself smaller and smaller and smaller, till she was just like a real little girl. "Let us be weighed in the great scales, and if I am heavier than Prince Ivan, I can take him; and if he is heavier than I am, I'll say no more about it."

The Sun's little sister laughed at the witch baby and teased her, and she hung the great scales out of the cloud castle so that they swung above the end of the world.

Little Prince Ivan got into one scale, and down it went.

"Now," says the witch baby, "we shall see."

And she made herself bigger and bigger and bigger, till she was as big as she had been when she sat and sucked her thumb in the hall of the ruined palace. "I am the heavier," she shouted, and gnashed her iron teeth. Then she jumped into the other scale.

She was so heavy that the scale with the little Prince in it shot up into the air. It shot up so fast that little Prince Ivan flew up into the sky, up and up and up, and came down on the topmost turret of the cloud castle of the little sister of the Sun.

The Sun's little sister laughed, and closed the window, and went up to the turret to meet the little Prince. But the witch baby turned back the way she had come, and went off, gnashing her iron teeth until they broke. And ever since then little Prince Ivan and the little sister of the Sun play together in the castle of cloud that hangs over the end of the world. They borrow the stars to play at ball, and put them back at night whenever they remember.

"So when there are no stars?" asked Maroosia.

"It means that Prince Ivan and the Sun's little sister have gone to sleep over their games and forgotten to put their toys away."




The Stolen Turnips, The Magic Tablecloth, The Sneezing Goat, And The Wooden Whistle.


This is the story which old Peter used to tell whenever either Vanya or Maroosia was cross. This did not often happen; but it would be no use to pretend that it never happened at all. Sometimes it was Vanya who scolded Maroosia, and sometimes it was Maroosia who scolded Vanya. Sometimes there were two scoldings going on at once. And old Peter did not like crossness in the hut, whoever did the scolding. He said it spoilt his tobacco and put a sour taste in the tea. And, of course, when the children remembered that they were spoiling their grandfather's tea and tobacco they stopped just as quickly as they could, unless their tongues had run right away with them -- which happens sometimes, you know, even to grown-up people. This story used to be told in two ways. It was either the tale of an old man who was bothered by a cross old woman, or the tale of an old woman who was bothered by a cross old man. And the moment old Peter began the story both children would ask at once, "Which is the cross one?" -- for t hen they would know which of them old Peter thought was in the wrong.

"This time it's the old woman," said their grandfather; "but, as like as not, it will be the old man next."

And then any quarrelling there was came to an end, and was forgotten before the end of the story. This is the story.

An old man and an old woman lived in a little wooden house. All round the house there was a garden, crammed with flowers, and potatoes, and beetroots, and cabbages. And in one corner of the house there was a narrow wooden stairway which went up and up, twisting and twisting, into a high tower. In the top of the tower was a dovecot, and on the top of the dovecot was a flat roof.

Now, the old woman was never content with the doings of the old man. She scolded all day, and she scolded all night. If there was too much rain, it was the old man's fault; and if there was a drought, and all green things were parched for lack of water, well, the old man was to blame for not altering the weather. And though he was old and tired, it was all the same to her how much work she put on his shoulders. The garden was full. There was no room in it at all, not even for a single pea. And all of a sudden the old woman sets her heart on growing turnips.

"But there is no room in the garden," says the old man.

"Sow them on the top of the dovecot," says the old woman.

"But there is no earth there."

"Carry earth up and put it there," says she.

So the old man laboured up and down with his tired old bones, and covered the top of the dovecot with good black earth. He could only take up a very little at a time, because he was old and weak, and because the stairs were so narrow and dangerous that he had to hold on with both hands and carry the earth in a bag which he held in his teeth. His teeth were strong enough, because he had been biting crusts all his life. The old woman left him nothing else, for she took all the crumb for herself. The old man did his best, and by evening the top of the dovecot was covered with earth, and he had sown it with turnip seed.

Next day, and the day after that and every day, the old woman scolded the old man till he went up to the dovecot to see how those turnip seeds were getting on.

"Are they ready to eat yet?"

"They are not ready to eat."

"Is the green sprouting?"

"The green is sprouting."

And at last there came a day when the old man came down from the dovecot and said: "The turnips are doing finely -- quite big they are getting; but all the best ones have been stolen away."

"Stolen away?" cried the old woman, shaking with rage. "And have you lived all these years and not learned how to keep thieves from a turnip bed, on the top of a dovecot, on the top of a tower, on the top of a house? Out with you, and don't you dare to come back till you have caught the thieves."

The old man did not dare to tell her that the door had been bolted, although he knew it had, because he had bolted it himself. He hurried away out of the house, more because he wanted to get out of earshot of her scolding than because he had any hope of finding the thieves. "They may be birds," thinks he, "or the little brown squirrels. Who else could climb so high without using the stairs? And how is an old man like me to get hold of them, flying through the tops of the high trees and running up and down the branches?"

And so he wandered away without his dinner into the deep forest.

But God is good to old men. Hasn't He given me two little pigeons, who nearly always are as merry as all little pigeons should be? And God led the old man through the forest, though the old man thought he was just wandering on, trying to lose himself and forget the scolding voice of the old woman.

And after he had walked a long way through the dark green forest, he saw a little hut standing under the pine trees. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, but there was such a chattering in the hut you could hear it far away. It was like coming near a rookery at evening, or disturbing a lot of starlings. And as the old man came slowly nearer to the hut, he thought he saw little faces looking at him through the window and peeping through the door. He could not be sure, because they were gone so quickly. And all the time the chattering went on louder and louder, till the old man nearly put his hands to his ears.

And then suddenly the chattering stopped. There was not a sound -- no noise at all. The old man stood still. A squirrel dropped a fir cone close by, and the old man was startled by the fall of it, because everything else was so quiet.

"Whatever there is in the hut, it won't be worse than the old woman," says the old man to himself. So he makes the sign of the holy Cross, and steps up to the little hut and takes a look through the door.

There was no one to be seen. You would have thought the hut was empty.

The old man took a step inside, bending under the little low door. Still he could see nobody, only a great heap of rags and blankets on the sleeping-place on the top of the stove. The hut was as clean as if it had only that minute been swept by Maroosia herself. But in the middle of the floor there was a scrap of green leaf lying, and the old man knew in a moment that it was a scrap of green leaf from the top of a young turnip.

And while the old man looked at it, the heap of blankets and rugs on the stove moved, first in one place and then in another. Then there was a little laugh. Then another. And suddenly there was a great stir in the blankets, and they were all thrown back helter-skelter, and there were dozens and dozens of little queer children, laughing and laughing and laughing, and looking at the old man. And every child had a little turnip, and showed it to the old man and laughed.

Just then the door of the stove flew open, and out tumbled more of the little queer children, dozens and dozens of them. The more they came tumbling out into the hut, the more there seemed to be chattering in the stove and squeezing to get out one over the top of another. The noise of chattering and laughing would have made your head spin. And everyone of the children out of the stove had a little turnip like the others, and waved it about and showed it to the old man, and laughed like anything.

"Ho," says the old man, "so you are the thieves who have stolen the turnips from the top of the dovecot?"

"Yes," cried the children, and the chatter rattled as fast as hailstones on the roof. "Yes! yes! yes! We stole the turnips."

"How did you get on to the top of the dovecot when the door into the house was bolted and fast?"

At that the children all burst out laughing, and did not answer a word.

"Laugh you may," said the old man; "but it is I who get the scolding when the turnips fly away in the night."

"Never mind! never mind!" cried the children. "We'll pay for the turnips."

"How can you pay for them?" asks the old man. "You have got nothing to pay with."

All the children chattered together, and looked at the old man and smiled. Then one of them said to the old man, "Are you hungry, grandfather?"

"Hungry!" says the old man. "Why, yes, of course I am, my dear. I've been looking for you all day, and I had to start without my dinner."

"If you are hungry, open the cupboard behind you."

The old man opened the cupboard.

"Take out the tablecloth."

The old man took out the tablecloth.

"Spread it on the table."

The old man spread the tablecloth on the table.

"Now!" shouted the children, chattering like a thousand nests full of young birds, "we'll all sit down and have dinner."

They pulled out the benches and gave the old man a chair at one end, and all crowded round the table ready to begin.

"But there's no food," said the old man.

How they laughed!

"Grandfather," one of them sings out from the other end of the table, "you just tell the tablecloth to turn inside out,"

"How?" says he.

"Tell the tablecloth to turn inside out. That's easy enough."

"There's no harm in doing that," thinks the old man; so he says to the tablecloth as firmly as he could, "Now then you, tablecloth, turn inside out!"

The tablecloth hove itself up into the air, and rolled itself this way and that as if it were in a whirlwind, and then suddenly laid itself flat on the table again. And somehow or other it had covered itself with dishes and plates and wooden spoons with pictures on them, and bowls of soup and mushrooms and kasha, and meat and cakes and fish and ducks, and everything else you could think of, ready for the best dinner in the world.

The chattering and laughing stopped, and the old man and those dozens and dozens of little queer children set to work and ate everything on the table.

"Which of you washes the dishes?" asked the old man, when they had all done.

The children laughed.

"Tell the tablecloth to turn outside in."

"Tablecloth," says the old man, "turn outside in."

Up jumped the tablecloth with all the empty dishes and dirty plates and spoons, whirled itself this way and that in the air, and suddenly spread itself out flat again on the table, as clean and white as when it was taken out of the cupboard. There was not a dish or a bowl, or a spoon or a plate, or a knife to be seen; no, not even a crumb.

"That's a good tablecloth," says the old man.

"See here, grandfather," shouted the children: "you take the tablecloth along with you, and say no more about those turnips."

"Well, I'm content with that," says the old man. And he folded up the tablecloth very carefully and put it away inside his shirt, and said he must be going.

"Good-bye," says he, "and thank you for the dinner and the tablecloth."

"Good-bye," say they, "and thank you for the turnips."

The old man made his way home, singing through the forest in his creaky old voice until he came near the little wooden house where he lived with the old woman. As soon as he came near there he slipped along like any mouse. And as soon as he put his head inside the door the old woman began, -- 

"Have you found the thieves, you old fool?"

"I found the thieves."

"Who were they?"

"They were a whole crowd of little queer children."

"Have you given them a beating they'll remember?"

"No, I have not."

"What? Bring them to me, and I'll teach them to steal my turnips!"

"I haven't got them."

"What have you done with them?"

"I had dinner with them."

Well, at that the old woman flew into such a rage she could hardly speak. But speak she did -- yes, and shout too and scream -- and it was all the old man could do not to run away out of the cottage. But he stood still and listened, and thought of something else; and when she had done he said, "They paid for the turnips."

"Paid for the turnips!" scolded the old woman. "A lot of children! What did they give you? Mushrooms? We can get them without losing our turnips."

"They gave me a tablecloth," said the old man; "it's a very good tablecloth."

He pulled it out of his shirt and spread it on the table; and as quickly as he could, before she began again, he said, "Tablecloth, turn inside out!"

The old woman stopped short, just when she was taking breath to scold with, when the tablecloth jumped up and danced in the air and settled on the table again, covered with things to eat and to drink. She smelt the meat, took a spoonful of the soup, and tried all the other dishes.

"Look at all the washing up it will mean," says she.

"Tablecloth, turn outside in!" says the old man; and there was a whirl of white cloth and dishes and everything else, and then the tablecloth spread itself out on the table as clean as ever you could wish.

"That's not a bad tablecloth," says the old woman; "but, of course, they owed me something for stealing all those turnips."

The old man said nothing. He was very tired, and he just laid down and went to sleep.

As soon as he was asleep the old woman took the tablecloth and hid it away in an iron chest, and put a tablecloth of her own in its place. "They were my turnips," says she, "and I don't see why he should have a share in the tablecloth. He's had a meal from it once at my expense, and once is enough." Then she lay down and went to sleep, grumbling to herself even in her dreams.

Early in the morning the old woman woke the old man and told him to go up to the dovecot and see how those turnips were getting on.

He got up and rubbed his eyes. When he saw the tablecloth on the table, the wish came to him to have a bite of food to begin the day with. So he stopped in the middle of putting on his shirt, and called to the tablecloth, "Tablecloth, turn inside out!"

Nothing happened. Why should anything happen? It was not the same tablecloth.

The old man told the old woman. "You should have made a good feast yesterday," says he, "for the tablecloth is no good any more. That is, it's no good that way; it's like any ordinary tablecloth."

"Most tablecloths are," says the old woman. "But what are you dawdling about? Up you go and have a look at those turnips."

The old man went climbing up the narrow twisting stairs. He held on with both hands for fear of falling, because they were so steep. He climbed to the top of the house, to the top of the tower, to the top of the dovecot, and looked at the turnips. He looked at the turnips, and he counted the turnips, and then he came slowly down the stairs again wondering what the old woman would say to him.

"Well," says the old woman in her sharp voice, "are they doing nicely? Because if not, I know whose fault it is."

"They are doing finely," said the old man; "but some of them have gone. Indeed, quite a lot of them have been stolen away."

"Stolen away!" screamed the old woman. "How dare you stand there and tell me that? Didn't you find the thieves yesterday? Go and find those children again, and take a stick with you, and don't show yourself here till you can tell me that they won't steal again in a hurry."

"Let me have a bite to eat," begs the old man. "It's a long way to go on an empty stomach."

"Not a mouthful!" yells the old woman. "Off with you. Letting my turnips be stolen every night, and then talking to me about bites of food!"

So the old man went off again without his dinner, and hobbled away into the forest as quickly as he could to get out of earshot of the old woman's scolding tongue.

As soon as he was out of sight the old woman stopped screaming after him, and went into the house and opened the iron chest and took out the tablecloth the children had given the old man, and laid it on the table instead of her own. She told it to turn inside out, and up it flew and whirled about and flopped down flat again, all covered with good things. She ate as much as she could hold. Then she told the tablecloth to turn outside in, and folded it up and hid it away again in the iron chest.

Meanwhile the old man tightened his belt, because he was so hungry. He hobbled along through the green forest till he came to the little hut standing under the pine trees. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, but there was such a chattering you would have thought that all the Vanyas and Maroosias in Holy Russia were talking to each other inside.

He had no sooner come in sight of the hut than the dozens and dozens of little queer children came pouring out of the door to meet him. And every single one of them had a turnip, and showed it to the old man, and laughed and laughed as if it were the best joke in the world.

"I knew it was you," said the old man.

"Of course it was us," cried the children. "We stole the turnips."

"But how did you get to the top of the dovecot when the door into the house was bolted and fast?"

The children laughed and laughed and did not answer a word.

"Laugh you may," says the old man; "but it is I who get the scolding when the turnips fly away in the night."

"Never mind! never mind!" cried the children. "We'll pay for the turnips."

"All very well," says the old man; "but that tablecloth of yours -- it was fine yesterday, but this morning it would not give me even a glass of tea and a hunk of black bread."

At that the faces of the little queer children were troubled and grave. For a moment or two they all chattered together, and took no notice of the old man. Then one of them said, -- 

"Well, this time we'll give you something better. We'll give you a goat."

"A goat?" says the old man.

"A goat with a cold in its head," said the children; and they crowded round him and took him behind the hut where there was a gray goat with a long beard cropping the short grass.

"It's a good enough goat," says the old man; "I don't see anything wrong with him."

"It's better than that," cried the children. "You tell it to sneeze."

The old man thought the children might be laughing at him, but he did not care, and he remembered the tablecloth. So he took off his hat and bowed to the goat. "Sneeze, goat," says he.

And instantly the goat started sneezing as if it would shake itself to pieces. And as it sneezed, good gold pieces flew from it in all directions, till the ground was thick with them.

"That's enough," said the children hurriedly; "tell him to stop, for all this gold is no use to us, and it's such a bother having to sweep it away."

"Stop sneezing, goat," says the old man; and the goat stopped sneezing, and stood there panting and out of breath in the middle of the sea of gold pieces.

The children began kicking the gold pieces about, spreading them by walking through them as if they were dead leaves. My old father used to say that those gold pieces are lying about still for anybody to pick up; but I doubt if he knew just where to look for them, or he would have had better clothes on his back and a little more food on the table. But who knows? Some day we may come upon that little hut somewhere in the forest, and then we shall know what to look for.

The children laughed and chattered and kicked the gold pieces this way and that into the green bushes. Then they brought the old man into the hut and gave him a bowl of kasha to eat, because he had had no dinner. There was no magic about the kasha; but it was good enough kasha for all that, and hunger made it better. When the old man had finished the kasha and drunk a glass of tea and smoked a little pipe, he got up and made a low bow and thanked the children. And the children tied a rope to the goat and sent the old man home with it. He hobbled away through the forest, and as he went he looked back, and there were the little queer children all dancing together, and he heard them chattering and shouting: "Who stole the turnips? We stole the turnips. Who paid for the turnips? We paid for the turnips. Who stole the tablecloth? Who will pay for the tablecloth? Who will steal turnips again? We will steal turnips again."

But the old man was too pleased with the goat to give much heed to what they said; and he hobbled home through the green forest as fast as he could, with the goat trotting and walking behind him, pulling leaves off the bushes to chew as they hurried along.

The old woman was waiting in the doorway of the house. She was still as angry as ever.

"Have you beaten the children?" she screamed. "Have you beaten the children for stealing my good turnips?"

"No," said the old man; "they paid for the turnips."

"What did they pay?"

"They gave me this goat."

"That skinny old goat! I have three already, and the worst of them is better than that."

"It has a cold in the head," says the old man.

"Worse than ever!" screams the old woman.

"Wait a minute," says the old man as quickly as he could, to stop her scolding. -- "Sneeze, goat."

And the goat began to shake itself almost to bits, sneezing and sneezing and sneezing. The good gold pieces flew all ways at once. And the old woman threw herself after the gold pieces, picking them up like an old hen picking up corn. As fast as she picked them up more gold pieces came showering down on her like heavy gold hail, beating her on her head and her hands as she grubbed after those that had fallen already.

"Stop sneezing, goat," says the old man; and the goat stood there tired and panting, trying to get its breath. But the old woman did not look up till she had gathered everyone of the gold pieces. When she did look up, she said, -- 

"There's no supper for you. I've had supper already."

The old man said nothing. He tied up the goat to the doorpost of the house, where it could eat the green grass. Then he went into the house and lay down, and fell asleep at once, because he was an old man and had done a lot of walking.

As soon as he was asleep the old woman untied the goat and took it away and hid it in the bushes, and tied up one of her own goats instead. "They were my turnips," says she to herself, "and I don't see why he should have a share in the gold." Then she went in, and lay down grumbling to herself.

Early in the morning she woke the old man.

"Get up, you lazy fellow," says she; "you would lie all day and let all the thieves in the world come in and steal my turnips. Up with you to the dovecot and see how my turnips are getting on."

The old man got up and rubbed his eyes, and climbed up the rickety stairs, creak, creak, creak, holding on with both hands, till he came to the top of the house, to the top of the tower, to the top of the dovecot, and looked at the turnips.

He was afraid to come down, for there were hardly any turnips left at all.

And when he did come down, the scolding the old woman gave him was worse than the other two scoldings rolled into one. She was so angry that she shook like a rag in the high wind, and the old man put both hands to his ears and hobbled away into the forest.

He hobbled along as fast as he could hobble, until he came to the hut under the pine trees. This time the little queer children were not hiding under the blankets or in the stove, or chattering in the hut. They were all over the roof of the hut, dancing and crawling about. Some of them were even sitting on the chimney. And everyone of the little queer children was playing with a turnip. As soon as they saw the old man they all came tumbling off the roof, one after another, head over heels, like a lot of peas rolling off a shovel.

"We stole the turnips!" they shouted, before the old man could say anything at all.

"I know you did," says the old man; "but that does not make it any better for me. And it is I who get the scolding when the turnips fly away in the night."

"Never again!" shouted the children.

"I'm glad to hear that," says the old man.

"And we'll pay for the turnips."

"Thank you kindly," says the old man. He hadn't the heart to be angry with those little queer children.

Three or four of them ran into the hut and came out again with a wooden whistle, a regular whistle-pipe, such as shepherds use. They gave it to the old man.

"I can never play that," says the old man. "I don't know one tune from another; and if I did, my old fingers are as stiff as oak twigs."

"Blow in it," cried the children; and all the others came crowding round, laughing and chattering and whispering to each other. "Is he going to blow in it?" they asked. "He is going to blow in it." How they laughed!

The old man took the whistle, and gathered his breath and puffed out his cheeks, and blew in the whistle-pipe as hard as he could. And before he could take the whistle from his lips, three lively whips had slipped out of it, and were beating him as hard as they could go, although there was nobody to hold them. Phew! phew! phew! The three whips came down on him one after the other.

"Blow again!" the children shouted, laughing as if they were mad. "Blow again -- quick, quick, quick! -- and tell the whips to get into the whistle."

The old man did not wait to be told twice. He blew for all he was worth, and instantly the three whips stopped beating him. "Into the whistle!" he cried; and the three lively whips shot up into the whistle, like three snakes going into a hole. He could hardly have believed they had been out at all if it had not been for the soreness of his back.

"You take that home," cried the children. "That'll pay for the turnips, and put everything right."

"Who knows?" said the old man; and he thanked the children, and set off home through the green forest.

"Good-bye," cried the little queer children. But as soon as he had started they forgot all about him. When he looked round to wave his hand to them, not one of them was thinking of him. They were up again on the roof of the hut, jumping over each other and dancing and crawling about, and rolling each other down the roof and climbing up again, as if they had been doing nothing else all day, and were going to do nothing else till the end of the world.

The old man hobbled home through the green forest with the whistle stuck safely away into his shirt. As soon as he came to the door of the hut, the old woman, who was sitting inside counting the gold pieces, jumped up and started her scolding.

"What have the children tricked you with this time?" she screamed at him.

"They gave me a whistle-pipe," says the old man, "and they are not going to steal the turnips any more."

"A whistle-pipe!" she screamed. "What's the good of that? It's worse than the tablecloth and the skinny old goat."

The old man said nothing.

"Give it to me!" screamed the old woman. "They were my turnips, so it is my whistle-pipe."

"Well, whatever you do, don't blow in it," says the old man, and he hands over the whistle-pipe.

She wouldn't listen to him.

"What?" says she; "I must not blow my own whistle-pipe?"

And with that she put the whistle-pipe to her lips and blew.

Out jumped the three lively whips, flew up in the air, and began to beat her -- phew! phew! phew! -- one after another. If they made the old man sore, it was nothing to what they did to the cross old woman.

"Stop them! Stop them!" she screamed, running this way and that in the hut, with the whips flying after her beating her all the time. "I'll never scold again. I am to blame. I stole the magic tablecloth, and put an old one instead of it. I hid it in the iron chest." She ran to the iron chest and opened it, and pulled out the tablecloth. "Stop them! Stop them!" she screamed, while the whips laid it on hard and fast, one after the other. "I am to blame. The goat that sneezes gold pieces is hidden in the bushes. The goat by the door is one of the old ones. I wanted all the gold for myself."

All this time the old man was trying to get hold of the whistle-pipe. But the old woman was running about the hut so fast, with the whips flying after her and beating her, that he could not get it out of her hands. At last he grabbed it. "Into the whistle," says he, and put it to his lips and blew.

In a moment the three lively whips had hidden themselves in the whistle. And there was the cross old woman, kissing his hand and promising never to scold any more.

"That's all right," says the old man; and he fetched the sneezing goat out of the bushes and made it sneeze a little gold, just to be sure that it was that goat and no other. Then he laid the tablecloth on the table and told it to turn inside out. Up it flew, and came down again with the best dinner that ever was cooked, only waiting to be eaten. And the old man and the old woman sat down and ate till they could eat no more. The old woman rubbed herself now and again. And the old man rubbed himself too. But there was never a cross word between them, and they went to bed singing like nightingales.

"Is that the end?" Maroosia always asked.

"Is that all?" asked Vanya, though he knew it was not.

"Not quite," said old Peter; "but the tale won't go any quicker than my old tongue."

In the morning the old woman had forgotten about her promise. And just from habit, she set about scolding the old man as if the whips had never jumped out of the whistle. She scolded him for sleeping too long, sent him upstairs, with a lot of cross words after him, to go to the top of the dovecot to see how those turnips were getting on.

After a little the old man came down.

"The turnips are coming on grandly," says he, "and not a single one has gone in the night. I told you the children said they would not steal any more."

"I don't believe you," said the old woman. "I'll see for myself. And if any are gone, you shall pay for it, and pay for it well."

Up she jumped, and tried to climb the stairs. But the stairs were narrow and steep and twisting. She tried and tried, and could not get up at all. So she gets angrier than ever, and starts scolding the old man again.

"You must carry me up," says she.

"I have to hold on with both hands, or I couldn't get up myself," says the old man.

"I'll get in the flour sack, and you must carry me up with your teeth," says she; "they're strong enough."

And the old woman got into the flour sack.

"Don't ask me any questions," says the old man; and he took the sack in his teeth and began slowly climbing up the stairs, holding on with both hands.

He climbed and climbed, but he did not climb fast enough for the old woman.

"Are we at the top?" says she.

The old man said nothing, but went on, climbing up and up, nearly dead with the weight of the old woman in the sack which he was holding in his teeth.

He climbed a little further, and the old woman screamed out, -- 

"Are we at the top now? We must be at the top. Let me out, you old fool!"

The old man said nothing; he climbed on and on.

The old woman raged in the flour sack. She jumped about in the sack, and screamed at the old man, -- 

"Are we near the top now? Answer me, can't you! Answer me at once, or you'll pay for it later. Are we near the top?"

"Very near," said the old man.

And as he opened his mouth to say that the sack slipped from between his teeth, and bump, bump, bumpety bump, the old woman in the sack fell all the way to the very bottom, bumping on every step. That was the end of her.

After that the old man lived alone in the hut. When he wanted tobacco or clothes or a new axe, he made the goat sneeze some gold pieces, and off he went to the town with plenty of money in his pocket. When he wanted his dinner he had only to lay the tablecloth. He never had any washing up to do, because the tablecloth did it for him. When he wanted to get rid of troublesome guests, he gave them the whistle to blow. And when he was lonely and wanted company, he went to the little hut under the pine trees and played with the little queer children.




Little Master Misery.


Once upon a time there were two brothers, peasants, and one was kind and the other was cunning. And the cunning one made money and became rich -- very rich -- so rich that he thought himself far too good for the village. He went off to the town, and dressed in fine furs, and clothed his wife in rich brocades, and made friends among the merchants, and began to live as merchants live, eating all day long, no longer like a simple peasant who eats kasha one day, kasha the next day, and for a change kasha on the third day also. And always he grew richer and richer.

It was very different with the kind one. He lent money to a neighbour, and the neighbour never paid it back. He sowed before the last frost, and lost all his crops. His horse went lame. His cow gave no milk. If his hens laid eggs, they were stolen; and if he set a night-line in the river, some one else always pulled it out and stole the fish and the hooks. Everything went wrong with him, and each day saw him poorer than the day before. At last there came a time when he had not a crumb of bread in the house. He and his wife were thin as sticks because they had nothing to eat, and the children were crying all day long because of their little empty stomachs. From morning till night he dug and worked, struggling against poverty like a fish against the ice; but it was no good. Things went from bad to worse.

At last his wife said to him: "You must go to the town and see that rich brother of yours. He will surely not refuse to give you a little help."

And he said: "Truly, wife, there is nothing else to be done. I will go to the town, and perhaps my rich brother will help me. I am sure he would not let my children starve. After all, he is their uncle."

So he took his stick and tramped off to the town.

He came to the house of his rich brother. A fine house it was, with painted eaves and a doorway carved by a master. Many servants were there and food in plenty, and people coming and going. He went in and found his brother, and said, -- 

"Dear brother of mine, I beg you help me, even if only a little. My wife and children are without bread. All day long they sit hungry and waiting, and I have no food to give them."

The rich brother looks at him, and hums and strokes his beard. Then says he: "I will help you. But, of course, you must do something in return. Stay here and work for me, and at the end of a week you shall have the help you have earned."

The poor brother thanked him, and bowed and kissed his hand, and praised God for the kindness of his brother's heart, and set instantly to work. For a whole week he slaved, and scarcely slept. He cleaned out the stables and cut the wood, swept the yard, drew water from the well, and ran errands for the cook. And at the end of the week his brother called him, and gave him a single loaf of bread.

"You must not forget," says the rich brother, "that I have fed you all the week you have been here, and all that food counts in the payment."

The poor brother thanked him, and was setting off to carry the loaf to his wife and children when the rich brother called him back.

"Stop a minute," said he; "I would like you to know that I am well disposed towards you. To-morrow is my name-day. Come to the feast, and bring your wife with you."

"How can I do that, brother? Your friends are rich merchants, with fine clothes, and boots on their feet. And I have nothing but my old coat, and my legs are bound in rags and my feet shuffle along in straw slippers. I do not want to shame you before your guests."

"Never mind about that," says the rich brother; "we will find a place for you."

"Very good, brother, and thank you kindly. God be praised for having given you a tender heart."

And the poor brother, though he was tired out after all the work he had done, set off home as fast as he could to take the bread to his wife and children.

"He might have given you more than that," said his wife.

"But listen," said he; "what do you think of this? To-morrow we are invited, you and I, as guests, to go to a great feast."

"What do you mean? A feast? Who has invited us?"

"My brother has invited us. To-morrow is his name-day. I always told you he had a kind heart. We shall be well fed, and I dare say we shall be able to bring back something for the children."

"A pleasure like that does not often come our way," said his wife.

So early in the morning they got up, and walked all the way to the town, so as not to shame the rich brother by putting up their old cart in the yard beside the merchants' fine carriages. They came to the rich brother's house, and found the guests all assembled and making merry; rich merchants and their plump wives, all eating and laughing and drinking and talking.

They wished a long life to the rich brother, and the poor brother wanted to make a speech, congratulating him on his name-day. But the rich brother scarcely thanked him, because he was so busy entertaining the rich merchants and their plump, laughing wives. He was pressing food on his guests, now this, now that, and calling to the servants to keep their glasses filled and their plates full of all the tastiest kinds of food. As for the poor brother and his wife, the rich one forgot all about them, and they got nothing to eat and never a drop to drink. They just sat there with empty plates and empty glasses, watching how the others ate and drank. The poor brother laughed with the rest, because he did not wish to show that he had been forgotten.

The dinner came to an end. One by one the guests went up to the giver of the feast to thank him for his good cheer. And the poor brother too got up from the bench, and bowed low before his brother and thanked him.

The guests went home, drunken and joyful. A fine noise they made, as people do on these occasions, shouting jokes to each other and singing songs at the top of their voices.

The poor brother and his wife went home empty and sad. All that long way they had walked, and now they had to walk it again, and the feast was over, and never a bite had they had in their mouths, nor a drop in their gullets.

"Come, wife," says the poor brother as he trudged along, "let us sing a song like the others."

"What a fool you are!" says his wife. Hungry and cross she was, as even Maroosia would be after a day like that watching other people stuff themselves. "What a fool you are!" says she. "People may very well sing when they have eaten tasty dishes and drunk good wine. But what reason have you got for making a merry noise in the night?"

"Why, my dear" says he, "we have been at my brother's name-day feast. I am ashamed to go home without a song. I'll sing. I'll sing so that everyone shall think he loaded us with good things like the rest."

"Well, sing if you like; but you'll sing by yourself."

So the peasant, the poor brother, started singing a song with his dry throat. He lifted his voice and sang like the rest, while his wife trudged silently beside him.

But as he sang it seemed to the peasant that he heard two voices singing -- his own and another's. He stopped, and asked his wife, -- 

"Is that you joining in my song with a little thin voice?"

"What's the matter with you? I never thought of singing with you. I never opened my mouth."

"Who is it then?"

"No one except yourself. Any one would say you had had a drink of wine after all."

"But I heard some one ... a little weak voice ... a little sad voice ... joining with mine."

"I heard nothing," said his wife; "but sing again, and I'll listen."

The poor man sang again. He sang alone. His wife listened, and it was clear that there were two voices singing -- the dry voice of the poor man, and a little miserable voice that came from the shadows under the trees. The poor man stopped, and asked out loud, -- 

"Who are you who are singing with me?"

And a little thin voice answered out of the shadows by the roadside, under the trees, -- 

"I am Misery."

"So it was you, Misery, who were helping me?"

"Yes, master, I was helping you."

"Well, little Master Misery, come along with us and keep us company."

"I'll do that willingly," says little Master Misery, "and I'll never, never leave you at all -- no, not if you have no other friend in the world."

And a wretched little man, with a miserable face and little thin legs and arms, came out of the shadows and went home with the peasant and his wife.

It was late when they got home, but little Master Misery asked the peasant to take him to the tavern. "After such a day as this has been," says he, "there's nothing else to be done."

"But I have no money," says the peasant.

"What of that?" says little Master Misery. "Spring has begun, and you have a winter jacket on. It will soon be summer, and whether you have it or not you won't wear it. Bring it along to the tavern, and change it for a drink."

The poor man went to the tavern with little Master Misery, and they sat there and drank the vodka that the tavern-keeper gave them in exchange for the coat.

Next day, early in the morning, little Master Misery began complaining. His head ached and he could not open his eyes, and he did not like the weather, and the children were crying, and there was no food in the house. He asked the peasant to come with him to the tavern again and forget all this wretchedness in a drink.

"But I've got no money," says the peasant.

"Rubbish!" says little Master Misery; "you have a sledge and a cart."

They took the cart and the sledge to the tavern, and stayed there drinking until the tavern-keeper said they had had all that the cart and the sledge were worth. Then the tavern-keeper took them and threw them out of doors into the night, and they picked themselves up and crawled home.

Next day Misery complained worse than before, and begged the peasant to come with him to the tavern. There was no getting rid of him, no keeping him quiet. The peasant sold his barrow and plough, so that he could no longer work his land. He went to the tavern with little Master Misery.

A month went by like that, and at the end of it the peasant had nothing left at all. He had even pledged the hut he lived in to a neighbour, and taken the money to the tavern.

And every day little Master Misery begged him to come. "There I am not wretched any longer," says Misery. "There I sing, and even dance, hitting the floor with my heels and making a merry noise."

"But now I have no money at all, and nothing left to sell," says the poor peasant. "I'd be willing enough to go with you, but I can't, and here is an end of it."

"Rubbish!" says Misery; "your wife has two dresses. Leave her one; she can't wear both at once. Leave her one, and buy a drink with the other. They are both ragged, but take the better of the two. The tavern-keeper is a just man, and will give us more drink for the better one."

The peasant took the dress and sold it; and Misery laughed and danced, while the peasant thought to himself, "Well, this is the end. I've nothing left to sell, and my wife has nothing either. We've the clothes on our backs, and nothing else in the world."

In the morning little Master Misery woke with a headache as usual, and a mouthful of groans and complaints. But he saw that the peasant had nothing left to sell, and he called out, -- 

"Listen to me, master of the house."

"What is it, Misery?" says the peasant, who was master of nothing in the world.

"Go you to a neighbour and beg the loan of a cart and a pair of good oxen."

The poor peasant had no will of his own left. He did exactly as he was told. He went to his neighbour and begged the loan of the oxen and cart.

"But how will you repay me?" says the neighbour.

"I will do a week's work for you for nothing."

"Very well," says the neighbour; "take the oxen and cart, but be careful not to give them too heavy a load."

"Indeed I won't," says the peasant, thinking to himself that he had nothing to load them with. "And thank you very much," says he; and he goes back to Misery, taking with him the oxen and cart.

Misery looked at him and grumbled in his wretched little voice, "They are hardly strong enough,"

"They are the best I could borrow," says the peasant; "and you and I have starved too long to be heavy."

And the peasant and little Master Misery sat together in the cart and drove off together, Misery holding his head in both hands and groaning at the jolt of the cart.

As soon as they had left the village, Misery sat up and asked the peasant, -- 

"Do you know the big stone that stands alone in the middle of a field not far from here?"

"Of course I know it," says the peasant.

"Drive straight to it," says Misery, and went on rocking himself to and fro, and groaning and complaining in his wretched little voice.

They came to the stone, and got down from the cart and looked at the stone. It was very big and heavy, and was fixed in the ground.

"Heave it up," says Misery.

The poor peasant set to work to heave it up, and Misery helped him, groaning, and complaining that the peasant was nothing of a fellow because he could not do his work by himself. Well, they heaved it up, and there below it was a deep hole, and the hole was filled with gold pieces to the very top; more gold pieces than ever you will see copper ones if you live to be a hundred and ten.

"Well, what are you staring at?" says Misery. "Stir yourself, and be quick about it, and load all this gold into the cart."

The peasant set to work, and piled all the gold into the cart down to the very last gold piece; while Misery sat on the stone and watched, groaning and chuckling in his weak, wretched little voice.

"Be quick," says Misery; "and then we can get back to the tavern."

The peasant looked into the pit to see that there was nothing left there, and then says he, -- 

"Just take a look, little Master Misery, and see that we have left nothing behind. You are smaller than I, and can get right down into the pit...."

Misery slipped down from the stone, grumbling at the peasant, and bent over the pit.

"You've taken the lot," says he; "there's nothing to be seen."

"But what is that," says the peasant -- "there, shining in the corner?"

"I don't see it."

"Jump down into the pit and you'll see it. It would be a pity to waste a gold piece."

Misery jumped down into the pit, and instantly the peasant rolled the stone over the hole and shut him in.

"Things will be better so," says the peasant. "If I were to let you out of that, sooner or later you would drink up all this money, just as you drank up everything I had."

Then the peasant drove home and hid the gold in the cellar; took the oxen and cart back to his neighbour, thanked him kindly, and began to think what he would do, now that Misery was his master no longer, and he with plenty of money.

"But he had to work for a week to pay for the loan of the oxen and cart," said Vanya.

"Well, during the week, while he was working, he was thinking all the time, in his head," said old Peter, a little grumpily. Then he went on with his tale.

As soon as the week was over, he bought a forest and built himself a fine house, and began to live twice as richly as his brother in the town. And his wife had two new dresses, perhaps more; with a lot of gold and silver braid, and necklaces of big yellow stones, and bracelets and sparkling rings. His children were well fed every day -- rivers of milk between banks of kisel jelly, and mushrooms with sauce, and soup, and cakes with little balls of egg and meat hidden in the middle. And they had toys that squeaked, a little boy feeding a goose that poked its head into a dish, and a painted hen with a lot of chickens that all squeaked together.

Time went on, and when his name-day drew near he thought of his brother, the merchant, and drove off to the town to invite him to take part in the feast.

"I have not forgotten, brother, that you invited me to yours."

"What a fellow you are!" says his brother; "you have nothing to eat yourself, and here you are inviting other people for your name-day."

"Yes," said the peasant, "once upon a time, it is true, I had nothing to eat; but now, praise be to God, I am no poorer than yourself. Come to my name-day feast and you will see."

"Very well," says his brother, "I'll come; but don't think you can play any jokes on me."

On the morning of the peasant's name-day his brother, the merchant in the town, put on his best clothes, and his plump wife dressed in all her richest, and they got into their cart -- a fine cart it was too, painted in the brightest colours -- and off they drove together to the house of the brother who had once been poor. They took a basket of food with them, in case he had only been joking when he invited them to his name-day feast.

They drove to the village, and asked for him at the hut where he used to be.

An old man hobbling along the road answered them, -- 

"Oh, you mean our Ivan Ilyitch. Well, he does not live here any longer. Where have you been that you have not heard? His is the big new house on the hill. You can see it through the trees over there, where all these people are walking. He has a kind heart, he has, and riches have not spoiled it. He has invited the whole village to feast with him, because to-day is his name-day."

"Riches!" thought the merchant; "a new house!" He was very much surprised, but as he drove along the road he was more surprised still. For he passed all the villagers on their way to the feast; and every one was talking of his brother, and how kind he was and how generous, and what a feast there was going to be, and how many barrels of mead and, wine had been taken up to the house. All the folk were hurrying along the road licking their lips, each one going faster than the other so as to be sure not to miss any of the good things.

The rich brother from the town drove with his wife into the courtyard of the fine new house. And there on the steps was the peasant brother, Ivan Ilyitch, and his wife, receiving their guests. And if the rich brother was well dressed, the peasant was better dressed; and if the rich brother's wife was in her fine clothes, the peasant's wife fairly glittered -- what with the gold braid on her bosom and the shining silver in her hair.

And the peasant brother kissed his brother from the town on both cheeks, and gave him and his wife the best places at the table. He fed them -- ah, how he fed them! -- with little red slips of smoked salmon, and beetroot soup with cream, and slabs of sturgeon, and meats of three or four kinds, and game and sweetmeats of the best. There never was such a feast -- no, not even at the wedding of a Tzar. And as for drink, there were red wine and white wine, and beer and mead in great barrels, and everywhere the peasant went about among his guests, filling glasses and seeing that their plates were kept piled with the foods each one liked best.

And the rich brother wondered and wondered, and at last he could wait no longer, and he took his brother aside and said, -- 

"I am delighted to see you so rich. But tell me, I beg you, how it was that all this good fortune came to you."

The poor brother, never thinking, told him all -- the whole truth about little Master Misery and the pit full of gold, and how Misery was shut in there under the big stone.

The merchant brother listened, and did not forget a word. He could hardly bear himself for envy, and as for his wife, she was worse. She looked at the peasant's wife with her beautiful head-dress, and she bit her lips till they bled.

As soon as they could, they said good-bye and drove off home.

The merchant brother could not bear the thought that his brother was richer than he. He said to himself, "I will go to the field, and move the stone, and let Master Misery out. Then he will go and tear my brother to pieces for shutting him in; and his riches will not be of much use to him then, even if Misery does not give them to me as a token of gratitude. Think of my brother daring to show off his riches to me!"

So he drove off to the field, and came at last to the big stone. He moved the stone on one side, and then bent over the pit to see what was in it.

He had scarcely put his head over the edge before Misery sprang up out of the pit, seated himself firmly on his shoulders, squeezed his neck between his little wiry legs, and pulled out handfuls of his hair.

"Scream away!" cried little Master Misery. "You tried to kill me, shutting me up in there, while you went off and bought fine clothes. You tried to kill me, and came to feast your eyes on my corpse. Now, whatever happens, I'll never leave you again."

"Listen, Misery!" screamed the merchant. "Ai, ai! stop pulling my hair. You are choking me. Ai! Listen. It was not I who shut you in under the stone...."

"Who was it, if it was not you?" asked Misery, tugging out his hair, and digging his knees into the merchant's throat.

"It was my brother. I came here on purpose to let you out. I came out of pity."

Misery tugged the merchant's hair, and twisted the merchant's ears till they nearly came off.

"Liar, liar!" he shouted in his little, wretched, angry voice. "You tricked me once. Do you think you'll get the better of me again by a clumsy lie of that kind? Now then. Gee up! Home we go."

And so the rich brother went trotting home, crying with pain; while little Master Misery sat firmly on his shoulders, pulling at his hair.

Instantly Misery was at his old tricks.

"You seem to have bought a good deal with the gold," he said, looking at the merchant's house. "We'll see how far it will go." And every day he rode the rich merchant to the tavern, and made him drink up all his money, and his house, his clothes, his horses and carts and sledges -- everything he had -- until he was as poor as his brother had been in the beginning.

The merchant thought and thought, and puzzled his brain to find a way to get rid of him. And at last one night, when Misery had groaned himself to sleep, the merchant went out into the yard and took a big cart wheel and made two stout wedges of wood, just big enough to fit into the hub of the wheel. He drove one wedge firmly in at one end of the hub, and left the wheel in the yard with the other wedge, and a big hammer lying handy close to it.

In the morning Misery wakes as usual, and cries out to be taken to the tavern.

"We've sold everything I've got," says the merchant.

"Well, what are you going to do to amuse me?" says Misery.

"Let's play hide-and-seek in the yard," says the merchant.

"Right," says Misery; "but you'll never find me, for I can make myself so small I can hide in a mouse-hole in the floor."

"We'll see," says the merchant.

The merchant hid first, and Misery found him at once.

"Now it's my turn," says Misery; "but what's the good? You'll never find me. Why, I could get inside the hub of that wheel if I had a mind to."

"What a liar you are!" says the merchant; "you never could get into that little hole."

"Look," says Misery, and he made himself little, little, little, and sat on the hub of the wheel.

"Look," says he, making himself smaller again; and then, pouf! in he pops into the hole of the hub.

Instantly the merchant took the other wedge and the hammer, and drove the wedge into the hole. The first wedge had closed up the other end, and so there was Misery shut up inside the hub of the cart wheel.

The merchant set the wheel on his shoulders, and took it to the river and threw it out as far as he could, and it went floating away down to the sea.

Then he went home and set to work to make money again, and earn his daily bread; for Misery had made him so poor that he had nothing left, and had to hire himself out to make a living, just as his peasant brother used to do.

But what happened to Misery when he went floating away?

He floated away down the river, shut up in the hub of the wheel. He ought to have starved there. But I am afraid some silly, greedy fellow thought to get a new wheel for nothing, and pulled the wedges out and let him go; for, by all I hear, Misery is still wandering about the world and making people wretched -- bad luck to him!




A Chapter Of Fish.


Sometimes in spring, when the big river flooded its banks and made lakes of the meadows, and the little rivers flowed deep, old Peter spent a few days netting fish. Also in summer he set night-lines in the little river not far from where it left the forest. And so it happened that one day he sat in the warm sunshine outside his hut, mending his nets and making floats for them; not cork floats like ours, but little rolls of the silver bark of the birch tree.

And while he sat there Vanya and Maroosia watched him, and sometimes even helped, holding a piece of the net between them, while old Peter fastened on the little glistening rolls of bark that were to keep it up in the water. And all the time old Peter worked he smoked, and told them stories about fish.

First he told them what happened when the first pike was born, and how it is that all the little fish are not eaten by the great pike with his huge greedy mouth and his sharp teeth.


On the night of Ivanov's Day (that is the day of Saint John, which is Midsummer) there was born the pike, a huge fish, with such teeth as never were. And when the pike was born the waters of the river foamed and raged, so that the ships in the river were all but swamped, and the pretty young girls who were playing on the banks ran away as fast as they could, frightened, they were, by the roaring of the waves, and the black wind and the white foam on the water. Terrible was the birth of the sharp-toothed pike.

And when the pike was born he did not grow up by months or by days, but by hours. Every day it was two inches longer than the day before. In a month it was two yards long; in two months it was twelve feet long; in three months it was raging up and down the river like a tempest, eating the bream and the perch, and all the small fish that came in its way. There was a bream or a perch swimming lazily in the stream. The pike saw it as it raged by, caught it in its great white mouth, and instantly the bream or the perch was gone, torn to pieces by the pike's teeth, and swallowed as you would swallow a sunflower seed. And bream and perch are big fish. It was worse for the little ones.

What was to be done? The bream and the perch put their heads together in a quiet pool. It was clear enough that the great pike would eat everyone of them. So they called a meeting of all the little fish, and set to thinking what could be done by way of dealing with the great pike, which had such sharp teeth and was making so free with their lives.

They all came to the meeting -- bream, and perch, and roach, and dace, and gudgeon; yes, and the little ersh with his spiny back.

The silly roach said, "Let us kill the pike."

But the gudgeon looked at him with his great eyes, and asked, "Have you got good teeth?"

"No," says the roach, "I haven't any teeth."

"You'd swallow the pike, I suppose?" says the perch.

"My mouth is too small."

"Then do not use it to talk foolishness," said the gudgeon; and the roach's fins blushed scarlet, and are red to this day.

"I will set my prickles on end," says the perch, who has a row of sharp prickles in the fin on his back. "The pike won't find them too comfortable in his throat."

"Yes," said the bream; "but you will have to go into his throat to put them there, and he'll swallow you all the same. Besides, we have not all got prickles."

There was a lot more foolishness talked. Even the minnows had something to say, until they were made to be quiet by the dace.

Now the little ersh had come to the meeting, with his spiny back, and his big front fins, and his head all shining in blue and gold and green. And when he had heard all they had to say, he began to talk.

"Think away," says he, "and break your heads, and spoil your brains, if ever you had any; but listen for a moment to what I have to say."

And all the fish turned to listen to the ersh, who is the cleverest of all the little fish, because he has a big head and a small body.

"Listen," says the ersh. "It is clear enough that the pike lives in this big river, and that he does not give the little fish a chance, crunches them all with his sharp teeth, and swallows them ten at a time. I quite agree that it would be much better for everybody if he could be killed; but not one of us is strong enough for that. We are not strong enough to kill him; but we can starve him, and save ourselves at the same time. There's no living in the big river while he is here. Let all us little fish clear out, and go and live in the little rivers that flow into the big. There the waters are shallow, and we can hide among the weeds. No one will touch us there, and we can live and bring up our children in peace, and only be in danger when we go visiting from one little river to another. And as for the great pike, we will leave him alone in the big river to rage hungrily up and down. His teeth will soon grow blunt, for there will be nothing for him to eat."

All the little fish waved their fins and danced in the water when they heard the wisdom of the ersh's speech. And the ersh and the roach, and the bream and the perch, and the dace and the gudgeon left the big river and swam up the little rivers between the green meadows. And there they began again to live in peace and bring up their little ones, though the cunning fishermen set nets in the little rivers and caught many of them on their way. From that time on there have never been many little fish in the big river.

And as for the monstrous pike, he swam up and down the great river, lashing the waters, and driving his nose through the waves, but found no food for his sharp teeth. He had to take to worms, and was caught in the end on a fisherman's hook. Yes, and the fisherman made a soup of him -- the best fish soup that ever was made. He was a friend of mine when I was a boy, and he gave me a taste in my wooden spoon.


Then he told them the story of other pike, and particularly of the pike that was king of a river, and made the little fish come together on the top of the water so that the young hunter could cross over with dry feet. And he told them of the pike that hid the lover of the princess by swallowing him and lying at the bottom of a deep pool, and how the princess saw her lover sitting in the pike, when the big fish opened his mouth to snap up a little perch that swam too near his nose. Then he told them of the big trial in the river, when the fishes chose judges, and made a case at law against the ersh, and found him guilty, and how the ersh spat in the faces of the judges and swam merrily away.

Finally, he told them the story of the Golden Fish. But that is a long story, and a chapter all by itself, and begins on the next page.




The Golden Fish.


"This," said old Peter, "is a story against wanting more than enough."

Long ago, near the shore of the blue sea, an old man lived with his old woman in a little old hut made of earth and moss and logs. They never had a rouble to spend. A rouble! they never had a kopeck. They just lived there in the little hut, and the old man caught fish out of the sea in his old net, and the old woman cooked the fish; and so they lived, poorly enough in summer and worse in winter. Sometimes they had a few fish to sell, but not often. In the summer evenings they sat outside their hut on a broken old bench, and the old man mended the holes in his ragged old net. There were holes in it a hare could jump through with his ears standing, let alone one of those little fishes that live in the sea. The old woman sat on the bench beside him, and patched his trousers and complained.

Well, one day the old man went fishing, as he always did. All day long he fished, and caught nothing. And then in the evening, when he was thinking he might as well give up and go home, he threw his net for the last time, and when he came to pull it in he began to think he had caught an island instead of a haul of fish, and a strong and lively island at that -- the net was so heavy and pulled so hard against his feeble old arms.

"This time," says he, "I have caught a hundred fish at least."

Not a bit of it. The net came in as heavy as if it were full of fighting fish, but empty  --  -- .

"Empty?" said Maroosia.

"Well, not quite empty," said old Peter, and went on with his tale.

Not quite empty, for when the last of the net came ashore there was something glittering in it -- a golden fish, not very big and not very little, caught in the meshes. And it was this single golden fish which had made the net so heavy.

The old fisherman took the golden fish in his hands.

"At least it will be enough for supper," said he.

But the golden fish lay still in his hands, and looked at him with wise eyes, and spoke -- yes, my dears, it spoke, just as if it were you or I.

"Old man," says the fish, "do not kill me. I beg you throw me back into the blue waters. Some day I may be able to be of use to you."

"What?" says the old fisherman; "and do you talk with a human voice?"

"I do," says the fish. "And my fish's heart feels pain like yours. It would be as bitter to me to die as it would be to yourself."

"And is that so?" says the old fisherman. "Well, you shall not die this time." And he threw the golden fish back into the sea.

You would have thought the golden fish would have splashed with his tail, and turned head downwards, and swum away into the blue depths of the sea. Not a bit of it. It stayed there with its tail slowly flapping in the water so as to keep its head up, and it looked at the fisherman with its wise eyes, and it spoke again.

"You have given me my life," says the golden fish. "Now ask anything you wish from me, and you shall have it."

The old fisherman stood there on the shore, combing his beard with his old fingers, and thinking. Think as he would, he could not call to mind a single thing he wanted.

"No, fish," he said at last; "I think I have everything I need,"

"Well, if ever you do want anything, come and ask for it," says the fish, and turns over, flashing gold, and goes down into the blue sea.

The old fisherman went back to his hut, where his wife was waiting for him.

"What!" she screamed out; "you haven't caught so much as one little fish for our supper?"

"I caught one fish, mother," says the old man: "a golden fish it was, and it spoke to me; and I let it go, and it told me to ask for anything I wanted."

"And what did you ask for? Show me."

"I couldn't think of anything to ask for; so I did not ask for anything at all."

"Fool," says his wife, "and dolt, and us with no food to put in our mouths. Go back at once, and ask for some bread."

Well, the poor old fisherman got down his net, and tramped back to the seashore. And he stood on the shore of the wide blue sea, and he called out, -- 

"Head in air and tail in sea, Fish, fish, listen to me."

And in a moment there was the golden fish with his head out of the water, flapping his tail below him in the water, and looking at the fisherman with his wise eyes.

"What is it?" said the fish.

"Be so kind," says the fisherman; "be so kind. We have no bread in the house."

"Go home," says the fish, and turned over and went down into the sea.

"God be good to me," says the old fisherman; "but what shall I say to my wife, going home like this without the bread?" And he went home very wretchedly, and slower than he came.

As soon as he came within sight of his hut he saw his wife, and she was waving her arms and shouting.

"Stir your old bones," she screamed out. "It's as fine a loaf as ever I've seen."

And he hurried along, and found his old wife cutting up a huge loaf of white bread, mind you, not black -- a huge loaf of white bread, nearly as big as Maroosia.

"You did not do so badly after all," said his old wife as they sat there with the samovar on the table between them, dipping their bread in the hot tea.

But that night, as they lay sleeping on the stove, the old woman poked the old man in the ribs with her bony elbow. He groaned and woke up.

"I've been thinking," says his wife, "your fish might have given us a trough to keep the bread in while he was about it. There is a lot left over, and without a trough it will go bad, and not be fit for anything. And our old trough is broken; besides, it's too small. First thing in the morning off you go, and ask your fish to give us a new trough to put the bread in."

Early in the morning she woke the old man again, and he had to get up and go down to the seashore. He was very much afraid, because he thought the fish would not take it kindly. But at dawn, just as the red sun was rising out of the sea, he stood on the shore, and called out in his windy old voice, -- 

"Head in air and tail in sea, Fish, fish, listen to me."

And there in the morning sunlight was the golden fish, looking at him with its wise eyes.

"I beg your pardon," says the old man, "but could you, just to oblige my wife, give us some sort of trough to put the bread in?"

"Go home," says the fish; and down it goes into the blue sea.

The old man went home, and there, outside the hut, was the old woman, looking at the handsomest bread trough that ever was seen on earth. Painted it was, with little flowers, in three colours, and there were strips of gilding about its handles.

"Look at this," grumbled the old woman. "This is far too fine a trough for a tumbledown hut like ours. Why, there is scarcely a place in the roof where the rain does not come through. If we were to keep this trough in such a hut, it would be spoiled in a month. You must go back to your fish and ask it for a new hut."

"I hardly like to do that," says the old man.

"Get along with you," says his wife. "If the fish can make a trough like this, a hut will be no trouble to him. And, after all, you must not forget he owes his life to you."

"I suppose that is true," says the old man; but he went back to the shore with a heavy heart. He stood on the edge of the sea and called out, doubtfully, -- 

"Head in air and tail in sea, Fish, fish, listen to me."

Instantly there was a ripple in the water, and the golden fish was looking at him with its wise eyes.

"Well?" says the fish.

"My old woman is so pleased with the trough that she wants a new hut to keep it in, because ours, if you could only see it, is really falling to pieces, and the rain comes in and  --  -- ."

"Go home," says the fish.

The old fisherman went home, but he could not find his old hut at all. At first he thought he had lost his way. But then he saw his wife. And she was walking about, first one way and then the other, looking at the finest hut that God ever gave a poor moujik to keep him from the rain and the cold, and the too great heat of the sun. It was built of sound logs, neatly finished at the ends and carved. And the overhanging of the roof was cut in patterns, so neat, so pretty, you could never think how they had been done. The old woman looked at it from all sides. And the old man stood, wondering. Then they went in together. And everything within the hut was new and clean. There were a fine big stove, and strong wooden benches, and a good table, and a fire lit in the stove, and logs ready to put in, and a samovar already on the boil -- a fine new samovar of glittering brass.

You would have thought the old woman would have been satisfied with that. Not a bit of it.

"You don't know how to lift your eyes from the ground," says she. "You don't know what to ask. I am tired of being a peasant woman and a moujik's wife. I was made for something better. I want to be a lady, and have good people to do the work, and see folk bow and curtsy to me when I meet them walking abroad. Go back at once to the fish, you old fool, and ask him for that, instead of bothering him for little trifles like bread troughs and moujiks' huts. Off with you."

The old fisherman went back to the shore with a sad heart; but he was afraid of his wife, and he dared not disobey her. He stood on the shore, and called out in his windy old voice, -- 

"Head in air and tail in sea, Fish, fish, listen to me."

Instantly there was the golden fish looking at him with its wise eyes.

"Well?" says the fish.

"My old woman won't give me a moment's peace," says the old man; "and since she has the new hut -- which is a fine one, I must say; as good a hut as ever I saw -- she won't be content at all. She is tired of being a peasant's wife, and wants to be a lady with a house and servants, and to see the good folk curtsy to her when she meets them walking abroad."

"Go home," says the fish.

The old man went home, thinking about the hut, and how pleasant it would be to live in it, even if his wife were a lady.

But when he got home the hut had gone, and in its place there was a fine brick house, three stories high. There were servants running this way and that in the courtyard. There was a cook in the kitchen, and there was his old woman, in a dress of rich brocade, sitting idle in a tall carved chair, and giving orders right and left.

"Good health to you, wife," says the old man.

"Ah, you, clown that you are, how dare you call me your wife! Can't you see that I'm a lady? Here! Off with this fellow to the stables, and see that he gets a beating he won't forget in a hurry."

Instantly the servants seized the old man by the collar and lugged him along to the stables. There the grooms treated him to such a whipping that he could hardly stand on his feet. After that the old woman made him doorkeeper. She ordered that a besom should be given him to clean up the courtyard, and said that he was to have his meals in the kitchen. A wretched life the old man lived. All day long he was sweeping up the courtyard, and if there was a speck of dirt to be seen in it anywhere, he paid for it at once in the stable under the whips of the grooms.

Time went on, and the old woman grew tired of being only a lady. And at last there came a day when she sent into the yard to tell the old man to come before her. The poor old man combed his hair and cleaned his boots, and came into the house, and bowed low before the old woman.

"Be off with you, you old good-for-nothing!" says she. "Go and find your golden fish, and tell him from me that I am tired of being a lady. I want to be Tzaritza, with generals and courtiers and men of state to do whatever I tell them."

The old man went along to the seashore, glad enough to be out of the courtyard and out of reach of the stablemen with their whips. He came to the shore, and cried out in his windy old voice, -- 

"Head in air and tail in sea, Fish, fish, listen to me."

And there was the golden fish looking at him with its wise eyes.

"What's the matter now, old man?" says the fish.

"My old woman is going on worse than ever," says the old fisherman. "My back is sore with the whips of her grooms. And now she says it isn't enough for her to be a lady; she wants to be a Tzaritza."

"Never you worry about it," says the fish. "Go home and praise God;" and with that the fish turned over and went down into the sea.

The old man went home slowly, for he did not know what his wife would do to him if the golden fish did not make her into a Tzaritza.

But as soon as he came near he heard the noise of trumpets and the beating of drums, and there where the fine stone house had been was now a great palace with a golden roof. Behind it was a big garden of flowers, that are fair to look at but have no fruit, and before it was a meadow of fine green grass. And on the meadow was an army of soldiers drawn up in squares and all dressed alike. And suddenly the fisherman saw his old woman in the gold and silver dress of a Tzaritza come stalking out on the balcony with her generals and boyars to hold a review of her troops. And the drums beat and the trumpets sounded, and the soldiers cried "Hurrah!" And the poor old fisherman found a dark corner in one of the barns, and lay down in the straw.

Time went on, and at last the old woman was tired of being Tzaritza. She thought she was made for something better. And one day she said to her chamberlain, -- 

"Find me that ragged old beggar who is always hanging about in the courtyard. Find him, and bring him here."

The chamberlain told his officers, and the officers told the servants, and the servants looked for the old man, and found him at last asleep on the straw in the corner of one of the barns. They took some of the dirt off him, and brought him before the Tzaritza, sitting proudly on her golden throne.

"Listen, old fool!" says she. "Be off to your golden fish, and tell it I am tired of being Tzaritza. Anybody can be Tzaritza. I want to be the ruler of the seas, so that all the waters shall obey me, and all the fishes shall be my servants."

"I don't like to ask that," said the old man, trembling.

"What's that?" she screamed at him. "Do you dare to answer the Tzaritza? If you do not set off this minute, I'll have your head cut off and your body thrown to the dogs."

Unwillingly the old man hobbled off. He came to the shore, and cried out with a windy, quavering old voice, -- 

"Head in air and tail in sea, Fish, fish, listen to me."

Nothing happened.

The old man thought of his wife, and what would happen to him if she were still Tzaritza when he came home. Again he called out, -- 

"Head in air and tail in sea, Fish, fish, listen to me."

Nothing happened, nothing at all.

A third time, with the tears running down his face, he called out in his windy, creaky, quavering old voice, -- 

"Head in air and tail in sea, Fish, fish, listen to me."

Suddenly there was a loud noise, louder and louder over the sea. The sun hid itself. The sea broke into waves, and the waves piled themselves one upon another. The sky and the sea turned black, and there was a great roaring wind that lifted the white crests of the waves and tossed them abroad over the waters. The golden fish came up out of the storm and spoke out of the sea.

"What is it now?" says he, in a voice more terrible than the voice of the storm itself.

"O fish," says the old man, trembling like a reed shaken by the storm, "my old woman is worse than before. She is tired of being Tzaritza. She wants to be the ruler of the seas, so that all the waters shall obey her and all the fishes be her servants."

The golden fish said nothing, nothing at all. He turned over and went down into the deep seas. And the wind from the sea was so strong that the old man could hardly stand against it. For a long time he waited, afraid to go home; but at last the storm calmed, and it grew towards evening, and he hobbled back, thinking to creep in and hide amongst the straw.

As he came near, he listened for the trumpets and the drums. He heard nothing except the wind from the sea rustling the little leaves of birch trees. He looked for the palace. It was gone, and where it had been was a little tumbledown hut of earth and logs. It seemed to the old fisherman that he knew the little hut, and he looked at it with joy. And he went to the door of the hut, and there was sitting his old woman in a ragged dress, cleaning out a saucepan, and singing in a creaky old voice. And this time she was glad to see him, and they sat down together on the bench and drank tea without sugar, because they had not any money.

They began to live again as they used to live, and the old man grew happier every day. He fished and fished, and many were the fish that he caught, and of many kinds; but never again did he catch another golden fish that could talk like a human being. I doubt whether he would have said anything to his wife about it, even if he had caught one every day.


"What a horrid old woman!" said Maroosia.

"I wonder the old fisherman forgave her," said Ivan.

"I think he might have beaten her a little," said Maroosia. "she deserved it."

"Well," said old Peter, "supposing we could have everything we wanted for the asking, I wonder how it would be. Perhaps God knew what He was doing when He made those golden fishes rare."

"Are there really any of them?" asked Vanya.

"Well, there was once one, anyhow," said old Peter; and then he rolled his nets neatly together, hung them on the fence, and went into the hut to make the dinner. And Vanya and Maroosia went in with him to help him as much as they could; though Vanya was wondering all the time whether he could make a net, and throw it in the little river where old Peter fished, and perhaps pull out a golden fish that would speak to him with the voice of a human being.




Who Lived In The Skull?


Once upon a time a horse's skull lay on the open plain. It had been picked clean by the ants, and shone white in the sunlight.

Little Burrowing Mouse came along, twirling his whiskers and looking at the world. He saw the white skull, and thought it was as good as a palace. He stood up in front of it and called out, -- 

"Little house, little house! Who lives in the little house?"

No one answered, for there was no one inside.

"I will live there myself," says little Burrowing Mouse, and in he went, and set up house in the horse's skull.

Croaking Frog came along, a jump, three long strides, and a jump again.

"Little house, little house! Who lives in the little house?"

"I am Burrowing Mouse; who are you?"

"I am Croaking Frog."

"Come in and make yourself at home."

So the frog went in, and they began to live, the two of them together.

Hare Hide-in-the-Hill came running by.

"Little house, little house! Who lives in the little house?"

"Burrowing Mouse and Croaking Frog. Who are you?"

"I am Hare Hide-in-the-Hill."

"Come along in."

So the hare put his ears down and went in, and they began to live, the three of them together.

Then the fox came running by.

"Little house, little house! Who lives in the little house?"

"Burrowing Mouse and Croaking Frog and Hare Hide-in-the-Hill. Who are you?"

"I am Fox Run-about-Everywhere."

"Come along in; we've room for you."

So the fox went in, and they began to live, the four of them together.

Then the wolf came prowling by, and saw the skull.

"Little house, little house! Who lives in the little house?"

"Burrowing Mouse, and Croaking Frog, and Hare Hide-in-the-Hill, and Fox Run-about-Every-where. Who are you?"

"I am Wolf Leap-out-of-the-Bushes."

"Come in then."

So the wolf went in, and they began to live, the five of them together.

And then there came along the Bear. He was very slow and very heavy.

"Little house, little house! Who lives in the little house?"

"Burrowing Mouse, and Croaking Frog, and Hare Hide-in-the-Hill, and Fox Run-about-Every-where, and Wolf Leap-out-of-the-Bushes. Who are you?"

"I am Bear Squash-the-Lot."

And the Bear sat down on the horse's skull, and squashed the whole lot of them.


The way to tell that story is to make one hand the skull, and the fingers and thumb of the other hand the animals that go in one by one. At least that was the way old Peter told it; and when it came to the end, and the Bear came along, why, the Bear was old Peter himself, who squashed both little hands, and Vanya or Maroosia, whichever it was, all together in one big hug.




Alenoushka And Her Brother.


Once upon a time there were two orphan children, a little boy and a little girl. Their father and mother were dead, and they had not even an old grandfather to spend his time in telling them stories. They were alone. The little boy was called Vanoushka,[3] and the little girl's name was Alenoushka.[3]

They set out together to walk through the whole of the great wide world. It was a long journey they set out on, and they did not think of any end to it, but only of moving on and on, and never stopping long enough in one place to be unhappy there.

[Footnote 3: That means that they were called Ivan and Elena. Vanoushka and Alenoushka are affectionate forms of these names.]

They were travelling one day over a broad plain, padding along on their little bare feet. There were no trees on the plain, no bushes; open flat country as far as you could see, and the great sun up in the sky burning the grass and making their throats dry, and the sandy ground so hot that they could scarcely bear to set their feet on it. All day from early morning they had been walking, and the heat grew greater and greater towards noon.

"Oh," said little Vanoushka, "my throat is so dry. I want a drink. I must have a drink -- just a little drink of cool water."

"We must go on," said Alenoushka, "till we come to a well. Then we will drink."

They went on along the track, with their eyes burning and their throats as dry as sand on a stove.

But presently Vanoushka cried out joyfully. He saw a horse's hoofmark in the ground. And it was full of water, like a little well.

"Sister, sister," says he, "the horse has made a little well for me with his great hoof, and now we can have a drink; and oh, but I am thirsty!"

"Not yet, brother," says Alenoushka. "If you drink from the hoofmark of a horse, you will turn into a little foal, and that would never do."

"I am so very thirsty," says Vanoushka; but he did as his sister told him, and they walked on together under the burning sun.

A little farther on Vanoushka saw the hoofmark of a cow, and there was water in it glittering in the sun.

"Sister, sister," says Vanoushka, "the cow has made a little well for me, and now I can have a drink."

"Not yet, brother," says Alenoushka. "If you drink from the hoofmark of a cow, you will turn into a little calf, and that would never do. We must go on till we come to a well. There we will drink and rest ourselves. There will be trees by the well, and shadows, and we will lie down there by the quiet water and cool our hands and feet, and perhaps our eyes will stop burning."

So they went on farther along the track that scorched the bare soles of their feet, and under the sun that burned their heads and their little bare necks. The sun was high in the sky above them, and it seemed to Vanoushka that they would never come to the well.

But when they had walked on and on, and he was nearly crying with thirst, only that the sun had dried up all his tears and burnt them before they had time to come into his eyes, he saw another footprint. It was quite a tiny footprint, divided in the middle -- the footprint of a sheep; and in it was a little drop of clear water, sparkling in the sun. He said nothing to his sister, nothing at all. But he went down on his hands and knees and drank that water, that little drop of clear water, to cool his burning throat. And he had no sooner drunk it than he had turned into a little lamb...

"A little white lamb," said Maroosia.

"With a black nose," said Vanya.

A little lamb, said old Peter, a little lamb who ran round and round Alenoushka, frisking and leaping, with its little tail tossing in the air.

Alenoushka looked round for her brother, but could not see him. But there was the little lamb, leaping round her, trying to lick her face, and there in the ground was the print left by the sheep's foot.

She guessed at once what had happened, and burst into tears. There was a hayrick close by, and under the hayrick Alenoushka sat down and wept. The little lamb, seeing her so sad, stood gravely in front of her; but not for long, for he was a little lamb, and he could not help himself. However sad he felt, he had to leap and frisk in the sun, and toss his little white tail.

Presently a fine gentleman came riding by on his big black horse. He stopped when he came to the hayrick. He was very much surprised at seeing a beautiful little girl sitting there, crying her eyes out, while a white lamb frisked this way and that, and played before her, and now and then ran up to her and licked the tears from her face with its little pink tongue.

"What is your name," says the fine gentleman, "and why are you in trouble? Perhaps I may be able to help you."

"My name is Alenoushka, and this is my little brother Vanoushka, whom I love." And she told him the whole story.

"Well, I can hardly believe all that," says the fine gentleman, "But come with me, and I will dress you in fine clothes, and set silver ornaments in your hair, and bracelets of gold on your little brown wrists. And as for the lamb, he shall come too, if you love him. Wherever you are there he shall be, and you shall never be parted from him."

And so Alenoushka took her little brother in her arms, and the fine gentleman lifted them up before him on the big black horse, and galloped home with them across the plain to his big house not far from the river. And when he got home he made a feast and married Alenoushka, and they lived together so happily that good people rejoiced to see them, and bad ones were jealous. And the little lamb lived in the house, and never grew any bigger, but always frisked and played, and followed Alenoushka wherever she went.

And then one day, when the fine gentleman had ridden far away to the town to buy a new bracelet for Alenoushka, there came an old witch. Ugly she was, with only one tooth in her head, and wicked as ever went about the world doing evil to decent folk. She begged from Alenoushka, and said she was hungry, and Alenoushka begged her to share her dinner. And she put a spell in the wine that Alenoushka drank, so that Alenoushka fell ill, and before evening, when the fine gentleman came riding back, had become pale, pale as snow, and as thin as an old stick.

"My dear," says the fine gentleman, "what is the matter with you?"

"Perhaps I shall be better to-morrow," says Alenoushka.

Well, the next day the gentleman rode into the fields, and the old hag came again while he was out.

"Would you like me to cure you?" says she. "I know a way to make you as well as ever you were. Plump you will be, and pretty again, before your husband comes riding home."

"And what must I do?" says Alenoushka, crying to think herself so ugly.

"You must go to the river and bathe this afternoon," says the old witch. "I will be there and put a spell on the water. Secretly you must go, for if any one knows whither you have gone my spell will not work."

So Alenoushka wrapped a shawl about her head, and slipped out of the house and went to the river. Only the little lamb, Vanoushka, knew where she had gone. He followed her, leaping about, and tossing his little white tail. The old witch was waiting for her. She sprang out of the bushes by the riverside, and seized Alenoushka, and tore off her pretty white dress, and fastened a heavy stone about her neck, and threw her from the bank into a deep place, so that she sank to the bottom of the river. Then the old witch, the wicked hag, put on Alenoushka's pretty white dress, and cast a spell, and made herself so like Alenoushka to look at that nobody could tell the difference. Only the little lamb had seen everything that had happened.

The fine gentleman came riding home in the evening, and he rejoiced when he saw his dear Alenoushka well again, with plump pink cheeks, and a smile on her rosy lips.

But the little lamb knew everything. He was sad and melancholy, and would not eat, and went every morning and every evening to the river, and there wandered about the banks, and cried, "Baa, baa," and was answered by the sighing of the wind in the long reeds.

The witch saw that the lamb went off by himself every morning and every evening. She watched where he went, and when she knew she began to hate the lamb; and she gave orders for the sticks to be cut, and the iron cauldron to be heated, and the steel knives made sharp. She sent a servant to catch the lamb; and she said to the fine gentleman, who thought all the time that she was Alenoushka, "It is time for the lamb to be killed, and made into a tasty stew."

The fine gentleman was astonished.

"What," says he, "you want to have the lamb killed? Why, you called it your brother when first I found you by the hayrick in the plain. You were always giving it caresses and sweet words. You loved it so much that I was sick of the sight of it, and now you give orders for its throat to be cut. Truly," says he, "the mind of woman is like the wind in summer."

The lamb ran away when he saw that the servant had come to catch him. He heard the sharpening of the knives, and had seen the cutting of the wood, and the great cauldron taken from its place. He was frightened, and he ran away, and came to the river bank, where the wind was sighing through the tall reeds. And there he sang a farewell song to his sister, thinking he had not long to live. The servant followed the lamb cunningly, and crept near to catch him, and heard his little song. This is what he sang: -- 

"Alenoushka, little sister, They are going to slaughter me; They are cutting wooden fagots, They are heating iron cauldrons, They are sharpening knives of steel."

And Alenoushka, lamenting, answered the lamb from the bottom of the river: -- 

"O my brother Ivanoushka, A heavy stone is round my throat, Silken grass grows through my fingers, Yellow sand lies on my breast."

The servant listened, and marvelled at the miracle of the lamb singing, and the sweet voice answering him from the river. He crept away quietly, and came to the fine gentleman, and told him what he had heard; and they set out together to the river, to watch the lamb, and listen, and see what was happening.

The little white lamb stood on the bank of the river weeping, so that his tears fell into the water. And presently he sang again: -- 

"Alenoushka, little sister, They are going to slaughter me; They are cutting wooden fagots, They are heating iron cauldrons, They are sharpening knives of steel."

And Alenoushka answered him, lamenting, from the bottom of the river: -- 

"O my brother Ivanoushka, A heavy stone is round my throat, Silken grass grows through my fingers, Yellow sand lies on my breast."

The fine gentleman heard, and he was sure that the voice was the voice of his own dear wife, and he remembered how she had loved the lamb. He sent his servant to fetch men, and fishing nets and nets of silk. The men came running, and they dragged the river with fishing nets, and brought their nets empty to land. Then they tried with nets of fine silk, and, as they drew them in, there was Alenoushka lying in the nets as if she were asleep.

They brought her to the bank and untied the stone from her white neck, and washed her in fresh water and clothed her in white clothes. But they had no sooner done all this than she woke up, more beautiful than ever she had been before, though then she was pretty enough, God knows. She woke, and sprang up, and threw her arms round the neck of the little white lamb, who suddenly became once more her little brother Vanoushka, who had been so thirsty as to drink water from the hoofmark of a sheep. And Vanoushka laughed and shouted in the sunshine, and the fine gentleman wept tears of joy. And they all praised God and kissed each other, and went home together, and began to live as happily as before, even more happily, because Vanoushka was no longer a lamb. But as soon as they got home the fine gentleman turned the old witch out of the house. And she became an ugly old hag, and went away to the deep woods, shrieking as she went.

"And did she ever come back again?" asked Ivan.

"No, she never came back again," said old Peter. "Once was enough."

"And what happened to Vanoushka when he grew up?"

"He grew up as handsome as Alenoushka was pretty. And he became a great hunter. And he married the sister of the fine gentleman. And they all lived happily together, and ate honey every day, with white bread and new milk."




The Fire-Bird, The Horse Of Power, And The Princess Vasilissa.


Once upon a time a strong and powerful Tzar ruled in a country far away. And among his servants was a young archer, and this archer had a horse -- a horse of power -- such a horse as belonged to the wonderful men of long ago -- a great horse with a broad chest, eyes like fire, and hoofs of iron. There are no such horses nowadays. They sleep with the strong men who rode them, the bogatirs, until the time comes when Russia has need of them. Then the great horses will thunder up from under the ground, and the valiant men leap from the graves in the armour they have worn so long. The strong men will sit those horses of power, and there will be swinging of clubs and thunder of hoofs, and the earth will be swept clean from the enemies of God and the Tzar. So my grandfather used to say, and he was as much older than I as I am older than you, little ones, and so he should know.

Well, one day long ago, in the green time of the year, the young archer rode through the forest on his horse of power. The trees were green; there were little blue flowers on the ground under the trees; the squirrels ran in the branches, and the hares in the undergrowth; but no birds sang. The young archer rode along the forest path and listened for the singing of the birds, but there was no singing. The forest was silent, and the only noises in it were the scratching of four-footed beasts, the dropping of fir cones, and the heavy stamping of the horse of power in the soft path.

"What has come to the birds?" said the young archer.

He had scarcely said this before he saw a big curving feather lying in the path before him. The feather was larger than a swan's, larger than an eagle's. It lay in the path, glittering like a flame; for the sun was on it, and it was a feather of pure gold. Then he knew why there was no singing in the forest. For he knew that the fire-bird had flown that way, and that the feather in the path before him was a feather from its burning breast.

The horse of power spoke and said, -- 

"Leave the golden feather where it lies. If you take it you will be sorry for it, and know the meaning of fear."

But the brave young archer sat on the horse of power and looked at the golden feather, and wondered whether to take it or not. He had no wish to learn what it was to be afraid, but he thought, "If I take it and bring it to the Tzar my master, he will be pleased; and he will not send me away with empty hands, for no Tzar in the world has a feather from the burning breast of the fire-bird." And the more he thought, the more he wanted to carry the feather to the Tzar. And in the end he did not listen to the words of the horse of power. He leapt from the saddle, picked up the golden feather of the fire-bird, mounted his horse again, and galloped back through the green forest till he came to the palace of the Tzar.

He went into the palace, and bowed before the Tzar and said, -- 

"O Tzar, I have brought you a feather of the fire-bird."

The Tzar looked gladly at the feather, and then at the young archer.

"Thank you," says he; "but if you have brought me a feather of the fire-bird, you will be able to bring me the bird itself. I should like to see it. A feather is not a fit gift to bring to the Tzar. Bring the bird itself, or, I swear by my sword, your head shall no longer sit between your shoulders!"

The young archer bowed his head and went out. Bitterly he wept, for he knew now what it was to be afraid. He went out into the courtyard, where the horse of power was waiting for him, tossing its head and stamping on the ground.

"Master," says the horse of power, "why do you weep?"

"The Tzar has told me to bring him the fire-bird, and no man on earth can do that," says the young archer, and he bowed his head on his breast.

"I told you," says the horse of power, "that if you took the feather you would learn the meaning of fear. Well, do not be frightened yet, and do not weep. The trouble is not now; the trouble lies before you. Go to the Tzar and ask him to have a hundred sacks of maize scattered over the open field, and let this be done at midnight."

The young archer went back into the palace and begged the Tzar for this, and the Tzar ordered that at midnight a hundred sacks of maize should be scattered in the open field.

Next morning, at the first redness in the sky, the young archer rode out on the horse of power, and came to the open field. The ground was scattered all over with maize. In the middle of the field stood a great oak with spreading boughs. The young archer leapt to the ground, took off the saddle, and let the horse of power loose to wander as he pleased about the field. Then he climbed up into the oak and hid himself among the green boughs.

The sky grew red and gold, and the sun rose. Suddenly there was a noise in the forest round the field. The trees shook and swayed, and almost fell. There was a mighty wind. The sea piled itself into waves with crests of foam, and the fire-bird came flying from the other side of the world. Huge and golden and flaming in the sun, it flew, dropped down with open wings into the field, and began to eat the maize.

The horse of power wandered in the field. This way he went, and that, but always he came a little nearer to the fire-bird. Nearer and nearer came the horse. He came close up to the fire-bird, and then suddenly stepped on one of its spreading fiery wings and pressed it heavily to the ground. The bird struggled, flapping mightily with its fiery wings, but it could not get away. The young archer slipped down from the tree, bound the fire-bird with three strong ropes, swung it on his back, saddled the horse, and rode to the palace of the Tzar.

The young archer stood before the Tzar, and his back was bent under the great weight of the fire-bird, and the broad wings of the bird hung on either side of him like fiery shields, and there was a trail of golden feathers on the floor. The young archer swung the magic bird to the foot of the throne before the Tzar; and the Tzar was glad, because since the beginning of the world no Tzar had seen the fire-bird flung before him like a wild duck caught in a snare.

The Tzar looked at the fire-bird and laughed with pride. Then he lifted his eyes and looked at the young archer, and says he, -- 

"As you have known how to take the fire-bird, you will know how to bring me my bride, for whom I have long been waiting. In the land of Never, on the very edge of the world, where the red sun rises in flame from behind the sea, lives the Princess Vasilissa. I will marry none but her. Bring her to me, and I will reward you with silver and gold. But if you do not bring her, then, by my sword, your head will no longer sit between your shoulders!"

The young archer wept bitter tears, and went out into the courtyard, where the horse of power was, stamping the ground with its hoofs of iron and tossing its thick mane.

"Master, why do you weep?" asked the horse of power.

"The Tzar has ordered me to go to the land of Never, and to bring back the Princess Vasilissa."

"Do not weep -- do not grieve. The trouble is not yet; the trouble is to come. Go to the Tzar and ask him for a silver tent with a golden roof, and for all kinds of food and drink to take with us on the journey."

The young archer went in and asked the Tzar for this, and the Tzar gave him a silver tent with silver hangings and a gold-embroidered roof, and every kind of rich wine and the tastiest of foods.

Then the young archer mounted the horse of power and rode off to the land of Never. On and on he rode, many days and nights, and came at last to the edge of the world, where the red sun rises in flame from behind the deep blue sea.

On the shore of the sea the young archer reined in the horse of power, and the heavy hoofs of the horse sank in the sand. He shaded his eyes and looked out over the blue water, and there was the Princess Vasilissa in a little silver boat, rowing with golden oars.

The young archer rode back a little way to where the sand ended and the green world began. There he loosed the horse to wander where he pleased, and to feed on the green grass. Then on the edge of the shore, where the green grass ended and grew thin and the sand began, he set up the shining tent, with its silver hangings and its gold embroidered roof. In the tent he set out the tasty dishes and the rich flagons of wine which the Tzar had given him, and he sat himself down in the tent and began to regale himself, while he waited for the Princess Vasilissa.

The Princess Vasilissa dipped her golden oars in the blue water, and the little silver boat moved lightly through the dancing waves. She sat in the little boat and looked over the blue sea to the edge of the world, and there, between the golden sand and the green earth, she saw the tent standing, silver and gold in the sun. She dipped her oars, and came nearer to see it the better. The nearer she came the fairer seemed the tent, and at last she rowed to the shore and grounded her little boat on the golden sand, and stepped out daintily and came up to the tent. She was a little frightened, and now and again she stopped and looked back to where the silver boat lay on the sand with the blue sea beyond it. The young archer said not a word, but went on regaling himself on the pleasant dishes he had set out there in the tent.

At last the Princess Vasilissa came up to the tent and looked in.

The young archer rose and bowed before her. Says he, -- 

"Good-day to you, Princess! Be so kind as to come in and take bread and salt with me, and taste my foreign wines."

And the Princess Vasilissa came into the tent and sat down with the young archer, and ate sweetmeats with him, and drank his health in a golden goblet of the wine the Tzar had given him. Now this wine was heavy, and the last drop from the goblet had no sooner trickled down her little slender throat than her eyes closed against her will, once, twice, and again.

"Ah me!" says the Princess, "it is as if the night itself had perched on my eyelids, and yet it is but noon."

And the golden goblet dropped to the ground from her little fingers, and she leant back on a cushion and fell instantly asleep. If she had been beautiful before, she was lovelier still when she lay in that deep sleep in the shadow of the tent.

Quickly the young archer called to the horse of power. Lightly he lifted the Princess in his strong young arms. Swiftly he leapt with her into the saddle. Like a feather she lay in the hollow of his left arm, and slept while the iron hoofs of the great horse thundered over the ground.

They came to the Tzar's palace, and the young archer leapt from the horse of power and carried the Princess into the palace. Great was the joy of the Tzar; but it did not last for long.

"Go, sound the trumpets for our wedding," he said to his servants; "let all the bells be rung."

The bells rang out and the trumpets sounded, and at the noise of the horns and the ringing of the bells the Princess Vasilissa woke up and looked about her.

"What is this ringing of bells," says she, "and this noise of trumpets? And where, oh, where is the blue sea, and my little silver boat with its golden oars?" And the Princess put her hand to her eyes.

"The blue sea is far away," says the Tzar, "and for your little silver boat I give you a golden throne. The trumpets sound for our wedding, and the bells are ringing for our joy."

But the Princess turned her face away from the Tzar; and there was no wonder in that, for he was old, and his eyes were not kind.

And she looked with love at the young archer; and there was no wonder in that either, for he was a young man fit to ride the horse of power.

The Tzar was angry with the Princess Vasilissa, but his anger was as useless as his joy.

"Why, Princess," says he, "will you not marry me, and forget your blue sea and your silver boat?"

"In the middle of the deep blue sea lies a great stone," says the Princess, "and under that stone is hidden my wedding dress. If I cannot wear that dress I will marry nobody at all."

Instantly the Tzar turned to the young archer, who was waiting before the throne.

"Ride swiftly back," says he, "to the land of Never, where the red sun rises in flame. There -- do you hear what the Princess says? -- a great stone lies in the middle of the sea. Under that stone is hidden her wedding dress. Ride swiftly. Bring back that dress, or, by my sword, your head shall no longer sit between your shoulders!"

The young archer wept bitter tears, and went out into the courtyard, where the horse of power was waiting for him, champing its golden bit.

"There is no way of escaping death this time," he said.

"Master, why do you weep?" asked the horse of power.

"The Tzar has ordered me to ride to the land of Never, to fetch the wedding dress of the Princess Vasilissa from the bottom of the deep blue sea. Besides, the dress is wanted for the Tzar's wedding, and I love the Princess myself."

"What did I tell you?" says the horse of power. "I told you that there would be trouble if you picked up the golden feather from the fire-bird's burning breast. Well, do not be afraid. The trouble is not yet; the trouble is to come. Up! into the saddle with you, and away for the wedding dress of the Princess Vasilissa!"

The young archer leapt into the saddle, and the horse of power, with his thundering hoofs, carried him swiftly through the green forests and over the bare plains, till they came to the edge of the world, to the land of Never, where the red sun rises in flame from behind the deep blue sea. There they rested, at the very edge of the sea.

The young archer looked sadly over the wide waters, but the horse of power tossed its mane and did not look at the sea, but on the shore. This way and that it looked, and saw at last a huge lobster moving slowly, sideways, along the golden sand.

Nearer and nearer came the lobster, and it was a giant among lobsters, the Tzar of all the lobsters; and it moved slowly along the shore, while the horse of power moved carefully and as if by accident, until it stood between the lobster and the sea. Then, when the lobster came close by, the horse of power lifted an iron hoof and set it firmly on the lobster's tail.

"You will be the death of me!" screamed the lobster -- as well he might, with the heavy foot of the horse of power pressing his tail into the sand. "Let me live, and I will do whatever you ask of me."

"Very well," says the horse of power; "we will let you live," and he slowly lifted his foot. "But this is what you shall do for us. In the middle of the blue sea lies a great stone, and under that stone is hidden the wedding dress of the Princess Vasilissa. Bring it here."

The lobster groaned with the pain in his tail. Then he cried out in a voice that could be heard all over the deep blue sea. And the sea was disturbed, and from all sides lobsters in thousands made their way towards the bank. And the huge lobster that was the oldest of them all and the Tzar of all the lobsters that live between the rising and the setting of the sun, gave them the order and sent them back into the sea. And the young archer sat on the horse of power and waited.

After a little time the sea was disturbed again, and the lobsters in their thousands came to the shore, and with them they brought a golden casket in which was the wedding dress of the Princess Vasilissa. They had taken it from under the great stone that lay in the middle of the sea.

The Tzar of all the lobsters raised himself painfully on his bruised tail and gave the casket into the hands of the young archer, and instantly the horse of power turned himself about and galloped back to the palace of the Tzar, far, far away, at the other side of the green forests and beyond the treeless plains.

The young archer went into the palace and gave the casket into the hands of the Princess, and looked at her with sadness in his eyes, and she looked at him with love. Then she went away into an inner chamber, and came back in her wedding dress, fairer than the spring itself. Great was the joy of the Tzar. The wedding feast was made ready, and the bells rang, and flags waved above the palace.

The Tzar held out his hand to the Princess, and looked at her with his old eyes. But she would not take his hand.

"No," says she; "I will marry nobody until the man who brought me here has done penance in boiling water."

Instantly the Tzar turned to his servants and ordered them to make a great fire, and to fill a great cauldron with water and set it on the fire, and, when the water should be at its hottest, to take the young archer and throw him into it, to do penance for having taken the Princess Vasilissa away from the land of Never.

There was no gratitude in the mind of that Tzar.

Swiftly the servants brought wood and made a mighty fire, and on it they laid a huge cauldron of water, and built the fire round the walls of the cauldron. The fire burned hot and the water steamed. The fire burned hotter, and the water bubbled and seethed. They made ready to take the young archer, to throw him into the cauldron.

"Oh, misery!" thought the young archer. "Why did I ever take the golden feather that had fallen from the fire-bird's burning breast? Why did I not listen to the wise words of the horse of power?" And he remembered the horse of power, and he begged the Tzar, -- 

"O lord Tzar, I do not complain. I shall presently die in the heat of the water on the fire. Suffer me, before I die, once more to see my horse."

"Let him see his horse," says the Princess.

"Very well," says the Tzar. "Say good-bye to your horse, for you will not ride him again. But let your farewells be short, for we are waiting."

The young archer crossed the courtyard and came to the horse of power, who was scraping the ground with his iron hoofs.

"Farewell, my horse of power," says the young archer. "I should have listened to your words of wisdom, for now the end is come, and we shall never more see the green trees pass above us and the ground disappear beneath us, as we race the wind between the earth and the sky."

"Why so?" says the horse of power.

"The Tzar has ordered that I am to be boiled to death -- thrown into that cauldron that is seething on the great fire."

"Fear not," says the horse of power, "for the Princess Vasilissa has made him do this, and the end of these things is better than I thought. Go back, and when they are ready to throw you in the cauldron, do you run boldly and leap yourself into the boiling water."

The young archer went back across the courtyard, and the servants made ready to throw him into the cauldron.

"Are you sure that the water is boiling?" says the Princess Vasilissa.

"It bubbles and seethes," said the servants.

"Let me see for myself," says the Princess, and she went to the fire and waved her hand above the cauldron. And some say there was something in her hand, and some say there was not.

"It is boiling," says she, and the servants laid hands on the young archer; but he threw them from him, and ran and leapt boldly before them all into the very middle of the cauldron.

Twice he sank below the surface, borne round with the bubbles and foam of the boiling water. Then he leapt from the cauldron and stood before the Tzar and the Princess. He had become so beautiful a youth that all who saw cried aloud in wonder.

"This is a miracle," says the Tzar. And the Tzar looked at the beautiful young archer, and thought of himself -- of his age, of his bent back, and his gray beard, and his toothless gums. "I too will become beautiful," thinks he, and he rose from his throne and clambered into the cauldron, and was boiled to death in a moment.

And the end of the story? They buried the Tzar, and made the young archer Tzar in his place. He married the Princess Vasilissa, and lived many years with her in love and good fellowship. And he built a golden stable for the horse of power, and never forgot what he owed to him.




The Hunter And His Wife.


