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25877	----	[Illustration] The Little Gingerbread Man [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration: Cook makes the Gingerbread Man] The Little Gingerbread Man by G.H.P. [Illustration] PICTURES & DECORATIONS by Robert Gaston Herbert G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press [Illustration] COPYRIGHT, 1910 BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS First Printing, October, 1910 Second " September, 1912 Third " July, 1915 Fourth " April, 1921 Fifth " July, 1923 Sixth " April, 1927 [Illustration: The Knickerbocker Press New York] Made in the United States of America The Little Gingerbread Man [Illustration] [Illustration: The Little Gingerbread Man] One day, the cook went into the kitchen to make some gingerbread. She took some flour and water, and treacle and ginger, and mixed them all well together, and she put in some more water to make it thin, and then some more flour to make it thick, and a little salt and some spice, and then she rolled it out into a beautiful, smooth, dark-yellow dough. Then she took the square tins and cut out some square cakes for the little boys, and with some round tins she cut out some round cakes for the little girls, and then she said, "I'm going to make a little gingerbread man for little Bobby." So she took a nice round lump of dough for his body, and a smaller lump for his head, which she pulled out a little for the neck. Two other lumps were stuck on beneath for the legs, and were pulled out into proper shape, with feet and toes all complete, and two still smaller pieces were made into arms, with dear little hands and fingers. [Illustration] But the nicest work was done on the head, for the top was frizzed up into a pretty sugary hat; on either side was made a dear little ear, and in front, after the nose had been carefully moulded, a beautiful mouth was made out of a big raisin, and two bright little eyes with burnt almonds and caraway seeds. Then the gingerbread man was finished ready for baking, and a very jolly little man he was. In fact, he looked so sly that the cook was afraid he was plotting some mischief, and when the batter was ready for the oven, she put in the square cakes and she put in the round cakes; and then she put in the little gingerbread man in a far back corner, where he couldn't get away in a hurry. [Illustration: Cook goes up to sweep the Parlor] [Illustration] Then she went up to sweep the parlor, and she swept and she swept till the clock struck twelve, when she dropped her broom in a hurry, and exclaiming, "Lawks! the gingerbread will be all baked to a cinder," she ran down into the kitchen, and threw open the oven door. And the square cakes were all done, nice and hard and brown, and the round cakes were all done, nice and hard and brown, and the gingerbread man was all done too, nice and hard and brown; and he was standing up in his corner, with his little caraway-seed eyes sparkling, and his raisin mouth bubbling over with mischief, while he waited for the oven door to be opened. The instant the door was opened, with a hop, skip, and a jump, he went right over the square cakes and the round cakes, and over the cook's arm, and before she could say "Jack Robinson" he was running across the kitchen floor, as fast as his little legs would carry him, towards the back door, which was standing wide open, and through which he could see the garden path. [Illustration: The Gingerbread Man Escapes.] The old cook turned round as fast as she could, which wasn't very fast, for she was rather a heavy woman and she had been quite taken by surprise, and she saw lying right across the door-way, fast asleep in the sun, old Mouser, the cat. [Illustration] "Mouser, Mouser," she cried, "stop the gingerbread man! I want him for little Bobby." When the cook first called, Mouser thought it was only some one calling in her dreams, and simply rolled over lazily; and the cook called again, "Mouser, Mouser!" The old cat sprang up with a jump, but just as she turned round to ask the cook what all the noise was about, the little gingerbread man cleverly jumped under her tail, and in an instant was trotting down the garden walk. Mouser turned in a hurry and ran after, although she was still rather too sleepy to know what it was she was trying to catch, and after the cat came the cook, lumbering along rather heavily, but also making pretty good speed. [Illustration] Now at the bottom of the walk, lying fast asleep in the sun against the warm stones of the garden wall, was Towser, the dog. And the cook called out: "Towser, Towser, stop the gingerbread man! I want him for little Bobby." And when Towser first heard her calling he thought it was some one speaking in his dreams, and he only turned over on his side, with another snore, and then the cook called again, "Towser, Towser, stop him, stop him!" Then the dog woke up in good earnest, and jumped up on his feet to see what it was that he should stop. But just as the dog jumped up, the little gingerbread man, who had been watching for the chance, quietly slipped between his legs, and climbed up on the top of the stone wall, so that Towser saw nothing but the cat running towards him down the walk, and behind the cat the cook, now quite out of breath. [Illustration] He thought at once that the cat must have stolen something, and that it was the cat the cook wanted him to stop. Now, if there was anything that Towser liked, it was going after the cat, and he jumped up the walk so fiercely that the poor cat did not have time to stop herself or to get out of his way, and they came together with a great fizzing, and barking, and meowing, and howling, and scratching, and biting, as if a couple of Catherine-wheels had gone off in the wrong way and had got mixed up with one another. [Illustration: Cook takes a tumble] But the old cook had been running so hard that she was not able to stop herself any better than the cat had done, and she fell right on top of the mixed up dog and cat, so that all three rolled over on the walk in a heap together. And the cat scratched whichever came nearest, whether it was a piece of the dog or of the cook, and the dog bit at whatever came nearest, whether it was a piece of the cat or of the cook, so that the poor cook was badly pummelled on both sides. [Illustration] Meanwhile, the gingerbread man had climbed up on the garden wall, and stood on the top with his hands in his pockets, looking at the scrimmage, and laughing till the tears ran down from his little caraway-seed eyes and his raisin mouth was bubbling all over with fun. [Illustration] After a little while, the cat managed to pull herself out from under the cook and the dog, and a very cast-down and crumpled-up-looking cat she was. She had had enough of hunting gingerbread men, and she crept back to the kitchen to repair damages. [Illustration] The dog, who was very cross because his face had been badly scratched, let go of the cook, and at last, catching sight of the gingerbread man, made a bolt for the garden wall. The cook picked herself up, and although her face was also badly scratched and her dress was torn, she was determined to see the end of the chase, and she followed after the dog, though this time more slowly. [Illustration: The Monkey catches the Gingerbread Man] When the gingerbread man saw the dog coming, he jumped down on the farther side of the wall, and began running across the field. Now in the middle of the field was a tree, and at the foot of the tree was lying Jocko, the monkey. He wasn't asleep--monkeys never are--and when he saw the little man running across the field and heard the cook calling, "Jocko, Jocko, stop the gingerbread man," he at once gave one big jump. But he jumped so fast and so far that he went right over the gingerbread man, and as luck would have it, he came down on the back of Towser, the dog, who had just scrambled over the wall, and whom he had not before noticed. Towser was naturally taken by surprise, but he turned his head around and promptly bit off the end of the monkey's tail, and Jocko quickly jumped off again, chattering his indignation. [Illustration] Meanwhile, the gingerbread man had got to the bottom of the tree, and was saying to himself: "Now, I know the dog can't climb a tree, and I don't believe the old cook can climb a tree; and as for the monkey I'm not sure, for I've never seen a monkey before, but I am going up." So he pulled himself up hand over hand until he had got to the topmost branch. But the monkey had jumped with one spring onto the lowest branch, and in an instant he also was at the top of the tree. The gingerbread man crawled out to the furthermost end of the branch, and hung by one hand, but the monkey swung himself under the branch, and stretching out his long arm, he pulled the gingerbread man in. Then he held him up and looked at him so hungrily that the little raisin mouth began to pucker down at the corners, and the caraway-seed eyes filled with tears. [Illustration] And then what do you think happened? Why, little Bobby himself came running up. He had been taking his noon-day nap upstairs, and in his dreams it seemed as if he kept hearing people call "Little Bobby, little Bobby!" until finally he jumped up with a start, and was so sure that some one was calling him that he ran down-stairs, without even waiting to put on his shoes. [Illustration: Bobby thought he heard someone calling.] As he came down, he could see through the window in the field beyond the garden the cook, and the dog, and the monkey, and could even hear the barking of Towser and the chattering of Jocko. He scampered down the walk, with his little bare feet pattering against the warm gravel, climbed over the wall, and in a few seconds arrived under the tree, just as Jocko was holding up the poor little gingerbread man. [Illustration] "Drop it, Jocko!" cried Bobby, and drop it Jocko did, for he always had to mind Bobby. He dropped it so straight that the gingerbread man fell right into Bobby's uplifted pinafore. Then Bobby held him up and looked at him, and the little raisin mouth puckered down lower than ever, and the tears ran right out of the caraway-seed eyes. But Bobby was too hungry to mind gingerbread tears, and he gave one big bite, and swallowed down both legs and a piece of the body. [Illustration: "1/3 gone"] "OH!" said the gingerbread man, "I'M ONE-THIRD GONE!" Bobby gave a second bite, and swallowed the rest of the body and the arms. [Illustration: "2/3 gone"] "OH!" said the gingerbread man, "I'M TWO-THIRDS GONE!" Bobby gave a third bite, and gulped down the head. "_Oh!_" said the gingerbread man, "_I'm all gone!_" And so he was--and that is the end of the story. [Illustration: The end of the story] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] 
58883	----	THE MEN OF BORU BY JACK A. NELSON _There is always a breed immune to mass hypnosis, and to them falls the duty of rebellion.... The story, by a Brigham Young University senior, that won the second award of $500 in IF's College Science Fiction Contest_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A swirl of dust licked at the grass sandals of the men standing on the hill. There were eight men, and they stood looking west over the burned, gutted land that lay barren before them--barren except for a series of huge mounds that lay in a depression far out from the hills on the rocky plains. "Do you still think we can make it?" asked a stocky man with a livid scar that ran from his upper lip to his forehead. "I for one would rather live alone and meagerly than not live at all." The speaker received a stern glance from a tall hawk-nosed man wearing a finely-worked leather belt, apparently a symbol of leadership. "We have already agreed, remember, Franz? We have to succeed or disappear off the face of the Earth. You may turn back if you wish. We are going on." Franz scowled, rubbed his scar and contemplated the mounds in the distance. "You forget I have lived there. You have not. Well, maybe to be a slave is not so bad after all. Or to die." "If we die we will not go alone," said Sten, the leader. He turned to the others. "Let's go. It will be dark soon." The men moved single-file down through the hills without speaking. As it grew dark they could feel the heat radiate from the sand. They felt the heat press against them and silently praised Sten's wisdom in waiting for the cold time of year before making the attempt. They wore a tunic of coarse-woven cloth that hung loose from their shoulders, and even that single garment was too warm here. They moved in silence, Sten in the lead, followed by his brother, Johnathon, a smaller man with wide shoulders and a quick smile. A gibbous moon was showing over the mountains when they stopped. Solemnly they gathered in a circle. "We will separate now," Sten spoke softly. "Franz and Johnathon and Karl and I will enter from the south. Bradley, you and the others will find the way in from the north. You can find the place. If we're not back at our last camp by morning of the third day, go on without us. You have the map where the valley lies?" The leader of the other group nodded. "Then hurry. Until three days, then. Remember, the only hope lies in us. Some of us have to make it!" The men separated with only a wave of farewell and the two groups moved in opposite directions across the hot sands. Clouds covered the moon and it grew darker as the four men approached the edge of the mounds. An ominous sense of foreboding fell over them. It seemed they could feel the vibration of the city that lay beneath them. Beneath them lay life--stilted, twisted, enslaved life, but life nevertheless. "Are you sure they don't post a guard?" Johnathon asked. "Against what, the Root-Diggers?" Franz spat contemptuously. "No, they are secure. They need fear nothing." It was another hour before they found the tunnel and entered in single file. Groping their way through the darkness, they finally felt a solid wall rise in front of them. Franz made his way to the left, feeling his way along the wall until he found a large box in a niche in the rock. "It's here! It's still here after all." "Good," Sten said. "All right, everybody up against the wall and push." Karl, the biggest of the men, laughed as he eased his bulk against the obstruction. "It would be real sport," he said, "to move this wall and find one of their Steel-heads waiting for us." Franz snickered. "It wouldn't be sport long, my friend. They're trained from birth to be trigger-happy and there's nothing anyone in Panamia fears more than the outside, or anything connected with it. And we're outsiders." The wall suddenly gave before them and they moved into a half-darkened room. Carefully, in a sort of frozen silence, they moved the wall back into place. The box had contained city clothes; and now the men worked swiftly in the semi-darkness. When they were ready Franz walked up and down making final adjustments in each of their uniforms. As he finished, Sten laid his hand on his shoulder. "Franz, you'll take over now. You know what everything is like here. We're placing ourselves in your hands." Franz shrugged his shoulders almost as if he were disinterested in the drama in which they were taking part. His eyes searched the faces of the men. "So you want women, eh? You want to preserve our race--the glorious animal, Man. Ha! I ask you to ponder for a moment, before it is too late, whether this race is worth preserving. Men have been furthering the race for milleniums and what has it come to? Consider if the earth wouldn't prosper better without Man." The men shifted uneasily. "Forget all that, Franz," Sten snapped. "You know there must be an answer somewhere. This is our only chance. Everything can't be dead." Franz looked away. "As you wish. If you're determined to go through with it, then let's start. But first, remember that you're Steel-heads, bred and raised with no other thought than to carry out the will of Him--The Leader. His will is your will. You do not think, you only act according to orders. Don't look intelligent, that is suspect. Just stare straight ahead and do what I tell you--or what any other officer might tell you, for that matter. Remember, don't question anything! Just follow orders." He laid his hand on the door that led to the city, hesitated for a brief instant, then swung it open. As the men entered, walking stiffly with eyes coldly searching for the unknown, they were hit by a high-pitched whine that filled the corridor and seemed to pierce deep within them. The three men covered their ears with their hands and cringed. But Franz stood straight and moved his head around to catch the noise from all angles. His mouth opened and closed slowly as if he were trying to pull the shrill noise deep within him. Finally he shook his head, as a dog shakes off water, and gathered command of himself. "It is The Leader," he said in a loud voice to overcome the whine. "Soon you will not notice it. It is everywhere." Sten removed his hands from his ears and felt the noise creep over him. He shuddered, and felt beads of sweat form on his forehead as the sound seemed to gnaw at his consciousness. Soon the others were able to bear the noise with their ears uncovered, but they felt restless and uneasy. "We're lucky not to have been seen," said Franz. "Come on." They moved down the corridor in military formation, Franz leading and the others following dumbly. The corridor was small and well-lighted. Doors opened into cubicles every few feet, and the wall was lined with wide view-screens that stared out, like probing and sullen eyes. The men kept their eyes straight ahead, but occasionally they flicked a glance sideways at the people that were passing them in both directions. They halted as they reached the main corridor. A loud buzzer rose above the whine, and people emerged from the doors along the walls and passed them in silence. Eyes fixed on the ground. A few talked as they went by, but none noticed the soldiers standing at the edge of the corridor. Three girls, walking in silence, paused before the men for a brief instant, then passed on. Sten felt his eyes following the girls hungrily. Catching himself, he pulled back to attention and nudged his brother at his side. "Steel-head, Johnathon, remember?" Johnathon again looked straight ahead and stifled the beginnings of a grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Franz also stared after the girls, but his eyes wore an amused expression, rather than the longing look of the other men. Franz spat out a curt order and they began to march down the corridor again, the crowd making room for them automatically. Everywhere posters glared at them from the walls. Some pictured a huge eye that stared out with the words, "The Leader is watching." Others showed the smiling faces of a throng of people. Underneath, in scarlet lettering was emblazoned: "Panamia and The Leader March On--PROGRESS." For an hour they marched through the city, ignored by the people and apparently unaware of all that was happening around them. They passed thousands of men and women, a milling mass, each immersed in a grim stupor. Where the main corridors intersected they entered great assembly places where huge view-screens were set up. They were always turned on. A shrill emotional voice blared out a constant stream of propaganda. "People of Panamia, unite, work! The Root-Diggers must be repulsed! For the glory of The Leader, for the glory of Panamia, we must accomplish our utmost. We must give our all!" "For The Leader! For Panamia!" the people shouted, rising momentarily from their dull world, their eyes glazed with emotion. Banners beneath the screens announced in large crimson letters: Service to The Leader is glory to yourself and Panamia. The soldiers stood watching tight-lipped. Franz's nostrils quivered as the tumult of the demonstration thundered about them. His face took on an eager look as he watched the people shouting in exaltation, a curt movement of Sten's hand brought him back to the task at hand. He gave a short barked order and the group moved on. They had just reached an intersection and were standing awaiting directions from Franz when a shout rang out. "Stop, Provost. You! What are you doing here?" A short, ruddy-faced officer in thick-lensed glasses strode up the corridor toward them, scowling. Sten cautiously moved his head around to face the danger. "Sten, attention! He'll know," Franz hissed from the side of his mouth. Sten snapped back to attention, staring straight ahead. The squat officer confronted Franz. "Who assigned you to this block?" Franz saluted. "Security sent us to check on a disturbance near here." The officer's eyes narrowed. "Disturbance? I have heard of no disturbance." "That is of no matter. We were sent." The squat officer stared hard at Franz. "Hmm, I see. And what is your rank number, Provost?" Franz told him a number that he remembered. The officer looked them over searchingly, his lower lip protruding in obvious contempt. "Very well, carry on. But Provost, I'll remember you!" He stood watching as they marched away, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with the palm of his hand. Sten felt a sickening void in his stomach as they marched past the officer. Surely the man suspected. Would it all end right here, before they even had a chance to get started? He felt the reassuring pressure of the knife inside his belt, the one weapon that Franz had advised, and resolved that, if it should be necessary, their lives would be sold dearly. After a while they turned into a series of side passage-ways and Franz stopped before the door to one of the cubicles. The corridor was empty, and they were out of range of the view-screens. Johnathon relaxed against the wall and sighed. "What a sight. I never expected it to be as bad as this. Did you notice the look in most of their eyes? It's a dull, glazed almost dead look. They're nothing more than beaten animals." "Easy," Franz cautioned, "wait till we get inside." He pressed the button on the door. A woman's voice came through the door panel. "What do you want?" "Open. In the name of The Leader. It is a Provost." Slowly the door swung open and the men saw a small brunette standing before them. "What do you want?" she repeated in the same monotone. "Interrogation!" Franz pushed his way inside. The others followed. The woman stood against the wall cowering from the soldiers. Franz searched around the apartment carefully, then confronted the woman. "Do you not know me?" The woman stared into his eyes. Finally she said, "No, no, I don't know you." "Do you not remember Jeannine? The girl you worked with? Remember the plans? The plans to leave here and go outside to build a new life?" Her chin quivered as she tried to speak. "Yes, now I remember. You are Franz, Jeannine's lover. That was before The Leader found out and ... and sent Jeannine away. You disappeared, I thought you had been sent away, too. It is hard to remember. You know we are ordered to forget the past. What ... what do you want of me?" Franz motioned to the men with him, "We are from the outside." The woman recoiled with a gasp and backed even closer to the wall. "Root-Diggers!" Sten stepped forward. "No, we're not Root-Diggers. We're the men of Boru. We've come to lead you and others like you to freedom." "Barbarians!" the woman snarled. "You're planning to overthrow Panamia!" She lunged wildly at the switch that would have turned on her view-screen. Sten caught her and pushed her back against the wall. The woman screamed once before Sten slapped her, then she sobbed into her hands. "Shut up!" Sten commanded. "We mean no harm. We have come only to lead out to freedom those who wish to go." "You are against The Leader." Franz laughed. "Let's say we hope to outwit him." The woman drew back. "That is impossible, he cannot be outwitted. The Leader is all." Johnathon looked up from the corner where he was examining the view-screen. "That may be, but we intend to have a try at it." Karl, who had been leaning against the door, suddenly sat down on a hard bench against the wall. "Damn," he complained, "this whining noise gives me a headache." The woman allowed herself a moment of curiosity. "What whining noise? There is no noise." "They are conditioned to it," Franz spoke to Sten. "It's a part of their lives. We never hear the pounding of our hearts." The woman sat down on the bench and buried her face in her hands. "Tell me," Sten said, "Has she no husband?" "Husband? In Panamia there is no such thing. Everyone lives alone. When they reach maturity, they are summoned to a meeting with The Leader, and mated with him or one of his representatives. That is all. The child is raised by The Leader's nurses. It is all a very impersonal business. They never speak of it." The lights in the apartment dimmed. Immediately the woman rose and walked mechanically to a bunk set in the wall, curled up, and was asleep almost before the men could notice her. "What was that?" "Just The Leader's signal that it is time for sleep," Franz said. "Did you see how she obeyed?" "They live like clockwork," Sten muttered. Several hours later the lights came on again. The woman rose without speaking to the men, who had slept on the floor, and sat down at the table to eat. "Hey, don't we get invited to breakfast?" asked Karl, sitting up in the corner. Johnathon sniffed the air. "From the smell of it I don't think I want any." The woman looked up annoyed. "When are you going to leave? I have to go to my work. It's important to Panamia." This last was said with a fierce pride. "Will she be missed?" Sten asked Franz. "Yes, but they allow one day away for illness. The second day they check." "Don't worry," Sten told the woman. "We will leave when we have what we came for." "And what is that?" "Freedom." "But you say freedom is outside. Why didn't you stay?" "Because there must be freedom for our children--and for their children." "You have children?" she looked interested. "We shall soon." "Yes," she said scornfully, "freedom for the children of the Root-Diggers. But you come to Panamia for that freedom!" "We told you we're not Root-Diggers," Johnathon said. "You can hardly compare us with that tribe of poor devils. But even their state is better than living like a slave in Panamia." The woman laughed bitterly. "If you are not Root-Diggers, why do you come to hurt Panamia and The Leader? It is because of you people that we are warred upon and must always sacrifice." Franz rose and faced the woman. "Kathryn, you're wrong," he said. "The Root-Diggers are not warring with Panamia. They are only men and women like ourselves who have been banned from Panamia. The Leader had them purged before they were forced outside so that they are sterile and have only half their wits. They have to live like animals, eating roots and berries and bugs and insects. Those are the Root-Diggers your Leader uses to frighten you." The woman clenched her fists until the knuckles showed white. "You lie!" she screamed. "The Leader tells the truth." "No, it's not a lie. We have all seen them," Sten said quietly. The men sat in silence while the woman wept. Karl reached out and ate a bit of the woman's food. "What sort of gruel is this stuff, I wonder. It needs salt." "Salt," commented Franz, "is the greatest luxury in the city. Because of the Root-Diggers, you know. There is a grave shortage. The people crave it more than anything else and will go to any lengths to get an extra ration of it." Sten shook his head. "And they blame it on those poor beasts outside." He rose and began nervously pacing the floor. "Franz, we have to move quickly. The others will leave if we don't meet them on time. Do you think she will go with us? Will she help us get others?" "Who knows about her?" Franz shrugged. "I know some others here who may want to go. We can see them now, but someone has to stay here with Kathryn." Sten watched the hungry eyes of Karl and Johnathon as they looked at the now silent woman, sitting dejectedly at the table. "I'll stay," he said. The two men moved reluctantly as they followed Franz from the room. Sten sat in silence after they were gone, watching the woman, who was staring sullenly at the table top. He felt the pressure of the room close in on him, and wished he were back in the openness of the mountains. With a start he realized that he no longer noticed the whine unless he listened for it, and that the sound somehow created a feeling of warmth within him. He rose, slammed his fist into his open palm, and shook the woman vigorously. "Kathryn, how would you like to leave here? Go to a new land, a valley that is still green and fertile? There you could look up at the sky and live and feel free--and raise your children free." Kathryn looked up dumbfounded. "I couldn't leave here. What would I do? Don't you know that this is real freedom? Here where we have The Leader to take care of everything for us?" "No! This is bondage. Being told when to sleep and when to eat and what to eat, and slaving for a grain of salt." "Do you have salt?" she seemed incredulous. "Out there, Kathryn, you can have as much as you want. Believe me, this is no good. Where is the purpose of your life? Man wasn't born to be a slave to anyone or anything, but to build his own life. You're a woman, meant to have children, to mother them, and teach them, and love them, doesn't that mean anything to you?" "I ... I don't know. I've never thought about it before." "You must think about it! Would you have it all end here? Living always at the command of an unknown voice?" The woman's eyes searched the room, as if seeking some sign of reassurance. "But ... I've never thought of any other kind of life. I'm happy here!" "Happy? Being a living robot? You've never touched real happiness. Think, Kathryn. Think hard about this. It's the most important thing in the world." She turned from the man and looked at the wall. * * * * * It was several hours before Franz and the others returned. Kathryn was in her bunk, her eyes shut, an instrument clamped to her temples. Franz breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind them. "Whew, that's not good for the nerves! Every time we turned a corner we ran into that officer we met yesterday. I think he's watching us." "Sten," Johnathon said excitedly, "you should have gone with us. Most of the people wouldn't even listen, but there was a girl who was interested. I've never seen anything like her, Sten. She's so soft and small and...." Karl interrupted enthusiastically. "And she has a friend that's coming with her! Her name's Stella--I touched her and she's smoother than anything I ever felt. I ... I think she may go with us." Sten and Franz stood soberly watching the child-like joy of the two men, a new joy, something unquenchable that burned deep within them. "These people are mindless fools," Franz snorted. "Most of them didn't even remember me. The Leader's forgetting treatments are pretty strong stuff, I guess. 