It sometimes happened that the two children asked too many questions even for old Peter, though he was the kindest old Russian peasant who ever was a grandfather. Sometimes he was busy; sometimes he was tired, and really could not think of the right answer; sometimes he did not know the right answer. And once, when Vanya asked him why the sun was hot, and his sister Maroosia went on and on asking if the sun was a fire, who lit it? and if it was burning, why didn't it burn out? old Peter grumbled that he would not answer any more.

For a moment the two children were quiet, and then Maroosia asked one more question.

Old Peter looked up from the net he was mending. "Maroosia, my dear," he said, "you had better watch the tip of your tongue, or perhaps, when you are grown up and have a husband, the same thing will happen to you that happened to the wife of the huntsman who saw a snake in a burning wood-pile."

"Oh, tell us what happened to her!" said Maroosia.

"That is another question," said old Peter; "but I'll tell you, and then perhaps you won't ask any more, and will give my old head a rest."

And then he told them the story of the hunter and his wife.

Once upon a time there was a hunter who went out into the forest to shoot game. He had a wife and two dogs. His wife was for ever asking questions, so that he was glad to get away from her into the forest. And she did not like dogs, and said they were always bringing dirt into the house with their muddy paws. So that the dogs were glad to get away into the forest with the hunter.

One day the hunter and the two dogs wandered all day through the deep woods, and never got a sight of a bird; no, they never even saw a hare. All day long they wandered on and saw nothing. The hunter had not fired a cartridge. He did not want to go home and have to answer his wife's questions about why he had an empty bag, so he went deeper and deeper into the thick forest. And suddenly, as it grew towards evening, the sharp smell of burning wood floated through the trees, and the hunter, looking about him, saw the flickering of a fire. He made his way towards it, and found a clearing in the forest, and a wood pile in the middle of it, and it was burning so fiercely that he could scarcely come near it.

And this was the marvel, that in the middle of the blazing timbers was sitting a great snake, curled round and round upon itself and waving its head above the flames.

As soon as it saw the hunter it called out, in a loud hissing voice, to come near.

He went as near as he could, shading his face from the heat.

"My good man," says the snake, "pull me out of the fire, and you shall understand the talk of the beasts and the songs of the birds."

"I'll be happy to help you," says the hunter, "but how? for the flames are so hot that I cannot reach you."

"Put the barrel of your gun into the fire, and I'll crawl out along it."

The hunter put the barrel of his long gun into the flames, and instantly the snake wound itself about it, and so escaped out of the fire.

"Thank you, my good man," says the snake; "you shall know henceforward the language of all living things. But one thing you must remember. You must not tell any one of this, for if you tell you will die the death; and man only dies once, and that will be an end of your life and your knowledge."

Then the snake slipped off along the ground, and almost before the hunter knew it was going, it was gone, and he never saw it again.

Well, he went on with the two dogs, looking for something to shoot at; and when the dark night fell he was still far from home, away in the deep forest.

"I am tired," he thought, "and perhaps there will be birds stirring in the early morning. I will sleep the night here, and try my luck at sunrise."

He made a fire of twigs and broken branches, and lay down beside it, together with his dogs. He had scarcely lain down to sleep when he heard the dogs talking together and calling each other "Brother." He understood every word they said.

"Well, brother," says the first, "you sleep here and look after our master, while I run home to look after the house and yard. It will soon be one o'clock, and when the master is away that is the time for thieves."

"Off with you, brother, and God be with you," says the second.

And the hunter heard the first dog go bounding away through the undergrowth, while the second lay still, with its head between its paws, watching its master blinking at the fire.

Early in the morning the hunter was awakened by the noise of the dog pushing through the brushwood on its way back. He heard how the dogs greeted each other.

"Well, and how are you, brother?" says the first.

"Finely," says the second; "and how's yourself?"

"Finely too. Did the night pass well?"

"Well enough, thanks be to God. But with you, brother? How was it at home?"

"Oh, badly. I ran home, and the mistress, when she sees me, sings out, 'What the devil are you doing here without your master? Well, there's your supper;' and she threw me a crust of bread, burnt to a black cinder. I snuffed it and snuffed it, but as for eating it, it was burnt through. No dog alive could have made a meal of it. And with that she ups with a poker and beats me. Brother, she counted all my ribs and nearly broke each one of them. But at night, later on -- just as I thought -- thieves came into the yard, and were going to clear out the barn and the larder. But I let loose such a howl, and leapt upon them so vicious and angry, that they had little thought to spare for other people's goods, and had all they could do to get away whole themselves. And so I spent the night."

The hunter heard all that the dogs said, and kept it in mind. "Wait a bit, my good woman," says he, "and see what I have to say to you when I get home."

That morning his luck was good, and he came home with a couple of hares and three or four woodcock.

"Good-day, mistress," says he to his wife, who was standing in the doorway.

"Good-day, master," says she.

"Last night one of the dogs came home."

"It did," says she.

"And how did you feed it?"

"Feed it, my love?" says she. "I gave it a whole basin of milk, and crumbled a loaf of bread for it."

"You lie, you old witch," says the hunter; "you gave it nothing but a burnt crust, and you beat it with the poker."

The old woman was so surprised that she let the truth out of her mouth before she knew. She says to her husband, "How on earth did you know all that?"

"I won't tell you," says the hunter.

"Tell me, tell me," begs the old woman, just like Maroosia when she wants to know too much.

"I can't tell you," says the hunter; "it's forbidden me to tell."

"Tell me, dear one," says she.

"Truly, I can't."

"Tell me, my little pigeon."

"If I tell you I shall die the death."

"Rubbish, my dearest; only tell me."

"But I shall die."

"Just tell me that one little thing. You won't die for that."

And so she bothered him and bothered him, until he thought, "There's nothing to be done if a woman sets her mind on a thing. I'd better die and get it over at once."

So he put on a clean white shirt, and lay down on the bench in the corner, under the sacred images, and made all ready for his death; and was just going to tell his wife the whole truth about the snake and the wood-pile, and how he knew the language of all living things. But just then there was a great clucking in the yard, and some of the hens ran into the cottage, and after them came the cock, scolding first one and then another, and boasting, -- 

"That's the way to deal with you," says the cock; and the hunter, lying there in his white shirt, ready to die, heard and understood every word, "Yes," says the cock, as he drove the hens about the room, "you see I am not such a fool as our master here, who does not know how to keep a single wife in order. Why, I have thirty of you and more, and the whole lot hear from me sharp enough if they do not do as I say."

As soon as the hunter heard this he made up his mind to be a fool no longer. He jumped up from the bench, and took his whip and gave his wife such a beating that she never asked him another question to this day. And she has never yet learnt how it was that he knew what she did in the hut while he was away in the forest.


"Yes," said Maroosia, "but then she was a bad woman; and besides, my husband would never call me an old witch."

"Old witch!" said Vanya, and bolted out of the hut with Maroosia after him; and so old Peter was left in peace.




The Three Men Of Power -- Evening, Midnight, And Sunrise.


Long ago there lived a King, and he had three daughters, the loveliest in all the world. He loved them so well that he built a palace for them underground, lest the rough winds should blow on them or the red sun scorch their delicate faces. A wonderful palace it was, down there underground, with fountains and courts, and lamps burning, and precious stones glittering in the light of the lamps. And the three lovely princesses grew up in that palace underground, and knew no other light but that of the coloured lanterns, and had never seen the broad world that lies open under the sun by day and under the stars by night. Indeed, they did not know that there was a world outside those glittering walls, above that shining ceiling, carved and gilded and set with precious stones.

But it so happened that among the books that were given them to read was one in which was written of the world: how the sun shines in the sky; how trees grow green; how the grass waves in the wind and the leaves whisper together; how the rivers flow between their green banks and through the flowery meadows, until they come to the blue sea that joins the earth and the sky. They read in that book of white-walled towns, of churches with gilded and painted domes, of the brown wooden huts of the peasants, of the great forests, of the ships on the rivers, and of the long roads with the folk moving on them, this way and that, about the world.

And when the King came to see them, as he was used to do, they asked him, -- 

"Father, is it true that there is a garden in the world?"

"Yes," said the King.

"And green grass?"

"Yes," said the King.

"And little shining flowers?"

"Why, yes," said the King, wondering and stroking his silver beard.

And the three lovely princesses all begged him at once, -- 

"Oh, your Majesty, our own little father, whom, we love, let us out to see this world. Let us out just so that we may see this garden, and walk in it on the green grass, and see the shining flowers."

The King turned his head away and tried not to listen to them. But what could he do? They were the loveliest princesses in the world, and when they begged him just to let them walk in the garden he could see the tears in their eyes. And after all, he thought, there were high walls to the garden.

So he called up his army, and set soldiers all round the garden, and a hundred soldiers to each gate, so that no one should come in. And then he let the princesses come up from their underground palace, and step out into the sunshine in the garden, with ten nurses and maids to each princess to see that no harm came to her.

The princesses stepped out into the garden, under the blue sky, shading their eyes at first because they had never before been in the golden sunlight. Soon they were taking hands, and running this way and that along the garden paths and over the green grass, and gathering posies of shining flowers to set in their girdles and to shame their golden crowns. And the King sat and watched them with love in his eyes, and was glad to see how happy they were. And after all, he thought, what with the high walls and the soldiers standing to arms, nothing could get in to hurt them.

But just as he had quieted his old heart a strong whirlwind came down out of the blue sky, tearing up trees and throwing them aside, and lifting the roofs from the houses. But it did not touch the palace roofs, shining green in the sunlight, and it plucked no trees from the garden. It raged this way and that, and then with its swift whirling arms it caught up the three lovely princesses, and carried them up into the air, over the high walls and over the heads of the guarding soldiers. For a moment the King saw them, his daughters, the three lovely princesses, spinning round and round, as if they were dancing in the sky. A moment later they were no more than little whirling specks, like dust in the sunlight. And then they were out of sight, and the King and all the maids and nurses were alone in the empty garden. The noise of the wind had gone. The soldiers did not dare to speak. The only sound in the King's ears was the sobbing and weeping of the maids and nurses.

The King called his generals, and made them send the soldiers in all directions over the country to bring back the princesses, if the whirlwind should tire and set them again upon the ground. The soldiers went to the very boundaries of the kingdom, but they came back as they went. Not one of them had seen the three lovely princesses.

Then the King called together all his faithful servants, and promised a great reward to any one who should bring news of the three princesses. It was the same with the servants as with the soldiers. Far and wide they galloped out. Slowly, one by one, they rode back, with bent heads, on tired horses. Not one of them had seen the King's daughters.

Then the King called a grand council of his wise boyars and men of state. They all sat round and listened as the King told his tale and asked if one of them would not undertake the task of finding and rescuing the three princesses. "The wind has not set them down within the boundaries of my kingdom; and now, God knows, they may be in the power of wicked men or worse." He said he would give one of the princesses in marriage to any one who could follow where the wind went and bring his daughters back; yes, and besides, he would make him the richest man in the kingdom. But the boyars and the wise men of state sat round in silence. He asked them one by one. They were all silent and afraid. For they were boyars and wise men of state, and not one of them would undertake to follow the whirlwind and rescue the three princesses.

The King wept bitter tears.

"I see," he said, "I have no friends about me in the palace. My soldiers cannot, my servants cannot, and my boyars and wise men will not, bring back my three sweet maids, whom I love better than my kingdom."

And with that he sent heralds throughout the kingdom to announce the news, and to ask if there were none among the common folk, the moujiks, the simple folk like us, who would put his hand to the work of rescuing the three lovely princesses, since not one of the boyars and wise men was willing to do it.

Now, at that time in a certain village lived a poor widow, and she had three sons, strong men, true bogatirs and men of power. All three had been born in a single night: the eldest at evening, the middle one at midnight, and the youngest just as the sky was lightening with the dawn. For this reason they were called Evening, Midnight, and Sunrise. Evening was dusky, with brown eyes and hair; Midnight was dark, with eyes and hair as black as charcoal; while Sunrise had hair golden as the sun, and eyes blue as morning sky. And all three were as strong as any of the strong men and mighty bogatirs who have shaken this land of Russia with their tread.

As soon as the King's word had been proclaimed in the village, the three brothers asked for their mother's blessing, which she gave them, kissing them on the forehead and on both cheeks. Then they made ready for the journey and rode off to the capital -- Evening on his horse of dusky brown, Midnight on his black horse, and Sunrise on his horse that was as white as clouds in summer. They came to the capital, and as they rode through the streets everybody stopped to look at them, and all the pretty young women waved handkerchiefs at the windows. But the three brothers looked neither to right nor left but straight before them, and they rode to the palace of the King.

They came to the King, bowed low before him, and said, -- 

"May you live for many years, O King. We have come to you not for feasting but for service. Let us, O King, ride out to rescue your three princesses."

"God give you success, my good young men," says the King. "What are your names?"

"We are three brothers -- Evening, Midnight, and Sunrise."

"What will you have to take with you on the road?"

"For ourselves, O King, we want nothing. Only, do not leave our mother in poverty, for she is old."

The King sent for the old woman, their mother, and gave her a home in his palace, and made her eat and drink at his table, and gave her new boots made by his own cobblers, and new clothes sewn by the very sempstresses who were used to make dresses for the three daughters of the King, who were the loveliest princesses in the world, and had been carried away by the whirlwind. No old woman in Russia was better looked after than the mother of the three young bogatirs and men of power, Evening, Midnight, and Sunrise, while they were away on their adventure seeking the King's daughters.

The young men rode out on their journey. A month they rode together, two months, and in the third month they came to a broad desert plain, where there were no towns, no villages, no farms, and not a human being to be seen. They rode on over the sand, through the rank grass, over the stony wastes. At last, on the other side of that desolate plain, they came to a thick forest. They found a path through the thick undergrowth, and rode along that path together into the very heart of the forest. And there, alone in the heart of the forest, they came to a hut, with a railed yard and a shed full of cattle and sheep. They called out with their strong young voices, and were answered by the lowing of the cattle, the bleating of the sheep, and the strong wind in the tops of the great trees.

They rode through the railed yard and came to the hut. Evening leant from his brown horse and knocked on the window. There was no answer. They forced open the door, and found no one at all.

"Well, brothers," says Evening, "let us make ourselves at home. Let us stay here awhile. We have been riding three months. Let us rest, and then ride farther. We shall deal better with our adventure if we come to it as fresh men, and not dusty and weary from the long road."

The others agreed. They tied up their horses, fed them, drew water from the well, and gave them to drink; and then, tired out, they went into the hut, said their prayers to God, and lay down to sleep with their weapons close to their hands, like true bogatirs and men of power.

In the morning the youngest brother. Sunrise, said to the eldest brother, Evening, -- 

"Midnight and I are going hunting to-day, and you shall rest here, and see what sort of dinner you can give us when we come back."

"Very well," says Evening; "but to-morrow I shall go hunting, and one of you shall stay here and cook the dinner."

Nobody made bones about that, and so Evening stood at the door of the hut while the others rode off -- Midnight on his black horse, and Sunrise on his horse, white as a summer cloud. They rode off into the forest, and disappeared among the green trees.

Evening watched them out of sight, and then, without thinking twice about what he was doing, went out into the yard, picked out the finest sheep he could see, caught it, killed it, skinned it, cleaned it, and set it in a cauldron on the stove so as to be ready and hot whenever his brothers should come riding back from the forest. As soon as that was done, Evening lay down on the broad bench to rest himself.

He had scarcely lain down before there were a knocking and a rattling and a stumbling, and the door opened, and in walked a little man a yard high, with a beard seven yards long[4] flowing out behind him over both his shoulders. He looked round angrily, and saw Evening, who yawned, and sat up on the bench, and began chuckling at the sight of him. The little man screamed out, -- 

"What are you chuckling about? How dare you play the master in my house? How dare you kill my best sheep?"

Evening answered him, laughing, -- 

"Grow a little bigger, and it won't be so hard to see you down there. Till then it will be better for you to keep a civil tongue in your head."

The little man was angry before, but now he was angrier.

"What?" he screamed. "I am little, am I? Well, see what little does!"


And with that he grabbed an old crust of bread, leapt on Evening's shoulders, and began beating him over the head. Yes, and the little fellow was so strong he beat Evening till he was half dead, and was blind in one eye and could not see out of the other. Then, when he was tired, he threw Evening under the bench, took the sheep out of the cauldron, gobbled it up in a few mouthfuls, and, when he had done, went off again into the forest.

[Footnote 4: The little man was really one arshin high, and his beard was seven arshins long. An arshin is 0.77 of a yard, so any one who knows decimals can tell exactly how high the little man was and the precise length of his beard.]

When Evening came to his senses again, he bound up his head with a dishcloth, and lay on the ground and groaned.

Midnight and Sunrise rode back, on the black horse and the white, and came to the hut, where they found their brother groaning on the ground, unable to see out of his eyes, and with a dishcloth round his head.

"What are you tied up like that for?" they asked; "and where is our dinner?"

Evening was ashamed to tell them the truth -- how he had been thumped about with a crust of bread by a little fellow only a yard high. He moaned and said, -- 

"O my brothers, I made a fire in the stove, and fell ill from the great heat in this little hut. My head ached. All day I lay senseless, and could neither boil nor roast. I thought my head would burst with the heat, and my brains fly beyond the seventh world."

Next day Sunrise went hunting with Evening, whose head was still bound up in a dishcloth, and hurting so sorely that he could hardly see. Midnight stayed at home. It was his turn to see to the dinner. Sunrise rode out on his cloud-white horse, and Evening on his dusky brown. Midnight stood in the doorway of the hut, watched them disappear among the green trees, and then set about getting the dinner.

He lit the fire, but was careful not to make it too hot. Then he went into the yard, caught the very fattest of the sheep, killed it, skinned it, cleaned it, cut it up, and set it on the stove. Then, when all was ready, he lay down on the bench and rested himself.

But before he had lain there long there were a knocking, a stamping, a rattling, a grumbling, and in came the little old man, one yard high, with a beard seven yards long, and without wasting words the little fellow leapt on the shoulders of the bogatir, and set to beating him and thumping him, first on one side of his head and then on the other. He gave him such a banging that he very nearly made an end of him altogether. Then the little fellow ate up the whole of the sheep in a few mouthfuls, and went off angrily into the forest, with his long white beard flowing behind him.

Midnight tied up his head with a handkerchief, and lay down under the bench, groaning and groaning, unable to put his head to the ground, or even to lay it in the crook of his arm, it was so bruised by the beating given it by the little old man.

In the evening the brothers rode back, and found Midnight groaning under the bench, with his head bound up in a handkerchief.

Evening looked at him and said nothing. Perhaps he was thinking of his own bruised head, which was still tied up in a dishcloth.

"What's the matter with you?" says Sunrise.

"There never was such another stove as this," says Midnight. "I'd no sooner lit it than it seemed as if the whole hut were on fire. My head nearly burst. It's aching now; and as for your dinner, why, I've not been able to put a hand to anything all day."

Evening chuckled to himself, but Sunrise only said, "That's bad, brother; but you shall go hunting to-morrow, and I'll stay at home, and see what I can do with the stove."

And so on the third day the two elder brothers went hunting -- Midnight on his black horse, and Evening on his horse of dusky brown. Sunrise stood in the doorway of the hut, and saw them disappear under the green trees. The sun shone on his golden curls, and his blue eyes were like the sky itself. There, never was such another bogatir as he.

He went into the hut and lit the stove. Then he went out into the yard, chose the best sheep he could find, killed it, skinned it, cleaned it, cut it up, and set it on the stove. He made everything ready, and then lay down on the bench.

Before he had lain there very long he heard a stumping, a thumping, a knocking, a rattling, a grumbling, a rumbling. Sunrise leaped up from the bench and looked out through the window of the hut. There in the yard was the little old man, one yard high, with a beard seven yards long. He was carrying a whole haystack on his head and a great tub of water in his arms. He came into the middle of the yard, and set down his tub to water all the beasts. He set down the haystack and scattered the hay about. All the cattle and the sheep came together to eat and to drink, and the little man stood and counted them. He counted the oxen, he counted the goats, and then he counted the sheep. He counted them once, and his eyes began to flash. He counted them twice, and he began to grind his teeth. He counted them a third time, made sure that one was missing, and then he flew into a violent rage, rushed across the yard and into the hut, and gave Sunrise a terrific blow on the head.

Sunrise shook his head as if a fly had settled on it. Then he jumped suddenly and caught the end of the long beard of the little old man, and set to pulling him this way and that, round and round the hut, as if his beard was a rope. Phew! how the little man roared.

Sunrise laughed, and tugged him this way and that, and mocked him, crying out, "If you do not know the ford, it is better not to go into the water," meaning that the little fellow had begun to beat him without finding out who was the stronger.

The little old man, one yard high, with a beard seven yards long, began to pray and to beg, -- 

"O man of power, O great and mighty bogatir, have mercy upon me. Do not kill me. Leave me my soul to repent with."

Sunrise laughed, and dragged the little fellow out into the yard, whirled him round at the end of his beard, and brought him to a great oak trunk that lay on the ground. Then with a heavy iron wedge he fixed the end of the little man's beard firmly in the oaken trunk, and, leaving the little man howling and lamenting, went back to the hut, set it in order again, saw that the sheep was cooking as it should, and then lay down in peace to wait for the coming of his brothers.

Evening and Midnight rode home, leapt from their horses, and came into the hut to see how the little man had dealt with their brother. They could hardly believe their eyes when they saw him alive and well, without a bruise, lying comfortably on the bench.

He sat up and laughed in their faces.

"Well, brothers," says he, "come along with me into the yard, and I think I can show you that headache of yours. It's a good deal stronger than it is big, but for the time being you need not be afraid of it, for it's fastened to an oak timber that all three of us together could not lift."

He got up and went into the yard. Evening and Midnight followed him with shamed faces. But when they came to the oaken timber the little man was not there. Long ago he had torn himself free and run away into the forest. But half his beard was left, wedged in the trunk, and Sunrise pointed to that and said, -- 

"Tell me, brothers, was it the heat of the stove that gave you your headaches? Or had this long beard something to do with it?"

The brothers grew red, and laughed, and told him the whole truth.

Meanwhile Sunrise had been looking at the end of the beard, the end of the half beard that was left, and he saw that it had been torn out by the roots, and that drops of blood from the little man's chin showed the way he had gone.

Quickly the brothers went back to the hut and ate up the sheep. Then they leapt on their horses, and rode off into the green forest, following the drops of blood that had fallen from the little man's chin. For three days they rode through the green forest, until at last the red drops of the trail led them to a deep pit, a black hole in the earth, hidden by thick bushes and going far down into the underworld.

Sunrise left his brothers to guard the hole, while he went off into the forest and gathered bast, and twisted it, and made a strong rope, and brought it to the mouth of the pit, and asked his brothers to lower him down.

He made a loop in the rope. His brothers kissed him on both cheeks, and he kissed them back. Then he sat in the loop, and Evening and Midnight lowered him down into the darkness. Down and down he went, swinging in the dark, till he came into a world under the world, with a light that was neither that of the sun, nor of the moon, nor of the stars. He stepped from the loop in the rope of twisted bast, and set out walking through the underworld, going whither his eyes led him, for he found no more drops of blood, nor any other traces of the little old man.

He walked and walked, and came at last to a palace of copper, green and ruddy in the strange light. He went into that palace, and there came to meet him in the copper halls a maiden whose cheeks were redder than the aloe and whiter than the snow. She was the youngest daughter of the King, and the loveliest of the three princesses, who were the loveliest in all the world. Sweetly she curtsied to Sunrise, as he stood there with his golden hair and his eyes blue as the sky at morning, and sweetly she asked him, -- 

"How have you come hither, my brave young man -- of your own will or against it?"

"Your father has sent to rescue you and your sisters."

She bade him sit at the table, and gave him food and brought him a little flask of the water of strength.

"Strong you are," says she, "but not strong enough for what is before you. Drink this, and your strength will be greater than it is; for you will need all the strength you have and can win, if you are to rescue us and live."

Sunrise looked in her sweet eyes, and drank the water of strength in a single draught, and felt gigantic power forcing its way throughout his body.

"Now," thought he, "let come what may."

Instantly a violent wind rushed through the copper palace, and the Princess trembled.

"The snake that holds me here is coming," says she. "He is flying hither on his strong wings."

She took the great hand of the bogatir in her little fingers, and drew him to another room, and hid him there.

The copper palace rocked in the wind, and there flew into the great hall a huge snake with three heads. The snake hissed loudly, and called out in a whistling voice, -- 

"I smell the smell of a Russian soul. What visitor have you here?"

"How could any one come here?" said the Princess. "You have been flying over Russia. There you smelt Russian souls, and the smell is still in your nostrils, so that you think you smell them here."

"It is true," said the snake: "I have been flying over Russia. I have flown far. Let me eat and drink, for I am both hungry and thirsty."

All this time Sunrise was watching from the other room.

The Princess brought meat and drink to the snake, and in the drink she put a philtre of sleep.

The snake ate and drank, and began to feel sleepy. He coiled himself up in rings, laid his three heads in the lap of the Princess, told her to scratch them for him, and dropped into a deep sleep.

The Princess called Sunrise, and the bogatir rushed in, swung his glittering sword three times round his golden head, and cut off all three heads of the snake. It was like felling three oak trees at a single blow. Then he made a great fire of wood, and threw upon it the body of the snake, and, when it was burnt up, scattered the ashes over the open country.

"And now fare you well," says Sunrise to the Princess; but she threw her arms about his neck.

"Fare you well," says he. "I go to seek your sisters. As soon as I have found them I will come back."

And at that she let him go.

He walked on further through the underworld, and came at last to a palace of silver, gleaming in the strange light.

He went in there, and was met with sweet words and kindness by the second of the three lovely princesses. In that palace he killed a snake with six heads. The Princess begged him to stay; but he told her he had yet to find her eldest sister. At that she wished him the help of God, and he left her, and went on further.

He walked and walked, and came at last to a palace of gold, glittering in the light of the underworld. All happened as in the other palaces. The eldest of the three daughters of the King met him with courtesy and kindness. And he killed a snake with twelve heads and freed the Princess from her imprisonment. The Princess rejoiced, and thanked Sunrise, and set about her packing to go home.

And this was the way of her packing. She went out into the broad courtyard and waved a scarlet handkerchief, and instantly the whole palace, golden and glittering, and the kingdom belonging to it, became little, little, little, till it went into a little golden egg. The Princess tied the egg in a corner of her handkerchief, and set out with Sunrise to join her sisters and go home to her father.

Her sisters did their packing in the same way. The silver palace and its kingdom were packed by the second sister into a little silver egg. And when they came to the copper palace, the youngest of the three lovely princesses clapped her hands and kissed Sunrise on both his cheeks, and waved a scarlet handkerchief, and instantly the copper palace and its kingdom were packed into a little copper egg, shining ruddy and green.

And so Sunrise and the three daughters of the King came to the foot of the deep hole down which he had come into the underworld. And there was the rope hanging with the loop at its end. And they sat in the loop, and Evening and Midnight pulled them up one by one, rejoicing together. Then the three brothers took, each of them, a princess with him on his horse, and they all rode together back to the old King, telling talcs and singing songs as they went. The Princess from the golden palace rode with Evening on his horse of dusky brown; the Princess from the silver palace rode with Midnight on his horse as black as charcoal; but the Princess from the copper palace, the youngest of them all, rode with Sunrise on his horse, white as a summer cloud. Merry was the journey through the green forest, and gladly they rode over the open plain, till they came at last to the palace of her father.

There was the old King, sitting melancholy alone, when the three brothers with the princesses rode into the courtyard of the palace. The old King was so glad that he laughed and cried at the same time, and his tears ran down his beard.

"Ah me!" says the old King, "I am old, and you young men have brought my daughters back from the very world under the world. Safer they will be if they have you to guard them, even than they were in the palace I had built for them underground. But I have only one kingdom and three daughters."

"Do not trouble about that," laughed the three princesses, and they all rode out together into the open country, and there the princesses broke their eggs, one after the other, and there were the palaces of silver, copper, and gold, with the kingdoms belonging to them, and the cattle and the sheep and the goats. There was a kingdom for each of the brothers. Then they made a great feast, and had three weddings all together, and the old King sat with the mother of the three strong men, and men of power, the noble bogatirs, Evening, Midnight, and Sunrise, sitting at his side. Great was the feasting, loud were the songs, and the King made Sunrise his heir, so that some day he would wear his crown. But little did Sunrise think of that. He thought of nothing but the youngest Princess. And little she thought of it, for she had no eyes but for Sunrise. And merrily they lived together in the copper palace. And happily they rode together on the horse that was as white as clouds in summer.




Salt.


One evening, when they were sitting round the table after their supper, old Peter asked the children what story they would like to hear. Vanya asked whether there were any stories left which they had not already heard.

"Why," said old Peter, "you have heard scarcely any of the stories, for there is a story to be told about everything in the world."

"About everything, grandfather?" asked Vanya.

"About everything," said old Peter.

"About the sky, and the thunder, and the dogs, and the flies, and the birds, and the trees, and the milk?"

"There is a story about everyone of those things."

"I know something there isn't a story about," said Vanya.

"And what's that?" asked old Peter, smiling in his beard.

"Salt," said Vanya. "There can't be a story about salt." He put the tip of his finger into the little box of salt on the table, and then he touched his tongue with his finger to taste.

"But of course there is a story about salt," said old Peter.

"Tell it us," said Maroosia; and presently, when his pipe had been lit twice and gone out, old Peter began.


Once upon a time there were three brothers, and their father was a great merchant who sent his ships far over the sea, and traded here and there in countries the names of which I, being an old man, can never rightly call to mind. Well, the names of the two elder brothers do not matter, but the youngest was called Ivan the Ninny, because he was always playing and never working; and if there was a silly thing to do, why, off he went and did it. And so, when the brothers grew up, the father sent the two elder ones off, each in a fine ship laden with gold and jewels, and rings and bracelets, and laces and silks, and sticks with little bits of silver hammered into their handles, and spoons with patterns of blue and red, and everything else you can think of that costs too much to buy. But he made Ivan the Ninny stay at home, and did not give him a ship at all. Ivan saw his brothers go sailing off over the sea on a summer morning, to make their fortunes and come back rich men; and then, for the first time in his life, he wanted to work and do something useful. He went to his father and kissed his hand, and he kissed the hand of his little old mother, and he begged his father to give him a ship so that he could try his fortune like his brothers.

"But you have never done a wise thing in your life, and no one could count all the silly things you've done if he spent a hundred days in counting," said his father.

"True," said Ivan; "but now I am going to be wise, and sail the sea and come back with something in my pockets to show that I am not a ninny any longer. Give me just a little ship, father mine -- just a little ship for myself."

"Give him a little ship," said the mother. "He may not be a ninny after all."

"Very well," said his father. "I will give him a little ship; but I am not going to waste good roubles by giving him a rich cargo."

"Give me any cargo you like," said Ivan.

So his father gave him a little ship, a little old ship, and a cargo of rags and scraps and things that were not fit for anything but to be thrown away. And he gave him a crew of ancient old sailormen who were past work; and Ivan went on board and sailed away at sunset, like the ninny he was. And the feeble, ancient, old sailormen pulled up the ragged, dirty sails, and away they went over the sea to learn what fortune, good or bad, God had in mind for a crew of old men with a ninny for a master.

The fourth day after they set sail there came a great wind over the sea. The feeble old men did the best they could with the ship; but the old, torn sails tore from the masts, and the wind did what it pleased, and threw the little ship on an unknown island away in the middle of the sea. Then the wind dropped, and left the little ship on the beach, and Ivan the Ninny and his ancient old men, like good Russians, praising God that they were still alive.

"Well, children," said Ivan, for he knew how to talk to sailors, "do you stay here and mend the sails, and make new ones out of the rags we carry as cargo, while I go inland and see if there is anything that could be of use to us."

So the ancient old sailormen sat on deck with their legs crossed, and made sails out of rags, of torn scraps of old brocades, of soiled embroidered shawls, of all the rubbish that they had with them for a cargo. You never saw such sails. The tide came up and floated the ship, and they threw out anchors at bow and stern, and sat there in the sunlight, making sails and patching them and talking of the days when they were young. All this while Ivan the Ninny went walking off into the island.

Now in the middle of that island was a high mountain, a high mountain it was, and so white that when he came near it Ivan the Ninny began thinking of sheepskin coats, although it was midsummer and the sun was hot in the sky. The trees were green round about, but there was nothing growing on the mountain at all. It was just a great white mountain piled up into the sky in the middle of a green island. Ivan walked a little way up the white slopes of the mountain, and then, because he felt thirsty, he thought he would let a little snow melt in his mouth. He took some in his fingers and stuffed it in. Quickly enough it came out again, I can tell you, for the mountain was not made of snow but of good Russian salt. And if you want to try what a mouthful of salt is like, you may.

"No, thank you, grandfather," the children said hurriedly together.

Old Peter went on with his tale.

Ivan the Ninny did not stop to think twice. The salt was so clean and shone so brightly in the sunlight. He just turned round and ran back to the shore, and called out to his ancient old sailormen and told them to empty everything they had on board over into the sea. Over it all went, rags and tags and rotten timbers, till the little ship was as empty as a soup bowl after supper. And then those ancient old men were set to work carrying salt from the mountain and taking it on board the little ship, and stowing it away below deck till there was not room for another grain. Ivan the Ninny would have liked to take the whole mountain, but there was not room in the little ship. And for that the ancient old sailormen thanked God, because their backs ached and their old legs were weak, and they said they would have died if they had had to carry any more.

Then they hoisted up the new sails they had patched together out of the rags and scraps of shawls and old brocades, and they sailed away once more over the blue sea. And the wind stood fair, and they sailed before it, and the ancient old sailors rested their backs, and told old tales, and took turn and turn about at the rudder.

And after many days' sailing they came to a town, with towers and churches and painted roofs, all set on the side of a hill that sloped down into the sea. At the foot of the hill was a quiet harbour, and they sailed in there and moored the ship and hauled down their patchwork sails.

Ivan the Ninny went ashore, and took with him a little bag of clean white salt to show what kind of goods he had for sale, and he asked his way to the palace of the Tzar of that town. He came to the palace, and went in and bowed to the ground before the Tzar.

"Who are you?" says the Tzar.

"I, great lord, am a Russian merchant, and here in a bag is some of my merchandise, and I beg your leave to trade with your subjects in this town."

"Let me see what is in the bag," says the Tzar. Ivan the Ninny took a handful from the bag and showed it to the Tzar.

"What is it?" says the Tzar.

"Good Russian salt," says Ivan the Ninny.

Now in that country they had never heard of salt, and the Tzar looked at the salt, and he looked at Ivan and he laughed.

"Why, this," says he, "is nothing but white dust, and that we can pick up for nothing. The men of my town have no need to trade with you. You must be a ninny."

Ivan grew very red, for he knew what his father used to call him. He was ashamed to say anything. So he bowed to the ground, and went away out of the palace.

But when he was outside he thought to himself, "I wonder what sort of salt they use in these parts if they do not know good Russian salt when they see it. I will go to the kitchen."

So he went round to the back door of the palace, and put his head into the kitchen, and said, "I am very tired. May I sit down here and rest a little while?"

"Come in," says one of the cooks. "But you must sit just there, and not put even your little finger in the way of us; for we are the Tzar's cooks, and we are in the middle of making ready his dinner." And the cook put a stool in a corner out of the way, and Ivan slipped in round the door, and sat down in the corner and looked about him. There were seven cooks at least, boiling and baking, and stewing and toasting, and roasting and frying. And as for scullions, they were as thick as cockroaches, dozens of them, running to and fro, tumbling over each other, and helping the cooks.

Ivan the Ninny sat on his stool, with his legs tucked under him and the bag of salt on his knees. He watched the cooks and the scullions, but he did not see them put anything in the dishes which he thought could take the place of salt. No; the meat was without salt, the kasha was without salt, and there was no salt in the potatoes. Ivan nearly turned sick at the thought of the tastelessness of all that food.

There came the moment when all the cooks and scullions ran out of the kitchen to fetch the silver platters on which to lay the dishes. Ivan slipped down from his stool, and running from stove to stove, from saucepan to frying pan, he dropped a pinch of salt, just what was wanted, no more no less, in everyone of the dishes. Then he ran back to the stool in the corner, and sat there, and watched the dishes being put on the silver platters and carried off in gold-embroidered napkins to be the dinner of the Tzar.

The Tzar sat at table and took his first spoonful of soup.

"The soup is very good to-day," says he, and he finishes the soup to the last drop.

"I've never known the soup so good," says the Tzaritza, and she finishes hers.

"This is the best soup I ever tasted," says the Princess, and down goes hers, and she, you know, was the prettiest princess who ever had dinner in this world.

It was the same with the kasha and the same with the meat. The Tzar and the Tzaritza and the Princess wondered why they had never had so good a dinner in all their lives before.

"Call the cooks," says the Tzar. And they called the cooks, and the cooks all came in, and bowed to the ground, and stood in a row before the Tzar.

"What did you put in the dishes to-day that you never put before?" says the Tzar.

"We put nothing unusual, your greatness," say the cooks, and bowed to the ground again.

"Then why do the dishes taste better?"

"We do not know, your greatness," say the cooks.

"Call the scullions," says the Tzar. And the scullions were called, and they too bowed to the ground, and stood in a row before the Tzar.

"What was done in the kitchen to-day that has not been done there before?" says the Tzar.

"Nothing, your greatness," say all the scullions except one.

And that one scullion bowed again, and kept on bowing, and then he said, "Please, your greatness, please, great lord, there is usually none in the kitchen but ourselves; but to-day there was a young Russian merchant, who sat on a stool in the corner and said he was tired."

"Call the merchant," says the Tzar.

So they brought in Ivan the Ninny, and he bowed before the Tzar, and stood there with his little bag of salt in his hand.

"Did you do anything to my dinner?" says the Tzar.

"I did, your greatness," says Ivan.

"What did you do?"

"I put a pinch of Russian salt in every dish."

"That white dust?" says the Tzar.

"Nothing but that."

"Have you got any more of it?"

"I have a little ship in the harbour laden with nothing else," says Ivan.

"It is the most wonderful dust in the world," says the Tzar, "and I will buy every grain of it you have. What do you want for it?"

Ivan the Ninny scratched his head and thought. He thought that if the Tzar liked it as much as all that it must be worth a fair price, so he said, "We will put the salt into bags, and for every bag of salt you must give me three bags of the same weight -- one of gold, one of silver, and one of precious stones. Cheaper than that, your greatness, I could not possibly sell."

"Agreed," says the Tzar. "And a cheap price, too, for a dust so full of magic that it makes dull dishes tasty, and tasty dishes so good that there is no looking away from them."

So all the day long, and far into the night, the ancient old sailormen bent their backs under sacks of salt, and bent them again under sacks of gold and silver and precious stones. When all the salt had been put in the Tzar's treasury -- yes, with twenty soldiers guarding it with great swords shining in the moonlight -- and when the little ship was loaded with riches, so that even the deck was piled high with precious stones, the ancient old men lay down among the jewels and slept till morning, when Ivan the Ninny went to bid good-bye to the Tzar.

"And whither shall you sail now?" asked the Tzar.

"I shall sail away to Russia in my little ship," says Ivan.

And the Princess, who was very beautiful, said, "A little Russian ship?"

"Yes," says Ivan.

"I have never seen a Russian ship," says the Princess, and she begs her father to let her go to the harbour with her nurses and maids, to see the little Russian ship before Ivan set sail.

She came with Ivan to the harbour, and the ancient old sailormen took them on board.

She ran all over the ship, looking now at this and now at that, and Ivan told her the names of everything -- deck, mast, and rudder.

"May I see the sails?" she asked. And the ancient old men hoisted the ragged sails, and the wind filled the sails and tugged.

"Why doesn't the ship move when the sails are up?" asked the Princess.

"The anchor holds her," said Ivan.

"Please let me see the anchor," says the Princess.

"Haul up the anchor, my children, and show it to the Princess," says Ivan to the ancient old sailormen.

And the old men hauled up the anchor, and showed it to the Princess; and she said it was a very good little anchor. But, of course, as soon as the anchor was up the ship began to move. One of the ancient old men bent over the tiller, and, with a fair wind behind her, the little ship slipped out of the harbour and away to the blue sea. When the Princess looked round, thinking it was time to go home, the little ship was far from land, and away in the distance she could only see the gold towers of her father's palace, glittering like pin points in the sunlight. Her nurses and maids wrung their hands and made an outcry, and the Princess sat down on a heap of jewels, and put a handkerchief to her eyes, and cried and cried and cried.

Ivan the Ninny took her hands and comforted her, and told her of the wonders of the sea that he would show her, and the wonders of the land. And she looked up at him while he talked, and his eyes were kind and hers were sweet; and the end of it was that they were both very well content, and agreed to have a marriage feast as soon as the little ship should bring them to the home of Ivan's father. Merry was that voyage. All day long Ivan and the Princess sat on deck and said sweet things to each other, and at twilight they sang songs, and drank tea, and told stories. As for the nurses and maids, the Princess told them to be glad; and so they danced and clapped their hands, and ran about the ship, and teased the ancient old sailormen.

When they had been sailing many days, the Princess was looking out over the sea, and she cried out to Ivan, "See, over there, far away, are two big ships with white sails, not like our sails of brocade and bits of silk."

Ivan looked, shading his eyes with his hands.

"Why, those are the ships of my elder brothers," said he. "We shall all sail home together."

And he made the ancient old sailormen give a hail in their cracked old voices. And the brothers heard them, and came on board to greet Ivan and his bride. And when they saw that she was a Tzar's daughter, and that the very decks were heaped with precious stones, because there was no room below, they said one thing to Ivan and something else to each other.

To Ivan they said, "Thanks be to God, He has given you good trading."

But to each other, "How can this be?" says one. "Ivan the Ninny bringing back such a cargo, while we in our fine ships have only a bag or two of gold."

"And what is Ivan the Ninny doing with a princess?" says the other.

And they ground their teeth, and waited their time, and came up suddenly, when Ivan was alone in the twilight, and picked him up by his head and his heels, and hove him overboard into the dark blue sea.

Not one of the old men had seen them, and the Princess was not on deck. In the morning they said that Ivan the Ninny must have walked overboard in his sleep. And they drew lots. The eldest brother took the Princess, and the second brother took the little ship laden with gold and silver and precious stones. And so the brothers sailed home very well content. But the Princess sat and wept all day long, looking down into the blue water. The elder brother could not comfort her, and the second brother did not try. And the ancient old sailormen muttered in their beards, and were sorry, and prayed to God to give rest to Ivan's soul; for although he had been a ninny, and although he had made them carry a lot of salt and other things, yet they loved him, because he knew how to talk to ancient old sailormen.

But Ivan was not dead. As soon as he splashed into the water, he crammed his fur hat a little tighter on his head, and began swimming in the sea. He swam about until the sun rose, and then, not far away, he saw a floating timber log, and he swam to the log, and got astride of it, and thanked God. And he sat there on the log in the middle of the sea, twiddling his thumbs for want of something to do.

There was a strong current in the sea that carried him along, and at last, after floating for many days without ever a bite for his teeth or a drop for his gullet, his feet touched land. Now that was at night, and he left the log and walked up out of the sea, and lay down on the shore and waited for morning.

When the sun rose he stood up, and saw that he was on a bare island, and he saw nothing at all on the island except a huge house as big as a mountain; and as he was looking at the house the great door creaked with a noise like that of a hurricane among the pine forests, and opened; and a giant came walking out, and came to the shore, and stood there, looking down at Ivan.

"What are you doing here, little one?" says the giant.

Ivan told him the whole story, just as I have told it to you.

The giant listened to the very end, pulling at his monstrous whiskers. Then he said, "Listen, little one. I know more of the story than you, for I can tell you that to-morrow morning your eldest brother is going to marry your Princess. But there is no need for you to take on about it. If you want to be there, I will carry you and set you down before the house in time for the wedding. And a fine wedding it is like to be, for your father thinks well of those brothers of yours bringing back all those precious stones, and silver and gold enough to buy a kingdom."

And with that he picked up Ivan the Ninny and set him on his great shoulders, and set off striding through the sea.

He went so fast that the wind of his going blew off Ivan's hat.

"Stop a moment," shouts Ivan; "my hat has blown off."

"We can't turn back for that," says the giant; "we have already left your hat five hundred versts behind us." And he rushed on, splashing through the sea. The sea was up to his armpits. He rushed on, and the sea was up to his waist. He rushed on, and before the sun had climbed to the top of the blue sky he was splashing up out of the sea with the water about his ankles. He lifted Ivan from his shoulders and set him on the ground.

"Now," says he, "little man, off you run, and you'll be in time for the feast. But don't you dare to boast about riding on my shoulders. If you open your mouth about that you'll smart for it, if I have to come ten thousand thousand versts."

Ivan the Ninny thanked the giant for carrying him through the sea, promised that he would not boast, and then ran off to his father's house. Long before he got there he heard the musicians in the courtyard playing as if they wanted to wear out their instruments before night. The wedding feast had begun, and when Ivan ran in, there, at the high board, was sitting the Princess, and beside her his eldest brother. And there were his father and mother, his second brother, and all the guests. And everyone of them was as merry as could be, except the Princess, and she was as white as the salt he had sold to her father.

Suddenly the blood flushed into her cheeks. She saw Ivan in the doorway. Up she jumped at the high board, and cried out, "There, there is my true love, and not this man who sits beside me at the table."

"What is this?" says Ivan's father, and in a few minutes knew the whole story.

He turned the two elder brothers out of doors, gave their ships to Ivan, married him to the Princess, and made him his heir. And the wedding feast began again, and they sent for the ancient old sailormen to take part in it. And the ancient old sailormen wept with joy when they saw Ivan and the Princess, like two sweet pigeons, sitting side by side; yes, and they lifted their flagons with their old shaking hands, and cheered with their old cracked voices, and poured the wine down their dry old throats.

There was wine enough and to spare, beer too, and mead -- enough to drown a herd of cattle. And as the guests drank and grew merry and proud they set to boasting. This one bragged of his riches, that one of his wife. Another boasted of his cunning, another of his new house, another of his strength, and this one was angry because they would not let him show how he could lift the table on one hand. They all drank Ivan's health, and he drank theirs, and in the end he could not bear to listen to their proud boasts.

"That's all very well," says he, "but I am the only man in the world who rode on the shoulders of a giant to come to his wedding feast."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before there were a tremendous trampling and a roar of a great wind. The house shook with the footsteps of the giant as he strode up. The giant bent down over the courtyard and looked in at the feast.

"Little man, little man," says he, "you promised not to boast of me. I told you what would come if you did, and here you are and have boasted already."

"Forgive me," says Ivan; "it was the drink that boasted, not I."

"What sort of drink is it that knows how to boast?" says the giant.

"You shall taste it," says Ivan.

And he made his ancient old sailormen roll a great barrel of wine into the yard, more than enough for a hundred men, and after that a barrel of beer that was as big, and then a barrel of mead that was no smaller.

"Try the taste of that," says Ivan the Ninny.

Well, the giant did not wait to be asked twice. He lifted the barrel of wine as if it had been a little glass, and emptied it down his throat. He lifted the barrel of beer as if it had been an acorn, and emptied it after the wine. Then he lifted the barrel of mead as if it had been a very small pea, and swallowed every drop of mead that was in it. And after that he began stamping about and breaking things. Houses fell to pieces this way and that, and trees were swept flat like grass. Every step the giant took was followed by the crash of breaking timbers. Then suddenly he fell flat on his back and slept. For three days and nights he slept without waking. At last he opened his eyes.

"Just look about you," says Ivan, "and see the damage that you've done."

"And did that little drop of drink make me do all that?" says the giant. "Well, well, I can well understand that a drink like that can do a bit of bragging. And after that," says he, looking at the wrecks of houses, and all the broken things scattered about -- "after that," says he, "you can boast of me for a thousand years, and I'll have nothing against you."

And he tugged at his great whiskers, and wrinkled his eyes, and went striding off into the sea.

That is the story about salt, and how it made a rich man of Ivan the Ninny, and besides, gave him the prettiest wife in the world, and she a Tzar's daughter.




The Christening In The Village.


This chapter is not one of old Peter's stories, though there are, doubtless, some stories in it. It tells how Vanya and Maroosia drove to the village to see a new baby.

Old Peter had a sister who lived in the village not so very far away from the forest. And she had a plump daughter, and the daughter was called Nastasia, and she was married to a handsome peasant called Sergie, who had three cows, a lot of pigs, and a flock of fat geese. And one day when old Peter had gone to the village to buy tobacco and sugar and sunflower seeds, he came back in the evening, and said to the children, -- 

"There's something new in the village."

"What sort of a something?" asked Vanya.

"Alive," said old Peter.

"Is there a lot of it?" asked Vanya.

"No, only one."

"Then it can't be pigs," said Vanya, in a melancholy voice. "I thought it was pigs."

"Perhaps it is a little calf," said Maroosia.

"I know what it is," said Vanya.

"Well?"

"It's a foal. It's brown all over with white on its nose, and a lot of white hairs in its tail."

"No."

"What is it then, grandfather?"

"I'll tell you, little pigeons. It's small and red, and it's got a bumpy head with hair on it like the fluff of a duckling. It has blue eyes, and ten fingers to its fore paws, and ten toes to its hind feet -- five to each."

"It's a baby," said Maroosia.

"Yes. Nastasia has got a little son, Aunt Sofia has got a grandson, you have got a new cousin, and I have got a new great-nephew. Think of that! Already it's a son, and a cousin, and a grandson, and a great-nephew, and he's only been alive twelve hours. He lost no time in taking a position for himself. He'll be a great man one of these days if he goes on as fast as that."

The children had jumped up as soon as they knew it was a baby.

"When is the christening?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"O grandfather!"

"Well?"

"Who is going to the christening?"

"The baby, of course."

"Yes; but other people?"

"All the village."

"And us?"

"I have to go, and I suppose there'll be room in the cart for two little bear cubs like you."

And so it was settled that Vanya and Maroosia were to go to the christening of their new cousin, who was only twelve hours old. All the next day they could think of nothing else, and early on the morning of the christening they were up and about, Maroosia seeing that Vanya had on a clean shirt, and herself putting a green ribbon in her hair. The sun shone, and the leaves on the trees were all new and bright, and the sky was pale blue through the flickering green leaves.

Old Peter was up early too, harnessing the little yellow horse into the old cart. The cart was of rough wood, without springs, like a big box fixed on long larch poles between two pairs of wheels. The larch poles did instead of springs, bending and creaking, as the cart moved over the forest track. The shafts came from the front wheels upwards to the horse's shoulders, and between the ends of them there was a tall strong hoop of wood, called a douga, which rose high over the shoulders of the horse, above his collar, and had two little bells hanging from it at the top. The wooden hoop was painted green with little red flowers. The harness was mostly of ropes, but that did not matter so long as it held together. The horse had a long tail and mane, and looked as untidy as a little boy; but he had a green ribbon in his forelock in honour of the christening, and he could go like anything, and never got tired.

When all was ready, old Peter arranged a lot of soft fresh hay in the cart for the children to sit in. Hay is the best thing in the world to sit in when you drive in a jolting Russian cart. Old Peter put in a tremendous lot, so that the horse could eat some of it while waiting in the village, and yet leave them enough to make them comfortable on the journey back. Finally, old Peter took a gun that he had spent all the evening before in cleaning, and laid it carefully in the hay.

"What is the gun for?" asked Vanya.

"I am to be a godparent," said old Peter, "and I want to give him a present. I could not give him a better present than a gun, for he shall be a forester, and a good shot, and you cannot begin too early."

Presently Vanya and Maroosia were tucked into the hay, and old Peter climbed in with the plaited reins, and away they went along the narrow forest track, where the wheels followed the ruts and splashed through the deep holes; for the spring was young, and the roads had not yet dried. Some of the deepest holes had a few pine branches laid in them, but that was the only road-mending that ever was done. Overhead were the tall firs and silver birches with their little pale round leaves; and somewhere, not far away, a cuckoo was calling, while the murmur of the wild pigeons never stopped for a moment.

They drove on and on through the forest, and at last came out from among the trees into the open country, a broad, flat plain stretching to the river. Far away they could see the big square sail of a boat, swelled out in the light wind, and they knew that there was the river, on the banks of which stood the village. They could see a small clump of trees, and, as they came nearer, the pale green cupolas of the white village church rising above the tops of the birches.

Presently they came to a rough wooden bridge, and crossed over a little stream that was on its way to join the big river.

Vanya looked at it.

"Grandfather," he asked, "when the frost went, which was water first -- the big river or the little river?"

"Why, the little river, of course," said old Peter. "It's always the little streams that wake first in the spring, and running down to the big river make it swell and flood and break up the ice. It's always been so ever since the quarrel between the Vazouza and the Volga."

"What was that?" said Vanya.

"It was like this," said old Peter.


The Vazouza and the Volga flow for a long way side by side, and then they join and flow together. And the Vazouza is a little river; but the Volga is the mother of all Russia, and the greatest river in the world.

And the little Vazouza was jealous of the Volga.

"You are big and noisy," she says to the Volga, "and terribly strong; but as for brains," says she, "why, I have more brains in a single ripple than you in all that lump of water."

Of course the Volga told her not to be so rude, and said that little rivers should know their place and not argue with the great.

But the Vazouza would not keep quiet, and at last she said to the Volga: "Look here, we will lie down and sleep, and we will agree that the one of us who wakes first and comes first to the sea is the wiser of the two."

And the Volga said, "Very well, if only you will stop talking."

So the little Vazouza and the big Volga lay and slept, white and still, all through the winter. And when the spring came, the little Vazouza woke first, brisk and laughing and hurrying, and rushed away as hard as she could go towards the sea. When the Volga woke the little Vazouza was already far ahead. But the Volga did not hurry. She woke slowly and shook the ice from herself, and then came roaring after the Vazouza, a huge foaming flood of angry water.

And the little Vazouza listened as she ran, and she heard the Volga coming after her; and when the Volga caught her up -- a tremendous foaming river, whirling along trees and blocks of ice -- she was frightened, and she said, -- 

"O Volga, let me be your little sister. I will never argue with you any more. You are wiser than I and stronger than I. Only take me by the hand and bring me with you to the sea."

And the Volga forgave the little Vazouza, and took her by the hand and brought her safely to the sea. And they have never quarrelled again. But all the same, it is always the little Vazouza that gets up first in the spring, and tugs at the white blankets of ice and snow, and wakes her big sister from her winter sleep.


They drove on over the flat open country, with no hedges, but only ditches to drain off the floods, and very often not even ditches to divide one field from another. And huge crows, with gray hoods and shawls, pecked about in the grass at the roadside or flew heavily in the sunshine. They passed a little girl with a flock of geese, and another little girl lying in the grass holding a long rope which was fastened to the horns of a brown cow. And the little girl lay on her face and slept among the flowers, while the cow walked slowly round her, step by step, chewing the grass and thinking about nothing at all.

And at last they came to the village, where the road was wider; and instead of one pair of ruts there were dozens, and the cart bumped worse than ever. The broad earthy road had no stones in it; and in places where the puddles would have been deeper than the axles of the wheels, it had been mended by laying down fir logs and small branches in the puddles, and putting a few spadefuls of earth on the top of them.

The road ran right through the village. On either side of it were little wooden huts. The ends of the timbers crossed outside at the four corners of the huts. They fitted neatly into each other, and some of them were carved. And there were no slates or tiles on the roofs, but little thin slips of wood overlapping each other. There was not a single stone hut or cottage in the village. Only the church was partly brick, whitewashed, with bright green cupolas up in the air, and thin gold crosses on the tops of the cupolas, shining in the clear sky.

Outside the church were rows of short posts, with long rough fir timbers nailed on the top of them, to which the country people tied their horses when they came to church. There were several carts there already, with bright-coloured rugs lying on the hay in them; and the horses were eating hay or biting the logs. Always, except when the logs are quite new, you can tell the favourite places for tying up horses to them, because the timbers will have deep holes in them, where they have been gnawed away by the horses' teeth. They bite the timbers, while their masters eat sunflower seeds, not for food, but to pass the time.

"Now then," said old Peter, as he got down from the cart, tied the horse, gave him an armful of hay from the cart, and lifted the children out. "Be quick. We shall be late if we don't take care. I believe we are late already. -- Good health to you, Fedor," he said to an old peasant; "and has the baby gone in?"

"He has, Peter. And my health is not so bad; and how is yours?"

"Good also, Fedor, thanks be to God. And will you see to these two? for I am a godparent, and must be near the priest."

"Willingly," said the old peasant Fedor. "How they do grow, to be sure, like young birch trees. Come along then, little pigeons."

Old Peter hurried into the church, followed by Fedor with Vanya and Maroosia. They all crossed themselves and said a prayer as they went in.

The ceremony was just beginning.

The priest, in his silk robes, was standing before the gold and painted screen at the end of the church, and there were the basin of holy water, and old Peter's sister, and the nurse Babka Tanya, very proud, holding the baby in a roll of white linen, and rocking it to and fro. There were coloured pictures of saints all over the screen, which stretches from one side of the church to the other. Some of the pictures were framed in gilt frames under glass, and were partly painted and partly metal. The faces and hands of the saints were painted, and their clothes were glittering silver or gold. Little lamps were burning in front of them, and candles.

A Russian christening is very different from an English one. For one thing, the baby goes right into the water, not once, but three times. Babka Tanya unrolled the baby, and the priest covered its face with his hand, and down it went under the water, once, twice, and again. Then he took some of the sacred ointment on his finger and anointed the baby's forehead, and feet, and hands, and little round stomach. Then, with a pair of scissors, he cut a little pinch of fluff from the baby's head, and rolled it into a pellet with the ointment, and threw the pellet into the holy water. And after that the baby was carried solemnly three times round the holy water. The priest blessed it and prayed for it; and there it was, a little true Russian, ready to be carried back to its mother, Nastasia, who lay at home in her cottage waiting for it.

When they got outside the church, they all went to Nastasia's cottage to congratulate her on her baby, and to tell her what good lungs it had, and what a handsome face, and how it was exactly like its father.

Nastasia smiled at Vanya and Maroosia; but they had no eyes except for the baby, and for all that belonged to it, especially its cradle. Now a Russian baby has a very much finer cradle than an English baby. A long fir pole is fastened in the middle and at one end to the beams in the ceiling of the hut, so that the other end swings free, just below the rafters. From this end is hung a big basket, and on the ropes by which the basket hangs are fastened shawls of bright colours. The baby is tucked in the basket, the shawls closed round it; and as the mother or the nurse sits at her spinning, she just kicks the basket gently now and again, and it swings up and down from the end of the pole, as if it were hung from the branch of a tree.

This baby had a fine new basket and a larch pole, newly fixed, white and shining, under the dark beams of the ceiling. It had presents besides old Peter's gun. It had a fine wooden spoon with a picture on it of a cottage and a fish. It had a wooden bowl and a painted mug, bought from one of the peddling barges that go up and down the rivers selling chairs and crockery, just like the caravans that travel our English roads. And also, although it was so young, it had a little sacred picture, made of metal, a picture of St. Nikolai; because this was St. Nikolai's day, and the baby was called Nikolai.

There was a samovar already steaming in the cottage, and a great cake of pastry, and cabbage and egg and fish. And there were cabbage soup with sour cream, and black bread and a little white bread, and red kisel jelly and a huge jug of milk.

And everybody ate and drank and talked as if they were never going to stop. The sun was warm, and presently the men went outside and sat on a log, leaning their backs against the wall of the hut and making cigarettes and smoking, or eating sunflower seeds, cracking the husks with their teeth, taking out the white kernels, and blowing the husks away. And the women sat in the hut, and now and then brought out glasses of hot tea to the men, and then went back again to talk of what a fine man the baby would be, and to remember other babies. And the old women looked at the young mothers and laughed, and said that they could remember the days when they were christened -- when they were babies themselves, no bigger than the little Nikolai who swung in the basket and squalled, or slept proudly, just as if he knew that all the world belonged to him because he was so very young. And Vanya and Maroosia ate sunflower seeds too, and sometimes played outside the cottage and sometimes inside; but mostly stood very quiet close to the swinging cradle, waiting till old Babka Tanya, the nurse, should pull the shawls a little way aside and let them see the pink, crumpled face of the little Nikolai, and the yellow fluff, just like a duckling's, which covered his bumpy pink head.

At last, towards evening, old Peter packed what was left of the hay into the cart, and packed Vanya and Maroosia in with the hay. Everybody said good-byes all round, and Peter climbed in and took up the rope reins.

"He'll be a fine man," he shouted through the door to Nastasia, "a fine man; and God grant he'll be as healthy as he is good. -- Till we meet again," he cried out merrily to the villagers; and Vanya and Maroosia waved their hands, and off they drove, back again to the hut in the forest.

They were very much quieter on the way back than they had been when they drove to the village in the morning. And the early summer day was quiet as it came to its end. There was a corncrake rattling in the fields, and more than once they saw frogs hop out of the road as they drove by in the twilight. A hare ran before them through the dusk and disappeared. And when they came to the wooden bridge over the stream, a tall gray bird with a long beak rose up from the bank and flew slowly away, carrying his long legs, like a thin pair of crutches, straight out behind him.

"Who is that?" asked Vanya sleepily from his nest in the hay.

"That is Mr. Crane," said old Peter. "Perhaps he is on his way to visit Miss Heron and tell her that this time he has really made up his mind, and to ask her to let bygones be bygones."

"What bygones?" said Vanya.

Old Peter watched the crane's slow, steady flight above the low marshy ground on either side of the stream, and then he said, -- 

"Why, surely you know all about that. It is an old story, little one, and I must have told it you a dozen times."

"No, never, grandfather," said Maroosia. She was nearly as sleepy as Vanya after the day in the village, and the fuss and pleasure of the christening.

"Oh, well," said old Peter; and he told the tale of Mr. Crane and Miss Heron as the cart bumped slowly along the rough road, while Vanya and Maroosia looked out with sleepy eyes from their nest of hay and listened, and the sky turned green, and the trees grew dim, and the frogs croaked in the ditches.


Mr. Crane and Miss Heron lived in a marsh five miles across from end to end. They lived there, and fed on the frogs which they caught in their long bills, and held up in the air for a moment, and then swallowed, standing on one leg. The marsh was always damp, and there were always plenty of frogs, and life went well for them, except that they saw very little company. They had no one to pass the time of day with. For Mr. Crane had built his little hut on one side of the marsh, and Miss Heron had built hers on the other.

So it came into the head of Mr. Crane that it was dull work living alone. If only I were married, he thought, there would be two of us to drink our tea beside the samovar at night, and I should not spend my evenings in melancholy, thinking only of frogs. I will go to see Miss Heron, and I will offer to marry her.

So off he flew to the other side of the marsh, flap, flap, with his legs hanging out behind, just as we saw him to-night. He came to the other side of the marsh, and flew down to the hut of Miss Heron. He tapped on the door with his long beak.

"Is Miss Heron at home?"

"At home," said Miss Heron.

"Will you marry me?" said Mr. Crane.

"Of course I won't," said Miss Heron; "your legs are long and ill-shaped, and your coat is short, and you fly awkwardly, and you are not even rich. You would have no dainties to feed me with. Off with you, long-bodied one, and don't come bothering me."

She shut the door in his face.

Mr. Crane looked the fool he thought himself, and went off home, wishing he had never made the journey.

But as soon as he was gone, Miss Heron, sitting alone in her hut, began to think things over and to be sorry she had spoken in such a hurry.

"After all," thinks she, "it is poor work living alone. And Mr. Crane, in spite of what I said about his looks, is really a handsome enough young fellow. Indeed at evening, when he stands on one leg, he is very handsome indeed. Yes, I will go and marry him."

So off flew Miss Heron, flap, flap, over five miles of marsh, and came to the hut of Mr. Crane.

"Is the master at home?"

"At home," said Mr. Crane.

"Ah, Mr. Crane," said Miss Heron, "I was chaffing you just now. When shall we be married?"

"No, Miss Heron," said Mr. Crane; "I have no need of you at all. I do not wish to marry, and I would not take you for my wife even if I did. Clear out, and let me see the last of you." He shut the door.

Miss Heron wept tears of shame, that ran from her eyes down her long bill and dropped one by one to the ground. Then she flew away home, wishing she had not come.

As soon as she was gone Mr. Crane began to think, and he said to himself, "What a fool I was to be so short with Miss Heron! It's dull living alone. Since she wants it, I will marry her." And he flew off after Miss Heron. He came to her hut, and told her, -- 

"Miss Heron, I have thought things over. I have decided to marry you."

"Mr. Crane," said Miss Heron, "I, too, have thought things over. I would not marry you, not for ten thousand young frogs."

Off flew Mr. Crane.

As soon as he was gone Miss Heron thought, "Why didn't I agree to marry Mr. Crane? It's dull alone. I will go at once and tell him I have changed my mind."

She flew off to betroth herself; but Mr. Crane would have none of her, and she flew back again.

And so they go on to this day -- first one and then the other flying across the marsh with an offer of marriage, and flying back with shame. They have never married, and never will.


"Grandfather," whispered Maroosia, tugging at old Peter's sleeve, "Vanya is asleep."

They drove on through the forest silently, except for the creaking of the cart and the loud singing of the nightingales in the tops of the tall firs. They came at last to their hut.

"Ah!" said old Peter, as he lifted them out, first one and then the other; "it isn't only Vanya who's asleep." And he carried them in, and put them to bed without waking them.

<eob>

Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag, Vol 2

By

Louisa M. Alcott



I.

Off.


'On the first day of February we three will sail from Boston for Messina, in the little fruit-ship "Wasp." We shall probably be a month going, unless we cross in a gale as I did, splitting sails every night, and standing on our heads most of the way,' said Amanda, folding up her maps with an air of calm decision.

'Hurrah! what fun!' cried Matilda, waving a half-finished dressing-case over her head.

But Lavinia, with one sepulchral groan, fell flat upon her bed, and lay there, dumb with the horrors of such a voyage.

'Just the thing for you, my poor old dear. Think of the balmy airs of Sicily, the oranges, the flowers. Then a delicious month or two at Sorrento, with no east winds, no slush, no spring cleaning. We shall be as merry as grigs, and get as buxom as dairy-maids in a month,' said the sprightly Amanda.

'You promised to go, and if you back out we are lost, for we must have a duenna. You can lie round in Europe just as well as here, and I have no doubt it will do you a world of good,' added Matilda.

'I shall keep my word; but you will bury me in the Atlantic, so make up your minds to it. Do you suppose that I, a poor, used-up old invalid, who can't look at a sail-boat without a qualm, can survive thirty days of standing on my head, and thirty nights of sail-splitting, as we go slamming and lurching across two or three awful oceans?' demanded Lavinia, with the energy of despair.

Before anyone could reply, Amanda's little Mercury appeared with a note.

'The "Wasp" will not take passengers, and no other fruit-ship sails this spring,' read Amanda.

'Oh dear!' sighed Matilda.

'Saved!' cried Lavinia.

'Be calm: we shall go, sooner or later, if I buy a ship and sail her myself;' with which indomitable remark Amanda went forth to grapple with and conquer untoward circumstances.

A month of plans, vicissitudes, and suspense followed, during which Amanda strove manfully; Matilda suffered agonies of hope and fear; and Lavinia remained a passive shuttlecock, waiting to be tossed wherever Fate's battledore chose to send her.

'Exactly two weeks from to-day, we sail with a party of friends in the French steamer "Lafayette," from New York for Brest. Will you be ready?' demanded Amanda, after a protracted wrestle with aforesaid adverse circumstances.

'But that is exactly what we didn't mean to do. It's expensive and fashionable; France and not Italy, north and not south.'

'That's because I'm in the party. If you take a Jonah nothing will go well. Leave me behind, and you will have a charming trip,' said Lavinia, who had an oyster-like objection to being torn from her bed.

'No matter, we are going, live or die, sink or swim; and I shall expect to meet you, all booted and spurred and fit for the fight, April first,' said the unwavering Amanda.

'A most appropriate day for three lone women to start off on a wild-goose chase after health and pleasure,' groaned Lavinia from among her pillows.

'Very well, then; I leave you now, and shall expect to meet on the appointed day?'

'If I'm spared,' answered the sufferer.

'I'll bring her, never fear,' added the sanguine Mat, as she rattled the trays out of an immense trunk.

How they ever did it no one knows; but in a week everything was ready, and the sisters had nothing left to do but to sit and receive the presents that showered upon them from all quarters. How kind everyone was, to be sure! Six fine dressing-cases arrived, and were hung upon the walls; four smelling-bottles -- one for each nostril; bed-socks, rigolettes, afghans, lunch-baskets, pocket-flasks, guide-books, needle-cases, bouquets in stacks, and a great cake with their names on top in red and blue letters three inches long.

Friendly fingers sewed for them; even the gentlemen of the house -- and there were eight -- had a 'bee,' and hemmed handkerchiefs for Mat, marked towels; and one noble being actually took off his coat and packed the trunks in layers of mosaic-work wonderful to behold. A supper celebrated the last evening; and even the doleful Lavinia, touched by such kindness, emerged from her slough of despond and electrified the ball by dancing a jig with great spirit and grace.

Devoted beings were up at dawn to share the early breakfast, lug trunks, fly up and down with last messages, cheer heartily as the carriage drove off, and then adjourn en masse to the station, there to shake hands all round once more, and wave and wring handkerchiefs as the train at last bore the jocund Mat and the resigned Lavinia toward the trysting-place and Amanda.

All along the route more friends kept bursting into the cars as they stopped at different places; more gifts, more hand-shakes and kisses, more good wishes and kind prophecies, till at last in a chaos of smiles, tears, smelling-bottles, luncheon, cloaks, books, and foot-warmers, the travellers left the last friendly face behind and steamed away to New York.

'How de-licious this is!' cried the untravelled Matilda, as they stepped upon the deck of the 'Lafayette,' and she sniffed the shippy fragrance that caused Lavinia to gasp and answer darkly, -- 

'Wait till to-morrow.'

While Mat surveyed the steamer under the care of Devoted Being No. 10, who appeared to see them off, Lavinia arranged the stateroom, stowing away all useless gear and laying forth dressing-gowns, slippers, pocket-handkerchiefs, with an anguished smile. She had crossed the ocean twice, and was a wiser, sadder woman for it. At eight she turned in, and ten minutes later Amanda came aboard with a flock of gay friends. But no temptations of the flesh could lure the wary spinster from her den; for the night was rough and cold, and the steamer a Babel of confusion.

'It's perfectly delightful! I wish you'd been there, Livy. We had supper, and songs, and funny stories, and all sorts of larks. There are quantities of nice people aboard, and we shall have a perfectly splendid trip. I shall be up bright and early, put on my scarlet stockings, my new boots, and pretty sea-suit, and go in for a jolly day,' said the ardent Matilda, as she came skipping down at midnight and fell asleep full of rosy visions of the joys of a


Life on the ocean wave.


'Deluded child!' sighed Lavinia, closing her dizzy eyes upon the swaying garments on the wall, and feebly wishing she had hung herself along with them.

In the gray dawn she was awakened by sounds of woe, and peering forth beheld the festive Matilda with one red stocking on and one off, her blonde locks wildly dishevelled, her face of a pale green, and her hands clasping lemons, cologne, and salts, as she lay with her brow upon the cool marble of the toilet-table.

'How do you like it, dear?' asked the unfeeling Lavinia.

'Oh, what is it? I feel as if I was dying. If somebody would only stop the swing one minute. Is it sea-sickness? It's awful, but it will do me good. Oh, yes! I hope so. I've tried everything, and feel worse and worse. Hold me! save me! Oh, I wish I hadn't come!'

'Shipmates ahoy! how are you, my loves?' and Amanda appeared, rosy, calm, and gay, with her pea-jacket on, skirts close reefed, hat well to windward, and everything taut and ship-shape; for she was a fine sailor, and never missed a meal.

Wails greeted her, and faint inquiries as to the state of things in the upper world.

'Blowing a gale; rain, hail, and snow, -- very dirty weather; and we are flying off the coast in fine style,' was the cheerful reply.

'Have we split any sails?' asked Lavinia, not daring to open her eyes.

'Dozens, I dare say. Shipping seas every five minutes. All the passengers ill but me, and every prospect of a north-easter all the way over,' continued the lively Amanda, lurching briskly about the passage with her hands in her pockets.

Matilda dropped her lemons and her bottles to wring her hands, and Lavinia softly murmured -- 


'Lord, what fools we mortals be, That we ever go to sea!'


'Breakfast, ladies?' cried the pretty French stewardess, prancing in with tea-cups, bowls of gruel, and piles of toast balanced in some miraculous manner all over her arms.

'Oh, take it away! I shall never eat again,' moaned Matilda, clinging frantically to the marble, as the water-pitcher went down the middle with a hair-brush, and all the boots and shoes had a grand promenade round the room.

'Don't speak to me; don't look at me; don't even think of me for three days at least. Go and enjoy yourself, and leave us to our doom;' with which tragical remark Lavinia drew her curtains, and was seen no more.

Great heavens, what a week that was! Rain, wind, fog; creak, pitch, toss; noise, smells, cold. Broken sleep by day, woe in every variety by night; food and drink a delusion and a snare; society an affliction; life a burden; death a far-off blessing not to be had at any price. Slowly, slowly the victims emerge from the lower depths of gloom, feebly smile, faintly joke, pick fearfully but wistfully at once-rejected dishes; talk about getting up, but don't do it; read a little, look at their sallow countenances in hand-glasses, and speculate upon the good effects of travel upon the constitution. Then they suddenly become daring, gay, and social; rise, adorn themselves, pervade the cabins, sniff the odours of engine and kitchen without qualms, play games, go to table; and, just as the voyage is over, begin to enjoy it.

Alas for poor Lavinia! no such resurrection was possible for her. Long after Mat had bravely donned the scarlet hose, cocked up her beaver and gone forth to festive scenes, her shipmate remained below in chrysalis state, fed by faithful Marie, visited by the ever-cheerful Amanda, and enlivened by notes and messages from fellow-sufferers in far-off cells.

Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmars, jun., called, and had private theatricals in the passage. Dried-ginger parties were held about the invalid's berth, poems were composed, and conundrums circulated. A little newspaper was concocted, replete with wit and spirit, by these secluded ladies, and called the 'Sherald,' to distinguish it from the 'Herald,' got up by sundry gentlemen whose shining hours were devoted to flirtation, cards, and wine.

'Perfect gentlemen, I assure you, my dear; for, drunk or sober, they wear yellow kids from morning till night, smoke the best cigars, and dance divinely,' as Mrs. Twaddle said, sitting erect in the saloon, shrouded in fur and velvet, with five diamond-rings well displayed, as she recounted the diseases she had enjoyed, and did the honours of a remarkable work-basket, containing eight different sorts of scissors.

'We shall be in to-morrow, so you'd better be digging up the treasures you have buried, you old magpie,' said Mat, appearing to the pensive Livy on the eleventh day.

'The sun is out; come on deck, and help us get up the last edition of our paper. How will this do? Query -- If steamers are named the "Asia," the "Russia," and the "Scotia," why not call one the "Nausea?"' added Amanda, popping her head into the den. Lavinia threw a pillow at her, but the undaunted joker continued -- 

'Also this: Financial -- This being a feminine paper, gold is no longer at Pa, but at Ma.'

'Good! Add this: Argument in favour of the Superiority of Women -- The sluggard was not told to go to his uncle.'

'Thank you,' and Amanda departed to twine with her forty-third bosom friend, while Lavinia disinterred, from holes and corners of her berth, money, nuts, and raisins; books, biscuits, and literary efforts much the worse for deluges of soap and daubs of butter.

The cry of 'Land!' on the morrow caused passengers unseen before to appear like worms after a shower; all heroically did up their back hair, put on their best suits, and walked forth with the delusive hope that no one would know how ill they had been.

A French Marquis, with a sickly little son, whose diet of fried potatoes and sour wine accounted for his having the temper of a young fiend, appeared, and were made much of by dear, title-loving Americans.

A Spanish opera-singer, stout, saffron-coloured, and imperious, likewise emerged from obscurity, with a meek little husband, who waited on her like a servant, and a big bald parrot, who swore like a trooper.

Several nuns languished in corners of the saloon, surveying the vanities of life with interest, and telling their beads devoutly when they saw anyone looking at them.

A mysterious lady in green velvet with many diamonds, and a shabby, speechless companion, sailed about the ship, regardless of the rumours told of her -- deserted husbands, stolen jewellery, lovers waiting on the other side, and many equally pleasant little tales.

The gentlemen with orange gloves and copper-coloured noses got themselves up in the most superb style, though few were going to land at Brest, and took tender farewells of such ladies as did, each professing desolation and despair at the termination of a twelve days' flirtation.

'I am not fond of dirt, but I could kneel down and kiss this mud, so grateful am I to feel solid ground under my feet, after leading the life of a fly for so long,' said Lavinia with emotion, as the three trudged up the wharf at Brest into a sort of barn which served for a custom-house.

'Now let each sit upon her luggage and clamour till some one comes and examines it, else it will get whisked away heaven only knows where,' ordered Amanda, who was the leader in right of her knowledge of tongues.

Each perched accordingly on her one big trunk, and tried to 'clamour.' But nothing came of it save loss of time and temper, for no one paid the slightest heed to them; and it was maddening to see trunk after trunk passed and sent off, followed by its rejoicing owner. Especially hard to bear was the sight of the green-velvet sinner, who, with a smile or two, won the sternest official to pass her five trunks without turning a key, and sailed away with a scornful glance at the virtuous Three planted on their property and feebly beckoning for help.

'I shall bear this no longer. Mat, sit there and guard the small things, while you and I, Livy, charge boldly among these imbeciles and drag them to their duty;' and Amanda marched away to clutch a cockaded victim by the shoulder with an awe-inspiring countenance.

Lavinia picked out a feeble, gray officer, and dogged him like an Indian, smiling affably, and pointing to her luggage with a persistent mildness that nearly drove the poor man mad.

No matter where he went, or what he did; no matter how thick the crowd about him, or how loud the din; still, like a relentless ghost, that mild old lady was ever at his side, mutely pointing and affably smiling. Of course he gave in, lifted one tray, saw much flannel, nearly blew his venerable nose off sniffing at one suspicious bottle, and slamming down the lid, scrawled a mysterious cross, bowed and fled.

Proudly returning to Amanda, the victorious one found her friend in a high state of indignation; for no officer there would touch her trunk because some American Express had put little leaden stamps here and there for some unknown purpose. Not even in her best French could the irate lady make the thick-headed men understand that it was not a high crime against the nation to undo a strap till some superior officer arrived to take the responsibility of so rash a step.

If they had comprehended the dire threats, the personal remarks, and unmitigated scorn of those three fair travellers, the blue-coated imbeciles would have been reduced to submission. Fortunately the great man came in time to save them from utter rout; for the ladies were just trying to decide whether to go and leave the luggage to its fate, or to haul it forth and depart vi et armis, when a stout old party came, saw, said, 'It is nothing; pass the trunk; a thousand pardons, Madame,' and peace was restored.

Instantly the porters, who till then had stood back, eyeing the innocent, black ark, as if it was an infernal machine liable to explode at a touch, threw themselves upon it, bore it forth, and heaving it atop of an omnibus, returned to demand vast sums for having waited so long.

Then was Amanda sublime; then did her comrades for the first time learn the magnitude of her powers, and realise the treasure they possessed. Stowing Matilda and the smaller traps in the bus, and saying to Lavinia, 'Stand by me,' this dauntless maid faced one dozen blue-bloused, black-bearded, vociferous, demonstrative Frenchmen; and, calmly offering the proper sum, refused to add one sou more.

Vainly the drivers perjured themselves in behalf of the porters; vainly the guard looked on, with imposing uniforms, and impertinent observations; vainly Mat cried imploringly, 'Pay anything, and let us get off before there is a mob' -- still the indomitable Amanda held forth the honest franc; and, when no one would take it, laid it on the post, and entering the omnibus, drove calmly away.

'What should we do without you?' sighed Lavinia, with fervent gratitude.

'Be cheated right and left, and never know it, dear,' responded Amanda, preparing for another fight with the omnibus-driver.

And she had it; for, unwarned by the fate of the porters, this short-sighted man insisted on carrying the ladies to a dirty little hotel to dine, though expressly ordered to go at once to the station. Nothing would induce them to alight, though the landlord came out in person and begged them to do so; and, after a protracted struggle and a drive all over the town, they finally reached the depôt.

Here another demand for double fare was promptly quenched by an appeal to the chef de station, who, finding that Mademoiselle was wide awake, crushed the driver and saw justice done.

Exhausted but triumphant, the three at length found themselves rolling slowly towards Morlaix through a green and blooming country, so unlike the New England they had left behind, that they rejoiced like butterflies in the sunshine.



II.

Brittany.


After a late dinner, at which their appetites were pretty effectually taken away by seeing dishes of snails passed round and eaten like nuts, with large pins to pick out the squirming meat; a night's rest somewhat disturbed by the incessant clatter of sabots in the market-place, and a breakfast rendered merry by being served by a garçon whom Dickens would have immortalised, our travellers went on to Caulnes-Dinan.

Here began their adventures, properly speaking. They were obliged to drive fourteen miles to Dinan in a ram-shackle carriage drawn by three fierce little horses, with their tails done up in braided chignons, and driven by a humpback. This elegant equipage was likewise occupied by a sleepy old priest, who smoked his pipe without stopping the whole way; also by a large, loquacious, beery man, who talked incessantly, informing the company that he was a friend of Victor Hugo, a child of nature aged sixty, and obliged to drink much ale because it went to his head and gave him commercial ideas.

If it had given him no others it would have done well; but, after each draught, and he took many, this child of nature became so friendly that even the free and easy Americans were abashed. Matilda quailed before the languishing glances he gave her, and tied her head up like a bundle in a thick veil. The scandalised Lavinia, informing him that she did not understand French, assumed the demeanour of a griffin, and glared stonily into space, when she was not dislocating her neck trying to see if the top-heavy luggage had not tumbled off behind.

Poor Amanda was thus left a prey to the beery one; for, having at first courteously responded to his paternal remarks and expressed an interest in the state of France, she could not drop the conversation all at once, even when the friend of Victor Hugo became so disagreeable that it is to be hoped the poet has not many such. He recited poems, he sung songs, he made tender confidences, and finished by pressing the hand of Mademoiselle to his lips. On being told that such demonstrations were not permitted to strangers in America, he beat his breast and cried out, 'My God, so beautiful and so cold! You do not comprehend that I am but a child. Pardon, and smile again I conjure you.'

But Mademoiselle would not smile; and, folding her hands in her cloak, appeared to slumber. Whereat the gray-headed infant groaned pathetically, cast his eyes heavenward, and drank more ale, muttering to himself, and shaking his head as if his emotions could not be entirely suppressed.

These proceedings caused Lavinia to keep her eye on him, being prepared for any outbreak, from a bullet all round to proposals to both her charges at once.

With this smouldering bomb-shell inside, and the firm conviction that one if not all the trunks were lying in the dust some miles behind, it may be inferred that duenna Livy did not enjoy that break-neck drive, lurching and bumping up hill and down, with nothing between them and destruction apparently but the little humpback, who drove recklessly.

In this style they rattled up to the Porte de Brest, feeling that they had reached Dinan 'only by the grace of God,' as the beery man expressed it, when he bowed and vanished, still oppressed with the gloomy discovery that American women did not appreciate him.

While Amanda made inquiries at an office, and Matilda had raptures over the massive archway crowned with yellow flowers, Lavinia was edified by a new example of woman's right to labour.

Close by was a clean, rosy old woman, whose unusual occupation attracted our spinster's attention. Whisking off the wheels of a diligence, the old lady greased them one by one, and put them on again with the skill and speed of a regular blacksmith, and then began to pile many parcels into a char apparently waiting for them.

She was a brisk, cheery old soul, with the colour of a winter-apple in her face, plenty of fire in her quick black eyes, and a mouthful of fine teeth, though she must have been sixty. She was dressed in the costume of the place: a linen cap with several sharp gables to it, a gay kerchief over her shoulders, a blue woollen gown short enough to display a pair of sturdy feet and legs in neat shoes with bunches of ribbons on the instep and black hose. A gray apron, with pockets and a bib, finished her off; making a very sensible as well as picturesque costume.

She was still hard at it when a big boy appeared, and began to heave the trunks into another char; but gave out at the second, which was large. Instantly the brisk old woman put him aside, hoisted in the big boxes without help, and, catching up the shafts of the heavily laden cart, trotted away with it at a pace which caused the Americans (who prided themselves on their muscle) to stare after her in blank amazement.

When next seen she was toiling up a steep street, still ahead of the lazy boy, who slowly followed with the lighter load. It did not suit Lavinia's ideas of the fitness of things to have an old woman trundle three heavy trunks while she herself carried nothing but a parasol, and she would certainly have lent a hand if the vigorous creature had not gone at such a pace that it was impossible to overtake her till she backed her cart up before a door in most scientific style, and with a bow, a smile, and a courteous wave of the hand, informed them that 'here the ladies would behold the excellent Madame C.'

They did behold and also receive a most cordial welcome from the good lady, who not only embraced them with effusion, but turned her house upside down for their accommodation, merely because they came recommended to her hospitality by a former lodger who had won her kind old heart.

While she purred over them, the luggage was being bumped upstairs, the old woman shouldering trunk after trunk, and trudging up two steep flights in the most marvellous way. But best of all was her surprise and gratitude on receiving a larger fee than usual, for the ladies were much interested in this dear old Hercules in a cap of seven gables.

When she had blessed them all round, and trotted briskly away with her carts, Madame C. informed the new-comers that the worthy soul was a widow with many children, whom she brought up excellently, supporting them by acting as porter at the hotel. Her strength was wonderful, and she was very proud of it -- finding no work too hard, yet always neat, cheery, and active; asking no help, and literally earning her daily bread by the sweat of her brow. The ladies often saw her afterward, always trotting and tugging, smiling and content, as if some unseen hands kept well greased the wheels of her own diligence, which carried such a heavy load and never broke down.

Miss Lavinia being interested in Woman's Rights and Wrongs, was much impressed by the new revelations of the capabilities of her sex, and soon ceased to be surprised at any demonstration of feminine strength, skill, and independence, for everywhere the women took the lead.

They not only kept house, reared children, and knit every imaginable garment the human frame can wear, but kept the shops and the markets, tilled the gardens, cleaned the streets, and bought and sold cattle, leaving the men free to enjoy the only pursuits they seemed inclined to follow -- breaking horses, mending roads, and getting drunk.

The markets seemed entirely in the hands of the women, and lively scenes they presented to unaccustomed eyes, especially the pig-market, held every week, in the square before Madame C.'s house. At dawn the squealing began, and was kept up till sunset. The carts came in from all the neighbouring hamlets, with tubs full of infant pigs, over which the women watched with maternal care till they were safely deposited among the rows of tubs that stood along the walk facing Anne of Bretaigne's grey old tower, and the pleasant promenade which was once the fosse about the city walls.

Here Madame would seat herself and knit briskly till a purchaser applied, when she would drop her work, dive among the pink innocents, and hold one up by its unhappy leg, undisturbed by its doleful cries, while she settled its price with a blue-gowned, white-capped neighbour as sharp-witted and shrill-tongued as herself. If the bargain was struck, they slapped their hands together in a peculiar way, and the new owner clapped her purchase into a meal-bag, slung it over her shoulder, and departed with her squirming, squealing treasure as calmly as a Boston lady with a satchel full of ribbons and gloves.

More mature pigs came to market on their own legs, and very long, feeble legs they were, for a more unsightly beast than a Breton pig was never seen out of a toy Noah's ark. Tall, thin, high-backed, and sharp-nosed, these porcine victims tottered to their doom, with dismal wailings, and not a vestige of spirit till the trials and excitement of the day goaded them to rebellion, when their antics furnished fun for the public. Miss Livy observed that the women could manage the pigs when men failed entirely. The latter hustled, lugged, or lashed, unmercifully and unsuccessfully; the former, with that fine tact which helps them to lead nobler animals than pigs, would soothe, sympathise, coax, and gently beguile the poor beasts, or devise ways of mitigating their bewilderment and woe, which did honour to the sex, and triumphantly illustrated the power of moral suasion.

One amiable lady, who had purchased two small pigs and a coop full of fowls, attempted to carry them all on one donkey. But the piggies rebelled lustily in the bags, the ducks remonstrated against their unquiet neighbours, and the donkey indignantly refused to stir a step till the unseemly uproar was calmed. But the Bretonne was equal to the occasion; for, after a pause of meditation, she solved the problem by tying the bags round the necks of the pigs, so that they could enjoy the prospect. This appeased them at once, and produced a general lull; for when the pigs stopped squealing, the ducks stopped quacking, the donkey ceased his bray, and the party moved on in dignified silence, with the youthful pigs, one black, one white, serenely regarding life from their bags.

Another time, a woman leading a newly-bought cow came through the square, where the noise alarmed the beast so much that she became unruly, and pranced in a most dangerous manner. Miss Livy hung out of the window, breathless with interest, and ready to fly with brandy and bandages at a minute's notice, for it seemed inevitable that the woman would be tossed up among the lindens before the cow was conquered. The few men who were lounging about stood with their hands in their pockets, watching the struggle without offering to help, till the cow scooped the lady up on her horns, ready for a toss. Livy shrieked, but Madame just held on, kicking so vigorously that the cow was glad to set her down, when, instead of fainting, she coolly informed the men, who, seeing her danger, had approached, that she 'could arrange her cow for herself, and did not want any help,' which she proved by tying a big blue handkerchief over the animal's eyes, producing instant docility, and then she was led away by her flushed but triumphant mistress, who calmly settled her cap, and took a pinch of snuff to refresh herself, after a scuffle which would have annihilated most women.

When Madame C.'s wood was put in, the new-comers were interested in watching the job, for it was done in a truly Bretonesque manner. It arrived in several odd carts, each drawn by four great horses, with two men to each team; and as the carts were clumsy, the horses wild, and the men stupid, the square presented a lively spectacle. At one time there were three carts, twelve horses, and six men, all in a snarl, while a dozen women stood at their doors and gave advice. One was washing a lettuce, another dressing her baby, a third twirling her distaff, and a fourth with her little bowl of soup, which she ate in public while gesticulating so frantically that her sabots clattered on the stones.

The horses had a free fight, and the men swore and shouted in vain, till the lady with the baby suddenly went to the rescue. Planting the naked cherub on the door-step, this energetic matron charged in among the rampant animals, and by some magic touch untangled the teams, quieted the most fractious, a big grey brute, prancing like a mad elephant; then returned to her baby, who was placidly eating dirt, and with a polite 'Voilà, messieurs!' she whipped little Jean into his shirt, while the men sat down to smoke.

It took two deliberate men nearly a week to split the gnarled logs, and one brisk woman carried them into the cellar and piled them neatly. The men stopped about once an hour to smoke, drink cider, or rest. The woman worked steadily from morning till night, only pausing at noon for a bit of bread and the soup good Coste sent out to her. The men got two francs a day, the woman half a franc; and as nothing was taken out of it for wine or tobacco, her ten cents probably went further than their forty.

This same capable lady used to come to market with a baby on one arm, a basket of fruit on the other, leading a pig, driving a donkey, and surrounded by sheep, while her head bore a pannier of vegetables, and her hands spun busily with a distaff. How she ever got on with these trifling incumbrances was a mystery; but there she was, busy, placid, and smiling, in the midst of the crowd, and at night went home with her shopping well content.

The washerwomen were among the happiest of these happy souls, and nowhere were seen prettier pictures than they made, clustered round the fountains or tanks by the way, scrubbing, slapping, singing, and gossiping, as they washed or spread their linen on the green hedges and daisied grass in the bright spring weather. One envied the cheery faces under the queer caps, the stout arms that scrubbed all day, and were not too tired to carry home some chubby Jean or little Marie when night came; and, most of all, the contented hearts in the broad bosoms under the white kerchiefs, for no complaint did one hear from these hard-working, happy women. The same brave spirit seems to possess them now as that which carried them heroically to their fate in the Revolution, when hundreds of mothers and children were shot at Nantes and died without a murmur.

But of all the friends the strangers made among them they liked old Mère Oudon best -- a shrivelled leaf of a woman, who at ninety-two still supported her old husband of ninety-eight. He was nearly helpless, and lay in bed most of the time, smoking, while she peeled willows at a sou a day, trudged up and down with herbs, cresses, or any little thing she could find to sell. Very proud was she of her 'master,' his great age, his senses still quite perfect, and most of all his strength, for now and then the old tyrant left his bed to beat her, which token of conjugal regard she seemed to enjoy as a relic of early days, and a proof that he would long be spared to her.

She kept him exquisitely neat, and if anyone gave her a plate of food, a little snuff, or any small comfort for her patient old age, she took it straight to the 'master,' and found a double happiness in giving and seeing him enjoy it.

She had but one eye, her amiable husband having put out the other once on a time as she was leading him home tipsy from market. The kind soul bore no malice, and always made light of it when forced to tell how the affliction befell her.