'The Past is Forgotten, the Future is the Glory of The Leader', that's the motto." "No wonder the poor souls seem mindless," said Sten soberly. "But what about the girls they're so happy about?" he motioned to the table where Karl and Johnathon were glibly comparing notes on the girls they had met. "They didn't remember me either, but they seemed to be able to think independently. They also thought of some others who might be interested. What will we do if we get too many?" "We'll take anyone who wants to go. At least, as many as we can. The important thing is that we get enough to start again outside." He pointed to the nook where Kathryn was still curled in the foetal position. "What's Kathryn doing, Franz? She's been like that for an hour." Franz's eyes held a look of pity. "It is the one recreation that The Leader allows them. It's hard to explain exactly what it is, but you are carried away by it. It's something like a drug, yet it's mechanical. Something like music or sweet voices washes over you and you dream. For a time, you actually live." Sten shuddered. "The only reality is dreams then, eh? Tell me, are these people actually capable of love?" "It's completely foreign to them, but they _are_ human beings, and I suppose love is innate in us all. I found it here once, you know." Sten looked away as Franz stared hard at the floor. The tension was broken by a knock at the door, and three women followed by a single man entered. When they had exchanged greetings and been seated, Sten stood up in the middle of the room. Kathryn, who had wakened from her dreaming, sat watching wide-eyed. "Franz has told you why we are here. We believe the human race is doomed to slavery and annihilation unless some of us break away. My father left us a treasure of books that his father before him had salvaged from the holocaust. They tell of a way of life before the land was ravaged. It was a better way, believe me. We men have lived in Boru, a small valley back in the hills. But now we're leaving there. Long ago our father told us of a green valley to the east, high in the mountains where things grow as they did in the time before all this. We have a map; and we're going there to find freedom. We need you to keep this freedom." A hush of silence held the room for a moment, and was broken finally by the man who had come with the three girls. "Will The Leader be there?" Sten stared hard at the man. "You will be your own leader. Can't you see that? Your Leader is only an illusion! There is no leader but yourself, and perhaps the God in my father's books." The man sat a moment, then shook his head. "Not without The Leader--I couldn't face it." "You have your choice," Franz said coldly. The man rose and grasped the arm of the tall woman that had come in with him. "Then we have no business with you," he said as he led the woman to the door. The woman looked back hopelessly as she followed the man out. "And you?" Sten asked the remaining women. The blonde girl smiled and took hold of Johnathon's arm. "I will go." They all turned to the shy-looking girl who sat next to Karl. She looked hard at the man next to her before speaking. "Yes, me too," she almost whispered. "Good. That's two. Kathryn, what about you?" She looked Sten squarely in the eye. "I've decided to stay. Why should I leave this good life to be devoured by beasts or Root-Diggers on the outside?" Sten sighed. "Then we need more. And quickly. We must leave by tomorrow night at the latest." After the women had been escorted to their cubicles, Franz led the men through the corridors toward the center of the city. In each great square they passed squads of soldiers dressed like themselves, staring straight ahead in the same unconscious way. When they paused in the middle of a hall to plan their strategy, Karl turned to Franz. "Something's bothering me, Franz. Just where do they put their dead? We haven't passed anything like a graveyard." Franz laughed. "Death is rare in Panamia, my friend. When a person grows old or very ill, he is summoned by The Leader. He never comes back. I never knew anyone to come back. As far as any one knows they're still at the headquarters of The Leader." A huge cavern-like room loomed ahead where all the main passage-ways intersected. In the middle of the square sat a great round building, forbidding, yet beautiful. Doors opened on all sides leading into the great domed structure. "And this is where The Leader dwells. Nice, eh?" Franz said. The men stood looking at the huge dome until it seemed to them that they were being noticed, then they passed on through the square. At the far edge, Franz suddenly stiffened. "Walk fast. Hurry," he muttered. Sten quickened his pace to keep up with the others, then felt a chill run over him as he saw the officer with the thick glasses watching them from a window in the dome. "I wonder what would happen," Karl muttered, "if a guy could get into that dome for a few minutes to play with the machinery?" "Perhaps it could be done," Franz replied. "But it would be your last act on earth. Nevertheless, it would be interesting to see what would happen to the people if the machinery stopped." Sten noted the thoughtful expression on Franz's face. The man's eyes searched the corridor, where, by listening carefully, he could hear the high whine of The Leader. Kathryn was home from her job when they returned. "Well, how is your enlistment program coming?" she asked when they entered. Sten looked at her and felt his stomach pull tight within him. "Not so well," Franz replied. "Those I knew when I was here have forgotten what they believed then or are gone. It's too dangerous to speak to many new ones." "There aren't many fools in Panamia," she retorted. Johnathon grasped Sten's arm entreatingly. "Sten, come with us, we'll see the girls. They have friends who may be interested. We only have a few more hours, let's not waste them." "No, you go on. I'll stay here for a while." "As for me," Franz said, rising, "I'll go with Karl and Johnathon. I have to check on something." Kathryn sat at the table watching Sten as the others left. He looked away from her eyes. "You'll be alone again soon. Tell me, don't you ever get lonesome all by yourself all the time?" "I have The Leader. He is always near." "You have nothing then. Don't you realize it is nothing?" He rose and walked to the nook where her recreation machine sat on a shelf. Grasping it with both hands, he wrenched it from the wall and let it fall to the floor, smashed. She stared at it dumbly. "See! There is your Leader--a smashed machine!" Sten shouted. He moved to her side and leaned close to her. "Kathryn, you're a woman. You're not stone! Don't you feel anything at all?" Her neck turned slowly red as he pulled her toward him. "No, I feel nothing," she said woodenly. "Is this supposed to be something special, the touch of a man?" "It can be." He put his face into her hair. Slowly he pulled her head back and looked into her eyes, then he kissed her, hard. She fought free of him and began pacing back and forth. "I don't know. I don't know. Perhaps you are right, but I don't know if I can do it." "Here, what's this?" Johnathon entered smiling. "Has there been a change of heart? Good. Then we can leave. Franz here tells me he found the lady he went looking for too." Kathryn looked again at the dream machine lying on the floor, then at Sten. She seemed to gather up strength for a brief moment. "I'll go," she whispered. "I'm glad," Sten said. "We can leave right away then. What about your girl, Franz?" "She is waiting for me," Franz smiled. "I made sure of that. But it is a long way. Give me an hour. Better yet, I'll meet you at the tunnel in an hour and a half." Franz laid his hand on Sten's shoulder and spoke in a low voice. "If I'm not there in an hour and a half, go on. I'll catch you outside." He squeezed Sten's shoulder. "Be careful, my friend. And good luck." Sten looked at the door for an instant after Franz had gone. "We must be careful. We don't want to be noticed." "Soon there will be nobody to notice us," Johnathon said exuberantly. "We can yell and run and laugh, and there will be nobody to care, not even The Leader." A silence fell over the room as he mentioned the name. Sten broke it to issue an order for everyone to gather his things. Kathryn gazed longingly round the room as the others moved out. She bit her lip with the effort it took to keep from pulling back as Sten led her from the room. They passed through the corridors without incident, stopping when they reached the intersection that led to the tunnel. They stood there at the edge of the intersection, anxiously awaiting Franz. Sten stiffened as he saw the officer that had stopped them before approaching down the corridor, followed by a soldier. The men snapped to attention and stood as if guarding the women. The officer swaggered up to Sten. "Here, what are you doing with these women?" He studied Sten's face. "Don't I know you? Ah yes, you were with that scar-faced provost that's been snooping around lately. Your actions are most out of the ordinary. I think we had better go along to The Leader's headquarters and check on this." "We have other orders," Sten stated flatly. "What! You dare disobey!" "We have orders. But look, here comes our officer now. Ask him." As the officer turned, Sten lunged forward and struck him a blow on the neck, knocking him to the floor. Instantly he fell on top of him. There was a fierce struggle as the officer tried to reach inside his tunic for his weapon. Suddenly the officer gasped. When his body was still, Sten slowly withdrew his knife from the man's chest. The soldier stood staring stupidly at his fallen officer until Karl clubbed him from behind. "We've got to get out of here," panted Sten. "Franz! What about Franz?" "I don't know. He should be here by now. But he said he'd catch us." As they fled down the corridor, the view-screens along the way were blaring the usual message of the glory of The Leader. Abruptly the voice died away, the whine faded to a diminishing hum, and there was an increasing stillness. The whine stopped and the corridors were silent. The women, terror stricken by the stillness, screamed and fell writhing on the floor. Shouts filled the corridors as panicked throngs left without the symbols of The Leader ran from their cubicles in terror. "What is it?" Karl shouted above the din, shaking his head to clear it. "The whining noise. It stopped." Sten gasped. "Franz! It's Franz! He must have gotten in and wrecked the dynamos." He pulled Kathryn to her feet and shook her to stop her sobbing. Then, as suddenly as it had stopped, the whine began again, slowly gaining momentum until it reached its former pitch. With this, the sobs of the women subsided and calmness slowly crept back through the corridors. "It's started again," Karl began running toward the tunnel. "They must have spare dynamos. Poor Franz, all for nothing." Again the view-speakers were blaring, this time warning the people that a saboteur had made an attempt to destroy The Leader. The women were gasping for breath when they reached the door to the tunnel. Sten plunged through the door, hurrying the others in after him, and then threw his weight against the wall. With three men pushing against it, the wall gave way and they entered the tunnel. It was night outside. They walked slowly, consoling the women, who were sobbing again at the loss of the shrill god they had known for so long. The heat that radiated from the sand was suffocating. "We have to hurry on," Sten told the women. "We can't be caught in this sand tomorrow. There are foothills ahead where we can rest." It was morning when the men, carrying the women, entered a rocky canyon and wearily slumped down in the shade of a cliff. The women barely moved, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. "Lord, I'm tired," Karl groaned. Sten laughed. "At least we accomplished our mission. Except ... for Franz." The men sat silent. "Maybe Franz fulfilled his purpose, too," Karl said. "That dynamo was the woman he had waiting for him. He probably got a lot of satisfaction out of knowing that for one minute, at least, Panamia was without The Leader." The other men didn't answer. They were asleep. They woke as the sun was going down. Sten climbed the cliffs to look out over the desert in search of the other party. He returned dejected. "They're half a day overdue now," he said. "Our food's low so we'll have to go on and hope they catch up later. Bradley has another map." He noticed the women sitting against the base of the cliff, terrified. "What's wrong?" Kathryn looked around them at the barren ground and at the clear sky stretching away to the horizon. "What's wrong? Look at this. I feel like I'm floating in air. There's nothing over us!" The men laughed. "Don't laugh," Marta wailed. "It's a horrible feeling. This emptiness is killing me. Sing, shout, do something! But let's not have such silence!" Stella, the shy girl with the mouse-colored hair, began crying again. Karl gently pulled her head over on his shoulder. * * * * * They left at dark, winding up through the canyon and back into the hills where the scrub trees began. All night they traveled, tearing their flesh on the jagged limbs and rocks in the darkness. Only, the occasional muffled sob of the women broke the stillness. In the morning they rested in a small valley where a trickle of water coarsed through its head. They rested under a pinion tree, the women receiving some solace from the flimsy natural roof over their heads. Sten slept three hours, then rose without waking the others and scouted ahead. He consulted his map and climbed a tall hill to search for the mountain range they were seeking. When he returned, Johnathon and Marta were gone. "He said he had to go," Karl explained. "Marta couldn't take this, and he wouldn't go on without her. He said he knew he couldn't make you understand. And asked you to take care of your father's books. He hoped that someday he could join us in the valley." "Can he stand living there?" Sten asked glumly. "Franz said once that it had been done before. I guess they don't bother you much if you obey." Sten squatted on his heels and stared out over the desert where Johnathon and Marta had disappeared, sending them a silent God-speed. When they started out that afternoon, Stella was still sobbing. Karl tried to console her, but at every new turn they took, there was fresh terror in her eyes. Kathryn walked along with her, helping her over the rough places and trying to cheer her, but she couldn't conceal her own terror as she stared ahead at the vast distances. They rested at sundown. While the men were bringing water, Stella rose and started back down the hillside. Kathryn was thrown aside when she tried to stop her, and soon the girl was running madly down the hill, shrieking and sobbing wildly. Karl dropped his pack and ran after her, begging her to stop. But she ran on, heedless of obstacles. There was a sudden sharp wail of terror as she ran blindly off the edge of a cliff. Sten met Karl carrying her crushed body back up the hill. Karl hugged the dead girl close to him and did not look at the other man. That night, for the first time, they built a fire. Karl sat grief-stricken through most of the night staring into the flames. Kathryn sat leaning against Sten during the evening, fascinated by the flickering of the fire--the first she had ever seen. At dawn Sten awoke and nudged Kathryn. A grey squirrel was scolding them from a limb above. He laughed at Kathryn's wide-eyed surprise at the antics of the little animal. They rose without waking Karl, who was sleeping heavily in front of the burned-out fire, and walked down to the edge of the creek. A chipmunk scampered away in front of them and a blue-jay screeched from a near-by tree. A meadow-lark trilled its fine notes somewhere down the creek. They sat here at the edge of the creek-bank and leaned back on the grass. Kathryn stared to the west where a line of white clouds were playing along the horizon. "You know something, Sten? I don't notice the silence so much anymore, and the distance doesn't worry me now, either. I guess maybe there's something here after all." Sten pulled her close and smelled the good smell of green grass beneath them. The next afternoon they had nearly reached the top of the pass. They were just below timber-line. Finally, looking to the east, they saw a great empty space, with a tall mountain range rising jagged on the other side. "That's it," Sten exulted. "Fifty miles wide, and in the top of the mountains." "I'm glad," Karl said. "But you're on your own now, Sten. I'm going back." "Back? To Panamia?" "Yes. There's nothing for me here. Perhaps back there I can find something. Maybe I can take up where Franz left off. I don't know. There must be others who are not afraid of life." Silently Sten offered his hand. Karl squeezed it hard and looked into his eyes. "Good luck to you in your valley. I know where it is now, maybe some day I can return. And perhaps Bradley and the others will make it yet. Until another day then ..." he turned abruptly, and started back down the mountain. Sten and Kathryn, hand in hand, watched him disappear through the trees. When they could no longer see him, they lifted their eyes to the hidden valley. They saw, even from this distance, the lakes that lay scattered through it, and the winding lines of cottonwoods that grew along the rivers, and the plains where the green and grey of the sagebrush blended. Sten breathed deeply of the crisp air and let his breath escape in a low whistle. "It was worth it, wasn't it? It's ours. And we won't always be alone, Kathryn. Others will come. Man is not dead. It may take a while, but others will come." The woman slipped her arm around the man's waist and they stood for a time looking out over the valley. Then they started the long descent. 
61430	----	MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF THE THRID BY MURRAY LEINSTER The Thrid were the wisest creatures in space--they even said so themselves! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The real trouble was that Jorgenson saw things as a business man does. But also, and contradictorily, he saw them as right and just, or as wrong and intolerable. As a business man, he should have kept his mind on business and never bothered about Ganti. As a believer in right and wrong, it would have been wiser for him to have stayed off the planet Thriddar altogether. Thriddar was no place for him, anyhow you look at it. On this particular morning it was especially the wrong place for him to be trying to live and do business. He woke up thinking of Ganti, and in consequence he was in a bad mood right away. Most humans couldn't take the sort of thing that went on on Thriddar. Most of them wanted to use missile weapons--which the Thrid did not use--to change the local social system. Most humans got off Thriddar--fast! And boiling mad. Jorgenson had stood it longer than most because in spite of their convictions he liked the Thrid. Their minds did do outside loops, and come up with intolerable convictions. But they were intelligent enough. They had steam-power and even steam-driven atmosphere fliers, but they didn't have missile weapons and they did have a social system that humans simply couldn't accept--even though it applied only to Thrid. The ordinary Thrid, with whom Jorgenson did business, weren't bad people. It was the officials who made him grind his teeth. And though it was his business only to run the trading post of the Rim Stars Trading Corporation, sometimes he got fed up. This morning was especially beyond the limit. There was a new Grand Panjandrum--the term was Jorgenson's own for the supreme ruler over all the Thrid--and when Jorgenson finished his breakfast a high Thrid official waited in the trading-post compound. Around him clustered other Thrid, wearing the formal headgear that said they were Witnesses to an official act. Jorgenson went out, scowling, and exchanged the customary ceremonial greetings. Then the high official beamed at him and extracted a scroll from his voluminous garments. Jorgenson saw the glint of gold and was suspicious at once. The words of a current Grand Panjandrum were always written in gold. If they didn't get written in gold they didn't get written at all; but it was too bad if anybody ignored any of them. The high official unrolled the scroll. The Thrid around him, wearing Witness hats, became utterly silent. The high official made a sound equivalent to clearing his throat. The stillness became death-like. "On this day," intoned the high official, while the Witnesses listened reverently, "on this day did Glen-U the Never-Mistaken, as have been his predecessors throughout the ages;--on this day did the Never-Mistaken Glen-U speak and say and observe a truth in the presence of the governors and the rulers of the universe." Jorgenson reflected sourly that the governors and the rulers of the universe were whoever happened to be within hearing of the Grand Panjandrum. They were not imposing. They were scared. Everybody is always scared under an absolute ruler, but the Grand Panjandrum was worse than that. He couldn't make a mistake. Whatever he said had to be true, because he said it, and sometimes it had drastic results. But past Grand Panjandrums had spoken highly of the trading post. Jorgenson shouldn't have much to worry about. He waited. He thought of Ganti. He scowled. "The great and Never-Mistaken Glen-U," intoned the official again, "in the presence of the governors and the rulers of the universe, did speak and say and observe that it is the desire of the Rim Star Trading Corporation to present to him, the great and never-mistaken Glen-U, all of the present possessions of the said Rim Stars Trading Corporation, and thereafter to remit to him all moneys, goods, and benefactions to and of the said Rim Stars Trading Corporation as they shall be received. The great and Never-Mistaken Glen-U did further speak and say and observe that anyone hindering this loyal and admirable gift must, by the operation of truth, vanish from sight and nevermore be seen face to face by any rational being." The high official rolled up the scroll, while Jorgenson exploded inside. * * * * * A part of this was reaction as a business man. A part was recognition of all the intolerable things that the Thrid took as a matter of course. If Jorgenson had reacted solely as a business man he'd have swallowed it, departed on the next Rim Stars trading-ship--which would not have left any trade-goods behind--and left the Grand Panjandrum to realize what he had lost when no off-planet goods arrived on Thriddar. In time he'd speak and say and observe that he, out of his generosity, gave the loot back. Then the trading could resume. But Jorgenson didn't feel only like a business man this morning. He thought of Ganti, who was a particular case of everything he disliked on Thriddar. It was not wise to be moved by such sympathetic feelings. The Grand Panjandrum could not be mistaken. It was definitely unwise to contradict him. It could even be dangerous. Jorgenson was in a nasty spot. The Witnesses murmured reverently: "We hear the words of the Never-Mistaken Glen-U." The high official tucked away the scroll and said blandly: "I will receive the moneys, goods, and benefactions it is the desire of the Rim Stars Trading Corporation to present to the great and Never-Mistaken Glen-U." Jorgenson, boiling inside, nevertheless knew what he was doing. He said succinctly: "Like hell you will!" There was an idiom in Thrid speech that had exactly the meaning of the human phrase. Jorgenson used it. The high official looked at him in utter stupefaction. Nobody contradicted the Grand Panjandrum! Nobody! The Thrid had noticed long ago that they were the most intelligent race in the universe. Since that was so, obviously they must have the most perfect government. But no government could be perfect if its officials made mistakes. So no Thrid official ever made a mistake. In particular the great and Never-Mistaken Glen-U could not conceivably blunder! When he said a thing, it was true! It had to be! He'd said it! And this was the fundamental fact in the culture of the Thrid. "Like hell you'll receive moneys and goods and such!" snapped Jorgenson. "Like hell you will!" The high official literally couldn't believe his ears. "But--but the great and Never-Mistaken Glen-U--" "Is mistaken!" said Jorgenson bitingly. "He's wrong! The Rim Stars Trading Corporation does _not_ want to give him anything! What he has said is not true!" This was the equivalent of treason, blasphemy and the ultimate of indecorous behavior toward a virgin Pelean princess. "I won't give him anything! I'm not even vanishing from sight! Glen-U is wrong about that, too! Now--git!" He jerked out his blaster and pulled the trigger. There was an explosive burst of flame from the ground between the official and himself. The official fled. With him fled all the Witnesses, some even losing their headgear in their haste to get away. * * * * * Jorgenson stamped into the trading-post building. His eyes were stormy and his jaw was set. He snapped orders. The hired Thrid of the trading-post staff had not quite grasped the situation. They couldn't believe it. Automatically, as he commanded the iron doors and shutters of the trading post closed, they obeyed. They saw him turn on the shocker-field so that nobody could cross the compound without getting an electric shock that would discourage him. They began to believe. Then he sent for the trading-post Thrid consultant. On Earth he'd have called for a lawyer. On a hostile world there'd have been a soldier to advise him. On Thrid the specialist to be consulted wasn't exactly a theologian, but he was nearer that than anything else. Jorgenson laid the matter indignantly before him, repeating the exact phrases that said the trading company wanted--wanted!--practically to give itself to the Never-Mistaken Glen-U, who was the Grand Panjandrum of Thriddar. He waited to be told that it couldn't have happened; that anyhow it couldn't be intended. But the theologian's Thriddish ears went limp, which amounted to the same thing as a man's face turning pale. He stammered agitatedly that if the Grand Panjandrum said it, it was true. It couldn't be otherwise! If the trading company wanted to give itself to him, there was nothing to be done. It wanted to! The Grand Panjandrum had said so! "He also said," said Jorgenson irritably, "that I'm to vanish and nevermore be seen face to face by any rational being. How does that happen? Do I get speared?" The trading-post theologian quivered. Jorgenson made things much worse. "This," he raged, "this is crazy! The Grand Panjandrum's an ordinary Thrid just like you are! Of course he can make a mistake! There's nobody who can't be wrong!" The theologian put up feebly protesting, human-like hands. He begged hysterically to be allowed to go home before Jorgenson vanished, with unknown consequences for any Thrid who might be nearby. When Jorgenson opened a door to kick him out of it, the whole staff of the trading-post plunged after him. They'd been eavesdropping and they fled in pure horror. Jorgenson swore impartially at all of them and turned the shocker-field back on. He plugged in a capacity circuit which would turn on warning sirens if anything like a steam-driven copter passed or hovered over the trading-post. He put blasters in handy positions. The Thrid used only spears, knives and scimitars. Blasters would defend the post against a multitude. As a business man, he'd acted very foolishly. But he'd acted even less sensibly as a human being. He'd gotten fed up with a social system and a--call it--theology it wasn't his business to change. True, the Thrid way of life was appalling, and what had happened to Ganti was probably typical. But it wasn't Jorgenson's affair. He'd been unwise to let it disturb him. If the Thrid wanted things this way, it was their privilege. In theory, no Thrid should ever make a mistake, because he belonged to the most intelligent race in the universe. But a local governor was even more intelligent. If an ordinary Thrid challenged a local governor's least and lightest remark--why--he must be either a criminal or insane. The local governor decided--correctly, of course--which he was. If he was a criminal, he spent the rest of his life in a gang of criminals chained together and doing the most exhausting labor the Thrid could contrive. If he was mad, he was confined for life. * * * * * There'd been Ganti, a Thrid of whom Jorgenson had had much hope. He believed that Ganti could learn to run the trading post without human supervision. If he could, the trading company could simply bring trade goods to Thriddar and take away other trade goods. The cost of doing business would be decreased. There could be no human-Thrid friction. Jorgenson had been training Ganti for this work. But the local Thrid governor had spoken and said and observed that Ganti's wife wanted to enter his household. He added that Ganti wanted to yield her to him. Jorgenson had fumed--but not as a business man--when the transfer took place. But Ganti had been conditioned to believe that when a governor said he wanted to do something, he did. He couldn't quite grasp the contrary idea. But he moped horribly, and Jorgenson talked sardonically to him, and he almost doubted that an official was necessarily right. When his former wife died of grief, his disbelief became positive. And immediately afterward he disappeared. Jorgenson couldn't find out what had become of him. Dour reflection on the happening had put him in the bad mood which had started things, this morning. Time passed. He had the trading-post in a position of defense. He prepared his lunch, and glowered. More time passed. He cooked his dinner, and ate. Afterward he went up on the trading-post roof to smoke and to coddle his anger. He observed the sunset. There was always some haze in the air on Thriddar, and the colorings were very beautiful. He could see the towers of the capital city of the Thrid. He could see a cumbersome but still graceful steam-driven aircraft descend heavily to the field at the city's edge. Later he saw another steam-plane rise slowly but reliably and head away somewhere else. He saw the steam helicopters go skittering above the city's buildings. He fumed because creatures intelligent enough to build steam fliers weren't intelligent enough to see what a racket their government was. Now that the new Grand Panjandrum had moved against him, Jorgenson made an angry, dogged resolution to do something permanent to make matters better. For the Thrid themselves. Here he thought not as a business man only, but as a humanitarian. As both. When a whim of the Grand Panjandrum could ruin a business, something should be done. And when Ganti and countless others had been victims of capricious tyranny.... And Jorgenson was slated to vanish from sight and never again be seen.... It definitely called for strong measures! He reflected with grim pleasure that the Grand Panjandrum would soon be in the position of a Thrid whom everybody knew was mistaken. With the trading-post denied him and Jorgenson still visible, he'd be notoriously wrong. And he couldn't be, and still be Grand Panjandrum! It would be a nice situation for Glen-U. He'd have to do something about it, and there was nothing he could do. He'd blundered, and it would soon be public knowledge. Jorgenson dozed lightly. Then more heavily. Then more heavily still. The night was not two hours old when the warning sirens made a terrific uproar. The Thrid for miles around heard the wailing, ullulating sound of the sirens that should have awakened Jorgenson. But they didn't wake him. He slept on. * * * * * When he woke, he knew that he was cold. His muscles were cramped. Half awake, he tried to move and could not. Then he tried to waken fully, and he couldn't do that either. He stayed in a dream-like, frustrated state which was partly like a nightmare, while very gradually new sensations came to him. He felt a cushioned throbbing against his chest, in the very hard surface on which he lay face down. That surface swayed and rocked slightly. He tried again to move, and realized that his hands and feet were bound. He found that he shivered, and realized that his clothing had been taken from him. He was completely helpless and lying on his stomach in the cargo-space of a steam helicopter: now he could hear the sound of its machinery. Then he knew what had happened. He'd committed The unthinkable crime--or lunacy--of declaring the Grand Panjandrum mistaken. So by the operation of truth, which was really an anesthetic gas cloud drifted over the trading post, he had vanished from sight. Now it was evidently to be arranged that he would never again be seen face to face by a rational being. The Grand Panjandrum had won the argument. Within a few months a Rim Stars trading ship would land, and Jorgenson would be gone and the trading post confiscated. It would be hopeless to ask questions, and worse than hopeless to try to trade. So the ship would lift off and there'd be no more ships for at least a generation. Then there might--there might!