'My Yvon was so gay in his young days, truly, yes, a fine man, and now most beautiful to see in his clean bed, with the new pipe that Mademoiselle sent him. Come, then, and behold him, my superb master, who at ninety-eight has still this strength so wonderful.'

The ladies never cared to see him more than once, but often met the truly beautiful old wife as she toiled to and fro, finding her faithful love more wonderful than his strength, and feeling sure that when she lies at last on her 'clean bed,' some good angel will repay these ninety-two hard years with the youth and beauty, happiness and rest, which nothing can destroy.

Not only did the women manage the affairs of this world, but had more influence than men with the good powers of heaven. A long drought parched France that year, and even fertile Brittany suffered. More than once processions of women, led by priests, poured through the gates to go to the Croix du Saint Esprit and pray for rain.

'Why don't the men go also?' Miss Livy asked.

'Ah! they pray to the Virgin, and she listens best to women,' was the answer.

She certainly seemed to do so, for gracious showers soon fell, and the little gardens bloomed freshly where the mothers' hard hands had planted cabbages, onions, and potatoes to feed the children through the long winter.

Nor were these the only tasks the women did. The good ladies had a hospital, and a neater, cheerier place was never seen; few invalids, but many old people sitting in the sunny gardens, or at work in the clean rooms. La Garaye is in ruins now, but the memory of its gentle lady still lives, and is preserved in this benevolent institution for the sick, the old, and poor.

A school for girls was kept by the good nuns, and the streets at certain hours were full of little damsels, with round caps on their braided hair, queer long gowns of blue, white aprons and handkerchiefs, who went clattering by in their wooden shoes, bobbing little curtsies to their friends, and readily answering any questions inquisitive strangers asked them. They learned to read, write, sew, and say the catechism. Also to sing; for, often as the ladies passed the little chapel of Our Lady, a chorus of sweet young voices came to us, making the flowery garden behind the church of St. Sauveur a favourite resting-place.

In endeavouring to account for the freedom of the women here, it was decided that it was owing to Anne of Brittany, the 'gentle and generous Duchesse,' to whom her husband Louis XII. allowed the uncontrolled government of the duchy. Relics of the 'fière Bretonne,' as Louis called her, are still treasured everywhere, and it was pleasant to know not only that she was an accomplished woman, writing tender letters in Latin verse to her husband, but also a wise and just Princess to her people, 'showing herself by spirit and independence to be the most worthy of all her race to wear the ducal crown.' So three cheers for good Duchesse Anne, and long life to the hardy, happy women of Brittany!

While Miss Lavinia was making these observations and moralizing upon them, the younger ladies were enjoying discoveries and experiences more to their tastes.

They had not been in the house half a day before Madame C. informed them that 'Mademoiselle, the so charming miss whom they beheld at dinner, was to be married very soon; and they should have the rapture of witnessing a wedding the most beautiful.'

They welcomed the prospect with pleasure, for Dinan is not a whirl of gaiety at the best of times: and that spring the drought, rumours of war, and fears of small-pox, cast a shadow upon the sunny little town. So they surveyed Mademoiselle Pelagie with interest, and longed to behold the happy man who was to be blessed with the hand of this little, yellow-faced girl, with red eyes, dirty hands, and a frizzled crop, so like a wig they never could make up their minds that it was not.

Madame, the mamma, a buxom, comely widow, who breakfasted in black moire, with a diadem of glossy braids on her sleek head, and many jet ornaments rattling and glistening about her person, informed them, with voluble affability, of the whole affair.

'My brother, M. le Président, had arranged the marriage. Pelagie was twenty, and beautiful, as you behold. It was time to establish her. Mon Dieu! yes; though my heart is lacerated to lose my angel, I consent. I conduct her to a ball, that she may be seen by the young man whose parents desire that he should espouse my infant. He beholds her. He says: "Great heavens, I adore her! My father, I consent." He is presented to me; we converse. She regards him with the angelic modesty of a young girl, but speaks not. I approve, the parents meet, it is arranged, and Jules is betrothed to my Pelagie. They have not met since; but next week he comes for the marriage, and he will be permitted to address her in my presence. Ah, yes! your customs are not as ours, and to us seem of a deplorable freedom. Pardon that I say it.'

On inquiring how Pelagie regarded her future lord, they found that she thought very little about him, but was absorbed in her trousseau, which she proudly displayed. To those accustomed to see and hear of American outfits, with their lavish profusion and extravagant elegance, poor little Pelagie's modest stores were not at all imposing. Half a dozen pretty dresses from Paris; several amazing hats, all rosebuds, lace, and blue ribbon; a good deal of embroidery; and a few prophetic caps, -- completed the outfit.

One treasure, however, she was never tired of displaying, -- a gift from Jules, -- a camels'-hair shawl, in a black walnut case, on which was carved the Clomadoc arms. A set of pearls were also from the bridegroom; but the shawl was her pride, for married women alone could wear such, and she seemed to think this right of more importance than any the wedding-ring could confer upon her.

To the young ladies, both of whom had known many of the romantic experiences which befall comely American girls, the idea of marrying a man whom they had only seen twice seemed horrible; and to have but one week of courtship, and that in Mamma's presence, was simply an insult and a wrong which they would not bear to think of.

But Pelagie seemed quite content, and brooded over her finery like a true Frenchwoman, showing very little interest in her Jules, and only anxious for the time to come when she could wear her shawl and be addressed as Madame.

While waiting for the grand event, the girls amused themselves with Gaston, the brother of the bride-elect. He was a languid, good-looking youth of three-and-twenty, who assumed blasé airs and attitudinized for their benefit. Sometimes he was lost in fits of Byronic gloom, when he frowned over his coffee, sighed gustily, and clutched his brow, regardless of the curls, usually in ambrosial order. The damsels, instead of being impressed by this display of inward agony, only laughed at him, and soon rallied him out of his heroics. Then he would try another plan, and become all devotion, presenting green tulips, ancient coins, early fruit, or sketches of his own, so very small that the design was quite obscure. If these delicate attentions failed to touch the stony hearts of the blonde Americans, he would air his entire wardrobe, appearing before them one day in full Breton costume of white cloth, embroidered in gay silks, buckled shoes, and hat adorned with streaming ribbons and flowers. Quite Arcadian was Gaston in this attire; and very effective on the croquet ground, where sundry English families disported themselves on certain afternoons. Another time he would get himself up like a Parisian dandy bound for a ride in the Bois de Boulogne; and, mounting with much difficulty a rampant horse, he would caracole about the Place St. Louis, to the great delight of the natives.

But this proved a failure; for one of the fair but cruel strangers donned hat and habit, and entirely eclipsed his glories by galloping about the country like an Amazon. The only time Gaston played escort she was nearly the death of him, for he seldom did more than amble a mile or two, and a hard trot of some six or eight miles reduced our Adonis to such a state of exhaustion that he fell into his mother's arms on dismounting, and was borne away to bed with much lamentation.

After that he contented himself with coming to show himself in full dress whenever he went to a party; and, as that was nearly every other evening, they soon got accustomed to hearing a tap at their door, and beholding the comely youth in all the bravery of glossy broadcloth, a lavish shirt-bosom, miraculous tie, primrose gloves, varnished shoes, and curls and moustache anointed and perfumed in the most exquisite style. He would bow and say 'Bon soir,' then stand to be admired, with the artless satisfaction of a child; after which he would smile complacently, wave his crush hat, and depart with a flourish.

Dear, dandified, vain Gaston! His great desire was to go to Paris, and when the war came he had his wish; but found sterner work to do than to dress and dance and languish at the feet of ladies. I hope it made a man of him, and fancy it did; for the French fight well and suffer bravely for the country they love in their melodramatic fashion.

As the day approached for the advent of the bridegroom, great excitement prevailed in the quiet household. Madame C. and her handmaid, dear old Marie, cackled and bustled like a pair of important hens. Madame F., the widow, lived at the milliner's, so to speak, and had several dress rehearsals for her own satisfaction. Gaston mounted guard over his sister, lest some enamoured man should rend her from them ere her Jules could secure the prize. And Pelagie placidly ate and slept, kept her hair in crimping-pins from morning till night, wore out her old clothes, and whiled away the time munching bonbons and displaying her shawl.

'Mercy on us! I should feel like a lamb being fattened for the sacrifice if I were in her place,' cried one of the freeborn American citizenesses, with an air of unmitigated scorn for French ways of conducting this interesting ceremony.

'I should feel like a galley-slave,' said the other. 'For she can't go anywhere without Gaston or Mamma at her elbow. Only yesterday she went into a shop alone, while Gaston waited at the door. And when she told it at home as a great exploit all the ladies shrieked with horror at the idea, and Mamma said, wringing her hands: "Mon Dieu! but they will think thou art a married woman, for it is inconceivable that any girl should do so bold a thing." And Pelagie wept, and implored them not to tell Jules, lest he should discard her.'

Here the Americans all groaned over the pathetic absurdity of the whole affair, and wondered with unrighteous glee what the decorous ladies below would say to some of their pranks at home. But, fearing that M. le Président might feel it his duty to eject them from the town as dangerous persons, they shrouded their past sins in the most discreet silence, and assumed their primmest demeanour in public.

'He has come! Look quick, girls!' cried Lavinia, as a carriage stopped at the door, and a rushing sound, as of many agitated skirts, was heard in the hall. Three heads peeped from the window of the blue parlour, and three pairs of curious eyes were rewarded by a sight of the bridegroom, as he alighted.

Such a little man! Such a fierce moustache! Such a dignified strut! And such an imposing uniform as he wore! For Jules Gustave Adolphe Marie Clomadoc was a colonel in some regiment stationed at Boulogne. Out he skipped; in he marched; and, peeping over the banisters, they saw him salute Madame F. with a stately kiss on the hand, then escort her up to her salon, bowing loftily, and twisting his tawny moustache with an air that gave him the effect of being six feet in height, and broad in proportion.

How he greeted his fiancée they knew not, but the murmur of voices came from the room in steady flow for hours, and Gaston flew in and out with an air of immense importance.

At dinner the strangers were proudly presented to M. le Colonel, and received affable bows from the little man, who flattered himself that he could talk English, and insisted on speaking an unknown tongue, evidently wondering at their stupidity in not understanding their own language.

He escorted Madame down, sat between her and Pelagie, but talked only to her; while the girl sat silent and ate her dinner with an appetite which no emotion could diminish. It was very funny to see the small warrior do his wooing of the daughter through the mother; and the buxom widow played her part so well that an unenlightened observer would have said she was the bride-elect. She smiled, she sighed, she discoursed, she coquetted, and now and then plucked out her handkerchief and wept at the thought of losing the angel, who was placidly gnawing bones and wiping up the gravy on her plate with bits of bread.

Jules responded with spirit, talked, jested, quoted poetry, paid compliments right and left, and now and then passed the salt, filled a glass, or offered a napkin to his fiancée with a French shrug and a tender glance.

After dinner Madame F. begged him to recite one of his poems; for it appeared this all-accomplished man was beloved of the muse, and twanged the lyre as well as wielded the sword. With much persuasion and many modest apologies, Jules at length consented, took his place upon the rug, thrust one hand into his bosom, turned up his eyes, and, in a tremendous voice, declaimed a pensive poem of some twenty stanzas, called 'Adieu to my past.'

The poet's friends listened with rapt countenances and frequent bursts of emotion or applause; but the Americans suffered agonies, for the whole thing was so absurdly melodramatic that it was with great difficulty they kept themselves from explosions of laughter. When the little man dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper, in bidding adieu to the lost loves of his youth, tender-hearted old C. sobbed in her napkin; while Livy only saved herself from hysterics by drinking a glass of water, and Pelagie ate sugar, with her round eyes fixed on her lover's face, without the slightest expression whatever.

When the poet mourned his blighted hopes, and asked wildly of all the elements if he should live or die, Gaston cast reproachful glances at the alien charmer who had nipped his passion in the bud; and when Jules gave a sudden start, slapped his brow, and declared that he would live for his country, old Marie choked in her coffee, while Madame F. clapped her fat hands, and cried: 'It is sublime!'

The poem closed there, and the providential appearance of their donkeys gave the ladies an excuse for retiring to their room, where they laughed till they could laugh no more.

Each meal was as good as a play, and every glimpse they had of the little pair gave fresh food for mirth. Everything was so formal and polite, so utterly unlike the free-and-easy customs of their native land, that they were kept in alternate states of indignation and amusement the whole time. Jules never was alone with his Pelagie for an instant; such a breach of etiquette would have shocked the entire town. In the walks and drives which the family took together, Madame was always at the Colonel's side; while Gaston escorted his sister, looking as if he was fast reaching a state of mind when he would give her away without a pang. Many guests came and went, much kissing and bowing, prancing and rustling, went on, up and down stairs. Stately old gentlemen called, papers were signed, fortunes discussed, and gifts displayed. Pelagie went much to mass; also to the barber's and the bath. Agitated milliners flew in and out. A great load of trunks arrived from Nantes, where Madame formerly lived; and the day before the wedding a whole carriage full of Clomadocs appeared, and Babel seemed to have come again.

A great supper was given that evening, and the Three were banished to their own rooms; where, however, they fared sumptuously, for Madame C. and good old Marie ate with them, having no place left them but the kitchen. Madame C. was much hurt that she had not been asked to the wedding. It seemed the least Madame F. could do after taking possession of the house, and turning its rightful owner out of every room but the attic. Madame C. was a gentlewoman; and though a meek old soul, this rudeness hurt her very much. She said nothing; but Marie fumed and scolded fiercely, and proposed that the neglected ones should all go away on the wedding-day, and make a fête for themselves somewhere. So they decided to drive to Dinare, enjoy the fine views of the sea and St. Malo, dine, and return at dusk, leaving the house free for the wedding festivities.

The day was fine, and the ladies were graciously invited to behold the bride before she left for church. She looked as much like a fashion-plate as it was possible for a living girl to look; and they dutifully kissed her on both cheeks, paid their compliments and retired, thanking their stars that they were not in her place.

Mamma was gorgeous to behold, in royal purple and black lace. Gaston was so glossy and beruffled and begemmed, that they gazed with awe upon the French Adonis. But the bridegroom was a sight for gods and men. In full regimentals with a big sword, so many orders that there was hardly room for them on his little breast, and a cocked hat, with a forest of feathers, in which he extinguished himself at intervals. How his tiny boots shone, his tawny moustache bristled with importance, and his golden epaulets glittered as he shrugged and pranced! His honoured papa and mamma were both tall, portly people, beside whom the manikin looked like a child. Livy quite longed to see Madame Clomadoc take little Jules on her knee, and amuse him with bonbons when he got impatient at the delay of the carriage.

The Three peeped out of windows, and over the banisters, and got fine glimpses of the splendours below. Flocks of elegant ladies went sailing up the narrow stairs. Gentlemen with orders, dandies wonderful to behold, and a few children (to play with the bridegroom, as Livy wickedly said), adorned the hall and salon. Every one talked at the top of his or her voice. Shrieks of rapture, groans of despair, greeted a fine toilette or a torn glove. Peals of laughter from the gentlemen, and shrill cries from the infants, echoed through the once peaceful halls. As Françoise said 'It was truly divine.'

At eleven, every one trooped into the carriages again. How they ever got so many full-dressed people into one carriage is a mystery to this day. But in they piled, regardless of trains, corpulency, or height; and coach after coach lumbered away to the church.

The bride's carriage could not be got very near the door. So she tripped out to it, leaning on her uncle's arm, while the devoted Gaston bore her train. Mamma sailed after in a purple cloud; and when two young damsels, in arsenic green, were packed in, away they went, leaving the bridegroom to follow.

Then came the catastrophe! Stout papa and mamma were safely in; a friend of Jules, some six feet high, shut himself up like a jack-knife; and with a farewell wave of the cocked hat, the small bridegroom skipped in after them. The coachman cracked his whip, intending to dash under the arched gateway in fine style. But alas! the harness was old, the big horses clumsy, and the road half paved. The traces gave way, the beasts reared, the big coach lurched, and dismal wails arose. Out burst the fierce little hero of the day, and the tall friend followed by instalments.

Great was the excitement as the natives gathered about the carriage with offers of help, murmurs of sympathy, and unseemly mirth on the part of the boys. Jules did the swearing; and never were heard such big oaths as fell from the lips of this irate little man. It really seemed as if he would explode with wrath. He dashed the impressive cocked hat upon the stones, laid his hand upon his sword, tore his hair, and clutched his moustache in paroxysms of despair.

His bride was gone, waiting in agitated suspense for him. No other coach could be had, as the resources of the town had been exhausted. The harness was in a desperate state, the men at their wit's end how to mend it, and time flying fast. Maire and priest were waiting, the whole effect of the wedding was being ruined by this delay, and 'ten thousand devils' seemed to possess the awkward coachman.

During the flurry, Papa Clomadoc appeared to slumber tranquilly in the recesses of the carriage. Mamma endeavoured to soothe her boy with cries of 'Tranquillize yourself, my cherished son. It is nothing.' 'Come, then, and reassure papa.' 'Inhale the odour of my vinaigrette. It will compose your lacerated nerves, my angel.'

But the angel wouldn't come, and continued to dance and swear, and slap his hat about until the damages were repaired, when he flung himself, exhausted, into the carriage, and was borne away to his bride.

'A lively prospect for poor Pelagie.' 'What a little fiend he is!' 'Spinsters for ever!'

With these remarks, the ladies ordered their own equipage, an infant omnibus, much in vogue in Dinan, where retired army officers, English or Scotch, drive about with their little families of eighteen or twenty. One Colonel Newcome, a grave-looking man, used to come to church in a bus of this sort, with nine daughters and four sons, like a patriarch. The strangers thought it was a boarding-school, till he presented the entire flock, with paternal pride, as 'my treasures.'

Madame C., in a large Leghorn bonnet, trembling with yellow bows, led the way with an air of lofty indifference as to what became of her house that day. Marie bore a big basket, full of cold fowls, salad, and wines; she also was in a new spring hat of purple, which made her rosy old face look like a china aster. Lavinia reposed upon the other seat; and the infants insisted on sharing the driver's seat, up aloft, that they might enjoy the prospect, which freak caused Flabeau's boy to beam and blush till his youthful countenance was a deep scarlet.

They had a pleasant day; for good old Madame soon recovered her temper, and beguiled the time with lively tales of her mother's trials during the Revolution.

Marie concocted spiced drinks, salad that was a thing to dream of, not to tell, and produced such edible treasures that her big basket seemed bottomless.

The frisky damsels explored ruins, ran races on the hard beach, sniffed the salt breezes, and astonished the natives by swarming up and down 'precipices,' as they called the rocks.

That was a fatal day for Flabeau's boy (they never knew his name); for, as if the wedding had flown to his head, he lost his youthful heart to one of the lively damsels who invaded his perch. Such tender glances as his China-blue eyes cast upon her; such grins of joy as he gave when she spoke to him; such feats of agility as he performed, leaping down to gather flowers, or hurling himself over thorny hedges, to point out a dolmen or a menhir (they never could remember which was which). Alas, alas! for Flabeau's boy! Deeply was he wounded that day by the unconscious charmer, who would as soon have thought of inspiring love in the bosom of the broken-nosed saint by the wayside as in the heart that beat under the blue blouse.

I regret to say that 'the infants,' as Madame C. always called Miss Livy's charges, behaved themselves with less decorum than could have been wished. But the proud consciousness that they never could be disposed of as Pelagie had been had such an exhilarating effect upon them that they frisked like the lambs in the field.

One drove the bus in a retired spot and astonished the stout horses by the way in which she bowled them along the fine, hard road. The other sang college songs, to the intense delight of the old ladies, who admired the 'chants Amériques so gay,' and to the horror of their duenna, who knew what they meant. A shower came up, and they would remain outside; so the boy put up a leathern hood, and they sat inside in such a merry mood that the silent youth suddenly caught the infection, and burst forth into a Breton melody, which he continued to drone till they got home.

The house was a blaze of light when they arrived, and Françoise, the maid, came flying out to report sundry breakages and mishaps. How the salad had precipitated itself downstairs, dish and all. How Monsieur Gaston was so gay, so inconceivably gay, that he could hardly stand, and insisted on kissing her clandestinely. That Mademoiselle Pelagie had wept much because her veil was torn; and Madame F. had made a fresh toilette, ravishing to behold. Would the dear ladies survey the party, still at table? Regard them from the little window in the garden, and see if it is not truly a spectacle the most superb!

They did regard them, and saw the bride at the head of the table, eating steadily through the dessert; the bridegroom reciting poems with tremendous effect; Gaston almost invisible behind a barricade of bottles; and Madame F., in violet velvet, diamonds, plumes, and lace, more sleek and buxom than ever. The ladies all talked at once, and the gentlemen drank healths every five minutes. A very French and festive scene it was; for the room was small, and twenty mortals were stowed therein. One fat lady sat in the fireplace, Papa Clomadoc leaned his heavy head upon the sideboard, and the plump shoulders of Madame F. were half out of the front window. 'But it was genteel. Oh! I assure you, yes,' as Françoise said.

How long they kept it up the weary trio did not wait to see, but retired to their beds, and slumbered peacefully, waking only when Gaston was borne up to his room, chanting the 'Marseillaise' at the top of his voice.

Next day M. and Madame Clomadoc, Jr., made calls, and Pelagie had the joy of wearing her shawl. For three days she astonished the natives by promenading with her lord in a fresh toilette each day. On the fourth they all piled into a big carriage, and went away to make a round of visits, before the young people settled down at Boulogne.

The Americans never thought to hear any more of Pelagie; but, as dear old Madame C. wrote to them several times after they left, the little story may be finished here, though the sequel did not actually come till a year later.

Many were the sage predictions of the Three as to the success of this marriage -- Amanda approving of that style of thing, Matilda objecting fiercely to the entire affair, and Lavinia firmly believing in the good old doctrine of love as your only firm basis for so solemn a bargain.

Wagers were laid that the fiery little Colonel would shoot some one in a jealous fit, or that Pelagie would elope, or both charcoal themselves to death, as the best way out of the predicament. But none of them guessed how tragically it would really end.

Late in the following spring came a letter from Madame C., telling them that Jules had gone to the war, and been shot in his first battle; that Pelagie was with her mother again, comforting herself for her loss with a still smaller Jules, who never saw his father, and, it is to be hoped, did not resemble him. So little Pelagie's brief romance ended; and one would fancy that the experiences of that year would make her quite content to remain under mamma's wing, with no lord and master but the little son, to whom she was a very tender mother.

Pleasant days those were in quaint old Dinan; for spring's soft magic glorified earth and sky, and a delicious sense of rest and freedom gave a charm to that quiet life. Legends of romance and chivalry hung about the ruins of castle and château, as green and golden as the ivy and bright wall-flowers that tapestried the crumbling walls, and waved like banners from the turret tops. Lovely walks into woods, starred with pale primroses, and fragrant with wild hyacinths; down green lanes, leading to quaint cottages, or over wide meadows full of pink-tipped daisies and dear familiar buttercups, the same all the world over.

Sometimes they took gay donkey-drives to visit a solemn dolmen in a gloomy pine-wood, with mistletoe hanging from the trees, and the ghosts of ancient Druids haunting the spot. The cavalcade on such occasions was an imposing spectacle. Matilda being fond of horses likewise affected donkeys (or thought she did, till she tried to drive one), and usually went first in a small vehicle like a chair on wheels, drawn by an animal who looked about the size of a mouse, when the stately Mat in full array, yellow parasol, long whip, camp-stool, and sketch-book, sat bolt upright on her perch, driving in the most approved manner.

The small beast, after much whipping, would break into a trot, and go pattering over the hard, white road, with his long ears wagging, and his tiny hoofs raising a great dust for the benefit of the other turnout just behind.

In a double chair sat Lavinia, bundled up as usual, and the amiable Amanda, both flushed with constant pokings and thrashings of their steed. A venerable ass, so like an old whity-brown hair trunk as to his body, and Nick Bottom's mask as to his head, that he was a constant source of mirth to the ladies. Mild and venerable as he looked, however, he was a most incorrigible beast, and it took two immortal souls, and four arms, to get the ancient donkey along.

Vain all the appeals to his conscience, pity, or pride: nothing but a sharp poke among his ribs, a steady shower of blows on his fuzzy old back, and frequent 'yanks' of the reins produced any effect. It was impossible to turn out for anything, and the ladies resigned themselves to the ignominy of sitting still, in the middle of the road, and letting other carriages drive over or round them.

On rare occasions the beast would bolt into the ditch as a vehicle drew near; but usually he paused abruptly, put his head down, and apparently went to sleep.

Matilda got on better, because little Bernard Du Guesclin, as she named her mouse, was so very small, that she could take him up, and turn him round bodily, when other means failed, or pull him half into the chair if danger threatened in front. He was a sprightly little fellow, and had not yet lost all the ardour of youth, or developed the fiendish obstinacy of his kind; so he frequently ran little races -- now and then pranced, and was not quite dead to the emotion of gratitude in return for bits of bread.

Truly, yes; the fair Mat with her five feet seven inches, and little Bernard, whose longest ear, when most erect, did not reach much above her waist, were a sweet pair of friends, and caused her mates great amusement.

'I must have some one to play with, for I can't improve my mind all the time as 'Mandy does, or cuddle and doze like Livy. I've had experience with young donkeys of all sorts, and I give you my word little Bernie is much better fun than some I've known with shorter ears and fewer legs.'

Thus Matilda, regardless of the jeers of her friends, when they proposed having the small beast into the salon to beguile the tedium of a rainy day.

As the summer came on, picnics were introduced, and gay parties would pile into and on to Flabeau's small omnibus, and drive off to Hunandaye, Coétquën, La Bellière, Guingamp, or some other unpronounceable but most charming spot, for a day of sunshine and merrymaking.

The hospitable English came out strong on these occasions, with ''ampers of 'am-sandwiches, bottled porter and so on, don't you know?' all in fine style. Even the stout doctor donned his knickerbockers and grey hose, unfurled his Japanese umbrella, and, with a pretty niece on either arm, disported himself like a boy.

But pleasantest of all were the daily strolls through the little town and its environs, getting glimpses of Breton manners and customs.

The houses were usually composed of one room, where, near the open fire, and fixed against the wall, stands the bedstead or lit clos, of old oak, shut in by carved sliding panels, often bearing an inscription or some sacred symbol. The mattresses and feather-beds are so piled up, that there is hardly room to creep in. Before it is the big chest containing the family wardrobe, answering the double purpose of a seat and a step by which to ascend the lofty bed. Cupboards on each side often have wide shelves, where the children sleep. Settles and a long table complete the furniture; the latter often has little wells hollowed out in the top to hold the soup instead of plates. Over the table, suspended by pulleys, are two indispensable articles in a Breton house, -- a large round basket to cover the bread, and a wooden frame to hold the spoons. Festoons of sausages, hams, candles, onions, horse-shoes, harness, and tools, all hang from the ceiling. The floor is of beaten earth. One narrow window lets in the light. There are no out-houses, and pigs and poultry mingle freely with the family.

The gardens are well kept, and produce quantities of fruit and vegetables. The chief food of the poorer class is bread or porridge of buckwheat, with cabbage soup, made by pouring hot water over cabbage leaves and adding a bit of butter.

They are a home-loving people, and pine like the Swiss, if forced to leave their native land. They are brave soldiers and good sailors. 'Their vices,' as a Breton writer says, 'are avarice, contempt for women, and drunkenness; their virtues, love of home and country, resignation to the will of God, loyalty to each other, and hospitality.' Their motto is, 'En tout chemin loyauté.'

They are very superstitious, and some of their customs are curious. At New Year pieces of bread and butter are thrown into the fountains, and from the way in which they swim the future is foretold. If the buttered side turns under, it forebodes death; if two pieces adhere together, it is a sign of sickness; and if a piece floats properly, it is an assurance of long life and prosperity.

Girls throw pins into the fountain of Saloun to tell, by their manner of sinking, when they will be married. If the pin goes down head-foremost, there is little hope; but, if the point goes first, it is a sure sign of being married that year.

Their veneration for healing-springs is very great, and, though at times forbidden by the Church, is still felt. Pounded snails, worn in a bag on the neck, is believed to be a cure for fever; and a certain holy bell rung over the head, a cure for head-ache. 'If we believe in that last remedy, what a ceaseless tingling that bell would keep up in America!' said Lavinia, when these facts were mentioned to her.

In some towns they have, in the cemetery, a bone-house or reliquary. It is the custom, after a certain time, to dig up the bones of the dead, and preserve the skulls in little square boxes like bird-houses, with a heart-shaped opening, to show the relic within. The names and dates of the deceased are inscribed outside.

Saint Ives or Yves is a favourite saint, and images of him are in all churches and over many doors. He was one of the remarkable characters of the thirteenth century. He studied law in Paris, and devoted his talents to defending the poor; hence, he was called 'the poor man's advocate:' and so great is the confidence placed in his justice, that, even now, when a debtor falsely denies his debt, a peasant will pay twenty sous for a mass to St. Ives, sure that the Saint will cause the faithless creditor to die within the year or pay up.

His truthfulness was such that he was called 'St. Yves de vérité.' He was the special patron of lawyers, but he does not seem to be their model.

The early monks taught the people to work, and their motto was 'The Cross and the plough, labour and prayer.' They introduced apples, now the principal fruit of Brittany. Much cider is made and drank; and in old times they got their wine from France in exchange for wax and honey, as they were famous bee-keepers. Great fields of buck-wheat still afford food for the 'yellow-breeched philosophers,' and in many cottage gardens a row of queerly shaped hives stand in sunny nooks.

These monks were the model farmers of those days, and their abbeys were fine farms. One had twenty piggeries, of three hundred pigs each, in its forests. The monks also reared sheep and horses, and bred fish in their ponds.

Many were also brewers, weavers, carpenters, and so on. Evidently they lived up to their motto and laboured quite as much as they prayed, and doubtless were saved by works as well as by faith.

The little Place Du Guesclin, with a stumpy statue of the famous knight in the middle and chestnut trees all around, was a favourite resting-place of the ladies -- especially when the weekly fair was held and booths of all sorts were raised at one end. Here Amanda bought a remarkable jack-knife, which would cut nothing but her fingers: Matilda speculated in curious kinds of cake; one sort being made into gigantic jumbles so light that they did excellently for grace-hoops; another sort being used by these vandals as catch-alls, so deep and tough were they. Lavinia examined the various fabrics, and got bits of linen as samples, also queer earthen pots and pans impossible to carry away.

The church of St. Sauveur, a dim and ancient little place with Du Guesclin's heart buried by the side of his wife, was another haunt. The castle, now a prison, contained the arm-chair in which Duchess Anne sat, and the dungeons where were crammed two thousand English prisoners of war in the last century. The view from the platform of the keep was magnificent, extending to Mont Dol and the distant sea.

The sunny promenade on the fosse, that goes half round the town, was very charming, with the old grey walls on one side, and, on the other, the green valley with its luxuriant gardens, and leafy lanes, winding up to the ruined château, or the undulating hills with picturesque windmills whirling on the heights.

On the other side of the town, from the high gardens of the church, one looked down into the deeper valley of the Rance, with the airy viaduct striding from hill to hill, and the old part of the town nestling at its base.

Soft and summery, fertile and reposeful, was the scene; and the busy peasants at their work added to the charm. Pretty English children with Breton nurses, each in the costume of her native town, played under the lindens all abloom with odorous flowers and alive with bees. Workmen came to these green places to eat the black bread and drink the thin wine that was all their dinner. Invalids strolled here after their baths at the little house in the rose-garden below. Pretty girls walked there in the twilight with long-haired lovers in knee breeches and round hats. Nuns in their grey gowns went to and fro from hospital and the insane asylum or charity school; and the beautiful old priest sometimes went feebly by, smiling paternally on his flock, who rose and uncovered reverently as he passed.

Flowers were everywhere, -- in the gardens of the rich, at the windows of the poor. The stalls in the market were gay with plumy lilacs, splendid tulips, roses of every shade, and hyacinths heavy with odour. All along the borders of the river waved the blossoming grass; every green bank about the mills at Lehon was yellow with dandelions, and the sunny heads of little children welcoming the flower of the poor. Even the neglected churchyard of the ruined abbey, where the tombs of the stately Beaumanoirs still stand, was bright with cheerful daisies and blue-eyed forget-me-nots.

The willows in the valley were covered with fragrant tassels, and the old women and children sat all day on door-stones and by the wayside stripping the long, white wands for basket-making. Flax fields were blooming in the meadows, and acres of buckwheat, with its rosy stems and snowy blossoms, whitened the uplands with a fair prophecy of bread for all.

So, garlanded about with early flowers and painted in spring's softest, freshest colours, Brittany remains for ever a pleasant picture in the memory of those who have been welcomed to its hospitable homes, and found friends among its brave and loyal people.



III.

France.


'Girls, I have had a scintillation in the night: listen and approve!' said Amanda, coming into the room where her comrades sat upon the floor, in the first stages of despair, at the impossibility of getting the accumulated rubbish of three months' travel into a couple of immense trunks.

'Blessed girl! you always bring a ray of light just at the darkest moment,' returned Lavinia, with a sigh of relief, while Matilda looked over a barricade of sketch-books bristling with paint-brushes, and added anxiously, -- 

'If you could suggest how I am to work this miracle, you will be a public benefactor.'

'Behold the amendment I propose,' began Amanda, perching herself on one of the arks. 'We have decided to travel slowly and comfortably through France to Switzerland, stopping where we like, and staying as long as we please at any place we fancy, being as free as air, and having all the world before us where to choose, as it were.'

'The route you have laid out is a charming one, and I don't see how you can improve it,' said Lavinia, who, though she was supposed to be the matron, guide, and protector of the younger girls, was in reality nothing but a dummy, used for Mrs. Grundy's sake, and let the girls do just as they pleased, only claiming the right to groan and moan as much as she liked when neuralgia, her familiar demon, claimed her for its own.

'One improvement remains to be made. Are these trunks a burden, a vexation of spirit, a curse?' demanded Amanda, tapping one with her carefully cherished finger-tips.

'They are! they are!' groaned the others, regarding the monsters with abhorrence.

'Then let us get rid of them, and set out with no luggage but a few necessaries in a shawl-strap.'

'We will! we will!' returned the chorus.

'Shall we burn up our rubbish, or give it away?' asked Lavinia, who liked energetic measures, and was ready to cast her garments to the four winds of heaven, to save herself from the agonies of packing.

'I shall never give up my pictures, nor my boots!' cried Matilda, gathering her idols to her breast in a promiscuous heap.

'Be calm and listen,' returned the scintillator. 'Pack away all but the merest necessaries, and we will send the trunk by express to Lyons. Then with our travelling-bags and bundles, we can follow at our leisure.'

''Tis well! 'tis well!' replied the chorus, and they all returned to their packing, which was performed in the most characteristic manner.

Amanda never seemed to have any clothes, yet was always well and appropriately dressed; so it did not take her long to lay a few garments, a book or two, a box of Roman-coin lockets, scarabe brooches, and cinque-cento rings, likewise a swell hat and habit, into her vast trunk; then lock and label it in the most business-like and thorough manner.

Matilda found much difficulty in reconciling paint-pots and silk gowns, blue hats and statuary, French boots and Yankee notions. But order was at length produced from chaos, and the young lady refreshed her weary soul by painting large red M's all over the trunk to mark it for her own.

Miss Lavinia packed and repacked four or five times, forgetting needfuls, which, of course, were always at the very bottom. At the fifth plunge into the depths her patience gave out, and with a vow to be a slave no longer to her treacherous memory, she tumbled every thing in, performed a solemn jig on the lid till it locked, then pasted large, but illegible placards in every available spot, and rested from her labours with every nerve in a throbbing condition.

Shawl-straps of the largest, strongest sort were next procured, and the three bundles made up with much discussion and merriment.

Into Amanda's went a volume of Shakspeare of great size and weight, but as indispensable as a tooth-brush to its owner; toilette-articles tied up in a handkerchief, a few necessary garments, and much paper, -- for Amanda was inspired with poetic fire at unexpected moments, also had five hundred bosom friends, in answering whose epistolary gushings much stationery was consumed. A pistol, a massive crust of bread, and an oval box containing all the dainty appliances for the culture, preservation, and ornamentation of the finger-nails, made up her store.

Matilda's bundle consisted of sketch-books, a trifle of haberdashery, a curling-stick that was always tumbling out at inopportune moments, yards of blue ribbon, and a camp-stool strapped outside in company with a Japanese umbrella, a gift from the stout doctor, destined to be cursed in many languages by the unhappy beings into whose backs, eyes, and stomachs it was poked before its wanderings ended.

Lavinia confined herself to a choice collection of bottles and pill-boxes, fur boots, a grey cloud, and several French novels, -- the solace of wakeful nights. A scarlet army blanket, with U. S. in big black letters on it, enveloped her travelling medicine-chest, and lent a cheerful air to the sombre spinster, whose black attire and hoarse voice made the sobriquet of Raven most appropriate.

With these imposing bundles in one hand, little pouches slung over the shoulder, plain travelling-suits, subdued hats, and resolute but benign countenances, our three errant damsels set forth one bright June day, to wander through France at their own sweet will. Not a fear assailed them; for all men were civil, all women friendly, and the world wore its sunniest aspect. Not a doubt perplexed them; for the gifted Amanda spoke many tongues, understood all sorts of money, could grapple successfully with Murray and Bradshaw, and never got into the wrong corporation when she traced a route with unerring accuracy through the mysteries of an Indicator. No lord and master, in the shape of brother, spouse, or courier, ordered their outgoings and incomings; but liberty the most entire was theirs, and they enjoyed it heartily. Wisely and well too; for, though off the grand route, they behaved themselves in public as decorously as if the eyes of all prim Boston were upon them, and proved by their triumphant success, that the unprotected might go where they liked, if they conducted themselves with the courtesy and discretion of gentlewomen.

How pleasant were the early sail down the Ranee from Dinan to St. Malo, the comfortable breakfast in the flowery little court of Hôtel Franklin, and the stroll afterward about the quaint old town, looking at the churches, buying fruit, and stoutly resisting the temptations of antique jewelry displayed in the dingy shops! Lavinia never forgave herself, however, for not securing a remarkable watch, and Amanda sighed months afterward for a Breton collar and cross of charming antiquity and ugliness.

Matilda boldly planted her camp-stool, unfurled her umbrella, and, undaunted by the crowd of round-capped, blue-bloused, wooden-shoed children about her, began to draw the church.

'I intend to study architecture, and to sketch all the cathedrals we see,' said the ardent art-student, struggling manfully with the unruly umbrella, the unsavoury odours from the gutter, and the garrulous crowd leaning over her shoulder, peering under her hat-brim, and examining all her belongings with a confiding freedom rather embarrassing.

'Do you know what impertinent things these little scamps are saying to you?' asked Amanda, pausing in a lecture on surface drainage which she was delivering to Lavinia, who was vainly struggling to cram a fat wine bottle, a cabbage leaf of strawberries, and some remarkable cakes into the lunch-basket.

'No: I don't; and that is the advantage of not knowing any language but my own,' complacently replied Matilda, who considered all study but that of art as time wasted, and made her small store of French answer admirably by talking very loud and fast, and saying, 'Oui, oui, oui,' on all occasions with much gesticulation, and bows and smiles of great suavity and sweetness.

'Clear out this rabble, or come back to the hotel and wait for the bus. We shall have the whole town round us soon, and I can't stand it,' said Amanda, who had no romantic admiration for the Great Unwashed.

'You think I can't do it? Voilà!' and, rising suddenly to an unexpected height, Matilda waved the umbrella like a bâton, cried 'Allez!' in a stern voice, and the children fled like chaff before the wind.

'You see how little is needed, so don't vex me with learning your old verbs any more!' and Matilda closed her book with an air of calm satisfaction.

'Come home and rest. It is so warm here I am fairly melted,' prayed Lavinia, who had been longing for summer, and of course was not suited when she got it.

'Now, do remember one thing: don't let us be gregarious. We never know who we may pick up if we talk to people; and stray acquaintances are sad bores sometimes. Granny is such a cross old dear she won't say a word to any one if she can help it; but you, Mat, can't be trusted if we meet any one who talks English. So be on your guard, or the peace of this party is lost,' said Amanda, impressively.

'We are not likely to meet any but natives in this wilderness; so don't excite yourself, Mandy, dear,' replied Matilda, who, being of a social turn and an attractive presence, was continually making friends, to the great annoyance of her more prudent comrades.

In the flowery courtyard sat the group that one meets everywhere on the Continent, -- even in the wilds of Brittany. The father and mother stout, tired, and rather subdued by the newness of things; the son, Young America personified, loud, important, and inquisitive; the daughter, pretty, affected, and over-dressed; all on the lookout for adventures and titles, fellow-countrymen to impress, and foreigners eager to get the better of them.

Seeing the peril from afar, Amanda buried herself in Murray, to read up the tomb of Chateaubriand, the tides, population, and any other useful bit of history; for Amanda was a thrifty soul, and


'Gathered honey all the day From every opening flower.'


Lavinia, finding the court damp, shrouded herself in the grey cloud, put her feet on the red bundle, and fortified herself with a Turner's pill.

But Matilda, guileless girl, roamed to and fro, patted the horses at the gate, picked flowers that no French hand would have dared to touch, and studied the effect of light and shade on the red head of the garçon, who gazed sentimentally at 'the blonde "Mees,"' as he artlessly watered the wine for dinner.

The Americans had their eye upon her, and felt that, though the others might be forbidding English women, this one could be made to talk. So they pounced upon their prey, to the dismay of her mates, and proceeded to ask fifty questions to the minute. Poor Mat, glad to hear the sound of her native tongue, fell into the snare, and grew more confiding every moment.

'She is telling the family history,' whispered Lavinia, in a tone of despair.

'Now they are asking where we came from,' added Amanda, casting down her book in agony.

'Wink at her,' sighed Lavinia.

'Call to her,' groaned Amanda, as they heard their treasured secret betrayed, and the enemy clamouring for further information about this charming trip.

'Matilda, bring me my shawl,' commanded the Dowager.

'Come and see if you don't think we had better go direct to Tours,' said the wary Amanda, hoping to put the enemy off the track.

The victim came, and vials of wrath were poured upon her head in one unceasing flow till the omnibus started, and the ladies were appeased by finding that the enemy did not follow.

'Promise that you won't talk to any but natives, or I decline to lead this expedition,' said Amanda firmly.

'I promise,' returned Mat, with penitent meekness.

'Now we've got her!' croaked the Raven; 'for she will have to learn French or hold her tongue.'

'The language of the eye remains to me, and I am a proficient in that, ma'am,' said Mat, roused by these efforts to deny her the right of free speech.

'You are welcome to it, dear;' and Amanda departed to buy tickets and despatch the trunks, with secret misgivings that they would never be found again.

'Now we are fairly started, with no more weighing of luggage, fussing over checks, or packing of traps to afflict us. What a heavenly sense of freedom it gives one, to have nothing but an independent shawl-strap!' said Matilda, as they settled themselves in a vacant car, and stowed away the bundles.

What a jolly day that was, to be sure! Whether it was the air, the good coffee, or the liberty, certain it is that three merrier maids never travelled from St. Malo to Le Mans on a summer's day. Even the Raven forgot her woes, and became so exhilarated that she smashed her bromide bottle out of the window, declaring herself cured, and tried to sing 'Hail Columbia,' in a voice like an asthmatic bagpipe.

Mat amused herself and her comrades by picking up the different articles that kept tumbling down on her head from her badly built bundle; while Amanda scintillated to such an extent that the others laughed themselves into hysterics, and lay exhausted, prone upon the seats.

They ate, drank, sung, gossiped, slept, read, and revelled, till another passenger got in, when propriety clothed them as with a garment, and the mirthful damsels became three studious statues.

The new-comer was a little priest; so rosy and young that they called him the 'Reverend Boy.' He seemed rather dismayed at first; but, finding the ladies silent and demure, he took heart, and read diligently in a dingy little prayer-book, stealing shy glances now and then from under his broad-brimmed hat at Amanda's white hands, or Matilda's yellow locks, as if these vanities of the flesh had not quite lost their charms for him. By and by he fell asleep, and leaned in his corner, making quite a pretty picture; for the ugly hat was off, his boyish face as placid as a child's, his buckled shoes and neat black-stockinged legs stretched comfortably out, his plump hands folded over the dingy book, and the little bands lay peacefully on his breast.

He was quite at their mercy now; so the three women looked as much as they liked, wondering if the poor dear boy was satisfied with the life he had chosen, and getting tenderly pitiful over the losses he might learn to regret when it was too late. His dreams seemed to be pleasant ones, however; for once he laughed a blithe, boyish laugh, good to hear; and when he woke, he rubbed his blue eyes and stared about, smiling like a newly roused baby.

He got out all too soon, was joined by several other clerical youths, and disappeared with much touching of big beavers, and wafting of cassocks.

Innocent, reverend little boy! I wonder what became of him, and hope his sleep is as quiet now as then, -- his awakening as happy as it seemed that summer day.

Six o'clock saw our damsels at Le Mans; and, after dinner, a sunset walk took them to the grand old cathedral, where they wandered till moonrise. Pure Gothic of the twelfth century, rich in stained glass, carved screens, tombs of kings and queens, dim little chapels, where devout souls told their beads before shadowy pictures of saints and martyrs, while over all the wonderful arches seemed to soar, one above the other, light and graceful as the natural curves of drooping branches, or the rise and fall of some great fountain.

'We shall not see anything finer than this, I'm sure. It's a perfect revelation to me,' said Matilda, in a calm rapture at the beauty all about her.

'This is a pious-feeling church, and I could say my prayers here with all my soul; for it seems as if the religion of centuries had got built into it,' added Lavinia, thinking of the ugly imitations at home.

'You will both turn Catholic before we get through,' prophesied Amanda, retiring to study the tomb of Berengaria, Coeur de Lion's wife.

The square before the hotel was gay with a market, many soldiers lounging about, and flocks of people eating ices before the cafés. The ladies enjoyed it from the balcony, and then slumbered peacefully in a great room with three alcoves, much muslin drapery, and a bowl and pitcher like a good-sized cup and saucer.

Another look at the cathedral in the early morning, and then away to Tours, which place they found a big, clean, handsome city, all astir for the Fête-Dieu.

'We will stay over Sunday and see it,' was the general vote as the trio headed for the great church, and, catching sight of it, they subsided into a seat by the fountain opposite, and sat looking silently at the magnificent pile.

How strangely impressive and eloquent it was! The evening red touched its grey towers with a mellow light, like sunshine on a venerable head. Lower down, flights of rooks circled round the fretted niches, quaint windows, and grotesque gargoyles, while the great steps below swarmed with priests and soldiers, gay strangers and black-robed nuns, children and beggars.

For an hour our pilgrims sat and studied the wonderful façade, or walked round the outside, examining the rich carvings that covered every inch of the walls. Twilight fell before they had thought of entering, and feeling that they had seen enough for that night, they went thoughtfully home to dream of solemn shadows and saintly faces, for the cathedral haunted them still.

Next day was spent in viewing Charlemagne's Tower, and seeing the grand procession in honour of the day. The streets were hung with garlands, gay tapestries and banners, strewn with fresh boughs, and lined with people in festival array. As the procession passed, women ran out and scattered rose-leaves before it, and one young mother set her blooming baby on a heap of greenery in the middle of the street, leaving it there, that the Holy Ghost under its canopy might pass over it. A pretty sight, the rosy little creature smiling in the sunshine as it sat playing with its own blue shoes, while the golden pageant went by; the chanting priests stepping carefully, and looking down with sudden benignity in their tired faces as the holy shadow fell on the bright head, making baby blessed, and saved for ever in its pious mother's eyes.

A great band played finely, scarlet soldiers followed, then the banners of patron saints were borne by children. Saint Agnes and her lamb led a troop of pretty little girls carrying tall white lilies, filling the air with their sweetness. Mary, Our Mother, was followed by many orphans with black ribbons crossed over the young hearts that had lost so much. Saint Martin led the charity boys in purple suits of just the colour of the mantle he was dividing with the beggar on the banner. A pleasant emblem of the charitable cloak that covers so many.

Priests in full splendour paced solemnly along with censers swinging, candles flickering, sweet-voiced boys singing, and hundreds kneeling as they passed. Most impressive figures, unless one caught a glimpse of something comically human to disturb the effect of the heavenly pageant. Lavinia had an eye for the ludicrous and though she dropped a tear over the orphans, and with difficulty resisted a strong desire to catch and kiss the pretty baby, she scandalized her neighbours by laughing outright the next minute. A particularly portly, pious-looking priest, who was marching with superb dignity, and chanting like a devout bumble-bee, suddenly mislaid his temper, and injured the effect by boxing a charity boy's ears with his gilded missal, and then capped the climax by taking a pinch of snuff with a sonorous satisfaction that convulsed the heretic.

The afternoon was spent in the church, wandering to and fro, each alone to study and enjoy in her own way. Matilda lost her head entirely, and had silent raptures over the old pictures. Amanda said her prayers, looked up her dates, and imparted her facts in a proper and decorous manner, while Lavinia went up and down, finding for herself little pictures not painted by hands, and reading histories more interesting to her than those of saints and martyrs.

In one dim chapel, with a single candle lighting up the divine sorrow of the Mater Dolorosa, knelt a woman in deep black, weeping and praying all alone. In another flowery nook dedicated to the Infant Jesus, a peasant girl was telling her beads over the baby asleep in her lap; her sunburnt face refined and beautiful by the tenderness of mother-love. In a third chapel a pale, wasted old man sat propped in a chair, while his rosy old wife prayed heartily to St. Gratien, the patron saint of the church, for the recovery of her John Anderson. And most striking of all was a dark, handsome young man, well-dressed and elegant, who was waiting at the door of a confessional with some great trouble in his face, as he muttered and crossed himself, while his haggard eyes were fixed on the benignant figure of St. Francis, as if asking himself if it were possible for him also to put away the pleasant sins and follies of the world, and lead a life like that which embalms the memory of that good man.

'If we don't go away to-morrow we never shall, for this church will bewitch us, and make it impossible to leave,' said Amanda, when at length they tore themselves away.

'I give up trying to sketch cathedrals. It can't be done, and seems impious to try,' said Matilda, quite exhausted by something deeper than pleasure.

'I think the "Reminiscences of a Rook" would make a capital story. They are long-lived birds, and could tell tales of the past that would entirely eclipse our modern rubbish,' said Lavinia, taking a last look at the solemn towers, and the shadowy birds that had haunted them for ages.

The ladies agreed to be off early in the morning, that they might reach Amboise in time for the eleven o'clock breakfast. Amanda was to pay the bill, and to make certain enquiries at the office; Mat to fly out and do a trifle of shopping; while Lavinia packed up the bundles and mounted guard over them. They separated, but in half-an-hour all met again, not in their room according to agreement, but before the cathedral, which all had decided not to revisit on any account.

Matilda was there first, and as each of the others came stealing round the corner, she greeted them with a laugh, in which all joined after the first surprise was over.

'I told you it would bewitch us,' said Amanda; and then all took a farewell look, which lasted so long that they had to rush back to the hotel in most unseemly haste.

'Now to fresh châteaux and churches new,' sang Lavinia, as they rolled away on the fourth stage of their summer journey. A very short stage it was, and soon they were in an entirely new scene, for Amboise was a little, old-time village on the banks of the Loire, looking as if it had been asleep for a hundred years. The Lion d'Or was a quaint place, so like the inns described in French novels, that one kept expecting to see some of Dumas' heroes come dashing up, all boots, plumes, and pistols, with a love-letter for some court beauty in the castle on the hill beyond.

Queer galleries and stairs led up outside the house to the rooms above. The salle-à-manger was across a court, and every dish came from a kitchen round the corner. The garçon, a beaming, ubiquitous creature, trotted perpetually, diving down steps, darting into dark corners, or skipping up ladders, producing needfuls from most unexpected places. The bread came from the stable, soup from the cellar, coffee out of a meal-chest, and napkins from the housetop, apparently, for Adolphe went up among the weather-cocks to get them.

'No one knows us, no one can speak a word of English, and if we happen to die here it will never be known. How romantic and nice it is!' exclaimed Mat, in good spirits, for the people treated the ladies as if they were duchesses in disguise, and the young women liked it.

'I'm not so sure that the romance is all it looks. We should be in a sweet quandary if anything happened to our sheet-anchor here. Just remember, in any danger, save Amanda first, then she will save us. But if she is lost, all is lost,' replied Lavinia, darkly, for she always took tragical views of life when her bones ached.

Up the hill they went after breakfast; and balm was found for the old lady's woes in the sight of many Angora cats, of great size and beauty. White as snow, with tails like plumes, and mild, yellow eyes, were these charmers. At every window sat one; on every door-step sprawled a bunch of down; and frequently the eye of the tabby-loving spinster was gladdened by the touching spectacle of a blonde mamma in the bosom of her young family.

'If I could only carry it, I'd have one of those dears, no matter what it cost!' cried Lavinia, more captivated by a live cat than by all the dead Huguenots that Catherine de Medicis hung over the castle walls on a certain memorable occasion.

'Well, you can't, so come on and improve your mind with some good, useful history,' said Amanda, leading them forward. 'You must remember that Charles VII. was born here in 1470 -- that Anne of Brittany married him for her first husband, and that he bumped his head against a low door in the garden here above, as he was running through to play bowls with his Anne, and it killed him.'

'Which? the bump or the bowls?' asked Mat, who liked to have things clearly stated.

'Don't be frivolous, child. Here Margaret of Anjou and her son were reconciled to Warwick. Abd-el Kader and his family were kept prisoners here, and in the garden is a tomb with a crescent on it; likewise a "pleached walk," and a winding drive inside the great tower, up which lords and ladies used to ride straight into the hall,' continued the sage Amanda, who yearned to enlighten the darkness of her careless friends.

A brisk old woman did the honours of the castle, showing them mouldy chapels, sepulchral halls, rickety stairs, grubby cells, and pitch-dark passages, till even the romantic Matilda was glad to see the light of day, and repose in the pleasant gardens while removing the cobwebs from her countenance and the dust from her raiment.

A lovely view gladdened their eyes as they stood on the balcony whence the amiable Catherine surveyed the walls hung thick, and the river choked up with the dead. Below, the broad Loire rolled slowly by between its green banks. Little boys, in the costume of Cupid, were riding great horses in to bathe after the day's work. The grey roofs of the town nestled to the hillside, and far away stretched the summer landscape, full of vague suggestions of new scenes and pleasures to the pilgrims.

'We start for Chenonceaux at seven in the morning; so, ladies, I beg that you will be ready punctually,' was the command issued by Amanda, as they went to their rooms, after a festive dinner of what Lavinia called 'earth-worms and cacti,' not being fond of stewed brains, baked eels, or thistles and pigweed chopped up in oil.

Such a droll night as the wanderers spent! No locks on the doors and no bells. Stairs leading straight up the gallery from the courtyard, carts going and coming, soft footsteps stealing up and down, whispers that sounded suspicious (though they were only orders to kill chickens and pick salad for the morrow), and a ghostly whistle that disturbed Lavinia so much, she at last draped herself in the green coverlet, and went boldly forth upon the balcony to see what it meant.

She intended to demand silence in French that would strike terror to the soul of the bravest native. But when she saw that poor, dear, hard-worked garçon blacking boots by the light of the moon, her heart melted with pity; and, resolving to give him an extra fee, she silently retired to her stone-floored bower, and fell asleep in a stuffy little bed, whose orange curtains filled her dreams with volcanic eruptions and conflagrations of the most lurid description.

At seven, an open carriage with a stout pair of horses and a sleepy driver rolled out of the court-yard of the Lion d'Or. Within it sat three ladies, who gazed at one another with cheerful countenances, and surveyed the world with an air of bland content, beautiful to behold.

'I am fairly faint with happiness,' sighed Matilda, as they drove through fields scarlet with poppies, starred with daisies, or yellow with buttercups, while birds piped gaily, and trees wore their early green.

'You did not eat any breakfast. That accounts for it. Have a crust, do,' said Amanda, who seldom stirred without a good, sweet crust or two; for they were easy to carry, wholesome to chew, and always ready at a moment's notice.

'Let us save our "entusymusy" till we get to the château, and enjoy this lovely drive in a peaceful manner,' said Lavinia, still a little sleepy after her adventures in the glimpses of the moon.

So, for an hour or two, they rolled along the smooth road, luxuriating in the summer sights and sounds about them; the wayside cottages, with women working in the gardens; villages clustered round some tiny, picturesque church; windmills whirling on the distant hill-tops; vineyards full of peasants tying up the young vines, or trudging by with baskets on their backs, heaped with green cuttings for the goats at home. Old men, breaking stone by the roadside, touched their red caps to the pilgrims, jolly boys shouted at them from the cherry trees, and little children peeped from behind the rose-bushes blooming everywhere.

Soon, glimpses of the winding Cher began to appear, then an avenue of stately trees, and then, standing directly in the river, rose the lovely château built for Diane de Poictiers by her royal lover. Leaving the carriage at the lodge, our sight-seers crossed the moat, and, led by a wooden-faced girl with a lisp, entered the famous pleasure-house, which its present owner (a pensive man in black velvet, who played fitfully on a French-horn in a pepper-pot tower) is carefully restoring to its former splendour.

The great picture-gallery was the chief attraction; and beginning with Diane herself -- a tall, simpering baggage, with a bow, hounds, crescent, and a blue sash for drapery -- they were led through a rapid review of all sorts of worthies and unworthies, relics and rubbish, without end. Portraits are always interesting. Even Lavinia, who 'had no soul for Art,' as Mat said, looked with real pleasure at a bass-relief of Agnes of Sorel, and pictures of Montaigne, Rabelais, Ninon d'Enclos, Madame de Sévigné, and miniatures of La Fayette and Ben Franklin. The latter gentleman looked rather out of place in such society; but, perhaps, his good old face preached the Dianes and Ninons a silent sermon. His plain suit certainly was a relief to the eye, wearied with periwigged sages and bejewelled sinners.

Here was the little theatre where Rousseau's plays were acted. Here were the gilded chairs in which kings had sat, swords heroes had held, books philosophers had pored over, mirrors that had reflected famous beauties, and painted walls that had looked down on royal revels long ago.

The old kitchen had a fireplace big enough for a dozen cooks to have spoiled gallons of broth in, queer pots and pans, and a handy little window, out of which they could fish at any moment, for the river ran below.

The chapel, chambers, balconies, and terraces were all being repaired; for, thanks to George Sand's grandmother, who owned the place in the time of the Revolution, it was spared out of respect to her, and is still a charming relic of the past.

The ladies went down the mossy steps, leading from the gallery to the further shore, and, lying under the oaks, whiled away the noon-time by re-peopling the spot with the shapes that used to inhabit it. A very happy hour it was, dreaming there by the little river, with the scent of new-mown hay in the fresh wind, and before them the airy towers and gables of the old château rising from the stream like a vision of departed splendour, love, and romance.

Having seen every thing, and bought photographs ad libitum of the wooden-faced lisper, who cheated awfully, the pilgrims drove away, satiated with relics, royalty, and 'regardez.'

Another night in the stony-hearted, orange-coloured rooms, with the sleepless garçon sweeping and murmuring outside like a Banshee, while the hens roosted sociably in the gallery, the horses seemed to be champing directly under the bed, and the dead Huguenots bumping down upon the roof from the castle-walls. Another curious meal wafted from the bowels of the earth and cooled by all the airs that blow, -- then the shawl-straps were girded anew, the carriage (a half-grown omnibus with the jaundice) mounted, the farewell bows and adieux received, and forth rumbled the duchesses en route for Blois.

'My heart is rent at leaving that lovely château,' said Mat, as they crossed the bridge.

'I mourn the earth-worms, the cacti, and the tireless "gossoon,"' added Amanda, who appreciated French cookery and had enjoyed confidences with Adolphe.

'The cats, the cats, the cats! I could die happy if I had one,' murmured Lavinia; and with these laments they left the town behind them.

Any thing hotter than Blois, with its half dried-up river, dusty boulevards, and baked streets, can hardly be imagined. But these indomitable women 'did' the church and the castle without flinching. The former was pronounced a failure, but the latter was entirely satisfactory. The Emperor was having it restored in the most splendid manner. The interior seemed rather fresh and gay when contrasted with the time-worn exterior, but the stamped leathern hangings, tiled floors, emblazoned beams, and carved fireplaces were quite correct. Dragons and crowns, porcupines and salamanders, monograms and flowers, shone everywhere in a maze of scarlet and gold, brown and silver, purple and white.

Here the historical Amanda revelled, and quenched the meek old guide with a burst of information which caused him to stare humbly at 'the mad English.'

'Regardez, my dears, the chamber and oratory of Catherine de Medicis, who here plotted the death of the Duc de Guise. This is the cabinet of her son, Henri III., where he gave the daggers to the gentlemen who were to rid him of his enemy, the hero of the barricades. This is the Salle des Gardes, where Guise was leaning on the chimney-piece when summoned to the king. This is the little room at the entrance of which he was set upon in the act of lifting the drapery, and stabbed with forty wounds.'

'Oh! how horrid!' gasped Matilda, staring about as if she saw the sanguinary gentlemen approaching.

'So interesting! Do go on!' cried Lavinia, who was fond of woe, and enjoyed horrors.

'This is the hall where the body lay for two hours, covered with a cloak and a cross of straw on the breast,' cut in Amanda, as the guide opened his mouth. 'Here the king came to look upon the corpse of the once mighty Henri le Balafré, and spurned it with his foot, saying, I shall not translate it for you, Mat, -- "Je ne le croyais pas aussi grand" and then ordered it to be burnt, and the ashes cast into the river. Remember the date, I implore you, December 23, 1588.'

As Amanda paused for breath the little man took the word, and rattled off a jumble of facts and fictions about the window from which Marie de Medicis lowered herself when imprisoned here by her dutiful son, Louis XIII.

'I wish the entire lot had been tossed out after her, for I do think kings and queens are a set of rascals,' cried Mat, scandalized by the royal iniquities to which she had been listening, till the hair stood erect upon her innocent head.

The Salle des États was being prepared for the trial of the men who had lately attempted the Emperor's life, and a most theatrical display of justice was to be presented to the public. The richly carved stair-case, with Francis the First's salamanders squirming up and down it, was a relic worth seeing; but the parched pilgrims found the little pots of clotted cream quite as interesting, and much more refreshing, when they were served up at lunch (the pots, not the pilgrims), each covered with a fresh vine-leaf, and delicately flavoured with butter-cups and clover.

Amanda won the favour of the stately garçon by praising them warmly, and he kept bringing in fresh relays, and urging her to eat a third, a fourth, with a persuasive dignity hard to resist.

'But yes, Mademoiselle, one more, for nowhere else can crême de St. Gervais be achieved. They are desired, ardently desired, in Paris; but, alas! it is impossible to convey them so far, such is their exquisite delicacy.'

How many the appreciative ladies consumed, the muse saith not; but the susceptible heart of the great garçon was deeply touched, and it was with difficulty that they finally escaped from his attentions.

On being presented with a cast-off camp-stool, and a pair of old boots to dispose of, he instantly appropriated them as graceful souvenirs, and clasping his hands, declared with effusion that he would seat his infant upon the so-useful stool, and offer the charming boots to Madame my wife, who would weep for joy at this touching tableau.

With this melodramatic valedictory, he suffered the guests to depart, and the last they saw of him, he was still waving a dirty napkin as he stood at the gate, big, bland, and devoted to the end, though the drops stood thick upon his manly brow, and the sun glared fiercely on his uncovered head.

'I shall write an article on garçons when I get home,' said Lavinia, who was always planning great works and never executing them. 'We have known such a nice variety, and all have been so good to us that we owe them a tribute. You remember the dear, tow-headed one at Morlaix, who insisted on handing us dishes of snails, and papers of pins with which to pick out the repulsive delicacy?'

'Yes, and the gloomy one with black linen sleeves who glowered at us, sighed gustily in our ears, and anointed us with gravy as he waited at table,' added Amanda.

'Don't forget the dark one with languid, Spanish eyes and curly hair, on the boat going down the Rance. How picturesque and polite he was, to be sure, as he kept picking up our beer-bottles when they rolled about the deck!' put in Mat, who had the dark youth safely in her sketch-book, with eyes as big and black as blots.

'The solemn one at Tours, who squirted seltzer-water out of window at the beggars, without a smile, was very funny. So was the little one with grubby hands, who tottered under the big dishes, but insisted on carrying the heaviest.'

'The fast-trotter at Amboise won my heart, he was so supernaturally lively, and so full of hurried amiability. A very dear garçon indeed.'

'Be sure you remember the superb being at Brest, whose eyes threatened to fall out of his head at exciting moments. Also, Flabot's chubby boy who adored Mat, and languished at her, over the onions, like a Cupid in a blue blouse.'

'I will do justice to everyone,' and Lavinia took copious notes on the spot.

Orleans was a prim, tidy town, and after taking a look at the fine statue of the Maid, and laughing at some funny little soldiers drumming wildly in the Place, our travellers went on to Bourges.

'This, now, is a nice, dingy old place, and we will take our walks abroad directly, for it looks like rain, and we must make the most of our time and money,' said Amanda;


'For, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.'


Forth they went, as soon as dinner was over, and found the waters all abroad also; for every man was playing away with a hose, every woman scrubbing her door-steps, and the children gaily playing leap-frog in the puddles.

'Nasty, damp place!' croaked the Raven, obscuring her disgusted countenance behind the inevitable grey cloud, and gathering her garments about her, as they hopped painfully over the wet stones, for sidewalks there were none.

'I find it refreshing after the dust and heat. Please detach Mat from that shop window, and come on, or we shall see nothing before dark,' replied the ever amiable Amanda.

Matilda would glue herself to every jeweller's window, and remain fascinated by the richness there displayed, till led away by force. On this occasion, however, her mania led to good results; for, at the ninth window, as her keepers were about to drag her away, a ring of peculiar antiquity caught their eyes simultaneously, and, to Mat's amazement, both plunged into the little shop, clamouring to see it. A pale emerald, surrounded by diamond chippings set in silver, with a wide gold band cut in a leafy pattern, composed this gem of price.

'A Francis First ring, sold by a noble but impoverished family, and only a hundred francs, Madame,' said the man, politely anxious to cheat the fair foreigners out of four times its value.

'Can't afford it,' and Lavinia retired. But the shrewd Amanda, with inimitable shrugs and pensive sighs, regretted that it was so costly. 'A sweet ring; but, alas! forty francs is all I have to give.'

The man was desolated to think that eighty francs was the lowest he was permitted to receive. Would Madame call again, and perhaps it might be arranged?

Ah, no! Madame is forced to depart early, to return no more.

Mon Dieu! how afflicting! In that case, sixty would be possible for so rare a relic.

Madame is abîmé, but it is not to be. Forty is the utmost; therefore Merci, and Bonjour.

'Hold! Where shall it be sent?' cries the man, giving in, but not confessing it, with awkward frankness.

A thousand thanks! Madame will pay for it at once; and laying down the money, she sweetly bows herself away, with the ring upon her finger.

'What a people!' ejaculated Lavinia, who always felt like a fly in a cobweb when she attempted to deal with the French, in her blunt, confiding way.

'It is great fun,' answered Amanda, flashing her ring with satisfaction after the skirmish. 'Will Madame kindly direct me to the house of Jacques Coeur?' she added, addressing an old woman clattering by in sabots.

'Allez toujours à droit en vous appuyant sur la gauche,' replied the native, beaming and bowing till the streamers of her cap waved in the wind.

They followed these directions, but failed to find the place, and applied to another old woman eating soup on her door-step.

'Suivez le chemin droit en tombant à gauche' was the reply, with a wave of the spoon to all the points of the compass.

'Great heavens, what a language!' cried Lavinia, who had been vainly endeavouring to 'support' herself, as she 'fell' in every direction over and into the full gutters.

The house was found at last, an ancient, mysterious place, with a very curious window, carved to look as if the shutters were half open, and from behind one peeped a man's head, from the other a woman's, both so life-like that it quite startled the strangers. Murray informed the observers that these servants are supposed to be looking anxiously for their master's return, Jacques having suddenly disappeared, after lending much money to the king, who took that medieval way of paying his debts.

Service was being held in the church, and the ladies went in to rest and listen, for the music was fine. Much red and white drapery gave the sanctuary the appearance of a gay drawing-room, and the profane Lavinia compared the officiating clergy to a set of red furniture. The biggest priest was the sofa, four deacons the arm-chairs, and three little boys the foot-stools, all upholstered in crimson silk, and neatly covered with lace tidies.

As if to rebuke her frivolity, a lovely fresh voice from the hidden choir suddenly soared up like a lark, singing so wonderfully that a great stillness fell on the listeners, and while it lasted the tawdry church and its mummery were quite forgotten, as the ear led the heart up that ladder of sweet sounds to heaven. Even when the others joined in, one could still hear that child-voice soaring and singing far above the rest, as if some little angel were playing with the echoes among the arches of the roof.

A proud native informed the strangers that it was a poor boy whose exquisite voice was the pride of the town, and would in time make his fortune. As the choir-boys came racing down stairs after service, pulling off their dingy robes as they ran, Lavinia tried to pick out the little angel, but gave it up in despair, for a more uninteresting set of bullet-headed, copper-coloured sprigs she never saw.

Rain drove the wanderers back to the hotel, and there they made a night of it. Ordering a fire in the largest of the three stuffy little cells which they occupied, they set about being comfortable, for it had turned chilly, and a furious wind disported itself in and out through numberless crevices. Lavinia was inspired to mull some wine, and brewed a mild jorum that cheered, but did not inebriate. Amanda produced her Shakspeare, and read aloud while the simmering and sipping went on. Matilda sketched the noble commander as she lay upon the sofa, with her Egyptian profile in fine relief, and her aristocratic red slippers gracefully visible. A large grey cat of a social turn joined the party, and added much to the domesticity of the scene by sitting on the hearth in a cosy bunch and purring blissfully.

'Now it is your turn to propose something for the general amusement, Mandy,' said Mat, when the beakers were drained dry and the Montagues and Capulets comfortably buried.

'Let us attend to the culture of our nails,' replied Amanda, producing her polissoir, powder, and knife.

Three cups of tepid water were produced, and the company sat eagerly soaking their finger tips for a time, after which much pruning and polishing went on, to the great bewilderment of Puss, who poked her own paws into the cups, as if trying to test the advantages of this remarkable American custom.

'What would our blessed mother say if she saw us now?' said Mat, proudly examining ten pointed pink nails at the tips of her long fingers.

'People told us we should get demoralised if we came abroad, and this is the first step on the downward road,' returned Lavinia, shaking her head over her own backslidings.

'No: it's the second step. We ate calves' brains for dinner, and what I'm sure were frogs' legs with mushrooms. You know we vowed we wouldn't touch their horrid messes, but I really begin to like them,' confessed Mat, who had pronounced every dish at dinner 'De-licious!'

'Ha! I will write a poem!' cried Amanda, and leaping from the sofa she grasped her pen, flung open her portfolio, and in a few brief moments produced these inspired stanzas.


The Downward Road.

Two Yankee maids of simple mien, And earnest, high endeavour, Come sailing to the land of France, To escape the winter weather. When first they reached that vicious shore They scorned the native ways, Refused to eat the native grub, Or ride in native shays. 'Oh, for the puddings of our home! Oh, for some simple food! These horrid, greasy, unknown things, How can you think them good?' Thus to Amanda did they say, An uncomplaining maid, Who ate in peace and answered not Until one day they said --  How can you eat this garbage vile Against all nature's laws? How can you eat your nails in points, Until they look like claws?' Then patiently Amanda said, 'My loves, just wait a while, The time will come you will not think The nails or victuals vile.' A month has passed, and now we see That prophecy fulfilled; The ardour of those carping maids Is most completely chilled. Matilda was the first to fall, Lured by the dark gossoon, In awful dishes one by one She dipped her timid spoon. She promised for one little week To let her nails grow long, But added in a saving clause She thought it very wrong. Thus did she take the fatal plunge, Did compromise with sin, Then all was lost; from that day forth French ways were sure to win. Lavinia followed in her train, And ran the self-same road, Ate sweet-bread first, then chopped-up brains, Eels, mushrooms, pickled toad. She cries, 'How flat the home cuisine After this luscious food! Puddings and brutal joints of meat, That once we fancied good!' And now in all their leisure hours One resource never fails, Morning and noon and night they sit And polish up their nails. Then if in one short fatal month A change like this appears, Oh, what will be the next result When they have stayed for years?


Tremendous applause greeted this masterly effort, and other poems were produced with the rapidity of genius by Amanda and Lavinia, each writing the alternate verse, à la Beaumont and Fletcher, which gave a peculiar charm to these effusions.

When Matilda was called upon for a festive suggestion, she promptly replied, with a graceful yawn: -- 

'Let's go to bed.'

The meeting, therefore, broke up, and the younger ladies retired to their cells in good order. But the Raven, excited by the jocund hour, continued to rustle and patter about the warm room in a state of inexpressible hilarity, most exasperating to the others, who desired to sleep. Not content with upsetting the fire-irons occasionally, singing to the cat, and slamming the furniture about, this restless bird kept appearing first at one cell door with a conundrum, then at the other with a joke, or insisted on telling funny stories in her den, till the exhausted victims implored her to take an opium pill and subside before they became furious. She obeyed, and after a few relapses into wandering and joking, finally slumbered.

Then occurred the one thrilling adventure of this happy journey. In the darkest hour before dawn Mat awoke, heard a suspicious noise in the middle room, and asked if Lavinia was on the rampage again. No reply, and, listening, a low, rasping, rustling sound was heard.

'Thieves, of course. Our watches and purses are on the table, and Lavinia has probably forgotten to lock the door. I must attend to this.' And up rose the dauntless Matilda, who feared neither man nor ghost.

Grasping her dagger, hitherto used as a paper cutter, but always eager to be steeped in the gore of brigands, robbers, or beasts of prey, she crept to the door and peeped in. The pale glow of the fire showed her a dark figure crouching in the opposite door-way. The click of a pistol caught her ear, but dodging quickly, the heroic girl cried sternly from the shelter of Lavinia's bed-curtain, -- 

'Come out, or I'll fire!'

'Mio Dio! is it only you?' answered a familiar voice, as Amanda, shrouded in a waterproof, sprang up and lit a match.

'What are you prowling about for?' demanded Mat.

'To blow your brains out, apparently,' answered Mandy, lowering her arms. 'Why are you abroad?'

'To stab you, I fancy,' and Mat sheathed her dagger balked of its prey.

'I heard a noise.'

'So did I.'

'Let's see what it is,' and lighting a candle, the fair Amazons looked boldly about the shadowy room.

Lavinia lay wrapt in slumber, with only the end of her sarcastic nose visible beyond the misty cloud that enveloped her venerable countenance. The outer door was fast, and the shutters closed. No booted feet appeared below the curtains, no living eyes rolled awfully in the portrait of the salmon-coloured saint upon the wall. Yet the rustling and rasping went on, and with one impulse the defenders of sleeping innocence made for the table in the corner.

There was the midnight robber at his fell work! -- the big cat peacefully gnawing the cold chicken, and knocking about the treasured crusts dragged from the luncheon-basket carefully packed for an early start.

'Wake and behold the ruin your pet has made!'

'We might be murdered or carried off a dozen times over without her knowing it. Here's a nice duenna!'

And the indignant ladies shook, pinched, and shouted till the hapless sleeper opened one eye, and wrathfully demanded what the matter was.

They told her with eloquent brevity, but instead of praising their prowess, and thanking them with fervour, the ungrateful woman shut her eye again, merely saying with drowsy irascibility, -- 

'You told me to go to sleep, and I went; next time fight it out among yourselves, but don't wake me.'

'Throw the cat out of window and go to bed, Mat,' and Amanda uncocked her pistol with the resignation of one who had learned not to expect gratitude in this world.

'Touch a hair of that dear creature and I'll raise the house!' cried Lavinia, roused at once.

Puss, who had viewed the fray sitting bolt upright on the table, now settled the vexed question by skipping into Lavinia's arms, feeling with the instinct of her race that her surest refuge was there. Mat retired in silent disgust, and the Raven fell asleep soothed by the grateful purring of her furry friend.

'Last night's experiences have given me a longing for adventures,' said Mat, as they journeyed on next morning.

'I've had quite enough of that sort,' growled Lavinia.

'Let us read our papers, and wait for time to send us something in the way of a lark,' and Amanda obscured herself in a grove of damp newspapers.

Lavinia also took one and read bits aloud to Mat, who was mending her gloves, bright yellow, four-buttoned, and very dirty.

'Translate as you go along -- I do so hate that gabble,' begged Mat, who would not improve her mind.

So Lavinia gave her a free translation which convulsed Amanda behind her paper. Coming to this passage, 'Plusieurs faits graves sont arrivés,' the reader rendered it, 'Several made graves have arrived,' adding, 'Dear me, what singular customs the French have, to be sure!' A little farther on she read, 'Un portrait de feu Monsieur mon père,' adding, 'A fire portrait means a poker sketch, I suppose.'

Here a smothered giggle from Amanda caused the old lady to say 'Bless you!' thinking the dear girl had sneezed.

'I must have some blue cotton to mend my dress with. Remind me to get some at Moulins. By the way, how do you ask for it in French?' said Mat, surveying a rent in her skirts.

'Oh, just go in and say, "Avez-vous le fils bleu?"' replied Lavinia, with a superior air.

'A blue son! My precious granny, what will you say next?' murmured Amanda, faint with suppressed laughter.

'What are you muttering about?' asked Granny, sharply.

'Trying to recall those fine lines in "Wilhelm Meister;" don't you remember? "Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass,"' replied Amanda, polite even at the last gasp.

'I read my Goethe in decent English, and don't know anything about training asses,' returned Lavinia, severely.

That was too much! Amanda cast her paper down, and had her laugh out, as the only means of saving herself from suffocation. The others gazed upon her in blank amazement, till she found breath enough to enlighten them, when such peals of merriment arose, that the guard popped his head in to see if he had not unwittingly shipped a load of lunatics.

'That was splendid! But now we must sober down, for a gorgeous being is about to get in,' said Amanda, as they stopped at a station.

The gorgeous being entered, and found three demure ladies rapt in newspapers. They apparently saw nothing but the words before them; yet every one of them knew that the handsome young man had bowed in the most superior manner; also, that he was dressed in brown velvet, long gaiters, buttoned to the knee, a ravishing blue tie, buff gloves, and pouch and powder-horn slung over his shoulder. Also, that a servant with two dogs and a gun had touched his hat and said, 'Oui, monsieur le comte,' as he shut the door.

A slight thrill pervaded the statues as this fact was made known, and each began to wonder how the elegant aristocrat would behave. To say that he stared, feebly expresses the fixity of his noble gaze, as it rested in turn upon the three faces opposite. When satisfied, he also produced a paper and began to read. But Matilda caught a big, black eye peering over the sheet more than once, as she peered over the top of her own.

'I don't like him. Remember, we don't speak French,' whispered the discreet Amanda.

'I can swear that I don't,' said Lavinia, with an irrepressible smile, as she remembered the 'blue son.'

'The language of the eye is not forbidden me, and I can't sit baking under a newspaper all the way,' returned Matilda, whose blond curls had evidently met with the great creature's approval.

A slight pucker about the Comte's lips caused a thrill of horror to pervade the ladies, as Amanda murmured under her breath, -- 

'He may understand English!'

'Then we are lost!' returned the tragic Raven.

'Wish he did. I really pine for a little attention. It gives such a relish to life,' said Matilda, thinking regretfully of the devoted beings left behind.

The prudent Amanda and the stern Lavinia steeled their hearts, and iced their countenances to the comely gentleman. But the social Matilda could not refrain from responding to his polite advances, with a modest 'Merci, Monsieur,' as he drew the curtain for her, a smile when he picked up the unruly curling-stick, and her best bow as he offered his paper with a soft glance of the black eyes.

In vain Amanda tried to appal her with awful frowns; in vain Lavinia trod warningly upon her foot: she paid no heed, and left them no hope but the saving remembrance that she couldn't talk French.

'If the man don't get out soon, I'll tie her up in my shawl, and tell him she is mad,' resolved Lavinia, whose spinster soul was always scandalised at the faintest approach to a flirtation.

'If the man does speak English, Mat will have it all her own way,' thought Amanda, remembering the vow imposed upon the reckless girl.

Alas, alas for the anxious twain! The man did not get out soon, the man did speak English, and in ten minutes Matilda was off, like a colt without a halter. The anguish of her keepers added zest to the fun, and finding that the gentleman evidently thought her the lady of the party (owing to the yellow gloves, smartest hat, and irreproachable boots), and the others in sober gray and black, were maid and duenna, this reprehensible girl kept up the joke, put on airs, and enjoyed that flirtatious hour to her heart's content.

As if to punish the others for their distrust, and to reward Mat's interest in him, M. le Comte devoted himself to Mademoiselle, telling her about his hunting, his estate, and finished by inviting her and her party to call and view his château, if they ever paused at the town, which had the honour of being his summer residence. Mat responded to all these courtesies with confiding sweetness, and when at length he was desolated at being obliged to tear himself away, she


'Gave sigh for sigh,'


as he retired with a superb bow, a gallant 'Bon voyage, mesdames,' and a wicked twinkle of the black eyes as they rested on the faces of the frozen ladies.

'I got rather the best of the joke in that little affair: didn't I?' said Mat, gayly, as the brown velvet Adonis vanished.

'You are a disgrace to your party and your nation,' sternly responded Amanda.

Lavinia spoke not, but shook her little sister till the hat flew off her head, and she had only breath enough left to declare with unquenched ardour that she would do it again the very next chance she got.

Lectures, laughter, and longings for 'my Comte' beguiled the remainder of the way, and Moulang (as Mat pronounced Moulins) was reached after a pleasant trip through a green country, picturesque with the white cattle of Berri. There was not much to see, but the town was so quaint and quiet, that Amanda was seized with one of her remarkable projects.

'Let us find a little house somewhere and stay a week or two. I fain would rest and ruminate among the white cows for a while; have a little washing done, and slowly prepare to emerge into the world again. Lyons is our next point, and there we must bid adieu to freedom and shawl-straps.'

'Very well, dear,' responded Lavinia, with resignation, having learned that the best way to curb these aberrations of genius was to give in, and let circumstances prove their impracticability.

So Amanda inquired of the landlady if such a rustic cot could be found. Whereupon the dingy little woman clasped her dingy little hands, and declared that she had exactly the charming retreat desired. Truly yes, and she would at once make her toilette, order out the carriage, and display this lovely villa to the dear ladies.

With many misgivings the three squeezed themselves into a square clothes-basket on wheels, drawn by an immense, bony, white horse, driven by a striped boy, and adorned by Madame, in a towering bonnet, laden with amazing fruit, flowers, and vegetables. Lavinia counted three tomatoes, a bunch of grapes, poppies and pansies, wheat ears and blackberry-vines, a red, red rose, and one small lettuce, with glass dewdrops and green grubs lavishly sprinkled over it. A truly superb chapeau and a memorable one.

Away they trundled through stony streets, dusty roads, waste grounds, marshy meadows, and tumbled-down pleasure-gardens, till the clothes-basket turned down a lane, and the bony horse stopped at length before a door in a high red wall.

'Behold!' cried madame, leading them with much clanking of keys, into a cabbage-garden. A small tool-house stood among the garden-stuff, with brick floors, very dirty windows, and the atmosphere of a tomb. Bags of seed, wheel-barrows, onions, and dust cumbered the ground. Empty bottles stood on the old table, cigar ends lay thick upon the hearth, and a trifle of gay crockery adorned the mantel-piece.

'See, then, here is a salon, so cool, so calm. Above is a room with beds, and around the garden where the ladies can sit all day. A maid can achieve the breakfast here, and my carriage can come for them to dine at the hotel. Is it not charmingly arranged?

'It is simply awful,' said Mat, aghast at the prospect.

'Settle it as you like, dear, only I'm afraid I couldn't stay very long on account of the dampness,' observed Lavinia, cheerfully, as she put a hoe-handle under her feet and wiped the blue mould from a three-legged chair.

'It won't do, so I'll tell her you are an invalid and very particular,' said Amanda, with another inspiration, as she led the landlady forth to break the blow tenderly.

'My neuralgia is useful if it isn't ornamental; and what a comfort that is!' said Lavinia, as she lightly threw a large cockroach out of window, dodged a wasp, and crushed a fat spider.

And so it was in many ways. If the party wanted a car to themselves, Granny was ordered to lie down and groan dismally, which caused other travellers to shun the poor invalid. If rooms did not suit, suffering Madame must have sun or perish. Late lunches, easy carriages, extra blankets, every sort of comfort was for her, whether she wanted them or not.

'Shall I be sick or well?' was always the first question when an invitation came, for 'my sister's delicate health' was the standing excuse when parties palled, or best gowns were not get-at-able.

While Amanda conferred with the hostess among the cabbages, Mat discovered that the picturesque white cattle in the field close by were extremely fierce and unsocial; that there was no house in sight, and the venerable horse and shay would never sustain many trips to and fro to dinner at the hotel. Lavinia poked about the house, and soon satisfied herself that it abounded in every species of what Fanny Kemble calls 'entomological inconvenience,' and an atmosphere admirably calculated to introduce cholera to the inhabitants of Moulins.

'It is all settled; let us return,' said Amanda, appearing at last with an air of triumph, having appeased the old lady by eating green currants, and admiring an earwiggy arbour, commanding a fine view of a marsh where frogs were piping and cool mists rising as the sun set.

The chickens were tough at dinner, the wine bitter, the bread sour, but no one reproached Amanda as the cause of this change. And when the hostess bowed them out, next day, without a smile, they drove away, conscious only of deep gratitude that they were saved from leaving their bones to moulder among the cabbages of Moulins.

'Now we return to civilisation, good clothes, and Christian food,' said Lavinia, as they surveyed their fine rooms at the Grand Hotel, Lyons.

'Likewise letters and luggage,' added Amanda, as the maid brought in a bundle of letters, and two porters came bumping up with the trunks.

'Well, I've enjoyed the trip immensely, though nothing very remarkable has happened,' said Mat, diving into her private ark with satisfaction.

'I should like to wander in the wilderness for years, if I could hear from my family at intervals,' said Lavinia, briskly breaking open the plump, travel-worn letters.

'Then you consider our trip a success?' asked Amanda, pausing in the act of removing the dust from her noble countenance.

'A perfect success! We have done what we planned, had no mishaps, seen and enjoyed much, quarrelled not at all, laughed a great deal, and been altogether festive, thanks to you. I shall hang my shawl-strap on the castle wall as a trophy of the prowess of my Amanda, and the success of the last Declaration of American Independence,' replied Lavinia.

'I, also,' said Mat, opening her bundle for the one hundreth and last time.

'You do me proud; I humbly thank you,' and with a superb curtsy the commander-in-chief modestly retired behind the towel.



IV.

Switzerland.


'My children, listen to the words of wisdom ere it is too late,' began Lavinia, as the three sat about in dressing-gowns after a busy day in Geneva.

'We listen, go on, Granny,' replied the irreverent girls.

'If we stay here a week longer, we are ruined. Firstly, this Metropole is an expensive hotel; also noisy and full of fashionable people, whom I hate. Secondly, the allurements of the jewellers' shops are too much for us, and we had better flee before we spend all our money. Thirdly, if war does break out along the Rhine, as rumour now predicts, Geneva will be crammed with people whose plans, like ours, are upset; therefore we had better skip across the lake, and secure a comfortable place for ourselves at Vevey or Montreaux, for we shall probably have to winter there.'

'Hear, hear! we will do it, and if Italy doesn't get over her revolution in time for us to go to Rome, we must content ourselves with some nook in this refuge for all wanderers on the face of the continent,' said Amanda.

'But I like Geneva so much. It's such fun to watch the splendid waiters file in at dinner, looking like young gentlemen ready for a ball; the house is so gay, and the shops! -- never did I dream of such richness before. Do stay another week and buy a few more things,' prayed Matilda, who spent most of her time gloating over the jewelry, and tempting her sister to buy all manner of useless gauds.

'No: we will go to-morrow. I know of several good pensions at Vevey, so we are sure of getting in somewhere. Pack at once, and let us flee,' returned Lavinia, who, having bought a watch, a ring, and a locket, felt that it was time to go.

And go they did, settling for a month at Bex, a little town up the valley of the Rhone, remarkable for its heat, its dirt, its lovely scenery, and the remarkable perfection to which its inhabitants had brought the goître, nearly every one being blessed with an unsightly bunch upon the neck, which they decorated with ribbons and proudly displayed to the disgusted traveller.

Here in the rambling old Hôtel des Bains, with its balconies, gardens, and little rooms, the wanderers reposed for a time. A Polish countess, with her lover, daughter, and governess, conferred distinction upon the house. An old Hungarian count, who laboured under the delusion that he descended in a direct line from Zenobia, also adorned the scene. An artist with two pretty boys, named Alfred Constable Landseer Reynolds and Allston West Cuyp Vandyke, afforded Matilda much satisfaction.

English mammas with prim daughters of thirty or so still tied to their apron-strings were to be found, of course, for they are everywhere; also wandering French folk raving about the war one minute and tearing their hair over bad coffee the next.

Amanda read newspapers and talked politics with the old count; while Lavinia, with a paper bag of apricots under one arm and a volume of Disraeli's novels under the other, spent her shining hours wandering from balcony to garden, enjoying the heat, which gave her a short respite from her woes.

While here Matilda, in company with a kindred soul, made the ascent of Mount St. Bernard with the pleasing accompaniments of wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. But the irrepressible Americans went on in spite of warnings from more prudent travellers who stopped half-way. With one mule and a guide for escort, the two enthusiasts waded swollen streams with ice-cold water up to their knees, climbed slippery roads, faced what seemed a whirlwind at that height, and, undaunted by the uproar of the elements, pressed on to the Hospice, to the great admiration of Moritz, the guide, who told them he had seldom taken men up in such a storm, never ladies.

At the Hospice the dripping lasses found a hospitable welcome from the handsome monk who does the honours there. Being provided with dry garments, and having much fun over the tall Matilda draped in skirts of many colours in the attempt to get any long enough, they were fed and warmed by the engaging monk, who entertained them as they sat about a roaring fire while the storm raged without, with thrilling tales of the travellers they had saved, the wild adventures they had known in the dreadful winter time, and the gifts bestowed upon them by grateful travellers or generous guests.

The Prince of Wales had sent them a piano, and many fine pictures ornamented the walls from famous persons. An old English lady who spends her summers up there seemed much amused at the prank of the girls, and evidently wondered what their guardians were about.

A merry and memorable evening; and when, on going to their cells, they found the beds nicely warmed, Matilda exclaimed, -- 

'This is the most delightful of the romantic and the comfortable I ever saw. Alps and warming-pans taken "jintly" are delicious!'

At five next morning they were wakened by the chanting of the invisible brotherhood, and went down to the chapel for mass. On going out for a clamber on the rocks, seven or eight great dogs came baying and leaping about them, licking their hands and smelling their garments to see if they were hurt. Looking into their bright, benevolent eyes, one could well believe the wonderful tales told of their courage and sagacity. Though so powerful and large they were gentle as kittens, and the dog-loving girls were proud to receive and return the caresses of these four-footed heroes.

Leaving a grateful souvenir in the box intended to receive whatever guests choose to leave, the girls descended in the morning sunshine, finding it a very different experience from the ascent. All was clear and calm now, -- beautiful and grand; and only pausing at M. to send back a fine engraving to the comely priest, who had made a deep impression on their romantic hearts, the enfants returned to their anxious friends, mildewed, rumpled, and weary, but full of enthusiastic delight over their successful ascent of St. Bernard.

War broke out, and Alexandre, the all-accomplished head-waiter, dropped his napkin, shouldered his gun, and marched away, leaving the Hôtel des Bains desolate. Being pretty thoroughly baked, and very weary of the little town, our trio departed to Vevey, and settled down in the best pension that ever received the weary traveller.

Standing in its own pretty grounds, and looking out upon the lake, Pension Paradis deserves its name. Clean and cosy within, a good table, a kindly hostess, and the jolliest old host ever seen! what more could the human heart desire?

Vevey was swarming with refugees. Don Carlos, or the Duke de Madrid, as he was called, was there with his Duchess and court, plotting heaven knows what up at his villa, with the grave, shabby men who haunted the town.

Queen Isabella reigned at one hotel, and Spanish grandees pervaded the place. There were several at Pension Paradis, and no one guessed what great creatures they were till a fête day arrived, and the grim, gray men blossomed out into counts, marquises, and generals covered with orders, stars, and crosses splendid to behold.