--be another. Jorgenson swore fluently and with passion. "It will not be long," said a tranquil voice. Jorgenson changed from human-speech profanity to Thrid. He directed his words to the unseen creature who'd spoken. That Thrid listened, apparently without emotion. When Jorgenson ran out of breath, the voice said severely: "You declared the great and Never-Mistaken Glen-U mistaken. This could not be. It proved you either a criminal or insane, because no rational creature could believe him mistaken. He declared you insane, and he cannot be wrong. So soon you will arrive where you are to be confined and no rational being will ever see you face to face." Jorgenson switched back to human swearing. Then he blended both languages, using all the applicable words he knew both in human speech and Thrid. He knew a great many. The soft throbbing of the steam-driven rotors went on, and Jorgenson swore both as a business man and a humanitarian. Both were frustrated. Presently the motion of the copter changed. He knew the ship was descending. There were more violent swayings, as if from wind gusts deflected by something large and solid. Jorgenson even heard deep-bass rumblings like sea upon a rocky coast. Then there were movements near him, a rope went around his waist, a loading-bay opened and he found himself lifted and lowered through it. * * * * * He dangled in midair, a couple of hundred feet above an utterly barren island on which huge ocean swells beat. The downdraft from the copter made him sway wildly, and once it had him spinning dizzily. The horizon was empty. He was being lowered swiftly to the island. And his hands and feet were still securely tied. Then he saw a figure on the island. It was a Thrid stripped of all clothing like Jorgenson and darkened by the sun. That figure came agilely toward where he was let down. It caught him. It checked his wild swingings, which could have broken bones. The rope slackened. The Thrid laid Jorgenson down. He did not cast off the rope. He seemed to essay to climb it. It was cut at the steam-copter and came tumbling down all over both of them. The Thrid waved his arms wildly and seemed to screech gibberish at the sky. There was an impact nearby, of something dropped. Jorgenson heard the throbbing sound of the copter as it lifted and swept away. Then he felt the bounds about his arms and legs being removed. Then a Thrid voice--amazingly, a familiar Thrid voice--said: "This is not good, Jorgenson. Who did you contradict?" The Thrid was Ganti, of whom Jorgenson had once had hopes as a business man, and for whose disaster he had felt indignation as something else. He loosened the last of Jorgenson's bonds and helped him sit up. Jorgenson glared around. The island was roughly one hundred feet by two. It was twisted, curdled yellow stone from one end to the other. There were stone hillocks and a miniature stony peak, and a narrow valley between two patches of higher rock. Huge seas boomed against the windward shore, throwing spray higher than the island's topmost point. There were some places where sand had gathered. There was one spot--perhaps a square yard of it--where sand had been made fertile by the droppings of flying things and where two or three starveling plants showed foliage of sorts. That was all. Jorgenson ground his teeth. "Go ahead," said Ganti grimly, "but it may be even worse than you think." He scrambled over the twisted stone of the island. He came back, carrying something. "It isn't worse," he said. "It's only as bad. They did drop food and water for both of us. I wasn't sure they would." * * * * * His calmness sobered Jorgenson. As a business man, he was moved to make his situation clear. He told Ganti of the Grand Panjandrum's move to take over the Rim Stars trading post, which was bad business. He told of his own reaction, which was not a business-like one at all. Then he said dourly: "But he's still wrong. No rational being is supposed ever to see me face to face. But you do." "But I'm crazy," said Ganti calmly. "I tried to kill the governor who'd taken my wife. So he said I was crazy and that made it true. So I wasn't put in a chained group of laborers. Somebody might have seen me and thought about it. But, sent here, it's worse for me and I'm probably forgotten by now." He was calm about it. Only a Thrid would have been so calm. But they've had at least hundreds of generations in which to get used to injustice. He accepted it. But Jorgenson frowned. "You've got brains, Ganti. What's the chance of escape?" "None," said Ganti unemotionally. "You'd better get out of the sun. It'll burn you badly. Come along." He led the way over the bare, scorching rocky surface. He turned past a small pinnacle. There was shadow. Jorgenson crawled into it, and found himself in a cave. It was not a natural one. It had been hacked out, morsel by morsel. It was cool inside. It was astonishingly roomy. "How'd this happen?" demanded Jorgenson the business man. "This is a prison," Ganti explained matter-of-factly. "They let me down here and dropped food and water for a week. They went away. I found there'd been another prisoner here before me. His skeleton was in this cave. I reasoned it out. There must have been others before him. When there is a prisoner here, every so often a copter drops food and water. When the prisoner doesn't pick it up, they stop coming. When, presently, they have another prisoner they drop him off, like me, and he finds the skeleton of the previous prisoner, like me, and he dumps it overboard as I did. They'll drop food and water for me until I stop picking it up. And presently they'll do the same thing all over again." Jorgenson glowered. That was his reaction as a person. Then he gestured to the cave around him. There was a pile of dried-out seaweed for sleeping purposes. "And this?" "Somebody dug it out," said Ganti without resentment. "To keep busy. Maybe one prisoner only began it. A later one saw it started and worked on it to keep busy. Then others in their turn. It took a good many lives to make this cave." Jorgenson ground his teeth a second time. "And just because they'd contradicted somebody who couldn't be wrong! Or because they had a business an official wanted!" "Or a wife," agreed Ganti. "Here!" He offered food. Jorgenson ate, scowling. Afterward, near sundown, he went over the island. It was rock, nothing else. There was a pile of small broken stones from the excavation of the cave. There were the few starveling plants. There was the cordage with which Jorgenson had been lowered. There was the parcel containing food and water. Ganti observed that the plastic went to pieces in a week or so, so it couldn't be used for anything. There was nothing to escape with. Nothing to make anything to escape with. Even the dried seaweed bed was not comfortable. Jorgenson slept badly and waked with aching muscles. Ganti assured him unemotionally that he'd get used to it. He did. By the time the copter came to drop food and water again, Jorgenson was physically adjusted to the island. But neither as a business man or as a person could he adjust to hopelessness. He racked his brains for the most preposterous or faintest hope of deliverance. There were times when as a business man he reproached himself for staying on Thriddar after he became indignant with the way the planet was governed. It was very foolish. But much more often he felt such hatred of the manners and customs of the Thrid--which had put him here--that it seemed that something must somehow be possible if only so he could take revenge. III The copter came, it dropped food and water, and it went away. It came, dropped food and water, and went away. Once a water-bag burst when dropped. They lost nearly half a week's water supply. Before the copter came again they'd gone two days without drinking. There were other incidents, of course. The dried seaweed they slept on turned to powdery trash. They got more seaweed hauling long kelp-like strands of it ashore from where it clung to the island's submerged rocks. Ganti mentioned that they must do it right after the copter came, so there would be no sign of enterprise to be seen from aloft. The seaweed had long, flexible stems of which no use whatever could be made. When it dried, it became stiff and brittle but without strength. Once Ganti abruptly began to talk of his youth. As if he were examining something he'd never noticed before, he told of the incredible conditioning-education of the young members of his race. They learned that they must never make a mistake. Never! It did not matter if they were unskilled or inefficient. It did not matter if they accomplished nothing. There was no penalty for anything but making mistakes or differing from officials who could not make mistakes. So Thrid younglings were trained not to think; not to have any opinion about anything; only to repeat what nobody questioned; only to do what they were told by authority. It occurred to Jorgenson that on a planet with such a population, a skeptic could make a great deal of confusion. Then, another time, Jorgenson decided to make use of the weathering cord which had been cut from the copter when he was landed. He cut off a part of it with a sharp-edged fragment of stone from the pile some former prisoner on the island had made. He unravelled the twisted fibers. Then he ground fishhooks from shells attached to the island's rocky walls just below water-line. After that they fished. Sometimes they even caught something to eat. But they never fished when the copter was due. Jorgenson found that a fish-fillet, strongly squeezed and wrung like a wet cloth, would yield a drinkable liquid which was not salt and would substitute for water. And this was a reason to make a string bag in which caught fish could be let back into the sea so they were there when wanted but could not escape. They had used it for weeks when he saw Ganti, carrying it to place it where they left it overboard, swinging it idly back and forth as he walked. * * * * * If Jorgenson had been only a businessman, it would have had no particular meaning. But he was also a person, filled with hatred of the Thrid who had condemned him for life to this small island. He saw the swinging of the fish. It gave him an idea. He did not speak at all during all the rest of that day. He was thinking. The matter needed much thought. Ganti left him alone. But by sunset he'd worked it out. While they watched Thrid's red sun sink below the horizon, Jorgenson said thoughtfully: "There is a way to escape, Ganti." "On what? In what?" demanded Ganti. "In the helicopter that feeds us," said Jorgenson. "It never lands," said Ganti practically. "We can make it land," said Jorgenson. Thrid weren't allowed to make mistakes; he could make it a mistake not to land. "The crew is armed," said Ganti. "There are three of them." "They've only knives and scimitars," said Jorgenson. "They don't count. We can make better weapons than they have." Ganti looked skeptical. Jorgenson explained. He had to demonstrate crudely. The whole idea was novel to Ganti, but the Thrid were smart. Presently he grasped it. He said: "I see the theory. If we can make it work, all right. But how do we make the copter land?" Jorgenson realized that they talked oddly. They spoke with leisurely lack of haste, with the lack of hope normal to prisoners to whom escape is impossible, even when they talk about escape. They could have been discussing a matter that would not affect either of them. But Jorgenson quivered inside. He hoped. "We'll try it," said Ganti detachedly, when he'd explained again. "If it fails, they'll only stop giving us food and water." That, of course, did not seem either to him or Jorgenson a reason to hesitate to try what Jorgenson had planned. It was not at all a direct and forthright scheme. It began with the untwisting of more of the rope that had lowered Jorgenson. It went on with the making of string from that fiber. They made a great deal of string. Then, very clumsily and awkwardly, they wove strips of cloth, a couple of inches wide and five or six long. They made light strong cords extend from the ends of the cloth strips. Then they practiced with these bits of cloth and the broken stones a former prisoner had piled so neatly. The copter came and dropped food and water. When it left, they practiced. When it came again they were not practicing, but when it went away they practiced. They were a naked man and a naked Thrid, left upon a morsel of rock in a boundless sea, rehearsing themselves in an art so long-forgotten that they had to reinvent the finer parts of the technique. They experimented. They tried this. They tried that. When the copter appeared, they showed themselves. They rushed upon the dropped bag containing food and water as if fiercely trying to deny each other a full share. Once they seemed to fight over the dropped bag. The copter hovered to watch. The fight seemed furious and deadly, but inconclusive. When the copter went away Jorgenson and Ganti went briskly back to their practicing. * * * * * They were almost satisfied with their proficiency, now. They had lost some of the small stones, but there were many left. They began to work with seaweed, the kind with long central stems which dried to brittle stiffness. They determined exactly how long they should be allowed to dry. They studied the way in which the flat seaweed foliage must be dried on rounded stone spaces to form seemingly solid surfaces of almost any shape. But they were utterly brittle when they were dry. It was not possible to make them hold any form for more than a day or so, even if sprinkled with cold water to keep them from crumbling to dust. And they practiced with the strip of cloth and the stones. Ganti became more skilful than Jorgenson, but even Jorgenson became an expert. There came a day when the copter dropped the bag of food and Ganti danced with seeming rage and shook his fist at it. The crew-Thrid saw him, but paid no attention. They went away. And Ganti and Jorgenson went to work. They hauled seaweed ashore. It had to dry to some degree before it could hold a form at all. While it dried, they practiced. The leaves were ready before the stems. They spread them on rounded surfaces, many leaves thick. They dried to dark-gray-greenish stuff looking like the crudest possible cardboard without a fraction of cardboard's strength or stiffness. Presently the stems were dry enough to be stiff but not yet entirely brittle. They made a framework, uniting its members with string from the dropped rope. Two days before the copter was due again, they used the cardboard-like but fragile curved sheet of seaweed-leaves to cover the frame. Finished, they had what looked like the fuselage of a landed copter. Thicker but brittle sections of the stems seemed rotor-blades when more seaweed-cardboard was attached. From two hundred feet, the crudities of the object would not show. It would look like a helicopter landed on the island where Jorgenson and Ganti were confined. It would look like a rescue. When the copter arrived, it checked in midair as if it braked. It hung in the air. Its crew stared down. They saw a strange aircraft there. The helicopter whirled and went streaking away toward the horizon. Jorgenson and Ganti immediately attacked their own creation. The framework was brittle; barely able to sustain its own weight. They furiously demolished the whole thing. They hauled its fragments into the cave. They worked furiously to remove every trace of its former presence. Within two hours a fleet of six steam-copters came driving across the sea. They swept over the island. They looked. They saw Jorgenson and Ganti--naked man and naked Thrid--glaring up at them. They saw nothing else. There was nothing else to see. There was a Thrid official on one of the copters. The matter had been reported to him. A helicopter could only have landed on this island to rescue the prisoners. They were not rescued. There had been no helicopter. The crew of the craft which made the report had made a mistake! Jorgenson and Ganti gloated together when darkness had fallen. The copter-crew had made a false report. They would face an angry official. Either they'd take back their original report, or stick to it. If they took it back, they'd tried to deceive an official, who could not be wrong. Jorgenson and Ganti gloated over what they'd done to their jailers. IV When a copter came again a week later, it was not the same flier or the same crew. The bag of food and water was dropped from a different height. The copter hovered until it saw both Jorgenson and Ganti. Then it went away. They set to work again on seaweed hauled from the sea, and leaves smoothed over each other on suitable surfaces of rock. Stems up to four and five inches in diameter to be straightened out and almost dried to seem rotor-shafts, and lesser stems to make a framework. The mockup was tied together with string. They finished it the night before the copter was due again, and they practiced with their bits of cloth and the stones until the light ended. They practiced again at day-break, but when the helicopter came across the sea they were nowhere visible. But there was an aircraft aground upon the island. From the air it looked remarkably convincing. The prisoners listened eagerly from the hollowed-out cave. The mockup on the ground was in a miniature valley between sections of taller stone. It could be seen from above, but not well from the side. From one end it could not be seen at all, but from the other it was a remarkable job. It would deceive any eyes not very close indeed. The flying helicopter hovered and hovered, sweeping back and forth. Its crew-members saw no movement anywhere, which was not possible. If there was an aircraft aground, there must be Thrid who had flown it here. They were not to be seen. The prisoners were not to be seen. The situation was impossible. Jorgenson and Ganti waited. The flying jailers could not report what they saw. A previous crew had done that, and when they were proved mistaken or worse, they donned chains to do hard labor so long as they lived. But the Thrid in the copter over the island dared not not-report. Somebody else might sight it, and they'd be condemned for not reporting. They couldn't report it and they couldn't not-report it! Jorgenson grinned when the throbbing of the rotors became louder and louder as the steam-helicopter descended. He and Ganti made ready. The flying vehicle landed. They heard it. Its crew got out, fearful but alert and with weapons handy. One stayed close by the ship, his ears shriveled with terror. The other two, weapons very much to the fore, moved cautiously to examine the aircraft which could not possibly be here. Jorgenson and Ganti, together, scrambled from the hollowed-out cave. Ganti swung his strip of cloth. It had a strong cord attached to each end, and he held the cords so the cloth formed a pocket in which a stone lay. The whole whirled furiously. Ganti released one cord. The stone flew. It struck the Thrid on guard by the machine squarely in the middle of his forehead. Jorgenson's stone arrived the fraction of a second later, before the Thrid started to fall. They moved out, Jorgenson grinning in a most un-businessman-like manner. They heard the startled exclamation of the other two newcomers as they realized that they saw only a mockup of a landed flier, a thing which crumbled as they touched it. Jorgenson and Ganti swung their slings together. The jailer-Thrid turned just in time to see what was happening to them. It was final. And the copter took off again with Ganti and Jorgenson clothed and with an adequate supply of stones in improvised pockets in their garments. * * * * * It was perfectly simple from that time on. They walked into a village of the Thrid, on the mainland. It was the village where Ganti had lived; whose governor had spoken and said and observed that Ganti's wife wished to enter his household and that Ganti wished her to. Ganti marched truculently down its wider street. Astonished eyes turned upon him. Ganti said arrogantly: "I am the new governor. Call others to see." The villagers could not question the statement of an official. Not even the statement that he was an official. So Ganti--with Jorgenson close behind--swaggered into the local governor's palace. It wasn't impressive, but merely a leafy, thatched, sprawling complex of small buildings. Ganti led the way into the inmost portion of the palace and found a fat, sleeping Thrid with four villager-Thrid fanning him with huge fans. Ganti shouted, and the fat Thrid sat up, starkly bewildered. "I speak and say and observe," said Ganti coldly, "that I am the new governor and that you are about to die, with no one touching you." The fat Thrid gaped at him. It was incredible. In fact, to a Thrid who had never heard of a missile weapon--it was impossible. Ganti swung his strip of cloth by the two cords attached to it. It whirled too swiftly to be seen clearly. A stone flew terribly straight. There was an impact. The local governor who had spoken and said and observed that Ganti's wife wanted to enter his household was quite dead. "I," said Ganti to his former fellow-villagers, "I am the governor. If any deny it, they will die with no one touching them." And that was that. Ganti grimaced at Jorgenson: "I'll speak and say and observe something useful for you presently, Jorgenson. Right now I'm going to march on foot and talk to the provincial governor. I'll take a train of attendants, so he'll receive me. Then I'll tell him that he's about to die with nobody touching him. He's earned it!" Unquestionably, Ganti was right. * * * * * Any Thrid official, to whom it was impossible to be mistaken, would develop eccentric notions. Most humans couldn't stand by and watch. They got off Thriddar as soon as possible. At the moment, Jorgenson couldn't leave the planet, but he didn't want to see what Ganti could and would and by human standards probably ought to do. He camped in the steam-copter, in hiding, until Ganti sent him a message. Then he started up the copter and flew back to the trading post. It was empty. Gutted. Looted. But there was a high official waiting for him in the courtyard. He held a scroll in his hand. It glinted golden. When Jorgenson regarded him grimly, the high official made a sound equivalent to clearing his throat, and the Witness-hatted Thrid around him became silent. "On this day," intoned the high official, "on this day did Ganti, the Never-Mistaken, as have been his predecessors through the ages;--on this day did the Never-Mistaken Ganti speak and say and observe a truth in the presence of the governors and the rulers of the universe." Jorgenson listened grimly. The new Grand Panjandrum had made him--Jorgenson--a provincial governor. Ganti was grateful. The contents of the trading post would be returned. From this time on the Rim Stars Trading Corporation would prosper as never before. But Jorgenson wasn't a Thrid. He saw things as a businessman does, but also and contradictorily he saw them as right and just or wrong and intolerable. As a businessman, he saw that everything had worked out admirably. As a believer in right and wrong, it seemed to him that nothing in particular had happened. He'd have done better, he considered, to do what most humans did after understanding what went on on Thriddar, and what seemingly always must go on on Thriddar. Because the Thrid had noticed that they were the most intelligent race in the universe, and therefore must have the most perfect possible government whose officials must inevitably be incapable of making a mistake.... When the Rim Stars trading ship came to ground, a month later, Jorgenson went on board and stayed there. He remained on board when the ship left. Thriddar was no place for him. [Transcriber's Note: No Section II in original text.] 
61843	----	EXIT FROM ASTEROID 60 By D. L. JAMES Strange things were happening on Echo, weird Martian satellite. But none stranger than the two Earthlings who hurtled into the star-lanes from its deep, hidden core. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Echo is naturally magnetic, probably more so than any other planetoid--and Neal Bormon cursed softly, just to relieve his feelings, as that magnetism gripped the small iron plates on the soles of the rough boots with which the Martians had provided him. Slavery--and in the twenty-ninth century! It was difficult to conceive of it, but it was all too painfully true. His hands, inside their air-tight gauntlets, wadded into fists; little knots of muscle bulged along his lean jaw, and he stared at the darkness around him as if realizing it for the first time. This gang had plenty of guts, to shanghai men from the Earth-Mars Transport Lines. They'd never get by with it. And yet, they had--until now. First, Keith Calbur, and then himself. Of course, there had been others before Calbur, but not personal friends of Neal Bormon. Men just disappeared. And you could do that in the Martian spaceport of Quessel without arousing much comment--unless you were a high official. But when Calbur failed to show up in time for a return voyage to Earth, Bormon had taken up the search. Vague clews had led him into that pleasure palace in Quessel--a joint frequented alike by human beings and Martians--a fantasmagoria of tinkling soul-lights; gossamer arms of frozen music that set your senses reeling when they floated near you; lyric forms that lived and danced and died like thoughts. Then someone had crushed a bead of reverie-gas, probably held in a Martian tentacle, under Bormon's nostrils, and now--here he was on Echo. He gave an angry yank at the chain which was locked around his left wrist. The other end was fastened to a large metal basket partly filled with lumps of whitish-gray ore, and the basket bobbed and scraped along behind him as he advanced. Of the hundred or more Earthmen, prisoners here on Echo, only seven or eight were within sight of Bormon, visible as mere crawling spots of light; but he knew that each was provided with a basket and rock-pick similar to his own. As yet he had not identified anyone of them as Keith Calbur. Suddenly the metallic voice of a Martian guard sounded in Bormon's ears. "Attention. One-seven-two. Your basket is not yet half filled, your oxygen tank is nearly empty. You will receive no more food or oxygen until you deliver your quota of ore. Get busy." "To hell with you!" fumed Bormon--quite vainly, as he well knew, for the helmet of his space suit was not provided with voice-sending equipment. Nevertheless, after a swift glance at the oxygen gauge, he began to swing his rock-pick with renewed vigor, pausing now and then to toss the loosened lumps of ore into the latticed basket. On Earth, that huge container, filled with ore, would have weighed over a ton; here on Echo its weight was only a few pounds. Neal Bormon had the average spaceman's dread of oxygen shortage. And so, working steadily, he at last had the huge basket filled with ore--almost pure rhodium--judging by the color and weight of the lumps. Nearby, a jagged gash of light on the almost black shoulder of Echo indicated the location of that tremendous chasm which cut two-thirds of the way through the small asteroid, and in which the Martians had installed their machine for consuming ore. Locating this gash of light, Bormon set out toward it, dragging the basket of ore behind him over the rough, rocky surface. The ultimate purpose of that gargantuan mechanism, and why this side of the planetoid apparently never turned toward the sun, were mysteries with which his mind struggled but could not fathom. * * * * * Presently, having reached the rim of the abyss, with only a narrow margin of oxygen left, he commenced the downward passage, his iron-shod boots clinging to the vertical wall of metallic rock, and as he advanced this magnetic attraction became ever more intense. The blaze of lights before him grew brighter and seemed to expand. Dimly, two hundred yards over his head, he could glimpse the opposite wall of the chasm like the opposing jaw of an enormous vise. He joined the slow-moving stream of workers. They were filing past a guard and out on a narrow metal catwalk that seemed to be suspended--or rather poised--by thin rods in close proximity to a spacious disk which extended from wall to wall of the chasm. They moved in absolute silence. Even when tilted ore-baskets dumped a ton or more ore into the gaping orifice in the center of the disk, there was still no sound--for Echo, small and barren of native life, lacked even the suggestion of a sound-carrying atmosphere. And that weird soundlessness of the action around him brought a giddy sense of unreality to Neal Bormon. Only the harsh, mechanical voice of the Martian guard, intoning orders with cold and impersonal precision, seemed actually real. "Attention. One-seven-two. Dump your ore...." These Earthmen were apparently known by numbers only. Bormon's own number--172--was on a thin metal stencil stretched across the outer surface of the glass vision plate of his helmet; he couldn't forget it. He obeyed the Martian's order. Then he noticed that men with empty baskets were moving along a curved ramp, like a corkscrew, which led to a different level, whether above or below he could not possibly tell without a distinct mental effort. He decided it was to a lower level as he moved onward, for the huge disk lost its circularity and became like the curving wall of a cylinder, or drum, down the outside of which the ramp twisted. Fresh ore was also being brought from this direction. And seeming to extend out indefinitely into blackness was a misty shaft, like the beam of a searchlight. Presently the ramp gave way to a tunnel-like passage. Flexible metal-sheathed tubes dangled from the ceiling. These tubes were labeled: OXYGEN, WATER, NUTRIENT. * * * * * Bormon, patterning the actions of those he observed around him began to replenish his supply of these three essentials to life. His space suit was of conventional design, with flasks in front for water and nutrient fluid, and oxygen tank across the shoulders. By attaching the proper tubes and opening valves--except the oxygen inlet valve, which was automatic--he soon had his suit provisioned to capacity. He had just finished this operation when someone touched his arm. He glanced up at the bulky, tall figure--an unmistakable form that even a month's sojourn on Echo had not been able to rob of a certain virility and youthful eclat. For a moment they stared into each other's eyes through the vision plates of their helmets and Bormon was struck dumb by the change, the stark and utterly nerve-fagged hopelessness expressed on Keith Calbur's features. Then Calbur tried to grin a welcome, and the effect was ghastly! For a moment his helmet clicked into contact with Bormon's. "Neal," he said, his voice sounding far away, "so they got you, too! We can't talk here.... I'm pretty well shot. Lived in this damn walking tent for ages. No sleep, not since they took me.... Some powder, drug, they put in the nutrient fluid--it's supposed to take the place of sleep--and you can't sleep! Only it doesn't.... You come along with me." The darkness swallowed them up. Bormon had thrown his rock-pick into his empty basket. And now, by keeping one hand in contact with Calbur's basket, as it bobbed and jerked on ahead, he was able, even in the inky blackness, to keep from straying aside. After seemingly interminable groping and stumbling, Calbur's light flashed on. They had entered a pocket