One particularly silent, shabby little man with a shaven head and fine black eyes, who was never seen to smile, became an object of interest on that occasion by appearing in a gorgeous uniform with a great gilt grasshopper hanging down his back from a broad green ribbon. Who was he? What did the grasshopper mean? Where did he go to in a fine carriage, and what was he plotting with the other Carlists, who dodged in and out of his room at all hours?

No one ever knew, and all the artful questions put to the young Spaniard, who played croquet with the girls, were unavailing. Nothing was discovered, except that little Mirandola had a title, and might be sent back to Spain any day to lose his life or liberty in some rash plot, which circumstance made the black-eyed boy doubly interesting to the free-born Americans. Lavinia bewailed his hard lot, Amanda taught him whist and told his fortune, and Matilda put him in her sketch-book done in the blackest India-ink. It is also to be recorded that the doomed little Don was never seen to laugh but once, and that was when the girls taught him the classical game of Muggins. The name struck him; he went about saying it to himself, and on the first occasion of his being 'mugginsed,' he was so tickled that he indulged in a hearty boy's laugh; but immediately recovered himself, and never smiled again, as if in penance for so forgetting his dignity.

A bashful Russian, who wore remarkably fine broadcloth and had perfect manners, was likewise received into the good graces of the ladies, who taught him English, called him 'the Baron' in private, and covered him with confusion in public by making him talk at table.

But the most amusing of all the family was Madame A., a handsome widow from Lyons, with two ugly children and a stout old mamma, who wore orange stockings and a curious edifice of black lace encircled with large purple asters. The widow had married an Italian artist, who was mortally jealous of his wife, whose blonde beauty attracted much attention at Rome. In some quarrel with a model the husband was stabbed, and the handsome widow left in peace.

A tall, fair lady, with a profile like Marie Antoinette; she dressed in white with violet ribbons, and wore much ancient jewelry. A loud-voiced, energetic woman, who bewailed the sack of her house at Lyons, scolded her children, and cursed the Germans with equal volubility and spirit. When silent she was the picture of a patrician beauty; but, alas! her voice destroyed the charm, and her manners -- great heavens, what things that woman did! Picking her pearly teeth with a hair-pin, and knocking her darlings into their chairs with one sweep of her elbow when they annoyed her at table, were the least of the horrors she perpetrated.

But she talked well, devoted herself to her family, and took misfortune bravely; so much may be pardoned her.

Her infants were only remarkable for their ugliness and curious costumes. The little girl usually wore soiled silk gowns, and had her hair tied up with bits of twine. The boy appeared in a suit of yellow calico spotted with black, looking very much like a canary bird who had fallen into an inkstand. On festival occasions he wore white cloth raiment, with red ribbons stuck here and there, and high red boots.

But, on the whole, the old mamma was the queerest of the set; for she spent most of her time lumbering up and down stairs, which amusement kept the orange hose constantly before the public. When not disporting herself in this way, she dozed in the salon, or consumed much food at table with a devotion that caused her to suck her fingers, on every one of which shone an antique ring of price. Her head-gear was a perpetual puzzle to the observing Lavinia, who could never discover whether it was a cap, a bonnet, or a natural production, for it was never off. Madame walked out in it, wore it all day, and very likely slept in it. At least Lavinia firmly believed so, and often beguiled the watches of the night, imagining the old soul placidly slumbering with the perennial asters encircling her aged brow like a halo.

One other party there was who much amused the rest of the household. An American lady with a sickly daughter, who would have been pretty but for her affectation and sentimentality. The girl was engaged to a fierce, dissipated little Russian, who presented her with a big bouquet every morning, followed her about all day like a dog, and glared wrathfully at any man who cast an eye upon the languishing damsel in white muslin and flowing curls 'bedropt with pearls,' as a romantic lady expressed it.

It was evident that the Russian without any vowels in his name was going to marry Mademoiselle for her money, and the weak Mamma was full of satisfaction at the prospect. To others it seemed a doubtful bargain, and much pity was felt for the feeble girl doomed to go to Russia with a husband who had 'tyrant' written in every line of his bad, blasé little face and figure. French polish could not hide the brute, nor any quantity of flowers conceal the chain by which he was leading his new serf away to bondage in St. Petersburg.

Into the midst of this select society came a countryman of our three, -- a jocund youth fresh from Algiers, with relics, adventures, and tales that utterly eclipsed the 'Arabian Nights.' Festive times followed, for the 'Peri' (the pet name of aforesaid youth) gave them the fruits of his long wanderings, sung whole operas heard in Paris, danced ballets seen in Berlin, recounted perils among the Moors, served up gossip from the four corners of the globe, and conversed with each member of the household in his or her own language.

A cheerful comrade was the 'Peri,' and a great addition to the party, who now spent most of their time sitting about the town, eating grapes, and listening to the pranks of this sprightly M.D., who seemed to be studying his profession by wandering over Europe with a guitar à la troubadour.

Sounding the lungs of a veiled princess in Morocco was the least of his adventures, and the treasures he had collected supplied Lavinia with materials for unlimited romances: cuff-buttons made from bits of marble picked up among the ruins of Carthage; diamond crescents and ear-rings bought in Toledo, so antique and splendid that relic-loving Amanda raved about them; photographs of the belles of Constantinople, Moorish coins and pipes, bits of curious Indian embroidery; and, best of all, the power of telling how each thing was found in so graphic a manner that Eastern bazaars, ruins, and palaces seemed to rise before the listeners as in the time of the magic story-tellers. But all too soon he packed his knapsack, and promising to bring each of his friends the nose or ear of one of the shattered saints from the great cathedral at Strasbourg, the 'Peri' vanished from Paradis, and left them all lamenting.

The little flurry in Italy ending peacefully, our travellers after much discussion resolved to cross the Alps and spend the winter in Rome, if possible. So with tragic farewells from those they left behind them, who, hoping to keep them longer, predicted all manner of misfortunes, the three strong-minded ladies rumbled away in the coupé of a diligence to Brieg.

A lovely day's journey up the valley of the Rhone, and a short night's rest in the queer little town at the foot of the mountains.

Before light the next morning they were called, and, after a hurried breakfast in a stony hall, went shivering out into the darkness, and, stumbling through the narrow street, came to the starting-point. Lanterns were dancing about the square, two great diligences loomed up before them, horses were tramping, men shouting, and eager travellers scrambling for places. In the dimly lighted office, people were clamouring for tickets, scolding at the delay, or grimly biding their time in corners, with one eye asleep, and the other sharply watching the conductor.

'Isn't it romantic?' cried Matilda, wide awake, and in a twitter of excitement.

'It is frightfully cold; and I don't see how we are going, for both those caravans are brimful,' croaked Lavinia, chafing her purple nose, and wishing it had occurred to her to buy a muff before going to sunny Italy.

'I have got through tickets, and some one is bound to see us over these snow-banks, so "trust in Providence and the other man," and we shall come out right, I assure you,' replied the energetic Amanda, who had conferred with a spectral being in the darkness, and blindly put her faith in him.

Away lumbered one diligence after the other, the first drawn by seven horses, the second by five, while the carrier's little cart with one brought up the rear. But still three muffled ladies sat upon a cool stone in the dark square, waiting for the spectre to keep his promise.

He did like a man; for suddenly the doors of an old stable flew open, and out rattled a comfortable carriage with a pair of stout little horses jingling their bells, and a brisk driver, whose voice was pleasant, as he touched his hat and invited the ladies to enter, assuring them that they would soon overtake and pass the heavy diligences before them.

'Never again will I doubt you, my Amanda,' cried the Raven, packing herself into the dowager's corner with a grateful heart.

'I hope the top of this carriage opens, for I must see everything,' cried Matilda, prancing about on the front seat in a chaos of wraps, books, bottles, and lunch-baskets.

'Of course it does, and when there is anything to see we will see it. It is dark and cold now, so we'd better all go to sleep again.'

With which sage remark, Amanda burrowed into her cloaks and slumbered. But not the other two. Matilda stuck her head out of one window, uttering little cries of wonder and delight at all she saw; while Livy watched the solemn stars pale one by one as the sky brightened, and felt as if she were climbing up, out of a dark valley of weariness and pain, into a new world full of grand repose.

Slowly winding higher and higher through the damp pine forest, softly stirring in the morning wind, they saw the sky warm from its cold gray to a rosy glow, making ready for the sun to rise as they never saw it rise before.


'Full many a glorious morning have I seen, Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,'


but never more wonderfully than on that day. Long after the distant peaks flamed in the ruddy light, they rode in shadow; but turning suddenly round a corner, the sun came dazzling through a great gorge, startling them with the splendour it brought.

Down went the carriage-top, and standing bolt upright, three pairs of eager eyes drank in the grandeur and the beauty that makes the crossing of the Simplon an experience to live for ever in the memory. Peak after peak of the Bernese Oberland rose behind them, silver white against a wonderful blue sky. Before them Monte Rosa, touched with the morning red, and all around great glaciers glittering in the sunshine, awful gorges with torrents thundering from the heights above, relics of land-slides and avalanches still visible in uprooted trees, boulders tumbled here and there, and ruins of shepherds' huts in solitary nooks where sheep now feed.

The road crept in and out, over frail bridges, spanning chasms that made one dizzy to look into, through tunnels of solid rock, or galleries with windows over which poured waterfalls from the treacherous glaciers above. This road is a miracle in itself, for all nature seems to protest against it, and the elements never tire of trying to destroy it. Only a Napoleon would have had the audacity to dream of such a path, and it is truly a royal road into a lovely land.

Passing the diligences the little carriage went rapidly on, and soon the three were almost alone. Out leaped Lavinia and Matilda, and walked along the level way that curved round a great gorge.

'Go on and let me be. It is all so magnificent it almost takes my breath away. I must just sit a minute, like a passive bucket, and let it pour into me,' said Lavinia, in a solemn tone.

Mat understood; for her own heart and soul were full, and with a silent kiss of sympathy, walked on, leaving her sister to enjoy that early mass in a grander cathedral than any built with hands.

In spite of the sunshine it was very cold, and when the three met again their noses looked like the eldest Miss Pecksniff's, 'as if Aurora had nipped and tweaked it with her rosy fingers.' Subsiding into their places with pale, excited faces, they went silently on for a long time, with no sound but the chime of the bells on the horses who were covered with a light hoar-frost. Wrapped up to their eyes, like Egyptian women, sat Livy and Amanda; while Matilda, having tried to sketch Monte Rosa, and given it up, made a capital caricature of them as they ate cold chicken, and drank wine, in a primitive manner, out of the bottle.

It was a sudden descent from the sublime to the ridiculous; but the feeble human mind cannot bear too much glory at once, and is saved by the claims of the prosaic body, that will get tired and hungry even atop of the everlasting hills. So the enthusiasts picked their chicken bones, sipped their wine, and felt less exhausted and hysterical. A good laugh over the carrier's little boy, who sniffed the banquet afar off, and came running to offer a handful of pale Alpine flowers, with wistful glances at the lunch, did them more good still: for the little chap caught and bolted the morsels they gave him with such dexterous rapidity, it was as good as juggling.

Refuges and the Hospice came in sight one after the other, and while waiting to change horses one had time to wonder how the people living there managed to be such a stolid, dirty, thriftless-looking set. Mountaineers should be intelligent, active, and hardy; but these men were a most ungainly crew, and Lavinia's theories got a sad blow.

A bad dinner at Simplon would have been an affliction at any other time; but with the Valley of Gondo for dessert, no one cared for other food. Following the wild stream that had worn its way between the immense cliffs, they drove rapidly down towards Italy, feeling that this was a fit gateway to the promised land.

At Iselle, on the frontier, they enacted a little farce for the benefit of the custom-house officers. Lavinia and Amanda had old passports, and had been told they would be needed. Mat had none, so she was ordered to try the rôle of maid. Before they arrived, she took out her ear-rings, tied up her curls under a dingy veil, put on a waterproof, and tried to assume the demure air of an Abigail.

When they alighted, she was left to guard the wraps in the carriage while the others went with the luggage, expecting to have much trouble; for all manner of hindrances had been predicted owing to the unsettled state of the country. Nothing could be simpler, however; no passports were demanded, a very careless search of luggage, and it was all over. So Matilda threw off her disguise, and ascended the diligence in her own character, for here, alas! they left the cozy little carriage with the affable driver and the jingling bells.

Only two places could be found in the crowded diligences, and great was the fuss till Amanda was invited up aloft by a friendly gentleman who had a perch behind, large enough for two. There they discussed theology and politics to their hearts' content, and at parting the worthy man cut his book in two, and gave Amanda half that she might refresh herself with a portion of some delightfully dry work on Druidical Remains, Protoplasm, or the state of the church before the flood.

The force of contrast makes the charm of this entry into Italy; for, after the grandeur of the Alps and the gloomy wildness of Gondo, the smiling scene is doubly lovely as one drives down to Domo d'Ossola. Weariness, hunger, and sleep were quite forgotten; and when our travellers came to Lago Maggiore, glimmering in the moonlight, they could only sigh for happiness, and look and look and look.

'Victory has perched upon our banners so far, I am sure, for never was a trip more delightful. It is not every stranger who is fortunate enough to see sunrise, noonday, sunset, and moonlight in crossing the Alps,' said Matilda, as she fell into her bed quite exhausted by the excitement of the day.

'I feel a richer, better woman for it, and don't believe I shall ever see anything more satisfactory if I stay in Italy ten years,' responded Lavinia, wrapping the red army-blanket


'Like a martial cloak around her.'


'Wait till the spell of Rome is upon you, and then see what you will feel, my Granny' predicted Amanda, who had felt the spell, and had not yet escaped from it.

'Don't believe it will suit me half so well,' persisted Livy, who would prefer nature to art, much to Amanda's disgust.

'We shall see,' observed Amanda, with the exasperating mildness of superior knowledge.

'We shall!' and Livy tied her cap in a hard knot as if to settle the matter.



V.

Italy.


Sleep as deep, dreamless, and refreshing as if the beneficent spirit of Carlo Borromeo still haunted the enchanted lake, prepared the three for a day of calm delights. The morning was spent floating over the lake in a luxuriously cushioned boat with a gay awning and a picturesque rower, to visit Isola Bella. Everyone knows what a little Paradise has been made to blossom on that rock; so raptures over the flowers, the marbles, the panniers of lovely fruit, and the dirty, pretty children who offered them, are unnecessary.

In the afternoon, having despatched the luggage to Florence, our travellers sailed away to Luini, catching last glimpses of Monte Rosa, and enjoying the glories of an Italian sunset on an Italian lake. At Luini the girls caused much excitement by insisting on sitting up with the driver instead of sharing the coupé with their decorous duenna. 'We must see the lovely views and the moonlight,' said Amanda, and up she went.

'To sit aloft with a brigandish driver dressed in a scarlet and black uniform, with a curly horn slung over his shoulder, and to go tearing up hill and down with four frisky horses, is irresistible,' and up skipped Matilda.

'You will both catch your death of cold, if you don't break your necks, so it will be well to have some one to nurse or bury you,' and Lavinia, finding commands and entreaties vain, entered the coupé with mournful dignity.

With a toot of the horn, and cheers from the crowd, which the girls gracefully acknowledged, away rumbled the diligence, with at least two very happy occupants. How lovely it was! First, the soft twilight wrapping everything in mysterious shadow, and then the slow uprising of a glorious full moon, touching the commonest object with its magical light. Cries of rapture from the girls atop were answered by exclamations from Livy, hanging half out of the coupé regardless of night air, or raps on the head from overhanging boughs, as they went climbing up woody hills, or dashing down steep roads that wound so sharply round corners, it was a wonder the airy passengers did not fly off at every lurch. Rattling into quiet little towns with a grand 'tootle-te-too' of the horn was an especial delight, and to see the people gather so quickly that they seemed to spring from the ground. A moment's chatter, a drink for the horses, a soft 'Felice notte,' another toot, and away thundered the diligence for miles more of moonlight, summer air, and the ecstasy of rapid motion.

What that dear, brown driver with the red vest, the bobtailed, buttony coat, and the big yellow tassels dancing from his hat brim, thought of those two American damsels we shall never know. But it may be imagined that, after his first bewilderment, he enjoyed himself; for Amanda aired her Italian and asked many questions. Matilda invited him to perform national airs on all occasions, and both admired him as openly as if he had been a pretty child.

Lavinia always cherished a dark suspicion that she narrowly escaped destruction on that eventful night; for, judging from the frequent melody, and the speed of the horses, she was sure that either Amanda tooted and Matilda drove, or that both so bewildered the brigand that he lost his head. However, it was all so delightful that even Granny felt the charm, and was sure that if they did upset in some romantic spot, a Doctor Antonio would spring up as quickly as a mushroom, and mend their bones, marry one of her giddy charges, and end the affair in the most appropriate manner.

Nothing happened, fortunately, and by nine o'clock they were safely at Lugano, and, tearing themselves from the dear brigand, were taken possession of by a shadowy being, who fed them in a marble hall with statues ten feet high glaring at them as they ate, then led them to a bower which had pale green doors, a red carpet, blue walls, and yellow bed covers, -- all so gay it was like sleeping in a rainbow.

As if another lovely lake under the windows, and moonlight ad libitum, was not enough, they had music also. Lavinia scorned the idea of sleep, and went prowling about the rooms, hanging over the balconies, and doing the romantic in a style that was a disgrace to her years. She it was who made the superb discovery that the music they heard came from across the way, and that by opening a closet window they could look into a theatre and see the stage.

All rushed at once and beheld an opera in full blast, heartily enjoying the unusual advantages of their position; for not only could they hear the warblers, but see them when the curtain was down. What a thing it was to see Donna Anna do up her black hair, Don Giovanni dance a jig, and stately Ottavio imbibe refreshment out of a black bottle, and the ghostly Commander prance like a Punchinello as they got him into position.

The others soon succumbed to sleep; but, till long after midnight, old Livy wandered like a ghost from the front balcony, with the lovely lake, to the closet window and its dramatic joys, feeling that no moment of that memorable night should be lost, for what other traveller could boast that she ever went to the opera wrapped in a yellow bedquilt?

On the morrow a few pictures of Luini before breakfast, and then more sailing over lakes, and more driving in festive diligences to Menaggio, where a boat like a market waggon without wheels bore them genteelly to Cadenabbia, and a week of repose on the banks of Lago Como.

Their palace did not 'lift its marble walls to eternal summer' by any means; for it rained much, and was so cold that some took to their beds for warmth, stone floors looking like castile-soap not being just the thing for rheumatism. Hand-organs, dancing-bears, two hotels, one villa, no road but the lake, and an insinuating boatman with one eye who lay in wait among the willows, and popped out to grab a passenger when anyone ventured forth, are all that remains in the memory regarding Cadenabbia.

A few extracts from Lavinia's note-book may be found useful at this point, both as a speedy way of getting our travellers to Rome, and for the bold criticisms on famous places and pictures which they contain: -- 

'Milan. -- Cathedral like a big wedding-cake. "Last Supper" in the barracks -- did not "thrill;" tried to, but couldn't, as the picture is so dim it can hardly be seen. Ambrosian Library. -- Lock of L. Borgia's hair; tea-coloured and coarse. Don't believe in it a bit. Jolly old books, but couldn't touch 'em. Fine window to Dante. Saw cathedral illuminated; very theatrical, and much howling of people over the deputies from Rome. Don't know why they illuminated or why they howled; didn't ask. Men here handsome, but rude. Women wear veils and no bonnets, -- fat and ugly. Gloves very good. -- Arch of Peace. -- More peace and less arch would be better for Italy.

'Raphael's Marriage of the Virgin. -- Stiff and stupid. Can't like Raphael. Dear, pious, simple, old Fra Angelico suits me better.

'To the Public Garden with A.; saw a black ostrich with long pink legs, who pranced and looked so like an opera dancer that we sat on the fence and shrieked with laughter.

'Pavia. -- To the Certosa to see the old Carthusian Convent founded in 1396; cloisters, gardens, and twenty-four little dwellings, with chapel, bedroom, parlour, and yard for each monk, who is never to speak, and comes out but once a week. A nice way for lazy men to spend their lives when there is so much work to be done for the Lord and his poor! Wanted to shake them all round, though they did look well in their gowns and cowls gliding about the dim cloisters and church. Perhaps they are kept for that purpose.

'Parma. -- Dome of church frescoed by Correggio. All heaven upsidedown; fat angels turning somersaults, saints like butchers, and martyrs simpering feebly. Like C.'s babies much better. Heaven can't be painted, and they'd better not try. Madonna, by Girolamo, was lovely. Room of the Abbess, with rosy children peeping through the lattice, very charming. Madonna della Scodella -- the boy Christ very charming. The old Farnese Theatre most interesting; got a scrap of canvas from a mouldy scene. Dead old place is Parma.

'Bologna. -- Drove in a pelting rain to the Academy, and saw many pictures. A Pietà, by Guido, was very striking. The desolate mother, with her dead son on her knees, haunted me long afterwards. St. Jerome and the infant Christ, by Elizabeth Sirani, I liked. Raphael won't suit yet. Sad for me, but I cannot admire Madonnas with faces like fashion-plates, or dropsical babies with no baby sweetness about them.

'Florence. -- Bought furs. Nice climate to bring invalids into. Always did think Italy a humbug, and I begin to see I was right. Acres of pictures. Like about six out of the lot. Can't bear the Venus, or Titian's famous hussy hanging over it. Like his portraits much. Busts of Roman emperors great fun. Such bad heads! The Julias, Faustinas, and Agrippinas, with hair dressed like a big sponge on the brow, were so comical I was never tired of looking at them. I see now where the present bedlamite style of coiffure comes from.

'The philosophers, &c., were very interesting. Cicero so like Wendell Phillips that I could hardly help clapping my hands and saying, "Hear! hear!"

'Gave A. a sad blow by saying the Campanile looked like an inlaid work-box. Did not admire it half so much as I did a magnificent stone pine. Best of all, saw in the old Monastery of St. Marco many works of Fra Angelico. I love his pictures, for he put his pious heart into them, and one sees and feels it, and I don't care if his saints do have six joints to their fingers and impossible noses. A very dear picture of "Providenza," -- poor monks at an empty table and angels bringing bread.

'Angelico's picture of heaven was more to my mind than any I have seen. No stern, avenging God, no silly Madonna, but happy souls playing like children, or singing and piping with devout energy.

'Relics of Savonarola, -- his cell, bust, beads, hair-cloth shirt, and a bit of wood from the pile on which they burnt him. I like relics of one man who really lived, worked, and suffered, better than armies of angels, or acres of gods and goddesses.

'Pleasant drives. Saw artists, Casa Guidi windows, and a model baby house with dolly's name on the door, and steps modelled by hands that have made famous statues. "Papa's baby house" was best of all his works to me. A nice little earthquake and a trifle of snow to enhance the charms of this sweet spot.

'Visited Parker's grave, and was afflicted to find it in such an unlovely, crowded cemetery. It does not matter after all: his best monument is in the hearts that love him and the souls he fed. As I stood there a little brown bird hopped among the vines that covered the grave, pecked its breakfast from a dry seed-pod, perched on the head-stone with a grateful twitter, as grace after meat, and flew away, leaving me comforted by the little sermon it had preached.'


'I don't wish to hurt your feelings, dear, but if this is Rome I must say it is a very nasty place,' began Lavinia, as they went stumbling through the mud and confusion of a big, unfinished station on their arrival at the eternal city.

'People of sense don't judge a place at ten o'clock of a pitch-dark, rainy night, especially if they are hungry, tired, and, excuse me, love, rather cross,' returned Amanda, severely, as they piled into a carriage and drove to Piazzi di Spagna.

'I see a divine fountain! A splendid palace! Now it's a statue of some sort! I do believe that dark figure was a monk! I know I shall like it in spite of everything,' cried Matilda excitedly, flattening her nose against the window.

She had been much disappointed at not being able to enter Rome by daylight, so that she might clasp her hands and cry aloud, half-stifled with the overpowering emotions of the moment, 'Roma! Roma! the eternal city, bursts upon my view!' That was the proper thing to do, and it was a blow to make so commonplace and ignoble an entry into the city of her dreams.

Early next morning, Livy was roused from slumber by cries of delight, and, starting up, beheld her artist sister wrapped in a dressing-gown, with dishevelled hair, staring out of the window, and murmuring incoherently, -- 

'Spanish Steps, that's where the models sit. Propaganda, famous Jesuit school. Hope I shall see the little students in their funny hats and gowns. That's the great monument thing put up to settle the Immaculate Conception fuss. Very fine, but the apostles look desperately tired of holding it up. Dear old houses! Heavens! there's a trattoria man with somebody's breakfast on his head! Don't see any costumes. Where are the sheepskin suits? the red skirts and white head-cloths? Girl with flowers. Oh, how lovely! Mercy on us, there's an officer staring up here, and I never saw him!'

In came the blond head, and the blue dressing-gown vanished from the eyes of the handsome soldier who had been attitudinizing with his high boots, gray and scarlet cloak, jingling sword, and becoming barrette cap, for the especial benefit of the enraptured stranger.

'Livy, it is just superb! Get up and come out at once. It is clouding up, and I must have one look or lose my mind,' said Matilda, flying about with unusual energy.

'You will have to get used to rain if you stay here long, my child,' returned the Raven.

And she was right. It poured steadily for two months, with occasional flurries of snow, also thunder, likewise hurricanes, the tramontàna, the sirocco, and all the other charming features of an Italian winter. That nothing might be wanting, a nice little inundation was got up for their benefit, December 28th.

Sitting peacefully at breakfast on the morning of that day, in their cosey apartment, with a fire of cones and olive-wood cheerily burning on the hearth, Jokerella, the big cat, purring on the rug, the little coffee-pot proudly perched among bread and butter, eggs and fruit, while the ladies, in dressing-gowns and slippers, lounged luxuriously in arm-chairs, one red, one blue, one yellow; they (the ladies, not the chairs) were started by Agrippina, the maid, who burst into the room like a bomb-shell, announcing, all in one breath, that the Tiber had risen, inundated the whole city, and instant death was to be the doom of all.

Rushing to the window to see if the flood had quite covered the steps, and cut off all retreat, the friends were comforted to observe no signs of water, except that half-frozen in the basin of the fountain above which leaned their favourite old Triton, with an icicle on the end of his nose.

'I must go and attend to this. The poor will suffer; we may be able to help,' said Livy, forgetting her bones, and beginning to scramble on her fur boots as if the safety of the city depended on her.

The others followed suit, and leaving Jokerella to ravage the table, they hurried forth to see what Father Tiber was up to. A most reprehensible prank, apparently, for the lower parts of the city were under water, and many of the great streets already as full of boats as Venice.

The Corso was a deep and rapid stream, and the shopkeepers were disconsolately paddling about, trying to rescue their property.

'Our dresses, our beautiful new dresses, where are they now!' wailed the girls, surveying Mazzoni's grand store, with water up to the balcony, where many milliners wrung their hands, lamenting.

The Piazza del Popolo was a lake, with the four stone lions just visible, and still spouting water, though it was a drug in the market. In at the open gate rolled a muddy stream, bearing hay-stacks, brushwood, and drowned animals along the Corso. People stood on their balconies wondering what they should do, many breakfastless; for how could the trattoria boys safely waft their coffee-pots across such canals of water? Carriages splashed about in shallower parts with agitated loads, hurrying to drier quarters; many were coming down ladders into boats, and crowds stood waiting their turn with bundles of valuables in their hands.

The soldiers were out in full force, working gallantly to save life and property; making rafts, carrying people on their backs, and going through the inundated streets with boat-loads of food for the hungry, shut up in their ill-provided houses. Usually at such times the priests did this work; but now they stood idly looking on, and saying it was a judgment on the people for their treatment of the Pope. The people were troubled because the priests refused to pray for them: but otherwise they snapped their fingers at the sullen old gentlemen in the Vatican; and the brisk, brave troops worked for the city quite as well (the heretics thought better) than the snuffy priests.

In the Ghetto the disaster was truly terrible, for the flood came so suddenly that the whole quarter was under water in an hour. The scene was pitiful; for here the Jews live packed like sardines in a box, and being washed out with no warning, were utterly destitute. In one street a man and woman were seen wading up to their waists in water, pushing an old mattress before them, on which were three little children, all they had saved.

Later in the day, as boats of provisions came along, women and children swarmed at the windows, crying, 'Bread! bread!' and their wants could not be supplied in spite of the care of the city authorities. One old woman who had lost everything besought the rescuers to bring her a little snuff for the love of heaven; which was very characteristic of the race. One poor man, in trying to save a sick wife and his little ones in a cart, upset them, and the babies were drowned at their own door. Comedy and tragedy side by side.

Outside the city, houses were carried off, people lost, and bridges swept away, so sudden and violent was the flood. The heavy rains and warm winds melted the snow on the mountains, and swelled the river till it rose higher than at any time since 1805.

Many strangers, who came to Rome for the Christmas holidays, sat in their fine apartments without food, fire, light, or company, till taken off in boats or supplied by hoisting stores in at the windows.

'We can hold out some time, as we live on a hill, and Pina has laid in provisions for several days. But if the flood lasts, we shall come to want; for the wood-yards are under water, the railroads down, and the peasants can't get into the city to bring supplies, unless the donkeys swim,' said Amanda, reviewing the situation.

'Never mind; it's so exciting; only we must not forget that we engaged to go and see the Roastpig Aurora to-day,' answered Matilda, who insisted on pronouncing Rospigliosi in that improper manner.

'I like this infinitely better than any of your picturesque refrigerators, and it thrills me more to watch one of those dear, dirty soldiers save women and babies than to see a dozen "Dying Gladiators" gasping for centuries in immortal marble,' added Lavinia, who had shocked her artistic friends by sniffing at the famous statue, and wishing the man would die and done with it, and not lie squirming there.

'Come away, Mat: she has no soul for art, and it is all in vain to try and breathe one into her,' said Amanda, with the calm pity of one who had read up every great picture, studied up every famous statue, and knew what to admire, when to thrill, and just where the various emotions should come in.

So they left the outcast perched on a wall, waving her muff at them, and calling out, 'Nater for ever!' to the great horror of an English lady, who would have seen all Rome upset without any unseemly excitement.

That night the gas gave out, and mysterious orders were left at houses for lamps to be kept burning till morning. Thieves abounded, and the ladies prepared their arms -- one pistol, one dagger, and a large umbrella -- then slept peacefully, undisturbed by the commotion in the kitchen, where cats, live chickens, and Pina's five grandmothers, all lived together, rent free.

Amanda's last prediction was, that they would find themselves gently floating out at the Porta Pia about midnight. Mat wailed for a submerged gallery in which she had hoped to ice herself on the morrow, and Livy indulged the sinful hope that the Pope would get his pontifical petticoats very wet, be a little drowned, and terribly scared by the flood, because he spoilt the Christmas festivities, and shut up all the cardinals' red coaches.

Next day the water began to abate, and people made up their minds that the end of the world was not yet. Gentlemen paid visits on the backs of stout soldiers, ladies went shopping in boats, and family dinners were handed in at two-story windows without causing any remark, so quickly do people adapt themselves to the inevitable.

Hardly had the watery excitement subsided when a new event set the city in an uproar.

The King was not expected till the tenth of January; but the kind soul could not wait, and, as soon as the road was passable, he came with 300,000 francs in his hands to see what he could do for his poor Romans. He arrived at 4 A.M., and though unexpected, the news flew through the city, and a crowd turned out with torches to escort him to the Quirinal.

Again did the explosive Pina burst in upon her mistresses with the news, this time in tears of joy, for the people began to think the King would never come, and therefore were especially touched by this prompt visit in the midst of their trouble. The handsome damsel was a spectacle herself, so dramatic was she as she shook her fist at the Pope, and cheered for the King, with a ladle in one hand, an artichoke in the other, her fine eyes flashing, and her mellow voice trembling, while she talked regardless of the polenta going to destruction in the frying-pan.

On went the bonnets, out flew the ladies, and rushed up to the Quirinal, where stood a great crowd waiting eagerly for a sight of the King.

There was a great bustle among the officials, and splendid creatures, in new uniforms, ran about in all directions. Grand carriages arrived, bringing the high and mighty, gaping but loyal, to greet their lord. General Marmora -- a thin, shabby, energetic man -- was everywhere; for the new order of things seemed a little hitchy. Dorias and Colonnas gladdened plebeian eyes, and the people cheered every thing, from the Commander-in-Chief to somebody's breakfast, borne through the crowd by a stately 'Jeames' in livery, who graciously acknowledged the homage.

For one mortal hour our ladies stood in a pelting rain, and then retired, feeling that the sacrifice of their best hats was all that could reasonably be expected of free-born Americans. They consoled themselves by putting out Pina's fine Italian banner (made in secret, and kept ready for her King, for the padrona was papalino), and supporting it by two little American flags, the stars and stripes of which much perplexed the boys and donkeys disporting themselves in the Piazza Barberini.

But the excitement was so infectious that the girls could not resist another run after royalty; so, while Livy consoled herself with the fire and the cat, they took a carriage and chased the King till they caught him at the Capitol. They had a fine view of him as he came down the long steps, almost alone, and at the peril of his life, through a mass of people cheering frantically, and whitening the streets with waving handkerchiefs.

The enthusiastic damsels mounted up beside the driver, and hurrahed with all their hearts and voices, as well they might, for it certainly was a sight to see. The courage of the King, in trusting himself in a city full of enemies, touched the people quite as much as the kindly motive that brought him there, and kept him sacred in their eyes.

The girls had a second view of him on the balcony of the Quirinal; for the populace clamoured so for another sight of 'Il Rè,' that the Pope's best velvet hangings were hastily spread, and Victor Emmanuel came out and bowed to his people, 'who stood on their heads with joy,' as Amanda expressed it.

He was in citizen's dress, and looked like a stout, brown, soldierly man, not so ugly as the pictures of him, but not an Apollo by any means.

Hating ceremony and splendour, he would not have the fine apartments prepared for him, but chose a plain room, saying, 'Keep the finery for my son, if you like; I prefer this.'

He drove through the Ghetto, and all the desolated parts of the city, to see with his own eyes the ruin made; and then desired the city fathers to give to the poor the money they had set apart to make a splendid welcome for him.

He only spent one day, and returned to Florence at night. All Rome was at the station to see him off: ladies with carriages full of flowers, troops of soldiers, and throngs of poor people blessing him like a saint; for this kingly sympathy of his had won all hearts.

'When he does make his grand entry, we will decorate our balcony, and have our six windows packed with loyal Yankees who will hurrah their best for "the honest man," as they call Victor Emmanuel -- and that is high praise for a king.'

So said the three, and while waiting for the event (which did not occur in their day, however,) they indulged in all the pastimes modern Rome afforded. They shivered through endless galleries, getting 'cricks' in their necks staring at frescoes, and injuring their optic nerves poring over pictures so old that often nothing was visible but a mahogany-coloured leg, an oily face, or the dim outline of a green saint in a whirlwind of pink angels.

They grubbed in catacombs and came up mouldy. They picnicked in the tomb of Cecelia Metella, flirted in the palace of the Cesars -- not in the classical manner, however, -- got cold by moonlight in the Colosseum, and went sketching in the Baths of Caracalla, which last amusement generally ended in the gentlemen and ladies drawing each other, and returning delighted with the study of art in 'dear Rome.'

They went to fancy parties, where artists got themselves up like their own statues and pictures, and set medieval fashions which it was a pity the rest of the world did not follow. They drank much social tea with titled beings, as thick as blackberries, and, better still, men and women who had earned noble names for themselves with pencil, pen, or chisel. They paid visits in palaces where the horses lived in the basement, rich foreigners on the first floor, artists next, and princes in the attic.

They went to the hunt, and saw scarlet coats, fine horses, bad riding, many hounds, and no foxes.

As a change they got up game parties à la Little Athens in their own small salon, introduced the Potatoe Pantomime, had charades, and enacted the immortal Jarley's waxworks on one of the Seven Hills.

A true Yankee breakfast of fish-balls, johnny-cake, and dip-toast, was given in their honour, and its delights much enhanced by its being eaten in a lovely room with reeds and rushes on the pale-green walls, shell-shaped chairs, and coral mirror-frames. What a thing it was to consume those familiar viands in a famous palace, with Guido's Cenci downstairs, a great sculptor next door, three lovely boys as waiters, and 'Titian T.' to head the feast, and follow it up with dates from the Nile, and Egyptian sketches that caused the company to vote a speedy adjournment to the land 'of corkendills' and pyramids.

These and many other joys they tasted, and when all else palled upon them they drove on the Campagna and were happy.

It is sad to be obliged to record that these quiet drives were the especial delight of the unsocial Lavinia, whose ill-regulated mind soon wearied of swell society, classical remains, and artistic revelry. Ancient Rome would have suited her excellently, she thought; but modern Rome was such a chaos of frivolity and fanaticism, poverty and splendour, dirt and devilry, dead grandeur and living ignorance, that she felt as if shut up in a magnificent tomb, the bad air of which was poisoning both body and soul.

Her only consolation was the new freedom, that seemed to blow over Rome like a wholesome wind. Old residents lamented the loss of the priestly pageants, fêtes, and ceremonies; but this republican spinster preferred to see Rome guarded by her own troops, and governed by her own King, who ordered streets to be cleaned, fountains filled, schools opened, and all good institutions made possible, rather than any amount of Papal purple covering poverty, ignorance, and superstition. Better than the sight of all the red coaches that ever rumbled was the spectacle of many boys quitting the Jesuit college and demanding admittance into the free schools; and sweeter than the music of all the silver trumpets that ever blew were the voices of happy men and women singing once forbidden songs of liberty in the streets of Rome.

These sentiments, and others equally unfashionable, were only breathed into the ear of sister Matilda when the two retired to the Campagna to confide to one another the secrets of their souls -- a process necessary about once a week; for after visiting studios, going to parties, and telling polite fibs about everything they saw, it was impossible to exist without finding a vent of some sort. Once out among the aqueducts, Matilda could freely own that she thought genius a rare article in the studios, where she expected to learn so much; and Lavinia could make the awful avowal that parties at which the order of performance was gossip, tea, music -- then music, tea, and gossip, all together -- were not her idea of intellectual society. Their criticisms on pictures and statues cannot be recorded without covering their humble names with infamy; and why the sky did not fall upon, or the stones rise up and smite these Vandals, is a mystery to this day.

They did enjoy much in their own improper manner, but poor Amanda's sufferings can better be imagined than described. So when Lavinia, early in March, proposed to flee to the mountains before they became quite demoralized, and learned to steal and stab, as well as lie and lounge, she readily assented, and they retired to Albano.

'The decline and fall of the Roman Empire was nothing to this, and never have I seen such unappreciative women as you two,' sighed Amanda, as they rolled away from Numero Due Piazza Barberini, leaving Agrippina sobbing at the top of the stairs and the padrona bobbing little curtsies at the bottom.

'I am sure the Cenci will haunt me all my days, and so will many other famous things,' said Matilda, while her eye roved fondly from a very brown Capuchin monk to a squad of Bersaglieri trotting by with jaunty cocks' feathers dancing in the wind, muskets gleaming, and trim boots skipping through the mud with martial regularity.

'When I get the contents of my head sorted out, I shall doubtless rejoice that I have seen Rome; but just now all that I can clearly recall are the three facts that the Pope had a fit, our dear man Romeo got very tipsy one night, and that we went to see the Sistine Chapel the day the eclipse made it as dark as a pocket. Yes,' continued Lavinia, with an air of decision, 'I am glad to have seen this classical cesspool, and still more glad to have got out of it alive,' she added, sniffing the air from the mountains, as if the odour of sanctity which pervaded the holy city did not suit her.

It blew great guns up at Albano, and the society consisted chiefly of donkeys. But the ladies enjoyed themselves nevertheless, and felt better and better every day; for early hours, much exercise, and no esthetic tea, soon set them up after the dissipation of the winter.

Three pleasing events diversified their stay. The first happened the day after they arrived. The girls went forth early to look about them, and to see if they could find a little apartment where all could be more comfortable than in the breezy rooms at the hotel. Following the grassy road that winds down the valley below the viaduct, they came to a lovely garden, and, finding the gate open, went in. A queer old villa was perched on the hill above, and a manly form was observed to be leaning from a balcony, as if enjoying the fine view from the height.

'I fancied that house was empty, or we wouldn't have come in. Never mind: we won't go back now; and if any one comes after us, we will apologize and say we lost our way going to Ajaccio,' said Amanda, as they went calmly forward among the posy-beds that lay blooming on the hill-side.

It was well they prepared themselves, for the manly form suddenly disappeared from the balcony, and a moment afterwards came swiftly towards them through the shrubs.

A comely young gentleman, who greeted them with Italian grace, accepted their apology smiling, and begged them to walk in his garden whenever they liked. It was always open, he said, and the peasants often used that path, admiring but never hurting a leaf. Hearing that they were in search of an apartment, he instantly begged them to come up and look at some rooms in the villa. His father was a refugee from France, and desired to let a part of his house. Come and behold these delightful rooms.

So charming was the interest he took in the errant damsels that they could not resist, and after rolling up their eyes at one another to express their enjoyment of the adventure, they graciously followed the handsome youth into the villa.

With confiding hospitality he took them everywhere -- into his mother's room, the kitchen, and nursery. In the latter place they found two small boys, who bore such a striking resemblance to Napoleon I. that the girls spoke of it, and were enraptured at the reply they received.

'Truly yes: we belong to the family. My mother is a Buonaparte, my father Count  --  -- '

'Here's richness and romance!' 'What will Livy say?' whispered the girls to one another, as their guide left them in the salon and went to find his father.

'She will scold us for coming here,' said Amanda, remembering her own lectures on the proprieties.

'Yes; but she will forgive us the minute we say Napoleon, for that bad little man is one of her heroes,' added Mat, pretending to be admiring the view, while she privately examined a lady in a bower below -- a stout, dark lady, with all the family traits so strongly marked that there could be no doubt of the young man's assertion.

Presently he came back with an affable old gentleman, who evidently had an eye to the main chance; for, in spite of his elegance and affability, he asked a great price for his rooms, and felt that any untitled stranger should be glad to pay well for the honour of living under the roof of a Buonaparte.

Amanda left the decision to her invisible duenna, and with a profusion of compliments and thanks, they got away, being gallantly escorted to the gate by the young count, who filled their hands with flowers, and gazed pensively after them, as if he found the society of two bright American girls very agreeable after that of his lofty parents, or the peasantry of the town.

Home they ran and bounced in upon Livy, blooming and breathless, to pour out their tale, and suggest an immediate departure to the blissful spot where counts and crocuses flourished with Italian luxuriance.

But after the first excitement had subsided, Lavinia put a wet blanket on the entire plan by declaring that she would never board with any grasping old patrician, who would charge for every bow, and fall back on his ancestors if he was found cheating. She would go and look at the place, but not enter it, nor be beholden to the resident Apollo for so much as a dandelion.

So the mourning damsels led the griffin over the viaduct, through the dirty little town, by the villa on its least attractive side. Up at the window were the two little Napoleonic heads, with big, black eyes, strong chins, and dark hair streaked across wide, olive-coloured foreheads. A vision of papa was visible in the garden pruning a vine with gloves on his aristocratic hands, and a shabby velvet coat on his highly connected back. Also, afar off on the balcony -- oh, sight to touch a maiden's heart! -- was the young count gazing wistfully towards Albano. He did not see the charmers as they crept down the rough road close to the garden wall, and went sadly home, along the blooming path, to the 'Tomb of the Four Thimbles,' as Livy irreverently called the ruin which has an ornament at each of its corners like a gigantic thimble of stone.

A note in Amanda's most elegant French, declining the apartments in the name of Madame Duenna, closed the door of this Eden upon the wandering peris, who entered never more. Now and then, as they went clattering by on their donkeys to Lake Nemi, or some other picturesque spot,


They saw again the crocus bloom, And, leaning from that lofty room, Sir Launcelot with face of gloom Look down to Camelot. Up flew their veils and floated wide, But Livy pinned them to her side, 'The curse has come upon us!' cried The ladies of Shalott.


The second adventure befell Amanda alone, and in this wise.

Going one day to Rome, on business, she found herself shut up in a car with a gorgeous officer and a meek young man, who read papers all the way. The tall soldier, in his gray and silver uniform, with a furred, frogged, and braided jacket, not to mention the high boots or the becoming cap, was so very polite to the lone lady that she could not remain dumb without positive rudeness. So Amanda conversed in her most charming manner, finding inspiration doubtless in the dark eyes and musical voice of her handsome vis-à-vis, for the officers from Turin are things of beauty and joys for ever to those who love to look on manly men.

Among other things, the two had a little joke about the Baron Rothschild, who rode about Albano on a tiny donkey with two servants behind him; also the Baroness, a painfully plain woman, with an ugly dog the image of herself.

When they arrived at Rome, however, their joke was turned against them, by the discovery that the meek man was the Baron's secretary, who would doubtless repeat their chat at head-quarters. To see the handsome man slap his brow, and then laugh like a boy at the fun, was worth a longer journey, Amanda thought, as he put her into a carriage, gave her his best martial salute, and went clanking away about his own affairs.

Amanda returned at 4 P.M., and her emotions may be imagined when the dark face of her officer peered in at the car window, and the melodious voice asked if he might be permitted to enter. Of course he might; and, as no secretary now spoilt the tête-à-tête, Mars became delightfully confidential, and poured his woes into the sympathising bosom of Amanda.

It had been a great affliction to him that his regiment was quartered at Albano for some months. Mio Dio! so dull was it, life had already become a burden; but now, if the Signorina was to be there, if she permitted him to make himself known to her party, what joys were in store for him. The Signorina loved to ride. Behold he had superb horses languishing in the stables, that henceforth were dedicated to her use. His fellow officers were gentlemen of good family, brave as lions, and dying of ennui; if they might be presented to the ladies, life would be worth having, and Albano a paradise, &c.

To all this devotion the prudent Amanda listened with pleasure, but promised nothing till Signore Mars had made the acquaintance of certain American gentleman and married ladies, then it would be possible to enjoy the delights of which he spoke. The Colonel vowed he would instantly devote himself to this task, and thus they came to the lonely little station at Albano.

Amanda had ordered the carriage to meet her; but it was not there, and she was forced to wait till all her fellow-passengers were gone. All but the gallant officer, who decorously remained outside, marching to and fro as if on guard, till his servant came with his horse. Then he begged to be allowed to see why the carriage did not come, and Amanda consented, for night was falling, and two miles of mud lay between her and home.

Away dashed the servant, but his master did not follow: standing in the doorway, he declared that he must remain as the Signorina's protector, for no trains were due for hours; the dépôt man was gone, and it was too late for any lady to stay there alone. Again Amanda gratefully consented, wondering what would be the end of her adventure; and again the stately Colonel resumed his march outside, singing as he tramped, and evidently enjoying the escort duty that gave him so good an opportunity of displaying not only his gallantry, but his fine voice and handsome figure.

Down rattled the carriage at last, accompanied, to Amanda's dismay, by three of the Colonel's friends, who had evidently received a hint of the affair, and had come to have a hand in it.

With much bowing of the gentlemen, and much prancing of their fine horses, Amanda was handed to her seat, and went lumbering back to the hotel with her splendid escort careering about her, to the great edification of the town.

When the rescued damsel told the tale to her mates, Matilda tore her hair and lamented that she had not been there. Even the stern Livy had no lecture for the erring lamb, but was as full of interest as either of the girls, for anything in the shape of a soldier was dear to her heart.

When the ladies rode forth next day, three elegant St. Georges in full rig saluted as these modern Unas ambled by on their meek donkeys -- a performance punctually executed ever afterward whenever the three blue veils appeared. Much curvetting went on before the hotel door; much clanking of spurs and sabres was heard in the little lane on to which the apartment of the ladies looked, and splendid officers seemed to spring up like violets in secluded spots where maidens love to stroll.

It was all very nice; and the girls were beginning to feel that the charms of Albano rivalled those of Rome, when a sad blow upset their castles in the air, and desolated the knights over the way.

The highly respectable Americans who were to serve as the link between the soldiers and the ladies decidedly declined the office, objecting to the martial gentleman as being altogether too dangerous to bring into the dove-cot. So the poor dears sighed in vain, and the longing damsels never rode the fine horses that were temptingly paraded before them on all occasions.

They did their best; but it was soon evident to Lavinia that in some unguarded moment the impetuous Mat would yield to the spell and go gambading away for a ride sans duenna, sans habit, sans propriety, sans everything. Amanda likewise seemed losing her head, and permitted the dark-eyed Colonel to talk to her when they met; only a moment -- but what a perilous moment it was! -- when this six-foot Mars leaned over a green hedge and talked about the weather in the softest Italian that ever melted a woman's heart.

'I'm going to Venice next week; so you may as well make up your minds to it, girls. I cannot bear this awful responsibility any longer; for I am very sure you will both be off to Turin with those handsome rascals if we stay much longer. My mind is made up, and I won't hear a word.'

Thus Lavinia, with a stern countenance; for the romantic old lady felt the charm as much as the girls did, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour for the whole party.

'I should never dare to go home and tell my honoured parents that Mat had run away with a man as handsome as Jove, and as poor as Job. Amanda's indignant relatives would rise up and stone me if I let her canter into matrimony with the fascinating Colonel, who may have a wife and ten children in Turin, for all we know. They must be torn away at once, or my character as duenna is lost for ever.'

Having made up her mind, Livy steeled her heart to all appeals, and wrote letters, packed trunks, and watched her little flock like a vigilant sheep-dog.

How she would ever have got them through that last week is very uncertain, if a providential picnic had not helped her.

A fair was held in the town, and a delightful surprise-party was got up among the artists of Rome. Twenty-five came driving over in a big carriage, with four gaily decorated horses, postilions, hampers of lunch, flutes and horns, and much jollity bottled up for the occasion.

A very festive spectacle they made as they drove through the narrow streets with flowers and streamers in their hats, singing and joking in true artistic style.

They meant to have lunched in the open air; but, as it was cloudy, decided to spread the feast at the hotel. Such a delightful revel as followed! A scene from the 'Decameron,' modernised, would give some idea of it; for after the banquet all adjourned to the gardens of the Doria Villa, and there disported themselves as merrily as if all the plagues of life were quite forgotten, and death itself among the lost arts. Flirting and dancing, charades and singing, stories and statues, poems and pictures, gossip and gambols, absorbed the hours as pleasantly as in the olden time. And if the costumes were not as picturesque as those in Vedder's fine picture, the ladies were as lovely, the gentlemen as gallant, and all much better behaved than those of Boccaccio's party.

A few drops of rain quenched the fun at its height, and sent the revellers home as fast as four horses could take them, leaving the town gaping after them, and our ladies much enlivened by the delights of the day.

This third and last event pleasantly ended their sojourn at Albano; for a day or two later they vanished, leaving the dear officers disconsolate till the next batch of travelling ladies came to comfort their despair.

A week was spent in Venice, floating about all day from one delightful old church to another, or paying visits to Titians and Tintorettos; buying little turtles, photographs, or Venetian glass; eating candied fruit and seeing the doves fed in the square of San Marco; visiting shops full of dusty antiquities, or searching the stalls on the Rialto for Moor's-head rings; being rowed to the Lido by Giacomo in a red sash; and lulled to sleep at night by the songs of a chorus that floated under the windows in the moonlight.

Lavinia never could get used to seeing the butcher, the baker, and the postman go their rounds in boats. Matilda was in bliss, with a gondola all to herself, where she sat surrounded with water-colours, trying to paint everything she saw; for here the energy she had lost at Rome seemed to return to her. Amanda haunted a certain shop, trying to make the man take a reasonable sum for a very ancient and ugly bit of jewellery, which she called 'a sprigalario,' for want of a better name; and after each failure she went off to compose herself with a visit to the Doges.

Of course they all saw the Bridge of Sighs and the dungeons below, with their many horrors; likewise a Mass at St. Mark's, where the Patriarch was a fat old soul in red silk, even to his shoes and holy pocket-handkerchief; and the service appeared to consist in six purple priests dressing and undressing him like an old doll, while a dozen white-gowned boys droned up in a gold cock-loft, and many beggars whined on the dirty floor below.

Do other travellers eat locusts, I wonder, as ours did one sunny day, sitting on church steps, and discover that the food of the Apostle was not the insect whose 'zeeing' foretells hot weather; but the long, dry pods of the locust-tree, sweet to the taste, but rather 'dry fodder,' as the impious Livy remarked after choking herself with a quarter of a yard of it.

When the week was up Mat implored to be left behind with Angela, the maid, and Brio, a big poodle possessed of the devil. But she was torn away, and only consoled by the promise of many new gloves, with as many buttons as she pleased, when they got to Munich.

'The lakes are the proper entrance into Italy, and Venice a lovely exit. One soon tires of it, and is ready to leave, which is an excellent arrangement, though I should prefer to depart in some more cheerful vehicle than a hearse,' observed Lavinia, as they left the long, black gondola at the steps of the station.

'Haven't you a sigh for those lovely lakes, a tear for Albano, a pang of regret for Rome?' asked Amanda, hoping to wring one moan for Italy from the old lady.

'Not a sigh, not a tear, not a regret. I find I like them all better the farther I get from them, and by the time I am at home I may be able to say "I adore them," but I doubt it,' returned the incorrigible Livy, and from that moment Amanda regarded her Granny as one dead to all the dear delusions of antiquity.



VI.

London.


'From this moment I cease to be the commander-in-chief. Livy adores England, can speak the language, understands the money, and knows all about London; so she shall be leader, and I will repose after my long labour.' With this remark Amanda retired from office covered with glory, and her mates voted to erect a statue in her honour as a token of their undying gratitude.

Lavinia took the lead from the moment they landed at St. Catherine's Warf; and though somewhat demoralized by a rough passage of eighteen hours from Antwerp, was equal to the occasion. She did love England, and thought London the most delightful city in the world, next to Boston. Its mud and fog were dear to her; its beef and beer were nectar and ambrosia, after the continental slops and messes; its steady-going, respectable citizens, beautiful in her eyes, and the words 'home' and' comfort' were not an idle mockery here.

Therefore the old lady joyfully sniffed the smoky air, gazed with tenderness on the grimy houses, and cast herself, metaphorically speaking, into the arms of a stout, ruddy-faced porter, as if at last she had found a man and a brother.

Nobly did the burly Briton repay her confidence and earn the shilling which in England makes all things possible. He bore them to the station, got tickets, checked luggage, put the ladies in a first-class compartment, gave them all necessary directions about the hotel they were after, and when the bell rang touched his cap with a smile upon his dear, red face, which caused Lavinia to add a sixpence to the shilling she gave him with a mental blessing.

'This is truly a decent country. See how well one is cared for, how civil everybody is, how honest, how manly,' began Livy, as she mounted her hobby, and prepared for a canter over the prejudices of her friend; for Amanda detested England because she knew nothing of it.

'The cabman cheated us, asking double fares,' replied the dear girl, wrapping herself in many cloaks and refusing to admire the fog.

'Not at all,' cried Livy; 'the trunks were immense, and you'll find we shall have to pay extra for them everywhere. It is the same as having them weighed and paying for the pounds, only this saves much time and trouble. Look at the handsome guard in his silver-plated harness. How much nicer he is than a gabbling Italian, or a Frenchman who compliments you one minute and behaves like a brute the next! It does my soul good to see the clean, rosy faces, and hear good English instead of gibberish.'

'Never in my life have I seen such tall, fine-looking men, only they are all fair, which isn't my style,' observed Matilda, with a secret sigh for the dark-eyed heroes from Turin.

Thus conversing, they soon came to the G --  --  Hotel just at the end of the railway, and without going out of the station found themselves settled in comfortable rooms.

'Regard, if you please, these toilette arrangements -- two sorts of bath-pan, two cans of cold water, one of hot, two big pitchers, much soap, and six towels about the size of table-cloths. I call that an improvement on the continental cup, saucer, and napkin accommodation,' said Lavinia, proudly displaying a wash-stand that looked like a dinner-table laid for a dozen, such was the display of glass, china, and napery.

'The English certainly are a clean people,' replied Amanda, softening a little as she remembered her fruitless efforts to find a bath-pan in Brittany, where the people said the drought was caused by the English using so much water.

'They need more appliances for cleanliness than any other race, because they live in such a dirty country,' began Matilda, removing the soot from her face in flakes.

What more she might have said is unknown; for Livy closed her mouth with a big sponge, and all retired to repose after the trials of the past night.

'Now, my dears, you shall have food fit for Christian women to eat. No weak soup, no sour wine, no veal stewed with raisins, nor greasy salad made of all the weeds that grow. Beef that will make you feel like giants, and beer that will cheer the cockles of your hearts; not to mention cheese which will make you wink, and bread with a little round button atop of the loaf like the grand Panjandrum in the old story.'

Thus Lavinia enthusiastically, as she led her flock of two into the eating-room at luncheon time. Being seated at a little table by one of the great windows, the old lady continued to sing the praises of Britannia while wafting for the repast.

'Isn't this better than a stone-floored café with nine clocks all wrong, seven mirrors all cracked, much drapery all dirty, a flock of garçons who fly about like lunatics, and food which I shudder to think of? Look at this lofty room; this grave thick carpet; that cheerful coal-fire; these neat little tables; these large, clean windows; these quiet, ministerial waiters, who seem to take a paternal interest in your wants, and best of all in this simple, wholesome, well-cooked food.'

Here the arrival of a glorified beefsteak and a shining pint-pot of foaming ale give an appropriate finish to Livy's lecture. She fell upon her lunch like a famished woman, and was speechless till much meat had vanished, and the ale was low in the pot.

'It is good,' admitted Amanda, who took to her beer like a born Englishwoman, and swallowed some of her prejudices with her delicious beef.

'It's such a comfort to know that I am not eating a calf's brains or a pig's feet, that I can enjoy it with a free mind, and the sight of those two beautiful old gentlemen gives it an added relish,' said Matilda, who had been watching a pair of hale old fellows eat their lunch in a solid, leisurely way that would have been impossible to an American.

'It is so restful to see people take things calmly, and not bolt their meals, or rush about like runaway steam-engines. It is this moderation that keeps Englishmen so hearty, jolly, and long-lived. They don't tear themselves to pieces as we do, but take time for rest, exercise, food, and recreation, like sensible people as they are. It is like reposing on a feather-bed to live here, and my tired nerves rejoice in it,' said Lavinia, eating bread and cheese as if that was her mission in life.

'A slight amount of haste will be advisable, my Granny, unless we intend to spend all our substance on these restful comforts of yours. This hotel is delightfully cosy, but expensive; so the quicker we go into lodgings the better for us,' suggested the thrifty Amanda, seeing that Livy was too infatuated to care for cost.

'I'll go the first thing to-morrow and look at the rooms Mrs. Blank recommended to us. This afternoon we will rest and write letters, unless some one comes to call,' said Livy, leading her girls to the reading-room, where sleep-inviting chairs, tables supplied with writing-materials, and groves of newspapers, wooed the stranger to repose.

Hardly were they seated, however, than Jeames brought in the card of a friend who had been told when they would arrive, and hastened at once to meet them. How pleasant is the first familiar face one sees in a strange land! Doubly pleasant was Mr. C.'s, because he brought hospitable invitations from other friends, kind welcomes, and tickets to several of the art exhibitions then open.

Hardly had he gone, after a half-hour's chat, than another card was handed, and the name it bore caused a slight flutter in the dove-cot. A friend of Miss Livy's, in Boston, had sent orders to his brother in London to devote himself to the wandering ladies when they came. They had never met; the poor man didn't care to have his quiet invaded by strange women, and to do the honours of London is no small task: yet this heroic gentleman obeyed orders without a murmur; and, leaving his artistic seclusion, shouldered his burden with the silent courage of a Spartan.

A grave, dark, little man, with fine eyes, quiet manners, and a straight-forward way with him that suited blunt Livy excellently. How he dared to face the three unknown women so calmly, listen to their impossible suggestions so politely, and offer himself as a slave so cheerfully, will for ever remain a mystery to those grateful souls.

His first service was to pack them into a cab and bear them safely to the bankers for letters and money; and this he followed up by several weeks of servitude, which must have been worse than Egyptian bondage.

Two more large ladies joined the party after they were settled in lodgings at Kensington; but, undaunted by the fact, this long-suffering man escorted the whole five to galleries and theatres, trips into the city, and picnics in the country; went shopping with them, lugged parcels, ran errands, paid bills, and was in fact the sheet-anchor of the whole party. Imagine the emotions of one shy man when called upon to lead a flock of somewhat imposing ladies everywhere; to have two cabs full on all occasions; to be obliged to support the invalids to follow the caprices of the giddy, to gratify the demands of the curious, and to hear the gabble of the whole five day after day.

Bürger's Brave Man was a coward compared to him; for he not only gave his days, but his evenings also, joining in endless games of whist, drinking much weak tea, and listening to any amount of twaddle on all subjects.

The society was not such as intelligent men enjoy, being composed of two Egyptian boys and three fussy old ladies. One of them was immensely stout, wore a bright green cap, with half-a-pint of scarlet cherries bobbing on her brow. She talked on all subjects, and handed round an album full of her own poems on all occasions. The second must have been a sister of 'Mr. T.'s Aunt,' so grim and incoherent was she. Sitting in the corner, she stared at the world around her with an utterly expressionless countenance, and when least expected broke out with some startling remark, such as, 'If that fence had been painted green we should get to heaven sooner,' or 'Before I had fits my memory was as good as anybody's, but my daughter married a clergyman, and took it with her.'

The third antiquity was the hostess, a buxom lady, much given to gay attire and reminiscences of past glory, 'Before me 'usband went into public life.' The strangers innocently supposed the departed Mr. K. to have been an M.P. at least, and were rather taken aback on learning that he had been a pawnbroker.

The Egyptian youths were handsome, dark lads, with melodious voices, lustrous eyes, and such fiery tempers that one never knew whether they were going to pass the bread or stab one with the carving-knife.

As a slight mitigation of this slow society, the Russian from Pension Paradis appeared with his broadcloth more resplendent than ever. The ladies had seen him in Rome; but the fever scared him away, and he was now fleeing from another lodging-house, where the hostess evidently intended to marry him to her daughter, in the MacStinger fashion.

In this varied circle did the devoted being afore-mentioned pass many hours after the day's hard labour was happily over, and when anyone pitied him for leading the life of a galley-slave, he hid his anguish and answered with a smile, -- 

'My brother told me to do it, and I never disobey Tom. In fact, I find I rather like it.'

That last fib was truly sublime, and the name of Cassabianca pales before that of one who obeyed fraternal commands to the letter, and tried to love his duty, heavy as it was. If, as has been sometimes predicted, England had gone under just then, it might truly have been said, -- 


Though prince and peer and poet rare Were sunk among the piles, The noblest man who perished there Was faithful W. N --  -- s.


The sight-seeing fever raged fiercely at first, and the flock of Americans went from Windsor Castle to the Tower of London, from Westminster Abbey to Madame Taussaud's Waxwork Show, with a vigour that appalled the natives. They would visit two or three galleries in the morning, lunch at Dolly's (the dark little chop-house which Johnson, Goldsmith, and the other worthies used to frequent in the good old times), go to Richmond in the afternoon and dine at the 'Star and Garter,' or to Greenwich and eat 'white baits fish,' as the Russian called that celebrated dish, and finish off the evening at some theatre, getting home at midnight, in a procession of two cabs and a hansom.

When the first excitement was over, Lavinia and Matilda took a turn at society, having friends in London. Amanda could not conquer her prejudices sufficiently to accompany them, and, falling back on the climate as her excuse, stayed at home and improved her mind.

'I feel now like girls in novels. You are the Duchess of Devonshire and I am Lady Maud Plantagenet, going to a ball at Buckingham Palace. I know that I was made to sit in the lap of luxury: it agrees with me so well,' said Matilda, as the two rolled away to Aubrey House in a brougham, all lamps, glass, and satin. Her long blue train lay piled up before her, the light flashed on her best Roman ear-rings, her curls were in their most picturesque array, and -- crowning joy of all -- cream-coloured gloves, with six buttons, covered her arms, and filled her soul with happiness, because they were so elegant and cost so little, being bought in Rome just after the flood.

Dowager Livy responded gravely from the depths of her silver-grey silk, enlivened with pink azaleas, -- 

'My child, thank your stars that you are a free-born Yankee, and have no great name or state to keep up. Buckingham Palace is all very well, and I shouldn't mind calling on Mrs. Guelph, or Saxe Coburg, whichever it is, but I much prefer to be going to the house of a Radical M.P., who is lending a hand to all good works. Mrs. T. is a far more interesting woman to me than Victoria, for her life is spent in helping her fellow-creatures. I consider her a model Englishwoman -- simple, sincere, and accomplished; full of good sense, intelligence, and energy. Her house is open to all, friend and stranger, black and white, rich and poor. Great men and earnest women meet there; Mazzini and Frances Power Cobbe, John Bright and Jean Ingelow, Rossetti the poet, and Elizabeth Garrett the brave little doctor. Though wealthy and living in an historical mansion, the host is the most unassuming man in it, and the hostess the simplest dressed lady. Their money goes in other ways, and the chief ornament of that lovely spot is a school, where poor girls may get an education. Mrs. T. gave a piece of her own garden for it, and teaches there herself, aided by her friends, who serve the poor girls like mothers and sisters, and help to lift them up from the slough of despond in which so many sink. That beats anything you'll find in Buckingham Palace, sister Mat.'

'If they want a drawing-teacher I'll offer myself, for I think that is regularly splendid,' said Matilda warmly, as Livy paused for breath after her harangue.

With these new ideas in her head, Lady Maud enjoyed her party, while the Duchess revelled in radicals to her heart's content; for Aubrey House was their head-quarters, and all were out in full force. It was cheering to our spinster to find that things had moved a good deal since a former visit, five or six years before, when Mill had carried into the House of Commons a Woman's Rights petition that filled both arms. People laughed then, and the stout-hearted women laughed also, but said, 'Our next petition shall be so big it will have to go in a wheel-barrow.' Now the same people talked over the question soberly, and began to think something besides fun might come of it. The pioneers rejoiced over several hard-won battles, and the scoffers came to see that the truest glory was won by those who did the hard work, and stood by a good cause when most unpopular; not by those who kept out of the field till the fight was over, and then came in to wave the flags and beat the drums over victories they had not helped to win.

'It seems to me that these Englishwomen make less noise and do more work than we Americans. I shouldn't dare to say so in public; but their quiet, orderly ways suits me better than the more demonstrative performances of my friends at home. Slow coaches as we call them, I should not be surprised if they got the suffrage before we did, as the tortoise won in the fable,' was Lavinia's secret thought as they drove away, after a very charming evening.

Perhaps the fact that reforms of all sorts had been poured into her ears till her head was like a hive of bees, may account for this unpatriotic thought. Or it may be the pleasant effect of the healthful aspect of these English workers. Old or young, all seemed to have cheerful, well-balanced minds, in strong, healthy bodies. No one complained of her nerves, or let them unconsciously put a sharp edge to her tongue, give a blue tinge to the world, or sour the milk of human kindness in her heart. Less quick and bright, perhaps, than the ladies over the sea, but more womanly, and full of a quiet tenacity of purpose better than eloquence.

Miss Livy's tastes being of a peculiar sort, and pictures having palled upon her to such a degree that she couldn't even look at an ornamental sign-board without disgust, she often left her more artistic friends and went forth on excursions of her own. As she never used either map or guide book, it was a wonder how she found her way; and the infants were often on the point of sending for the city crier, if there is such a functionary, to find the lost duenna. But old Livy always turned up at last, mud to the eyes, tired out, and more deeply impressed than ever with the charms of London.

One day she set forth to hear Spurgeon. Being told that Lambeth was a wretched quarter of the city, that the Tabernacle was two or three miles away, and very difficult to enter when found, only added zest to the thing, and she departed, sure of finding adventures, if not Spurgeon.

If an omnibus conductor had not befriended her, she would probably have found herself at Hampstead or Chelsea, for London busses are as bewildering as London streets. Thanks to this amiable man, who evidently felt that the stranger in his gates needed all his care, the old lady safely reached the Elephant and Castle, and was dismissed with a moss rose-bud from the lips of her friend, a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and a paternal ''Ere yer are, my dear,' which unexpected attentions caused her to depart with speed.

There certainly was need of a Tabernacle in that quarter, for the poverty and wickedness were very dreadful. Boys not yet in their teens staggered by half-tipsy, or lounged at the doors of gin-shops. Bonnetless girls roamed about singing and squabbling. Forlorn babies played in the gutter, and men and women in every stage of raggedness and degradation marred the beauty of that fair Sunday morning.

Crowds were swarming into the Tabernacle: but, thanks to the order a friend had given her, Miss Livy was handed to a comfortable seat, with a haggard Magdalen on one side and a palsy-stricken old man on the other. Staring about her, she saw an immense building with two galleries extending round three sides, and a double sort of platform behind and below the pulpit, which was a little pen lifted high that all might see and hear.

Every seat, aisle, window-ledge, step, and door-way, was packed with a strange congregation; all nations, all colours, all ages, and nearly all bearing the sad marks of poverty or sin. They all sung, cried out if anything affected or pleased them in the sermon, and listened with interest to the plain yet fervent words of the man who has gathered together this flock of black sheep and is so faithful a shepherd to them.

Every one knows how Spurgeon looks in pictures, but in the pulpit he reminded Livy of Martin Luther. A square, florid face, stout figure, a fine keen eye, and a natural, decided manner, very impressive. A strong, clear voice of much dramatic power, and a way of walking the pulpit like Father Taylor.

His sermon was on 'Small Temptations,' and he illustrated it by facts and examples taken from real life, pointing out several of his congregation, and calling them by name, which original proceeding seemed to find favour with his people. He used no notes, but talked rather than preached; and leaning over the railing, urged, argued, prayed, and sang with a hearty eloquence, very effective, and decidedly refreshing after High Church mummery abroad, and drowsy Unitarianism at home. Now and then he stopped to give directions for the comfort of his flock in a free and easy manner, which called up irresistible smiles on the faces of strangers.

'Mrs. Flacker, you'd better take that child into the ante-room: he's tired.' 'Come this way, friends: there's plenty of room.' 'Open all the windows, Manning: it's very warm.' And when a sad sort of cry interrupted him, he looked down at an old woman shaking with epilepsy, and mildly remarked, 'Don't be troubled, brethren: our sister is subject to fits,' and preached tranquilly on.

For two hours he held that great gathering, in spite of heat, discomfort, and other afflictions of the flesh, and ended by saying, in a paternal way, -- 

'Now remember what I've said through the week, and next Sunday show me that I haven't talked in vain.'

He read a list of meetings for every night in the week. One especially struck Livy, as it was for mothers to meet and talk over with him the best ways of teaching and training their children. Spurgeon evidently does not spare his own time and strength; and whatever his creed may be, he is a good Christian in loving his neighbour better than himself, and doing the work his hand finds to do with all his might.

'That is a better church than most of those I enter where respectable saints have the best seats, and there is no place for sinners,' said Livy when she got home. 'Spurgeon's congregation preached more eloquently to me than he did. The Magdalen cried as if her heart was broken, and I am sure those tears washed some of her sins away. The feeble old man looked as if he had found a staff for his trembling hands to lay hold upon, and the forlorn souls all about me, for a time at least, laid down their burdens and found rest and comfort in their Father's house. It did me more good than the preaching of all the bishops in London, or the finest pageant at St. Paul's; and I am truly glad I went, though the saucy conductor did smirk at me over the rosebud.'

In contrast to this serious expedition, the old lady had a very jolly one not long afterward. A certain congenial Professor asked her one day what person, place, or thing in London she most desired to see.

Clasping her hands with the energy of deep emotion, she replied, -- 

'The home of the immortal Sairy Gamp. Long ago I made a vow, if I ever came to London I'd visit that spot. Let me keep my vow.'

'You shall!' responded the Professor with a responsive ardour, which caused Livy to dive into her waterproof without another word.

Away they went in a pouring rain, and what people thought of the damp but enthusiastic couple who pervaded the city that day I can't say; I only know a merrier pair of pilgrims never visited those grimy shrines. They met several old friends, and passed several familiar spots by the way. Major Bagstock and Cousin Phenix stared at them from a club-house window. Tigg Montague's cab dashed by them in Regent Street, more gorgeous than ever. The brothers Cheeryble went trotting cityward arm in arm, with a smile and ha'penny for all the beggars they met; and the Micawber family passed them in a bus, going, I suppose, to accompany the blighted Wilkins to gaol.

In a certain grimly genteel street they paused to stare up at a row of grimly respectable houses; for, though the name wasn't on any of the doors, they were sure Mr. Dombey still lived there. A rough dog lay on one of the doorsteps, and a curtain fluttered at an open upper window. Poor Di was growling in his sleep, and above there little Paul was watching for the golden water on the wall, while faithful Florence sung to him, and Susan Nipper put away derisive sniffs and winks in closets and behind doors for the benefit of 'them Pipchinses.'

Coming to a poorer part of the city, they met Tiny Tim tapping along on his little crutch, passed Toby Veck at a windy street-corner, and saw all the little Tetterbys playing in the mud.

'Come down this street, and take a glimpse at St. Giles's, the worst part of London,' said the Professor; and, following, Livy saw misery enough in five minutes to make her heart ache for the day. A policeman kept near them, saying it wasn't safe to go far there alone.

Vice, poverty, dirt, and suffering reigned supreme within a stone's throw of one of the great thoroughfares, and made Alsatia dangerous ground for respectable feet. Here, too, they saw familiar phantoms: poor Jo, perpetually moving on; and little Oliver led by Nancy, with a shawl over her head and a black eye; Bill Sykes, lounging in a doorway, looking more ruffianly than ever; and the Artful Dodger, who kept his eye on them as two hopeful 'plants' with profitable pockets ready for him.

They soon had enough of this, and hurried on along High Holborn, till they came to Kingsgate Street, so like the description that I am sure Dickens must have been there and taken notes. They knew the house in a moment: there were the two dingy windows over the bird-shop; the checked curtains were drawn, but of course the bottomless bandboxes, the wooden pippins, green umbrella, and portrait of Miss Harris were all behind them. It seemed so real that they quite expected to see a red, snuffy old face appear, and to hear a drowsy voice exclaim: 'Drat that bell: I'm a coming. Don't tell me it's Mrs. Wilkins, without even a pincushion prepared.'

While Livy stood gazing in silent satisfaction (merely regretting that the name on the door was Pendergast, not Sweedle-pipes), the Professor turned to a woman, and asked with admirable gravity, 'Can you tell me where Mrs. Gamp lives?'

'What's her business?' demanded the matron, with interest.

'A nurse, ma'am.'

'Is she a little fat woman?'

'Fat, decidedly, and old,' returned the Professor, without a smile on his somewhat cherubic countenance.

'Well, she lives No. 5, round the corner.'

On receiving this unexpected reply, they looked at one another in comic dismay; but would certainly have gone to No. 5, and taken a look at the modern Sairy, if the woman hadn't called out as they moved on -- 

'I b'lieve that nuss's name is Britiain, not Gamp; but you can ask.'

Murmuring a hasty 'thank you,' they fled precipitately round the corner, and there enjoyed a glorious laugh under an umbrella, to the great amazement of all beholders.

Being on a Dickens pilgrimage, they went to Furnival's Inn, where he wrote 'Pickwick' in a three-story room, and read it to the old porter. The same old porter told them all about it, and quite revelled in the remembrance. It did one's heart good to see the stiff, dried-up old fellow thaw and glow with the recollection of the handsome young man who was kind to him long ago, before the world had found him out.

'Did you think the book would be famous when he read it to you in 1834, as you say?' asked the Professor, beaming at him in a way that would have melted the heart of the stiff-tailed lion of the Northumberlands, if he'd possessed such an organ.

'O dear, yes, sir; I felt sure it would be summat good, it made me laugh so. He didn't think much of it; but I know a good thing when I see it;' and the old man gave an important nod, as if all the credit of the blessed 'Pickwick' belonged to him. 'He married Miss Hogarth while livin' here; and you can see the room, if you like,' he added, with a burst of hospitality, as the almighty sixpence touched his palm.

Up they went, over the worn stairs; and, finding the door locked, solemnly touched the brass knob, read the name 'Ed Peck' on the plate, and wiped their feet on a very dirty mat. It was ridiculous, of course; but hero-worship is not the worst of modern follies, and when one's hero has won from the world some of its heartiest smiles and tears, one may be forgiven for a little sentiment in a dark entry.

Next they went to the Saracen's Head, where Mr. Squeers stopped when in London. The odd old place looked as if it hadn't changed a particle. There was the wooden gallery outside, where the chamber-maids stood to see the coach off; the archway under which poor Nicholas drove that cold morning; the office, or bar, where the miserable little boys shivered while they took alternate sips out of one mug, and bolted hunches of bread and butter as Squeers 'nagged' them in private and talked to them like a father in public. Livy was tempted to bring away a little porter-pot hanging outside the door, as a trophy; but fearing Squeers's squint eye was upon her, she refrained, and took a muddy pebble instead.

They took a peep at the Temple and its garden. The fountain was not playing, but it looked very pleasant, nevertheless; and as they stood there the sun came out, as if anxious that they should see it at its best. It was all very well to know that Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night' was played in Middle Temple Hall, that the York and Lancaster roses grew here, that Dr. Johnson lived No. 1 Inner Temple Lane, and that Goldsmith died No. 2 Brick Court, Middle Temple; these actual events and people seemed far less real than the scenes between Pendennis and Fanny, John Westlock and little Ruth Pinch. For their sakes Livy went to see the place; and for their sakes she still remembers that green spot in the heart of London, with the June sunshine falling on it as it fell that day.

The pilgrimage ended with a breathless climb up the Monument, whence they got a fine view of London, and better still of Todgerses. Livy found the house by instinct; and saw Cherry Pecksniff, now a sharp-nosed old woman, sitting at the back window. A gaunt, anxious-looking lady, in a massive bonnet, crossed the yard, with a basket in her hand; and the Professor said at once, 'That's Mrs. Todgers, and the amount of gravy single gentlemen eat is still weighing heavy on her mind.' As if to make the thing quite perfect, they discovered fitful glimpses of a tousled-looking boy, cleaning knives or boots, in a cellar-kitchen; and all the lawyers in London couldn't have argued them out of their firm belief that it was young Bailey, undergoing his daily torment in company with the black beetles and the mouldy bottles.

That nothing might be wanting to finish off the rainy-day ramble in an appropriate manner, when Livy's companion asked what she'd have for lunch, she boldly replied, -- 

'Weal pie and a pot of porter.'

As she was not fond of either, it was a sure proof of the sincerity of her regard for the persons who have made them immortal. They went into an eating-house, and ordered the lunch, finding themselves objects of interest to the other guests. But, though a walking doormat in point of mud, and somewhat flushed and excited by the hustling, climbing, and adoring, it is certain there wasn't a happier spinster in this 'Piljin Projess of a wale,' than the one who partook of 'weal pie' in memory of Sam Weller, and drank 'a modest quencher' to the health of Dick Swiveller at the end of that delightful Dickens day.

Much might be written about the domestic pleasures of English people, but as the compiler of this interesting work believes in the sacredness of private life, and has a holy horror of the dreadful people who outrage hospitality by basely reporting all they have seen and heard, she will practise what she preaches, and firmly resist the temptation to describe the delights of country strolls with poets, cosey five-o'clock teas in famous drawing-rooms, and interviews with persons whose names are household words.

This virtuous reticence leaves the best untold, and brings the story of two of our travellers to a speedy end. Matilda decided to remain and study art, spending her days copying Turner at the National Gallery, and her evenings in the society of the eight agreeable gentlemen who adorned the house where she abode.

Amanda hurried home with friends to enjoy a festive summer among the verdant plains of Cape Cod. With deep regret did her mates bid her adieu, and nothing but the certainty of soon embracing her again would have reconciled Livy to the parting; for in Amanda she had found that rare and precious treasure, a friend.

'Addio, my beloved Granny; take care of your dear bones and come home soon,' said Amanda, in the little back entry, while her luggage was being precipitated downstairs.

'Heaven bless and keep you safe, my own Possum. I shall not stay long because I can't possibly get on without you,' moaned Livy, clinging to the departing treasure as Diogenes might have clung to his honest man, if he ever found him; for, with better luck than the old philosopher, Livy had searched long years for a friend to her mind, and got one at last.

'Don't be sentimental, girls' said Matilda, with tears in her eyes, as she hugged her Mandy, and bore her to the cab.

'Rome and Raphael for ever!' cried Amanda, as a cheerful parting salute.

'London and Turner!' shouted Matilda with her answering war-cry.

'Boston and Emerson!' sobbed Lavinia, true to her idols even in the deepest woe.

Then three damp pocket-handkerchiefs waved wildly till the dingy cab with the dear Egyptian nose at the window, and the little bath-pan clattering frantically up aloft, vanished round the corner, leaving a void behind that all Europe could not fill.

A few weeks later Livy followed, leaving Mat to enjoy the liberty with which American girls may be trusted when they have a purpose or a profession to keep them steady. And so ended the travels of the trio, travels which had filled a year with valuable experiences, memorable days, and that culture which a larger knowledge of the world, our fellow-men, and ourselves gives to the fortunate souls to whom this pleasure is permitted.

One point was satisfactorily proved by the successful issue of this partnership; for, in spite of many prophecies to the contrary, three women, utterly unlike in every respect, had lived happily together for twelve long months, had travelled unprotected safely over land and sea, had experienced two revolutions, an earthquake, an eclipse, and a flood, yet met with no loss, no mishap, no quarrel, and no disappointment worth mentioning.

With this triumphant statement as a moral to our tale, we would respectfully advise all timid sisters now lingering doubtfully on the shore, to strap up their bundles in light marching order, and push boldly off. They will need no protector but their own courage, no guide but their own good sense and Yankee wit, and no interpreter, if that woman's best gift, the tongue, has a little French polish on it.

Dear Amandas, Matildas, and Lavinias, why delay? Wait on no man, but take your little store and invest it in something far better than Paris finery, Geneva jewellery, or Roman relics. Bring home empty trunks, if you will, but heads full of new and larger ideas, hearts richer in the sympathy that makes the whole world kin, hands readier to help on the great work God gives humanity, and souls elevated by the wonders of art and the diviner miracles of Nature.

Leave ennui and discontent, frivolity and feebleness, among the ruins of the Old World, and bring home to the New the grace, the culture, and the health which will make American women what now they just fail of being, the bravest, brightest, happiest, and handsomest women in the world.

<eob>

The Overall Boys In Switzerland

By

Eulalie Osgood Grover



Three Cheers For Europe

It was the first day of summer, and it was the last day of the ocean trip.

Jack and Joe, two Overall Boys, had crossed the big Atlantic. They were now sailing into a strange city, in a strange country, with a strange language.

The city was Antwerp. The country was Belgium, and the language was -- well, almost anything one cared to speak, French or German or Dutch or English.

Jack said he should try English first. Then, if people did not understand him, he should use the Dutch words which the Sunbonnet Babies had taught him. But if people did not understand him then, he should have to keep still, or talk with his hands.

"Oh! I shall not keep still," said Joe. "I shall speak everything all at once, French and German and Dutch and English. You just watch me!"

"Ho! ho!" laughed Jack. "We will watch you, and so will all the people in Antwerp. But now watch that great houseboat. I believe it is like the boat Molly and May's Uncle Dirk owns. A family is living on it. They have a canary bird and a dog and a cat and flowers, just as they have on Uncle Dirk's boat."

"I should rather go to Holland than to Switzerland," said Joe. "Let's ask the people on that houseboat to take us up to their Water Land."

"No, sir! I want to go to Switzerland," said Jack. "I want to see the great mountains all covered with snowbanks and forests and flowers. There is not a mountain in the whole of Holland."

"Look!" shouted Joe. "I see the first castle! We are sailing right up beside it. I wonder if a really, truly King and Queen are living in it."

"Of course," said Jack, "unless they have been killed and their castle turned into a prison or a museum."

"Do you suppose it has a dark dungeon under it?" asked Joe. "How I should like to see a real dungeon!"

"Come on, father is calling us," said Jack. "Our boat has stopped. It is time to get off."

"Oh! Perhaps father will take us into that old castle, Jack. Then we can see if it really has a dungeon under it," cried Joe.

So the Overall Boys said good-by to their friends on the ocean steamer. They said good-by to the Captain. They said good-by to the Cook. The Cook and the Captain were their special friends and they were specially sorry to leave them.

But the boys had something very important in their minds.

When the heavy plank was pulled over from the dock to the steamer, the two Overall Boys were the first to step on it. They ran as fast as they could run down the steep plank.

Everybody wondered why those two boys were running so hard. There was plenty of time. No one needed to run. But in a second everybody knew, for Joe was throwing his cap high into the air and shouting, "Hurrah for Europe! Three cheers for Antwerp!" And in half a second more Jack was throwing his cap high into the air and shouting three cheers for Europe, too.

Yes, the Overall Boys were the first in their party to step foot on Europe, and they were the first to give it three cheers.




On The River Rhine

The next few days were exciting ones for the Overall Boys.

Joe said he knew that he was dreaming, and his dreams were all about castles and kings and queens and strange languages.

Jack had to tell him very often that he was sailing up the beautiful river Rhine toward Switzerland, that the castles and the kings and the queens and the strange languages were really true.

"I know that the castles are really here," said Joe, "for I am counting them. Look at that great fort on the hill!"

"Yes," said Jack, "the Captain says if we were their enemies, the soldiers in that fort would not let our boat pass up the river."

"Well, I am glad we are not their enemies," said Joe. "I don't like the looks of the big guns peeping through those holes in the fort walls. I like the old castles better."

And so the Overall Boys sailed by castles and still more castles, which were built high on the banks above the river. Most of them were very old, so old they were falling to pieces.

Lower down on the river banks there were large vineyards, where the finest grapes were growing.

Their father told the boys strange stories about the people who once lived in these old castles. He told them about a beautiful sea maiden who used to sit on a high rock above the river combing her long, golden hair and singing sweet songs. He told how brave young men sailed their boats into the dangerous waters to listen to her songs, and were drowned.

Fortunately the maiden did not sing while the Overall Boys were passing her rock, so they went safely on their journey.

A little later Jack cried, "Come, Joe, the Captain is going to tell us a story."

"Is he going to tell it in some dreadful, strange language?" asked Joe.

"No, sir!" said Jack. "This Captain knows how to speak English."

"Hello!" called the Captain. "Do you boys like mice? Both of you do! Well, that is brave. I am going to tell you about a man who did not like mice.

"Do you see that large, round tower just ahead of us? It is built on a rock in the middle of the river. It is called the Mouse Tower. This is the reason why.

"Once upon a time -- I cannot tell you just how long ago, but once upon a time -- there lived a rich Bishop. He lived in a great castle up there on the river bank. He had fine farms, and he made much money. He filled many barns with his grain, and he kept his gold in strong boxes.

"A great many poor people lived near the rich Bishop. He should have taught them how to work and how to pray, but he did not. He did not even give them grain when they needed it, or gold that they might buy bread.

"One year when the people were very hungry, they begged the Bishop so hard for bread that he could not sleep. He said they were like a pack of hungry mice.

"At last the Bishop told the beggars to go to an empty barn near by, and he would soon satisfy their wants. So the people hurried into the barn, and waited for the Bishop to come. He came, but he did not bring them food or gold.

"Oh, no! The selfish Bishop told his servants to set fire to the old barn, and the poor people who were inside soon stopped crying for food.

"That night while the Bishop was asleep in his castle, he dreamed a strange dream. He dreamed that some hungry mice were eating a fine picture of himself which hung on his bedroom wall. He watched them until they had torn it all to pieces.

"Just then a servant ran into his room and wakened him.

"'O Bishop Hatto! Bishop Hatto!' cried the servant. 'The mice are coming. They are coming out of the hot ashes of the old barn which we burned last night. They have followed me up to your castle. You must run for your life.'

"So the Bishop jumped on his horse and rode down the hill as fast as he could ride, and the mice ran after him. When he came to the river the mice were almost upon him.

"The Bishop left his horse and jumped into a small boat. He rowed very hard until he came to that stone tower in the middle of the river.

"'Now,' said he, 'I am safely away from those miserable mice.'

"But he was not safely away from them, for the mice could swim.

"The Bishop shut himself into the tower and closed the doors and windows. But the mice could gnaw. They ran up the stone walls and gnawed through the wooden doors. Then they ran down the doors on the inside and found the wicked Bishop.

"How the Bishop wished that he had been kind to the poor, starving people. How he wished that he had given them food and gold when they needed it so much. Now it was too late. The hungry people had sent their spirits back in these hungry mice to punish him as he had punished them.

"And so the old stone tower has been called the Mouse Tower, or Bishop Hatto's Tower, ever since. Now, what do you think of that for a story?" asked the Captain.

"I tell you, I hope I never shall be such a mean old Bishop as he was!" said Joe.

"And I am glad he is not living now!" said Jack.

Soon the Overall Boys had sailed as far up the beautiful river Rhine as their big boat would take them. They had seen so many old castles, and they had heard so many strange stories about them, the boys felt as if they had just passed through a really, truly Fairyland -- and perhaps they had.




The Bear City


"Hello, Jack! Hello, Joe!" called the boys' father very early one morning. "Wake up! Wake up and give the bears their breakfast."

"Oh, dear! Where are we?" cried Joe. "I'm so sleepy! Where are the bears? I don't see any."

"I know where we are," said Jack. "We are in the city of Bern, where the bear cave is."

"Good! We are in Switzerland at last," cried Joe, running to the window. "But where is the snow? I thought the mountains in Switzerland were all covered with snow! These mountains are covered with green trees."

"These are not the real mountains, Joe," said Jack. "The great snow-covered mountains are farther away. I guess we shall see them before long. I heard some one say that, on a clear day, the view of the snow-covered Alps from this city is one of the finest in all Switzerland, and that the sunsets here are wonderful. But let's have our breakfast now."

"All right," said Joe. "Then let's be off to hunt for the bears. But why do the people keep bears right in the middle of their city?"

"Father says it is because a bear was killed on this spot just before the city was built," said Jack. "So the people named the city Bern. They have kept a few bears in a large pit here ever since, and that is more than four hundred years."

"Do let's hurry and find their cave!" cried Joe.

So the Overall Boys were soon hurrying through the busy streets of the Bear City. In the middle of many of the streets they saw fine, large fountains. Above the center of some of the fountains were the figures of famous men, while plants and flowers were growing in others.

In a few of the beautiful fountains women were doing their washing. They placed the soiled clothes on boards by the edge of the clear water. Then they soaped the clothes well, and pounded them with flat stones, and rinsed them up and down until they were quite clean.

It was certainly an odd way to do a family washing; at least, so the Overall Boys thought.

There was one fountain which interested the boys more than any of the others. Above the center of this fountain stood the stone figure of a strange looking man, who was holding a stone baby in his hands. He was about to bite the baby's head right off. Other babies were hanging from the ugly man's belt and peeping from his pockets.

It is called the fountain of the Child-eater, and naughty children never like to pass very near it. But the Overall Boys knew that the stone Child-eater could not hurt them, so they laughed at the old fellow and hurried on.

It was not long before the boys were racing across a great stone bridge leading to the deep hole in the ground where the bears lived. Joe reached the pit first.

"Hurrah! I see three of them," he cried, leaning over the high rail above the pit. "See that baby bear beg for something to eat! Go to the fruit stand, Jack, and buy some carrots to feed him. Father says bears like carrots."

So Jack ran to the fruit stand near by and bought a big bunch of carrots. The boys threw the carrots, one at a time, over the wall into the pit, and how they shouted and laughed to see the bears catch and eat them, just like big, brown boys.

Sometimes one bear would catch more than his share of the carrots. Then the other bears would chase him about until they made him climb up a tall tree in the middle of the pit. He did not dare to come down until his bear friends had eaten all they wanted. If he tried to do so, they chased him quickly back again.

"Look!" cried Joe. "I have found an orange in my pocket. I am going to throw it down to the bear that is waving his paw at me. Watch him catch it."

"Watch him!" shouted Jack. "He didn't catch it. The bear near him knocked him over as quick as a wink, and caught the orange himself."

"See, he is climbing up the tree with it! Isn't he a selfish old bear!"

"Look at the bear in the little pond of water," cried Jack. "He is playing ball with the other bear. Now the other bear has jumped into the pond, too. See them box each other's ears! And see them roll over and over in the water! Oh, I never, never saw anything so funny!"

"I believe they are real boys dressed up in bear skins," said Joe. "I never thought bears could act so much like boys."

"Mother says she never thought boys could act so much like bears," said Jack.

The boys watched the bears nearly all the forenoon. Joe said he hadn't laughed so much since his last football game in America. He wished that he could live in Bern always, and feed the bears every morning.

"I'm getting hungry myself," said Jack at last. "Let's buy some gingerbread bears to eat. There is a window full of them over in that store."