in the rocks, Bormon realized, a small cavern whose walls would prevent the light from betraying their presence to the guard. Calbur threw himself exhaustedly down, signifying that Bormon should do likewise, and with their helmets touching, a strange conversation ensued. Bormon explained, as well as he was able, his presence there. "When you didn't show up, Keith, in time to blast for Earth," he said, "all we could do was to report your absence to the space police. But they're swamped; too many disappearances lately. Moreover, they're trying to relocate that stream of meteoric matter which wrecked a freighter some time back. They know something is in the wind, but they'll never guess this! For weeks they've had the patrol ship, _Alert_, scouting around Mars. So, after making the run to Earth and back to Mars--I had to do that, you know--I got back in Quessel again and commenced to pry around, sort of inviting the same thing to happen to me that had happened to you--and here we are." "We're here for keeps, looks like," answered Calbur grimly, his voice having lost part of that overtone of strained nerves. "A man doesn't last long, so the other prisoners say, two months at the most. These Marts use Earthmen because we're tougher, here at least, and last longer than Marts.... Hell, what wouldn't I give for a smoke!" "But the purpose, Keith? What's the scheme?" "I thought you knew. Just Marts with fighting ideas--a crowd backed by wealthy, middle-class Martians who call themselves Lords of Conquest. They're building ships, weapons. First, they're going to take over Mars from the present government, which is friendly to Earth, and then they're going to subdue Earth." * * * * * Calbur had switched off his light, as a matter of precaution, and his voice came to Bormon from a seemingly far distant point--a voice from out of the darkness, fraught with fantastic suggestion. "Ships? You say they're building ships? Where?" Bormon asked, his own voice reverberating harshly within the confines of his helmet. "In a cavern they've blasted out near the south magnetic pole of Mars. You know that's an immense, barren region--lifeless, cold--bordered on the north by impenetrable reed thickets. They need rhodium in large quantities for hull alloys and firing chambers. That's why they're mining it, here on Echo." "They'll never get it to Mars," Bormon declared quickly. "Every freighter is checked and licensed by the joint governments of Earth and Mars." "They won't?" Calbur laughed, distantly. "Listen, Neal--every crateful of ore that's dumped into their machine, here on Echo, gets to Mars within a few hours. And it isn't carried by ships, either!" "You mean--?" "I didn't get the answer, myself, until I'd been here for some time. You see, Echo is just a gob of metal--mostly magnetite, except for these granules of rhodium--forty miles in diameter, but far from round. Then there's that chasm, a mammoth crack that's gaped open, cutting the planetoid almost in half. The whole thing is magnetic--like a terrestrial lodestone--and there's a mighty potent field of force across that gap in the chasm. The walls are really poles of a bigger magnet than was ever built by Martians or human being. And of what does a big magnet remind you?" After a moment of thought, Bormon replied, "Cyclotronic action." There was a short silence, then Calbur resumed. "These Marts shoot the ore across space to the south magnetic pole of Mars. A ground crew gathers it up and transports it to their underground laboratories. As a prisoner explained it, it was simple; those old-time cyclotrons used to build up the velocity of particles, ions mostly, by whirling them in spiral orbits in a vacuum-enclosed magnetic field. Well, there's a vacuum all around Echo, and clear to Mars. By giving these lumps of ore a static charge, they act just like ions. When the stream of ore comes out of the machine, it passes through a magnetic lens which focuses it like a beam of light on Mars' south pole. And there you have it. Maybe you saw what looked like a streak of light shooting off through the chasm. That's the ore stream. It comes out on the day side of Echo, and so on to Mars. They aim it by turning the whole planetoid." "Hm-m-m, I understand, now, why it's always dark here--they keep this side of Echo facing away from Mars and the sun." "Right," said Calbur. "Now we'll have to move. These Marts are heartless. They'll let you die for lack of oxygen if you don't turn in baskets of ore regularly. But we'll meet here again." "Just give me time to size things up," Bormon agreed. The effects of the reverie-gas was wearing off and he was beginning to feel thoroughly alive again and aware of the serious situation which confronted them. "Don't let it get you down, Keith," he added. "We'll find a way out." But his words expressed a confidence that the passing of time did not justify. Again and again he filled his ore-basket, dragged it to the hungry mouth of that prodigious mechanism in the abyss, and in return he received the essentials for continued life. During this time he formed a better idea of conditions around him. Once he wandered far from the Martian's headquarters, so far that he nearly blinded himself in the raw sunlight that bombarded the day side of the tiny planetoid. Again, he was strangely comforted with the discovery of a small space ship anchored deep in the abyss although he was not permitted to go near it. * * * * * He soon found that nothing was to be expected of the horde of Earthmen who slaved like automatons over the few miles of Echo immediately adjacent to the chasm's rim. The accumulative effect of the drug seemed to render them almost insensible of existence. But with Calbur, who had served for a shorter time, it was different. "Keith, we've got to tackle one of the Mart guards," Bormon told him, during one of their conferences in the cave. "We'll take its ray-tubes, fight our way to that ship they've cached in the chasm below the cyclotron power plant, and blast away from here." "How?" asked Calbur. "If you make a move toward one, it'll burn you down--I've seen it happen!" "Listen, I've spent hours figuring this out. Suppose one of us were to stay here in this cave, helmet-light on, and near enough to the opening so that his light would show dimly on the outside. Wouldn't a Mart guard be sure to come along to investigate?" "Yes, practically sure," agreed Calbur, but with no great interest. Hour by hour he was sinking closer to that animate coma which gripped the other Earthmen. "But what would that get you? If you lose too much time, you'll be cut off from rations." "I know, but suppose also that one of us--I, for instance--was hiding in the rocks above the cave, with a big chunk of ore, ready to heave it down on the Mart?" Calbur seemed to be thinking this over, and for a moment there was silence. "When shall we try it?" he demanded suddenly, and there was a note of eagerness and hope in his voice. "It's simple enough. It might actually work." "Right now! If we put it off, it'll soon be too late." They discussed details, laying their plans carefully, Bormon prudently refraining any suggestion that this move was one born of sheer desperation on his part. Everything settled, Calbur moved up near the opening, so that his helmet-light could be dimly seen from outside the cave. Bormon, dragging his ore-basket, climbed up in the rocks directly over the entrance, and presently found concealment that suited him. Near at hand he placed a loose chunk of rock which on Earth would have weighed perhaps eighty pounds. The trap was set. He settled himself to wait. His own light was, of course, extinguished. Far off he could see crawling blobs of luminance as guards and human workers moved slowly over the surface of Echo. Otherwise stygian darkness surrounded him. But he had chosen a position which, he hoped, would not be revealed by the light of any Martian bent on investigating the cave. There were, he had learned, actually less than a score of Martians here on Echo; about half of them stayed around that cyclotronic ore-hurler in the chasm. They depended on secrecy, and were in constant communication, by ether-wave, with spies not only on Earth and Mars but among the personnel of the space police itself. These spies were in a position to warn them to shut down operations in case the ore stream through space attracted notice and was in danger of being investigated. It was all being conducted with true Martian insidiousness. Thus Bormon's thoughts were wandering when, at last, he became aware that a Martian guard was approaching. His cramped muscles suddenly grew tense. His heart began to pound; it was now or never--and he must not fail! * * * * * The Martian, reeling along rapidly on the mechanical legs attached to its space armor, appeared to suspect nothing. It approached amid a rosette of light which seemed to chase back the shadows into a surrounding black wall. It had evidently seen the gleam of Calbur's helmet-light, for it was heading directly toward the mouth of the cave above which Bormon crouched. The moment for action arrived. Tense as a tirhco spring, Bormon leaped erect, hurled the jagged lump of rock down on the rounded dome of the Martian's armor. Then, without pausing to ascertain the result, he grasped the rim of his ore-basket and swinging it in a wide arc before him, leaped downward-- For a moment Martian, basket and Earthman were in a mad tangle. Bormon realized that the Martian had been toppled over, and that one of its ray-tubes was sending out a coruscating plume of fire as it ate into the rocks. The moment seemed propitious to Bormon! Hands gripping and searching desperately, he found the oddly-shaped clamp that bound the two halves of the Martian's space armor together--and released it. There was a hiss of escaping gas. Abruptly those metal handlers ceased to thrash about.... Bormon, thrilling with success, rose to his feet, turned off the Martian's ray-tube just as Calbur, delayed with having to drag his ore-basket, through the rather narrow opening, dashed into view. There was no need for words. Bormon handed him a ray-tube. Within a matter of seconds, each had burned through a link of the chain around his wrist. They were free from those accursed baskets! Calbur secreted the weapon in a pouch of his space suit, then swiftly they set to work, for their next move had been carefully planned. Opening the armor fully, they began to remove the dead Martian, puffed up like a kernel of pop-corn by the sudden loss of its air pressure. Having cleared the armor, Bormon climbed inside--space suit and all--folding up like a pocket knife so as to resemble somewhat the alien shape it was intended to hold, and tested the semi-automatic controls. Everything appeared to be in working order. Assuring himself of this as well as his knowledge of Martian mechanics would permit, he crawled out again to help Calbur. Calbur was scrambling to collect ore. And under their combined efforts one of the baskets was presently filled--for the last time, Bormon fervently hoped! Again he entered that strange conveyance, the Martian's armor, and after some experimental manipulation of the push-button controls, managed to get the thing upright on its jointed, metal legs and start it moving awkwardly in the direction of the chasm. Behind him came Calbur, dragging the basket of ore--for lacking a disguise such as Bormon's, he must have some excuse for returning to the cabin, and he had wrapped the chain around his wrist to conceal the fact that it had been severed. Bormon, in the narrow confines of his armor, disconnected the mechanical voder used by its deposed owner, for all Martians are voiceless. His greatest fear was that one of the Martian guards would attempt to communicate with him. This would disclose the imposture immediately, since he would be unable to reply. For all Martian communication, even by ether-wave, is visual--the medium being a complicated series of symbols based on their ancient sign language, the waving of tentacles, which no human brain has ever fully understood. The means of producing these conventionalized symbols was a tiny keyboard, just below an oval, silvery screen, and as Bormon sent his odd conveyance stalking down the side of the chasm, toward that sweeping disk which he now knew to be formed by the ends of two cyclotronic D-chambers facing each other, he kept one eye on this silvery screen, but it remained blank. He moved on down past the catwalk to the lower ramp. Here he must pass close to a Martian guard. But this Martian seemed to give him no attention whatever. Reaching a point opposite the ship, Bormon stepped from the ramp. Still that oval screen remained blank. No Martian was apparently paying enough attention to him to question his movements. Again he caused the armor to advance slowly, picking his way along the rock surface. He reached the ship. For a moment he was hidden behind the hull. One glance sent his hopes plunging utterly. Neither of the two fuel caps were clamped down, which could mean but one thing--the ship's tanks were empty! It was a stunning blow. No wonder the Martians felt safe in leaving the ship practically unguarded. After a moment, anger began to mount above Bormon's disappointment. He would start to kill off Martians! If he and Calbur couldn't get away from Echo, then he'd see that at least some of these Marts didn't either. He might even wipe them all out. Calbur, too, had a ray-tube. But what of Calbur? Quickly Bormon moved from behind the ship. Calbur was loitering on the ramp, ore-basket empty, evidently on the point of making a break to join him. Frantically, Bormon focused the ether-wave on Calbur's helmet, hurling a warning. "Stay where you are. It's a washout! No fuel...." He began moving across the rocks toward the power-plant. That was the most likely spot to commence--more Marts close at hand. He'd take them by surprise. Suddenly he was cold, calculating, purposeful. After all, there wasn't much chance of wiping them all out--and yet he might. He should strike at a vital point, cripple them, so as to give Calbur and the others a chance in case he only managed to kill a few before passing out of the picture. A glittering neutrochrome helix on top of the power-plant gave him a suggestion. Why not destroy their communications, fix things so they couldn't call for help from Mars? * * * * * Abruptly he realized something was wrong. That silver oval six inches from his face was flashing a bewildering complexity of symbols. Simultaneously the Martian on the ramp began to move quickly and questioningly toward him. The moment had arrived. Bormon swung the metal handler bearing the ray-tube into line and pressed the firing button.... Amid a splatter of coruscating sparks the Martian went down. "Number one!" growled Bormon. Everything now depended on prompt action and luck--mostly luck! As quickly as possible he heeled around, aimed at the helix on the power-plant. It swayed slowly as that pale blue shaft ate into its supports, then drifted away. He had lost sight of Calbur. Absolute silence still reigned, but on airless Echo that silence was portentous. Along the rim of the chasm he could see the glitter of Martian armor against the blackness of space. The alarm had been given. But for the moment he was more concerned with the imminent danger from those who tended the intricate controls in the power-plant, and the guard at the far end of the catwalk. This guard was protected by the catwalk itself and the stream of Earthmen slaves still moving uncomprehendingly along it. Bormon sent his space armor reeling forward, intent on seeking shelter behind the bulk of the power-plant. He almost reached that protection. But suddenly sparks plumed around him, and his armor slumped forward--one leg missing. He fell, fortunately, just within the shelter of the power-plant. Desperately he struggled to open the armor, so as to get the ray-tube in his own hand. But when he finally