Then away the boys ran and bought gingerbread bears of all sizes -- father bears and mother bears and little baby bears and dancing bears and stiff soldier bears.

Jack and Joe were sure they had never eaten anything in all their lives so good as those gingerbread bears.

"Come on, now!" cried Jack. "Father has some more fun for us. He wants us to go down the street with him to see a queer old clock tower."

"I know what it is," said Joe. "He told us about it the other day. We can hear the cock crow and see the bears parade, if we are there on time."

"Then let's run!" said Jack. "It is almost twelve o'clock now."

So the boys raced back over the great stone bridge. They raced around corners and under arches and along covered sidewalks, until they came to a low tower which arched right over the sidewalk.

The large round clock near the top of the tower said five minutes before twelve. On the wall below the clock sat a queer little bronze man holding an hourglass in his hand.

At the left of the man stood a bronze cock and at his right a bronze dragon. Suddenly the Overall Boys saw the cock flap his wings and wag his head and cry, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

A moment later two bronze giants up in the top of the tower struck the great bell with their hammers twelve times. The cock wagged his head and flapped his wings and again crowed, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" Then a small clown rang a tiny bell and a procession of bears began marching just below the old man.

Some of the bears carried little guns and swords, and one bear rode on a tiny horse.

When the clock in the top of the tower stopped striking, the procession stopped marching, and the old man turned his hourglass upside down. The dragon wagged his head, and the cock crowed, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" Then all was still. Yes, it was very still. The Overall Boys were thinking.

At last Joe said, "I wish I could take that clock back to America. I should like to show it to the Sunbonnet Babies. I am sure they didn't see anything half as strange as that in Holland."

"Well, they will have to come to Bern if they want to see it," said Jack. "You can't pack that great tower in your trunk."

"Father is calling us," said Joe. "He says we shall have just time to eat dinner before we must take the train. Where do you suppose we are going next?"




Above The Clouds


"See it pour! And just hear the thunder!" said Joe, looking out of the car window. "It sounds as if giants were rolling rocks down the mountain sides. I hope they will not hit our train."

"Look! The train is stopping," said Jack. "The conductor says we must all get out here and take another train. How can we change while it is pouring so hard!"

The rain was really pouring down so fast that umbrellas were of no use at all. But the Overall Boys ran to the end of the platform and climbed into the high front seat of a queer little car.

It was certainly the strangest car the boys had ever seen. It was built so that one end was much higher than the other end, and people had to go up some steps to get into it.

In a few moments the little train was moving slowly up the steep track.

"Where do you suppose we are going?" cried Joe. "I believe we are climbing right up the side of a mountain. My! How it rains! I guess we are up among the clouds."

"We shall soon be up above the clouds," said Jack. "We are climbing Mount Rigi. We are going to stay all night on the mountain, too."

And so it happened. The train was soon pulled up the steep mountain side until it was above the rain and the wet clouds. The sun was shining brightly up there, but the valleys below were covered with a thick white blanket.

At last the sun and the wind began to carry great pieces of the cloud blanket high into the sky. Through the openings in the clouds, below them the boys could see tiny villages and blue lakes.

And away down below, hanging in the soft white clouds, was a rainbow -- all red and orange and yellow and green and blue and violet.

"Look! We are above the rainbow bridge!" cried Joe. "If only I could jump over on it, I could slide right down to the earth again."

"Why, you are on the earth now," said Jack.

"Oh, so I am! But isn't it wonderful up here!"

The boys watched the fluffy clouds blow far away, carrying the lovely rainbow with them. And they watched the great red sun drop down behind the snow-covered mountains in the west.

Suddenly Joe cried, "Those mountains are on fire, Jack! Look! How can they burn when they are all covered with snow?"

"It looks as if the red-hot sun had set the world on fire this time, doesn't it?" cried Jack.

But it hadn't, though the mountains were rosy for a long time after darkness had come in the deep valleys below. The great round moon climbed slowly up the sky, and millions of stars peeped down at the boys.

They had never been so near the stars before. They were almost six thousand feet nearer than they were on the ocean steamer, and six thousand feet are more than a mile.

At last the boys were so tired they went into a small hotel, high on the mountain, and were soon tucked away in two narrow white beds. For a few moments they lay very still, then Joe whispered, "Jack, do you hear those bells tinkling, out on the mountain side?"

And Jack whispered, "Yes, Joe. They are cow bells. You know five thousand cows are pastured on this mountain in the summer time."

"From the sound, I guess they all wear bells, too," said Joe. "Isn't it lovely! The bells make me so sleepy."



On Mount Rigi


So the boys were lulled to sleep by the soft music of the tinkling cow bells. But very early next morning they were wakened by another kind of music. It was the clear call of an alpine horn at four o'clock in the morning.

The horn seemed to say, "Wake up! Wake up and see the beautiful sunrise!"

Although Jack was still half asleep, he shouted back, "All right! We'll be up in a jiffy." And they were.

Everybody hurried out to the mountain top to watch the great sun sail slowly up the sky.

"Look!" cried Joe. "Last night the sun went down behind those mountains over there, but now it is coming up away over here. How did it ever get around here?"

"Oh, you know, Joe!" said Jack. "The sun always sets in the west and rises in the east."

"But how can it go down on one side of the world and come up on the other?" asked Joe.

"Because the earth whirls around every twenty-four hours," said Jack. "In the morning our side of the earth is whirling toward the sun, and in the afternoon we are whirling away from it."

"Oh, dear! Are we whirling now?" cried Joe. "I thought the world was standing still. I thought it was the sun that was going around."

"The sun is going around, Joe, but so are we. Father says that our world is whirling faster right now than the fastest automobile can race," said Jack.

"My!" said Joe. "Is that what makes the wind blow so hard up here? Hold on, or we shall be blown off!"

"Just look at those cows!" shouted Jack. "They are being milked. Let's go and watch."

Then away the boys raced to a group of big, brown cows that were being milked not far away. Great pails full of the rich, creamy milk were carried into a little house near by.

"How good it looks!" said Joe. "Let's ask if they will sell us a drink."

But they did not have to ask, for the old woman who lived in the tiny house saw the boys coming. She knew that they had not had any breakfast, so she filled two tall mugs with warm milk, then she piled a plate with gingerbread cakes, and set before them.

The boys were so hungry they ate two plates full of the gingerbread cakes, and they each drank two tall mugs of the warm milk. They thanked the old woman very kindly, and told her she had given them the best breakfast they had ever eaten.

By this time the sun was quite high in the sky. Large umbrellas were raised over small booths on the mountain top, where men and women were selling picture post cards and all sorts of queer little things -- horns and whistles and small carved wooden men and bears.

The boys bought a number of things to take back to America with them, and they bought a dozen or more post cards to send to their friends. The very prettiest of these cards were sent to their own little brothers, Tim and Ted, and to the Sunbonnet Babies.

The boys each bought, also, a fine alpine stock to help them on their long tramps over the mountains.

The first tramp was to be taken that very day. Instead of going down Mount Rigi by train, as they had come up, they were going to walk. They were going to walk away down to the shore of the beautiful lake at the foot of the mountain. It was the large lake of Lucerne, but it looked like only a tiny pond, it was so very far below them. And the busy steamers looked like toy boats sailing on the tiny pond.

"Just think," said Jack, "in a few hours we shall be crossing that very lake in one of those steamers. They don't look large enough to carry people, do they?"

After an early lunch, which was eaten in an outdoor restaurant, they started to walk down the mountain. A part of the way the path was very steep. The boys raced along, for it was easier to run than to walk.

Soon they came to a place where a great mass of rocks had slipped down across the path during the last heavy rain. The boys could see where the rocks had torn up bushes and trees, as they dashed down the mountain side.

The little home of a herdsman, lower down on the mountain, had been completely buried.

When the herdsman came home after the rain was over, he found his house hidden under a load of rocks and trees. Of course, the poor man thought that his wife and six little children had all been killed, but he would not give them up until he had tried to save them.

He saw that one corner of his house was not quite covered, so he dug away the stones as fast as he could. Some friends came to help him, and at last the herdsman could hear his little children crying. This made him work even faster, for he knew that they were alive.

It did not take the men long to make an opening through a broken window. There they found the mother and her six frightened children sitting close together in a corner of the room. The rest of the little house had been crushed in by the heavy rocks. In some way this one corner had been protected, and so the mother and her little family were saved.

Some kind herdsmen were giving the family a home until they could build another house on the mountain side.

Lower down on the trail the Overall Boys met the father and mother and oldest daughter of this family. They were making hay on one of the tiny mountain meadows or alps.

A narrow cart had been filled with the sweet, dry hay, and the father was about to haul it down the trail. He greeted the Overall Boys politely, saying in odd German, "Good evening, my boys. May you return again to our alp."

When their father told the boys what the man had said, Joe answered quickly, "Oh, thank you! May we come up to your alp some day and help you make your hay?"

And so it was arranged that the boys should climb up to the alpine meadow some day very soon, to help the herdsman make his hay.

They were going to spend two whole weeks by Lake Lucerne at the foot of the mountain, so they would have time to do many interesting things.

After leaving the herdsman and his family, the boys hurried on down the trail. It took them nearly three hours to reach the shore of the lake, where a steamer was waiting to carry them across the water to the city of Lucerne.

It was one of the steamers which the Overall Boys had seen from the top of Mount Rigi that very morning. Away up there it had looked no larger than a plaything, but they now found that it was quite a grown-up boat.



Shopping In Lucerne


So the Overall Boys had their first sail on lovely Lake Lucerne, the most famous lake in all the world.

The sun went down in a glory of color behind the city of Lucerne at the end of the long lake, and the great, round moon came hurrying up, eager to lend her light to this beautiful part of the world while the sun was away.

It was a wonderful evening. It was almost as wonderful as the evening before, when the boys had been up above the clouds on Mount Rigi.

To-night they were very tired after the long tramp down the mountain. They were too tired to look around much as they were driven quickly along the brightly lighted streets and up the hill to their boarding place.

But in the morning they were ready for anything. The first thing to interest them was breakfast. Jack led the way down the stairs to the large dining room, but it was empty. There was nothing to eat on any of the long tables.

"Oh, dear! We are too late," cried Joe. "I shall starve before noon. I know I shall."

"No, you won't," said Jack. "Look out there under the trees. The people are having a breakfast party."

"Oh, my!" cried Joe. "Are we going to eat out there, too? I hope so!"

"Father and mother are waiting for us over by the tall rose bushes," said Jack. "We can have a little table all to ourselves."

"Is it really a party, or is it just breakfast?" asked Joe.

"I expect it is just breakfast," said Jack. "Mother has said that people here in Switzerland eat out of doors whenever they can."

"Oh, goody! let's have our breakfast out here every morning," said Joe.

And so they did. Every morning when it did not rain, the Overall Boys had their breakfast of rolls and honey and hot chocolate on a small, round table in the rose garden.

It was lots of fun. It was almost as good as a real picnic. Each morning while they were eating, they planned what they should do during the rest of the day.

Some days they spent the forenoon visiting interesting little shops. They liked to watch the pretty Swiss girls at work on their fine embroidery. These girls, dressed in their quaint Swiss costumes, often sat on the sidewalk in front of their shops while working.

But the boys liked best the carved wood shops. Sometimes they saw boys, not much older than themselves, carving jumping-jacks and bears and queer little dwarf men out of blocks of pear wood.

Many Swiss boys learn wood carving when they are quite young, so they can earn their living in that way when they are grown up.

The Overall Boys coaxed their father to buy a fine carved bear to take home with them. The bear was as tall as Joe. He sat on his hind legs, crossing his fore paws in front of him, and he looked as if he might growl any minute.

The boys' mother said the bear should stand by the front door at home, where he could hold umbrellas for people when they came to call.

"What fun we shall have when we introduce the Sunbonnet Babies to Mr. Bear!" said Joe.

"I know a fine way to do it," said Jack. "We will stand him under the big maple tree in the back yard at home. Then, the first time Molly and May come to see us, we will take them out to meet our new playmate."

"Oh, that will be great!" shouted Joe. "I can almost hear Molly and May scream now."

*       *       *       *       *

"Let's visit the cuckoo shop," said Jack one afternoon. "And let's try to be there when the cuckoos all come out."

"Well, then, let's go now," said Joe. "It is ten minutes of five. We shall have just time to get there before the clocks begin to strike and the cuckoos begin to call for five o'clock."

So Jack and Joe hurried down the street into the old, old part of the city. They found the little shop just in time. An old man standing in the doorway invited the boys to go in, and of course they accepted.

On the walls around the small room hung many beautiful brown clocks of all sizes. They were very different from American clocks. These clocks looked like tiny Swiss houses or chalets. There was a round clock face in the front of each chalet, and two long swinging arms hanging down below. But the clocks were all saying, tick, tick, tick, tick, just as American clocks do.

"Now watch!" cried Joe. "The doors are beginning to open. Here come the cuckoos."

And sure enough, as the boys stood looking at the clocks, a little door near the top of each swung quickly open and a tiny cuckoo bird stepped out and flapped its wings.

The clocks all began striking and the cuckoos began calling just like this: -- One, cuckoo; two, cuckoo; three, cuckoo; four, cuckoo; five, cuckoo.

It was five o'clock. The cuckoo birds folded their wings and stepped quietly back into their tiny houses. The doors closed quickly in front of them and all was still once more, except for the tick, tick of the many clocks.

"We just must buy one of those cuckoo clocks to take back to America with us," said Joe.

"We must buy two of them," said Jack. "We must take one to Molly and May. They will think it is splendid."

"Let's ask father about it," said Joe. "I know he will tell us to buy one for the Sunbonnet Babies and one for Tim and Ted."

"I am going home to supper now," said Jack. "This is Saturday, and there are fireworks on the shore of the lake every Saturday evening, you know."

"Oh, so there are!" cried Joe. "I had almost forgotten about them. Let's hurry."



Saturday Evening On Lake Lucerne


Long before it was dark the Overall Boys were walking up and down the beautiful shore front, waiting for the first sky rocket. Hundreds of other people were waiting and watching, too. A band was playing and everybody was happy.

"Listen! The band is playing America!" cried Joe. "Three cheers for the red, white, and blue!"

"Wait a minute, Joe," said Jack. "Father says that is one of the national hymns of Switzerland. The music is the same as for our national hymn, America, but the words are different."

"It is fine, anyway, and I feel like shouting. -- Three cheers for Switzerland!" said Joe.

"So do I!" said Jack. "Switzerland is a Republic and has a President, just as we have in the United States, you know. Its national motto is 'All for each, and each for all.'"

"I thought it seemed more like home than any other country over here," said Joe. "I shouldn't like to live in a country which has a King instead of a President. I like Presidents."

"But just think of it, Joe, the whole of Switzerland is only one third as large as our state of New York, and the city of New York has a million more people in it than this whole country has; father said so."

"Well, even though the country is so small," said Joe, "it has twenty-two Cantons or states, and each Canton has a special flag. I am going to buy them all for my flag collection."

"Puff! puff! There goes a sky rocket!" shouted Jack. "And there goes another! The fun has begun, Joe!"

During the next hour the boys forgot all about national hymns and Presidents and flags. They were watching fire balloons sail far out over the dark lake and disappear behind tall mountains. They were watching rockets shoot high into the sky and burst into wonderful shapes -- into ships and bears and pots of flowers. They were watching the mountains glow under lovely red and blue and yellow lights. And they were imagining that they were in a fairy city, beside a fairy lake, with the wonderful mountains of Fairyland all around them.

After awhile the boys and their father got into a small boat and rowed far out on the dark fairy lake. Other boats were floating quietly about, too, each carrying a lighted Chinese lantern.

Somewhere across the water people were singing lovely Swiss songs, and all were watching the strange, fiery things in the sky above.

Mount Pilatus, which rose very high, close beside the lake, looked cold and ghostlike under the weird, blue lights.

"Would you like to hear a ghost story about Mount Pilatus, boys?" asked their father.

"Oh, of course we should! Please tell us a ghost story!" said the boys.

"Well," began their father, "you know how Pilate, the Roman governor of Galilee, allowed Jesus to be killed. It is said that Pilate was afterward driven out of Galilee, and that he came to this part of the world and drowned himself in a lake near the top of that mountain. So the mountain was named Pilatus.

"For many hundreds of years the people about here believed that Pilate's ghost came out of the lake once a year and wandered over the mountain. To protect the people from the ghost, the government of Lucerne forbade any one to go near the lake.

"Once six bold men disobeyed this law, and they were put into prison. The people still believed that Pilate's ghost lived on the mountain, and they did not want to offend it.

"It was not until fifteen hundred years after Pilate was driven from Galilee that the government of Lucerne gave permission for four men to climb the mountain and to explore the lake. As the men did not find the ghost, they decided that at last it was quiet.

"So people have been climbing the mountain ever since, and now they even have a railroad which goes away up to the little lake. How do you suppose the old ghost likes that?"

"And what do you suppose he thinks of the fire balloons that are sailing around his head to-night?" said Joe.

Suddenly somebody screamed, and then somebody else screamed. The little boats began to hurry and scurry in every direction. It looked as if all the Chinese lanterns had gone crazy.

Everybody's eyes were turned toward the sky, for up there, right above them, was a fire balloon. The fire had caught in the top of the balloon, and it was all ablaze.

Now this blazing balloon was falling straight down, down, down, toward the little boats on the lake. Of course the boats were scurrying to get out of the way, and of course the people screamed.

Each thought that the burning balloon would surely fall right into his boat, but it did not. It fell hissing and sputtering into the dark waters, right where the boats had been only a few moments before.

"Well, that was a narrow escape!" exclaimed Jack. "We can imagine now how it would seem to be in a falling flying machine. I think I don't care to try it."

Then, with many other boats, they rowed quickly back to the brightly lighted city, and the boys were soon sound asleep, resting for the next day's fun.



The Birthday Party


Now the next day was Joe's birthday, and he was to have a real Swiss party. At least, he was going with a dozen Swiss boys and their schoolmaster for a long tramp up the mountain side behind Lucerne. Jack was going, too.

The boys were hardly through breakfast on the birthday morning, when they heard the beating of a drum in the street. In a moment the high garden gate swung open, and in marched a procession of jolly boys.

The leader of the procession was the drummer boy. A great St. Bernard dog bounded along beside him.

These boys could all speak a little English, and as Jack and Joe had learned some German, they had no trouble in talking with each other, though sometimes it was hard for the St. Bernard dog to understand their language.

The Overall Boys put on their knapsacks and quickly joined the procession. The drummer boy and the schoolmaster and the dog led the way, while the other boys followed, two by two.

Swiss boys nearly always carry knapsacks or botany cans on their backs when they are tramping. They like to gather and study the wild flowers and plants that grow by the way. Of course they always carry fresh rolls and sweet chocolate in their knapsacks, too.

These boys think nothing is so good for lunch as rolls and sweet chocolate, and the Overall Boys are sure that they are right. They are also sure that no other sweet chocolate is as good as that made in Switzerland.

The Swiss schoolboys often wear soft green felt hats with bunches of mountain flowers or long feathers standing straight up behind. So the Overall Boys bought feathers for their hats, too.

In passing through the town the schoolmaster took the boys to see their famous national monument, the Lion of Lucerne.

High on a natural wall of rock they saw the figure of a great dying lion, with a broken spear in his side. At the foot of the wall there is a small, dark pond with green trees around it, making a quiet and beautiful spot.

The schoolmaster told the boys how, many years before, some brave Swiss guards had given their lives to protect the palace of the French King, Louis XVI, in his beautiful city of Paris.

He told them how this national monument had later been made by a great artist in memory of the soldiers who were as brave as lions, and who were not afraid to die at their post.

After leaving the lion, the boys marched down the steep, crooked streets toward the river. Mount Pilatus rose high in front of them, a soft, white cloud above his head.

"We are sure of fine weather to-day, boys," said the master. "Pilatus is wearing his hood.

'If Pilatus wears his hood, Then the weather's always good.'"

"He is celebrating my birthday," said Joe. "Of course the weather must be good to-day."

As the boys tramped on they passed a number of small milk carts bringing barrels of fresh, rich milk into the city. The milk had been sent down from the high mountain pastures, where the cattle spend the summer months.

Each milk cart was drawn by two strong dogs and a man. The dogs seemed very proud of their work. They knew every house where they must stop to leave the morning's milk.

In a few minutes the party was crossing a queer, crooked bridge over the river. It is called the Chapel Bridge. On its roof and walls there are more than one hundred and fifty pictures, which were painted a long, long time ago.

Right beside the bridge, standing in the river, is a very old stone tower. The schoolmaster said that this tower was probably once used as a lighthouse.

The Overall Boys were very much interested in the quaint old covered bridge, but they were even more interested in some beautiful white swans swimming in the water below it.

"The swans are hunting for their breakfast," said Joe. "I am going to give them one of my nice rolls."

Then Joe ran quickly through the bridge and down to the edge of the river. He took one of the fresh, long rolls from his knapsack and broke it into small bits, which he threw into the water.

In a moment the lovely white swans were sailing swiftly toward him. They bowed their long, graceful necks in many a pretty "Thank you" for the generous breakfast.

At last the procession tramped out through a low gate under a large watch tower on the old city wall. Soon they were climbing up through the beautiful woods on the mountain side.

They found many interesting plants and flowers to study, and they were glad of the sweet chocolate and rolls in their knapsacks.

But the real fun came when they reached the restaurant high on the mountain. One of the boys kept Joe out of sight while the others helped arrange a table for the birthday dinner.

It was a large, round table, and it stood out of doors on a high terrace, where they could look far down upon the little city of Lucerne, and upon the beautiful lake surrounded by the great mountains.

The boys took from their knapsacks a number of small packages, which they had kept a secret from Joe.

"Let's arrange all of our presents around Joe's plate," said Jack. "And let's put a bunch of alpine roses in the center of the table."

In a few moments a procession of carved wooden bears and queer little dwarf men were marching around Joe's plate, while on the plate were piled the other presents.

There was a handsome jackknife; a pocket book containing a silver franc piece, which is the same as twenty cents; a tiny Swiss chalet with a real music box inside of it; and best of all, a beautiful little Swiss watch, -- one which would keep perfect time, -- besides cakes and cakes of delicious sweet chocolate.

When everything was ready, the boys stood behind their chairs around the table and sang a birthday song, while Joe was led back to the terrace by his little Swiss friend.

Poor Joe! He was so surprised and so happy he did not know what to do or what to say, but he really said the very nicest thing: "Thank you, thank you, everybody! Oh, ich danke euch allen!" Then he sat down quickly in his chair and began looking at his many presents.

But he could not look at his presents long, for he had to think about the delicious birthday dinner that was being served. There was everything that hungry boys could wish for, from real chicken to ice cream and cake. And there was a box of chocolate candy for each boy to take home with him.

A Swiss band played lovely music all the while they were eating, and the schoolmaster told them wonderful stories about his life on the high Alps when he was a little boy.

The boys ate so long, and they ate so much, the schoolmaster finally told them that they must stop soon or they would not be able to tramp back down the mountain.

There was no need to be anxious, however, for they all tramped down better than they had tramped up.

Joe did not complain once because of the extra weight in his knapsack. It had been the finest birthday that he had ever known.



William Tell And His Little Son


Early next morning the Overall Boys and their parents went aboard a small steamer which would carry them to the other end of the long, narrow lake of Lucerne.

They hurried quickly to the front upper deck, for they had long ago learned that this was the best place for sightseeing; and they knew that during the next few hours they would see some of the loveliest scenery in the whole world.

"I believe this will be the finest trip we have had yet," said Joe.

"I know it will be the finest one!" exclaimed Jack. "I should rather see the spot where William Tell shot the apple from his little boy's head, than any other spot in Switzerland."

"Oh, I shouldn't!" said Joe. "I should rather climb one of those great mountains all covered with snow, and take a walk on a real glacier."

"Well, some day perhaps we can do that, too," said Jack. "But I don't want to do it to-day. I want to hear the story which father is going to tell us, about how William Tell and his little boy helped to make Switzerland a free country."

"Oh, yes, father! Do tell us the story while we are sailing up the very lake where a part of it happened," said Joe.

"All right," said their father. "This is the story:

"More than six hundred years ago the people of Switzerland did not govern themselves, as they do now. A part of the people were governed by the King of Austria. Austria is a large country northeast of Switzerland, you know.

"Now the King of Austria could not live here and govern the people himself, so he sent one of his men to be their Governor. The name of the last Governor was Gessler.

"This man Gessler was a very proud and cruel Governor. He made the people do many things which they did not think were right.

"One of the strange things which Gessler did was to have a hat placed on a tall pole in the marketplace of the little village of Altdorf. He then commanded every one who passed through the marketplace to bow before the hat, just as if the King of Austria were sitting there.

"A watchman stood near by to take the names of any who did not obey the command.

"Of course the people were much excited, but they did not dare to disobey the Governor. At least no one dared to do so until, one day, William Tell came to the marketplace. He was a proud and brave man. He thought it was foolish to bow to a hat on a pole, so he walked straight by it without bowing.

"When Gessler heard what William Tell had done, he was very angry. As a punishment, he commanded Tell to shoot an apple placed on the head of his favorite son, Walter. If the arrow went through the apple, Tell's life was to be spared. But if he missed the mark, he and his little boy were to die.

"Gessler knew that William Tell could shoot an arrow straighter than any other man in the country, but he thought that his courage would fail, with his own little boy standing just under the mark. And it almost did fail. But Walter called, 'Shoot, father! I am not afraid! I will stand very still!'

"So Tell placed an arrow in his crossbow and another one in his belt. Gessler stood the boy under a tree some distance away, and placed an apple on his head. He then commanded Tell to shoot.

"In a moment Tell's arrow had gone straight through the center of the apple.

"The people, who were watching, shouted for joy, because the lives of William Tell and his brave little son were saved. Even Gessler was forced to praise Tell for his wonderful skill.

"'But,' said Gessler, 'you must tell me why you put the second arrow in your belt.'

"Tell did not wish to answer this question, but Gessler promised he should not lose his life.

"'Well, sir,' answered Tell, 'as you have promised to spare my life, I will tell you the truth. If I had missed the apple and shot my boy, the second arrow should have gone through your heart.'

"'Ah!' said Gessler. 'I have promised to spare your life, but you shall be put where you will never again see the sun nor the moon. Then I shall be safe from your swift arrows.'

"So William Tell was quickly bound with ropes and taken to the boat on which Gessler was to cross the lake in returning to his castle.

"While they were on the water a terrible storm came up. It seemed as if they would all be drowned. The boatmen begged Gessler to take the ropes from their prisoner, so that he might help them bring the boat ashore.

"So Gessler commanded that Tell be untied and that he guide them to safety.

"Tell had been on this lake in storms many times before, and he knew where the few safe landing places were. He knew there was a large flat rock, close under the steep shore, on to which one could easily spring from a boat, so he skillfully steered in its direction.

"When a great wave swung the tossing boat quite close to the flat rock, Tell seized his crossbow and sprang out. As he sprang, he gave the boat a strong push with his foot, back into the rough water again.

"Brave Tell was free. He climbed quickly through the woods and up the steep mountain side. At last he came to the path Gessler would have to take in returning to his castle, if he were not drowned on the stormy lake.

"Here Tell waited and thought. He was waiting to see if Gessler would come, and he was thinking about the brave people who were being so cruelly treated by their Austrian Governor. He was willing, if necessary, to give his life to bring freedom to his country.

"At last Gessler and his men came hurrying up the path toward the castle. They had escaped the storm.

"As Tell stood hidden behind some bushes near the path he saw Gessler refuse to help a poor woman and her little children. The woman had come to beg the Governor to release her husband, who had been unjustly put into prison. Gessler would not listen to her, and the unhappy woman went away weeping.

"Tell was now sure that it was his duty to save his people from their suffering. So he let fly a swift arrow from his bow and it hit the mark, as his arrows always did.

"That was the last of Austrian Governors for Switzerland. The people have been free and have governed themselves ever since, and that, you know, is more than six hundred years," said the boys' father.

"Isn't it wonderful to be as brave as William Tell was!" said Jack after a moment.

"And isn't it wonderful to be as brave as Walter was!" said Joe. "I wonder if I could be as brave as that!"



A Visit To Tell's Country


While the boys were listening to this interesting story, the steamer was carrying them slowly up the beautiful lake toward the very places where it all happened.

At last they came to a narrow part of the lake where the mountains rose steep and high on both sides.

"Look, boys!" said their father. "Do you see the little chapel just ahead of us, on the left? It is called Tell's Chapel, because it is built on the flat rock on to which Tell sprang from Gessler's boat that stormy day. On the walls inside of the chapel an artist has painted four large pictures showing the whole story of William Tell."

"Oh, father, please let us go ashore here," said Jack. "I want to look at those pictures."

"And I want to climb up into the dark woods behind the chapel," said Joe.

"All right," said their father. "How would you like to walk the rest of the way to the end of the lake? It is only two or three miles. I am sure you never have walked over so beautiful a road as this one."

"Oh, do let us walk!" shouted Joe. "It will be lots more fun than sitting still here on the steamer."

So they went ashore right near the little chapel. First, they looked at the pictures that told the story of Tell and Gessler, on the walls inside of the chapel. Then they followed a steep, narrow path that led up the mountain side through the dark woods. This path soon brought them to a pretty garden restaurant.

Of course they were all very thirsty, so they sat around a small table under the great trees and drank raspberry lemonade, which was served to them in very tall glasses. Raspberry lemonade, as it is made in Switzerland, is much nicer than plain lemonade, at least so the Overall Boys thought.

A few minutes later they began their tramp over one of the most beautiful roads in the world. It is called the Axenstrasse, because it is built along the side of the steep mountain called the Axenberg.

A part of the way the mountain is so steep the road could not be built on the outside of it, so a tunnel has been cut right through the rocky side. Here and there the outer wall of rock has been cut away, making great arches through which people can look out over the beautiful lake to the high mountains beyond.

The famous St. Gotthard railroad is also built along this mountain side. In some places the trains glide along the steep mountain almost straight above the deep lake, and in other places they pass through long, dark tunnels.

The carriage road over which the Overall Boys were tramping was as smooth and level as a floor. Many automobiles flew past the happy walking party, but the boys did not envy the people who were riding in them. They could see and enjoy everything, while those who had to ride missed a great deal.

They passed through two or three small villages, where the narrow balconies on the pretty chalets were all covered with beautiful climbing roses.

In the center of a fountain, in one of the small flower gardens, the boys saw the figure of a queer little dwarf with a large, red umbrella over his head.

"Oh, Jack, see that little man standing in the fountain!" cried Joe. "He looks like the good dwarfs we read about in fairy tales. See what a small body he has, and what a large head!"

"And do look at his long beard and his high, pointed cap!" said Jack. "How proud he is of his big, red umbrella! He stands in the center of the fountain with the water falling all around, but not a drop falls on him."

"Isn't he a jolly old fellow! I suppose he brings good luck to the people who own that garden," said Joe. "In fairy tales the mountain dwarfs always bring good luck, if they are treated kindly."

"Well, this old fellow looks as if he were enjoying his lovely garden home," said Jack.

At last the trampers came to a small town where there was a high coach drawn by four horses waiting to carry people two miles up the valley, to the village of Altdorf.

Travelers usually go to Altdorf by train now, but the Overall Boys chose to ride on top of the high coach.

It was a beautiful drive, and everybody was happy and hungry when the coach drew up to a small hotel in the famous little village.

Supper was served in the hotel garden, then the boys went to bed to dream of William Tell and his brave son, Walter, who had once walked the streets of this very village.

Quite early next morning, two eager little boys were standing in the old marketplace They were looking at the tall bronze monument of William Tell and his little son.

"Think of it!" said Joe. "William Tell stood on this very spot when he shot the apple from Walter's head."

"Yes," said Jack. "And Walter stood away back there, where the fountain now is."

"My! I know I should have trembled, if I had been in Walter's place," said Joe.

"I am sure Walter did not tremble. See how brave and happy he looks, as he stands up there with his father's hand on his shoulder. He was proud to help save his father's life. He was even willing to die to save him. Why, I should be willing to do as much for my father, if he were in trouble," said Jack.

"So should I!" cried Joe. "No one shall ever hurt father or mother, if I can help it!"

"Well, that sounds good," said their father, who came up behind the boys just in time to hear what they were talking about. "I shall not be afraid to serve my country, so long as I have boys as brave as Walter Tell."

"Oh, father, did this all really happen, or is it just a story?" asked Jack.

"Well," said their father, "a few wise men are telling us that it is only a legend, but many of the Swiss people believe that it is every bit true. They are proud to have had such heroes as William Tell and his little boy."

"Of course they are," said Joe. "I am going to believe that it is true. Why, William Tell did almost as much for his country as George Washington did for ours. I think that he ought to be called the 'Father of his Country,' the same as Washington is."

"So do I," said their father. "But let me tell you something now. I have a surprise for you. The people of the village are going to play the story of William Tell to-day in their little open-air theater on the edge of the woods.

"The king's hat will be there on a pole in the center of the busy marketplace, and all the people will bow low to it -- all except William Tell and his little son, who will march proudly by it. Then, of course, Tell will have to shoot the apple from his little boy's head, and he will be taken across the stormy lake in Gessler's boat, and then he will spring out upon the rocky shore, and escape into the woods. Gessler and his men will climb up the mountain path toward the castle; the poor woman will beg Gessler to release her husband from prison -- and all the rest of the story will be played. Would you like to see it?"

"Oh, of course we should!" exclaimed the boys. "We should rather see it than anything else we can think of."

And when they had seen it, they wanted to see it all right over again.



Over And Through The Mountains


Slowly, slowly up the mountain crept the long train. It was carrying the Overall Boys far away from lovely Lake Lucerne. It was taking them over the wonderful Bruenig Pass. It was carrying them even more slowly down, down the steep slope on the other side toward the head of the deep valley, where lay the pretty Swiss village of Meiringen.

As the boys stood by the car window they could see the long line of track far below them. Sometimes when their train passed a sharp curve, they could even see the engine at one end of the train and the last car at the other end.

They glided over high bridges above torrents of water which dashed down the mountain to join the blue lake in the valley below.

It was wonderful -- the mountains, the torrents, the lakes, and the strong train which carried them over everything! It was all so wonderful, the boys had no words to express their delight. For the first time on their long journey they were almost silent.

Once in a while one of the boys would cry: "Look at that great waterfall!" or "See the precipice right below us!" or "Watch us cross that high bridge!"

It was much more exciting than the ride in the thunder storm up Mount Rigi, but at last even this ride came to an end.

Yes, the wonderful ride over the Bruenig Pass ended at Meiringen, but the more wonderful tramp over the Great Scheidegg Pass was to begin at Meiringen, and the boys were to have other strange experiences down in the deep, green valley. The most exciting of them all came the very next morning.

There was an early breakfast eaten in the pretty garden of the hotel, then their father said:

"Now for the fun! Yesterday we went over a mountain. To-day we shall go through one."

"Are we going through a tunnel?" cried Joe.

"No, indeed!" said their father. "At least it is not a tunnel made by men. Come and see what you think of it."

They were soon tramping along the village street toward the high mountain at the head of the narrow valley. A swift river hurried past them to join the lake at the other end of the valley. It was the river Aar.

The boys saw where the river had overflowed its banks in the springtime, when the snows melted and the heavy rains came. They were told that the bridges were often washed away, and that sometimes great masses of rocks came tearing down the mountain side, right into the little village, crushing and burying everything in their path.

The party quickly left the village far behind them, and each step brought them nearer to the high mountain wall close ahead.

"How shall we get over that mountain, father?" asked Joe. "Shall we have to climb to the top?"

"No, Joe," said his father. "We shall do no climbing to-day. I believe we can go through it, if this swift river can."

"Of course we can!" shouted Jack. "Let's follow the river."

So they followed a footpath along the banks of the noisy river. Soon the banks began to grow high and steep. At last they rose straight up on both sides, until the boys could see only a narrow strip of blue sky far above them.

"The mountain has cracked open!" shouted Joe. "We are in the crack!"

"So we are!" cried Jack. "I believe the river did it. See it come tearing along!"

"Look ahead of us!" said Joe. "There isn't room even for a path. A board walk has been fastened with iron rods to the wall. It hangs right over the rushing water. What if it should break while we are on it! I am not sure that I want to go any farther."

"Come, now, don't be a coward, Joe," said his father. "The Swiss government builds these paths, and they are built strong. We are safe."

So on they tramped through the great crack in the mountain. In some places the path hung high over the swift waters. In other places it was tunneled through the dark rocks. But always it followed the deep, narrow crack, with the noisy river at its bottom and a bit of blue sky far, far above.

For nearly a mile the boys followed this path. In many places the river was so noisy they had to shout to make each other hear. But at last they came out on the other side of the mountain.

They had not climbed the mountain, and they had not gone around it. They had gone through it. And more wonderful still, the great river Aar has been carrying its waters through the mountain for ages and ages.

Close beside the river, at the end of the path, was a tiny shop kept by a little old woman and her granddaughter.

The little girl served the boys to raspberry lemonade, and she sold them picture post cards showing the strange path over which they had just come.

Then back they went into the mountain crack -- over the footpath hanging high above the rushing water, and through the small, dark tunnels, until once more they were in the lovely green valley of Meiringen.



Real Trampers


Next morning the boys were up with the sun, for there was a long journey ahead of them. It was not to be a journey by train nor by boat. It was to be a journey on foot.

The party was to follow a trail over the high mountain range which shuts in the deep valley of the river Aar on the south. The trail would lead them over the Great Scheidegg Pass and down into the beautiful valleys on the other side.

They were going to spend at least a week on the way. There would be so many interesting things to see and to do, they would not want to hurry.

The boys carried knapsacks on their backs, in which they put the few things they would need while crossing the mountains. They were real trampers at last.

The first part of the trail was very steep. The little party climbed up and up, until the village, far below them, looked very small indeed.

After awhile they heard a strange rumbling noise, which grew louder and louder the higher they climbed. Soon it became a roar, and right above their path they saw a tremendous waterfall tumbling down over the steep mountain side. It fairly made the rocks tremble, it fell with such force, and the air was filled with a fine, wet spray.

The boys sprang up the path close beside the great waterfall. When they reached the top of it they were a very wet but a very jolly party.

"Well, that's the most fun we have had yet!" shouted Joe. "I should like to do it right over again."

"I shouldn't," said a little girl who was standing near by. "I have to come up here every few days. I don't like to get so wet."

"Why do you come up so often?" asked Jack.

"I go down to the village to buy bread for mother. I live up here. That is our chalet up there by the brook. My name is Gretel."

"Do you go down to the village to school, too?" asked Joe.

"Yes," answered the little girl. "But this is vacation time now. I often take another path when I go to school. Sometimes I ride home on that big car, which helps me up the mountain as far as the waterfall."

"Do you go to school all winter?" asked Jack.

"Oh, yes! except when the snow is so deep I just can't get there. All of us girls and boys have to go to school forty weeks every year. I am glad we do. I like to go to school."

"Please let us carry that basket of bread for you," said Jack. "I think our path goes right by your house."

So the children walked on up the path together, and Gretel told the boys many interesting things about her life on the mountain alp.

"I always thought a Swiss alp was a high mountain peak," said Joe.

"Oh, no! An alp is a lovely mountain meadow," said Gretel. "See what a fine great alp ours is. This is one of the low alps. Father raises lots of hay here to feed the cows during the long winter."

"Where are your cows now?" asked Jack.

"They are feeding farther up on the higher alps," said Gretel. "Father takes them up early every summer, and they don't come down until fall."

"Do you think we shall see them on our way over the mountains?" asked Joe.

"Yes, I am sure you will," said Gretel. "Your path goes right across the alp where father's little cabin is. My two brothers, Franz and Sep, are up there with father now. They take care of the goats, and help to milk the cows and make the cheese. I wish I were up there, too!"

"Why can't you go up with us?" asked Jack. "You could surprise your father and brothers."

"Oh, I should love to go!" cried Gretel. "I could stay with them in their little cabin for a few days, then Franz would bring me home, I know he would. I will ask mother if I may go. See, this is our chalet."

It was a pretty, brown chalet. The broad, low roof was covered with many large stones to keep it from being blown away during the great winter storms.

But now it was the lovely summer time, and Gretel's mother had set two small tables just outside her front door. She always had something good to serve to hungry trampers To-day there was a big bowl of delicious wild strawberries on each of the tables.

Of course the Overall Boys were suddenly very hungry. And how they enjoyed the bread and butter and wild strawberries and cream which Gretel's mother served to them!

After the tea party was over, Gretel showed them the lace which she was making. There were yards and yards of it. The boys thought it was wonderful to see Gretel move the bobbins of thread so quickly over the big pillow, and never make mistakes in the pattern.

"I have been making lace ever since I was five years old," said Gretel. "I sell enough lace every summer to pay for all of my clothes."

"Oh, Gretel, will you sell some to us?" asked Joe. "We don't wear lace ourselves, but the Sunbonnet Babies do. They would love to wear some of your lace."

"And I should love to have them wear it. Of course I will sell you some," said Gretel.

Then the boys chose some of the very prettiest lace Gretel had made, and bought it for the Sunbonnet Babies.

"Now I want to show you where my bees live," said Gretel. And she led the boys up the hill behind her house where, under some great trees, was a row of tiny chalets.

"This is my bee village," she said. "Each bee family has a little chalet of its own. The bees fly all over our alp, gathering nectar from the flowers. Sometimes they fly very far away, hunting for more flowers, but they always come back again, bringing their baskets full of nectar.

"They work so hard, they fill their little houses brim full of honey every summer. I am sure we couldn't live without our bees. Some summers they earn more money than father can."

"There must be millions of bees in Switzerland to make so much honey," said Jack. "I believe every family here eats honey for breakfast. In America we eat cereal. I think honey is much nicer."



On The Trail


"Come, boys!" called their father. "It is time to go on. Gretel's mother says she may go with us as far as her father's cabin. We shall give Franz and Sep a fine surprise."

"Oh, goody!" cried Gretel. "I haven't seen Franz and Sep since they took the cows up the mountain in the spring."

"Tell us about it, Gretel," said Jack. "What happens when the cows go up the mountain?"

"Why, that is the jolliest day of the whole year," said Gretel, "except, perhaps, the day when they all come home in the fall.

"Father ties big bells around the necks of the prettiest cows, and mother and I trim their horns with flowers. Then the procession begins. This year Sep led the procession with his seven little goats. He was the proudest boy that ever went up the mountain.

"The cows know what it means when the bells are tied to their necks. The summer on the alps is a long picnic for them. Mother and I go up a little way with the procession. Other families take their cows up the mountain the same day, and we sing and have a jolly time."

"Do you send all of your cows up to the higher alps in the spring?" asked Jack. "Where did you get the delicious cream that your mother gave us to-day?"

"We keep one cow at home to give us milk and cream during the summer," said Gretel. "I am always sorry for the poor cow that is left behind, she is so lonesome. We have to tie her very carefully, or she runs away. She keeps going until she finds her friends 'way up the mountain. Then, of course, father or one of the boys must bring her down again."

"Oh, Gretel, when your brothers see you coming they will think you have run away because you are so lonesome without them," said Joe, laughing.

"Well, they must keep me a week before they take me home, or I shall run away again," said Gretel. "I am lonesome without them."

And so they talked, as they tramped along together up the mountain trail. Once they met a man with a large milk can on his back. The man greeted the party with a friendly, "Guten Tag! Glueckliche Reise!" This was his way of saying, "Good day! A happy journey!" So the boys quickly answered, "Danke schoen!" which means, "Thank you kindly!"

Every day this man carried his can full of milk down the mountain to sell to the people who had no cows. He always greeted the strangers whom he passed on the way, and wished them a happy journey.

On and on, and up and up the little party tramped. At last they began to see snowbanks, in shaded places near the trail. Sometimes, just below a large snowbank, they found a sunny spot covered with a carpet of lovely summer flowers. There were violets and buttercups and daisies and forget-me-nots, and low bushes of small red alpine roses.

These little wild gardens were watered all summer by the melting snows. The gay flowers seemed to like the icy water at their roots.

The Overall Boys often stopped for a snowball battle with each other and with Gretel. Then from some mountain garden, they picked fresh flowers for their hats, and on they tramped.

Their trail led them below a large glacier, which lay between two high mountain peaks not far away. The boys could hear the great ice river twisting and turning in its bed, for the hot summer sun made it very uncomfortable.

Once there came a loud boom, like a cannon. The boom was followed by a crash, and the crash by a long, loud rumbling noise, which gradually died away.

"Oh, Gretel, what was that?" cried Joe. "I believe it was an earthquake."

"Oh, no! That was not an earthquake," said Gretel, laughing. "That was a piece of the glacier breaking off. It must have had a long fall before it found a place where it could stop."

"I am glad it couldn't fall in this direction," said Jack. "I thought I wanted to take a walk on a glacier, but I am not so sure about it now."

"Oh, yes, you must!" said Gretel. "It is lots of fun. I have been up to that glacier twice with father. There are great cracks in it, so deep you can hardly see the bottom of them. It is perfectly safe to go with father. He often takes Americans up there."

"Well, I think I should rather take a walk on some other glacier. I am afraid this one is going to pieces," said Joe.

"No, it isn't!" said Gretel, laughing at Joe again. "The glacier melts and moves a little every summer, but a great deal of fresh snow falls on it every winter. I guess it will last as long as the mountains do."



The Herdsman's Cabin


It was late afternoon before the trampers reached the green alp where Gretel's father and brothers were pasturing their cows.

It was milking time. Franz and his father were milking the big, brown cows near the cabin. Sep was milking his goats. The pigs were eating their supper of skimmed milk, and Barry, the dog, was keeping his eye on them all.

It was Barry who first saw the trampers, and away he bounded to meet them. His bark was very fierce until Gretel called him by name, then he almost wagged his tail off, he was so glad to see her. He was even glad to see the strangers, because they had brought Gretel with them.

Franz and Sep and their father were just as happy as Barry to see their little Gretel and her strange friends from America.

Soon they were all eating supper together, sitting around a rough table in the small cabin. It was a simple supper, but the hungry boys thought they never had eaten a nicer one. There was a long loaf of bread, and a great round cheese with holes all through it, and a dish of wild strawberries, and a pitcher of warm milk.

While they were eating, they suddenly heard the clear, sweet notes of a horn. The sound came from the high mountain above the cabin. In a moment the same notes came more softly from the mountain on the other side of the alp, and again still more softly they came.

"What is that?" cried Joe.

"It is my neighbor, who pastures his cows on the alp above us," said Gretel's father. "He is blowing his great horn to tell us that the sun is just setting behind that snow-covered peak. I must answer him, so he may know that all is well with us."

Then the herdsman took his great horn, which was taller than himself, and went out in front of his cabin. He blew a few long, clear notes, which meant, he said, "Praise ye the Lord." Again and again the same notes came back in echo from the mountain walls, each time more softly.

The snow-covered peaks were no longer white, but glowing red from the rays of the setting sun. Then darkness came on very quickly.

The tired travelers were glad to find a small inn on the alp where they could spend the night. Of course Gretel stayed with her father and brothers in their little cabin.

There were only two rooms in the cabin. The larger room belonged to the cows. They came in here to be milked in stormy weather. In the other room the family cooked and ate and made their cheeses. Their bedroom was a low balcony over one end of this room, and they reached it by climbing up a short ladder.

Next morning the boys were wakened early by Sep calling to them outside of their window.

"Oh, Jack and Joe," he called, "come with me. I have to take my goats up the mountain to their pasture. There is something fine up there that I want to show you."

So Jack and Joe went with Sep and his goats up the rocky mountain side. It was a hard climb, but it was fun.

The little goats could climb anywhere. They went into dangerous places where the cows could not go, and they found many tender bits of grass to eat.

When the boys had climbed very high, Sep crept carefully out on a narrow shelf of rock. He lay face downward and reached far over the edge. The mountain side was very steep below him.

"Watch me, boys!" he cried. "But don't you come too near."

Then, very carefully, he picked a small, furry, white flower which was growing on the steep, rocky wall. He picked another and another of the flowers, until his hand was full of them.

"There now!" he cried. "You know my secret. I have shown you where my edelweiss grows. It grows only in the most dangerous places on the high mountains. I pick a few of the flowers every day, when they are in bloom, to sell to travelers who cross our alp, but you are the only people I have ever brought up here to see them growing."

"Oh, thank you, Sep!" cried Jack. "We'll never, never tell your secret. But please let us pick a few of the flowers ourselves."

So each of the boys carried down the mountain a handful of the proud little flowers which they had picked themselves.

The Overall Boys were real mountain climbers at last, for only mountain climbers ever find and pick the edelweiss.

When the boys reached the cabin, Sep's father was watching a great kettle of milk, over an open fire. He had put more than a hundred quarts of milk into the copper kettle, with a little rennet to make it turn into curd.

Herdsmen make their rennet by soaking a calf's stomach in water or in whey; they then save this liquid to use in making their cheeses.

Sep's father stirred and watched the milk in his great copper kettle until the curd began to form. He then swung the kettle away from the fire, and put both bare arms into the warm milk. He worked the cheese into one large lump, and lifted it out on a great tray, where he worked it still more to squeeze out the milk.

It was then put into a round, wooden press a few days. Each day the press was opened and the cheese rubbed with salt.

When it was just right, it would be taken out and laid on a shelf in the small cheese house, where all the cheeses were kept until they could be carried down the mountain and sold. But they were not really good to eat until they were at least six months old.

Sep's father made one of these cheeses every day, and he made cheeses from his goats' milk, too. He and his boys lived a busy life on the mountain. They had no time to be lonesome.

The Overall Boys told Franz and Sep how they often had Swiss cheese for dinner in America. They said when they got home again they should certainly tell their grocer just how his big Swiss cheeses were made.



A Summer Blizzard


The travelers spent two happy days with their friends in the herdsman's cabin. They would like to have spent the rest of the summer with them. Jack and Joe would like to have learned how to milk the goats and how to blow the great alpine horn.

But there were many other things which they wanted to do and to see in this wonderful little country of Switzerland, so they shouldered their knapsacks and started once more on the trail.

The way soon became steep and rocky. Gray clouds hid the snow-covered peaks. The wind blew cold, and the boys were glad of the hard climb to keep themselves warm.

They crossed one or two small alps where cows were feeding, and they stopped at a tiny cabin to ask for a drink of milk.

In the cabin they found a small boy, who was watching a large kettle of milk over an open fire. The boy said that his father had gone up the mountain to hunt for a lost cow, so he was making cheese from his goats' milk.

The Overall Boys were quite sure that they would be lonesome, if they had to stay away up there all alone. But this little boy whistled and sang and talked with his goats, calling them each by name. They really were having a jolly time together.

After the good drink of milk the travelers tramped on and up, while the gray clouds dropped lower and the wind grew colder. Soon fine white flakes began to frisk through the air and to dance on the boys' cheeks.

"Oh, Jack," called Joe, "it is snowing!"

"So it is!" shouted Jack. "It's snowing! It's really snowing, and it's summer time! Hurrah!"

The white flakes fell faster and thicker. In a few moments they were falling so fast and so thick the trampers could see only a short way ahead of them. It was hard climbing now. The path was steep and slippery. The boys had to stop often to get their breath, and their knapsacks suddenly grew very heavy.

"I suppose it is because we are up so high," said Jack. "The air is so thin up here we can't get enough of it to breathe. It is always like that on the high mountains, they say."

"I don't care," said Joe. "We are in a snow blizzard, anyhow. Just think of it!"

"I shouldn't care to lose our path," said Jack. "I guess it wouldn't be a very happy night for us if we did."

"Oh, Jack, I have lost the path already! I can hardly see you. My! How it snows! Where are father and mother?"

"Here we are!" shouted their father. "I think we are near the top of the Pass. I hear a dog barking. There is a house up at the top, where we can stay all night. Keep climbing, boys!"

Just then a great dog came bounding down the mountain toward them. He gave a short, quick bark, turned about and led the party safely up to the small hotel. Then away he bounded again to find other travelers, who might be lost in the snow and who needed his help. He was a St. Bernard dog, and he had saved the lives of many people on the high mountains.

It was a tired party that spent the night in the little hotel at the top of the Great Scheidegg Pass, but when morning came they were ready for another battle with the snow.

Of course the trail was covered, and the snow was too soft and too deep for them to tramp over it without snowshoes. The little party was snow-bound on the mountains in midsummer.

But the Overall Boys liked being snow-bound. They built a fine snow fort, with snow soldiers in it, and piles of snow cannon balls to keep enemies away from the little hotel.

The St. Bernard dog had a jolly time, too. Once he jumped against one of the snow soldiers, and over they went together. After that he seemed to be afraid of the soldiers and would not go near the fort, but ran around it, barking loudly.

Next morning the boys were out early to take a look at things.

"Oh, Jack," shouted Joe, "it froze in the night! There is a hard crust over everything!"

"So there is!" said Jack. "We don't need snowshoes now. We can go down the mountain on the crust."

And that is what they did. With the St. Bernard dog to show them the way, the party hurried down over the snow before the warm sun had time to soften the crust.

As they went lower, the snow rapidly grew less. Soon the boys saw lovely bluebells and alpine roses and other flowers holding their heads bravely up through the thin, white blanket.

A few moments later their own trail came in sight. It was no longer hidden by the snow. The St. Bernard dog gave a loud bark, wagged his tail, and bounded back up the mountain. His work for that party was done.



Exploring A Glacier


The rest of the way down the mountain was easy tramping.

The path soon led by the end of the great Upper Wetterhorn Glacier, and the Overall Boys begged their father to let them explore it.

"All right," said their father. "Just step into this small car and we will go on an exploring trip."

Before the boys knew what was happening, the tiny square car rose from the ground and began moving slowly upward, following the steep slope of the mountain.

"Oh, Jack, where are we going?" cried Joe. "This car is built bottom side up. The wheels are on the top of it, instead of on the bottom."

"That's so!" exclaimed Jack. "We are hanging in the air on a cable. It is lifting us right up the mountain side. And look away up there! Another car just like this one is coming down. My! Do you suppose we shall go as high as that?"

"I hope so," said Joe. "But see what is below us. It is the glacier! Look at the great cracks in it. Do you hear that noise, Jack? It sounds like thunder."

"I guess it is only another crack bursting open," said Jack. "This hot sun makes the glacier move faster, and so it cracks open."

Up, up, climbed the car, right over the glacier, until it came to a wild goat's path on a narrow shelf of the mountain, more than twelve hundred feet above the starting point.

Here it slipped into a small station, and everybody stepped out. Other people took their places, and then the car moved slowly downward, leaving the boys on the steep mountain side.

"My! That was great!" cried Jack. "Now what are we going to do?"

"We are going to walk across the glacier, aren't we, father?" said Joe.

"Of course we are. We have come up here to explore it, you know," said their father.

And they did explore 'way across the great ice river. In many places they had to walk very carefully, or they would have fallen into one of the deep cracks, but at last they came safely to the other side. There was no car on this side of the glacier to carry them down the mountain, but there were long ladders to help them over the very hardest and steepest places.

They had to climb over great ridges of rocks, which the glacier had torn away from the higher mountains years and years before. These rocks had been brought slowly down on the ice, and dropped along the sides and end of the glacier.

At last the party came to the place where the sun and the warm winds changed the glacier from a river of ice to a river of water.

"Well, boys," said their father, "we have had a look at the outside of the glacier; now let us take a look at the inside of it." So a man threw warm blankets over their shoulders, and they entered a long, narrow passage through a hole in the ice wall.

This passage led into a beautiful, blue ice room. The floor was ice, the walls were ice, and the ceiling was ice. There was no lamp in the room, and yet it was not dark.

"Isn't it beautiful!" cried Joe. "Think of it, we are in the center of a great ice river. There is nothing but ice all around us."

"I know it," said Jack. "I am sure the glaciers are the most wonderful things in Switzerland, but I have stayed inside of this one as long as I want to. I should rather be tramping."



Auf Wiedersehen


And so they tramped on. They spent several days in the lovely village of Grindelwald. They explored glaciers. They saw waterfalls nearly a thousand feet high. They played games with the village boys and girls.

They even went almost to the top of the great Jungfrau mountain, over its wonderful railroad. The highest part of this railroad is built through a tunnel, for the surface of the mountain is covered always with snow and ice.

The train carried them nearly twelve thousand feet above the ocean. They were twice as high up as they were on the top of Mount Rigi. There were miles and miles of snow and ice all around them, and great banks of snow-white clouds in the blue sky close above.

They could see many high peaks covered with snow fields and glaciers, and lower mountains covered with green forests and alpine pastures. They had glimpses into deep, narrow valleys with muddy rivers rushing through them. Here and there were big, broad valleys dotted with villages and farms, and beautiful blue lakes, while the busy railroad trains looked like worms creeping over the hills and down the valleys. It was a wonderful view.

The Overall Boys learned more about the geography of Switzerland in a few minutes from this high mountain than they had learned during all the days of travel lower down. They never will forget what they saw while there.

But the vacation days were over at last. The boys had visited only a small part of the wonderful little country, but they had seen enough of it to make them want to spend another summer vacation in just the same way. They are sure that Switzerland is the very finest playground in the whole world, and a great many other people think so, too.

As the train hurried them far away from the high, snow-covered mountains, the boys stood by the car windows, watching and enjoying everything.

They passed ripe grain fields, in which wild scarlet poppies and tall bluebells were growing.

Close by these wild-flower gardens there was often a row of tiny chalets, where swarms of bees lived and made their delicious honey.

The train passed also through many villages of larger chalets, with broad red roofs and vine-covered balconies. In front of these pretty homes sat women and little girls working at their lace and fine embroidery.

Now and then they saw groups of small boys carrying goatskin book sacks on their backs, for the short summer vacation was over, and the Swiss schools had begun.

In a flower garden, near one of the stations, a mountain dwarf waved a Swiss flag in farewell to the passing travelers. But the nicest good-by came from a row of boys and girls sitting on a fence near the railroad track. They were selling wild flowers to travelers, as the trains stopped at their station. They shouted the names in German, French, and English -- "Alpine roses, primroses, edelweiss, daisies, buttercups!" -- and they eagerly begged the travelers to buy.

Of course Jack and Joe bought their hands full, for these might be the last Swiss flowers they would have for a very long time.

As the train moved on, the boys and girls, sitting on the fence, waved their hands and shouted, "Auf Wiedersehen! Glueckliche Reise!"

And the Overall Boys shouted back, "Good-by! Good-by, until we meet again!"

<eob>

Boy Scouts On Hudson Bay

Or

The Disappearing Fleet

By

G. Harvey Ralphson



Chapter I.

The Five Chums In Camp.


"Sure it's me that hopes we've seen the last tough old carry on this same wild-goose chase up to the Frozen North!"

"Hello! there, is that you, Jimmy, letting out that yawp? I thought you had more sporting blood in you than to throw up your hands like that!"

"Oh! well I sometimes say things that don't come from the heart, you know, Jack. Wait, me boy, till I get good and rested up, and mebbe I'll sing a different tune. Ask Ned here if it's me that often shows the white flag when trouble comes."

"Well, I should say not, Jimmy McGraw. There never was a more stubborn nature in all New York than you, once you'd set your mind on anything. That talk of being discouraged is all on the surface. A thousand cataracts wouldn't keep you from getting to Hudson Bay in the end, if you'd said you meant to reach open water. And Jack Bosworth knows that as well as I do."

"That's right; I do," laughed the party mentioned as Jack, as he slapped Jimmy on the back. "I've seen him tested and tried out many the time, and never once did he squeal. I was only joking, Jimmy; you understand?"

"And sure that's what I was doing when I grunted about the carry. It was next door to a picnic down Coney Island way, and I don't care how many more times the lot of us have to pack canoes and duffle from one creek to another. But Francois here is after saying we're getting near the end of our long voyage, and Tamasjo, the red Injun, backs him up. So let's try and forget our troubles, and settle down for a decent night's rest."

"First of all, we'll get the tent up, because it looks a little like it might rain before morning," remarked the boy who had been designated as Ned, and whom the other four seemed to look upon in the light of leader.

All of them were garbed in the familiar khaki of the Boy Scouts, and from their actions it would seem as though long familiarity with outdoor life had made this thing of pitching camp second nature with every one of the five well-grown lads.

These boys with their guides were a long way from home. Hundreds upon hundreds of miles separated them from the great metropolis of New York City, where the troop to which they belonged had its headquarters.

Those readers who have had the pleasure of meeting the five husky scouts in the pages of previous volumes of this series will not need any introduction to them. But for the sake of those who are not as yet acquainted with the chums, a few words of explanation may not come in amiss.

They all belonged to the same lively troop, but Ned Nestor and his shadow, Jimmy McGraw, were members of the Wolf Patrol, while Jack Bosworth, Frank Shaw and Teddy Green belonged to the patrol that proudly pointed to the head of an American black bear as its totem.

Ned Nestor had long been secretly in the employ of the United States Government, and had won considerable renown in carrying to a successful conclusion several difficult cases entrusted to his charge by the authorities in command of the Secret Service.

Jimmy, who had once been a typical Bowery newsboy, but now "reformed," fairly worshiped Jack, and had been his faithful henchman for a long time past. He was witty, brave, and as as true as the needle to the pole.

Then there was Frank Shaw, whose father owned and edited one of the great daily papers in New York; he had long ago shown a desire to be a correspondent, and was always on the lookout for chances to visit far-off corners of the world which did not happen to be well known, and about which he might write interesting accounts for the columns of his father's paper. He was a great admirer of the celebrated Frank Carpenter, whom he had met many times in his father's office.

Jack Bosworth's father was a wealthy corporation lawyer and a capitalist as well, always ready to invest in promising schemes of a legitimate character. And it was really because of this venturesome nature of Mr. Bosworth that these five lads had undertaken this tremendous journey, away above the outskirts of Canadian civilization, many weary leagues beyond the northern limits of Lake Superior, and with the almost unknown shores of the great Hudson Bay as their objective point.

The last boy was Teddy Green. He had a well-known Harvard professor as his father, and some day no doubt the lad anticipated following in the footsteps of his parent. Just now his greatest ambition was to be an explorer and endure some of the privations which such men as Stanley, Livingstone, Dr. Kane and other renowned characters in history were said to have met with in carrying out their tasks.

From the desolate character of their present surroundings it would seem that Teddy was in a fair way to realize his boyish dream. For days now they had not met with a living human being, even an Indian trapper far away from his tepee in search of game. Mountains and valleys, plains covered with scrub trees and seemingly endless bogs, and stretches of moss-covered land surrounded them day after day.

They had ascended one river until they could paddle their three canoes no further. At this point had come the first carry to another stream, and from that day on it had been the hardest kind of work as time passed on.

Already Jimmy had lost all track of direction, and often declared that it would not surprise him if they finally turned up somewhere over in Siberia, for to his mind it seemed as though they had come far enough to have passed the North Pole, even though they had seen no ice packs.

The taciturn Indian guide, who went under the name of Tamasjo, and the dusky voyageur, a French Canadian named Francois, assured them that all was well, whenever one of the boys ventured to voice a suspicion that they might have lost their way and wandered far past their objective point.

Both guides claimed to have hunted all over this country in times past, and the voyageur had even accompanied a noted explorer on a summer wandering up here. Hence their confidence reassured Ned, who often consulted a rude chart which had been placed in his hands before starting out on this journey, and thus verified the statements made by Francois.

Much paddling through rushing rapids and against the current of boisterous rivers had made the muscles of the boys' arms seem like iron. Every one of them appeared to be the picture of good health; because there is absolutely nothing equal to this outdoor life to build up sturdy constitutions.

Already all of them were at work. The tents went up so rapidly that it was plain to be seen these lads would easily take the prize offered for perfection in camp making, in a contest between rival patrols.

The canoes had been safely drawn up on the shelving beach, and doubly secured; because it would be nothing short of a calamity to lose one of the handy vessels while so far from civilization, and with no suitable birch trees around from which another light boat might be fashioned by the craft of the guides.

The day was nearly done, and when presently the smoke of their campfire began to ascend in the still air, night crept slowly about them. As it was the summer season and the days were very long up here in the Far North, the hour was later than they had ever started in to make camp before.

Plenty of supplies had apparently been carried along, to judge from the fragrant odors that soon began to steal forth. All of these lads belonged to families of wealth, so that at no time were they reduced to limiting their outfit. Anything that money could buy, and which prudence would allow to carry with them, was always at their service.

So the guns owned by Ned and his chums were of the latest pattern, and capable of doing good service when properly handled. The boys, who had been through campaigns in many parts of their own country, as well as over the southern border, and in foreign lands as well, and for young fellows who had not yet attained their majority, all of the scouts had experienced thrills calculated to make men of mature age proud.

And yet in spite of all this they were genuine boys, with warm hearts, and fond of practical joking. Seated around the jolly fire after disposing of supper, while the two guides attended to cleaning up, Jimmy entertained his mates with a series of rollicking songs, accompanied by Teddy on his mandolin, which he had somehow managed to smuggle along, in spite of a careful watch on the part of Ned, who did not wish to take a single article that was not indispensable, for he knew the gigantic task that lay ahead of them.

Jimmy has as usual been overboard during the late afternoon. It was not a voluntary swim the comical chum had been enjoying, either; these plunges never were, but it seemed as though Jimmy must lose his balance once in so often just while the canoes were negotiating through some wild rapids, and in consequence he had to make the passage clinging to the gunwale.

His red sweater was hanging on a bush to dry in the heat of the fire. It looked unusually brilliant as seen in the glow of the leaping flames. Jimmy was very proud of that same old sweater, which had been with him through so many campaigns that it showed signs of wear and tear. But though he had another nice navy-blue one in his waterproof clothes bag, Jimmy persisted in donning the ancient article every blessed day, in spite of the appeals of his chums.

Ned as usual was poring over his well-thumbed chart. Every day he marked the new ground they had covered, and very seldom had he found cause to doubt the correctness of the two guides. And whenever this had happened it turned out that they were right, and the map wrong.

"Well," Frank finally broke out with, "so far we haven't run across anything in the shape of a rival expedition, though Ned seemed to think in the start that was what would happen to us."

"I haven't changed my mind yet," observed the party mentioned, looking up from examining his chart. "We understood that the syndicate that is trying to unload this wonderful new mining tract they claim will be richer than Mesauba on Jack's father as a speculation, knew about our being sent up here on some secret mission. They could easily guess that we meant to find out if half of the big claim they made was true, and that on our report Mr. Bosworth would base any action he might take. Now it was to be such a tremendously big deal that under the conditions, if so be there was something crooked about the claims they made, you can understand that it would pay them handsomely to shunt us off the track, or else salt the mine, and make us think it would be as rich a proposition as their prospectus set out."

"But," interrupted Jack, "who could they get to do their crooked work away up here in this forlorn country, where we haven't run across a living being since we met that trapper going south with his winter's catch of pelts?"

"Oh! money will do lots of things," answered Ned. "Given a soft berth, with good pay, and plenty to eat, and scores of Indian half-breeds, timber cruisers, guides out of employment along the salmon fishing streams of the Dominion, and trappers loafing through an off season, would jump at the bait. There'd be plenty to enlist under the lead of a bold man hired by the syndicate; if, as we more than half believe, their claim is a great swindle which they mean to hang about Jack's father's neck."

"Francois says we will always have to be prepared, and as that is the motto of Boy Scouts all over the known world, it isn't likely to seem new to us," Frank Shaw remarked, a little boastfully it must be confessed, for having passed through so many strange happenings in times past had given him a touch of what Jimmy was inclined to call the "swelled head," though any one would have been justified for feeling proud of such a record of wonderful things accomplished.

The scouts having started on the subject of their mission continued to discuss it from various angles. In this way they often hit upon suggestions, because one remark would bring out another until some fellow chanced to open up a new field of conjecture.

They were deep in the matter, and all taking a hand in the discussion, when Francois, the dark-faced voyageur, suddenly started to his knees with a cry of warning. At the same time the boys became aware of the fact that a strange rushing and pounding noise was rapidly bearing down upon the little camp on the river bank.

Jimmy happened to be sitting cross-legged like a Turk, a favorite attitude of his, and becoming excited he could not get up as rapidly as his chums.

In consequence of this he seemed to be in the way of some huge body that rushed the camp, scattering the fire, and rending the branches of the tree under which the exploring party had settled for the night.

It was all over in a few seconds. The camp was in an uproar, one of the tents down flat, the fire in danger of communicating to the brush, and Jimmy squealing on his back, where the sudden rush of the mysterious monster had thrown him.



Chapter II.

A Wild Charge.


"Help! Help!" Jimmy was shouting, kicking wildly as he roared. "Keep off me, you wild elephant! Somebody shoot him, quick, before he steps on me!"

"Here, stop that kicking, if you want to be helped up, do you hear, Jimmy!" exclaimed Frank, who had hastened to the assistance of the comrade in distress. "Are you much hurt; and did the beast trample on you any?"

Jimmy began to feel of his legs and arms, and upon discovering himself apparently as sound as a dollar, grinned sheepishly. Meanwhile the two guides had hastened, with the help of Ned and Jack, to gather the fire together again. Teddy had snatched up the nearest rifle and was down on one knee, peering out through the semi-darkness as though anticipating a return rush on the part of the unknown monster that had created such confusion in the camp.

"No great damage done, after all, seems like, if Jimmy says he's all right," remarked Ned, now beginning to let a broad smile creep over his face, for seeing Jimmy doubled up and had been a ludicrous spectacle not soon to be forgotten.

"But what in creation was it that put the kibosh all over me like that?" demanded the one who had been knocked over by the mad rush of the invader.

Ned glanced toward Francois, and the voyageur simply said:

"Bull moose -- him very much mad, charge camp like that!"

"Well, I should think he must have been," Frank Shaw declared. "Why, if we'd had a little more warning we might have met him with a volley of hot lead that'd have laid him out dead. Now that Francois says so, I do believe he looked pretty much on the order of a monstrous moose bull. I certainly saw his horns, and they were full grown, because the rutting season is long since past."

"But what makes a moose get his mad up?" Jack asked. "We didn't do a single thing to rile him, that I know of, but were sitting here as easy as you please, when all at once he charges through the camp. Why, say, he nearly carried off some of our property, when he knocked down that tent. Look at the rip his horns made in the tanned canvas, would you? Some more sewing for Teddy here, to mend the rip."

"Francois, do bull moose often act in that way?" asked Teddy, still gripping the repeating rifle, as though not fully convinced that their would be no repetition of the savage onslaught.

The guide shook his head.

"Know only few times when it happen, and then there be reason. He carry off on horns what makes him rush our camp. I saw the same with my own eyes. Bull moose much like farm bull, and hate ze red color ver' mooch."

At hearing this several of the boys gave a shout.

"There, see what you get, Jimmy, for keeping that silly red sweater around. The old bull saw it hanging there in the light of our fire, and it made him so furious, as it has us lots of times, that he lowered his head and just charged us."

"But he took it away with him, as sure as you live, fellows!" gasped Jimmy, as a sense of his deep affliction came over him. "My dear sweater that I loved so much."

"Bully for the moose!" cried Jack.

"He'd done us all a mighty good turn, even if he never meant to," added Frank, "now we've seen the last of that terrible old garment, and Jimmy'll just have to get out the nice new one he's been carrying in his bag."

"Just think of the old fool, would you, a-tearin' around the woods with that red flag hanging from his horns," Jimmy wailed. "Don't I hope it keeps him wild right along, so that he'll smash into a tree, and break his blessed neck! But I'm glad he didn't take a notion to carry me off along with my sweater, and that's no lie!"

The little excitement soon died away. Not much damage had been done after all by that mad charge of the infuriated bull moose. The rent in the canvas could be readily mended, and as for Jimmy's loss it was his companions' gain, so that there would be no lament made save by the late owner.

"I didn't know moose ever roamed as far north as this," remarked Ned.

"How about that, Francois?" asked Frank, who, it might be noticed, kept his gun close beside him now, as though meaning to be ready in case another cause for excitement arose.

"It is not often zat ze bull moose come up here," replied the French Canadian, in his queer patois; "but sometimes in summer zey wander far afield. I haf seen ze same so mooch as three hundred mile north from here."

"One thing sure, there are plenty of caribou around," Teddy went on to say; "and when the meat's tender, it suits me all right. I'm running across new things every day up here, and don't feel sorry I came, so far."

"New things seem to be running across us also," chuckled Frank; "for instance, the monster that just invaded our camp. But as our supply of red sweaters has given out now, we'll hope not to have a repeat of that charge in a hurry."

"Me for a tree if ever I hear anything on four legs heading this way again!" Jimmy told them. "Why, what would have happened to me if the old four flusher had set his hoofs square on my stomach? I'd be feeling pretty punk right now, believe me."

"I think I'll take to the tall timber myself if this thing gets common," was what Jack observed. "My stars! but he was a whopper. Looked like the side of a house to me when he sizzled past, scattering the fire, leveling our best tent, and kicking up a whole circus with a band wagon attached."

"What was it we were talking about when we had that unexpected call?" asked Teddy.

"Ned was telling us something more that trapper we met said to him about the queer things that happen away up here in this uninhabited country, which is so different from any other known land. Didn't he say something about a phantom fleet of vessels that kept bobbing up every now and then, only to speed away like ghosts. What did you make of that silly rot, Ned?"

"I've been puzzling my head over it ever since," Ned replied, "but for the life of me can't make head or tail of the story. I've almost come to the conclusion that the trapper was a little dippy, and just imagined he saw those vessels."

"Sounds like it to me, Ned," Jack declared. "Whatever would vessels of any kind want up in Hudson Bay, if not to fish, or hunt whales, or seals, or walrus? And why should they flit around like ghosts, as he said? Chances are the old chap was using up his surplus stock of strong drink, and saw things where they didn't exist."

"Well, anyway," Jimmy ventured, reflectively, "it's me that hopes we'll run foul of this same queer disappearing fleet, because if we do it's a pipe cinch we'll scrape all the mystery off the story. We always manage that when we start into anything. It seems to be the scout way of doing things."

"For my part," declared Frank, "I take little stock in that yarn of the trapper. I imagine it's in a line with the big story of the mine syndicate that wants to unload on Mr. Bosworth. This is the country for whopping lies. Everything is on so big a scale up here, you know, stories have to keep along with them."

"And moose are as big as houses," added Jimmy.

"How is it we don't see you busy with your fish lines to-night, Jimmy?" asked Ned.

"Yes, it's been three mornings now since we had fresh fish for breakfast, and as that job was handed over to you, we all want to know what's gone wrong?" Jack added.

Jimmy shrugged his shoulders, and made a wry face.

"I've soured on me job, if that's what you want to know," he replied. "I've pulled in so many fish since we started that me arm is sore with the work. Besides, I've lost me taste for fresh fish. Them that feel an itching for the diet c'n do the business. Here's me lines and hooks with pleasure."

No one, however, seemed anxious to undertake the task on this particular occasion. Truth to tell they were one and all pretty tired. It had been an unusually arduous day, so that shoulders and legs ached more or less, from packing all their possessions across country to the bank of the river on which they now found themselves, and which Francois, yes, and Tamasjo ditto, affirmed would carry them all the rest of the way to the great inland sea known on the maps as Hudson Bay, in honor of the famous explorer.

It felt good to lie there at their ease on blankets and enjoy the warmth of the cheery campfire. There was more or less of a tang in the air most of the time on account of being so far north; and this became more evident when the sun had set, and the short night commenced, so that the young explorers were glad to have tents and warm blankets along.

Once while they were talking Jack lifted his head and appeared to be listening.

"A wolf pack hunting through the muskegs!" remarked Ned.

"Just what it must be," declared Jack. "And wherever we go it seems as if there was no end to the hungry beasts. We ran up against them away out in California, you remember; and they've given us no end of trouble on this present trip."

"I only hope that swift bunch is hustling along on the trail of Mr. Bull Moose, and that they overhaul the beggar right soon," grumbled Jimmy viciously.

"What ails the little rascal now to make him feel so savage about that moose?" laughed Frank.

"Huh! if you had something you thought the world of carried away on the horns of a rotten old bull moose, mebbe it's you that would be feeling sore on him too, me boy," growled Jimmy.

"Well, they say that one man's food is another's poison," observed Frank; "and all of us feel that your loss is our gain. Red sweaters may be all very well on a baseball field, but in the woods they don't cut such a wide swath."

"Forget it," added Jack.

The two guides were looking after the canoes. It was their customary habit to attend to the craft every night before lying down, because they realized the great value that lay in the only means of making progress that the expedition possessed; while no one dreamed of robbery, still, the motto of a scout is to shut the door before the horse is stolen, and not afterwards. An ounce of prevention is always much better than a pound of cure, so Ned was accustomed to saying, and he was an experienced patrol leader.

While they left some things to the guides, still, the boys were pleased to keep constantly in touch with whatever was transpiring around them. Long ago they had learned to enjoy making fresh discoveries in the field and forest whenever abroad. And in this new and to them unexplored country they were running across numerous interesting things every day.

They had just two tents along, and as neither of the guides would consent to be under cover save in a rain storm, it allowed the five scouts a chance to sleep comfortably, three in one shelter and a couple in the other. Ned and Jack occupied the smaller tent, while Jimmy bunked with Teddy and Frank in the second one.

Presently the guides came into camp again, though they had been within sight all the time, as the canoes lay well inside the circle of light coming from the fire.

"All well with the boats, Francois?" asked Ned, who was hugging his knees now, and had been joking Frank over several weird pictures the photographer of the expedition had lately developed.

"Everything O. K.," replied the voyageur, as though satisfied with his labor. "No danger we lose same this night, zat is sure. Still, Francois, me, and ze ozzer guide we expect to sleep wiz ze one eye open."

"If you should happen to see some stranger meddling with our boats, Francois -- what would you do?" asked Frank.

The voyageur shrugged his broad shoulders in a very Frenchy fashion as he replied.

"I sall call out and ask ze same what he do, sare; and if so be he try to run away, pouf; I ze gun will fire, taking aim to vound ze rascal in ze leg, and not kill."

"Sounds rather war-like, don't it, Ned?" remarked Jack.

"Well, you must remember that this is a wild country up here," the leader of the expedition went on to say, soberly; "and that men are accustomed to looking on all others as enemies until they prove to be friends. A man who would sneak up and hover over our boats, on being addressed, if he were honest would throw up his hand at once and come into camp. Only a sneak thief would try and cut for it. And from my way of looking at it Francois would be justified in giving him a bullet in the leg, or a charge of Number Sevens in the last place he could see as the man galloped away."

As several of the scouts were yawning at a prodigious rate it was now concluded that the time had come to crawl under their blankets and get some sleep. This going to bed was never a very long-drawn-out operation with the scouts when in the open. Each boy would remove his shoes, after taking off his leggings, then follow with his outer garments, and after that just snuggle down under his warm covering, and forgetting all his troubles until the summons came that breakfast was almost ready.

On this especial occasion they vanished inside the tents, leaving the guides at the fire smoking their last pipe of tobacco, which both of them had to indulge in before they could think of sleeping.

After that none of the boys knew a single thing until they were rudely awakened by hearing some one call out roughly.

Immediately afterwards there came a peremptory hail, and then a loud report that must have come from a gun.

Of course there was a hustle in both tents, and it was astonishing how quickly each scout managed to get some of his clothes on. A professional fireman could hardly have shown more expedition about dressing than Ned and Jack did, though hampered more or less in the operation by the darkness.

They had been very careful to remember just where their guns had been placed, so that as soon as they donned clothes it was easy to snatch up these weapons, after which they burst out of the tent.

The fire was beginning to revive, showing that some one must have tossed fresh fuel upon the smouldering logs. One glance that way told Ned several hours must have elapsed since he lay down, and that it was even now long after midnight. He would have been able to tell within an hour what time of night it was, had he been given a few seconds to look up at the heavens to note the position of the new stars in sight.



Chapter III.

Was It A Spy?


The other fellows were coming crawling out from the larger tent when Ned and Jack reached the open air. All of them were carrying guns, as though laboring under an impression that the camp must be assailed by a rival force.

They found the two guides standing there, and peering out toward a certain quarter. Both were too old hands at this sort of thing to show the least sign of excitement, but Jimmy made up for any lack on their part.

"For the love of Mike where's the invader now? Did he trample all over you, Francois, and is that the brand of his cloven hoof on your hunting shirt now? Was it the same old bull moose, or a new kind of muskeg giant, as big as a church? Show him to me, and see how quick I'll bowl the critter over!"

"Keep still, will you, Jimmy, and let Ned do the talking," advised Jack.

"What did you fire at, Francois?" asked Ned, turning to the guide, for somehow he seemed to naturally guess that it was the French Canadian who had done the shooting, possibly because his voice had been heard raised in a challenge.

"Man, at all I know, sare," replied the other, still looking out into the semi-gloom wistfully.

"I heard you call out loud enough, just as you said you would do," Ned continued; "and instead of answering, did he turn and run away?"

"Zat is just what happen," replied the guide. "He act mooch like ze spy, and so I give heem ze shot."

"Do you think you hit him, Francois?" demanded Frank.

The other rolled up his shoulders, and made the usual "face" as he answered:

"I do not know for sure, sare. Ze light it was mos' uncertain like. I aim down low as I pull ze trigger. Zen he disappear, and I am unable to say if so be he drop down just to sneak avay, or because he wounded."

"Well, we can soon find out," impulsive Jimmy exclaimed; "me to grab up a fine torch, and lead the way. Some of the rest of you form a bodyguard around me, and be ready to give 'em a volley if they so much as peep."

It was just what Ned had been about to propose, so as Jimmy thought of the plan first he was allowed to have his way.

The fagot which Jimmy picked out of the fire was burning briskly by now, at one end, and could be made to serve very well as a torch, if only one knew how to handle it. Jimmy had taken lessons in this art, and first of all he swung the brand swiftly around his head several times, so as to make it burn more briskly.

"There, that will do, Jimmy," Jack told him; "and now lead us out, you ferocious little monster. Hold the torch so it won't blind us, remember. And if they open fire you be sure to duck, so we won't be shooting you in the back."

"Oh! I'll side-step all right, if only you give me the tip," Jimmy went on to say.

He was already starting out with Francois to show him the way to the spot where the latter had his last glimpse of the supposed spy. All of the scouts were fairly quivering with eagerness; and at the same time a cold feeling began to creep over them at the thought of what they might discover the next minute.

Francois had shot low, and only meant to wound, but then his bullet might have glanced upward, and inflicted a fatal injury.

A dozen and more paces they went. Everyone was excited, and looking this way and that, for who could say what the adventure might not mean? If there was one prowler around there might be a dozen or a score. They remembered what Ned had said concerning the possibility of the reckless plotters composing the mining syndicate gathering together a lawless crowd, and meaning to chase the explorers out of that section of country, should they threaten to discover that a fraud was in the act of being perpetrated.

"Was it about here, Francois, that you saw him vanish?" asked Ned, who had been keeping an eye on the guide, and judged from his actions that they must have arrived close to the suspected spot.

"I am think so, ver' mooch," admitted Francois, eagerly, and then after taking a backward look toward the campfire, he added: "Yes, it ees so, sare. I gif you ze word of a man zat ought to know, zat he was here when I fire ze shot."

"Well, it looks as though you didn't knock him over, Francois," observed Frank, "because there was nobody lying amidst the brush."

Without replying, the French Canadian and the Indian guide fell on their knees, and seemed to be closely examining the ground upon which none of the party had as yet set afoot.

"Tamasjo has found something," observed Teddy quickly, as he saw the Indian lower his head closer to the ground, and evidently examine some object with eagerness.

Ned was down beside him almost instantly.

"It's a plain footprint, all right," he announced as soon as he had been able to take a quick observation.

"That proves Francois did see a skulker then, and wasn't dreaming," Jack was heard to say, as though he may have been entertaining some doubt on the subject up to that moment.

"He scared him off, even if his lead was thrown away," Jimmy ventured, with a slight touch of scorn in his manner, as though he fancied he could have given a better account of himself, had the chance come his way.

"Hold on, don't be in such a rushing big hurry to say he wasted his lead," Ned warned him.

"What's that, Ned; did he hit the sneak after all?" Jack demanded.

"Well, spots of fresh blood don't grow on the bushes up here, even if we do seem to run across lots of queer things," Ned went on to say, as he pointed to where they could all see that it was so.

This fact added to the excitement. If the unknown whom they looked on as some species of spy, had been wounded, it looked like a serious piece of business for the little party of explorers. He must have friends not far away, and after the gantlet of defiance had been thrown down by this shot, these men might lose all restraint and show that they were disposed to act in an ugly way.

It meant that the former sense of security and indifference was a thing of the past. From this time on the scouts must keep constantly on the alert to guard against a sudden surprise. They must learn to watch for danger in every quarter, and not allow themselves to sleep on post.

All this change was caused by the discovery of that one small spot of shed blood. Even the usually talkative Jimmy seemed to have become dumb for the time being, as though realizing the gravity of the situation.

"Do we try to track the fellow, Ned?" asked Teddy.

"I don't think that would be a wise thing to attempt," came the reply. "In the first place we couldn't make any headway without a light; and that would expose the lot of us to his fire, if he found himself being overtaken, and was still smarting under the pain of his wound. Then again, we don't know who he may be, or what friends he may have close by. No, the best thing for us to do is to go back to our camp, and try to get a little more sleep. We'll put out the fire, and one of the guides will sit up for two hours with me. Then we'll wake another couple, and in that way pass the rest of the night."

"Sounds like business at the old stand," remarked Jimmy, "Many's the time the lot of us have done that same thing. And, Ned, I'm in hopes you'll be after lettin' me sit up with you. Never a bit of sleep is there in me eyes at this minute. I'm staring like any old hoot owl in a Virginia swamp. Don't tell me to beat it if you love me the least bit. My lamps won't go shut, that's flat, and I might as well sit up with you as lie down, and just stare and stare."

"Oh! suit yourself, Jimmy," Ned told the urgent one; "though of course I'll be only too glad to have your company, if, only you'll remember to keep still. When we have to serve as guards to the camp it's a still tongue that counts for the most."

"I'll promise to be as dumb as an oyster, Ned," pleaded the other; and so it was settled that he could help to stand the first watch.

The balance of the expedition once more settled down. Jack crawled alone into the smaller tent, while Frank and Teddy occupied the other. Francois and the Indian consulted with Ned, and then the fire was wholly extinguished. Tamasjo went over to sleep in one of the canoes, for if there should be any attack on the camp it was believed that it would begin in this quarter, as the frail craft might be reckoned their weakest and most vulnerable point.

Ned Nestor had often sat out a watch, and in the midst of a wilderness, too; but somehow the conditions seemed vastly different now from anything he had ever known before. In most other cases he could listen to the various well-known voices of the night -- from katydids and crickets, to frogs in the marsh, night birds seeking their prey, or it might be the small animals of the forest barking or giving tongue.

Away up here in the vast Northern solitudes a dreadful silence seemed to hang upon all Nature. Insects there were none, of a species to cause a humming sound, and save for croaking of frogs some distance away the stillness remained unbroken for a long time.

The wolf pack broke loose again, doubtless hot on the track of a fleeing caribou, perhaps the unfortunate one that had been wounded by Jimmy on the preceding day when Frank knocked over the fine animal from which their late supper had come. Ned listened to the chorus, and allowed his thoughts to roam to other and more distant scenes, where he had had exciting experiences with the hungry animals himself, calculated to cause a shudder just to remember.

The time passed slowly. Several louder bursts of wolfish tongues told when the hunting pack chanced to draw nearer the camp, but only to grow fainter again in the distance, as the chase led the animals over barrens where the caribou herd fed, and across wild cranberry bogs, such as the boys could remember seeing up in Northern New York State when camping in the Adirondacks.

When Ned reckoned that his time was up he woke Jimmy, who had long ago gone to sleep as sweetly as you please, with his head leaning against the butt of a tree. Ned told him he might just as well crawl under the tent and get the benefit of a warm blanket; and after giving that advice called Frank and Jack out.

Teddy never so much as moved when Jimmy crept in to warm up under his woolen cover, for Teddy was a very good sleeper on any and all occasions, it seemed. Since there was no especial need of more sentries than the two, with the Indian and Francois to back them, Ned did not have the heart to arouse Teddy, even though he knew very well the other would reproach him for neglecting to do so.

There was no further alarm on that night, for which doubtless all of the boys were thankful, though Jimmy later on loudly bewailed the fact that he had been given no chance to make use of his faithful gun. Jimmy was not at all bloodthirsty, though any one hearing him talk, and not knowing his humorous nature, might be inclined to think so. But after a most venomous harangue he would very likely wink his eye drolly at the fellow scout he was addressing, and softly remark:

"But it isn't in my heart, and you know that!"

Jack declared that once during his watch he fancied he caught some sound out on the bosom of the dark river that might have been a big fish leaping, but which he was inclined to believe was made by a carelessly used paddle.

Of course there was no way of verifying this suspicion, because water unfortunately leaves no trail. Frank advanced the idea that it might have been the same spy who had been prowling around their camp.

"Suppose he had a canoe handy," he went on to suggest. "I can't imagine any living soul being away up in this country without some kind of a boat so as to get around. Now which way would he be likely to go, do you think, Ned?"

"If what Jack heard, and you didn't, was the sound of a working paddle," Ned told him, "I should say that the party went up the river. If moving with the current, you understand, there would be no need to swing his paddle at all, but simply let his boat float along till past our camp."

Francois, who had been listening to all this talk while cooking breakfast, nodded his head approvingly.

"Zat it so, sare," he ventured to observe. "Eef you ask me I haf to say ze same t'ing. Mebbe it was canoe, mebbe it was some seal zat come all ze way up zis rifer from zat big ocean zey call Hudson Bay, and which zey tell me ees six hundred mile from one shore to ze other."

"A real genuine seal, does he mean, Ned?" exclaimed Jimmy; "now I would like to set eyes on one of the glossy little chaps like those I've fed in the museum down at the Battery in little old New York."

"Made enough noise to have been a hippopotamus, if only such warm-blooded Nile amphibious animals lived in these Arctic rivers," Jack declared; "but after all it doesn't matter, only if the spy went up the stream we're better be off, because that would show his crowd would be found there, and not below."

"And I suppose that after this, while we sail on through cataracts, and along the smoother stretches we've got to keep our eyes peeled for signs of an ambuscade," Teddy observed. "Well, luckily we've got some pretty sharp-eyed fellows along with us; and then there are the experienced guides. Who cares for expenses? As long as I can poke into unknown sections where few white men have ever set foot, and Frank can write stunning letters to his paper about the strange things we run across, it doesn't matter a cookey. We'll get to our destination, and we're bound to find out all we came to see, because the scouts always do succeed."

It was in this same confident spirit that the little party embarked shortly afterwards. Not one of them felt faint-hearted as the unknown future loomed up before them. Nevertheless, could they have known just then of the astonishing experiences through which they were shortly fated to pass, possibly their pulses must have quickened under the strain.

The sun was well above the far-eastern horizon when they entered the three canoes, having carefully loaded the same with an eye to rough rapids ahead, and pushing out, trolling a Canadian boat song Francois had taught them, started on the day's voyage.



Chapter IV.

Down The Swift Rapids.


"Sounds pretty wild ahead there!" bawled Jimmy, a couple of hours later.

He happened to be in the leading canoe at the time, along with the Cree Indian guide, Tamasjo, and also Frank Shaw. Ned and Jack paddled the second boat, and did it splendidly, too, for they had had considerable practice at this sort of thing, so that as Ned expressed it, both had "caught the hang of it." In the rear were the other two, Francois, and Teddy Green, the ambitious explorer of unknown lands.

All this time they had seen nothing in any quarter to indicate that there was a living human being in all that far-off country. Now and then they had glimpsed herds of caribou peacefully feeding where the grass grew most luxuriantly, or else like the reindeer of Lapland browsing off the Arctic moss that clung to the rocks in myriads of places, and contained the nourishment required. Birds were scarce, though in some places they had come upon countless numbers of ducks, geese and swan that seek these distant regions in summer to breed.

The others had possibly noticed that increasing murmur in the near distance, indicating the presence of a roaring cataract, even if they had not called attention to the same.

The Indian, seeing that the scouts would very likely want to hold a conference, dallied with his paddle, and Frank, who sat in the bow of the boat, followed suit. He did not altogether like the sound of that as yet unseen rough place in the river that flowed northward toward Hudson Bay; and felt that before trusting themselves in its clutch they should talk it over, getting what pointers they could from the two guides.

Accordingly the three canoes drifted along on the rather swift current, while those in them talked. From time to time the paddlers would delay their progress by well known means, so that they might not be carried on at too fast a pace, and find themselves in the surge of the rapids before their plans were fully matured.

"I bet you that one beats any we've struck yet, if sound goes for much!" Jimmy gave as his opinion.

"No question about that," added Jack.

"It sure makes a heap of noise," Teddy declared.

"And I can imagine the whitecaps jumping like crazy things as the current hits up against the sharp-pointed snags and rocks that stick up like horns all over!" Frank went on to say.

"Still, there are few rapids that don't have a safe channel through the worst places," Ned told them; "anyway, I've never seen one that didn't. How about that, Francois; you've been through here, you say, and in a canoe?"

"Twice, sare," came the answer.

"And didn't meet with an accident either time, I warrant," Jack avowed, confidently.

"Nevaire!" replied the guide, positively.

"And like as not, when you took the first plunge you had never seen the rapids before, Francois?" continued Ned, striving to reach a point he wanted to make.

"It was the first time I haf ever set eyes on ze same, as you say, sare."

"You just used your gumption, and tackled the job as you would any other rapids, depending on your quick eye, a firm wrist with the paddle, and general good sense, wasn't that it, Francois?" Ned asked him.

"I get through easy, but zere was a warm time of it," the other answered, shaking his head at the remembrance of difficulties overcome.

"Well, if you could pass through safely without ever having seen the rapids before it was much easier the second time, eh?" ventured the patrol leader.

"Oh! mooch easier, that time," the guide assured him.

"And now it's likely to become a habit with you," Ned remarked, smilingly. "Guess we needn't bother any great shakes, boys. Francois will take the lead, and Jack and myself bring up the rear."

"That leaves me in the middle, don't it?" asked Jimmy.

"Just what it does," Ned told him.

"You wouldn't think for a minute we'd allow you to lead, or much less come trailing along as the wind-up of the crowd," jeered Jack. "Chances are you'll be up to your old tricks again, and tumbling overboard. I've got the boathook ready to lay hold of you if that happens."

"For goodness sake, Jimmy, make up your mind to sit still and get through one of these husky rapids with a dry jacket," pleaded Teddy.

"Yes," added Frank, who, it may be remembered, was in the same boat with Jimmy; "you might upset us all if you get to wiggling around, or trying any of your silly pranks while we're in the middle of the push. And think of what we'd lose if an accident like that happened."

"You've got all the self-raising flour in your tub, Jimmy," Teddy continued, as a clinching argument; "and if that goes, good-bye to any more flapjacks while we're up around the Hudson Bay country."

"Hadn't you better transfer that stuff to one of the other boats, and give us something that won't spoil if it gets wet?" Jimmy had the impudence to suggest; at which Ned shook his finger at him, and, looking as severe as he could, went on to lay down the law, as he had a perfect right to do, being Jimmy's superior in the patrol; and besides, using the other as an assistant in his work for the Government.

"Unless you give me your solemn promise to reform, and sit as still as anything in that canoe, I'm going to have a halt called, and tie you in so you can't move. The only trouble is that if the boat does go over after all, you'd surely drown like a musk rat in a trap. Do you get that straight, Jimmy?"

Apparently the lively scout realized that his chums would not put up with any further pranks, especially when danger menaced them, as it always did at times when cataracts had to be negotiated. He threw up both hands in token of absolute surrender.

"I promise you on my word of honor as a true scout, Ned, not to budge an inch as long as the bally old boat stays on its keel. 'Course if Tamasjo pitches me out you'll let me swim for it, and get hold of your gunnel, won't you?"

"That's what we would expect you to do," Ned told him. "On the whole, as this rapid is much worse than anything we've tackled up to now, I reckon we'd better run into shore for a short stay, while we overhaul our cargoes, and make sure everything is tied fast to the supports of the canoes."

"Good idea," grunted Frank. "I believe in locking the door while you've still got the horse. Lots of folks wait till the animal has been stolen, and then wake up to the necessity of putting up the bars."

Accordingly, they landed near by on a promising point. Here they busied themselves for some time minutely examining the way in which guns, provisions, blankets, tents, cooking utensils, and all other things going to make up the cargo of the three canoes was secured.

Of course they hardly anticipated an upset, but did this only as a sort of insurance, just as a man takes out a fire risk on his house, though never fancying for a single minute that it is going to go up in flames and smoke.

After that the start was made. Francois paddled along in the lead, with Teddy holding a position in the bow, for Teddy had learned to swing a paddle fairly well on this trip. Of course, the one who sat in the stern manipulated things as he wished, being the controlling power. Teddy's duties would for the most part be to fend off from threatening rocks.

It was intended that the other boats should follow close enough to give their pilots a chance to profit by the knowledge Francois had of the currents and most dangerous places. At the same time, they must not come within a certain distance lest they foul each other.

Faster and faster did the swift current bear them on its bosom. They could now see it surging on toward the abrupt bend, around which the dangerous rapid lay.

Every fellow shut his teeth hard together. Sleeves had been rolled up, so that nothing might interfere with the heavy work ahead of them.

Jimmy was the soul watcher, he alone having no part in making that perilous passage of the cataract. Gripping the two sides of the canoe, as he squatted amidships, Jimmy stared with bulging eyes as the bend was turned, and he could see that foamy track ahead. All of the way across the river the ugly jagged rocks thrust their sharp points above the surface of the swift water, and for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile it seemed as though only by a miracle could a frail canoe safely pass among these evil genii of the rapids.

But a careful and practiced eye could pick out an avenue of comparatively smooth water that ran from top to bottom of the rapid. It often curved sharply, so that it made a very irregular line. Quick action would be necessary in many instances, so as to avoid contact with some snag that lay in wait for a victim.

Francois went boldly in. He sat there like a carved statue, only that the upper part of his body was in constant action, as he drove his magical blade deeply into the water, and caused the canoe to obey his dominant will as he pleased.

After him came the bronzed Cree Indian guide, copying every movement of the other, much as Japanese workman would a design given into his hands to duplicate even to the minutest detail.

It was a glorious dash, and one the scouts would certainly never forget. Their blood leaped madly in their veins as they saw the tumbling, boiling water all about them, acting as though fairly wild to get them in its power.

Several times Ned and Jack found themselves put to their best efforts in order to stem the tide, and keep from meeting with shipwreck. Fortunately, their muscles were sound, and their heads clear, so that in every instance they recovered the advantage almost lost. When the foot of the cataract was reached nothing of a serious nature had happened, though all of the boys who had taken part in the labor of fighting the erratic current of the river were breathing heavily.

"Hurrah! that's the time we did it!" shouted Jimmy, apparently as proud as if he had handled a paddle himself; nor did any of the others begrudge him that slight satisfaction, since the glory was big enough to go around.

Ned gave the signal for a halt here.

"We want to rest up a bit," he explained; "and besides, didn't you hear Francois say that there were some dandy trout and grayling hanging about here at the foot of the rapids? Seems to me I'd like a mess for dinner to-day. Any objections?"

Not a single contrary word was heard, and apparently all of them were of the same mind. So they put in toward the shore again, Francois leading the way, since he had been here before, and "knew the ropes."

Tackle was soon made ready. Ned had even fetched a jointed rod along, for he liked to fish in a thoroughly sportsmanlike way, when the game was as royal in its nature as these big trout of the Canadian rivers. Grayling he had never caught, though told that they even exceed trout in desperate fighting tactics.

The fun soon became fast and furious, for there were plenty of fish, and the conditions seemed just right for them to jump at every sort of lure, from an artificial fly to a copy of an insect, or a phantom minnow such as Jimmy usually patronized, he not being equal to handling a fly rod with dexterity.

They soon had all the fish they could use. Ned continued the sport, because he was using his fly rod, and really did not injure the captures he made, so that he could toss them back after having had the fun of playing them, and seeing the desperate efforts the captives made to break away.

In the end, Ned had the luck to strike a good-sized grayling, that, making for a smaller rapid just below, gave the young sportsman all the excitement he could hope for before allowing itself to be netted. They all admired its build, and, as it was the only one of its kind taken just then, they decided to keep it, so as to say they had eaten grayling.

The interrupted voyage was thereupon resumed, and a while later they landed once more to cook a meal; for somehow all declared themselves hungry for trout, and Francois had admitted that one of the best camping places along the lower river invited them.

Jimmy, having had nothing else to do while they navigated the stream had amused himself preparing the catch for the frying pan. Nobody objected in the least; for although every scout dearly loved to eat trout, none of them ever seemed particularly anxious to clean the fish. Consequently that duty generally devolved upon good-natured Jimmy, who could be easily duped into believing that it was a high honor they were according him in allowing this privilege.

Ned, after halting by his canoe to attend to some little thing that happened to catch his attention, and which needed fixing, sauntered up the bank to find a fire had already been started by the guides.

"How is this, Francois, that you chose a place to make your fire that looks as if it might be second-best? According to my notion, over yonder is an ideal site for cooking fire."

When Ned said this the French-Canadian voyageur looked up and nodded.

"Eet is surely as you say heem be, but when I deescover zat zere haf been a pig party stop here mebbe last night, I tink you might vant me to look closer, and see vat ze signs say."

From his manner Ned understood that somehow Francois scented danger because of the presence of these men in this region. They might of course only prove to be miners sent up here by the syndicate that had obtained the right to the new mining region said to exceed in richness the famous Mesauba country. On the other hand, it was possible that they were minions of unscrupulous capitalists, sent here to block any effort on the part of the scouts to learn the truth with regard to the nature of the great fraud, if the claim put up to Mr. Bosworth proved to be such.

And Ned knew that the guide had acted wisely in leaving the cold ashes alone.



Chapter V.

Woodcraft.


Nothing more was said about the ashes of the dead fire left behind by some party that had recently been there, until the trout had been deliciously cooked and eaten. All of them declared that they had never tasted finer flavored fish than those big gamey fellows of that Far North river. It really seemed that the further they journeyed toward the Arctic Circle the sweeter the trout became.

"They were pretty big fellows, too," Frank Shaw said, as they sat there filling up with dinner.

"Never saw larger ones, only in the Lake Superior region," Ned confessed; "and eight-pounders are common along the northern shore where several small rivers empty into the lake. I saw a bunch of that size at the Government fish hatchery at the Soo when I passed through there on a steamboat, and shot the rapids with the Indian guides. They were dandies, I tell you, boys. Think of it, genuine speckled trout weighing eight pounds, and every ounce of them fighting weight too."

Finally, when they were all ready to cry quits, having had a glorious meal, Ned thought of what the veteran guide had said about that dead fire.

"Now suppose you and Tamasjo take a good look at the ashes, and the lay of the land around, so as to tell us what you can read there," he told the voyageur.

At that some of the other boys began to stare, for they had heard nothing up to then about the late presence of others on the spot. But they knew Ned well enough to be sure that he had some good object in saying what he did; and accordingly all of them flocked after the two guides when they made for the nearby spot where even Jimmy had noticed the remains of a fire.

The scouts remained quiet while Francois and the Cree got down on hands and knees the better to examine into the signs. Ned and some of his chums would themselves have been easily able to read certain things in connection with these ashes. For instance, remembering that it had rained most of the second day before, and there was no sign of water about the ashes, they would have set it down as positive that the fire had been made afterwards. That was an easy thing to make out; and perhaps there were others they could figure; but when in the presence of veterans Ned was only too willing to observe all that was done, and profit by it.

The two men did not confine themselves to sifting the ashes through their fingers, and comparing notes in a jargon which the boys could not understand, but which they imagined must be Cree talk.

They moved further away, and looked the ground over.

"I noticed that there were plenty of hoof tracks around here," Jimmy up and declared; "but say, it never flagged me that a fellow could learn a heap from just stickin' his nose down close to such. 'Tis a safe bet we'll know everything but the names of the gossoons before Francois and his red pal quit."

Some of the others were feeling the same way. They too had noticed that there were plenty of footprints around, but being more interested in the feast then being prepared, they had not thought fit to bother about giving the same more than a casual glance.

On Ned's part, he would have devoted some of his time to this business only for the promise of the voyageur to read the signs after they had eaten.

After some little time had passed Francois came and stood before them. His face was almost as inscrutable as that of the Sphinx, or a Cree Indian. Whatever the character of his finding, it did not show outwardly.

"Well, how about these men, Francois; they must have been here last night, you think, don't you?" Ned started to ask him.

"Eet is so, sare. Zey leave zis place just same time we be saying bon jour to our own camp up ze rivaire."

"How many were they?" was Ned's next question; for Francois could not tell his story at length, but seemed to wait to have it drawn from him piece-meal as though he might be a willing witness in the box.

"Thirteen, all men at zat."

"Hunters, trappers, miners, or prospectors?" demanded Ned.

That caused the other to give one of his suggestive shrugs.

"Nozzing like zat right now, sare," he went on to declare, so positively that it was evident he had found the Indian also agreed with him. "Some of zat crowd zey wear ze moccasin ze same as Tamasjo here. Ozzers have boots wiz ze heel. But zey carry no traps along wiz zem, I tell you zat, sare."

"And if they were miners intending to work in the holdings of the syndicate they would have carried tools along, picks, shovels and the like?" remarked Jack.

Francois shook his head in the negative.

"Nozzing like zat, pelieve me, sare," he urged.

"Well, go on and tell us what you think they may be," Ned pursued.

"I zink they pe a pad crowd," answered the guide. "Zis tells ze tale," and he held up some greasy cards which he must have gathered in the bushes behind the rocks near which the dead ashes lay.

Tamasjo also stooped and lifted something that glittered in the sunlight. When the scouts saw that it was a suspicious looking black bottle, they could guess as to what the nature of its recent contents had been. Nevertheless, it was passed around and every fellow had a chance to take a sniff at it.

"Deadly stuff, sure as you're born!" Jimmy pronounced, making a wry face.

"Whisky or old rye or something like that," Frank declared; and it spoke well for those five boys that no one was positively able to identify the odor, though well knowing its general character as an aid to drunkenness.

"That seems to settle it, so far as the tough kind of men they were," Ned continued; "and now we want to try and find out if they were looking for us to come down the river; and also, try and guess where they've gone to. They had boats, of course, Francois?"

The guide held up two fingers.

"Batteau, plenty room in same for all. Tamasjo and me, we tink zey haf gone down stream. Pig bay lie only half-day's journey zat way. Eef we go on, mebbe so we arrive zere by night. Better hold up, and make ze last part of ze trip in ze dark, so zat zey no see us."

"I understand what you mean, Francois," the patrol leader hastened to say; "and it sounds good to me, I admit. When we do go down to the salt water we will take advantage of your advice."

"What's that, Ned," broke in Jack; "you don't mean to say there's any doubt about our going down, sooner or later, do you?"

"Oh! no, we're bound to see the famous Hudson Bay before we leave this section," the other assured him; "but I've been thinking things over, and come to a certain conclusion."

"Let's hear what it is, won't you, Ned?" Jimmy besought him.

"Yes, that is if Francois is through telling us about these parties."

"How about that, Francois?" Ned asked, turning to the voyageur.

"Eet is about all zat is worth knowing, sare. Of course, we haf learn zat zis man who is captaine to ze bunch, he is mooch pig, a giant, and zere is sooch a man I know whose name eet is Sol. Greggs; heem it might be who is conducting zis gang. He is a pad man, a thief who robbed traps many times, and so he gif me zis scar on ze cheek when we fight eet out."

"That sounds just like the kind of a rascal the syndicate would send up here to run things, if they were trying to work a tremendous swindle and expected to keep curious people from investigating," Jack boldly declared.

"But how about you telling what your plans are, Ned?" queried Frank.

"It's only fair you should know," replied the other; "so listen to what my idea is. In the first place, according to the map we have of the country up here, we believe that this supposed-to-be-wonderful mine must lie somewhere to the left of the mouth of this very river. Now it struck me that perhaps we might carry out our plans better if we hid our boats somewhere near by, and took a scout off in that direction."

"That does sound mighty sensible, Ned!" admitted Jack Bosworth, after considering the suggestion for a brief time.

"Suppose we try it," Frank added.

"One thing I like about the plan," Jimmy spoke up, "is that it will give us a chance to stretch our legs some. To tell you the truth, I'm getting tired of squatting there like a squaw in the tepee, with little or nothing to do. I like to carry out my share of the work; but you somehow seem afraid to let me paddle, just as if a reformed joker like me would be careless, or actually try to upset the old canoe. So I put my vote in as wanting to look for the mine over land."

Each of the other scouts quickly let it be known that they were in full sympathy with Ned's suddenly sprung plan. Of course, this would make some changes in their arrangements; but the more they looked it over, the better they all liked the idea.

"I'm chuckling to think how that bunch will keep on waiting for us to come down-stream," Frank observed, as they prepared to again enter the boats, since Ned did not mean to abandon the river craft until they had gone some distance further.

"There's only thing I hope won't happen," remarked Jack.

"And what might it be, if you don't mind telling?" Jimmy asked.

"We must be sure to hide our boats, so that there will be small chance of their being discovered by anybody," Jack continued, seriously. "Think what a dickens of a scrape we'd be in if we had to go back all the way afoot. It would take us many weeks, and chances are we'd be overtaken by winter before we got to civilization."

"Our ammunition wouldn't hold out that long," broke in Jimmy, visibly disturbed at the thought "and glory be, whatever would we do for grub to eat? It may be true that the rivers are full of fine trout, but me stomach would go back on me if so be I had to eat them every solitary day, week in and out."

"Oh! what would be the use of our being scouts if we didn't know how to trap animals and birds," Ned told him, reprovingly. "In fact, while, of course, I wouldn't say I'd like to have the experience, there's no doubt in my mind but that it would be a great education to the lot of us. And if we pulled through we'd feel as if we were fitted to go anywhere, under any conditions."

"Huh! after all we've experienced on our little trips," said Frank, "seems to me as if that would be only a walkover. For one, it doesn't faze me a whit. If Ned gave the word I'd start out with him to walk around the world, and with never a single cent in our pockets to begin with. Chances are we'd land back in New York inside of two years millionaires. That would be just like it. All the same I think we ought to cover our canoes, and keep them from falling into the hands of enemies. It is a pretty husky tramp from here to Montreal, and over tough country at that, with rivers to cross, and bogs miles around to avoid."

"Excuse me, if you please," muttered Jimmy, whose desire for a chance to stretch his legs did not contemplate such an extended trip as walking all the way to the metropolis on the St. Lawrence.

They were soon speeding down-stream again. Other small rapids they came upon, but none of the same dimensions as the cataract lately passed.

Jimmy was presently observed making gestures, and having drawn the attention of those in the nearby canoes to himself, he called out:

"Sure it's a connecting link with home!"

"What is?" demanded Jack.

"Be after dipping your hand over the side, and tastin' the water!" replied the scout who was in the boat with Tamasjo and Frank.

Upon doing so, Ned, who had quickly guessed what Jimmy meant, found that there was indeed a brackish taste to the water, as though the influence of the great tides of Hudson Bay might be felt this far up the stream; it would have gone much further only for the numerous rifts that told of a descent of several feet in the drop of the river.

Ned concluded that they had gone quite far enough for the present. Upon asking the voyageur, he learned that they could reach the mouth of the river inside of a couple of hours, if they chose to use their paddles in addition to the set of the now sluggish current of the widening stream.

"Keep on the watch for a suitable hiding place for the boats," he told the others, "and remember, it must be on the larboard side, because that's the way we expect to tramp in search of the wonderful copper mine."

Every one after that kept on the alert for such a place as would be suitable for the purpose to which they intended to put it. Of all the five scouts, it seemed the irony of fate that Jimmy should actually be the one to first make a discovery.

"I'm only a dub at this business, I know," he said after a while, with a grin on his freckled face, that was almost as red as his hair, thanks to the action of the summer sun and the winds they had encountered; "yes, only a tyro, so to speak; but d'ye know it strikes me that over yonder amongst the canes the canoes would lie so snug and unbeknown that nothin'd bring harm to the same, while we chanct to be awanderin' around."

Ned being close by gave one look and then laughed.

"Jimmy, I want to tell you right now," he remarked, "that if you'd only devote more of your time to scout lore you'd be a wonder. That growth of thick reeds is just a dandy place to do the business, and on the proper side of the river at that. We can push in, each following exactly in the wake of the preceding boat. Jack and myself will bring up the rear, and carefully fix the reeds again, so that no one on the river ten feet away would dream that boats had made a passage there. Head in, fellows, and pick out your way carefully, making only one track or channel."

This, those in the foremost canoe did, and close behind them came the second boat, the paddler using his blade with extreme caution, so as not to disturb the reeds more than was absolutely necessary. Finally, Jack and Ned wound up the procession, the latter kneeling in the stern of the canoe, where he could use his hands dextrously and swiftly cause the bent-over canes to resume their former position. In this fashion then they finally came to the land, still surrounded by the little wilderness of reeds, out of which they could emerge as soon as the boats were securely fastened.



Chapter VI.

On The Shore Of The Salty Sea.


"Tell me about that, will you?" remarked Jimmy, as he carefully stepped ashore; "according to my mind it was cleverly done, if I do say it that oughtn't."

You would certainly have thought the little chap had covered himself with glory, and that the success of the whole undertaking depended on him. But then the other scouts knew Jimmy from the ground up, and seldom took offense at anything he said, because they realized that much of his bragging and "joshing" did not "spring from the heart," as he naively confessed many a time.

Ned was wise enough to see that each canoe, before being abandoned there amidst the friendly rushes, was securely staked, so that it could not drift away, through the action of wind or current.

"Seems to me that is about all we have to do here," Jack remarked, after these matters had been carefully attended to.

"And the next thing on the programme is to hike out in search of a wonderful old copper mine that, chances are, doesn't exist at all outside the minds of that lot of fakirs," Frank observed; for he had never taken much stock in the alleged "proofs" shown to Jack's father by the parties who were exploiting this new and sensational discovery of amazingly rich ore.

Ned gave a last look around. He was careful at all times to make doubly sure; and, since they intended cutting loose from their boats for a while at least, he wanted to make no mistake that would cost them dearly.

"It's all right," he told his mates, "and we seem to have everything necessary. Of course we're going as light as we can, and no blankets are allowed, or tents either; but we've looked after the eating part of the game; and besides, we've got our guns, in case we have to knock over a caribou or other game to help out."

"Then say the word, governor, and we'll be beating it," Jimmy advised.

So Ned raised his hand, and made a sign that the others easily understood. In the scout language it meant "go ahead!" Even Francois and the Cree chief so interpreted the sign, for they immediately started forth.

They left the reed patch in a sinuous line, each stepping directly into the tracks of the one preceding him. In this fashion their passage caused very little disturbance amongst the "bullrushes," as Jimmy persisted in calling the thick growth. And Tamasjo, coming now in the rear, did much to smooth over the trail, so that it would take a pair of unusually keen eyes to have guessed that one or more persons had issued forth at this point.

Having left the tall reeds behind them, the little party now found the woods in front. The ground rose abruptly, and they were standing where they could have a fair view of the river.

Ned gave a last look up and down the stream. As far as he could see there was not a sign of human life in either direction, only the calm peaceful flow of water moving majestically toward the great bay that undoubtedly lay not a great distance away.

Thus they started off, Ned having arranged his plan of campaign so as to confuse the enemy, possibly awaiting their coming further down the stream.

It was no idle saunter through the Northern woods. The leader of the Wolf Patrol had conferred with Francois, and arranged matters so that they would be able to return this way when ready.

Under ordinary conditions this might be easily accomplished by using a camp hatchet, and "blazing" a tree occasionally. In this manner the pilgrim would be able to always sight a white mark ahead, and pick his way without difficulty. But for numerous reasons they did not wish to attempt this well-known method now; since it might excite the curiosity of any one chancing to run across a freshly blazed tree, causing him to start in and follow the cuts all the way to the concealed canoes.

Consequently, Francois picked out certain features of the landscape which he occasionally pointed out to Ned, who in turn impressed them on the attention of his chums.

An odd looking bunch of birches that could not be easily mistaken told them in the first place that the reed bed was only a few hundred feet away. Then, shortly afterwards, it was a rock that had the appearance of "round table," which Jimmy insisted on calling it. They jotted this down on the tablets of their memories, as the second striking feature of the trail.

So it went on. Scouts as a rule have good memories, because they have been shown early in their career when joining the organization how useful it is to be able to recollect a host of things without confusion. Indeed, one of the requisites to gaining advance marks in the patrol is the possession of this faculty. A tenderfoot will be given a chance to stand in front of a window containing hundreds of small objects, possibly connected with a hardware establishment in town. After impressing the picture on his mind, after a certain fashion for a full minute or so, he must walk away, and later on write out a list of every object he can remember.

Practicing after this manner boys have learned to widen the scope of their memories so that they become able to describe an array of things never seen before to an extent that is astonishing.

This was the practice that became valuable to Ned and his chums as soon as they started through that Canadian "bush." Each fellow began in a systematic way to make a list of the various "signs," so that when called upon to give his opinion he would be able to repeat the entire assortment, just as a sailor, forward or backward, is able to rattle off the thirty-two points of the mariner's compass.

There were many other features connected with that hike, which brought out their knowledge of scoutcraft. They noticed everything around them, as they moved along in a steady fashion. Never an arctic hare sprang up and bounded away, but the eye of every scout was instantly fastened on the little animal; and each boy mentally figured out how it must have been peaceful in this section of the woods, or that timid little creature would not have been lying asleep there, to be disturbed by their coming.

"We're heading almost due north, ain't we?" Jimmy asked, when some twenty minutes had elapsed since the start.

"About as near that as we can go," answered Ned.

"I knew it by the lay of the sun, and the way the moss hangs to one side of nearly all the trees, the northwest, where most every storm comes from," was what Jimmy went on to say, as though desirous of letting the leader know he had never forgotten valuable lessons learned long ago.

"You can tell direction from the general slant of the trees, if you notice them close enough," Jack Bosworth ventured; "because in the long run they are bound to show some deviation from a straight perpendicular, on account of these same storms. There's a good example of what I say right before you, Jimmy; that big tree standing high up above all the rest. See what I mean?"

"'Tis an easy mark you'd be taking me for, Jack, if I couldn't grab that idea and pull it down," the other remarked.

"Fact is," put in Frank, "a wide-awake scout need never get lost, if only he keeps his wits about him. I've even told direction by using my watch. And there isn't one of the bunch but who carries some sort of a compass along with him, unless Jimmy here, who forgets so many times, has left his with the duffle in the boats."

"You're off your trolley there if you think that, Frank," chuckled the scout in question, as he tapped his pocket suggestively. "I've experienced the fun of gettin' lost twice in me life, and I don't mean to ever take chances again. Goin' without a bite of grub from one sunset to the next was a lesson to me I'll not soon forget. I thought I was bound to starve to death."

"Well, let's talk less and look more," advised Ned, who knew how easily Jimmy could be drawn into an argument, or be induced to start one of his stories that concerned strange things experienced in the past.

After that they moved along almost in silence. Once in a while, Ned would think it the part of wisdom to call their attention to something that was apt to impress itself on their memories, so as to be easily recalled later on. He did this in a quiet way, for Ned disliked any show of authority. As the leader of the strange expedition into these Northern wilds, he was in complete charge of the little party; but, then, these other young fellows were boon comrades, with whom he had encountered numerous perils in times gone by, so that he hid the iron hand under the velvet glove as much as possible.

All of them could speedily see that the character of the country was gradually changing as they continued to advance. This gave Ned assurance that his theory was founded on correct lines, and that they must be drawing very near the shore of the great bay to which his mission had drawn him.

Up to now they had not discovered the first actual trace of others besides themselves in that region; though twice the Indian had hovered over half-washed-out footprints, showing that at least they were not the first ones to pass along under these trees.

Ned was all this time observing the nature of the land, with the design of making up his mind concerning the chances of rich copper deposits being found there.

It did not seem altogether unlikely, from what he knew of such things. Before he left home he had been shown all sorts of copper ore; and on the way the patrol leader had stored up in his mind many minute descriptions he had read of the famous country north of Superior, where such valuable mines were being worked. Thus, he was pretty well posted on the subject, though, of course, one who had had actual practical experience in copper mines might have put him in possession of many other useful facts.

So far as he could tell the rocks looked very like those around the Mesauba region, and samples of which he carried along with him for comparison when the proper time arrived.

If this affair were indeed a gigantic swindle, then those who were running the game had been smart enough to pick out as the field of their operations a country that at least gave outward evidences of being capable of producing a high grade of copper ore. Ned had at one time fancied the whole thing was a myth, but now he realized that the supposed owners of the new discovery had at least been on the ground. They had carefully selected their site to conform with such conditions as would at least be required, should an expert secretly visit the scene.

Ned was satisfied with the way things were working. If only he could find where the mine was located, and make his investigations secretly, without the others being aware of his presence, he believed he would have no complaint to foster.

An encounter with armed guards who would be hostile to his mission was the last thing he wanted to have happen; though, of course, should this come about he believed he could depend on his chums to give a good account of themselves. They had in the past stuck to him on many occasions through thick and thin. Not one of them but who had done his part manfully, in season and out. The record of their past achievements had been one of almost unbroken successes. He had every reason to expect that this latest enterprise would be along the same order, and that the little party of explorers might return again to the metropolis, bearing with them such a concise and complete report, that Mr. Bosworth, and those interested in the proposed new mine, would have all the information required in order to know just how to act.

Most of the scouts were by this time beginning to look ahead with the idea of being the first to discover the big water that they knew must lie near by. Ned could have undoubtedly made the discovery some time back, because he carried his field glasses slung over his shoulder, by means of a strap; but he preferred to let one of his chums enjoy the sensation.

Jimmy was craning his neck more or less, for being shorter than any of his companions he felt that he labored under a disadvantage. The growth of trees was of a nature to hide what lay beyond, yet all of them could actually feel the presence of salt water. Besides, if other evidences were lacking, their ears told them of waves running up on the shore, to gently break there; though the breeze was from a poor quarter to carry these sounds to them.

All of these lads, living in New York, were accustomed to seeing the ocean, and familiar with the "tang" that usually accompanies the presence of an arm of the sea. For weeks now they had been moving over the interior, and the prospect of sighting this Northern sea, that had ever been the home of mystery to all mariners, thrilled every boyish heart.

In the course of their various travels they had gazed upon strange scenes. Once not so very long before, fortune had been kind enough to take them to the regions of the Polar ice, in carrying out a mission entrusted to their charge; so that this would not be their first introduction to the Northern ocean. But they had heard so much about the unexplained things that took place in Hudson Bay, that one and all grew more anxious, the nearer they drew to their destination.

Ned had already made a discovery that gave him a thrill. He had found that some of the landmarks set down in the description of the wonderful mine were right before his eyes, and this fact gave him renewed confidence in his plan of campaign. The climax must be close at hand. Before many hours had passed by, he would be in a position to know the truth; whether this affair were a gigantic swindle gotten up and engineered by the combine, with the idea of loading a worthless property on Mr. Bosworth; or, actually what it claimed to be -- a rich deposit of copper ore that seemed to lie in vast quantities among the rocks above the shore of Hudson Bay, and with shipping facilities at the very door of the proposed mine.

After all it was Teddy, the explorer, who turned out to be the fortunate one fated to be the first to glimpse the water. He happened to see a small opening to one side and ahead, to which he immediately called the attention of his mates.

"There's the sun glinting on something out there, boys," was the way he put it, "that looks mighty like water to me. Yes, you can see it seems to move up and down, just like we've often seen the ocean do over Long Island way. How about it, Ned; do I count first blood?"

"It's the bay, all right, Teddy," remarked the other, quietly, after giving one look in the direction Teddy was pointing.

Five minutes later and they stood on the border of the tree line, staring out over the vast heaving salty sea that they knew must be the far-famed Hudson Bay.



Chapter VII.

The Mysterious Blur On The Horizon.


"I just thought it'd turn out to be a whopper of a yarn!" said Jimmy, frowning as if grievously disappointed all the same.

"What's that?" asked Frank.

"Why, all that tommyrot about the queer old fleet of boats that vanished right before your eyes, and then bobbed up somewhere else, like a flock of submarines, or a school of blooming porpoises," returned the disgusted one.

At that Jack laughed.

"Why, it sounds like Jimmy really believed the whole thing," he remarked; "and has been expecting the mysterious fleet at anchor the very minute he glimpsed Hudson Bay."

"But I did expect to hit on something different from this," said Jimmy. "Somebody, tell me, would you please, what's so remarkable about this thing? I've seen many a stretch of salt water that looked just like it, shore line and all."

"Why not?" observed Ned; "I never thought we'd find Hudson Bay country any different from other Northern lands. There are the same trees, moss-covered rocks, peculiar sedge grass, and the like. But don't be so quick to jump at conclusions, Jimmy. Give me half a chance to take a look through my field glasses here, and perhaps I can tell you something interesting."

With those words Ned unslung the glasses, and adjusted the same to his eyes. The others of the party, standing there knee-deep in the rank grass that grew along the border of the woods, watched him with renewed interest. They even forgot about the wild fowl that were sporting in flocks out where the waves broke upon a line of rocks, with a subdued roar.

Carefully did Ned train his powerful field-glasses on a certain part of the horizon. Looking in that quarter some of the others began to rub their eyes.

"Seems to me there is something there," remarked Frank, straining his eyes in the endeavor to make sure.

"It may be a low-lying cloud on the water-line of the horizon," Teddy added.

"Anyhow, it's too far away for us to tell with the naked eye," Jack announced; "and so we'll have to depend on Ned to give us the information."

Just then the leader lowered the glasses.

"Take a look for yourself, Jack," he said; and there was a slight smile on his face while speaking, that told of a discovery of some sort.

While Jack was fixing the glasses to suit his needs, for everybody's eyes are not just alike, Jimmy was trying to make use of his doubled-up hands in order to help his vision.

"'Tis meself that believes it's smoke!" he declared, with animation.

"How about it, Jack?" demanded Teddy.

The one indicated did not keep them in suspense needlessly.

"Yes, Jimmy hit the bull's-eye that time," he remarked.

"Then it is smoke?" queried Frank.

"Not only that, but I can make out what seem to be a number of small objects that must be vessels of some sort," Jack went on to say.

"The disappearing fleet!" gasped Jimmy.

"Well, they haven't skipped out of sight yet," continued Jack, chuckling as he handed the glasses over to Frank to have a try.

In turn all of them took a look, and no one found reason to differ from what Jack had ventured to declare in the beginning. They were, without question, looking then and there on the clump of boats about which there had been so much talk made. Of course, at that distance there was no way of finding out the character of the several boats, or more than guess at what they were doing, away out from the shore.

"Strikes me that it might be some queer sort of mirage, like that you sometimes see on the sandy desert." Teddy suggested, after he had gazed intently at the picture for a full minute through the lenses of the field-glasses.

"Oh! they have the same sort of deception at sea," declared Jack; "only sailors call it the fata morgana. When you're on the desert, it generally takes the form of a lovely running stream of water, which you're crazy to reach and suck up. But the shipwrecked tar always sees a vessel coming to his relief, which keeps on rushing through the water, right up over reef and everything and disappears over the island leaving him broken-hearted at the deception caused by conditions in the atmosphere."

Jack knew considerable about these things, for he had been in strange lands, even before he took to roaming around with Ned, when the latter entered the employ of the Government Secret Service.

"All you say is true enough, Jack," the patrol leader told him, "but in this case it isn't a deception. All of us can see the smoke hanging low down, that tells of steam vessels of some type out there, possibly trawlers, fishing. But we didn't enlist in this business intending to solve any riddles connected with Hudson Bay. I've been told that there is no place in Northern latitudes where so many strange stories have originated, as this same big sheet of salt water. Four-fifths of it have never been fully explored, so that they do not yet know what may be here."

Jimmy had been silent while all this talk was going on. But it could be readily believed that his restless mind was not inactive. He proved this by suddenly nodding his head, and looking up at Ned in that shrewd way he had of doing, whenever a particularly brilliant idea appealed to him.

"Chances are they're a blooming bad lot, that's what," he went on to say, as if he meant every word of it. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they turned out to be bloody pirates after all."

"Oh! perhaps Captain Kidd and his men come back to life again, eh, Jimmy?" suggested Teddy, with a laugh.

Jimmy turned and gave the speaker a scornful look.

"Think you're smart to get that off on me, don't you, Teddy?" he remarked; "but how're you goin' to prove that it ain't even as bad as that? Don't they say this here fleet comes and goes like ghosts of the past? Mebbe they are the spirits of Kidd, Blackbeard, Morgan, Lafitte, and all that gay crowd of buccaneers that flourished in the early days of our country. Supposin' I said I believed that way, it'd be up to you to prove me wrong, wouldn't it? Let's see you do it. Call 'em up on the wireless limited or the telephone and interview the commodore. Bah! don't be so quick to poke fun at everybody that's got an idea you happen to think stretched. I'll even say that I've got half a sneakin' notion that it might be old Kidd himself, come back to see how the pickings are these fine days."

When Jimmy showed this fighting disposition the others were generally careful not to knock the chip off his shoulder. He had acquired habits when living on the Bowery long ago as a bootblack that could not be easily shaken off; though any one formerly acquainted with Jimmy would never have recognized him nowadays.

"It would be worth coming all the way up here if we could run across something like that, wouldn't it now?" remarked Jack, trying to look sober. "Think of how we could take the breath away from the rest of the troop at home, when we told them of meeting up with a lot of those old huskies, we've all read about in history. Jimmy's been devouring one of Clark Russell's stories, 'The Frozen Pirate,' while on the train coming through Canada, and that's what makes him think of that crowd. But as we haven't any boats, and the smoke keeps on hanging miles away, likely enough we won't get any chance to know what kind of men are aboard those vessels out yonder."

"Besides," put in Ned, "we mustn't forget that we've got some serious business on hand of a different character from looking up pirates. Land sharks are enough for me to tackle just now. I'm wondering whether we'll be lucky enough to find where this mine is located near here. Once we get on the track of that and things are likely to warm up a bit."

"Then I reckon we'll just have to comb the whole country roundabout, so as to learn what's what," suggested Jack, always a hard one to give up anything on which he had set his mind.

"The sooner we begin that job the better," added Frank, anxious to be doing something that would count.

That was the way with these energetic fellows. Whenever they had a charge committed to their care, they were eager to get it moving. Ned often had to hold them in check, for fear lest they show too much ambition.

He looked around in the endeavor to decide which direction they had better choose, in order to seek traces of the working which was marked on the map so plainly. It was given such prominence that one might easily believe he would find all manner of shafts, sunk, with machinery throbbing busily, and scores of brawny miners hard at work, bringing out the rich deposit of copper ore.

Ned, however, did not deceive himself into such a belief. He had had some little experience with stories of this type, and knew the vast difference between the reality and the wonderful things prospective sellers were apt to mark upon the maps they had prepared. These usually described things as they might appear in case all went well, and the mine turned out a splendid success.

So far as indications went, Ned believed that they would have a better chance of success, if they turned abruptly to the left and made up the shore. At least, the character of the rocky country favored this idea. As far as he could see, it grew more and more inviting, looked at from the viewpoint of a miner, or a prospector for precious minerals.

The others were watching him closely. They guessed something of the nature of what must be passing through Ned's mind, for both Jack and Teddy followed his gaze up the uneven shore. Jimmy had the glasses again, and was busily engaged in scrutinizing the blur on the distant horizon, which all of them had agreed must be smoke hovering close to the water. Perhaps he half-believed the fanciful suggestion made by Teddy, with reference to Captain Kidd, and was wildly hoping to discover some positive sign that would stamp this fairy story with truth. All the previous adventures that had befallen himself and chums would sink into utter insignificance, could they go back home and show evidences of having made such a romantic discovery up there in the Hudson Bay country.

"See the feather they say he always wore in his hat, Jimmy?" asked Frank.

"Nothing doin' yet that way," replied the other, without allowing even the ghost of a smile to appear on his freckled face; "so if you please, we'll let the matter drop for the time bein'. Who knows what may happen before we get back to New York? 'Tis a great old country, so they say, for all sorts of queer things to crop up. You needn't be surprised at anything here, they tell me. And I've made up me mind to take it as it comes, and not let anything faze me. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Teddy."

"And I'm wondering," mused the one particularly addressed, "what that ancient but bold explorer, Hendrick Hudson, said when he had sailed all the way around this great bay, and found that it was after all a land-locked arm of the sea. When he first entered it, history tells us he had great hopes that he had found what Columbus was searching for when he made his western voyage, a way of reaching the East Indies by a water route. It must have been a keen disappointment when Hendrick had to turn north, and then east again, always fended off by the land."

Ned had by now determined that they ought to turn to the left in continuing the forward movement. He next looked for some landmark, by means of which on their return that they might know just where they should plunge into the woods, so as to follow their trail back to where the precious canoes were secreted.

As though he found nothing in the arrangement of the shore or the trees themselves to stamp it different from other places, Ned stooped down and placed several stones upon each other at the foot of a stunted oak.

That was an old trick among the scouts. Many such a stone cairn had they fashioned when playing some game of fox and geese, to serve as a sign to those who were following in their wake.

"We ought to see this, and remember that it tells us where we struck the beach," he explained to his chums, as he rose up again after completing his work.

Both guides had been watching what he did with more or less interest. Of course, they understood that the scouts had learned many of the ways practiced by woodsmen, for by now the real meaning of the khaki uniforms worn by the boys had been fully grasped by Francois and the Cree; though for a long time they had had hard work to understand why Ned and his chums were not to be looked upon as soldiers.

"Zere ees nozzing better zan a pile of stones to mark ze way," admitted the voyageur. "I haf myself used zat many times. But be sure zat you notice other things besides. It may be, an enemy he move ze stones some ozzer place, and if zat be so you all get twist up when you try to come back."

Ned nodded, as though he had already covered this ground.

"I had thought of that very same thing, Francois," he said, "and see, here is where I made a little gash in the trunk of the tree. I expected to look for that on the return trip. If I failed to find it I should understand there was something gone wrong."

"Zat ees well, sare; ze one who gets ze better of you must wake up early in ze morning, I am think!" he said softly, but in a way that told he meant every word.

"So say we all of us," added Jack.

"Ned generally looks out for snags!" Frank declared.

"We'd have met up with many a wreck only for his watchfulness," came from Teddy.

Jimmy did not like to be left out when there was any exchange of sentiments. He had a great admiration for the gifts of Ned Nestor, and wanted every one to understand what his sentiments were. So he started to open his mouth to say something, when Ned lifted a hand and gave a low sibilant hiss.

"'Sh! don't say anything more, but drop down in this grass and lie low; because I'm sure I heard voices right then, also a husky cigarette cough. Down it is, boys!"

He set them a good example by dropping flat and hugging the ground. They had at the time been standing more than knee deep in lush grass that grew beyond the woods, and where the salt water never reached, save in flying spray possibly. All that was necessary, therefore, in order to conceal themselves, was to fall on their knees and then straighten out at full length. Even the two guides did this same thing, for they must have caught the sound of approaching voices at about the same time Ned Nestor did.



Chapter VIII.

Two Kinds Of Woodcraft.


All of them lay there motionless. Long practice in this trick had made the boys almost perfect. What they had learned in play when in camp came into good service under other and more strenuous conditions, as is often the case. No boy can ever tell when the information he picks up day by day as a scout may prove a valuable asset, determining some knotty problem he faces.

As Ned had said, the sound of voices could be plainly heard now. It came in the shape of a murmur that differed from the noise of the fretting sea near by. And no doubt each scout made up his mind that it must be carried to their ears with the breeze, which, coming from almost behind them, would indicate that the unknown parties were advancing from that quarter.

Louder grew the sounds. Then there was a plain rustling of the undergrowth; and when Jack cautiously raised his head just a little, he was enabled to glimpse a trio of men standing there on the border of the wood, looking seaward.

Perhaps they, too, had seen the far-distant blur that marked the position of the mysterious fleet, and were exchanging comments about it. None of the concealed boys could say as to this, because, while they could hear the murmur of their heavy voices, it was next to impossible to make out more than a word here and there.

One thing pleased Ned very much. When he first noted the direction from whence these three rough men had come, he feared lest they may have run upon the trail of his party and were following the same. He now knew that in so far as this was concerned his fears were without foundation, and that the strangers did not dream of others being in the near vicinity.

One seemed to be the boss of the lot. He was an unusually big man, with a way of striking his fist into the palm of his other hand that told of authority. His face was covered with a heavy black beard that gave him a sinister appearance. Indeed, as Jack admitted to himself, put this man in some of the queer garments of the old times, when Kidd flourished along the Atlantic seacoast, and he would make an ideal buccaneer. His face was cruel, his manner that of a tyrant, and besides he seemed to be carrying a whole arsenal of weapons around with him.

Jimmy lay there, with his neck stretched to a fearful extent, for he was bound to see whatever was going on around him. He was possibly sizing this giant up, and trying to decide in his own mind, whether the dead ever do come back to revisit the scenes of their long-past triumphs and struggles; and if so, could this man with the hair all over his face be the noted Blackbeard?

Just then Ned gave a low signal. It was only the chirp of a cricket, and might pass unnoticed by any one not in the secret; but Jack and the other three scouts understood what it meant.

Ned was warning them to be careful and duck their heads again, because he fancied the men were about to start their way.

Hardly had the boys flattened themselves out again, than they heard the crunch of passing footsteps. It was lucky that the three strangers chose to pass by on the beach, as the walking was better there than close to the trees. Because of this fact the presence of the concealed adventurers was not discovered; and to their satisfaction the party passed by.

Each scout had gripped his gun, as he shut his jaws hard together, under the belief that discovery was very close. Had it come they would be compelled to spring out and try to hold up the trio of desperate looking characters. Such men will, as a rule, manifest a disposition to fight "at the drop of the hat;" and Ned, therefore, was just as well satisfied to see their backs. They were not up there to do any fighting if it could possibly be avoided. The rules of the organization to which they belonged positively forbade their seeking trouble along such lines; though allowing scouts the privilege of defending themselves if attacked, and there seemed to be no honorable way of escaping without a fight.

"What's the next word, governor?" whispered Jimmy, his voice trembling with the nervous tension.

The men had by now gone far enough along the beach to prevent any chance of low conversation being overheard; though Ned kept on the alert all the while, lest by some mischance there might others come along, who would take them by surprise.

"We must follow them up," said Ned, without hesitation.

"Not out on the open beach, of course, when the woods are handy?" observed Jack.

"Move back into shelter, and we'll get busy," the leader told them.

Stooping so as to run less risk of being seen, in case one of the men happened to turn his head from any reason, the little party of seven hardy souls again entered among the trees.

They did not linger, because the men were making up the shore at a fair rate of speed, and they did not wish to lose track of them.

While no one had taken the trouble to ask Ned what his plan of campaign might be, they saw indications all around to give them a pretty good idea as to what he hoped to gain by thus following in the wake of the three strangers.

The men looked like hard cases, of that all the scouts were determined. One had the appearance of a miner; a second wore moccasins and was dressed after the manner of a woodsman, possibly a trapper, Indian trader, or something in the line of a hunter; while the big man struck Jack as a logger, or a timber cruiser, one of those spies who roam far and wide seeking new investments for some lumber company, or else a chance to steal valuable Government timber that is unwatched.

In talking matters over the comrades had made up their minds that these types represented the class of men they might expect to find gathered in this region, paid by the money of the mine syndicate, and ready to carry out the will of the swindlers, if such the operators proved to be.

As before, the guides led the way. Both men had taken a great fancy to Ned and his lively chums, and in case any trouble developed, as the result of their venture into this unknown country, Francois and Tamasjo might be counted on as ready and willing to back the boys up to the limit.

They pushed resolutely on, across fallen trees, through tangled thickets, and even climbing over rocks that lay in the way. The men ahead knew what they were about in choosing the beach to make their advance.

Often partly out of breath, with the effort to keep a certain distance behind those they were pursuing, the scouts pressed on. Jimmy seemed to have a harder time than any of the others, but then that was nearly always the way; for if there was any hole to flounder into, or thorny thicket to get stuck in, Jimmy could be depended on to do his share of the adventure. Not that he purposely chose to get mixed up in all these skirmishes with unpleasant things; but he was one of those unlucky chaps whose blundering feet so often led him into a peck of troubles.

It would have taken much more than this to have discouraged Jimmy, however. He was made of stubborn material. Difficulties played fast and loose with him, but they never daunted the boy, who would only close those firm jaws of his more tightly than ever, and say that "after fifty-nine comes sixty," and if he had to go to twice that number he'd get there in the end.

One good thing about all this hustle, was the fact that, as Jimmy found himself, for the most part in the rear, he could not make any excuse to start in talking, because he did not dare call out, after what Ned had said.

They could hear him muttering savagely to himself every time a root tripped him up, or he found a swinging vine trying to lift him off his feet by means of his neck. That was a small matter, because, of course, Jimmy had to have some way of letting off superfluous steam, and it really did no harm.

Ned looked around quite frequently. He did not wish Jimmy to get into any serious trouble, because, in spite of his weakness for blundering, the McGraw boy was a faithful companion, who could always be depended on to stick to his friends, no matter what threatened. And he and Ned had seen some pretty lively times all told, in times gone by. This association in peril does more to cement the bonds of real friendship than anything else known. And that was why Ned wanted Jimmy along on this trip, also why he kept a wary eye out after the safety of the other.

Now and then Francois would step aside. On these occasions they knew he was making sure that the two men were still going on ahead, and had not either halted or turned aside into the rocky shore recesses.

They had kept up this sort of thing for nearly half an hour, and some of the boys were secretly telling themselves they had about reached the limit of their endurance, when Francois made motions with his hands to tell them that some sort of change had occurred since last he took an observation.

"Say, they're gone!" muttered Jimmy, coming up just then; and from the mystified look on his face, one would half believe he thought the men had taken wings and flown away, or else the ground had opened up and swallowed them; for a fellow who could put the least shred of faith in the reincarnation of Captain Kidd, dead for several centuries, would believe anything, Teddy privately told himself.

"Did they turn aside and enter the woods, Francois?" questioned Ned, at the same time holding up a warning finger toward Jimmy, by this means seeking to remind him they were in no position to enter into any discussion.

"Zat iss what zey haf do," replied the French Canadian voyageur, promptly.

"You don't think they're lying low to wait for us -- that it is a trap?" continued the patrol leader.

"Zere iss no reason to zink so," answered Francois. "I do not belief zey haf see us; and if not, zen why lay trap? But it iss always better to be sure zat ze road it be clear; so let ze chief heem go on and find trail."

It was a good suggestion. None could do that duty quite so well as the red brother, even though those boys had learned many bright things in connection with woodcraft, since joining the ranks of the scouts. They hardly felt like being able to enter into competition with a son of the forest, who from infancy had been taught in the wide fields of actual experience what they had of late been learning, partly from crude theory.

"Go on ahead, Tamasjo, and find the trail," said Ned to the waiting Cree.

"Find same, give blue-jay cry," Tamasjo told them; and it was so rarely he ever spoke at all, that the other scouts had to smile and nod to each other; for Jimmy had on one occasion even gone so far as to declare his belief that the Indian must be a genuine "dummy" and unable to articulate at all, which, of course, was not true.

They waited for him there, being in no particular hurry. If the trail of the three men could be picked up that was all they wanted. They could hardly have ventured to keep on the heels of those men through the woods, where sounds might be carried to their ears that would put them on the alert, and bring about a sudden climax, perhaps a battle royal.

The Cree vanished from their sight. So silently did he go that afterwards the scouts exchanged views concerning the way in which he had done it; nor could they fully understand how he could move deftly along, without making the least sound.

But Tamasjo had been born and bred in the woods, and did not have to overcome the barriers that civilization hampers its votaries with. He had learned all he knew from watching the creeping wildcat leap upon its prey; or else observing how the hungry wolf followed the wounded deer over hill and through valley.

He had not been gone more than five minutes, when they plainly heard the angry discordant note of the blue-jay.

"That means everything is lovely, and the goose hangs high," muttered Jimmy, not daring to speak much above a whisper, while he saw Ned keeping a wary eye in his direction.

The leader at once gave the signal for an immediate advance, and the entire party started off. Even then, Ned and Francois, possibly Jack also, turned from side to side, determined that they should not be taken by surprise through any shrewd trick played by the men they had been tracking.

Upon coming up with the dusky son of the Northern forests, they were assured by him in a breath that all was well, and that the strangers had swung directly into the woods, following what seemed to be a well-beaten trail. This told the story, and went far to convince Ned that they had nothing to fear just then through discovery by these parties.

So the Indian, backed by the other guide, was put on the trail. The boys could have followed this with utmost ease, and even Jimmy would have found little real trouble in keeping to that broad track.

Every once in so often, Tamasjo would stop, to get down close to the ground. His actions excited the deepest curiosity of Jimmy, who, pulling Ned's head close down to his own lips, asked softly:

"Now, what in the mischief is the feller doin' when he stoops low like that? If you asked me, I'd say he was smellin' of the tracks of the three men; but since when was a heathen Injun given a scent like a hound, tell me, Ned."

"If you watch closer, Jimmy," replied the other scout, "you'll see that each time he bends down he is watching some blade of grass spring back to place; or else a small root that has been pressed down under the foot of that giant righting itself again. He can read those signs like a book. They tell him accurately just how long ago the foot pressed that root or blade of grass down. And so he knows what time has elapsed since the enemy passed along here."

"Gee! it would take me a week to learn that sort of readin' signs," Jimmy confessed; and Teddy, who was close enough to catch all that passed, snickered as he muttered, as though talking to himself:

"A week? Just one little stretch of seven days? Huh! you mean a year, rather."

Winding in and out in this way, the party bore deeper into the woods. The trail led among the rocks that were now piled up on every hand. Ned, on hastily examining some of these he passed, was forced to admit that at least they bore all the "ear-marks" of containing copper. If the syndicate had engineered a big swindle, at least, they must be given credit for picking out a likely site for a mine.

But there was Tamasjo pointing ahead, and giving his young employer to understand that they had arrived at the end of the broad trail leading from the shore of Hudson Bay into this wild stretch of rocky territory.



Chapter IX.

"Salting" The Mine.


The Cree Indian showed by his manner that there was need of great care in advancing any further. When the boys came creeping up to where he crouched, they understood the meaning of his gestures of warning.

Smoke was rising, and they could see a number of dingy tents grouped in a depression among the rocks. Evidently it was a camp of some sort, though just then besides the three men they had tracked there hardly seemed to be anybody around.

It was plain enough to Ned why this should be so, for he remembered about the dozen men who had spent the preceding night at the river camp, waiting for the coming of the canoes with the explorers. Those parties undoubtedly belonged here, and were even now in hiding further down the river, intending to play some prearranged scheme, with the idea of either frightening the scouts off, or else hoodwinking the investigators in some fashion.

"Ginger! but that was a good move of yours, Ned, to think of quitting the boats and coming across lots to find the old mine," said Frank, in a voice that could not be heard ten feet away.

The miners' camp was located on a brawling stream that came noisily down the rough face of the rocks. This created more or less racket, so that there was small danger of any hostile ears discovering the intruders through any sound they were likely to make.

"I second the motion," added Jack. "Think how neat we left the crowd in the lurch, and now we've found where the opening of this wonderful mine is, we can take a look in, while the bunch is waiting for us to drop down the river."

"That's what I meant to do when I started on this flank movement," Ned assured them. "And I only hope we'll be able to learn all we want, before the main lot make a change of base. It wouldn't be nice to have them come tumbling in on us while we were inside the workings -- if there is any hole in the ground at all."

"I reckon we'll find there is, all right," said Jack, confidently.

"Why d'ye say that, Jack?" asked Jimmy, who never allowed an opportunity to quiz his chums pass by unimproved.

"Because I can see where a heap of rock has been dumped down a slide, so chances are they've been doing some little work up here, enough to make a showing, in case a party is sent up to investigate before buying shares," was what Jack explained.

"You're right there," admitted Teddy, as he took another look toward the side of the rocky hill close to the tent colony; "and after they'd opened up the mine, it wouldn't be a hard job to shoot it, I should think."

"What's that, shoot the mine, do you say?" asked Jimmy.

"Oh! that's only a term they use in mining countries when dishonest men want to salt a mine, so as to deceive a prospective customer. Some say they shoot gold or copper ore into crevices, where it will be taken out later and shown."

At this point Ned gave them to understand that it was no time to enter into any discussion concerning the methods of conducting frauds in mining. They had work before them, and had better be about it without any more delay, since there could be no telling at what time the absent men might show up. Once they returned to the camp, of course, the chances of the scouts accomplishing much began to dwindle enormously.

From where they lay, screened by some thin brush, the scouts were able to observe the ground, and Ned could form his plan of campaign. He never wasted much time when his hand had been placed to the plow. Following the line of loose rock that had undoubtedly been carried out of some working in the hillside, he believed he could settle on the exact position of the opening.

They would have to make a detour and approach from above. Here it was to be hoped they would find enough cover to enable them to make what Jimmy called a "grand sneak" into the mouth of the mine.

In as few words as possible Ned explained this to the others, as they clustered around him, hanging upon his every word. Jimmy could hardly be restrained from hurrying off at once, so anxious did he seem to get started. But when Ned took hold of his assistant's arm, and gave him one of those looks which Jimmy knew so well, the little fellow subsided immediately.

"Oh! I'm on to the curves, all right, Ned, sure I am," he hastened to mutter. "I want to scratch gravel as soon as anybody else, but I'm not going to get off my base while the other feller's got the ball, not much. My place is to follow wherever you lead; and I understand my business too, believe me."

They crawled back some little distance, until there seemed to be a good chance to climb the hillside without being discovered. Now and then the Indian, who led the column again, would pause to take his bearings, and cast a quick, apprehensive look all around him. Plainly, Tamasjo did not mean to forfeit the confidence which he knew the young white commander placed in his ability as a cautious guide.

When they had gone far enough along the side of the rough hill, made up for the most part of rocks that the Cree led them around as a rule, rather than to attempt to scale them at the risk of being seen, they once more changed their course, and headed to strike the place where all that loose stone had come from.

A signal from Ned caused the other four scouts to take particular notice of what they were coming to. It was certainly a black opening among the rocks, with all the signs of a mine before it, even to some discarded picks and shovels lying in confusion close by.

They could just see the tent colony below. Some of the boys were anxious to get inside that opening, so as to find out what its secret might be; Ned, however, did not wholly like the looks of things.

"I wish I knew where those three men had gone," he muttered so that Jack heard, and looked at him inquiringly.

"Why, what's gone wrong now?" he inquired.

"Those men we tracked here have disappeared since we started to pass around the camp," said the other. "I've been looking to get a glimpse of them, and so far without any success."

"H'm! so much the better," whispered Jimmy, who was, of course, hovering near, anxious to know everything that was going on. "I must say I didn't like their looks, and particularly old Blackbeard. He had an iron jaw and a scowl that would send a cold chill to your heart. Oh! if they've gone away, let's laugh in our sleeves. I'd call it a good riddance of very bad rubbish."

"And so far as I'm concerned," added Frank, "I wouldn't drop a single tear if the whole shooting match of rascals dropped into Hudson Bay, and couldn't swim a stroke."

"What's to pay, Ned?" persisted Jack, who knew that the other would not feel the way he did without some good cause.

"It's only this," continued the leader of the explorers, "we're bound to enter the mine, now that we've come so many hundred miles, just to find out the truth. Well, if those men are in there working, we stand a chance of running across the lot, and that would spell trouble, you know."

"For them, yes," remarked Jimmy, as he fondled the repeating rifle he was carrying so proudly.

"Well," admitted Jack, "seems to me that we'll have to take the chances. We certainly don't mean to throw up the sponge, when we're so near the end of the race."

"I should say not!" breathed Teddy, who had considerable pugnacity in his makeup, although not really what you would call a fighter, like Jimmy.

"What's the use hanging around here, when that black opening invites us to come on in?" Jimmy wanted to know.

"We'd better carry out our scheme, and trust to luck to see us through," Frank gave as his opinion.

Ned saw that all of his chums were apparently of one mind. Really, he himself had not the least idea of backing down; his only thought had been to consider what they were likely to run across, so as to be prepared, like true scouts.

"You are all right," he observed, "and while we don't want to run up against any new trouble, we mustn't let that stand in our way. Francois, you and the chief lead off. And remember, everybody, to get down low enough, so that you can't see a single tent. That's the only way to make sure that some one in their camp won't see us."

Jimmy nodded his head, as if pleased that they did not mean to back down; though he should have known Ned better than to suspect the other of timidity.

The two guides started for the opening, with the rest trailing after them, so that the column looked very much like a long snake in motion.

Of course, every fellow felt his nerves on edge with apprehension. It was impossible to foretell what might happen. For all they knew, the three men may have suspected that they had been followed, and were now laying a clever trap, in order to take the explorers off their guard.

As they drew closer to the yawning mouth of the mine among the rocks, Jimmy fancied that he saw a slight movement there. He could not make sure, nor did he find it possible to prove his suspicion, and on this account dared not try to attract the attention of Ned.

Perhaps, after all it was only some loose stone falling, or a small animal brushing past, that had caught his eye. While Jimmy thus reassured his rapidly beating heart, and gripped his gun with feverish zeal; at the same time, he breathed a sigh of relief after they had really gained the shelter of the grim opening, and there was no wild crash of guns, or hoarse demand for their surrender, with threats of terrible consequences in case of refusal.

And now they were sheltered by the mouth of the mine, so that they felt more confident of being able to take care of themselves, in case anything violent came to pass.

Ned, always on the alert to notice things, saw at once that the opening was partly natural. It looked as though the men who claimed to have made this wonderful discovery of rich copper-bearing quartz had also found a fissure in the rocks splendidly fitted for their purposes, since it allowed them to pass far into the side of the hill before they were compelled to blast and hew passages.

So much for a starter, Ned thought. He was taking note of all such things, thinking to incorporate them in his report. Although they might seem trifling in a way, he realized that they would have considerable bearing in settling the matter with Mr. Bosworth, and those associated with him in the big company that proposed to purchase a controlling interest in these new mines, should the report seem favorable.

The next thing was to pass into the mine.

Ned had come well prepared for this venture. Just as he and his chums carried guns with which to defend themselves in case of an attack -- just as he had produced field-glasses when they were sorely needed -- in the same way the scouts now had a clever means at hand for lighting their road, once they left the sunlight behind them.

Not only Ned, but every one of the five, produced a splendid little pocket searchlight. Extra batteries were also carried, so that they need not worry over the possibility of the power giving out at a critical moment.

The two guides were evidently well pleased when they saw this display of illumination; though they must have known something about it before then. Ned concluded that there was really no need of so much light, which would only add to the danger of discovery. One light, or two at most, would give them ample means for seeing the way, and avoiding any pitfalls.

Accordingly he asked the others to shut off their batteries and follow him. Now that the guides had done their part in bringing the party into the mine, Ned meant to resume his natural place in the van, as the leader of the expedition.

As they moved along it was seen that very little labor had been required thus far to make an opening quite large enough for all practical purposes. The mass of rock that lay in the dump outside was probably ore that showed signs of being valuable. It was intended to impress any one with an exalted idea of the fabulous richness of the discovery, and had doubtless been well planted for that purpose.

Ned stopped every little while to examine the walls close by. He was looking for signs of unusual wealth, because the company owning the mine had declared in no uncertain way that even the sides of the passages were rich, beyond all conception, in copper.

His examinations thus far did not justify such extravagant terms of description. There were to be sure signs of the mineral in the rock, and possibly in quantities that might have paid for mining under ordinary conditions; but when the vast distance from civilization was taken into consideration, there would be nothing in the business, unless ore at least three times more sustaining were shown.

More and more was Ned coming to the conclusion that the affair was a gigantic swindle, and that the company which Mr. Bosworth headed was in for a grand plucking, unless warned in time. These men were playing for high stakes, and squandering lots of money, fully expecting to recoup themselves a dozen times.

The boys had been moving along in this leisurely fashion for possibly five minutes, and so far nothing had occurred to break the monotony. Ned had even begun to fancy that the inspection of the wonderful copper lode was going to be an easy matter when, as they started to turn a bend in the passage, he made a discovery that caused him to instantly press the button of his hand electric light, causing darkness to instantly surround them.

This gave them an opportunity for observing the movements of several men who by the light of lanterns seemed to be busily working a short distance ahead.

Even though the illumination did not seem very good, all of the scouts could see that these were the trio of miners whom they had tracked from the shore of the bay.

"Whatever are they doing, Ned?" whispered the irrepressible Jimmy, apparently greatly perplexed by the strange actions of the men who, unconscious of the fact that they were being watched, continued their labors.

"They are hurrying to do just what I said they might," Ned replied, also in the lowest of tones. "Perhaps the order has gone out to get things ready for us, in case we managed to slip by the river guard and arrived here unexpectedly. In other words, Jimmy, they are salting the mine with rich copper ore!"



Chapter X.

Scout Tactics.


"Gee! that ought to settle the business!" breathed Jimmy, as he continued to stare at the three workers.

These men seemed as busy as beavers, passing from crevice to crevice, and managing in some way to insert what were very likely pieces of rich copper ore, brought from some distant and well-known mine, for the purpose of deceiving any one sent up to inspect this new venture.

Ned himself felt that he could have no better evidence of fraud than was exhibited in the actions of these laborers. He knew that if this scene was incorporated in his report, it would sound the doom of the intended big deal, whereby a million, perhaps many of them, was to pass into the hands of the swindlers.

And knowing this, Ned was also aware of the fact that should the employees of the company running the game learn that the scouts had actually been inside the mine, and watched its being so beautifully "salted," they would realize that desperate tactics must be employed in order to silence the spies.

That might mean either their speedy dispatch, or being kept prisoners in that region so far away from civilization until the deal had been put through, and the vast amount of cash changed hands.

He could easily enough imagine these desperate scoundrels making him sign a glowing report declaring that the property was fabulously rich. Plainly, then, it would be greatly to the advantage of the scouts to get out of the mine without being discovered.

"Well, do we go on and see what the fellows have to say for themselves?" asked Frank, chafing under the delay.

"If we have to do that, please let me take care of old Blackbeard, Ned," urged Jimmy, who seemed to have taken an especial dislike toward the giant, whom he had been comparing with the old-time pirate.

"We'll back out!" said Ned, shortly.

"Seem to have seen enough, eh?" Jack whispered, with a little vein of disappointment back of his words, just as though he had really been hoping they might see some lively action, while up in this "neck of the woods."

"When your father learns about this job, he'll want to throw up his hands and wash them of the whole business," the other assured him.

"Then it's no use going deeper," admitted Jack.

Of course, all this conversation was carried on very cautiously. No one dared to raise his voice above the softest sort of whisper; and usually spoke directly into the ear of the chum he wanted to address. On this account, the workers not far away did not suspect the presence of interlopers, or that their actions were being carefully noted.

Ned managed to let the two guides know that it was now up to the party to execute a masterly retreat. If they could quit the mine as easily as they had entered, it would be a big feather in their caps.

All of them were immediately in motion, and after the bend in the passage had been negotiated they could once more use a light. As before, Ned brought his means of illumination into service, and guided by the soft white glow ahead, that showed up all inequalities of the path, they set out for the exit.

They had gone perhaps half-way, when Ned stopped to listen. All of them could hear what had come to his ears. Shouts without were sounding the alarm. Plainly, something must have occurred to excite the few who had been in the tented settlement. Perhaps after all some one witnessed their entrance to the mine, and had hurried to the camp with the news. There were two or three men there, as Ned had noted before; and these were now trying to communicate their discovery to the three miners engaged in "salting" the works.

There seemed to be only one course open to the scouts, and this was to make all haste possible to attain the exit. Here, they might sally forth, and by taking advantage of the confusion cause the few guards to disperse, by firing a volley over their heads.

This plan flashed into the head of the young leader of the explorers, as he listened to the shouts that were ringing forth.

"Hurry along, fellows!" he urged his companions, knowing only too well the value of prompt action in a case like this. "We must rush the opening, and scatter that howling bunch like wolves. Shoot to frighten, then if that doesn't work, try to cut them in the legs. Understand?"

They all answered in the affirmative, even Jimmy showing that he had caught the idea. And bent upon carrying it out, without the loss of even a second, the party pressed forward eagerly.

Just for another minute, and then they met with a sudden surprise, that came as unexpectedly as lightning might from a clear sky.

As though some giant hand had brushed them all over into a heap, so the five scouts and their two husky guides were sent headlong to the rocks, some of them receiving bumps that would prove more or less painful later on.

There was no mystery about the matter, because accompanying their upset had come a loud explosion that sounded doubly severe to them, since they were underground.

Plainly the conspirators had looked far enough ahead to make ready to entomb any prowling visitors who might succeed in gaining access to the mine, and learn something of its secrets. They had a charge of blasting powder, or possibly a dynamite cartridge, placed so that it could be fired with ease.

"Wow!" exclaimed Jimmy, struggling half erect, "who hit me with that brick?"

"What happened, Ned?" asked Teddy, almost dazed from the way his head had collided with a hard rock, causing him to see about a million flashing stars in that one second of time.

"They've fired some sort of explosive, to seal up the exit of the mine!" broke from Jack, who was quick to guess the appalling truth.

"Then we're shut up here like rats in a trap, is that it?" persisted Jimmy, now so astonished that he even forgot to rub the back of his head where the seat of the pain seemed to be located.

"I don't know," said Ned, "but we can soon settle that by pushing on."

"What if another bomb lets go?" Teddy inquired.

"Small danger of that happening," the leader assured him; "but anyhow we'll have to take the chances. Come along, everybody!"

That was Ned's way of doing things, and proved him to be the right type of leader, capable of winning the respect of his patrol. Seldom had any of the scouts heard him tell them to "go on" when there was a spice of peril in the air.

They were not long in finding out the dismal truth. Indeed, as they advanced along the tortuous passage, the air became more and more foul with the odor of burnt powder. And, finally, the light from the several electric hand-torches disclosed the presence ahead of a mass of fallen rock and dirt that effectually filled the narrow passage.

The boys stared at the barrier in more or less dismay. It effectually cut them off from making their exit, and so far as they knew there was no other means of leaving the mine.

Jimmy started in to lifting several of the rocks and tossing them aside. With his customary zeal, he fancied that if they all got to work they might in a short time bore through the barrier.

"Be careful there!" warned Jack, as the action of the "busy bee" dislodged several other masses of rock, and Jimmy had a narrow escape from being crushed.

"Yes," added Ned, hastily, "better leave that alone for the present, Jimmy. For every pound you take away three will drop down, because you can see how the shock has loosened everything above you."

"But my stars! we ain't goin' to stand for being sealed up here like a lot of old mummies, are we?" gasped Jimmy. "Why, whatever would we do for grub; and then a feller wants to have a fresh drink every once in a while? Ned, we've just got to break out of this!"

"You bet we do!" added Frank, who did not like the bitter prospect any more than the one who was putting up such a savage protest.

"Tell me, how you're going to do it then," said Teddy.

Neither of the scouts answered. The fact of the matter was that while they were so vehement in their declaration not to stand, they did not have the least idea how the trouble might be remedied.

As usually happened, it became more and more evident that they must depend on Ned to lead them out of the wilderness. Instead of talking he had been doing some hard thinking; and was now able to suggest a plan.

"I don't know whether there can be anything in it boys," Ned started in to say, "but it seems queer that they should shut their companions up in here with us, if there wasn't some other means for escaping. Our plan then is to hurry back, and try to get in touch with that giant and his bunch. By now they'll have taken warning, and be hustling for the open air."

"Whee! then we'd better be on the jump," Jimmy jerked out.

All of them saw the necessity for prompt action. Now that Ned had suggested such a possibility they could understand how it might be just as he said. And if those toilers were already making in hot haste for the second exit, the sooner the scouts got close in touch with them the better.

They had already been over this ground two times, so that they should know it fairly by now. Every fellow had his electric light in service, gripping it in one hand, while his gun was held in the other.

In this fashion, then, they reached the bend around which they had peered at the trio of industrious "salt" workers.

All was as black as a pocket there now.

"Why, they're gone!" burst out Jimmy, just as though he had an idea the miners, after hearing the horrible crash of the explosion, would be kind enough to linger there, so as to show the intruders the back door of the mine.

"Keep right on going," said Ned, "we've got to overtake them, if we can do it."

"Guess, that'll save more or less trouble in the end," admitted Jack; while Teddy and Frank were heard to mutter their approval of the scheme.

Indeed, it was a rare occurrence for any of the scouts to radically differ from their leader. Somehow, Ned Nestor seemed capable of judging things just right, and these comrades tried and true had come to rely on his way of looking at the solving of knotty problems as well nigh perfect.

They passed the place where the men had been working. Perhaps some of the lads might have been glad of a chance to stop and see how this clever trick of making a mine appear ten times more valuable than it really was, could be carried out; but there was no time for delay now.

On they rushed.

The channel seemed to be so fashioned up to now that they were not compelled to make any choice between rival passages. There had been no such thing as going astray. But shortly afterwards they came to a fork, where a second fissure gaped before them.

Now came the question, which way had the three men gone in order to reach the friendly exit they were acquainted with? Jimmy would have perhaps thrown up a copper cent and trusted to "heads or tails" to settle the matter for him; but this was not the happy-go-lucky way Ned had of deciding.

Of course, it would have been an easy thing for him to have settled in his mind which way the workings of the mine lay. All that was necessary was to look and see which passage showed many marks of loads of ore having been carried along it, portions of which had fallen from the wheel-barrows.

But this would not tell them whether the men had fled by that passage or along the other one. Just then they were bent on chasing after the three miners, and not hunting for the spot from which ore had been taken.

Ned had an idea. These usually came to him like flashes of light, and might almost be called happy inspirations.

He remembered that just after the tremendous crash several of the boys had been half choked by the cloud of dust in the air. He himself had had some difficulty in breathing, and refraining with an effort from coughing. That gave him the thought upon which he hastened to act; and it was here that his Boy Scout training stood him in good stead.

Immediately bending down he held his electric torch to the flat rock that constituted the floor of the passage where it forked, and just as he suspected would be the case, he discovered that a very thin layer of dust had covered the place after the explosion.

While there was not much of this, at the same time, it would allow a pair of keen eyes to discover footprints, providing they had been made after the layer had settled.

Ned's chums watched his every move almost breathlessly. They immediately understood what he expected to do, and while not very sanguine of success, still they hoped for the best.

They saw Ned start to move slowly along. He continued to hold his light close to the rock, and waved it slightly from side to side, as though bent on covering as much ground as possible. But the fact that he did advance showed them that he must be meeting with some success.

Another step did Ned take, then a third and a fourth. The boys began to breathe freely again, for hope had once more taken root in their breasts. They saw that he was showing confidence, as though he had no longer any doubt of his ability to decide the enigma.

Even Jimmy remembered reading about the visit of the Queen of Sheba to the wise Solomon, when he ruled as king, bearing a wreath of natural flowers in one hand and another that was artificial, but so skilfully done that no eye could detect the difference, and then asked him to decide. The wise king had simply ordered a window to be opened, and a lot of bees, searching for honey, soon settled on the right flowers.

That was the commonsense way in which Ned Nestor usually settled knotty problems.

"The trail in the dust runs along the smaller passage, that does not lead to the worked part of the mine," he said; "and so it's up to us to hustle after the three men. So come on boys, and let's hope we get to the open air soon!"



Chapter XI.

A Successful Sortie.


The success which had attended Ned's efforts thus far encouraged the scouts very much indeed. Little things often carry considerable weight, especially when boys are concerned. Besides, there are times when even a thistle down will point to the way the wind is blowing. And a small success spelled greater things in store for them.

Accordingly, they all hurried as fast as the conditions would allow. Fortunately, there were few obstructions in the way to give them cause for trouble. Here and there they discovered a slight fissure, in which Ned warned them to be careful not to catch a foot, lest they get a bad wrench that might even amount to a sprain.

Once or twice Ned thought it best to make doubly sure by halting long enough to lower his light, and take another quick look at the floor. What he saw appeared to encourage him greatly; at least the other scouts knew when he once more continued the forward progress, that it was all right.

And it may be easily believed that the two experienced guides had watched all these goings-on with considerable curiosity, as well as satisfaction. It was in a line with their practical woods education, so that they could appreciate what Ned set out to accomplish.

The Indian had grunted his approval as soon as he saw the boy get down on his knees to look for a trail in the slight layer of dust; while Francois could have been heard chuckling to himself at a great rate, showing how tickled he felt over the smartness of the patrol leader.

"Say, don't you feel something like a breath of fresh air?" asked Jimmy, when they had been pushing along for several minutes in this rapid manner.

"Yes, you're right about that," admitted Jack.

"Oh, I felt it before Jimmy said a single word," Teddy remarked. "I was sucking it in for all I was worth, because after that dust got to going, it's been hard to breathe at all."

"Must be the outlet, don't you think, Ned?" questioned Frank.

"We'll all hope so," came the reply from the leader.

"P'raps the three men may be hanging around meaning to keep us from rushing the exit, if we happen to come along that way?" Jimmy next advanced; for his mind was so fashioned that he could think of more objections in a minute than would occur to any one else in an hour.

"Well, they'll wish they had'nt, then," said Jack, belligerently. "All told, we're seven against three; and what with our guns, we ought to put up a pretty stiff sort of a battle."

"Well, I guess so," grunted Jimmy, immediately appeased by the prospect of action, which always satisfied a certain longing in his soul; for doubtless the ancestors of the Irish boy had once fought at Donnybrook Fair in the Old Country.

The atmosphere certainly grew fresher as they continued to push forward. This fact told them they must be approaching an opening where the outer air managed to gain ingress to the fissure.

Then they noticed that it was no longer so intensely dark as it had heretofore been. Ned concluded that it would be policy for them to lessen the illumination they were making with their torches.

"Shut off your light, Jimmy, Teddy and Frank," he told them.

Nobody asked why this must be done. They had learned the lesson of implicit obedience to those in authority, as every scout has to do before he can qualify for any honors, or medals, or rise from being a tenderfoot to the place of a second or first-class scout.

Indeed, doubtless, most of the boys guessed the answer as soon as Ned gave the order, for they were a quick-witted lot. They could reason it out that the less illumination they caused, the more chance for them to attain their end, which was to burst out of the back door of the mine, and make their escape.

"I see it!" Jack exclaimed, as he caught sight of a dazzling mark ahead, which must be the sunlight shining beyond the black tunnel or fissure.

The prospect of a speedy release cheered them wonderfully. It served to even quicken their steps, though they had already been making fair progress.

"Only one thing to bother about now, eh, Ned?" Frank asked.

"That's all," came the terse reply, for Ned was busily engaged keeping his eyes fixed on the opening, that was gradually growing wider, and possibly trying to make up his mind what chance there was of finding it unguarded.

"If those three huskies are waiting beyond, ready to give us a volley when we poke our noses out, we'll have a battle royal on our hands, let me tell you," Teddy announced as his opinion.

There was nothing new in that, for all the others had guessed the same thing, before he spoke. At the same time it caused them to clutch their weapons with more determination than ever, after Teddy had voiced their sentiments in this way. They were now so near the exit that Ned first asked Jack to "douse his glim," and shortly afterwards followed suit himself.

There was no further necessity for artificial light, since enough of the natural kind sifted in through that opening.

Ned gave a word of caution just then.

"Carefully, now!"

They fairly crept up to the gap in the rocks, and looked out. It was possible to see for some little distance beyond the opening. They saw bushes, and piled-up rocks in abundance, behind which there might be enemies hiding.

Ned turned to Francois.

"Find out if there is anybody waiting there, Francois!" he simply said, knowing that the other was perfectly capable of doing what he was told.

It pleased the old voyageur to be called upon in a crisis. He immediately crept forward on hands and knees. They saw him take his slouch hat from his head and fix it on the end of his gun barrel; after which he thrust it forward until it was in plain sight without the exit of the mine.

A prompt response met this challenge. They heard the sudden spiteful crack of a gun, but as Ned had cautioned them to seek shelter behind various outcropping spurs of rock, no damage was done.

"Gee! it knocked Francois' hat off all right, believe me!" exclaimed Jimmy, after he had raised his head cautiously, much as a turtle would have done.

The guide made no effort to recover his headgear. He had instantly looked out after the shot came, as meaning to learn where the marksman was located, so that he could return the compliment of his fire.

A puff of gray smoke told him this fact, and without even waiting for orders Francois leveled his own gun and blazed away.

"Oh! listen to that, would you?" cried Jimmy, as they heard a bellow of mingled pain and rage break forth from the thicket into which the bullet from the voyageur's rifle had sped like a flash.

"Down again, mebbe more shoot!" the Cree guide was heard to call out; and apparently he read the signs correctly, for hardly had the scouts "ducked" once more than there was a crash of two guns, telling that the entire force of the enemy must be opposed to them.

This time Jimmy could not be restrained. He had been fairly burning to get in some active work, and without even waiting for orders, he began to rattle off the shots from his repeating gun, in rapid-fire style.

He had taken pattern from the method adopted by Francois, and sent his lead in the direction where he saw wreaths of smoke curling forth. Teddy and Frank also felt savage enough at being fired on without warning to give back a single shot apiece, but the other two held their ammunition.

If they meant to rush the exit now was the time to do it, Ned knew. It would be folly to wait until the enemy had recovered from the confusion into which they may have been thrown by this volley.

"Now, charge, and scatter all you can; so as to keep from being hit!" called out Ned, as he sprang for the opening.

They burst out with a cheer, as though under the impression that in this way it might be possible to send further dismay into the hearts of the three men who had, of course, been compelled to either fly, or else lie low while the shooting was going on.

There were a couple of shots, but sent in under such conditions that they failed to find a billet, and were wasted. Those who fired were possibly more concerned about their own safety just then, than the chances of cutting down any of the exploring party.

Led by Ned, they swept over the open space and plunged into the wilderness of rocks and scraggy brush beyond. One look the patrol leader gave, after they found themselves in the shelter of the screening bushes.

"Anybody hit?" he asked, anxiously.

"Don't know for sure," spoke up Frank, "but something seemed to burn my leg, at the time they fired; and, by George! look what happened to my fine kahki trousers, would you?"

He pointed to a tear that could be plainly seen, showing where a bullet had gashed the tough material in passing.

"Sure you're not badly hurt, Frank?" asked Jack, solicitously.

"Hardly brought blood!" declared the wounded scout, with a tinge of delight in his voice, for it was worth while to know that you had been touched by a bullet, and even have the evidence to show for it, without any painful consequences to follow.

"Lucky feller!" said Jimmy, somewhat jealous of the honor this was going to bestow upon the other, when the story of the raid was told later on.

"But we mustn't stay here," Ned told them. "Keep your eyes all around, and if you are sure you glimpse anybody following after us, give him your compliments; only remember that you're scouts, and make it as easy as you can for the poor wretch."

"He won't know it if I hit him!" Jimmy went on to say; nor did anybody stop to ask him to explain more fully what he meant.

The fact that they were leaving the mine for good did not seem to cause any of the party the least distress of mind. They had come and looked it over, and Ned had learned all he wanted, in order to make a comprehensive report. The sooner they left the vicinity, the better all of them would be pleased.

To reach their canoes again, they would have to cover considerable ground; and that caused Jimmy to wince, for he was not reckoned as good a walker as most of his mates.

Secretly, he was hoping that some other plan might appeal to Ned, such as hiding their trail, and resting up in some snug retreat over night, when they would be in good shape to complete the journey in the morning.

It was now a question as to just how they were to conduct their retreat so as to avoid the risk of being pelted with bullets by the three miners, reinforced by any others who may have been in the tent village.

Ned was only too glad to leave this pretty much in the hands of Francois, whose practical experience was worth much more than any theory that could be studied out of scout books.

The French Canadian voyageur quickly understood what was expected of him, after he had received the signal. Although the boys had been in his company for weeks now, they had never seen him so alert and active. He seemed to be watching every angle of the compass at the same moment, and twice raised his gun and fired backward, as though he had discovered some lurking foe.

That this was far from imagination they saw when the second shot came; for hardly had it echoed through the hills than a form was seen to rush into view, and a man in rough clothes flashed across an open space, holding to his left arm, as though he might have received the guide's lead in that shoulder.

"You pinked him, Francois, sure you did that time!" cried Jimmy excitedly; "don't I just wish I had your quick eyes, though? I didn't see a single thing moving up there; but you did, Francois. Old Eagle Eye I'm going to call you after this. Oh! why don't one of 'em step out, and let me take a snapshot at him?"

It seemed as though the others were not that obliging, for while several shots were fired, without doing the explorers any damage, Jimmy could see nothing of the men who used their guns. He, finally, being unable to stand it any longer, sent a couple of shots at the spot where he saw smoke rising, after another fusilade had come.

"Guess I'm on the blink when it comes to sharpshooting," bemoaned Jimmy; "why, at this rate, I'll never get the stock of my trusty rifle covered with notches, to show the number of ferocious pirates I've bowled over. It's a measly shame, that's all."

At any rate, they seemed to be making a successful "getaway," as Jack called it; because they were gradually leaving these hidden marksmen further and further behind. The next shot showed that the handler of the gun was quite some distance away. He must have taken more pains to aim, however, than up to now had been the case, for immediately the "ping" of the bullet was plainly heard as it winged its flight only a short distance above their heads, flattening out against the face of the rock beyond.

This thing of being under fire was no new experience with these scouts. They had on several occasions heard lead sing past their ears; but, all the same, none of them enjoyed the sensation very much. It was apt to cause a shiver or a feeling as of being put in connection with a galvanic battery.

"Seems like we've left that crowd in the lurch," Teddy remarked, a few minutes later, as they began to reach more regular ground, where the going promised to be considerably easier.

"Yes," added Jack, "and the most we have to fear after this is meeting up with the other lot that waited for us on the lower river. They may have grown tired of laying around, or else got wind of our change of plans, so that right now they are crossing to the mine!"

"Look!" said the Cree guide, pointing backward; and immediately the scouts saw three columns of very black smoke ascending straight toward the sky.



Chapter XII.

The Talking Smoke.


"Well, I declare if they don't use the same sort of signals the scouts do down our way!" exclaimed Jimmy, looking rather disgusted, as though he had caught some one stealing his thunder.

Ned had to laugh at the blank expression of his assistant's face.

"Why, Jimmy," he said, "you forget that the scout movement is only half a dozen years old. It began after the Boer war, when General Baden-Powell saw what a great thing it would be for the whole British Nation, if every boy learned a thousand things about all creation, useful things at that. And, Jimmy, don't forget that smoke was used to signal with for hundreds of years before ever the white man landed on the shores of America."

"Say, that's right, Ned, they always made fires with their flints, didn't they? And these men up here, hunters, trappers, or whatever they may be, inherited the Injun way of sending messages. Sure, I knew it all along. The only trouble with me is I go and forget things. But what d'ye think they are doin' sending out that old smoke signal?"

"They've got friends within seeing distance, because smoke can be sighted many miles away, especially when it rises as straight as it's doing now," Jack ventured to interpose.

"The crowd over on the Harricanaw River, you mean?" demanded Jimmy.

"Yes."

"Then they'll be apt to know we gave 'em the slip, won't they?" the freckled faced scout continued.

"I suppose they will, because you notice that every now and then the smoke seems to stop," Ned answered. "As a scout in good standing, Jimmy, you ought to know how that's done."

"Two fellers swing a blanket over the smoking wood and smother it for a bit, to send up another big puff. Yes, that's what they call talking. Letters are formed by the puffs of smoke, just as we do the same with the wigwag flags, or the piece of looking-glass in the sun, when we heliograph."

"And right now, somewhere or other, one or more of those men must be reading out the message, letter by letter," said the patrol leader seriously, while they continued to walk on.

"It won't take long to tell how we happened to show up at the mine, and took a nice little saunter through the same, seeing how fine it was being cured -- I mean salted," Teddy interrupted, thinking that Jimmy had done more than his full share of the cross questioning, and ought to give place to some one else.

"I shouldn't think it would," agreed Ned.

"I wonder now if the men over on the river will guess what happened, and how we must have left our boats secreted somewhere above?" ventured Frank.

"That is something we have no means of telling," Ned informed him; "but since it might happen, we'll have to keep a sharp lookout on the way across country. We might fall into ambush, and either be shot down or else made prisoners."

"I don't know which would be worse," grumbled Jimmy.

"Whew! what if they should happen on our, canoes, after all the trouble we took to hide the same?" suggested Jack, looking as solemn as an owl.

"The walking is fairly decent all the way from Hudson Bay to Montreal, barring a dozen rivers to cross, a score of bogs miles and miles around, some pretty hefty mountain chains to pass over, and some more troubles too silly to mention," was the way Jimmy made light of the possible calamity.

Ned himself knew that it would be a terrible mishap should anything like this come to pass. He had thought it all over more than once, and even mapped out several plans for their guidance in case of such an event.

Walking back was next to an utter impossibility. They might manage with the aid of Francios and the Cree Indian to manufacture some sort of canoes, providing the proper kind of bark was to be procured this far north, which he doubted very much. Besides this, there was a slender chance that they might signal to some whaling vessel on the great bay and procure a berth for each of them aboard, so as to be landed at Halifax or Montreal, anywhere so that they could use the telegraph, and keep Mr. Bosworth and his company from investing a dollar in the wonderful copper mine, until the scouts reached home again.

So Ned, having looked further ahead than any of his chums, was not so much impressed by the gravity of the threatening evil, in case they did lose their highly valued canoes. He would begrudge the loss of his blanket and some other articles more than anything else, as they had memories connected with them of dead and gone events, in which he and some of the other boys of the trip had figured.

As they pushed on every little while they could catch glimpses of the talking smoke signals in the rear. Doubtless the fire that was supplying the smoke for this method of communicating with the distant posse had been built on the side of the hill in which the mine lay. That would account for their being able to see it for such length of time.

"Must be giving a whole history of the awful disaster," Jimmy muttered, after he had turned for the sixth time to see the smoke still waving in fantastic wreaths against the sky.

"Slow-pokes, that's what," ventured Teddy. "Why, when I was a mere tenderfoot I could send messages better than that."

"Don't find fault," advised Jack. "The longer it takes the signal man to send on his news, the better chance we'll have of slipping away before any trap can be laid or sprung, don't you see?"

"And as we're first-class scouts," said Jimmy, boastfully, "why, we're able to beat such dubs, with one hand tied behind our backs."

Perhaps all the others agreed with the speaker, even though no one voiced his sentiments just then. Jimmy was well calculated to do all the boasting for an entire party on occasion; but then he meant all he said.

Pretty soon Frank made a discovery that caused him to break loose and voice his surprise.

"Why, Ned, we don't seem to be heading down towards the big bay?" he observed.

"That's right, Frank," came the quiet answer.

"But I thought we'd surely have to follow the trail back there, just as we came?" Frank continued, as though sorely perplexed.

"We would," the patrol leader informed him, "if we were going back the same way we came, because it would be necessary to get in touch with our blazed trail, meaning all those landmarks we noted so carefully when coming on."

"What's that, did we have all that trouble for nixey?" blurted out Jimmy.

"Don't say for nothing, Jimmy," urged Ned; "because when you've gone to work and stored a lot of things up in your mind like we did, you've been exercising your memory, and that's always a splendid thing to do. We certainly noticed a bunch of queer growths in the woods as we came along, though it's hardly likely any of us will ever set eyes on them again."

"But why the change, Ned, if you don't object to telling us?" asked Jack.

"It's only right you should know why I took it on myself to do this," replied the other, modestly; "and then if anybody objects, and explains on what grounds he bases his kick, perhaps it won't be too late to turn out and find the blazed trail yet."

"Proceed, please," urged Frank.

"I thought that since our presence here is known, that those at the mine would be able in some way to communicate with the dozen or more rascals over at the river. And there would always be a pretty strong chance of our being waylaid while on the road back to the boats. If any one found our trail that would make it a foregone conclusion. And so I thought we'd be wise to start in fresh."

"I saw you consulting your compass many times, while on the way over, Ned," and this remark from Frank caused the patrol leader to smile and nod in the affirmative.

"Which tells me you've got your location all down pat," continued Frank, energetically. "Right now, if I asked you, chances are you'd be able to point straight in the direction where the river lies; yes, and straight at our boats. Is that correct, Ned?"

For answer, the other raised his hand and pointed.

"What direction would you say lies right there, Frank?" he asked.

Frank had to turn his head and observe the position of the sun, as well as do considerable mental figuring, before feeling able to make answer; which would indicate that he had been caught napping, and was not so well prepared as a wide-awake scout should always be.

"Let's see," he went on to say, slowly; "according to my calculations that ought to be not more than a point away from due east."

"It is exactly east, and the river lies there;" Ned pursued, confidently; and no one had ever been able to catch him in an error when it came to topography, for the patrol leader had very few equals in studying the lay of the land. "Of course, our canoes lie some little distance above; so that pretty soon we'll begin to shift our line of travel more to the southeast. I have strong hopes that when we do strike the Harricanaw, it will be close to the boats."

"And going this way is shorter than following the back trail away down to the bay, and then picking up our other course from there?" Teddy ventured to say; nor was his proposition disputed by even the one who objected so often, Jimmy.

"I'm only sorry for one thing," this latter scout said, presently.

"I bet you now he's going to tip off that silly, old story again about the vanishing fleet of vessels out on Hudson Bay, and say he did hope we might crack that hard nut while we were up here," Frank told them, whereat Jimmy slapped him vigorously on the back, and exclaimed:

"You'd better get a punkin and hollow out half for a skull cap, Frank. Then you could go and sit in the market-place and pass for a seer; because now and then you do have a bright thought, and actually guess something. That was just what bothered Jimmy McGraw, sure it was. If we go away from here and leave that mystery unsolved, who's ever agoin' to do it, tell me that? Don't they kinder look to the scouts to do anything and everything these here days, that other folks can't just manage. Huh! ain't ever a child wanders away from home and gets lost in the woods, but what they send out a call, not for the fire company, like they used to do; but it's 'the scouts c'n find poor little Jennie; let the scouts get on the track, and in three shakes of a lamb's tail, they'll have the child safe at home!'"

"Well, there's a whole lot of truth in what you say, Jimmy, though none of us ought to be given to boasting," Jack declared, proudly; "I've helped find three lost children, two old men who were out of their minds and had wandered away from home, about sixteen stray cows, a horse, too, and even had a hand in killing that big mad dog that came down the street of the Long Island town where I spent one of my vacations some years ago."

"Good for the Black Bear Patrol," said Jimmy; "which makes me feel sicker than ever, because we've got to go back home, without having a shot at that punk old mystery of Hudson Bay. We could find out all about it, you take my word for it, Jack. Put five fellers as smart as this bunch onto anything that's cooked up, for some reason or other, and they're bound to unearth the game. Once I helped gather in the biggest lot of bogus money-makers, with Ned here, that you ever set your lamps on. D'ye know, deep down in my heart, I've got a hunch that this queer fleet that comes and goes like it was made up of ghost craft, will turn out to be something like that. You'll sure find that men are back of it that don't want to be seen at too close range; though what under the sun they're adoin' away up here gets me."

About this time Ned gave the signal that called for less noise; and Jimmy was, in consequence, compelled to bottle up some of wonder and disappointment. He had perhaps, hoped to get a "rise" after his dextrous cast, and in this way learn what one or more of his mates thought about the matter. As it was he continued to ponder, look solemn, and occasionally shake his head, as though unable to decide on any settled course.

"Don't believe we'll have any more jogging from those three men we tracked," Teddy went on to say, a little later; "because two of them must have got hurt, if yells speak for anything. I wonder if Jimmy's black pirate chieftain was one of the potted victims."

"He wasn't that one we saw come out holding on to his arm, like he thought he'd be likely to lose the same," Jimmy informed him. "That was the man dressed like a hunter, wearing a buckskin coat and fringed trousers. Gee! I thought that sort of stuff had all gone up the spout since khaki came in for woods' use?"

"Oh! well," Jack reminded him, "just remember where you are, and that there are men up here who still think Queen Victoria is sitting on the English throne, because they never get in touch with civilization. Life with them is only eat and sleep, and sell a few furs in the spring, to the factor at a post of the Hudson Bay Company, which they spend for ammunition, whiskey and such necessities. The skins they take, furnish them with clothes, moccasins, and even caps. Can you beat it, for a life without worry?"

"Give me the white man's burden, every time; if a lot of other things go with it, like we get at a supper down at Coney Island in the good old summer time," was Frank's idea.

Strange, how boys will let their thoughts stray back to other fields, even when facing peril in the Canada bush. To hear these lads talk, one would never think that they were at the same time keeping a constant lookout for enemies, who would be apt to deal harshly with them because Ned and his chums had outwitted the shrewd schemers owning the fake mine.

It was nearly half an hour later, when they discovered that smoke was also rising directly in the east. Evidently some of the men, over on the Harricanaw, were sending back an answer to the message in smoke, which had been thrown out against the sky, by those guarding the mine.

"Mebbe I don't wish I could read their old signals," declared Jimmy; "but, I just can't. They've got a different code to the one the scouts use, which makes it all Chocktaw to me. If anybody can give a guess what they're saying, put us wise, please."



Chapter XIII.

A Dreadful Calamity.


Apparently, no one among the scouts was able to favor Jimmy with regard to telling what the smoke signals meant. Whoever might be responsible for the code used by all scouts, it had evidently not been founded on that in use up here in the Far North, by these trappers and woodsrangers.

"I've been trying to get the hang of it myself," Jack acknowledged; "but must say, I'm like a man up a tree. When I begin to think I'm coming on, there's a slip, and it's all off again. How about you, Ned?"

They had stopped to talk it over. All of them were in need of a breathing spell, at any rate; and this might turn out to be a matter well worth investigating.

The patrol leader shook his head in the negative.

"Just the same with me, Jack," he returned. "I'm mixed up enough not to be able to say what it means, though I've got an idea they may be telling the parties at the mine what they expect to do. But we haven't thought of one chance we've got to read the message."

"What might that be, Ned?" asked Frank.

"I don't reckon that you're carrying a lovely little code book along with you, now; that'll tell all about the different ways people have of signaling with smoke puffs?" Jimmy wanted to know.

"Perhaps Tamasjo might tell us," was all Ned said; and his simple explanation caused a general look of eager curiosity to be turned in the direction of the Cree Indian.

Why, to be sure, Tamasjo had been born and raised in this Northern country, and very likely he had communicated with his own people many a time, when returning from a hunt, and by just such means as those men over on the Harricanaw were now using.

How silly that some one had not thought of the old Cree before. It was as simple as turning one's hand over. Jack chuckled when he heard Teddy mutter to that effect; because he remembered that when Columbus returned, after discovering the Western Hemisphere, the envious Spanish courtiers made remarks along the same lines. It is always easy to see a thing after it has been pointed out.

Frank was already turning toward Tamasjo. He found the Indian standing there calmly watching the floating columns of smoke that were interrupted frequently, as those responsible for their existence manipulated the blankets over the fires.

"What do they say, Tamasjo?" asked Frank.

The Cree guide talked fairly good English, though with something of an effort. When indulging in any extended conversation with Francois, he invariably resorted to his native tongue.

Turning to Francois now, he rattled off a lot of talk that sounded almost like gibberish to the scouts, who waited for the voyageur to translate it.

"He says zat ze smoke tell heem most of ze men haf already started over to ze mine. Eet also say zat zey will have us all in ze trap soon," explained the French Canadian.

The boys looked at each other blankly.

"The dickens they do!" burst out Jimmy. "They'll have to get up right early in the morning to find us asleep. Say, he didn't tell what they expected to do when they sprung that fine trap, did he, Francois?"

"Nozzings, sare," responded the other, with a negative shake of his head. "I myself haf also read ze signs pret well, but zey do not tell vat it ees zey haf do to cage us. Zere, you see ze smoke ett haf done. I zink zey must be put ze fires out."

"That leaves us nearly as much in the air as before, don't it, Ned?" Jack complained.

"Only that we've learned the men are on the way across somewhere," Frank objected.

"And that they think they've got us up a tree, though we haven't the least notion what kind of tree," added Teddy, thoughtfully.

Ned looked serious, but if he had ideas of his own, he did not mention them just then. Perhaps he thought his chums had troubles enough as it was, without assuming any imaginary ones that might turn out to be false alarms.

"We'd better be pushing on again, boys," he remarked, "if all of you have swallowed what water you want from this fine spring here."

Apparently they had, for presently the column was in motion again. Somehow, even Jimmy had sobered more or less. Something about the passing back and forth of the smoke communications must have put a damper on his spirits; though, a short time before, he had been fairly bubbling over with joy, because of the success that had recently come their way.

It would have been all very well for the scouts to have depended wholly on themselves had they been alone at this time; but having two experienced guides along, Ned was not conceited enough to think that he knew it all, and could utterly dispense with their advice.

Consequently, he did not hesitate to ask questions of Francois whenever a situation confronted them that seemed to offer two solutions. A mistake, at this stage of the game, was likely to cost them dear; and they could really not afford to take chances of such a slip-up.

On this account, then, he kept Francois close by, and was frequently seen to be exchanging words with the voyageur.

It was apparent to all of them when the change of direction was made, for the sun began to loom up more to the rear, as they headed into the southeast.

This meant that the river must lie straight ahead now, and if their calculation did not go amiss, they should strike it in the vicinity of the place where the growth of friendly reeds concealed their boats.

Habit was strong with the boys. They had for a long time now accustomed themselves to noticing everything of interest around them on all occasions. So it was that while they paid some attention to what lay in front much of the time, they kept pointing out objects of interest to one another as they walked along.

Now it might be a splendid chance to bag a feeding caribou, seen in a glade off to the right, and to windward, which accounted for his not having scented the presence of human enemies.

A little later some frisky squirrel, or it might be a sly Arctic fox, was pointed out. Birds were few in number, and consisted for the most part of the species of partridge that can be found up in this far-away region. Not a single song-bird did they see or hear, and a silence like unto death lay upon the "bush," as the wilderness is always called throughout Canada.

Far up in some of the trees, noisy crows had sometimes been seen, holding a caucus; but just then even these seemed strangely absent.

These boys had known what it was to pass through a tropical jungle with its confusion of sounds that at times almost deafened one; so that the contrast was very strong. They could understand what was meant when explorers talked of the "silent North;" and told how painfully quiet it was at all times, save when some Arctic storm caused the ice floes to grind together, and portions of the bergs to crash down from their lofty heights.

"Seems to me we must be getting somewhere near that old stream," Jimmy finally remarked, with a half-hidden groan, for he was undoubtedly beginning to feel exceedingly tired.

Somehow, the boys turned inquiring eyes on Ned. They knew that he had all the while been keeping a record of the distance covered, and could, therefore, give some sort of estimate as to how far away the river might lie.

Seeing that he was expected to make an announcement, the patrol leader appeared to do some mental calculating before giving his opinion.

"If you can keep going for about ten or fifteen minutes longer, Jimmy," he finally remarked, cheerily, "I think, you'll find that we've arrived. Once or twice, I noticed something in the lay of things ahead, when an opening came, that seemed to tell of the river. The trees always grow higher along the course of such a stream, you know, and often you can follow the direction of the river, without ever glimpsing the water itself once."

"That's good news, Ned, and I'm going to get a new hustle on for the last lap," Jimmy announced, heaving a sigh of relief that swelled from the very depths of his heart.

Their progress after that was not quite so rapid. This in itself was convincing proof to Ned that his prediction was going to be fulfilled, because, as they gradually reached the lowlands, vegetation increased, making it more difficult to push through.

"The ten minutes are up, Ned," announced Teddy, who had been taking sly peeps at his little nickel watch from time to time.

"Well, what would you call that over there through the break in the trees?" asked Jack, triumphantly, just as though it was his prediction that was being fulfilled.

"The river, as sure as anything!" admitted Teddy.

"Thank goodness!" sighed Jimmy. "The only thing that's been helping me keep up is the picture I've been drawing of a feller about my heft, squattin' amidships in that bully canoe, and bucking up against the current of the old Harricanaw. How far do you think we ought to go, before making our first camp, Ned; and will we be able to cook any supper, before turning in under our warm blankets?"

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched!" said Frank.

"Now, what makes you try to throw cold water on a feller all the time?" complained Jimmy. "I like to see the silver linin' of the cloud, and think of things going good. Besides, we've got to eat, haven't we; and we left a pile of good grub along with the boats? If Ned says the word, I'm meanin' to dish up a supper that'll make us forget we're tired to death. We c'n hide the fire, like Injuns do when in a hostile country, by makin' the same in a hole, so the light won't show any distance. How's that, Ned; am I on?"

"Wait and see," was the only comfort the other would give the enthusiastic one, and with this, Jimmy had to rest content.

With the river in plain sight, they hurried their steps. The presence of the water acted like an inspiration to every scout; so that no one would believe they had just been complaining of weariness.

Ned grew more wary the closer they came to the river. All he wanted to make sure of was the location, so that he might be able to know whether they were above or below the place of the reeds.

Constant practice makes perfect, and Ned had so accustomed himself to fastening the prominent features of the landscape upon his memory that once he saw a place he never forgot it again.

In this case, if he failed to recognize anything along the bank of the river it would prove conclusively that he had never set eyes on it before. In that event, they could take it for granted that this was below the place where they had left the canoes.

Finally the others stopping, watched Ned scrutinizing the shore of the stream. Of course, they understood what his object must be, and nervously awaited his verdict, hoping, meanwhile, that it would be favorable, and that they were near the objects of their search.

He was only a fraction of a minute in deciding, for presently he turned to his companions and nodded.

"We've struck the river just above the reeds," he went on to say. "I remember noticing that tree leaning over the water. A kingfisher was sitting on it, when we came along, and flew off with a screech. And, according to my mind, the reeds will show up just around that bend there."

"Oh! joy, bliss, and everything else that spells happiness!" declared Jimmy, waxing enthusiastic all of a sudden, when the suspense seemed to be at an end.

They pushed on, full of hope, for after this long hike it would be something worth while to find themselves once more seated in the canoes and gliding over the surface of the river, homeward bound, their great mission completed.

"There they are!" exclaimed Frank, who had impetuously pushed along ahead of the rest, in his desire to be the first to glimpse the reeds.

There could be no mistake about it, for all of them recognized the conformation of the ground in the immediate neighborhood, since they had taken particular pains to impress the same on their minds before leaving the spot.

Presently they had reached the border of the reed bed, with Frank still leading, though the rest of the scouts pressed close on his heels.

Already was the first of the explorers commencing to separate the reeds, under the impression that he could take them straight to the spot where they had left the boats.

But Frank soon began to think he had started on the wrong tack, for he failed to make the anticipated discovery. He stopped and looked blankly around him.

"Well, I declare!" he emitted, with a grunt. "I sure thought I knew this old place, and could take you straight to the canoes; but seems like I've got twisted around some. Things look different when you start to observe them from the back."

"Perhaps it isn't just what you think," said Ned, quietly.

"Is there anything wrong?" demanded Jack, while poor Jimmy's lower jaw fell, and he could only stand there and stare.

"The worst almost that could have happened to us," Ned replied sadly.

"The boats were here then, and have been stolen?" asked Frank breathlessly, while he as well as the other boys turned pale with apprehension, for it was a genuine calamity that faced them now.

"Look there and there, and you'll see where they rested among the reeds," Ned told them. "Yes, and here's a piece of greasy paper I remember seeing Jimmy toss overboard, when he was getting out of his boat. We've struck our one bad streak, after all, boys, I'm sorry to say. They ran on our boats, and we're left in the lurch up here, five hundred miles from anywhere!"



Chapter XIV.

Blinding The Trail.


For almost a full minute nobody said a word. Indeed, the tremendous nature of this discovery seemed to have very nearly paralyzed them, so that one and all could only stand there and stare at the places where they could tell their prized canoes had recently rested.

Jimmy was the first one to arouse himself, and it was hot anger that caused him to show so much activity.

"P'raps they haven't gone far, Ned, and if we got a hustle on we might manage to ketch up with the measly skunks. If they try to pack our boats through the woods, they'll have a time of it, let me tell you. Are we agoin' to give chase? Oh! I'm as fresh as a daisy right now. Seems like I could run for hours, if I had an idea I'd overtake the canoe thieves."

Ned shook his head.

"No use, Jimmy," he told the furious scout; "because they haven't carried our boats ashore. If you look, you'll see where they paddled out on to the river. You remember, we hid all traces of our own passage, yet here you can see a wide swath among the reeds, bending them back."

They saw that he spoke the truth, even Jimmy admitting the sad facts with a groan that seemed to well up from his shoes, it was so disconsolate.

"Five hundred miles -- five hundred of 'em! Gosh!" he was heard to tell himself, as he stood there, rubbing the side of his head, as though he felt like one in a stupor or a dream.

"And as we haven't a single boat, of course we can't pursue them," remarked Jack between his clinched teeth, while his eyes glittered angrily.

"Oh! what wouldn't I have given to have come on the rascals just in the act of getting away with our boats!" breathed Frank, as he shook his rifle, after the manner of a scout who has thrown discretion to the winds.

"Well, let's not whimper and cry over spilt milk, anyway," said Ned, who could always be depended on to bring the boys to their proper senses.

"That's so," echoed Jack, quick to see the importance of keeping their senses about them in this dilemma. "We've got to do something, that's sure, and so let's get to talking it over sensibly."

"But, what can we do?" pleaded Teddy, who was not apt to prove equal to a sudden strain like this, and must depend on others more vigorous of mind.

"Oh! before we're done considering things," promised Ned, "you'll find that we've got a choice of a whole lot of plans. I hope we're all made of sterner stuff than to throw out the white flag of surrender, just because something has gone wrong."

"Well, I should say not," declared Frank, grinding his teeth together. "We're like the Old Guard, we can die, but never surrender."

"That's the stuff!" cried Jimmy, suddenly beginning to brighten up again, as the stunning effect of the first rude shock passed away. "Remember what Phil Sheridan did at Cedar Creek, when he met his army, smashed and running away? What was it he told 'em as he galloped along the road, headed for the battlefield? 'Face the other way, boys; face the other way! We'll lick 'em out of their boots! We'll get back those camps again!' All right, and it's me that says it; well get back our boats again, by hook or crook!"

"I hope you turn out to be a true prophet, Jimmy," said Ned. "That's one of the plans I spoke about. Another would be to make for the shore of the big bay, and try to get in touch with some vessel passing, that might carry us to Halifax, or some other northern port, where we could send a message to Jack's father not to put a dollar into these fake mines."

"Sounds good to me," Teddy remarked, sucking it all in eagerly.

"Then there's another thing we might manage to do if the worst came," proceeded Ned. "Up here there are lonely trading posts run by the Hudson Bay Company, at each of which you'll find a factor in charge. If we could only run across one of these posts, I reckon, there would be some way found for getting us down to civilization inside of a month or so."

"That long?" observed Teddy.

"What would it matter, so that we didn't have to do the grand hike?" Jimmy asked, afflicted with dizzy visions of five hundred miles of tramping over rough country, supporting themselves, meanwhile, in the most primitive fashion by shooting game, and cooking the same over fires made with flint and steel, or the bow and stick method known to scouts generally.

"Of course," added Frank, somewhat satirically, "Teddy would like to have one of those Zeppelin airships come along and give us a lift. I guess all of us would be glad if that happened; but the chances are so small, we don't want to consider 'em, do we, Ned? So here we are, facing a puzzle that's going to give us no end of trouble and work. If it was hard to get in, it's going to be a much bigger job to get out again."

"It's getting late, as it is," remarked Jack, as he looked toward the west where the sun was hovering over the horizon, and ready to take the final plunge, though, of course, it would not be dark for a long time afterwards, thanks to the length of the Northern twilight in midsummer.

"First, let's get where we can look up and down the river, principally down," was Ned's advice, "though there's a mighty slim chance that we'll see anything of our stolen canoes."

This proved to be the case, for when they had found an elevated position, where it was possible to see far down the stream, there was not a thing in sight, save a mother duck teaching her little brood to swim and find food.

"No use, seems like; they've gone a long time back," said Jimmy.

"I wonder if that was what they told the fellows over at the mine, when they mentioned a trap?" observed Frank, seriously, glancing hastily around him at the same time, as though half expecting to see a dozen ugly-faced men appear from the bushes and rocks.

"Not while Tamasjo was reading the smoke signs," Ned assured him, "or he would have learned enough to tell us what to expect when we got here. But, first of all, we ought to move off."

"You think they'll come here later on, when they learn how we got out of the old mine and headed across country -- is that it, Ned?" Jack queried.

"I expect it is about like this," the patrol leader replied; "one or two men must have found our boats. For the life of me, I don't understand how it happened, except that they were paddling along on the river, and wanting to go ashore took exactly the same notion we did -- that the reeds would make a good hiding place for their craft. And, as luck would have it, they ran on our canoes."

"No signs here to tell Francois or the Cree about how long back this thing happened, I reckon?" Frank put in just then.

"That's where we get a hard knock," Ned continued, with a tinge of regret in his voice; "because, as you all know, water leaves no trace. When men are fleeing from enemies, the first thing they think of is to get into a creek, and throw their pursuers, dogs and all, off the scent. So, even as clever a trailer as Tamasjo couldn't tell any better than Jimmy here whether this robbery occurred an hour ago or three of the same."

"We're sure enough up against it this time, boys," Teddy affirmed.

"And have been on other occasions, remember, when things came out all right, and we won in the end." Jack reminded the doubter.

"Let's make up our minds we're going to beat these chaps at their own game, and that'll be half the battle," Frank told them.

"But I think Ned is all right when he says, 'we ought to cut stick and get away from here as soon as we can,'" Jack gave as his opinion.

In fact, the guides were manifesting more or less impatience. They apparently understood that the enemy would be apt to turn up here again, sooner or later; and could not comprehend why the scouts should always want to compare notes, before doing anything like making a change of base. Francois and the Cree were accustomed to making most of their moves through instinct; while with the scouts those same things did not come naturally, but had to be reasoned out, which made considerable difference.

One last look did they give toward the reeds that had promised to be so friendly, only to betray the confidence the boys had placed in them; and after that the little party moved off.

"But say, won't they follow after us, Ned?" asked Jimmy, when he failed to see the guides getting busy with trying to destroy all evidences of their passage, as he had fully expected would be the case.

Some of the other scouts showed by their expectant manner that they were also wondering what it all meant. Ned took it upon himself to enlighten them.

"If I read their meaning right," he ventured, "that is just what they want to do at first, make the men believe we've started to tramp back over all those hundreds of miles of ground. Before long, they'll do something to hide the trail so only a wolf's keen scent could find it; and then we'll turn around again, so as to face toward Hudson Bay. How, Francois?"

The old voyageur had listened to the explanation offered by Ned. He grinned and wagged his head, as though quite tickled at the idea of the boy understanding so well what the little game was.

"Zat ees so, sare," he said. "If Jimmy he be able hold out so long, mebbe we also eat supper far away from zis place."

Hearing his name mentioned, Jimmy was up in arms. He had a reserve stock of nerve for occasions like this, which could be summoned to the fore.

"Don't bother about Jimmy, please," he told them. "Sure, when it comes to a pinch, don't he always get there with the goods? My feet can ache all they want to; but, all the same, they'll do what I say. If it's a mile or six of the same, I'm good for it. But I wish I had something to gnaw on meanwhile, because I'm as hungry as a starved wolf, so I am."

Frank produced a handful of crackers from his little pack, which he willingly turned over to the other. This seemed to satisfy Jimmy; at least, he stopped groaning and telling of his aches and pains. When they could get his jaws to working in this fashion, he seldom allowed himself to enter any complaint. Jimmy could be bribed to do a good many things by the promise of a feast at the other end.

They continued on for some little time, and then it became apparent that Francois and the Cree had decided the blind trail had been carried far enough.

They were seen to confer, after which the leader stepped upon a long log that lay conveniently near by. Walking part way along this, the Indian suddenly leaped upon a bare rock, stepped its length, found another log, passed along it and so continued, leaving not the slightest trace of a trail that could be followed, unless dogs were placed upon the scent.

"You go next, Jack," urged Ned, who wished to satisfy himself that all of the scouts were able to qualify in this round of concealing the trail; though they had practiced it many a time when in camp.

Jack had observed every move of the agile old Indian, so that once he started over the same course he made short work of it.

"Teddy, you're next!" the scout leader announced.

Possibly it was with more or less trepidation that the one singled out began to cover the ground. But then Teddy was not a tenderfoot, even if he did not know as much as some of the others about woodcraft. He walked along the log, made the jump successfully, though falling flat on his face when he gained the rock; managed to gain the second tree trunk, and conducted himself so cleverly on the whole that Ned gave him a wave of approval after he had joined the others some distance away.

Frank and Jimmy copied the actions of those who had gone before, and so far as could be seen they did not leave any trace of their passage, though, of course, the old voyageur would look out for all that when he came to cross, and examine the ground carefully in so doing.

Ned found no difficulty in following the rest, and then they stood on a stone foundation, watching with considerable interest, while Francois scrutinized the track to make sure they had not left some sort of footprint, or disturbed any object, however small, that might catch a trained eye and betray their little game to the enemy.

As far as possible for some little time, they were instructed to take advantage of every opportunity that cropped up to advance, without leaving tell-tale imprints behind them. That is the measure of success in "blinding a trail," and if anybody ever had it down to a science, surely a Cree Indian might be expected to. Still there was no telling what might happen. Discovery was always in the air, and they must be forever on their guard against it.

Jimmy did seem to revive under the influence of his little bite, for he kept resolutely on, with set jaws and a look of grim determination written large upon his freckled and rosy face.

They were heading straight toward salt water now, all of them knew; because stars had crept into view, and these boys had long since learned to tell direction, by means of the lights in the sky, by day or night. The Polar Star shone dimly, as always, nearly directly ahead of them. Other stars they could see, such as are never gazed upon by people living in the temperate climes, constellations peculiar to the northern region of ice and snow.

"Eet is here we rest and eat!" announced Francois, after a long and arduous siege of this tramping and stumbling had been endured.

Jimmy wanted very much to make out that it was a matter of small importance to him whether they stopped or continued right on; but nevertheless he could not keep back the happy sigh that would well forth; and they could hear him champing his jaws, as though trying to learn whether they were still in condition for service, because that one word "eat" had told him they expected to break their fast. Shortly afterwards they were making themselves as comfortable as possible, though destitute of blankets and many other things; while the two guides started a little cooking fire in a depression where it could not be seen thirty feet away.



Chapter XV.

The Brush Shelter.


"After all, this isn't so bad!" Teddy was saying, after they had got the supper started, and most of them were lying around in comfortable attitudes, enjoying the cheery conditions, for the air was a bit cool, and even the warmth of the small cooking fire felt good.

"It might be worse," admitted Jimmy, sniffing the fragrant air, as a war horse might the pungent powder-smoke of battle -- Jimmy was always ready for the fray in the line of disposing of surplus "grub."

They did not have a very extensive meal. The conditions hardly warranted their trying to put on any "style," as Jimmy called it. So as appetites were appeased, and the food tasted good, nobody was apt to complain. Indeed, these fellows had been through so much in times gone by that they knew how to make the most of a bad bargain, and adapt themselves to circumstances as they found them.

When a Boy Scout can do that he has achieved the best that any one could expect of him, for he has conquered himself, always the hardest fight of all.

Presently Francois announced that the simple bill-of-fare was ready. It consisted of hard-tack, coffee, and some caribou meat cooked in regular camp style. What mattered it if in places the venison was slightly scorched, or underdone; the wood smoke gave it a flavor all its own, and there were vigorous appetites on hand to overlook these minor faults.

Quantity appeals to boys more than quality, generally speaking, and never a single complaint was heard as they munched away.

"Getting off better than we expected, ain't we?" Jimmy observed, with his mouth so full that his words were fairly mumbled.

"Oh! this is just prime!" Frank declared. "I'm more bothered about not having my good blanket to snuggle down into than anything else."

"Please don't mention it till we've done eating, anyway," pleaded Teddy. "Makes a cold chill run up and down my spinal column every time I think what we've got to face, with tents and blankets all gone."

"Another experience, that's all," remarked Jack, trying to look cheerful, as if these things should not bother any one worthy of calling himself a scout.

"Well, we've seen a heap of 'em, all told," was the consoling remark of Jimmy, "and we're still in the circus ring, right side up with care. Fact is, it takes an awful lot to knock a scout out, because he's learned so many ways to dodge, just like a cat does."

"There you go, comparing us to a bunch of tomcats," chuckled Frank.

"I do hope, though," Teddy went on to say, with a sigh, as he contemplated the little blaze before him, "that later on we'll be able to have jolly camp fires every night. There is a chance of that happening, ain't there, Ned?"

"Why, I should hope so, Teddy," replied the other; "I'd hate to think that we'd have to stand for this sort of thing long. As soon as it looks like we've dropped that crowd, I don't see any reason why we shouldn't have all the fire we want, so long as we don't start the bush to burning. And as every scout knows how to get sparks from flint and steel, not to mention other ways of doing the same, why, we needn't bother ourselves about matches."

In this way they chatted in low tones, and their spirits were kept from drooping. Association does considerable toward making boys, or men, see the bright lining to the cloud. It is like rubbing metal fragments together in a turning cylinder, with the result that every separate piece receives more or less of a luster from the constant friction. So difficulties brighten the minds of scouts who know enough to take advantage of their opportunities.

All sorts of suggestions were being made from time to time, looking to the betterment of their conditions. Some of these did not seem practical, and were immediately dropped. Others deserved more careful consideration, and, in these cases, the boys gave each other the benefit of their opinions.

During the course of this talk, Jack brought up the subject of bettering their sleeping quarters.

"As we don't expect to keep this little fire going through the whole night," he told them, "and so won't get the benefit of its warmth, what's to hinder out looking around to find a place where the brush is thick enough to let us stack up a woods' shelter?"

"A good idea, Jack!" was the comment of the patrol leader.

"It would shelter us from the night breeze, anyway," Teddy observed.

"And, say, I think I can put you on to the very place," Jimmy unexpectedly announced; which remark, so unlike Jimmy, caused the others to "sit up and take notice," under the impression that their comrade must certainly be waking up to the occasion.

"Show me!" said Frank, scrambling to his feet; "because I'm getting sleepy right now, sitting here so close to the fire; and, according to my mind, we can't fix up our beds any too soon."

"Oh! how can we talk about beds, when we haven't got any blankets?" wailed Teddy.

"Like as not, we'll find some hemlock trees around, for they grow away up here, we know," Jack argued. "And by laying close to each other we'll manage to keep half-way warm, let's hope."

Teddy began to laugh softly to himself.

"What ails you now?" demanded Jimmy; "because it strikes me the prospect ain't so very cheerful as to make a feller laugh."

"Oh! excuse me," replied Teddy, "but I just happened to think how funny it would seem for the whole five of us to be lying like sardines in a box, every fellow's knees doubled up, and stuck in the back of the next one. Then, whenever one got tired of lying on his right side, he'd call out 'turn!' and the whole line would have to wiggle around, so as to flop over on their left sides."

"Just about what we'll have to do," Jack assured him.

"And you won't think it so very funny either after a while," said Frank.

Jimmy led them back a little way, and sure enough they found just the conditions they required for making a bough and brush shelter. Ned immediately told the observant one that he had done well to notice the conditions, with an eye to future possibilities.

"While we're at it," Ned continued, "perhaps we'd better make as rain-proof a shelter as we can."

"Gee whiz! I hope you don't think it's going to come down on us to-night, and me with my raincoat which was left in the canoe?" Teddy exclaimed.

"Feels sort of damp to me," Frank admitted.

"Let's hope for the best," added Jack. "But I think that what Ned said would be the proper caper for us. And now get busy, everybody. Show what you know about constructing a bough shelter, for if ever we needed one, it's right now."

They worked like a pack of beavers. Indeed, Jimmy declared that it seemed like a shame they all belonged to two patrols known as the Wolf and Black Bear, when they were such an industrious lot, and deserved better totems.

The guides also entered into the spirit of the thing, though apparently more careless or indifferent about their comfort than the boys. Still, they appreciated the prospect of having a shelter, in case of a heavy downpour, and added their contributions towards making it a worth-while affair.

When, finally, it was pronounced finished, all of them were of the opinion that it did their knowledge of woodcraft credit.

"Show me the scouts who could have done a better job, under the same conditions, will you?" demanded Frank, proudly.

"They would be hard to find!" declared Ned.

"Next thing is to hustle and find some sort of browse to make beds out of," Jack told them, "and the thicker it is for a mattress the better, because it causes a certain amount of warmth, and keeps the dampness of the ground off."

"Yes, and if there happen to be a few old roots sticking up under you, they don't hurt," added Jimmy, who had been through the experience he described many times in the past, and ought to know the inconvenience resulting from it.

When five lively fellows get busy, they can gather quite a quantity of browse, in case the right sort of trees are handy; and before long Frank threw himself down on the mattress, with a grunt of satisfaction.

"How does she go?" asked Teddy, solicitously.

"Bunkum," came the answer, accompanied with a mighty yawn; "try it for yourself."

"Guess I will, Frank," and Teddy accordingly stretched himself out at full length, alongside the other scout.

So they all found a place, and there was room enough also for the guides. These worthies insisted upon taking the outermost nooks. The voyageur explained that they might want to be up several times before dawn, to look around and make sure that all was well; nor could the scouts find any objection to this programme, since it was intended to add to their comfort and security.

If they had not all been so very drowsy, possibly the boys might have found considerable difficulty in forgetting themselves, under such unusual conditions; but as a rule, the average boy can sleep under abnormal surroundings that would keep an older person awake all night; for trouble sets lightly on their minds, fortunately enough.

Ned was the only one who knew how Francois and the Cree had agreed between themselves to keep "watch and watch" throughout the whole night. After the scouts had apparently managed to get to sleep, the voyageur silently arose, and removing to a little distance, placed his back against a tree. There he sat, like a dim statue as time crept on, his rifle on his knees, and doubtless all his senses constantly on the alert for signs that would indicate the coming of the enemy.

When, according to his way of thinking, he had stood watch for half of the night, Francois crept around to the other end of the shelter, and touched the form of the old Cree. Not a single word was exchanged between them, but Tamasjo, crawling out, took the other's place, as though it were a part of his business to sit up nights.

What if there was no alarm, the boys enjoyed better security while they slept, and secured more energy for the following day's work. Men do not always anticipate trouble when they place a guard over the camp; but, in case it does come, there is always the consciousness of having taken all needful precautions. It is on the same principle that a wise man insures his house, though never believing that a fire is going to visit him. He wants to make sure, that is all.

Had some of the scouts been on post during that night, they might have experienced several little alarms, through noises they would hear, which were strange to their ears. Not so the guides, who had spent all their lives amidst these Northern scenes, so that every minute denizen of the woods was as familiar to them as the game of baseball might be to Jimmy, versed, as he was, in all its fine points.

To them the various fretful voices of the little animals, who doubtless wondered what business these two-legged pilgrims had stopping on their preserves, were to be looked on as only a means of safety. So long as they continued to hear them near by, they knew that all was well. A sudden silence would have made either one of the guides suspicious, because these sharp-eared rodents could catch the movement of creeping men much sooner than any biped was capable of doing; and hence, a cessation of their complaining would indicate danger to the sleeping camp.

When Jimmy opened his eyes he saw that the morning had come. It did not look as cheerful as he would have liked, for the sky was threatening, and what seemed like a cold fog was stealing through the woods, drifting in probably from the great salty bay, so near at hand.

Of course, the waking of one was the signal for the entire five to be stirring. Indeed, once they opened their eyes, the boys were only too glad to creep out from their shelter and stretch their cramped limbs.

"It didn't rain, after all," Jimmy remarked; and there was something of a grievance in his tone, as though he rather begrudged going to all that useless labor for nothing.

"Well, if we'd known as much last night as we do now," commented Jack, "perhaps we wouldn't have bothered about this shelter. I often wonder what a lot of things some fellows would shirk if their foresight was as good as their hindsight."

"For one thing," spoke up Teddy, briskly, "we'd be having our bully canoes and blankets, and tents, and all that raft of grub right now, instead of having to do without it."

"That's so, we would," Jimmy echoed, making a comical face. "And let me tell you fellers, after this I'm going to devote a lot of time tryin' to see into the future. My father was a seventh son, and they say that makes a weather-sharp. I've tried it a few times, and hit the truth once out of three."

"I'd call that a poor percentage," Teddy sneered. "Why, any happy-go-lucky guess ought to strike it half the time, anyway."

"Do we eat again this morning, or is it a case of saving the grub?" Jimmy asked, turning to Ned.

"It's too early yet to go on half-rations," the patrol leader assured him. "What we're going to come to after a little is another question. So let's get busy and have a cooking fire started."

Jimmy hastened to be the one to attend to this. Truth to tell, he was shivering in the raw morning air, and wanted heat almost as much as hot food, in order to make himself feel comfortable.

"No changes in our plans overnight, are there, Ned?" inquired Jack, as they hovered around the blaze after it had been started, each fellow apparently anxious to have a hand in the simple preparation of breakfast, though really wanting to warm his hands.

"No," came the reply, "we'll keep straight on, and reach the bay before changing our course. Then we'll have to head to the west, and do what we can to reach the nearest trading post, unless we have the good luck to strike some sealer or whaling vessel that will take us aboard."



Chapter XVI.

The Sea Fog.


"I wonder if we'll see anything of that mystery of Hudson Bay?" Teddy chanced to remark, while they were eating later on.

"'Tis me that cares mighty little whether we do or not," Jimmy admitted, which change of tone caused the other to turn upon him and say:

"What's all this mean, Jimmy? A little while back you were telling us that you sure hoped we'd run up against a mystery, because we've always been so lucky in solving such things in the days gone by. Now you seem to have changed your song."

"Lots of things have changed since you heard me pipe up that way," suggested Jimmy, as he poured himself another cup of coffee, which was taken black, since they had no milk, all of the condensed kind having gone with the canoes.

"But don't you feel anxious about that queer, disappearing fleet?" demanded Teddy.

"I'm a heap sight more concerned right now about the disappearing grub," he was informed. "The shape we're putting it away tells how soon it'll be down to the last crumb. If we keep on as we're doing, I figure we've got just enough for, say two more days. Then it's going to be a case of hustle, or go hungry."

"Oh! with our bully guns, and such clever shots along, we'll get all the meat we want, I shouldn't wonder. Coffee we'll have to do without; likewise, lots of other good things. But we won't starve, Jimmy."

"As an explorer, Teddy, I reckon you've read that often Dr. Kane and his Arctic expedition had to cut up their deerskin boots, and make soup out of the same. S'pose'n we had to come to that now, how'd you like it?" and Jimmy chuckled, as he saw the other shudder.

The meal ended, and the small fire was extinguished, for these scouts had long ago learned never under any circumstances to leave a smouldering fire when breaking camp. They knew only too well that often a sudden wind arising has carried live coals from such into the dead leaves near by, and started most disastrous conflagrations.

"One good thing about this hike is that we go light," Ned told them, as they began to gather their few belongings together.

"Nothing like seeing the silver lining to the cloud," added Jack; "though, if it was put to a vote right now, I rather think every scout would agree to tote even a tent on his back, if we could in that way get our belongings again."

"Just try me, that's what," said Jimmy. "All that fine grub wasted on a measly lot of half-breeds, who can't appreciate a jar of orange marmalade any more'n they can olives or imported cheese. But then there's no use crying over spilt milk, and it might have been worse."

"Yes, think of what a pickle we'd be in right now, if they'd managed to hook our guns as well as the boats and blankets?" suggested Teddy. "We'd just have to throw up our hands and surrender, then, I suppose."

"Not till we'd tried everything we could think up to beat them at their game," was Frank's way of showing his determined nature.

Of course, once they had finished eating, there was really nothing to keep them there; and as they had no tents to take down, or dunnage to pack, it was an easy task to get started.

Francois led them straight into the south. They felt sure that they must arrive on the shore of the bay before a great while, for there was a decided salty tang to the air that greeted them, very gratifying to boys who had been brought up near the ocean, as these scouts had.

So far nothing had been seen or heard of the miners, whom they looked upon as their enemies. At the same time, the boys believed that the others must be diligently searching for them, and should they happen to come across their trail, a warm pursuit must follow.

In consequence of this fact, they were advised by Ned to keep on the alert.

"Let every fellow have his eyes open to discover suspicious movements," he told them, "and report the same to me without a second's delay. There's no telling how serious it might turn out to be. But, Jimmy, don't fancy every frisky squirrel or curious old coon, if you glimpse any, is a spy hiding behind a tree, and ready to let loose on us with his battery."

"You'll find that when I sound the alarm, it's going to mean business," Jimmy retorted, drawing himself up proudly.

It was hard to entirely crush their boyish spirits, and while the future did not look so very bright, still they felt that they had accomplished the main object that had drawn the expedition to these parts, and could not complain. So every now and then some half-humorous remark would be made calculated to draw out an answer. Thus, in a measure their troubles were forgotten, though no one ventured to troll a ditty, as might have been the case under ordinary conditions.

The character of the country was changing again, and from what they had noticed on the former occasion, they knew that they must be drawing near the water.

There was no air stirring to blow away the damp fog wave that grew more and more dense as they advanced.

"If it rains down on us here we'll just have to grin and bear it," Jimmy was saying, as he tripped along beside the other scouts.

"No hollow trees to crawl in, because none of these would be nearly big enough, even if we found one that was partly rotten," added Teddy.

"Make up your minds that it isn't going to rain any until the wind comes up and drives this mist away," Jack informed them, and as he claimed to be something of a weather prophet they believed him.

"I'm wet, as it is, from the fog," said Frank.

"Listen!" exclaimed Jack, just then.

Jimmy started to turn his head around so fast that it seemed in danger of coming loose.

"Where, what, why, how?" he spluttered, as he half-raised his rifle, as though taking the alarm.

"Oh! I only meant that I could get the lazy wash of the water rolling up on the sandy beach," replied Jack, grinning to see how his innocent exclamation had excited Jimmy.

"Next time," mumbled the other, "I'd thank you to tell what you mean right away. It would save a poor feller from havin' palpitation of the heart, which they tell me is bad for the appetite."

"Then let's all get it, Jimmy," chuckled Frank, "because no appetite means that we wouldn't have to bother looking up new supplies of grub. But that is the sea you hear running up on the shore, Jack, which shows how close we are to the bay."

A minute later and they could see signs of the salt water, though the fog was so dense that it was impossible to look out further than a dozen or two yards.

"I suppose that happens quite a lot of times up here?" remarked Jack, as they stood on the bank and stared out into that sea of mist, which hid everything as with a blanket.

"They have fogs along off the coast of New Foundland, where the cod banks lie," Ned observed, "which comes from the fact that the cold currents of air from the Arctic meet with the warm Gulf Stream there, as it turns and heads toward Europe. That makes the fog, you know; but I never ran across a thicker one than this."

"Huh! looks like pea soup to me," suggested Teddy.

"Well, pea soup is a mighty fine dish, don't you forget it," retorted Jimmy, "and if I could get a bucket of the same as easy as I can this old fog, I wouldn't be doin' any kicking, believe me, boys."

"You said we must turn to the left, didn't you, Ned?" inquired Frank, who did not see the sense of wasting any time in standing there and staring into that impenetrable sea of gray fog.

"That would seem to be our best and only course," was the reply. "In the first place, it will save our crossing the mouth of the Harricanaw, and, as we have no boat, that counts for something. Then, from what I can see on my chart, by crossing one small river, called the Masakany, we ought to reach a place called Moose Factory. I don't know positively, but I've reasons to think that we'll find some sort of post there where we can get help. It's situated on a bay that several other rivers empty into. I believe that's our one best chance, and that's why I'm taking it."

"If you say it's so, we believe it, Ned," remarked Jack, with emphasis; and it was such confidence as this, placed in him by his chums, that had helped Ned accomplish so many things in the past.

"That mining camp was situated on a creek, wasn't it?" asked Frank.

"Yes, I haven't forgotten that, and I see what you mean, Frank," the patrol leader assured him; "but it was only a narrow affair, and I figure on finding a fallen tree trunk that we could throw across to serve us as a bridge."

"Always a way where there's a will," chanted Teddy, as they once more started off, with the mist-shrouded bay on their right.

The going was not all that heart could have wished. Lots of obstacles arose to give them trouble, though as a rule these were of a minor character, and easily surmounted. In some places the land was inclined to be marshy, so that they were compelled to go back some distance in order to get around. Then, again, they found that the ground rose into rocky elevations, with the bay lapping their bases; and here again the scouts were put to more or less exertions, in order to keep moving toward the west.

On one of these elevations they paused for a brief rest. The fog held as densely as ever, and out there where the great body of salt water lay it was an utter impossibility to see any distance. A whole armada of vessels might be anchored, not half a mile from the shore, and no one be any the wiser for it.

"Is this the real Hudson Bay proper?" asked Frank, while they stood thus, recovering their breath, after the last climb.

"Well, it's the lower part of it," explained Ned, "and called James Bay. There are a great many islands to be run across in this section, and I've heard that seals have rookeries on some of them, if they haven't all been killed off."

"Well, we've seen seals and Polar bears and the big walrus -- all in their native haunts, haven't we?" remarked Jimmy, turning to Frank, who with Ned had been on a long jaunt through Arctic ice floes some time before.

"And all of us stand a fair chance to see some more of the same, unless we get out of this country before the summer ends," Teddy chimed in.

"We'll find a way, all right," Jack told him; for it was always a hard thing to crush the spirit of the boy who could write such glowing accounts of trips and things for the readers of his father's big paper.

"Since we've rested up, suppose we make a fresh start," proposed Ned.

"We ought to soon come to where we followed that creek up and reached the tent colony about the mine opening," Jack was saying, as they started walking again.

"Unless I'm mighty much mistaken," Ned remarked, "we'll run across the same when we get to the bottom of this rise. I think I remember seeing this place before as we came along."

It turned out that Ned was right, for ere much more time had passed, the little expedition stood on the bank of the creek.

"Broader than you thought, ain't it, Ned?" questioned Frank, as he eyed the stretch of water dubiously.

"Oh! we wouldn't expect to bridge it over here," was the answer the patrol leader made. "By following it up for a little ways, we'll find that it narrows considerably; and that's where we want to look sharp for a log that'll come in handy."

"Yes, I remember now that it wasn't over ten or twenty feet across at most, where we struck it last time," Teddy piped up, for he was keeping an accurate account of all that occurred, and hence had the figures down pat.

As soon as they found that the creek bed had come down to respectable proportions, the scouts began to scurry around, hunting for a fallen tree that might be made to answer for a bridge. This was soon found and carried to the spot selected, as the most suitable for their purpose.

There was only one way in which they could drop the bridge over and find an anchorage on the other shore. This was by raising it to a perpendicular position on the near bank and, then giving it a shove, have it fall on the other.

It required the combined strength of the scouts, backed up by the more powerful guides, to accomplish this feat in bridge building. Ned had figured to a fraction, it seemed, for when the log fell it rested at least a foot on either bank.

After that it was easy for them to cross over, though Teddy had to get down and crawl, he being addicted to dizzy spells when at any height, and not in the humor for taking a dip in the cold water of the creek.

The boys were for starting on immediately; first of all, Ned had them shove the friendly log from its mooring ashore, so that it floated on the surface of the creek.

"You see," he went on to explain, "if any of those men happened along here and saw that bridge spanning the creek, they'd know we'd come this way. Now that we've thrown it into the water, it will float off and never give us away, anyhow."

They began to make more satisfactory progress after getting on the western side of the creek. All of them felt much encouraged though the morning remained dull and heavy, and there was always a chance that it might begin to rain.

Many times did they turn curious glances toward the mist-covered bay, as though speculating on what mysteries that fog might conceal.

As a rule it was seldom Teddy who made any discovery; but on this occasion the credit belonged to him. He suddenly drew the attention of the rest to something strange that had attracted his attention.

"I may be off my base, fellows," was the way he put it, "but I'm sure I heard people talking right then. And it came from out there, too, sure it did," with which he pointed straight toward the bay.

Jimmy might have laughed at such a suggestion, but before he could think to do anything like this, all of them plainly heard a human voice well up from the fog.



Chapter XVII.

On Board The Wreck.


Everybody could hear the sounds now. The conditions must have been favorable for carrying a human voice far over the water, because fog is a good conductor of sound.

Men were talking apparently, though the rumble of their voices alone came over the surface of the water, and no actual words could be distinguished.

"What's that other noise?" asked Teddy, as though puzzled.

"Must be oars working in the rowlocks," suggested Jack.

"Of course," declared the explorer, "how foolish of me to ask such a silly question. But seems I don't get the give-away sounds as clear as I did a minute or so ago."

"Good reason then," Frank told him; "because the boat they're rowing is heading out on to the bay."

"Then you think there must be some sort of vessel there, do you, Frank?" asked Teddy, eagerly, as he tried in vain to penetrate the blanket of mist.

"I reckon there might be," replied Frank, "though, of course, we can't see anything of the same right now. That rowboat wouldn't be setting out into the big sheet of water, unless heading for a vessel."

"Could it have anything to do with that wonderful fleet that is always on the move, coming and going, according to the weather? How about that, Ned?" demanded Teddy.

Ned shook his head, to indicate that he did not know. There were some things calculated to spring up from time to time, which, as leader of the Wolf Patrol, he did not claim to know. This was one of them.

Fainter grew the rumble of voices belonging to the unseen sailors; and the click-clack of oars working in the rowlocks also began to die away.

Francois had listened with the rest. Being only an ignorant voyageur, with very little knowledge save along his chosen lines, of course the French Canadian was apt to have more or less superstition in his system. It was a heritage he had imbibed with his mother's milk.

Francois had heard more or less about this weird, disappearing fleet of vessels that, for some time now, had been acting so mysteriously along the coast of the big bay. Like most of his class, he believed that they were unreal, and possibly but the ghosts of brave vessels that in years gone by may have ploughed the green waters of Hudson Bay.

Although he said little or nothing on the subject, Francois did considerable thinking along those lines. He cast frequent uneasy looks away out through the mist, as though fearful lest he suddenly come face to face with some terrible mystery.

To him those voices were anything but natural. Possibly, he even pictured some ghostly figures sitting in a phantom boat, and speeding over the surface of the historical sheet of water, about which so much that is remarkable has been written, and, also, handed down from father to son, among the rangers and caribou hunters of the Canadian bush.

It had died away completely by now. To the scouts, this simply signified that the men in the boat had probably drawn so far away from the shore that their voices no longer carried across the water as before; but to Francois it meant that the phantoms had chosen to withdraw, it might be sinking beneath the surface of the bay.

After this little adventure the boys fell to thinking again about the stories they had heard about the fleet that seemed to continually hover along the shore of Hudson Bay, now appearing, and then vanishing in the most remarkable manner.

Just because Ned did not seem fit to announce that they would come to a halt and endeavor to get in communication with the vessel, to which the men in the rowboat undoubtedly belonged, Teddy and Jimmy jumped to the conclusion that he, too, must be uneasy about the character of that ship.

The truth of the matter was that Ned had begun to notice certain signs going to tell him there was soon about to come a change in the conditions of the weather. He felt a slight puff of air on his cheek, and coming from the south at that. It was only a breath, but straws show which way the wind blows, they say; and when the next puff marked a slight increase, Ned knew what would happen before a great while.

Once the wind did rise, and the fog would be blown out to sea, so that in all probability they would be able to discover what manner of vessel it was that had sent a boat ashore, for some purpose or other.

But Ned knew that when this came to pass, the rain would also start in. It was his hope to discover some sort of retreat as they went along, such as might serve them as a shelter against the storm.

Once, when a gun was fired at some little distance away and further in shore, Jimmy ducked his head in a ludicrous fashion.

"Whee! that nearly got me!" he remarked, looking a little uneasy.

The others stared at him in bewilderment; but Ned quickly took him in hand.

"See here, Jimmy, are you saying that just to make us think you had a narrow escape, or did a bullet really swing past you?" he demanded.

The freckled-faced boy looked a little confused. When Ned took him to task, in this way, Jimmy could never hold out. He would first of all hedge, and then, if the accusation continued, his next step would be to throw out the white flag of complete surrender.

"Why, you see, I thought I sure heard the whine of something like a bullet, when I took the count," he started in to say.

"But was it a bullet passing that you heard?" persisted the patrol leader, who knew that this was the only sure way to pin Jimmy down to facts.

"Well, er, since you put it to me that way, Ned, I guess, after all it must have been imagination. You see my brain was filled with all sorts of stuff, and when that gun went bang! it struck me I was being fired at, so I ducked and something went 'sh! 'sh! just then, so's to make me get mixed up for a minute, and think it was flying lead. I know now it was one of them little snipe zipping past. They fooled me a few times a while ago, too."

"I knew that it must be a mistake," said Ned, "for a very good reason. You noticed that shot was a long ways off, perhaps as far as a quarter of a mile. Well, how in all creation could the shooter see us down here, when we can't glimpse a solitary thing sixty yards off? It was some hunter, more than likely, getting meat for the mining camp."

"Another narrow squeak for you, Jimmy," remarked Teddy, with a touch of fine scorn in his voice. "Everything seems to be coming your way nowadays."

"Huh! then let's hope those canoes and blankets and grub will follow suit; for it'd sure tickle me to be able to restore the same to the right owners. I keep on hopin' that Ned here won't think of leavin' this neck of the woods without makin' a real des'prate effort to recover what we lost."

Ned did not take the bait, and proclaim what his intentions might be; though it went without saying that he would have been just as glad to see their stolen property returned as the next one.

"If that 'coon' happened to come down to the bay along here, wouldn't he run across our trail?" asked Frank.

"Perhaps so," Ned replied, "but we have to take our chances there. You see we couldn't waste the time to try and hide it all the while. Let's hope that if he does come on our tracks, he'll think they've been made by some of his friends up at the camp."

"All the same," advised Jimmy, "I'm going to keep my eye peeled for any sign of the chappie. After doing the great stunts we have already, it'd be a shame to have our plans knocked galley-west through a blunder, or an accident."

"No shooting at anything you happen to think must be a man aiming a gun," was what the leader told Jimmie; for such a thing had really happened on a former occasion, causing much embarrassment to Jimmy, and almost breaking up the clever plan of his superior.

"Wish I may die if I do," mumbled the other, always ready to give all the assurance desired, even though unable to sustain the position thus taken.

The forward progress was resumed. No more shots floated to their ears, which was pretty good evidence that none were fired; because that south wind, constantly rising, must surely have carried the sounds to their ears.

"The dickens!" exclaimed Jack, presently.

"Ha! you felt it too, did you?" observed Teddy. "When I went to look up to see how the fog was lifting, a drop hit me square in the eye, but I waited to see if anybody else caught on."

"It's begun to rain, for a fact!" exclaimed Frank, dejectedly.

"And say, look where we are, would you?" Jimmy added. "Down on the flat shore, with only a growth of stunted oaks growing above us. Wherever d'ye believe we'll be able to find a sign of shelter, I'd like to know?"

"In for a ducking, boys, looks like," said Teddy. "And the worst of it is, you always feel so terribly cold when your clothes stick to your back. We'll just have to take chances, and make a heaping fire. Who cares if those men do see it, and come sneaking around? What've we carried guns up here for, if we can't defend ourselves in a pinch? Seems to me, I'd rather get in a hot box with that crowd, than shake to pieces with a chill. I had pneumonia once, and don't hanker after trying it again, if I know it."

Still Ned said not a word, only increased his pace, if such a thing were possible. The others came trailing along after him, almost out of breath with trying to talk, and at the same time keep pace with their leader.

There was no longer any doubt but that the rain was starting in. The breeze had increased imperceptibly, so that it was now blowing quite stiffly. Looking out over the water, they found that the fog was quickly thinning out. Already could they see several times as far as before, and the distance was widening constantly.

"There is a vessel out there!" cried Teddy. "I saw her as plain as your hat just then, when the fog lifted a little. Watch over there, and see. How's that, Ned? Was I right?"

"She's there, without a question, Teddy, and I give you credit for having sharper eyes than anybody believed," the patrol leader told him, only too well pleased to find an opportunity to compliment the explorer.

"What kind of a vessel would you call her, Ned?" asked Jimmy; while Francois stood and stared and listened, still believing that the boat must be a phantom, such as was likely to vanish before their very eyes, as might a wisp of trailing fog.

"I've seen whalers and sealers built like her," was the verdict of the leader.

The fog was being carried away more rapidly now, and the boys soon made another discovery that interested them. This was nothing more nor less than the fact that a second, yes, a third and even a fourth vessel of apparently the same tonnage lay at anchor further away, possibly a couple of miles from shore.

"Take a good look while you can, fellows," Ned told them "because I reckon that the wonderful disappearing fleet is before you right now. We can say we've set eyes on the mystery of Hudson Bay, even if we never learn what the answer is."

They all stared as hard as they could.

Meanwhile, Ned had unslung his glasses and was adjusting them to his eyes. There was enough of the fog still floating around to make seeing something of a labor; so that he did not get much satisfaction from the observation taken.

"I can see men aboard of all the vessels," he announced; "and there is a boat being taken up on the davits of the nearest craft, which must have been ashore in the fog, for some reason or other."

"Why can't we signal to them to come in and take us off?" asked Teddy, struck with a brilliant idea.

"There's the answer," replied Ned, when all of the vessels making up the anchored fleet vanished utterly from view, as another bank of fog crept up.

He turned and swept the shore beyond with the glasses.

"Just what we want," they heard him say; and looking in the quarter that had chained his attention they discovered some dark object half-hidden in the wisps of blowing mist.

"What is it, Ned; a fishing shanty, a stranded whale, or what?" demanded Teddy.

At that Jimmy laughed in scorn.

"You must think you're down on the Jamaica marshes near Brooklyn, where they do happen to have fishing shanties. Bet you now that's an old wreck!" he exclaimed.

"Just what it is," admitted Ned, as he led them along the shore. "Some whaler or sealer has gone ashore a while back. Perhaps she was crushed by the ice, and carried up on the land when the spring break-up came. But there's a chance we may be able to find some sort of shelter from this rain that's coming down on us."

"Hurry up, then," said Teddy, "and we may be able to save our jackets yet. I don't want to get soaked, unless I have to."

"I'd like to know who does?" asked Jimmy; "though for the matter of that, none of us are made of salt. And with a camp hatchet, I reckon now we'll be able to chop away enough wood aboard the wreck to have a decent fire going."

"If there's going to be any sort of storm, you don't think we'll be in danger of getting carried out to sea, do you, Ned?" questioned Teddy. "Not that I'd object to a cruise through this five-hundred-mile bay, the biggest thing of its kind in all the world; but I'd want to have something sound under me, and not a wreck of a boat, ready to sink any old time."

"Don't waste so much breath talking, but hurry!" advised Jack.

At that they put on an additional spurt, and drew closer to the wreck, which was half out of the water. Reaching the stern, part way up the beach, the boys found that a break allowed them an easy chance to climb aboard; and with hope beating high in their breasts, they hastened to clamber up the rough passage, glad of the opportunity to find possible shelter from the coming rain.



Chapter XVIII.

After The Storm.


"Sure she's deserted, are you?" asked the cautious Teddy, as he followed the other members of the little party aboard, the old Cree Indian guide bringing up the rear.

"Not a sign of any living thing here," came the answer, as Ned peered about.

"Sometimes, I understand, that you can run across all sorts of horrible sights on one of these same wrecks," continued Teddy. "Sailors get drowned, you know, down in the hold or in the forecastle. I hope we don't discover anything like that now. I never did fancy sights as ghastly as that."

"And I don't think you need bother your head about it," Ned told him, "because, in the first place, this wreck has been here quite some time; and, then again, you can see that wreckers have been aboard and stripped nearly all the iron and brass and copper out, because it was valuable. Perhaps there may be some Esquimaux living along the shore of Hudson Bay; or else it was the men up at the mine who did it. What we want to do is to find out what state the cabin happens to be in. A dry roof would be about the best we could ask to-day."

They made a rush toward the stairs that led down, which in most vessels would be known as the companionway. A shout went up as they looked into the cabin. It was almost destitute of anything that might serve as a comfort, but a broken stove gave promise of a fire, with all the delight that this carried in its train.

"We bunk here, all right," said Frank, as soon as he had sighted that stove; it was really a sorry object, but then everything depends on the conditions surrounding one when rendering judgment -- at home, they would have never given such a dilapidated thing house room; but shipwrecked mariners are not likely to be critical, and that broken stove was still capable of carrying fire.

"Get busy with your hatchets, those who have them, and lay in a supply of wood for burning," Jack called out, suiting his own actions to the words, and beginning to chop away vigorously.

"I don't suppose it matters a cent where you bang," remarked Jimmy, following the example set by the other scout; "and if we stay here long enough, we might burn up the whole bally ship. All she's good for, anyhow, to give a bunch of fellers that have lost their blankets a lift in a rain storm. Whack away, boys; nobody ain't goin' to say a word what you do, only cut wood."

"We didn't get in here any too soon," Frank told them; and upon listening they could hear the rain falling heavily on the broken deck of the derelict.

When one is securely sheltered that sound never strikes awe to the soul; in fact, it seems almost a merry tune, like that played upon the attic roof, in the good old days when you visited grandpa out on the farm, and could lie in bed, feeling glad you were not out in that downpour.

"Let her rain all she wants to," said Teddy; "it can't hurt us, because I don't think any kind of a downpour would raise the whole bay enough to float us off this sandy beach."

The others laughed at his remark. Teddy was so ready to conjure up troubles that never could have any real excuse for existing.

"What I'm provoked about," Jack ventured, "is that we didn't get a chance to signal to that nearest vessel before the fog cut her out again. But let's hope they'll hang around somewhere till the rain's over, and we can let them know the fix we're in."

"Huh! s'pose they don't know anything about wigwagging with the flags?" Jimmy put in. "Vessels have a way of talking across miles of water, but then their code is a whole lot different from the one scouts use ashore. We might be able to let 'em know we wanted some help, and would pay well for it. Money talks when a lot of other things are like mud."

Willing hands made light work, and a fire was soon burning in the old remnant of a stove that had once done duty in the midst of ice-packs, when the wreck was a gallant vessel in search of oil or, perhaps, sealskins.

After all, they had little reason to complain. The rain pattered on the deck, and, in a few places, leaked through; but there was plenty of dry space, so that none of the boys need get sprinkled. As for fuel, they had abundance of it, so long as their camp hatchets kept an edge, and their muscles held out for service.

"Not so bad, is it, Jimmy?" Teddy wanted to know, as they tried to make themselves as comfortable as possible, by hunting up all sorts of things capable of being turned into rough seats.

Of course, these were of no value whatever, for in frequent raids on the part of wreckers, whoever they may have been, everything worth taking had long since been carried away. Indeed, Frank declared he was puzzled to know why they had overlooked the broken stove; and all of them agreed it must have been by mistake.

"Well, I should say not," was the reply, on the part of the freckled-face lad, as he sighed and looked around him. "D'ye know I was just thinking how happy we could be in this palace if only we had those lovely blankets along; yes, and all that good stuff to eat. I think I'd be apt to pick up some weight here, if we had a cinch like that. But now every meal we enjoy means we're that much closer to the end. Mebbe we'll have to do what shipwrecked sailors do, draw lots for a sacrifice. I see my finish, if ever it comes to that, because I always get the wrong end of the deal or the stick."

"I pity the one who has to take a bite out of such a tough case as you," Teddy frankly told him; and somehow Jimmy seemed to consider that he had been given a bouquet, for he bowed and smiled and looked pleased.

"Tell the rest that," he whispered to Teddy "and I'll be safe."

The rain kept coming down steadily as the hours wore on.

"Tell me about your tropical showers," Jimmy remarked, as noon came and found no change in the conditions, "right up here on the border of the Arctic regions, when it takes a notion to rain, it does make up for lost time. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if it kept the plug out of the rain barrel for a week now."

"It's bound to make the going worse for us," Frank grumbled.

"Why, all the marshes will be flooded, and we'll have a high old time trying to navigate through the same. What do you think, Ned?" Teddy wanted to know.

The patrol leader looked at them, and smiled.

"I think history is repeating itself, and that you fellows are crossing bridges again before you get to them," he replied.

"Do you mean that there's a chance we won't have to tramp through these bogs and cross the salt water marshes?" demanded Jimmy.

"Well, we're here right now, and fairly comfortable," Ned told him. "What will happen next is something none of us can more than guess; but, as long as some of those vessels keep hovering around out on the bay, I'll hug a hope that we'll find some way of getting in touch with them."

"Which I take it means you firmly believe they're real, and not Flying Dutchmen, like they tell about in yarns of the sea?" Jimmy asked.

"I believe what my eyes tell me," answered the other, "and through the glass I saw men on those vessels, going about their regular daily tasks. Whatever they may be doing up here in Hudson Bay, take my word for it, there's nothing of the phantom about that fleet. They have some good reason for coming and going so mysteriously. Perhaps we'll know what it is before we get away from here."

Jimmy and Teddy, the pair of doubters, seemed to feel somewhat better after this little heart-to-heart talk with Ned. The leader of the Wolf Patrol had a happy faculty for inspiring others with some of his own confidence, which is one of the finest qualities a scout can possess.

There was a watch being kept to guard against any unexpected happening. As was to be expected, the two guides took it upon themselves to look after this part of the business. One of them was on duty at a time, and it could be so arranged that the sentry did not necessarily have to expose himself to the inclemency of the weather, in order to stand guard.

Nothing came to pass, and the long, dreary day gradually neared its end.

"Never knew such a terribly monotonous time in all me life," Jimmy grumbled; for he would not have been happy unless he could find an occasional chance to "let off steam," as Teddy called it.

"Well," said Jack, "it's nearly night now, and let me tell you a great secret."

"Go on!" exclaimed the other, looking interested.

"The rain's stopped!" Jack explained.

"Well, I declare, if that isn't true for you, Jack!" cried Jimmy; "and to think that after me waiting for hours to be the first to tell the joyful tidings, I had to get thinking so deeply about our affairs that I clean forgot all about it. But it may not last. Sometimes there's a break, and then the old storm comes back again, worse nor ever."

"Clouds zey be break right now, over zere," and Francois, who had just come in from the sheltered nook where watch was kept, pointed as he spoke toward the southwest, where the storm had been coming from.

"Oh! if that's the case," added Jimmy, thinking it best to cheer up, "I'll take back what I said. And let's hope a lot of this water'll soak away before we have to put our best foot forward again in the morning."

"I suppose we'll have to eat again," remarked Frank.

"Please don't force yourself," Jimmy told him. "It's a bad plan to eat when you don't feel like it. And, by the same token, your loss will be our gain."

It was a good thing that the scouts could joke among themselves, even when facing desperate conditions. They had enough of gloom around them without allowing it to seize upon their spirits.

By this time their stock of food was getting down to such a low ebb that there was little choice when it came to preparing a meal. True, Jimmy would run over a long list of things that appealed especially to his clamorous appetite; but after all was said and done, it might be noticed that each meal was very much a repetition of those that had gone before.

Indeed, even at that, no one would have complained of the sameness of their food, if only the supply looked more promising.

Jimmy, who helped get supper ready, heaved many a heavy sigh, as he figured that at this rate the larder would be bare by the next evening.

"And after that, what?" he went around asking every one; but they only laughed at his fears, and told him to remember that in the past luck always came their way when the skies looked darkest.

"Something will happen, see if it don't," Frank observed, with a faith that had solid foundation; because they had just been talking of many occasions when circumstances had suddenly arisen to bring them a glorious success.

"And, anyhow, we'll often look back to this hotel on the beach with a smile," was what Teddy observed, as he turned his head and glanced at the dilapidated cabin of the wrecked whaling vessel, seen by the fitful flashes of light from the fire, at which Francois was cooking supper.

"We'll miss the mattress of hemlock browse to-night, I reckon," Ned hinted, as he looked down at the hard floor of the cabin.

"Look out for lame limbs to-morrow morning, then," Jack chuckled. "I expect to see a lot of limping cripples start out the first thing. Sleeping on boards may be better than nothing, but it's little rest I expect to get."

"I've heard of fellers sleepin' standin' up," Jimmy informed him. "There's that old veteran, Daddy Spellmire, who tells such yarns about the old days when he 'fit in the war with Siegel.' He says some of them were so dead tired that when they were marching they'd press close up together; and often he's slept while moving his legs in a mechanical way, held up by his comrades all around."

"We might try that if everything else fails," said Frank.

Supper being ready they started in and enjoyed it. Boys are not prone to worry very much about the future. The present is enough in their estimation to look after. What might happen was for them to handle when it came to pass; only Jimmy, at times, liked to grumble and complain that he was not getting a square deal.

When they had finished eating, it was night. Though stars had peeped out here and there, it still looked somewhat gloomy, even if the mist was clearing away to seaward. The breeze had shifted around, so that with the incoming tide the waves ran far up on the beach now, and there was considerable of a roar in the air as these curled over and broke upon reaching shallow places.

Time was beginning to hang heavy on the hands of the five scouts. They missed the delightful surroundings which they had enjoyed while camping each night, during the time they were moving northward in the canoes. It was so different here in this dingy old cabin, when they would have enjoyed seeing the trees waving above their heads, and felt the springing turf underneath their bodies, as the time came to seek their blankets under the shelter of the khaki-colored waterproof tents, now alas, gone no doubt forever.

Frank, seeing that his chums were not feeling in a very merry mood as they tried to settle down as comfortably as they could, wandered outside to the sloping deck to talk with Francois, who had taken the Indian guide's place on watch.

He had hardly been gone three minutes when they heard him coming down the companionway in great haste. Somehow, everyone of the others seemed to understand that the terrible stagnation was about to be broken up.

When Frank burst into the cabin his face told the story. He was bringing them news of some sort, for his eyes were glowing and his face flushed.

"What ails you, Frank?" asked Jack, as they scrambled to their feet.

"After all, it begins to look like we needn't bother about how we're going to sleep to-night, standing or sitting!" the newcomer announced, breathlessly.

"How is that?" asked Jimmy.

"Why, there are lights coming along the shore right now -- lanterns I should say, at a rough guess," Frank went on; "chances are the miners have learned about our being aboard this old wreck, and mean to gather us in before morning!"



Chapter XIX.

The Battle Of The Hulk.


There was an immediate rush for the guns, which had been placed in a corner of the cabin. From the actions of the scouts, it could be imagined that no one dreamed of giving in, without a desperate resistance.

"If we do have to stand 'em off," declared Jimmy, as he examined his repeating rifle, in order to make sure that it was in condition for business; "sure we couldn't ask for a better fort than this same old wreck. Seven of us, all told, and well armed at that, ought to be able to do the work. If they know what's good for them, they'll go mighty slow about trying to storm this place."

"Why," said Teddy, "it'd be pretty hard to climb up the sides anywhere, so all we have to do is to defend the break in the stern where we got aboard."

They all looked to Ned to find out what his opinion might be.

"I'm not thinking so much about the chances of keeping them out," the scout leader went on to say, "as what will happen afterwards."

"Do you mean when we try to leave here to-morrow, Ned?" questioned Frank.

"I mean that the chances are, after they've had a good try and find they can't rush the wreck, with so many guns defending it, those men will start in to keep us in a state of siege."

"Holy smoke!" burst from Jimmy, as he looked horrified; "and us with only grub enough on hand for two skimpy meals. What under the sun will we do? No chance to knock over a caribou or a moose, and fill up the empty larder! Was there ever such hard luck?"

"Many times, Jimmy," replied Ned, "and we always managed to pull through, somehow or other. We will again, as sure as anything, even if I can't tell you just how it's going to happen. Besides a scarcity of food, we have to face a water famine, you must remember."

"With all the sea knockin' at our door, too," groaned Jimmy. "And think of the amount that's been runnin' to waste off our deck all day. What a pity we didn't think to find a cask, and fill the same when we had the chance. To tell you the truth, I'm getting more and more thirsty as I think of how we'll suffer."

"Well, the men with the lanterns are coming right along all the time you fellows are talking here," Frank advised them.

"And our first duty is to get on deck, so as to be ready to repel boarders," Ned declared.

"Boarders!" echoed Jimmy, "well, I should say we ought to repel them, when right now we ain't got enough food for our own family table."

They hurried out of the cabin, Ned making sure that the fire in the stove was so far extinguished that its light might not betray the fact of the wreck being peopled.

As soon as they arrived on deck they had no difficulty in discovering the approaching peril. Indeed, the moving lanterns were close by, and coming right along, as though those who were carrying them had arrived at the conclusion that the exploring party might have taken temporary refuge from the rain aboard the old wreck.

Doubtless its possibilities as a shelter were well known to them; and they could easily understand how the boys would eagerly welcome a chance to keep their jackets dry.

"There are three of the lanterns, Ned," Jack was saying, as all of them strained their eyes to see.

"Yes, and back of the same, I can get glimpses of other fellers walkin' along at a smart clip," Jimmy announced.

"Yes, there must be nearly a dozen in that bunch," Frank gave as his opinion.

"Enough to give us two apiece all around," Jimmy told them, just as though he might be a very bloodthirsty individual, instead of a peace-loving scout, if let alone. "And it'd be a saving of ammunition, if we could fix things so that one bullet would do for both. Because I take it you mean to open fire, if so be they persist in tryin' to board with us, eh, Ned?"

"We have no other course open to us," replied the leader of the scouts, sadly; for he did not at all fancy being forced into a fight against his will. "But everybody, remember to be as careful as you can, and not shed blood unless there is nothing else to be done. Then aim to wound all you can. I'd hate to have to think I'd taken any man's life, no matter how much he deserved it."

"H'm! mebbe that's all right," grumbled Jimmy; "but when your back's up agin the wall, and you got to do it, or go under yourself, what's to hinder? We want to be let alone, and go our way. If they won't agree, but try to knock us over, or make us prisoners, so they can keep us here month in and month out on a steady diet of fish and water why, for one, I ain't agoin' to stand for it, you hear me. Ned, you tell that bad lot they'd better hold up if they know what's good for 'em; because I've got me gun ready, and there's light enough for us to see where to aim."

The men with the lanterns had by this time come so close to the wreck lying half out on the beach, and with the incoming waves lapping the rest of the bulk, that another minute would have seen them starting to clamber aboard.

They were heading straight for the break in the stern, which would indicate that all of them must be familiar with their surroundings. No doubt, they had been on the stranded whaler many a time since it was cast up there on the beach.

So Ned called out, trying to throw as much of authority in his voice as was possible at the time.

"Stop where you are, men!" he shouted, abruptly.

The lanterns no longer advanced. Evidently those who carried them were trying to see the party who had given this peremptory command. They could be heard talking together in low and husky tones, some urging a precipitate rush, others counciling caution and diplomacy, in order to accomplish their ends.

"Hello! there, on the wreck!" some one, doubtless vested with authority, called out.

"Well, what do you want?" asked Ned.

"Are you the party that was up at the mine, and did you come here in canoes?" continued the unseen leader of the group below.

"We had our boats stolen, and now we're about to head to the south on foot," was what the patrol leader announced, possibly thinking that it might influence these hardy men somewhat, if they knew that the scouts intended to quit that region without delay.

Some more low talking went on below on the beach.

"Be ready, boys," warned Jack; "there's a movement on foot, and like as not they'll start to try and rush the gangway. Keep low down, because they might start firing on us!"

"That's right, Jack," said Ned, who had just been about to issue the same sort of warning himself. "When you're dealing with men like these, look out for treachery."

Just then the man below shouted again. He had a very rough, raspy voice, and seemed to be of an ugly disposition, though possibly he was hoping to impress the boy with the idea that he would brook no foolishness.

"Well, you've got to surrender to us, that's all," he went on to say. "You went and spied on what mining was being done up here, and we've orders not to let you get away till the word comes. Might as well make up your minds to that, youngsters, and it'll save ye lots of trouble. Throw down what guns ye got."

At that Jimmy burst out into a loud laugh.

"Will ye be after hearin' him give his orders, fellers?" he exclaimed. "Just like he was the boss of the barnyard, too. Listen to me, you down there! We are seven, all told, and with as many guns of the latest model that can throw lead through ten inches of hard wood. If ye want the guns, come up and take the same. I give ye my word, it'll be the hottest time any of ye ever struck in the course of your lives. A dozen of ye, are there? Well, after the first volley, we'll cut the count down just one-half. Don't all speak at once, but pull the latchstring, and come on into our little parlor!"

It was simply impossible to stop Jimmy, once he got started, unless you took him in hand and clapped a gag over his mouth. As there was no chance of doing this now, Ned let him have his say. It could do little harm, after all; in fact, perhaps, it might even do some good, since the men on the beach would have received ample warning, with regard to the intentions of the scouts, and if they ventured to try and clamber aboard the wreck, it would be at their own peril.

Apparently, more talking was going on below.

"That may all be a blind," Jack ventured to say, as they lined up along the side of the wreck, with their guns ready.

"Yes, because unless I miss my guess several of the bunch slipped away, as if they had their orders," Frank declared.

"It may be they know of another way to get aboard," said Ned, "and while the rest keep on parleying with us, they mean to try and slip around, so as to take us by surprise. Jack, you and Teddy keep tabs of the rear, and shoot if you see the least suspicious movement."

"Ay, ay! sir!" said Jack, immediately wheeling so as to keep his rifle pointed toward the threatened spot. "Drop low down, Teddy, so as not to show against the sky-line. And when I say, 'let drive,' give several shots. The noise of the bombardment will help scare 'em off, I reckon."

The man who seemed to be leader again hailed them.

"You can't get away from here, and you might's well know that same first as last," he went on to say, positively. "You learned too much for yer own good that time, an' we ain't going to allow of your getting out of this region in a hurry. If ye surrender, we'll treat ye white, give ye my word on that. All we want is that ye shouldn't get to Montreal till we hears from the boss. Show your good sense, boys, by makin' the best of a bad bargain."

"You might as well save your breath, whoever you are," said Ned, firmly; "we know what it all means, and why you want to hold us here prisoners, without any right to do the same. And understand now that we refuse to stand for it. Try and rush this wreck, and some of you will get hurt. The same applies to the three men you sent around to try and take us in the rear. We're on to your tricks, mister, and, if you know what's good for you, just turn around and leave us alone. We mean to fight, and fight hard! That's the last word of warning I'm going to give you, and the next move will call for lead. Do you get that straight?"

Ned could be quite belligerent when he chose. He realized that he was dealing with hard characters in these men, and that any sign of weakness on his part was only going to make things the more difficult for himself and chums.

He understood that what he had just said must be looked on as a sort of challenge by the miners on the beach. There could be no more parleying after that defiance had been given. It meant war.

Consequently, Ned was not at all surprised to hear the dimly seen men break out into an angry roar of shouts, and to see them start toward the stern of the wreck, with the evident intention of swarming aboard.

There were several flashes as firearms sounded, so that altogether it looked as if the battle had opened.

After that it was folly to dream that they could pull through peaceably, when these hired minions of the fraudulent mining corporation were so bent on carrying out their own plans and which consisted of making the boys prisoners.

Ned gave the word, and immediately the scouts commenced shooting. They could see the advancing figures fairly well in the half darkness, and at such short range it would have had to be a pretty poor marksman who could not have hit his target had he really wanted to do so. But the scouts were not ferociously inclined. Ned had begged them not to resort to stern measures, unless it were absolutely necessary, and something desperate had to be done in order to prevent the enemy from accomplishing the capture of the old hulk.

So while they rattled away merrily with their repeating guns, they took care not to mow the advancing men down. This was easily accomplished by shooting so as to send their bullets into the sand of the beach; and as the assailants could not tell what the sanguinary result of the furious fire might be, they no doubt imagined that terrible execution was being wrought in their ranks.

Some of them managed to reach the stern of the wreck; others stumbling over flotsam and jetsam on the beach were crawling around, seeking shelter from the blaze of fire that leaped all along the bulwarks above.

It was a pretty warm time while it lasted, and even Jack and Teddy seemed to be engaged, for the roar of their guns chimed in with the rest. If those three men, who had slipped away from the rest, had managed to climb aboard, by means of some dangling rope, they, doubtless, speedily realized that it was not a safe place in which to linger.

"Stop firing!" cried Ned, suddenly, "they've fallen back, and the first round goes to us."

"That was the easiest licked squad I ever ran across!" boasted Jimmy; "and, while I'm about it, I might as well confess that I had to crease one feller in the leg, for he was pushing right into the opening. Sure he fell back, and the last I saw of the bog trotter, he was crawling away, draggin' that left leg after him."

Ned sighed. He had hoped to accomplish this business for Mr Bosworth without being compelled to do violence; but it seemed that this could not be. As scouts, he and his chums objected to such things; but, as a last resort, even members of the organization must be allowed the liberty of defending themselves against the assaults of hired ruffians.

"Do you know where those three men got aboard, Jack?" he asked.

"I think we'll find a piece of rope hanging over the side," replied the other; yes, "here it is, Ned. Shall I cut it loose, so as to stop that gap?"

"Of course," came the answer; "and then take one of the electric torches and see if any of them stayed aboard, after the firing was over. Jimmy, you go along; and be careful not to get held up. We don't want to have a treacherous foe hiding near us, and ready to do something desperate at any minute. Sing out, if you find one, and want any help to throw him overboard!"



Chapter XX.

Besieged.


The two scouts hurried away to execute the orders of their chief. They were so accustomed to having Ned tell them what to do that any command he might give was always cheerfully carried out.

The balance of the party remained there where they could command the break in the stern of the wreck, and which the enemy had once vainly attempted to rush. If presently another attack were made they would be in position to pour down a hot fire on the assailants; and perhaps taking pattern by Jimmy, the rest of the defenders might begin to give wounds that would gradually put the miners out of the game.

Before three minutes had passed Ned and those with him heard a tremendous row going on down the deck. This was followed by a great scrambling, and then came a loud splash.

"Say, they must have found one of the three sneaks!" exclaimed Teddy, jubilantly.

"Here comes Jack now to report," added Frank.

Jack was breathing hard, but chuckling at the same time, as he came up.

"I have the honor to report, sir, that we discovered a spy aboard, and made him walk the plank," he started in to say, with all the airs of a second officer aboard a liner, giving in his account of duties performed. "He didn't want to make the jump but Jimmy helped him over the side, while I covered him and kept his hands up. We've looked everywhere now, and think he was the only one that stayed aboard."

"I hope you didn't drown the fellow, Jack," said Ned.

"Small danger of that," laughed the other; "where he fell the water was only a few feet deep, even with a wave rolling in. He's ashore long before now, and can report how we do things aboard the Old Reliable. Anything else you want done, sir, while we've got our hands in?"

"Nothing but keep an eye out for any creeper along the sides. They may think to try it over again," Ned told him.

"And next time perhaps we'll do something worse than tossing the fellow overboard," Jack declared. "I half believe that scoundrel meant to do us an ugly turn. Why, he had a wicked looking knife in his hand just when we cornered him, and even raised it as if meaning to strike, when I knocked it out of his grasp with the barrel of my gun, and then Jimmy jumped on him like a monkey."

"A good job all around," was Ned's comment; "and it ought to show these parties that we mean what we say. I'm only hoping they'll get sick of the business and conclude to let us alone. That is all we ask of them, to keep their hands off, and allow us to pull out."

"Small chance of that happening, I'm afraid," Jack went on to say. "If we get away from here it'll be because we've gone and licked the lot of them, as Jimmy was remarking, out of their boots. I say that, because we know what it would mean to this fake concern to let the story of the mine get to New York City."

After that for a while everything seemed very quiet. Watch as they might they could see nothing of the enemy on the beach below. The waves crept up higher, as the tide came in, and the sound of their curling over with a long roll grew more and more boisterous; but ashore all seemed as silent as death.

"You don't think then they've had enough of fight, and gone away, eh, Ned?" was what Teddy asked, as he crept to where the patrol leader stood, looking over the bulwarks, and keenly on the alert.

"Not a bit of it, Teddy," came the prompt reply. "You ought to know that men like that give up only as the tiger does, grudgingly. They've felt of our claws, and found that we can scratch; so next time they'll try and work some other sort of game that may pay them better."

"I don't see how it can be done," urged Teddy. "If there were any trees overhanging our fortress I might begin to think they'd climb up, and try to drop in on us. And so far as we know they haven't got an aeroplane to take the place of the same trees. They can only make a charge through that gap in the stern and we're able to guard that, all right, ain't we, Ned?"

"It seems so," the other told him; "but you mustn't be too sure about there being no other way of getting aboard. We might have said that before, and yet there was the dangling rope that three of them climbed. Now, there may be another route; and while we don't know about it, the only way to make sure is to keep on the alert every minute of the time."

Possibly half an hour passed in this way. The strain was beginning to tell on some of the boys, for they felt that it was necessary to keep keyed up to a high tension all the time. They did not know at what moment loud yells would indicate that the battle had been resumed and under new conditions.

"Whew! and to think that we've just got to keep this up all night long," Teddy lamented, as he shifted from one foot to the other, for, as he said, they were trying to play tricks with him, by going to sleep on post.

"Yes, and mebbe a whole lot longer," Jimmy told him; "because, while I haven't been saying much about the same, I'm of the opinion that Ned hit the right nail on the head when he said they'd try to starve us out. Oh! I could stand nearly anything, but to go hungry. I've often thought that would be my wind-up some of these fine days, to starve to death. And I can't imagine a more terrible fate."

"Enough for two decent meals in the larder yet, Jimmy," said Frank. "And before we get to the jumping-off place, we'll make a move out of this, let me tell you. I think you'll be able to eat your three meals a day this long while yet."

"Well, it's kind of you to say so, Frank," Jimmy went on; "but just now I was thinking how neat we could give these fellers the slip, if only we had a boat of some sort. There's plenty of water at the bow, with the tide still comin' in like fun. My kingdom for a boat; any old hooker'd do to fill the bill, because we ain't particular."

"Could we manage to make a raft, do you think?" asked Teddy.

"There's plenty of loose stuff around," Ned remarked; "but while a boat might help us out, I don't think we could do anything with a clumsy raft, even if we had a chance to launch the same, without being found out. I had considered whether we might get overboard at the bow and make off up the shore, but the chances of being discovered seemed too great."

"And besides we'd be apt to get our guns wet, and that might keep us from using the same, when they were badly needed," Jack suggested. "So it seems as though we'll have to give up the idea of leaving the fort by the water door."

This started them to canvassing the whole situation over again, and several ingenious schemes were proposed. Unfortunately, on entering deeper into the same, they showed weakness in one particular or another, so that all of them had to be cast aside.

What made it doubly irritating was the knowledge that if they waited until the dawn came, their position would be doubly dangerous, since they might not even show themselves along the side of the wreck, without inviting a shot. As to escaping, it was not to be thought of while the sun remained above the horizon.

"We've got to do something to-night, that's flat!" urged Teddy, possibly in the hope that Ned might have a plan of his own, which he was holding back, just to ascertain what his chums could do along those lines.

"I've got a hunch that they're nearly ready to give us another whirl," Jimmy was remarking, as he leaned over the rail of the vessel, as though to see better.

"What makes you say that?" questioned Jack.

"There's a suspicious movement below that makes me believe some of the bog-trotters are creeping along close beside the boat. I think they must have come out of the water, where it slaps up against the wreck. Right down underneath us they are, Ned. If I had a kettle of scaldin' water, I could start the biggest yelping chorus ye ever heard right now."

A few sharp words from Ned put them all on the alert. Each one had a station assigned to him, which he was expected to hold, in case of a renewal of hostilities; while Jimmy might bemoan the fact that he could not have a bucket of boiling water with which to startle the intended boarders, he evidently did not intend to let that deficiency keep him from doing his duty. Crouching there at a point where he could fire through the breach in the stern of the wreck, he only waited for the word to be given, when he evidently meant to start some others among the enemy to limping on one leg.

"Gee!" Jack heard him saying softly to himself, with a chuckle, "wouldn't it be a funny thing now, if we went and crippled the whole shooting match, by tapping every one in the left leg. Think of how they'd go hobbling around here, like a bunch of old pensioners comin' after their money. Watch my smoke, now, and see how I fix 'em."

When everything was prepared in this way it made the boys nervous to wait, for minutes passed and nothing happened. All the while they were imagining the enemy creeping up the sides of the old hulk, grimly bent on doing them injury.

Ned passed from one point to another, trying to discover just what kind of peril it might be that menaced them. Did the miners have some way of springing on board at a given signal, so that they might attack from all sides at once?

When a full hour had gone and still there was no attack, Ned began to wonder if after all any assault had been intended. Surely these men knew by now that those on board the wreck were well armed, and that they could hardly hope to carry the fort by assault. Perhaps they had come to the wise conclusion that there was a far better means at their disposal than bloodshed. Famine could accomplish what violence failed to do. All they had to figure on was keeping the scouts there just so long, when, lacking food and fresh water, they must give in.

After the chances for another desperate charge through the breach had begun to grow fainter, Ned started to figuring again how he might get his comrades and himself out of so uncomfortable a scrape.

As Jimmy had said, since they had no airship, they could not fly in that way; and lacking boats, the sea offered no solution to the puzzle. All that was left then, apparently, was the land, with those fierce foes lying in wait to attack them the minute they quitted their fortress.

Ned believed that he had the most difficult problem to solve that had come his way this many a day. From every side he viewed it, the puzzle seemed as unanswerable as ever. If only they could manage to slip away along about an hour or so after midnight, when the darkness was densest; but there was only the one way to leave, and that was evidently watched closely, if those silent figures flitting hither and thither on the beach stood for anything.

But was the breach the only means for leaving? Ned remembered that those three men had climbed aboard through the aid of a dangling rope. What was sauce for the goose might be sauce for the gander, too; and if only they could discover more rope they might also slide down it to safety.

He moved over to where Jimmy was squatted like a big toad, with his gun resting on his knee, and aimed straight at the frowning breach in the stern.

"You told us about those three men climbing aboard by means of a rope that was dangling over the side; am I right, Jimmy?" he asked.

"Just what they did, sir," came the reply.

"You didn't leave that rope there, did you?" continued Ned.

"I should say not," Jimmy answered with emphasis. "Jack pulled it up on deck, after I'd helped the feller make his getaway jump."

"And you think it's there still?" the patrol leader asked.

"Must be, unless somebody's been and gone and cut it loose to throw it overboard," was the answer Jimmy made. "But what's a rope got to do with us now, Ned? Want it to string up one of the dubs in case we get our hooks on the same? Now, that might be a good scheme. It'd sure warn 'em that we meant business, and didn't expect to stand for any foolishness."

"Well, you've guessed wrong that time, because it wasn't hanging I had in mind, Jimmy!" declared Ned. "I was only trying to figure what chance we'd have to get away, if later on in the night, one by one, we managed to drop down by means of that rope."

"Gee! that is an idea, now, Ned. And say, it'd give us a chance to skip out in the dark. Once clear of this pack, we could do some huntin' and lay in a stock of meat. Oh! I hope you can make it work, Ned. Looks like it might be our last hope, don't it?"

"I've been thinking right along, and, so far, it's the only idea I've struck; but we couldn't dream of starting for some hours yet. So keep on the watch, and don't let the enemy rush us."

"Count on me to hold 'em in check," said Jimmy, with a touch of his old boastfulness. "I'm Leander at the Bridge, or Leonidas holding that pass at Thermopyle. I'm here like a rock and can't be budged. Oh! you mutts down there, I'm sorry for the feller that tries to run the gauntlet of my fire; because my finger's on the trigger all the while, and just itchin' to press harder."

Thinking to make sure about that rope, on which it now seemed so much might depend, the patrol leader passed on down the slanting deck of the stranded old hulk.

He met some one coming from the other end of the wreck; and it turned out to be Frank, who, on finding out that he had run upon Ned, took hold of his sleeve.

"Come down here with me," he said, "I want you to see something."

Curious to know what the other scout meant, Ned readily accompanied him; but in passing the place where Jack and Jimmy had met with their adventure, he made sure that the rope was still where the former had tossed it after drawing it up.

"There, what d'ye think of that?" asked Frank.

He was pointing out toward the great bay, as he said this; and, looking, Ned discovered that the last of the sea fog and mist had cleared away, leaving the air as clear as a bell. Far away over the water he saw several strange lights. They seemed to rise and fall in a mysterious fashion; and yet Ned knew that there was nothing at all queer about this.

"The phantom fleet at anchor!" said Frank, and it was hard to tell from his manner whether he meant all his words implied or not.

"Yes," said Ned, soberly, "whatever those vessels are, they might help us out of this scrape, if only we could get in communication with them," and he stood there for some time, staring reflectively out toward the twinkling lights on the swelling sea.



Chapter XXI.

Unexpected Help.


"They're coming, Ned!" whispered Jack, in a hoarse tone.

"But that sound surely came from seaward, Jack?" expostulated the other.

"I know it did, and must have been the sneeze of a man at that," replied the second scout. "But what of it, Ned? We must remember they've got other boats besides our canoes, and it might be possible for them to row around from the mouth of the Harricanaw to this place."

"Yes, possibly," said Ned, "but hardly probable in so short a time. But like you, I believe it was a man who sneezed, and that he was out there on the water. Look again, and see if you can pick up a boat moving, Jack."

For a full minute the pair stood and strained their eyes to the utmost, gazing minutely over the rolling waters, from the place where the white foam could be seen, far out to sea. Ned even noted which way the night breeze held, and in that quarter he kept his eyes glued the longest time, as though instinct told him the mysterious sound must have been carried on the wings of the wind.

There were all those twinkling riding-lights on the vessels composing the fleet of whaling or sealing craft, which had come to obtain such a strange reputation for appearing and vanishing so wonderfully. Perhaps, as Ned observed them again, he unconsciously connected the sneeze with their presence; but then this thought quickly gave way to the other. It was more natural that they should expect those men of the fake mine to be afloat near by, endeavoring to find some vulnerable part of the stranded wreck, where they could deliver a successful attack.

"I see it, Ned!" suddenly said Jack, triumphantly.

"Show me!" observed the patrol leader, quickly moving his head so that it came alongside that of his chum, whose hand was extended, with the quivering forefinger pointing almost in a line with the nearest of all the vessels.

"There, watch when the wave rises again, and you'll -- there, did you get it, Ned?"

"Yes, and as you say, it was a boat with several men in the same," replied the other scout, hastily; "and more than that, they seem to be heading straight for this old wreck. You see, they're coming down the coast, and as like as not, they've rowed all the way from the river."

"Could they do it on the bay?" asked Jack, dubiously.

"I don't see any reason against it, if they happen to have strong enough muscles, and know how to manage a boat on the big waves," Ned went on to say.

"But hadn't we better tell the rest?" asked Jack. "If we're going to get a side wipe, it might be as well for all of us to be ready to meet the rascals when they try to get aboard from their boat."

"Yes, let two stay to watch the break in the stern -- the Cree and Frank might handle that end of the business -- bring the rest here with you, Jack. I'll try and keep tabs of the boat, while you're gone."

"Be back in a jiffy, Ned," and with that Jack shot away.

He could not have taken much time to tell the others what they were wanted for, because he quickly appeared again at Ned's elbow, bringing Jimmy, Teddy and Francois along with him.

"What's the matter, Ned?" asked the first named, as he looked all about him, evidently half expecting that he would see the head of a "boarder" rising into view over the gunwale of the wreck.

"Jack discovered a boat coming in, and we think it must hold several of our enemies," the other told them. "Look where I point and you'll see it rising on the next roller."

Immediately exclamations of astonishment announced that the others had sighted the alarming spectacle.

"They're expecting to take us by surprise, because we'd never think of standing guard along that side of the old tub," Jimmy declared as his opinion.

"It wasn't such a bad scheme, either," added Teddy. "Only for that man sneezing when he shouldn't, neither of you two might have discovered the boat."

"That's as true as anything you ever said, old man," assented Jack, who never wanted to claim honors he had not fairly won. "But you know it's the old Black Bear and Wolf luck.

"We're always running slap up against the greatest things ever heard of."

"And first chance I find," muttered Teddy, "I'm going to get transferred from the old Eagle into one of the other patrols. Whoever heard of an Eagle having any special luck? That's because they went and named their patrol after a bald-headed old pirate, who loves to rob the hard working fish-hawk of his dinner, time in and time out."

Nobody was paying any particular attention to Teddy's lament, however, and so he started in to take a second and more particular look at the dancing object that could be seen one moment, as it rose on a wave, and then vanishing from view again.

"Can you all make it out?" asked Jack.

Even Francois said there was no difficulty now; while Jimmy, as if to prove that his sight was good, went on to say:

"It seems to be a pretty hefty boat, too, fellers?"

"Yes, that's what I thought," Jack answered him.

"And I reckon you noticed that only two men are in the same; that is, a pair handling the oars; and, if there are any others, they must be lying flat on their backs in the bottom of the old thing. Which gives me a smart little idea, Ned."

"Glad to hear you say so, Jimmy; and if you don't mind we'll all listen to what you've got ailing you," the patrol leader told him.

"Why, it's just like this, you see," continued the other, pleased beyond words to find himself in the limelight, for that bit of luck did not come the way of Jimmy often enough to suit him. "There are just two of the fellers, that's right, and when they step up on deck, where it slopes near the water-line, why, we'll jump them like a toad hops over a mushroom. Before they know what's struck 'em, they'll be our prisoners, see?"

"Yes, but what good will they be to us, Jimmy; you don't lay out to eat them, I hope?" demanded Teddy, unable to grasp a thing that had not yet been fully explained.

"Shucks! don't you see -- when we've got 'em tied up good and tight, why, what's to hinder the whole bunch of us stepping into their bully boat, and go slidin' off as slick as you please, heading for the nearest vessel at anchor out yonder?"

Jimmy put this question boldly, as though he realized that he had struck a chord that was bound to evoke the highest praise from his mates. And he was right, for Ned slapped him heartily on the back, Jack wrung his hand, while Teddy, who had lost his breath in amazement, at least managed to stroke his sleeve affectionately.

"A great scheme, I give you my word, it is, Jimmy; and one that does you credit," said Ned. "If only we can carry it out, we've got the biggest chance for escaping that could ever come our way. It all depends on whether they really mean to try and board the wreck. We're not so dead sure of that yet, you know."

The spirits of the others, buoyed up so suddenly by the prospect of a speedy release from their predicament, underwent a drop. It was as though the temperature had fallen from blood heat to freezing.

"Oh! but we were all certain they meant to try and board us a minute ago, Ned; and let's see if they are still on the same course," with which Jack, as well as the others sought to again catch a fleeting sight of the oncoming boat.

It was not the easiest thing in the world to glimpse such a dusky looking object in such uncertain light, and with the waves rising and falling. But it happened that while they had been talking, Francois managed to keep his eye fixed on the boat, and so he was able to point it out to them.

"Oh! joy, she is still heading right for us!" said Jimmy, who had felt the slump worse than any of the others, because of the fact that the idea was his own.

What he said was true, and all of them could see that the two men in the boat were pulling hard to come along with the sweep of the sea.

"Better get ready to lay the trap, hadn't we?" asked Jack, nervously.

"Oh! that will be easy enough when we make sure of where they expect to board," the patrol leader told him; but, at the same time, he knew full well that the boat would naturally have to swing around to the sheltered side of the wreck, before those in it could hope to pull in.

All of them watched, with their hearts beating like trip-hammers, so excited had the sudden hope made them.

The seconds seemed to pass on leaden wings to Jimmy. Several times he moved uneasily, and Ned could hear the sigh that welled up from the depths of his heart. This happened when, to his excited fancy, the oncoming boat seemed to remain motionless on the swelling wave for a brief period. Possibly at such times the rowers ceased their labors, for the purpose of scrutinizing the dark hulk, which they were then approaching, as though to make sure that they would find all well.

Each time, however, they started to rowing again, and as they drew nearer to the shore, of course, they had to put more strength into their strokes, because of the suction of the eddies that surged around the bow of the derelict, standing at this time of nearly full tide, well in the water.

When they changed their course, so as to swing around to leeward of the wreck, Ned considered that it was time he and his comrades crept along in the shelter of the bulwark, and made ready to receive the uninvited guests.

First of all, they must allow them to come aboard, and also secure the boat. Any premature action was bound to ruin the whole affair. If one of the men got away, or the boat was set adrift, it would avail the prisoners of the hulk nothing. They wanted a means for leaving the hostile land, and the mere capture of these two men, who evidently intended to take them by surprise, would not satisfy them at all.

So Ned and his mates made themselves as small as they could, crouching there in the gloom of the night. They could hear the splash of the waves beating against the other side of the old vessel, and these constant sounds served to hide all else in the way of noise. When the boat collided with the planking of the wreck, they only knew of its arrival through the slight quiver that was conveyed to their alert senses.

And now they saw one of the dark figures clambering hurriedly over the broken bulwarks. Strange to say, he did not seem to be at all particular as to what he was doing. There was no skulking movement, no crouching, and looking about, such as one would expect to observe under the circumstances. Ned noted this with surprise. He even began to entertain serious doubts concerning the absolute truth of the theory he had previously formed regarding the identity of the two men. Surely, if they belonged to the force that had once before been repulsed when trying to board the wreck, they would know of the presence of the scouts there, and do everything within their power not to let the defenders know of their secret coming.

"All right, Captain Bill!" they heard the man who had jumped aboard say; and that too was a strange thing; had they believed the wreck to be utterly abandoned, these mysterious parties could not have acted in a more singular manner.

Now the second man was climbing over, in which act he was assisted by the one who had come first, and who seemed to be a more agile chap.

At least the boat was secure, for Ned could see that the first visitor was engaged in fastening the painter to a cleat that chanced to be near by, and which he seemed to find in a remarkably able manner, as though he might be quite familiar from past associations with the lay of things aboard that hulk.

Ned had his little hand-electric torch ready, and when he believed that the proper instant had come for action, he suddenly pressed the button that caused a flash to dazzle the eyes of the men.

"Surrender! Don't try to make a single move, or you'll be shot down. We've got you covered by our guns, so throw up your hands, both of you!" was what he exclaimed, and at the same instant, the others stood up with leveled rifles.

It was evidently a complete surprise for the invading force. They elevated both hands as ordered, mechanically perhaps, for at the same time they were uttering exclamations of bewilderment and wonder.

"Make sure of the boat, Jimmy!" said Ned, with an eye to their great need; and only too gladly did the other scout jump forward to where the rope had been passed around that cleat under the rail.

"Who are you, anyway, and what d'ye mean by holding us up this way?" finally asked the older of the two prisoners; and now that he found time to look closer, Ned was himself amazed to discover that both of them had the appearance of seafaring men, in regards to garments and bronzed faces.

"I'm going to ask you that same question," he managed to say. "Who are you, and what do you want coming ashore in the night to board this wreck?"

The men turned and looked at each other.

"What d'ye think of that, now, Captain Bill?" asked the younger man. "Me to be asked that, as has lived and cruised aboard this old whaler Comet for six years and more, till she was wrecked in the ice last season, and they carried me away, out o' my head from exposure? Ain't I got a right aboard here, if anybody has? 'Twas only lately that I learned she was ashore 'stead of bein' at the bottom of Hudson Bay; and as I had some valuable papers hid in a bulkhead that I thought was lost to me for good and all, why, I got Captain Bill, whose mate I am this trip, to come ashore along with me, so's to see if they be here still. We knowed there was a wild crowd prospectin' for copper up around these parts, and didn't dare try to land in daylight. There was other reasons besides. But now we've told you who and what we are, s'pose you turn around and enlighten us. Seems like I seen them sort o' suits afore now, on the Boy Scouts o' Swamsscot, where I hail from in New England. Be you members of the same organization, boys?"

For a minute almost, none of the three lads could find his breath to answer. The astonishing truth actually stunned them. They saw liberty and safety looming up within their reach. There was no longer any doubt concerning their chances for leaving this inhospitable land, and carrying the answer which would mean so much to Mr. Bosworth and those capitalists associated with him.

It was Jimmy who recovered first, and his ringing cheer that went pealing forth over the heaving waters of Hudson Bay.



Chapter XXII.

The Mystery Solved -- Conclusion.


"Hooray for the greatest thing that ever happened!" Jimmy roared, as he swung his campaign hat wildly about his head, and even started a jig, such was his exuberant condition. "The luck of the Wolf Patrol holds as good as ever! In the nick of time, the villain gets his dope and we pull off a brilliant victory. Hooray!"

Indeed, the other boys felt almost as exultant as Jimmy; and hearing all this racket, both Frank and the Cree chief came hurrying over, wondering what it could stand for.

Many questions were poured upon Captain Bill and his younger companion, who gave his name as Asa Plunkett, once captain of the very vessel upon whose sloping deck they were then standing.

"A plenty of room for the whole kit of ye in our whale-boat, lads," said the older man, "and I reckons as haow we kin find grub for the lot, aboard the Grampus, which will soon be headin' for the home port, since there ain't nawthin more to be picked up on this ere cruise into foreign waters, and arunnin' risks all the time o' being hauled up by a Canadian cruiser."

"Just gimme about ten minutes to bust open the bulkhead, and see if my papers has stood all the exposure of months alyin' here on the beach," remarked Mate Plunkett.

"You bet we will, sir!" exclaimed Jimmy, "and if you want any help, just sing out for me. I'm a champion hand to smash things. The habit's gone and got me into lots of trouble before now. And here's an old, rusty marlin-spike that might come in handy."

"We took pains to fetch a hatchet along for that purpose," the mate informed him, as he hurried toward the companionway, meaning doubtless to seek the cabin.

They soon heard him pounding away at a great rate, he having lighted a lantern that had been fetched from the whaling vessel anchored a mile or so away.

"Get your things together, fellows," Ned advised, "because we're expecting to be afloat on Hudson Bay before many minutes."

"Seeing how we've been robbed of our most cherished possessions," declared Teddy, sadly, "that job isn't going to take us very long, I'm sorry to say."

"To think that the chance has come to snap our fingers in the faces of that ugly crowd!" observed Jimmy, who could hardly keep his feet still through joy.

"They'll be as mad as anything when they come aboard in the morning to find us gone," Frank remarked.

"And as they've got sentries posted, like as not, to give the alarm, if we try to slip away, up or down the shore, they'll never be able to guess what became of us all," Jack gave as his opinion, at which they all laughed again, feeling in a particularly merry mood.

Then up came Mate Plunkett, waving some yellow papers in his hand.

"Found 'em all right, Captain Bill!" he called out; "a little tough lookin', to be sure; but wuth the same money to me, all the same. And now, lads, if so be you're ready to quit this old wreck, say the word, and we'll clear out."

There was not a single dissenting vote, for while the hulk had offered them an acceptable asylum during the downpour and had proved to be a pretty serviceable fort when Sol Griggs and the men connected with the fake copper mine had attempted to effect their capture, none of them cared to remain a minute longer aboard the old whaler than was necessary.

So they embarked, not finding it very difficult, while the boat lay on the leeward side of the stranded wreck. There was plenty of room for all, just as the men had stated; and after starting away the scouts saw the last of their late refuge merged with the dim outlines of the shore.

Apparently, the miners could not have had any suspicion with regard to what was transpiring; for they made no move. This would make their surprise all the more overpowering, when they found in the morning that their birds had slipped out of the trap.

As all of the boys had often been upon the sea before in various places, there was no particular novelty about their sensations now. The relief from the recent strain was so great that Jimmy insisted on shaking hands all around several times, while they were moving over the mile that separated them from the first of the floating lights, aboard the anchored vessels of the fleet.

"Mebbe, we'll be apt to learn all about this wonderful disappearing fleet now, since we expect to be aboard one of the vessels till we reach some port, where we can telegraph and take a train," Teddy went on to say, as they drew near the Comet, looming up out of the night gloom to seaward.

At hearing his remark Mate Plunkett chuckled.

"So that's what they been calling us, is it?" he said, as he shifted his quid to the other cheek. "Well, the way we've been dodgin' around lately, hardly gettin' settled in one anchorage before we'd hear an alarm raised that a cruiser was comin' down on us, so we'd have to skip out like the wind from the three-mile limit, I don't wonder at it."

His words enlightened Ned, who had already been entertaining certain suspicions with regard to the possible explanation of the mystery.

"Are you after whales or seals?" he asked, plainly.

"This time, it's seals we been takin'," replied the mate. "You see, word was fetched to us, some months back, that a whopping big herd of seal had taken to some of these here islands in old Hudson Bay, and there was a rush of vessels to scoop in the same, our hooker along with the rest. I wanted to come up here again, to find out if anything had ever been heard of the poor old Comet that I was captain of last season, and so I took the berth of mate to my old friend, Captain Bill, here."

"What luck have you had?" asked Jimmy, eagerly.

"Nawthin' to brag about," came the reply from the old skipper. "I reckons that it'll pay me nigh as well to go back to whalin' agin; and there needn't be sech risks of havin' your ship and cargo confiscated by revenue vessels, as this seal huntin' in Hudson Bay turns out to be."

"But they say it's nearly five hundred miles across in its widest part," Frank broke in with; "and how can Canada claim jurisdiction over an ocean like that? Why, you might as well say, that the Mediterranean was a closed sea."

"That's the trouble," remarked Mate Plunkett; "always has been a pesky lot of trouble about this here place. Because the two roadways of getting into Hudson Bay happen to be only a certain number of miles wide, Canada has always tried to claim it as her private preserves. Lots of whalers has been chased for darin' to ply their trade in these same waters. Course, they got the right to that three-mile from shore limit, but they want the whole hog up here. We been keepin' a lookout right along, while we sent boats out after the seal. It's late in the season for the work, but skins is so skeerce that we got to take 'em any old time. But the game's hardly worth the candle, and next year you won't see many sealers up this way."

"Then we were in great luck to have you around just when we needed help most," declared Ned; who had already arranged with Captain Bill to carry the whole party down to Halifax, where they could be landed; Francois and the Cree to head for their home country, well paid for their services, and the scouts starting for New York by the first steamer, after wiring to Jack's father about the success of their great expedition.

They were soon aboard the Grampus, where their coming was a surprise to the crew. Their astonishment increased, however, when Captain Bill at once gave orders for getting the mudhook up, and leaving their anchorage, as well as preceding all the other sealers on the homeward bound trip.

The boys were willing to put up with such accommodation as might be looked for on board a Yankee sealing vessel. Of course, steam was the propelling power, for sailing vessels belong to a by-gone age; and they were soon making good time out to sea.

That was the last Ned and his chums were likely to ever see of the inhospitable shores of the famous Hudson Bay. They had found it the home of more than one mystery, and would often recall some of their strange experiences there, while investigating the facts connected with the wonderful mining find that had been offered to Jack's father, and other capitalists, for investment.

When the next morning came along, they were out of sight of land, and bowling on at a ten knot an hour clip. Look which way they might, there was nothing but a vast expanse of heaving, tumbling water around them; and yet Mate Plunkett told them they were still in Hudson Bay, and would be for two days, even under the most favorable conditions, such was the extent of the inland sea.

Fortunately, the boys all proved to be good sailors, so that they felt very little bad effects from the motion of the vessel, as she ploughed her way through the rolling billows, throwing the spray high in the air.

It would have been difficult to have found a happier and more care-free group of scouts than those five lads from the great metropolis, as day followed day, and they enjoyed one of the most wonderful voyages they had ever had the good fortune to embark upon.

The weather proved to be splendid, and besides, they were just brimming over with joy, because of the great success that had followed their long journey up into the Far Northland.

It would be weeks before those in charge of the mining enterprise could get any word to the head officials down in New York. Ned expected to be home long before this would come about, for he knew how tedious it was journeying for hundreds of miles over long stretches of waste land, following the course of rivers, and often not covering twenty miles from sun-up to the setting of the same.

During those long sunny days, it was a great pleasure to loll around on deck and watch the wonderful ocean, over which the steam sealer was steadily passing, headed toward Halifax, where the boys meant to disembark.

They discussed every phase of the adventure, and many little matters which had seemed a bit strange were cleared up when they could exchange views. Ned also prepared his full report, showing just what was going on up there in the wilds. He had ample proof of all he meant to relate, even to samples of the real ore, and also of the "salted" stuff that was being placed around the mine, in order to deceive any investigator, should one be sent up to look about.

Of course, Mr. Bosworth would wash his hands of the entire business, and the sly swindlers must look elsewhere, in order to unload their property. The extravagant claims they had made for its richness could not be justified, because it was after all a very mediocre discovery, which would never pay for the working, so far away from railroad facilities.

In due time, they arrived at the Nova Scotia port, where the boys were taken ashore in one of the whale boats, because Captain Bill did not want to risk seizure by entering the place.

They were sorry to have to say good-bye to the friendly skipper and his mate, and promised to let them hear how things turned out.

Once ashore, the first thing Ned did was to send a cable to Mr. Bosworth, telling him not to do anything until they got home, which would be as soon as a ship sailed heading south.

Francois and the old Cree Indian left them here, after being loaded down with presents, in addition to the wages promised them. The boys felt that they could afford to be generous, because, as they had saved the capitalists possibly a million or more dollars, the chances were that quite a tidy sum of money would be coming their way soon, from the grateful gentlemen forming the clique.

The balance of their trip was uneventful, and one day they came in through the new Ambrose Channel and up past Liberty Island, making the steamer's dock just as the sun was sinking behind the distant Jersey hills.

That night there was the greatest talking match at the Bosworth home ever known, and it kept up until nearly midnight. Jimmy had such a share in the telling of their adventures that he was as hoarse as a crow afterwards, and could hardly raise his voice above a whisper.

When the rest of the troop gathered in their lodge-room at the called meeting, and heard a detailed account of what had happened in that far-away land along the shores of the greatest bay in all the world, they united in declaring that Ned and his four chums had done the whole organization credit, in finding out the truth in connection with the supposed mine.

It was voted that the adventure was by long odds one of the most thrilling that had ever come to any scouts belonging to the New York troop; and some of the boys even went so far as to declare that in all probability it would never be equaled. But when they made such a rash prediction as this, they did not know how soon Ned and his chums would be called upon to once more take part in another series of hazards that would try their courage, as few scenes had ever done before; as well as bring to the front their knowledge of woodcraft and other things that scouts should know.

These astonishing experiences will be found recounted in the next volume of this series, under the title of "Boy Scouts In Death Valley; or, The City in the Sky;" and those boys who are fortunate enough to secure this story will surely vote it one of the most interesting they have ever read. Until we meet again in the pages of the new book, we will say, not good-bye, but "good-night."

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Bunny Brown And His Sister Sue At Aunt Lu's City Home

By

Laura Lee Hope



Chapter I

A Midnight Alarm


"Bunny! Bunny Brown! Sue, dear! Aren't you going to get up?"

Mrs. Brown stood in the hall, calling to her two sleeping children. The sun was shining brightly out of doors, but the little folks had not yet gotten out of bed.

"My! But you are sleeping late this morning!" went on Mrs. Brown. "Come, Bunny! Sue! It's time for breakfast!"

There was a patter of bare feet in one room. Then a little voice called.

"Oh, Bunny! I'm up first. Come on, we'll go and help grandma feed the chickens!"

Little Sue Brown tapped on the door of her brother's room.

"Get up, Bunny!" she cried, laughing. "I'm up first; Let's go and get the eggs."

In the room where Bunny Brown slept could be heard a sort of grunting, stretching, yawning sound. That was the little boy waking up. He heard what his sister Sue said.

"Ho! Ho!" he laughed, as he rubbed his sleepy eyes: "Go to get eggs with grandma! I guess you think we're back on grandpa's farm; don't you Sue?" and he came to his door to look out into the hall, where his mother stood smiling at the two children.

When Bunny said that, Sue looked at him in surprise. She rubbed her hand across her eyes once or twice, glanced around the hall, back into her room, and then at her mother. A queer look was on Sue's face.

"Why -- why!" she exclaimed. "Oh, why, Bunny Brown! That's just what I did think! I thought we were back at grandpa's, and we're not at all -- we're in our home; aren't we?"

"Of course!" laughed Mrs. Brown. "But you were sleeping so late that I thought I had better call you. Aren't you ready to get up? The sun came up long ago, and he's now shining brightly."

"Did the sun have its breakfast, Mother?" asked Bunny.

"Yes, little man. He drank a lot of dew, off the flowers. That's all he ever takes. Now you two get dressed, and come down and have your breakfast, so we can clear away the dishes. Hurry now!"

Mrs. Brown went down stairs, leaving Bunny and Sue to dress by themselves, for they were old enough for that now.

"Oh, Bunny!" exclaimed the little girl, as she went back in her own room. "I really did think, when I first woke up, that we were back at Grandpa Brown's, and that we were going out to help grandma feed the hens."

"Do you wish we were, Sue?" asked Bunny.

"Oh, I don't know, Bunny," said Sue slowly. "I did like it at grandma's, and we had lots of fun playing circus. But I like it at home here, too."

"So do I," said Bunny, as he started to get dressed.

The two children, with their father and mother, had come back, only the day before, from a long visit to Grandpa Brown's, in the country. I'll tell you about that a little later. So it is no wonder that Sue, awakening from the first night's sleep in her own house, after the long stay in the country, should think she was back at grandpa's.

"Bunny, Bunny!" called Sue, after a bit.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Will you button my dress for me?"

"Is it one of the kind that buttons up the back, Sue?"

"Yes. If it buttoned in front I could do it myself. Will you help me, just as you did once before, 'cause I'm hungry for breakfast!"

"Yep, I'll help you, Sue. Only I hope your dress isn't got a lot of buttons on, Sue. I always get mixed up when you make me button that kind, for I have some buttons, or button-holes, left over every time."

"This dress only has four buttons on it, Bunny, an' they're big ones."

"That's good!" cried the little fellow, and he had soon buttoned Sue's dress for her. Then the two children went down to breakfast.

"What can we do now, Bunny?" asked Sue, as they arose from the table. "We want to have some fun."

"Yes," said Bunny. "We do."

That was about all he and Sue thought of when they did not have to go to school. They were always looking for some way to have fun. And they found it, nearly always.

For Bunny Brown was a bright, daring little chap, always ready to do something, and very often he got into mischief when looking for fun. Nor was that the worst of it, for he took Sue with him wherever he went, so she fell into mischief too. But she didn't mind. She was always as ready for fun as was Bunny, and the two had many good times together -- "The Brown twins," some persons called them, though they were not, for Bunny was a year older than Sue, being six, while she was only a little over five, about "half-past five," as she used to say, while Bunny was "growing on seven."

"Yes," said Bunny slowly, as he went out on the shady porch with his sister Sue, "we want to have some fun."

"Let's go down to the fish dock," said Sue. "We haven't seen the boats for a long time. We didn't see any while we were at grandpa's."

"Course not," agreed Bunny. "They don't have boats on a farm. But we had a nice ride on the duck pond, on the raft, Sue."

"Yes, we did, Bunny. But we got all wet and muddy." Sue laughed as she remembered that, and so did Bunny.

"All right, we'll go down to the fish dock," agreed the little boy.

Their father, Mr. Walter Brown, was in the boat business at Bellemere, on Sandport bay, near the ocean. Mr. Brown owned many boats, and fishermen hired some, to go away out on the ocean, and catch fish and lobsters. Other men hired sail boats, row boats or gasoline motor boats to take rides in on the ocean or bay, and often Bunny and Sue would have boat trips, too.

The children always liked to go down to the fish dock, and watch the boats of the fishermen come in, laden with what the men had caught in their nets. Mr. Brown had an office on the fish dock.

"Where are you two children going?" called Mrs. Brown after Bunny and Sue, as they went out the front gate.

"Down to Daddy's dock," replied Bunny.

"Well, be careful you don't fall in the water."

"We won't," promised Sue. "Wait 'til I get my doll, Bunny!" she called to her brother.

She ran back into the house, and came out, in a little while, carrying a big doll.

"I didn't take you to grandpa's with me," said Sue, talking to the doll as though it were a real baby, "but I'll take you down to see the fish now. You like fish, don't you, dollie?"

"She wouldn't like 'em if they bit her," said Bunny.

"I won't let 'em bite her!" retorted Sue.

At the fish dock Bunny and Sue saw a tall, good-natured, red-haired boy coming out of their father's office.

"Oh, Bunker Blue!" cried Bunny. "Are any fish boats coming in?"

Bunker Blue was Mr. Brown's helper, and was very fond of Bunny and Sue. He had been to grandpa's farm, in the country, with them.

"Yes, one of the fish boats is coming in now," said Bunker. "You can come with me and watch."

Bunny took hold of one of Bunker's hands, and Sue the other. They always did this when they went out on the dock, for the water was very deep on each side, and though the children could swim a little, they did not want to fall into such deep water; especially with all their clothes on.

Soon they were at the end of the dock. Coming up to it was a sailing boat, that had been out to sea for fish.

"Did you get many?" called Bunker to the captain.

"Yes, quite a few fish this time. Want to come and look at them? Bring the children!"

"Oh, can we go on the boat?" asked Bunny eagerly.

"I guess so," said Bunker Blue.

He led the children carefully to the deck of the fish boat. Bunny and Sue looked down into a hole, through an opening in the deck. The hole was filled with fish, some of which were still flapping their tails, for they had only just been taken out of the nets.

"Oh-o-o-o! What a lot of fish!" exclaimed Sue. She leaned over to see better, when, all at once, her doll slipped from her arms, and fell right down among the flapping fish.

"Oh, dear!" cried Sue.

"I'll get her for you!" cried Bunny, and he was just going to jump down in among the fish, too, but Bunker Blue caught him by the arm.

"You'll spoil all your clothes if you do that, little man!" Bunker said.

"But I want to get Sue's doll!"

Bunny himself did not care anything about dolls; he would not play with them. But he loved his sister Sue, and he knew that she was very fond of this doll, so he wanted to get it for her. That was why he was ready to jump down in the hold (as that part of the ship is called) among the flapping fish.

"I'll get her for you," said Bunker. With a long pole Bunker fished up the doll. Her dress was all wet, for there was water on the fish.

"And oh! dear! She smells just like a fish herself!" cried Sue, puckering up her nose in a funny way.

"You can take off her dress and wash it," said Bunny.

"Yes," said Sue, "I can do that, and I will." She took off the doll's dress, and then looked for some place to wash it.

"Here, Sue, give it to me," said the captain of the boat, for he knew Bunny and Sue very well indeed. "I'll soon have the dress clean for you."

"How?" asked Sue, as she gave it to Captain Tuttle.

He tied the dress to a string, and then dipped it in the water, over the side of the boat. Up and down in the water he lifted the doll's dress, pulling it up by the string.

"That's how we sailors wash our clothes when we're in a hurry," said Captain Tuttle. "Now when your doll's dress is dry, it will be nice and clean. You can hang it up here to dry, while you're watching us take out the fish."

He fastened Sue's doll's dress on a line over the cabin, and then he and his men took the fish out of the boat, and packed them in barrels in ice to send to the city.

Bunny and Sue looked on, and thought it great fun. Sometimes a big flat fish, called a flounder, would slip from one of the baskets, in which the men were putting them, and flop out on deck, almost sliding overboard.

Soon all the fish were out, and as Sue's doll's dress was now dry, she and Bunny started back home.

"Well, we had fun then, Sue," said the little boy. "Didn't we?"

"Yes," agreed his sister. "But what can we do this afternoon?"

"Oh, we'll go down to Charlie Star's house and have some fun. He's got a new swing and a hammock."

"Oh, that will be fine!" cried Sue.

The children had a good time playing with Charlie that afternoon. Others of their playmates came also, and Bunny and Sue told of the jolly fun they had had in the country, on grandpa's farm.

After a while the sun, that had been shining brightly all day, began to get ready to go to bed, down back of the hills where the clouds would cover it up until morning. And it was time also, for Bunny Brown and his sister Sue to go to bed. All the little folk of the town of Bellemere were getting sleepy.

How long Bunny and Sue slept they did not know. But Bunny was dreaming he had turned into a fish, and was going to flop into the water, and Sue was dreaming that she and her doll were having a fine ride in a motor boat, when both children were awakened by the loud ringing of a bell.

"Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!" went the bell.

"Is that our door bell?" asked Sue of Bunny, who slept in the room next to hers, the door being open between.

"No, I guess it's a church bell," said Bunny, half awake.

Then he and his sister heard their father moving around his room.

"What is it, Walter?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"It's a midnight alarm," he answered. "I guess it must be a fire, though it's the church bell that's ringing. I can't see any blaze from my window, but it must be a fire, or why would they ring the bell?"

"And why should they ring the church bell, when we have a fire bell?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"I don't know," answered her husband. "I guess I'd better get up, and see what it is. I wouldn't want any of my boats to burn up."



Chapter II

Bunny And Sue Go Out


Bunny Brown, in his little room, and Sue Brown, in hers, jumped out of bed and ran to the window. They could hear the ringing of the church bell more plainly now.

"Ding-dong! Ding-dong!" it sounded through the silence of the night. It was not altogether dark, for there was a big, bright moon in the sky, and it was almost as light as a cloudy day.

"Can you see any blaze?" Bunny and Sue heard their mother ask their father.

"No, not a thing. But it's funny that that bell should ring. I'm going out to see what it is."

"I'll come with you," said Mrs. Brown. "I'll just put on my slippers, a bath robe and a cloak, and come along. It's so warm that I'll not get cold."

"All right, come along," said Mr. Brown. "The children are asleep and they won't miss us."

Bunny and Sue felt like laughing when they heard this. They were not asleep, but their father and mother did not know they were awake. Pretty soon Mr. and Mrs. Brown slipped quietly down the stairs and out of the house -- out into the moonlit night. The church bell was still ringing loudly, and Bunny and Sue could hear the neighbors, in the houses on either side of them, talking about it. Everyone wondered if there was a fire.

"Oh, Bunny!" called Sue in a whisper to her brother, when daddy and Mother Brown had gone out. "Is you awake, Bunny?"

"Yep, course I am! Are you?"

"Yep. Say, Bunny, let's go to the fire; will you?"

"Yep. I'll just put on my bath robe and slippers."

"An' I will too. We'll go and see what it is. Daddy and mother won't care, and we can come home with them."

Now while Bunny Brown and his sister Sue are getting ready to go out to see what that midnight alarm means, I'll tell you a little bit about the children, and the other books, of Which this is one in a series.

The first book was called "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue." In that I told you that Bunny and Sue lived with their father and mother in Bellemere, near the ocean. Mr. Brown was in the boat business, and he had a big boy, Bunker Blue, as well as other men and boys, to help him. But of them all Bunny and Sue liked Bunker Blue best.

In the first book I told how Bunny's and Sue's Aunt Lu came from the city of New York to pay them a long visit, how she lost her diamond ring, and how Bunny found it in the queerest way.

In the second book, named "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue on Grandpa's Farm," I told how the Brown family went on a trip in a big automobile. It was a regular moving van of an automobile, and so large that Bunny and Sue, Mr. and Mrs. Brown and Bunker Blue could eat and sleep in it. They camped out during the two or more days they were making the trip to grandpa's.

And what fun the children had in the country! You may read in the book all about how they saw the Gypsies, how they were frightened by tramps at the picnic, how they were lost, and what jolly times they had with their dog Splash.

Then, too, Bunny and Sue helped find grandpa's horses, that the Gypsies had taken away. So, altogether, the children had lots of fun on Grandpa Brown's farm. They even went to a circus, and this brings me to the third book, which is called: "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue Playing Circus."

And that is just what Bunny and Sue did. They got up a little circus of their own, and held it in grandpa's barn. Then Bunker Blue, and some of the larger boys in the country, thought they would get up a show. They did, and held it in two tents. Of course Bunny and Sue helped.

A week or so after the circus Bunny and Sue, with Bunker, and their father and mother (and of course their dog Splash) came back from the country in the big automobile.

Bunny and Sue had many friends in Bellemere where they lived. Not only were the boys and girls their friends, but also many grown folk, who liked the Brown children very much indeed. There was Mrs. Redden, who kept the village candy store, and there was Uncle Tad, an old soldier, who lived in the Brown house. Bunny and Sue liked them very much.

Then there was old Jed Winkler, a sailor, who lived with his sister, Miss Euphemia Winkler, and a monkey. That's right! Mr. Winkler did have a pet monkey named Wango, and he was very funny -- I mean the monkey was funny. He was so gentle that Bunny and Sue often petted him, and gave him candy and peanuts to eat. Wango did many queer tricks.

But now I think I have told you enough about Bunny and Sue, as well as about their friends, so we will go back to the children. We left them getting ready to go out into the moonlight, you know, to see what the ringing of the church bell meant.

"Is you all ready, Bunny?" called Sue when she had put on her bath robe and slippers.

"Yep," he answered. "Come on."

Hand in hand the children went softly down the front stairs, as their father and mother had done. Mr. and Mrs. Brown were now out in the street, some distance away from the house. Men and women from several other houses, near that of the Brown family, were also out, wondering why the bell was ringing.

"Don't wake up Uncle Tad!" whispered Bunny to Sue, as they walked along so softly in their bath slippers.

"No, I won't," answered the little girl. "And don't wake up Mary, either. She might not let us go."

"All right," whispered Bunny.

Mary was the cook, but, as she slept up on the third floor, she would hardly hear the children going out.

"Shut the door easy," said Bunny to Sue, as they reached the front steps. "Don't let it slam."

They had found the door open, as Mr. and Mrs. Brown had left it, and the two children, each taking hold of it, closed it softly after them.

"Now we're all right!" whispered Bunny, as he started down the street on the run, for the bell was ringing louder than ever now, and Bunny was anxious to see the fire, if there was one. He hoped it would not be one of his father's boats, or the office on the fish dock.

"Wait! Wait for me!" cried Sue to her brother. "I can't run so fast, Bunny, 'cause I'll stumble over my bath robe. It's awful long!"

"Hold it up, just as I do," said Bunny, turning around to look at his sister. "Hold it up, and then your legs won't get tangled in it."

Sue pulled the robe up to her knees, and held it there. Bunny was doing the same thing, the bare legs of the children showing white in the moonlight. Bunny started off again.

"Wait! Wait!" begged Sue. "Take hold of my hand, Bunny."

"I can't!" he answered. "I've got to hold up my robe, or I'll tumble and bump my nose. Besides, how can I take hold of your hand when you haven't got any hand for me to take hold of?"

That was true enough. Sue was holding up her long robe with both hands.

"If I had some string I could tie up our robes," said Bunny, looking on the moonlit sidewalk, hoping he might find a piece. "But I hasn't got any," he said, "so I can't hold your hand, Sue. But I'll go slow for you."

He waited for his sister to catch up to him, and then the two children hurried on. They could go faster now, for their long bath robes did not dangle around their feet.

Down the street they hurried. The bell kept ringing and ringing, and Bunny and Sue could see and hear many other persons who had gotten up to see what it all meant, and who were now hurrying down the street.

"Oh, Bunny!" said Sue. "Isn't it just nice out to-night?"

"Yes," he said. The night was warm, and the moon was bright. Bunny Brown and his sister Sue did not think they were doing wrong to get up at midnight, and run down the street.

"I -- I wonder where mother is?" said Sue, as they turned a corner.

"We don't want to see her, or daddy either," answered Bunny, keeping in the shadows, out of sight.

"Why not, Bunny Brown? Why don't we want to see our papa or mamma?"

"'Cause they'll send us back to bed, and we want to see the fire."

"Oh! do you think there is a fire, Bunny?"

"I guess so, or the bell wouldn't ring. But we'll soon see it, Sue, for we're almost at the church."



Chapter III

Aunt Lu's Invitation.


"Ding-dong!" went the bell in the steeple. "Ding-dong! Ding-dong!"

By this time many persons were out in the street. Mr. Gorden, the grocery man, who lived next door to the Brown family, saw Bunny and Sue hurrying along.

"Hello!" he cried. "What are you two youngsters doing up at this hour of night?"

"We -- we came to see the fire," said Bunny.

"Where is your pa and your ma?" asked Mr. Gordon.

"They -- they went on ahead," explained Bunny.

"Oh, well, if they're with you I guess it's all right," the grocer said.

Of course Mr. and Mrs. Brown were not with Bunny and Sue, and their parents didn't even know that the children were out of their beds. But Mr. Gordon thought Bunny and Sue were all right, for he hurried on, calling back over his shoulder:

"I don't know where the fire is. I think it must be a mistake, for I don't see any bright light. Good-night, Bunny and Sue!"

"Good-night!" called the children, and they followed on behind Mr. Gordon.

Now they were in front of the church. Before it was quite a crowd of people, but Bunny and Sue seemed to be the only children. At first no one noticed them. Everyone was anxious to know what the ringing of the bell meant.

"Where's the fire?"

"Who rang the alarm?"

"Why didn't they ring the fire bell instead of the church bell?"

"Who's ringing it, anyhow?"

"And what a funny way to ring it!"

Those were some of the remarks and questions Bunny and Sue heard, as they stood in front of the church.

"Ding-dong!" the bell kept on ringing. "Ding-dong!"

"Well, there's one thing sure," said Mr. Gordon. "There isn't any fire around here, or we'd see it."

"Then someone must be ringing the bell for fun," suggested another voice.

"That's daddy," whispered Sue to Bunny.

"Hush!" Bunny said, as he moved around behind Mr. Gordon. He did not want his father or his mother to see him just yet -- not until he had found out what made the bell ring.

"It must be some boys doing it just for fun," said another man.

"Then we ought to get the police after them!" exclaimed someone else. "The idea of waking folks up at this hour of the night by ringing a church bell! They ought to be spanked!"

"Ding-dong! Ding-dong!" went the bell again. Everyone looked up at the church steeple, trying to see who was ringing the bell. There was no fire -- everyone was sure of that.

Then, all at once a man cried:

"There he is! I see him! There's the boy who has been ringing the bell!"

He pointed up to the steeple. Climbing out of one of the little windows, near the top, could be seen something small and black.

"It's a boy -- a little boy!" cried Mr. Gordon.

"Oh, he'll fall!" gasped Mrs. Brown. "The poor little fellow! How will he ever get down?"

Indeed he was very high above the ground. But he did not seem to be afraid.

"Little tyke!" said a man. "He ought to be spanked for this! I wonder whose boy he is?"

"I'm glad it isn't Bunny or Sue," said Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, they are safe at home in bed," answered Mr. Brown.

And, all this while, mind you, Bunny and Sue were right there in the crowd, where they could hear their father and their mother talking. But Mr. and Mrs. Brown did not see their children.

"Who are you, up there on that steeple?" cried Mr. Gordon. "Whose boy are you, and what are you doing there?"

There was no answer.

"Maybe it's Ben Hall, the circus boy," said Sue, as she thought of the strange boy who had come to grandpa's farm.

"No, it couldn't be!" said Bunny.

"It might," Sue went on. "Ben was a good climber, you know. He climbed up high in the barn, and jumped down in the hay, and he turned a somersault."

"Yes, but the church steeple is higher than the barn," said Bunny. "That isn't Ben Hall. It's a little boy -- not much bigger than I am."

Just then the moon, which had been behind a cloud, came out. The church steeple was well lighted up, and then everyone cried:

"Why, it isn't a boy at all! It's a monkey!"

"A monkey has been ringing the bell!"

"Whose monkey is it?" someone asked.

"Why it's Wango!" exclaimed Bunny Brown, out loud, before he thought. "It's Mr. Winkler's monkey, Wango!"

"And I know how to get him down!" chimed in Sue. "Just give him some peanuts, and he'll come down!"

The children's voices rang out clearly in the silence of the night. Everyone heard them, Mr. and Mrs. Brown included.

"Why -- why, that sounded just like Bunny!" said Mrs. Brown.

"And Sue," added Mr. Brown. "Bunny! Sue!" he called. "Are you here? Where are you?"

"We -- we're here, Daddy," said Bunny, sliding out from behind Mr. Gordon.

"And I'm here, too!" said Sue. She let her bath robe fall down over her bare legs.

"Well I never!" cried Mrs. Brown. "I thought you were at home in bed!"

"We -- we heard the fire-bell, Mother," said Bunny, "and when you and daddy got up we got up, too."

"But we didn't wake Uncle Tad nor Mary," said Sue.

The crowd laughed, and Mr. and Mrs. Brown had to smile. After all, Bunny and Sue had done nothing so very wrong. It was a warm, light night, and they were not far from home. Besides, they were only following their father and mother, though of course they ought not to have done that.

"Well, well!" said Mrs. Brown. "I wonder what you children will do next?"

"We -- we don't know," answered Sue, and everyone laughed again.

"As long as there isn't any fire, we'd better get back home," said Mr. Brown. "Come on, Bunny and Sue."

"Oh, please let us watch 'em get Wango down," begged Bunny. "Did he really ring the bell?"

"I guess he must have," said Mr. Gordon. "He's a great monkey for getting loose, and doing tricks. I don't see how we're going to get him down if he doesn't want to come, though. It's too high to climb after him."

"If we had some peanuts or lollypops, he'd come down," said Sue. "Once he was up on a high candy shelf in Mrs. Redden's store, and he came down for peanuts."

"Well, we might try that," said the store-keeper. "But here comes Mr. Winkler himself. I guess he'll know how to manage Wango."

The old sailor, who had also been awakened by the ringing of the bell, came slowly down the street. He looked toward the church steeple in the moonlight, and saw his pet.

"Wango, you bad monkey! Come right down here!" called Mr. Winkler.

But Wango only chattered, and stayed where he was.

"How'd he get up there?" someone asked.

"Oh, he broke loose in the night, when we were all asleep, and jumped out of an open window," said Mr. Winkler. "I suppose he must have climbed up inside the church steeple, and, seeing the bell rope hanging down, he swung himself by it, as he does on a rope I have fixed for him at home. His swinging back and forth on the rope rang the bell. I don't really believe he meant to do it."

And that was how it had happened, and how Wango had made people think there was a fire in the middle of the night when there wasn't any fire at all.

"Wango, come down!" called Mr. Winkler.

But the monkey would not come.

"If you had some peanuts he'd come," said Sue.

"I have some peanuts, little Sue," said Mr. Winkler, and he brought out a handful from his pocket. "Here, Wango, come and get these!" the old sailor called.

Wango chattered, and came scrambling down the church steeple. He liked peanuts very much, and he was soon perched on his master's shoulder eating the brown kernels, and throwing the shells to one side.

"Well, now that everything is over all right, we'll go back home," said Mr. Brown. "But the next time a bell rings at night, I don't want you children running out," he said.

"We won't," promised Bunny. "But it was so nice and warm, and moonlight, that we couldn't stay in, Daddy."

Daddy Brown laughed, and a little later he and his wife, with Bunny and Sue, were safe at home. They went in without awakening Uncle Tad or Mary, the cook. The other people also went home. Mr. Winkler fastened Wango so he could not get loose, and soon everyone was asleep again, even the bell-ringing monkey.

In the morning Bunny and Sue went over to see the old sailor's pet. Wango jumped around on his perch and chattered, for he liked the children.

"I -- I wish we'd had him in the circus at grandpa's farm," said Bunny, as he watched Wango do some of his tricks. "He would have made them all laugh."

"Yes," said Sue. "Wango is funny!" and she petted the little, brown animal.

When Bunny and Sue reached home again, munching on some cookies Miss Winkler had given them, they found their mother reading a letter.

"Good news, children!" Mother Brown cried. "Good news!"

"Oh, are we going back to grandpa's farm?" asked Bunny.

"No, not this time," said his mother. "This is a letter from Aunt Lu. She invites us to come to her home, in New York City, to spend the fall and winter. Oh, it's just a lovely invitation from Aunt Lu!"



Chapter IV

On The Grocery Wagon


Bunny Brown and his sister Sue began to dance up and down, and to clap their fat little hands. They always did this when they were happy over some pleasure that was coming. And surely it would be a pleasure to go to Aunt Lu's city home.

"Oh, Mother, may we go?" cried Bunny.

"Please say we can!" begged Sue.

"Why, yes, I think we'll go," smiled Mother Brown. "I have been thinking for some time of paying Aunt Lu a visit, and, now that she asks us to come, I think we will go."

"And will daddy come?" Bunny wanted to know.

"Well, he can't come and stay as long as we shall stay, perhaps," said Mrs. Brown, "but he may be with us part of the time, as he was at grandpa's farm."

"Oh, goodie! What fun we'll have! Oh, goodie! What fun we'll have!" sang Sue, dancing around, holding her doll by one arm.

"And we'll ride in street cars, and on the steam cars," said Bunny, "and I'll see a policeman and a fireman and the fire engines, and we'll have ice cream cones, and -- and --  -- "

But that was all the little boy could think of just then, and he had to stop to catch his breath, which had nearly got away from him, he had talked so fast.

"There won't be any horses to ride, and we can't see the ducks and chickens," said Sue, "like we did on grandpa's farm in the country, Bunny."

"No, but we can see lots of other things in the city. I know we'll have plenty of fun, Sue."

"Yes, I guess we will. When are we going, Mother?"

"Oh, in about a week, I think. I'll write and tell Aunt Lu we are coming."

"She hasn't lost her diamond ring again; has she?" asked Bunny.

"No, I guess not. She doesn't say anything about it, if she has," answered Mrs. Brown.

"'Cause if she had lost it we'd help her find it," the little boy went on. "Oh, Sue! aren't you glad we're going?"

"Well, I just guess I am!" said Sue, happily, singing again.

She and Bunny talked of nothing else all that day but of the visit to Aunt Lu, and at night, when they were going to bed, they made plans of what they would do when they got to Aunt Lu's city house in New York.

"You'll come; won't you, Daddy?" asked Bunny, at breakfast the next morning, just before Mr. Brown was ready to start for his office at the fish dock.

"Well, yes, I guess I'll come down when it gets so cold here that the boats can't go out in the bay on account of the ice," said daddy.

"Oh, are we going to stay until winter?" asked Sue.

"Yes, we shall stay over Christmas," her mother answered.

"Will there be a place to slide down hill?" Bunny wanted to know.

"I'm afraid not, in New York City," Mr. Brown said. "But you can have other kinds of fun, Bunny and Sue."

"Oh, I can hardly wait for the time to come!" cried Sue, as she once more danced around the room with her doll.

"Let's go out in the yard and play teeter-tauter," called Bunny. "That will make the time pass quicker, Sue."

Bunker Blue had made for the children a seesaw from a long plank put over a wooden sawhorse. When Bunny sat on one end of the plank, and Sue on the other, they went first up and then down, "teeter-tauter, bread and water," as they sang when they played this game.

Soon the brother and sister were enjoying themselves this way, talking about what fun they would have at Aunt Lu's city home. Then, all at once, Bunny jumped off the seesaw, and of course Sue came down with a bump.

"Oh, Bunny Brown!" she cried, "what did you do that for? Why didn't you tell me you were goin' to get off, an' then I could stop myself from bumpin'."

"I'm sorry," said Bunny. "I didn't know I was going to jump till I did. Did you get hurted?"

"No, but I might have. And you knocked my doll out of my lap, and maybe she's hurted."

"Oh, you can't hurt a doll!" cried Bunny. "Pooh!"

"Yes you can, too!"

"No you can't!"

The children might have gone on talking in this unpleasant way for some time, only, just then, up the side drive came Mr. Gordon's grocery wagon, with Tommie Tobin, the grocery boy, on the seat driving the horse.

"Oh, he's got things in for us!" cried Sue. "Let's go an' see what they is, Bunny. Maybe it's cookies, and we can have one. I'm hungry, and it isn't near dinner time yet. It's only cookie time."

The two children went over to the grocery wagon. Tommie Tobin jumped off the seat, and hurried into the Brown kitchen with a basket of things. He did not see Bunny and Sue, as they were on the other side of the wagon.

Just then Bunny had an idea. He often got ideas in his queer little head.

"Oh, Sue!" he cried. "I know what let's do!"

"What?" she asked.

"Let's get in the grocery wagon, and have a ride."

"Oh, Bunny! All right. Let's!"

Softly the children drew nearer the wagon. Then Sue thought of something.

"But, Bunny," she said, "Tommie won't like it. Maybe he won't let us ride."

"Oh, he'll like it all right," said Bunny. "He gave Charlie Star a ride the other day. Anyhow he won't know it."

"Who won't know it; Charlie?"

"No, Tommie. We'll get in the wagon, and hide down between the boxes and baskets, while he's in our house. Then he won't see us. Come on, Sue."

"But it's so high up I can't get in, Bunny."

"Oh, I'll help you. Here, we can stand on this box, and then we can easy get up."

Bunny found a box beside the drive-way. He put it up near the back of the grocery wagon, and stood up on it. Then he helped Sue up on the box.

"Now you can get in," said the little boy. "I'll boost you, just like Bunker Blue boosts me when I climb trees. Up you go, Sue!"

Bunny raised Sue up from the box. She put one leg over the tail-board of the wagon, and down inside she tumbled in the midst of the grocery packages, the boxes and baskets.

"Here I come!" cried Bunny, and in he came tumbling. He fell between Sue and a bag of potatoes. Just then the children heard a joyous whistle.

"Now keep still -- keep very still," whispered Bunny to Sue. "Here comes Tommie, and if he doesn't see us he'll drive off and give us a nice ride. Keep still, Sue."

Sue kept very still. So did Bunny. Tommie came out whistling. He tossed the empty basket into the back of the wagon, gave one jump up on to the seat, and cried:

"Giddap!"

Off trotted the horse with the wagon, taking Sue and Bunny for a ride, along with the groceries.



Chapter V

Surprising Old Miss Hollyhock


"Aren't we having a fine ride, Bunny?"

"Hush, Sue! Not so loud! He'll hear us!" whispered the little boy, as he and his sister cuddled down in among the boxes and baskets in the grocery wagon.

"But it is a nice ride; isn't it?"

"It sure is, Sue." Bunny laughed in a sort of whisper, so Tommie, the boy who drove the wagon, would not hear him. And, so far, Tommie had no idea that he was taking with him Bunny and Sue.

The two children had no idea where they were going. They often did things like that, without thinking, and sometimes they were sorry afterward. But it had seemed all right to them to get into the wagon for a ride.

"We won't go very far," Bunny went on, in another whisper, after a bit. "We'll just ride around the block, and then get out."

"Will we have to walk home?" Sue asked.

"Maybe Tommie will drive us back," said Bunny. "He's real good, you know."

"I'd rather ride than walk," said Sue.

Tommie was whistling away as loudly as he could, and this, with the rattle of the wagon, and the clatter of the horse's hoofs made so much noise that the whisperings of Bunny and Sue were not heard by the grocery boy.

The horse began to trot slowly, and Bunny and Sue, peering out from the back of the wagon, saw that it was going to stop in front of Charlie Star's house.

"What's he stopping for?" asked Sue.

"Hush!" whispered Bunny. "I guess Tommie is going to leave some groceries here."

Bunny had guessed right. Tommie reached back inside the wagon, and picked up a basket full of packages and bundles. The delivery boy did not notice Bunny and Sue, who crouched down low, so as to keep out of sight. Then, still whistling, Tommie ran up the walk with some groceries for Mrs. Star.

In a little while Tommie was back again, and once more the horse trotted off as the grocery boy called: "Giddap there, Prince!" Prince was the name of the horse.

"Oh, this sure is a fine ride!" said Sue, laughing and snuggling close up to Bunny. "Aren't you glad we came?"

"Yes," he answered, "but I hope he brings us back. We're a long way from home now, and it's pretty far to walk."

"Oh, I guess he'll take us," said Sue. "Anyhow we're having a good time, and so is my doll," and she looked at her toy which she had brought with her. The doll was now sound asleep on a pound of butter in one of the baskets, her feet resting on a bag of sugar, and one arm stretched over a box of crackers.

"She won't get hungry, anyhow," said Bunny with a laugh.

"She doesn't eat when she's asleep," said Sue.

Tommy stopped his grocery wagon several times, to leave boxes or baskets of good things at the different houses. Finally he stopped in front of a house where lived Mr. Thompson, and here Tommie had to wait a long time, for the Thompson family was very large, and they bought a number of groceries. Tommie used to write down in his book the different things Mrs. Thompson wanted to order, so he could bring them to her the next time he drove past.

Bunny and Sue, cuddled down amid the boxes and baskets, did not like to stay still so long. They wanted to be riding. Finally Sue looked out of the back of the wagon and said:

"Oh, Bunny, look! There's where old Miss Hollyhock lives," and she pointed to a shabby little house, where lived a poor old woman. "Hollyhock" was not her name, but everyone called her that because she had so many of those old-fashioned flowers around her house. She was so poor that often she did not have much to eat, except what the neighbors gave her. Mrs. Brown often sent her things, and once Bunny and Sue sold lemonade, and gave the money they took in to old Miss Hollyhock.

"Yes, that's where she lives," said Bunny.

"And maybe she's hungry now," Sue went on.

"Maybe she is," agreed Bunny.

"We could give her something to eat," suggested Sue, after thinking a few seconds.

"How?" Bunny wanted to know.

"Look at all these groceries," Sue said. "There's a lot here that Tommie don't need. We could get out, and take a basket full in to old Miss Hollyhock."

"Oh, so we could!" Bunny cried. "We'll do it. Pick out the biggest basket you can find, Sue."

Neither Bunny Brown nor his sister Sue thought it would be wrong to take a basket of groceries from the wagon for poor old Miss Hollyhock. They did not stop to think that the groceries belonged to someone else. All they thought of was that the old lady might be hungry.

"We'll take this basket," said Sue. "It's got lots in."

She pointed to one that held some bread, crackers, sugar, butter, potatoes, tea and coffee. All of these things were done up in paper bags, except the potatoes. Bunny and Sue could tell which was tea and which was coffee by the smell. And they had often gone to the store for their mother, so they knew how the grocer did up other things good to eat, in different sized bags or packages.

"Yes, that will be a nice basket to take to old Miss Hollyhock," agreed Bunny. "But I don't think I can carry it, Sue."

"I'll help you," said the little girl. "Anyhow, if we can't carry it all at once, we can take it in a little at a time."

"We -- we ought to have a box to step on when we get out, same as we had to get in," said Bunny.

"Here's one," and Sue pointed to an empty box in the wagon.

Bunny dragged it to the back of the wagon. The end, or "tail," board was down, so there was no trouble in dropping the box out of the wagon to the ground. Then Bunny could step on it and get out. He also helped Sue down. But first they pulled the big basket of groceries close to the end of the wagon, where they could easily reach it.

"Now we'll surprise old Miss Hollyhock," said Bunny.

"Won't it be nice!" exclaimed Sue.

They did not stop to think that they might also surprise someone else besides the poor old lady.

Looking toward the Thompson house, to make sure Tommie was not coming out, Bunny and Sue filled their little arms with bundles from the grocery basket, and started toward old Miss Hollyhock's cabin. They did not want Tommie to see what they were doing.

"'Cause maybe he wouldn't want to give her so much," said Bunny. "But mother will pay for it if we ask her to."

"Yes," said Sue.

Together they went up to old Miss Hollyhock's door. Then Bunny thought of something else.

"We'll give her a surprise," he whispered to Sue. "We'll make believe it's Valentine's Day or Hallowe'en, and we'll leave the things on her doorstep, and run away."

"That will be nice," said Sue.

The children had to make three trips before they had all the groceries out of the basket and piled nicely on the front steps of old Miss Hollyhock's house. But at last it was all done, and Bunny and Sue climbed back in the wagon again. Bunny even reached down and pulled up after him the box on which he and his sister had stepped when they got in and out.

All this while Tommie had not come out of the Thompson house, so of course he had not seen what the children had done. Soon after Bunny and Sue were safely snuggled down amid the boxes and baskets once more, the grocery boy came down the walk whistling.

He threw an empty basket into the wagon, put in his pocket the book in which he had written down the order Mrs. Thompson had given him, and cried to Prince:

"Giddap!"

"And he giddapped as fast as anything!" said Sue, in telling about it afterward. "He giddapped so fast that I tumbled over backward into a box of strawberries. But I didn't smash very many, and Bunny and me ate 'em, so it didn't hurt much."

On went the grocery horse, and pretty soon Tommie, on the front seat, cried:

"Whoa!"

The horse stopped in front of a big house where lived Mr. Jones. Tommie looked back into the wagon. He did not see Bunny and Sue, for they had pulled a horse blanket over themselves to hide, since there were not so many boxes in the wagon now.

"Hello!" cried Tommie in surprise. "Where's that big basket of groceries for Mr. Jones? I surely put it in the wagon, but it's gone! This is queer!"

Bunny and Sue, hiding under the blanket, wondered what would happen next.



Chapter VI

Off For New York


"Where is that basket of groceries for the Jones house? Where can it have gone to?" asked Tommie aloud, as he looked back into his wagon. "I'm sure I put it in, and now -- "

He turned around on his seat, and stepped over into the back part of the wagon, among the boxes and baskets. He looked at them carefully, and finally he raised the horse blanket that was over Bunny and Sue.

"Why -- why -- what -- what in the world are you doing here?" cried Tommie, much surprised to see the two children hiding there.

"We -- we're having a ride," said Sue.

"Where did you get in?" asked Tommie.

"When you stopped at our house," answered Bunny. "And we've been riding with you ever since."

"Well, well!" cried Tommie. "And to think I never knew it! You riding in with me all the while, and I never knew a thing about it! Well, well!"

He laughed, and Bunny and Sue laughed also. It was quite a joke.

"You don't mind, do you, Tommie?" asked Bunny.

"No, not a bit. I'm glad to have you."

"And will you ride us home?" asked Sue.

"Sure, yes, of course I will. But I've got to deliver the rest of my groceries first. And that makes me think -- I've lost a big basket full that ought to go to Mr. Jones. I'm sure I put 'em in the wagon, but they're not here. You didn't see a big basket of groceries -- butter, bread, tea, coffee and sugar -- fall out, while you were riding in there, did you?"

Bunny and Sue looked at one another. They were both thinking of the same thing.

"That must have been the basket," said Bunny slowly.

"Yes," agreed Sue.

"What basket?" asked Tommie.

"We -- we gave a basket of groceries to old Miss Hollyhock," said Bunny slowly. "It was while you were in Mr. Thompson's house. You know old Miss Hollyhock is awful poor, and we gave her the things to eat. We left 'em on her doorstep."

"For a Hallowe'en surprise," added Sue, "or a Valentine, though it isn't Valentine's Day yet, either."

"So that's what happened; eh?" cried the grocery boy. "Old Miss Hollyhock has the things I ought to leave for Mrs. Jones! Well, well!"

"Is you mad?" asked Sue, for there was a queer look on Tommie's face.

"No, not exactly mad, Sue," said Tommie slowly. "But I don't know what to do. I know you meant to be kind, and good to old Miss Hollyhock; but what am I to do about the things for Mrs. Jones? I can't very well go and take them away from old Miss Hollyhock, for she must think that some of her friends sent them, as they often do. It wouldn't do to take them away."

"Oh, no! You musn't take 'em away from her, after we gave 'em to her," said Bunny. "That would make her feel bad."

"And she feels bad now, 'cause she's poor," put in Sue. "She's hungry, too, maybe."

"Yes, I guess she is," agreed Tommie. "Well, I don't know what to do. If I go back to the store to get more things for Mrs. Jones, Mr. Gordon will want to know what became of the basketful I had. And old Miss Hollyhock has them. Well -- "

"Oh, I know what to do!" cried Bunny.

"What?" asked Tommie.

"You go to my house," said the little boy, "and my mamma will give you money to buy more groceries for Mrs. Jones. Then old Miss Hollyhock can keep the ones Sue and me give her. Won't that be all right?"

"Yes, I s'pose it will if your mother gives me the money," answered Tommie slowly.

"She won't have to give you the money," said Sue. "We don't pay money for groceries anyhow; we charge 'em."

"Well, it's the same thing in the end," said Tommie with a laugh. "But I guess the best I can do is to take you two youngsters home, and see what happens then. I'll tell Mrs. Jones I'll come later with her groceries."

Tommie ran up to the Jones house, and was soon back on the wagon again. He drove quite fast to the home of Bunny and Sue.

"Oh, you children!" cried Mrs. Brown, when she heard what had happened -- about Bunny and Sue riding in the grocery wagon, and giving the things away to old Miss Hollyhock that Mrs. Jones ought to have had.

"You'll pay for the groceries, won't you, Mother?" asked Bunny.

"Yes, dear, I suppose so. I know you meant to be kind, but you should ask me before you do things like that. However, the food will be a great help to old Miss Hollyhock. I was going to send her some anyhow.

"Here, Tommie, you give this note to Mr. Gordon, the grocer, and he will charge the things to me, and give you more for Mrs. Jones. I'm sorry you had all this trouble."

"Oh, I don't mind," and Tommie was smiling now. "I'm glad Bunny and Sue had a nice ride."

"And it makes you feel good to give things to people," said Bunny. "I mean it makes you feel good inside."

"Like eating bread and jam when you're hungry," observed Sue.

"No, it isn't like that," said Bunny. "'Cause when your hungry, and you eat bread and jam it makes you feel good here," and he put his hand on his stomach. "But when you make somebody, like old Miss Hollyhock, a present it makes you feel good higher up," and he patted his little heart.

"Well, I'm glad to know you like to be kind," said Mother Brown. "But please don't run away and ride in any more grocery wagons, or something may happen so that you can't go on a visit to Aunt Lu's city home."

"Oh dear!" cried Sue. "We wouldn't want that to happen! Are we soon going, Mother?"

"Pretty soon, I guess. I have some sewing to do first. I must make you some new dresses."

The next week was a busy one in the Brown house. There were clothes to get ready for Bunny and Sue, and as they had just come back from a long visit to grandpa's, in the country, some of their things needed much mending. For Bunny and Sue had played in the hay; they had romped around in the barn, and had run through the woods, and across the fields.

But the summer vacation had done them good. They were strong and healthy, and as brown as little Indian children. They could play all day long, come in, go to bed, and get up early the next morning, ready for more good times.

One day the postman brought another letter from Aunt Lu.

"I can hardly wait for Bunny and Sue to come to see me," said Aunt Lu. "I am sure they will have a fine time in the city, though it is different from the seashore where they live. Bunny will not find any lobster claws here. And my home isn't in the country, either. There are no green fields to play in, though we can go to Central Park, or the Bronx Zoo."

"What's a Zoo?" asked Bunny. "Is it something good to eat?"

"It's a game, like tag," guessed Sue.

"No," said Mother Brown. "Aunt Lu means the Bronx Zoölogical Park, and she calls it Zoo for short. That means a place where animals are kept."

"Wild animals?" asked Bunny.

"Yes."

"Pooh! I know what a Zoo is -- it's a circus!" the little boy exclaimed.

"Well, it's partly like that," said his mother. "But that isn't all of Aunt Lu's letter."

"What else does she say?" asked Sue.

"Why, she writes that she has a surprise for you."

"Oh, what is it?" asked Bunny.

"Tell us!" begged Sue.

"Aunt Lu doesn't say," said Mrs. Brown. "You will have to wait until you get to Aunt Lu's city home. Then you'll find out what the surprise is."

Bunny and Sue tried all that day to guess, but of course they could not tell whether they had guessed right or not.

"Oh dear!" sighed Sue. "I wish it was time to go now."

But the days soon passed, and, about a week later, Mrs. Brown, with Bunny and Sue, were at the railroad station, ready to take the train for New York. Mr. Brown could not go with them, though he said he would come later. He went to the station with them, however.

"Here comes the New York train," said Mr. Brown as a whistle sounded down the track. "Now you're off for Aunt Lu's!"



Chapter VII

On The Train


Mr. Brown helped his wife and the two children on to the train. Then he had to hurry down the steps, for the engine was whistling, which meant that it was about to start off again.

"And I don't want to be carried away with it, much as I would like to go," said Daddy Brown. "But I'll come to Aunt Lu's and see you before the winter is over, though now I must stay here, and look after my boat business, with Bunker Blue."

"Bring Bunker with you when you come to New York," called Bunny to his father, as the train slowly rolled out of the station.

"All right, perhaps I will," answered Mr. Brown.

Bunny Brown and his sister Sue crowded up to the open car window to wave a last good-bye to their father, who stood on the depot platform. At last they could see him no longer, for the train was soon going fast, and was quickly far away. Then the children settled down to enjoy their ride.

"Mother, can't I sit next to the window?" begged Sue.

"No, I want to!" cried Bunny.

The children did not often ride in the steam cars, and of course it was quite a treat for each of them to sit next to the window, where one could watch the trees, houses, fences and telegraph poles as they seemed to fly past. In fact Bunny and Sue both wanted the window so much that they quite forgot to be polite, as they nearly always were.

"I'm going to be at the window," said Sue.

"No, I am!" cried Bunny.

"Children, children!" said Mrs. Brown softly. "Be nice now. I will let you each have a seat by yourself, then you may each sit by a window. You must not be so impatient about it."

The car was not crowded, and there was plenty of room for Bunny and Sue to have each a seat by a window. Mrs. Brown also sat in a seat by herself behind the two little ones. She had seen that the windows were not raised high enough for Bunny or Sue to put out their heads.

"And you must not put out your arms, or hands, either," she said. "You might be hit by a post or something, and be hurt. Keep your hands and arms in."

Bunny and Sue were quite happy now, for they loved to travel, as most children do. Then, too, they were going to Aunt Lu's in the big city of New York, and would have lots of good times there. They had said good-bye to all their little friends, and to old Miss Hollyhock. The poor old lady had found the groceries on her doorstep, and she was very thankful for them.

"I hope when you get old, and poor and hungry, you'll have some one to be kind to you," she had said to Bunny and Sue, when she found out it was to them she owed the good things.

"Oh, we're never going to be poor!" Sue had said. "Our papa will buy us things to eat. He buys us ice cream cones; don't he Bunny?"

"Yes, dear, and I hope he will always be with you, to look after you," said old Miss Hollyhock.

Bunny and Sue had also said good-bye to Uncle Tad, to Mrs. Redden who kept the candy store, and to Mr. and Miss Winkler. Nor did they forget to say good-bye to Wango, the monkey.

"We won't see any monkeys in the city," said Sue.

"Yes we will," cried Bunny. "We'll see 'em in the Zoo. And they have hand-organ monkeys in cities, Sue."

"Maybe they do," she said.

And now, as the two children were riding in the train, they talked of what they saw from the windows, and also of the friends they had left behind in Bellemere, not forgetting Wango, the monkey.

"Mother, I want a drink of water," said Sue, after a while. "I'm thirsty."

"All right, I'll get you a drink," said Mrs. Brown. In her bag she had a little drinking cup, that closed up, "like an accordion," as Bunny said. And, taking this out, Mrs. Brown walked to the end of the car where the water was kept in a tank, to get Sue a drink.

As the little girl was taking some from the cup the train gave a sudden swing to one side, and, the first thing Sue knew, the water had splashed up in her face, and down over her dress.

"Oh -- oh, Mother!" gasped Sue. "I -- I didn't mean to do that."

"No, you couldn't help it," said Mrs. Brown. "It was the train that made you do it. Water won't hurt your dress."

Mrs. Brown sat down, after wiping the drops off Sue's skirt and face. She was beginning to read a book when Bunny, who had been looking out of his window, called:

"Mother, I'm thirsty. I want a drink!"

"Oh, Bunny dear! Why didn't you tell me that when I was getting one for Sue?"

"'Cause, Mother, I wasn't thirsty then."

Mrs. Brown smiled. Then she once more went down to the end of the car and got Bunny a drink. By this time the train had stopped at a station, so the car was not "jiggling" as Sue called it. And Bunny did not spill his cup of water.

For some time after this the two children sat quietly in their seats.

"I just saw a cow!" Sue called back to her brother.

"Pooh!" he answered. "That's nothing. I just saw two horses in a field, and one was running."

"Well, a cow's better than a horse," insisted Sue.

"No it isn't!" Bunny cried. "You can ride a horse, but you can't ride a cow."

"Well, a cow gives milk."

Bunny could not think of any answer for a minute, and then he said:

"Well, anyhow, two horses is better than one cow."

Even Sue thought this might be so. She sat looking out of the window, watching the trees, houses, fences and telegraph poles, as they seemed to fly past.

By and by a boy came through the car selling candy.

"Mother, I'm hungry!" said Bunny.

"So am I!" added Sue. "I want some candy!"

Mrs. Brown bought them some chocolates, for the ride was a long one, and they had eaten an early breakfast. The candy kept Bunny and Sue quiet for a while, and Mrs. Brown was shutting her eyes for a little sleep, when she heard some one behind her saying:

"Oh, children, I wouldn't do that!"

Quickly opening her eyes she saw Bunny and Sue crossing to the other side of the car, to take some empty seats there. A passenger behind Mrs. Brown, seeing that she was asleep, had spoken to the children.

"Oh, you musn't do that," said Mrs. Brown. "Stay in the seats you had first."

"We want to see what's on this side," said Bunny. He had already climbed up into a vacant seat, and was near the window, when, all at once, a train rushed past on the other track, with a loud whistle, a clanging of the bell and puffing of the engine, that sent smoke and cinders into Bunny's face. The little fellow jumped back quickly.

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "You see it is much nicer on the side where you were first. No trains pass on this side."

So Bunny and Sue were glad enough to go back to the places they had at first. For some time they were quiet, looking out at the different stations as they stopped. At noon their mother gave them some chicken sandwiches from a basket of lunch she had put up.

"Why don't we go into the dining car, like we did once?" Bunny wanted to know.

"Because there isn't any on this train," said Mrs. Brown. "But we will soon be at Aunt Lu's. Now sit back in your seats, and rest yourselves."

Bunny and Sue did for a while. Then they looked for something else to do. The train boy came through with some picture books, and Mrs. Brown bought one each for Bunny and Sue.

These kept them quiet for a little while, but the books were soon finished, even when Bunny took Sue's and gave her his, to change about.

"You come back and sit in my seat, Bunny," Sue invited her brother after a while.

"No, you come with me," said Bunny. So Sue got in with him, but she wanted to sit next to the window, and as Bunny wanted that place himself, they were not satisfied, until Sue went back in her own seat.

About this time Bunny looked up and saw a long cord stretched overhead in the car, like a clothes line. It hung down from the car ceiling, and ran over little brass wheels, or pulleys, like those on Mr. Brown's boats, only much smaller.

"Do you see that cord, Sue?" asked Bunny.

"Yes," answered the little girl. "What's it for?"

"That's what holds the cars together," Bunny said. "The cars are tied to the engine with that cord."

Of course this was not so, for it takes strong iron chains and bars to hold the railroad cars one to another, and to the engine. But Bunny thought the cord, that blew a whistle in the engine, kept the train from coming apart.

"Is that what it's for?" asked Sue. "It isn't a very big string for to hold a train."

"Oh, it's very strong," Bunny said. "Nobody could break it."

"I -- I guess daddy could break it," Sue suggested.

"No he couldn't!"

"Yes he could! Daddy's awful strong!"

"He couldn't break that cord!" declared Bunny. "Nobody could break it. If I could pull it down here, you could pull on it and see how strong it is. No one can break it."

He reached up toward the whistle cord, but he was too short to get hold of it.

"I know how you can get it," said Sue.

"How can I get it?" Bunny asked.

"Hook it down with mother's parasol," answered Sue.

"Oh, so I can!" cried Bunny.

He went back to the seat where his mother sat. Mrs. Brown had fallen asleep, and Bunny got her parasol without awakening her.

The little fellow raised the umbrella, and hooked the crook in the end of it over the whistle cord. He pulled down hard, and then -- well, I guess I'll tell you in the next chapter what happened.



Chapter VIII

Aunt Lu's Surprise


When Bunny Brown pulled down on the whistle cord in the railroad car, a very strange thing happened. All at once there was a loud squeaking, grinding sound. The car shivered and shook and began to go slowly. It stopped so suddenly that Bunny slid out of the smooth plush seat down to the floor. So did his sister Sue.

Some of the other passengers had hard work to keep from sliding from their seats, and many of them jumped up and began calling:

"What's the matter?"

"What has happened?"

"Is there an accident?"

For when a train stops suddenly, you know, if it is going along fast, it almost always means that something has happened, or that there is a cow, or something else, on the track, and that the engineer wants to stop, quickly, so as not to hit it. And that's what the other passengers thought now.

Mrs. Brown was suddenly awakened from her sleep. She, too, had almost slid from her seat when the car stopped so suddenly. For the moment Bunny pulled down on the cord, it blew a whistle in the cab, or little house of the engine, where the engineer sits. And when the engineer heard that whistle he knew it meant for him to stop as soon as he could.

He could look down the track, and see that there was nothing on the rails that he could hit, but, hearing the whistle, he thought the conductor, or one of the brakemen, must have pulled the cord. Perhaps the engineer thought some one had fallen off the train, as people sometimes fall off boats, and the engineer wanted to stop quickly so the passenger could be picked up. At any rate, he stopped very suddenly, and that was what made all the trouble. Or, rather, Bunny Brown made all the trouble, though he did not mean to.

"Why, Bunny!" cried his mother, as she straightened up in her seat. "Where are you? Where is Sue? What has happened?"

For, you know, Bunny and Sue had slid down to the floor of the car when the train came to such a sudden stop.

"Where are you, children?" called Mrs. Brown, anxiously.

"I -- I'm here, Mother!" answered Sue. "Bunny pushed me off my seat!"

"Oh-o-o-o, Sue Brown! I did not!" cried the little fellow, getting up with the parasol still in his hand. "I did not!"

"Well, you made the train stop, and that knocked me out of my seat, and my doll was knocked down too, so there!" answered Sue, and she seemed ready to cry.

"Bunny, what happened? What did you do?" asked his mother. "What are you doing with my parasol?" she asked.

"I -- I just reached up to pull down that rope with the crooked handle end," Bunny answered, pointing to the whistle cord. "I wanted to show Sue how strong it was, so I pulled on it."

"Oh ho!" exclaimed a fat man, a few seats ahead of Bunny. "So that's what made the train stop; eh? I thought someone must have pulled the engineer's whistle cord to make him stop, but I didn't think it was a little boy like you."

"Oh, Bunny!" exclaimed his mother, when she saw what had happened. "You shouldn't have done that. You musn't stop the train that way."

"I -- I didn't want to stop the train, Mother!" the little boy answered. "I just wanted to show Sue about the cord. I fell out of my seat, too," he added.

"Yes, nearly all of us did," said the fat man with a laugh. "Well if you didn't mean to do it Bunny, we'll forgive you I suppose," and he laughed in a jolly way.

Into the car came hurrying the conductor, with the gold bands on his cap, and the brakeman. They looked all around, and then straight at Bunny who still held his mother's parasol.

"Who pulled the whistle cord?" asked the conductor. Years ago there used to be a bell cord in the train, and a bell rang in the engineer's cab when the cord was pulled. But now an air whistle blows. "Who pulled the cord?" asked the conductor.

Now Bunny Brown was a brave little chap, even when he knew he had done wrong. So he spoke up and said:

"I -- I pulled it, Mr. Conductor. I pulled the cord."

"You did eh?" and the conductor smiled a little now. Bunny looked so funny and so cute standing there, with the parasol, and Sue looked so pretty, standing near him, holding her doll upside down, that no one could help at least smiling. Some of the passengers were laughing.

"And so you stopped my train; did you?" the conductor asked.

"I -- I guess so," Bunny answered. "I was pulling down on the rope, to show my sister how strong it was."

"Oh, I see," the conductor went on. "Then you didn't stop my train because you wanted to get off?"

"Oh, no!" cried Bunny quickly. "I don't want to get off now. I want to go to New York. We're going to my Aunt Lu's house."

"Well, New York is quite a way off yet," laughed the conductor, "so I guess you had better stay with us. But please don't pull on the whistle cord again."

"I won't," Bunny promised. "But it is a strong rope, isn't it, Mr. Conductor? And it does hold the cars together; doesn't it?"

"Well, no, not exactly," the conductor answered, while the passengers laughed. "I'll show you what the cord does in a little while. But I'm glad nothing has happened. I thought there was an accident when the train stopped so quickly, so I ran through all the cars to find out. Now we'll go on again."

He reached up and pulled the car-cord twice. Far up ahead, in the cab of the locomotive, a little whistle blew twice, and the engineer knew that meant for him to go ahead. It's just like that on a trolley car. One bell means to stop, and two bells to go ahead.

"Oh Bunny! Why did you do it?" asked his mother, as she took the parasol from him.

"Why -- why, I didn't mean to stop the train," he said.

Mrs. Brown thought there was not much need of scolding Bunny, for he had not meant to do wrong. He promised never again to pull on a whistle cord in a train.

Now the cars were rolling on again, and, in a little while the conductor again came back to where Mrs. Brown was sitting.

"Now where's the little boy who stopped my train?" he asked with a smile.

"I'm here," Bunny answered, "and this is my sister Sue."

"Well, I'm glad to meet you both again, I'm sure," and the conductor shook hands with Bunny and kissed Sue. "Now, if you two would like it, I'll show you where you blew the whistle in the engine."

"Oh, will you take us in the engine?" asked Bunny, who had always wanted to go in that funny little house on top of the locomotive's back.

"Yes, I'll take you in when we make the next stop," the conductor said. "We have to wait a few minutes to give the engine a drink of water, and I'll take you and your sister in the engine. That is if you say it's all right," and he turned around to look at Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, yes," Bunny's mother answered. "They may go with you if they won't be a bother. I'm sorry my little boy made so much trouble about stopping the train."

"Oh, well, he didn't mean to, so we'll forget all about it. I'll come back and get you when we stop," he said.

A little later the train slowed up. It did it so easily that no one fell out of his seat this time, and, pretty soon, back came the conductor to get Bunny and Sue.

The engine had stopped near a big wooden tank filled with water, and some of this water was running through a big pipe into the tender of the engine. The tender is the place where the coal is kept for the locomotive fire.

"Hello, Jim!" called the conductor to the engineer who was leaning out of the window of his little house. "Here's the boy who stopped the train so suddenly a while back."

"Oh ho! Is he?" asked the engineer. "Well, he isn't a very big boy, to have stopped such a big train."

"I -- I didn't mean to," said Bunny, and he and Sue looked back, and saw that truly it was a long train. And the locomotive pulling it was a very big one.

"Well, you didn't do much damage," laughed the engineer.

"I'm going to bring them up to see you," the conductor said.

"That's right, let 'em come!"

The engineer came out of his cab and took first Bunny, and then Sue, from the conductor, who lifted them up to the iron step near the boiler. A hot fire was burning under the engine to make steam, and Bunny and Sue looked at it in wonder.

Then the engineer took them up in his cab, and showed Bunny where, on the ceiling, was the little air whistle -- the one Bunny had blown when he pulled the cord with the parasol. Then the engineer showed the children the shiny handle that he pulled to make the engine go ahead, and another that made it go backward. Then he showed a little brass handle.

"This is the one I pulled on in a hurry when I heard you blow the whistle once," he said.

"What handle is that?" asked the little boy.

"That's the handle that puts on the air brakes," said the engineer. "And over here is the rope the fireman pulls when he wants to ring the bell. I'll let you ring it."

"And me, too?" asked Sue.

"Yes, you too!" laughed the engineer.

First Bunny pulled on the rope that was fast to the big bell on the top of the engine, near the smoke-stack where the puffing noise sounded. Bunny could hardly make the bell ring, as it was very heavy, but finally he did make it sound:

"Ding-dong!"

"Now it's my turn!" cried Sue.

She could only make the bell ring once:

"Ding!"

But she was just as well pleased.

By this time the engine had taken enough water for its boiler, to last until it got to New York, and the conductor took Bunny and Sue back to their mother. They were quite excited and pleased over their visit to the locomotive, and told Mrs. Brown all about the strange sights they had seen.

"But when will we be at Aunt Lu's?" asked Bunny, as he looked out of the window.

"Oh, soon now," his mother answered.

And, in about an hour, the brakeman put his head in through the door of their car, and called out:

"New York! All change!"

"Change what, Mother?" asked Sue. "Have we got to change our clothes? Are we going to bed?"

"No, dear. The man means we must change cars. We are at the end of our railroad trip."

"But it's so dark," said Bunny. "I thought it was time to go to bed."

"It's the station that's dark," said Mrs. Brown. "Part of it is underground, like a tunnel."

Indeed it was so dark in the train and the station that the car lamps were lighted. No wonder Bunny and Sue thought it time to go to bed.

But when they got outside the sun was shining, though it was afternoon, and would soon be supper time.

"Oh, here you are! Hello, Bunny dear! Hello, Sue dear!" cried a jolly voice.

"Oh, Aunt Lu! Oh, Aunt Lu!" cried Bunny and Sue as they clung to their aunt. "We're so glad to see you!"

"And I'm glad to see you!" she cried, as she kissed her sister, Mrs. Brown. "Now come on, and we'll soon be at my house."

"But where's the surprise?" asked Bunny.

"Yes, we want to see the surprise," said Sue.

"It's in my automobile," said Aunt Lu with a laugh. "Come on, I'll show her to you."

"Is it -- is it a her?" asked Bunny.

"Yes, my dear. You'll soon see. Come on!"

Aunt Lu led the way to a fine, large automobile just outside the station. A man wearing a tall hat opened the door of the car, and looking inside Bunny and Sue saw a queer little colored girl, her kinky hair standing up in little pigtails all over her head. She smiled at Bunny and Sue, showing her white teeth.

"There!" cried Aunt Lu. "What do you think of my surprise?"



Chapter IX

The Wrong House


For a second or two Bunny Brown and his sister Sue did not know what to say. They stood on the sidewalk, at the door of the automobile, which was one of the closed kind, staring at the little colored girl, with her kinky wisps of hair.

"Well, what do you think of Wopsie?" asked Aunt Lu again. "Don't you like my surprise, Bunny -- Sue?"

"Is -- is this the surprise?" asked Bunny.

"Yes, this is Wopsie. I'll tell you about her in a little while. Get in now, and we'll soon be at my house."

Wopsie, the colored girl, smiled to show even more of her white teeth, and then she asked:

"Is yo' all de company?"

"Yes, this is the company I told you about, Wopsie," said Miss Baker, which was Aunt Lu's name. "This is Bunny," and she pointed to the little boy, "and this little girl is Sue. They are going to be my company for a long time, I hope."

Wopsie gave a funny little bow, that sent her black topknots of hair bobbing all over her head, and said:

"Pleased to meet yo' all, company! Pleased to meet yo'!"

Bunny and Sue thought Wopsie talked quite funnily, but they were too polite to say so. They looked at the little colored girl and smiled. And she smiled back at them.

"Home, George," said Miss Baker to one of the two men on the front seat of the automobile. The man touched his cap, and soon Bunny, Sue and their mother were being driven rapidly through the streets of New York in Aunt Lu's automobile.

"It's almost as big as the one we went in to grandpa's, in the country," said Bunny, as he looked around at the seats, and noticed the little electric lamp in the roof.

"But you can't sleep in it or cook in it," said Sue. "And there's no place for Splash or Bunker Blue."

"No," said Bunny. "That's so."

The children had had to leave Splash, the dog, home with Daddy Brown, and of course Bunker Blue did not come to Aunt Lu's.

"No, we can't sleep in my auto, nor eat, unless it is to eat candy, or cookies, or something like that," said Aunt Lu. "And I have some sweet crackers for the children, if you think it's all right for them to eat," said Aunt Lu to Mother Brown.

"Oh, yes. I guess it will be all right. They must be hungry, though they ate on the train."

"And Bunny stopped the train, too!" cried Sue. "He pulled on the whistle cord, with mother's parasol, and we stopped so quick we slid out of our seats; didn't we, Bunny?"

"Yep!"

"My! That was quite an adventure," said Aunt Lu, laughing.

"And we went in the choo-choo engine," went on Sue. "I ringed the bell, I did, and so did Bunny. Was you ever in a train, Wopsie?" Sue asked the little colored girl.

"Yes'm, I was once."

"Wopsie came all the way up from down South," said Aunt Lu. "She is a little lost girl."

"Lost!" cried Bunny and Sue. They did not understand how any one could be lost when in a nice automobile with Aunt Lu.

"Yes'm, I'se losted!" said Wopsie, shaking her kinky head, "an' I suttinly does wish dat I could find mah folks!"

"I must tell you about her," said Aunt Lu. "Wopsie, which is the name I call her, though her right name is Sallie Jefferson, was sent up North to live with her aunt here in New York. Wopsie made the trip all alone. She was put on the train, at a little town somewhere in North Carolina, or South Carolina -- she doesn't remember which -- and sent up here."

"All alone?" asked Bunny.

"Yes, all alone. She had a tag, or piece of paper, pinned to her dress, with the name and house number of her aunt. But the paper was lost."

"De paper was losted, and now I'se losted," said Wopsie.

"I'll tell them all about you, Wopsie," said Aunt Lu.

Then she told Bunny and Sue how the little colored girl had reached New York all alone, not knowing where to go.

"A kind lady, in the same station where you children just came in, looked after Wopsie," said Aunt Lu. "This lady looks after all lost boys and girls, and she took Wopsie to a nice place to stay all night. In the morning she tried to find Wopsie's aunt, but could not. Nor could Wopsie tell her aunt's name, or where she lived. She was lost just as you and Sue, Bunny, sometimes get lost in the woods."

"And how did you come to take her?" asked Mother Brown.

"Well, Wopsie was sent to a society that looks after lost children," said Aunt Lu. "They tried to find her friends, either up here, in New York, or down South, but they could not. I belong to this society, and when I heard of Wopsie I said I would take her and keep her in my house for a while. I can train her to become a lady's maid while I am waiting to find her folks."

"Are you trying to find them?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, I have written all over, and so has the society. We have asked the police to let us know if any one is asking for a little lost colored girl. But I have had her nearly a month now, and no one has claimed her."

"Yep. I suah am losted!" said Wopsie, but she laughed as she said it, and did not seem to mind very much. "It's fun being losted like this," she said, as she patted the soft cushions of the automobile. "I likes it!"

"And are you really going to keep her?" asked Mrs. Brown of her sister.

"Yes, until she gets a little older, or until I can find her folks. I think her father and mother must have died some time ago," said Aunt Lu in a whisper to Mrs. Brown. "She probably didn't have any real folks down South, so whoever she was with sent her up here."

"Well, I'm glad you took care of her," said Mrs. Brown. "She looks like a nice clean little girl."

"She is; and she is very kind and helpful. She is careful, too, and she will be a help with Bunny and Sue. Wopsie has already learned her way around that part of New York near my apartment, and I can send her on errands. She can take Bunny and Sue out."

While Mrs. Brown and Aunt Lu were talking together Wopsie had given Bunny and Sue some sweet crackers from a box she took out from a pocket in the side of the automobile. Aunt Lu had told her to do so. So Bunny and Sue ate the crackers as they rode along, and Wopsie sat near them.

"Don't you want a cracker?" asked Bunny.

"No, sah, thank you," answered the little colored girl. "I don't eat 'tween meals. Miss Baker say as how it ain't good for your intergestion."

"What's in -- indergaston?" asked Sue.

"Huh! Dat's a misery on yo' insides -- a pain," said Wopsie. "I t'ought everybody knowed dat!"

Bunny was silent a minute.

"Do you know how to stop a train by pulling on the whistle cord?" he asked.

"No," said Wopsie.

"Huh! I thought everybody knew that!" exclaimed Bunny. Then he laughed, as Wopsie did. It was a little joke on her, when Bunny answered her the way he did.

The automobile came to a stop in front of a large building. Bunny and Sue looked up at it.

"My! What a big house you live in, Aunt Lu!" said Bunny.

"Oh, this isn't all mine!" laughed Aunt Lu. "There are many others who live in here. This is what is called an apartment house. I have my dining room, kitchen, bath room and other rooms, and other families in this building have the same thing. You see there isn't room in New York to build separate houses, such as you have in Bellemere, so they make one big house, and divide it up on the inside, into a number of little houses, or apartments."

Bunny and Sue thought that very strange.

"But you haven't any yard to play in!" exclaimed Bunny, as he and his sister got out of the automobile, and found that the front door of Aunt Lu's apartment was right on the sidewalk.

"No, we don't have yards in the city, Bunny. But we have a roof to go up on and play."

"Playing on a roof!" cried Bunny. "I should think you'd fall off!"

"Oh, it has a high railing all around it. Wopsie may take you up there after a bit. Then you can see how it seems to play on a roof, instead of down on the ground. We have to do queer things in big cities."

Bunny Brown and his sister Sue certainly thought so.

As they entered the apartment house the children found themselves in a wide hall, with marble floor and sides. There was a nice carpet over the marble floor and bright electric lights glowed from the ceiling.

"Right in here," said Aunt Lu, leading the children toward what seemed to be a little room with an iron door, like the iron gate to some park. A colored boy, with many brass buttons on his blue coat, stood at the door.

"Jes' yo' all wait an' see what gwine t' happen!" said Wopsie.

"Why, what is going to happen?" asked Bunny.

"Oh, ho! Yo' all jes' wait!" exclaimed Wopsie, laughing at her secret.

"What is it? I don't want anything to happen!" cried Sue hanging back.

"Oh, it isn't anything, dear. This is just the elevator," said Aunt Lu. "Get in and you'll have a nice ride."

"Oh, I like a ride," Sue said.

In she stepped with Bunny, her mother, Aunt Lu and Wopsie. The colored boy, who was also smiling, and showing his white teeth as Wopsie was doing, closed the iron door. Then, all of a sudden, Bunny and Sue felt themselves shooting upward.

"Oh! Oh!" cried Bunny. "We're in a balloon! We're in a balloon! We're going up!"

"Just like a skyrocket on the Fourth of July!" added Sue. She was not afraid now. She was clapping her hands.

Up and up and up they went!

"Oh, what makes it?" asked Bunny. "Is it a balloon, Aunt Lu?"

"No, dear, it's just the elevator. You see this big house is so high that you would get tired climbing the stairs up to my rooms, so we go up in the elevator. It lifts us up, and in England they call them 'lifts' on this account."

"Oh, I see!" Bunny cried, as he looked up and saw that he was in a sort of square steel cage, going up what seemed to be a long tunnel; standing up instead of lying on the ground as a railroad tunnel lies. "I see! We're going up, just like a bucket of water comes up out of the well."

"That's it!" said Aunt Lu. "And when we go down we go down just like the bucket going down in the well."

"It's fun! I like it!" and Sue clapped her hands. "I like the elevator!"

"Yes'm, it sho' am fun!" echoed Wopsie.

"Wopsie would ride up and down all day if I'd let her," said Aunt Lu. "But here we are at my floor. Now wasn't that better than climbing up ten flights of stairs, children?"

"I guess it was!" cried Bunny. "Do you live up ten flights?"

"Yes, and there are some families who live higher than that."

They stepped out of the elevator into a little hall, and soon they were in Aunt Lu's nice city apartment, or house, if you like that word better.

"Now, Wopsie," said Aunt Lu, "you tell Jane to make Mrs. Brown a nice cup of tea."

"And can we go up on the roof?" asked Bunny.

"Not right away -- but after a while," said his aunt.

"Let's go out into the elevator again," suggested Sue.