crawled forth it was to face three Martians grouped around him, their weapons--six in number--unwaveringly centered on him. "Earthman," said the mechanical speaker coldly inside his helmet, "you have killed a Martian." And then, with true Martian decisiveness and cruelty, they pronounced inhuman judgment on him. "We in our kindness shall not immediately demand your life as forfeit. You shall wander unhindered over Echo, dying slowly, until your oxygen is gone. Do not ask for more; it is sealed from you. Do not again enter the chasm; it is death to you. Now go." * * * * * Hours later Bormon was indeed wandering, hopeless as a lost soul, over nighted Echo, awaiting the consummation of his sentence, which now seemed very near. Already his oxygen gauge indicated zero and he was face to face with the "dying slowly" process promised by the Martians--the terrible death of suffocation. Now, as things began to seem vague and unreal around him, Bormon was drawing near that hidden cave where he and Calbur had often met for like a final flash of inspiration had come the thought that here, if anywhere, he would find Calbur. It was strange, he reflected, how the life in a man forces him on and on, always hoping, to the very end. For now it seemed that the most important thing in the universe was to find Calbur. He had husbanded the last of his oxygen to the utmost. But panting, now, for breath, he opened the valve a fraction of a turn and staggered on in the darkness. And suddenly, dimly as in a dream, he knew that at last he had found Calbur.... And Calbur was doing a queer thing. Gauntleted hands moving hastily in the chalky radiance cast by his helmet-light, he was tossing chunks of rhodium from his filled ore-basket-- Then their helmets clicked together, and he heard Calbur's voice, faint, urgent: "Climb in the basket! I'll cover you with ore so they won't see you. I'll drag you in. Well get your tank filled--I swear it!" The next instant, it seemed, Bormon felt himself being tumbled into the ore-basket. Chunks of ore began pressing down lightly on his body. Then the basket commenced to pitch and scrape over the rocks. But his lungs were bursting! Could he last? He had to. He couldn't fool Calbur by passing out--not now. Something like destiny was working, and he'd have to see it through. Something was tapping on his helmet. Bormon opened his eyes, and light was trickling down between the chunks of ore. No longer was there any scraping vibrations. Something, metallic, snakelike, was being pressed into his hand. And then Bormon remembered. The oxygen tube! With a final rallying of forces only partly physical, he managed to stab the tube over the intake of his tank. The automatic valve clicked and a stream of pure delight swept into his lungs! For a time he lay there, his body trembling with the exquisite torture of vitality reawakening, slowly closing the helmet-valve to balance the increase of pressure in the tank. Suddenly that snakelike tube was jerked away from between the chunks of ore, and again the basket began a scraping advance. Bormon's new lease on life brought its problems. What was about to happen? In a moment, now, Calbur would be ordered by the guard to dump his ore. They wouldn't have a chance, there on the catwalk. For Bormon's abrupt reappearance would bring swift extinction, probably to both. The basket stopped. They had reached the ore-dump. Calbur's head and shoulders appeared. Behind the vision plate in his helmet there was a queer, set expression on his thin face. He thrust the ray-tube into Bormon's hands. Bormon sprang erect, leaped from the basket. For a moment he stared around, locating the guard at the end of the catwalk. As yet the guard appeared not to have noticed anything unusual. But where was Calbur? "Attention. One-six-nine. Dump your ore," ordered the guard, coldly, mechanically. Something seemed to draw Bormon's eyes into focus on his own number stencil. One-six-nine, he read. Calbur's number! And then, suddenly, he realized the dreadful, admirable thing Keith Calbur had done.... For Calbur had leaped through the ore-chute, into the cyclotron's maelstromic heart! Despairing, he had chosen a way out. He had forfeited his life so that Bormon could take his place. "Dump your ore," repeated the Martian guard, coldly. "To hell with you!" snarled Bormon, and blasted with the tube. He missed the Martian. Still weakened by the ordeal he had just passed through, and overwrought as an effect of Calbur's last despairing act, his aim was not true. Nevertheless, that coruscating shaft was fraught with far-reaching consequence. Passing three feet to the left of the Martian, it snapped two of the rods which braced the catwalk in position over the cyclotron drum. Thus released at the far end, the metal ribbon--for the catwalk was little more than that--curled and twisted like a tirhco spring, pitching Bormon, as from a catapult, straight along the path so recently chosen by Calbur. Destiny had indeed provided them both with a strange exit from Echo, for in that split second Bormon realized that he was being hurled squarely into the gaping orifice of the cyclotron. * * * * * Far out in the vacuity between Echo and Mars, Captain Dunstan sat in his cabin aboard the Patrol Ship _Alert_--most powerful and, therefore, speediest craft possessed by the Earth-Mars Space Police. On his desk lay two jagged pieces of ore, whitish-gray in color, which he had been examining. His speculations were interrupted by the sudden bursting open of the cabin door. An officer, spruce in gray uniform and silver braid, entered hurriedly, his face flushed with excitement. "Captain Dunstan, the most extraordinary thing has happened! We've just picked up two men--two men drifting with the meteoric stream, and in space suits--and they're alive!" Captain Dunstan rose slowly. "Alive, and adrift in space? Then it's the first such occurrence in the history of space travel! Who are they?" "I don't know, sir. So far we've got only one out of his suit. But I have reason to believe they're the men recently reported as missing by the E.M.T. Lines. He babbled something about Echo--that there's hell to pay on Echo. I imagine he means Asteroid No. 60. But--" "Lead the way," said the captain, stepping quickly toward the doorway. "There's something mighty queer going on." * * * * * And so, by a lucky break, Neal Bormon found himself snatched from death and aboard the _Alert_, arriving there by a route as hazardous and strange as was ever experienced by spaceman. And no less strange and unexpected came the knowledge of Keith Calbur's arrival there ahead of him. Bormon, who was last to be drawn in by the grapple-ray and helped out of his space suit by the willing hands of the _Alert's_ crew, was still capable of giving an understandable account of things; although Calbur, until the effects of the Martian drug wore off, would be likely to remain in his somewhat neurotic condition of bewilderment. "These Marts," said Bormon, after a great deal of explaining on both sides, "don't know that you have discovered their stream of ore. They won't know it until their communications have been repaired." Captain Dunstan nodded. "That explains why we were able, on this occasion, to approach the meteoric stream without its immediate disappearance. But I cannot understand," he confessed, "how two men could have passed through such an apparatus as you describe, and remain alive." "Perhaps I can offer a possible explanation," said an officer whose insignia was that of Chief Electrobiologist. "If, as we suspect, this Martian invention is founded on the old and well-known cyclotronic principle, then we have nothing but reciprocal interaction of electric fields and magnetic fields. And these fields, as such, are entirely harmless to living organisms, just as harmless as gravitational fields. Moreover, any static charge carried by the bodies of these men would have been slowly dissipated through the grapple-ray with which they were drawn out of the ore stream." This explanation appeared to satisfy the captain. "You say," he questioned, addressing Bormon, "that there are other men on Echo--Earthmen being used as slaves?" "Yes, more than a hundred." Captain Dunstan's mouth became a fighting, grim line. He gave several swift orders to his officers, who scattered immediately. Somewhat later, Bormon found his way into the surgery where Calbur lay--not sleeping yet, but resting peacefully. Assuring himself of this, Bormon, too, let his long frame slump down on a near-by cot--not to sleep, either, but to contemplate pleasantly the wiping-up process soon to take place on Echo, and elsewhere. 
18357	----	A JACOBITE EXILE: Being the Adventures of a Young Englishman in the Service of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden by G. A. Henty. Contents Preface. Chapter 1: A Spy in the Household. Chapter 2: Denounced. Chapter 3: A Rescue. Chapter 4: In Sweden. Chapter 5: Narva. Chapter 6: A Prisoner. Chapter 7: Exchanged. Chapter 8: The Passage of the Dwina. Chapter 9: In Warsaw. Chapter 10: In Evil Plight. Chapter 11: With Brigands. Chapter 12: Treed By Wolves. Chapter 13: A Rescued Party. Chapter 14: The Battle Of Clissow. Chapter 15: An Old Acquaintance. Chapter 16: In England Again. Chapter 17: The North Coach. Chapter 18: A Confession. Preface. My Dear Lads, Had I attempted to write you an account of the whole of the adventurous career of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, it would, in itself, have filled a bulky volume, to the exclusion of all other matter; and a youth, who fought at Narva, would have been a middle-aged man at the death of that warlike monarch, before the walls of Frederickshall. I have, therefore, been obliged to confine myself to the first three years of his reign, in which he crushed the army of Russia at Narva, and laid the then powerful republic of Poland prostrate at his feet. In this way, only, could I obtain space for the private adventures and doings of Charlie Carstairs, the hero of the story. The details of the wars of Charles the Twelfth were taken from the military history, written at his command by his chamberlain, Adlerfeld; from a similar narrative by a Scotch gentleman in his service; and from Voltaire's history. The latter is responsible for the statement that the trade of Poland was almost entirely in the hands of Scotch, French, and Jewish merchants, the Poles themselves being sharply divided into the two categories of nobles and peasants. Yours sincerely, G. A. Henty. Chapter 1: A Spy in the Household. On the borders of Lancashire and Westmoreland, two centuries since, stood Lynnwood, a picturesque mansion, still retaining something of the character of a fortified house. It was ever a matter of regret to its owner, Sir Marmaduke Carstairs, that his grandfather had so modified its construction, by levelling one side of the quadrangle, and inserting large mullion windows in that portion inhabited by the family, that it was in no condition to stand a siege, in the time of the Civil War. Sir Marmaduke was, at that time, only a child, but he still remembered how the Roundhead soldiers had lorded it there, when his father was away fighting with the army of the king; how they had seated themselves at the board, and had ordered his mother about as if she had been a scullion, jeering her with cruel words as to what would have been the fate of her husband, if they had caught him there, until, though but eight years old, he had smitten one of the troopers, as he sat, with all his force. What had happened after that, he did not recollect, for it was not until a week after the Roundheads had ridden away that he found himself in his bed, with his mother sitting beside him, and his head bandaged with cloths dipped in water. He always maintained that, had the house been fortified, it could have held out until help arrived, although, in later years, his father assured him that it was well it was not in a position to offer a defence. "We were away down south, Marmaduke, and the Roundheads were masters of this district, at the time. They would have battered the place around your mother's ears, and, likely as not, have burnt it to the ground. As it was, I came back here to find it whole and safe, except that the crop-eared scoundrels had, from pure wantonness, destroyed the pictures and hacked most of the furniture to pieces. I took no part in the later risings, seeing that they were hopeless, and therefore preserved my property, when many others were ruined. "No, Marmaduke, it is just as well that the house was not fortified. I believe in fighting, when there is some chance, even a slight one, of success, but I regard it as an act of folly, to throw away a life when no good can come of it." Still, Sir Marmaduke never ceased to regret that Lynnwood was not one of the houses that had been defended, to the last, against the enemies of the king. At the Restoration he went, for the first time in his life, to London, to pay his respects to Charles the Second. He was well received, and although he tired, in a very short time, of the gaieties of the court, he returned to Lynnwood with his feelings of loyalty to the Stuarts as strong as ever. He rejoiced heartily when the news came of the defeat of Monmouth at Sedgemoor, and was filled with rage and indignation when James weakly fled, and left his throne to be occupied by Dutch William. From that time, he became a strong Jacobite, and emptied his glass nightly "to the king over the water." In the north the Jacobites were numerous, and at their gatherings treason was freely talked, while arms were prepared, and hidden away for the time when the lawful king should return to claim his own. Sir Marmaduke was deeply concerned in the plot of 1696, when preparations had been made for a great Jacobite rising throughout the country. Nothing came of it, for the Duke of Berwick, who was to have led it, failed in getting the two parties who were concerned to come to an agreement. The Jacobites were ready to rise, directly a French army landed. The French king, on the other hand, would not send an army until the Jacobites had risen, and the matter therefore fell through, to Sir Marmaduke's indignation and grief. But he had no words strong enough to express his anger and disgust when he found that, side by side with the general scheme for a rising, a plot had been formed by Sir George Barclay, a Scottish refugee, to assassinate the king, on his return from hunting in Richmond Forest. "It is enough to drive one to become a Whig," he exclaimed. "I am ready to fight Dutch William, for he occupies the place of my rightful sovereign, but I have no private feud with him, and, if I had, I would run any man through who ventured to propose to me a plot to assassinate him. Such scoundrels as Barclay would bring disgrace on the best cause in the world. Had I heard as much as a whisper of it, I would have buckled on my sword, and ridden to London to warn the Dutchman of his danger. However, as it seems that Barclay had but some forty men with him, most of them foreign desperadoes, the Dutchman must see that English gentlemen, however ready to fight against him fairly, would have no hand in so dastardly a plot as this. "Look you, Charlie, keep always in mind that you bear the name of our martyred king, and be ready ever to draw your sword in the cause of the Stuarts, whether it be ten years hence, or forty, that their banner is hoisted again; but keep yourself free from all plots, except those that deal with fair and open warfare. Have no faith whatever in politicians, who are ever ready to use the country gentry as an instrument for gaining their own ends. Deal with your neighbours, but mistrust strangers, from whomsoever they may say they come." Which advice Charlie, at that time thirteen years old, gravely promised to follow. He had naturally inherited his father's sentiments, and believed the Jacobite cause to be a sacred one. He had fought and vanquished Alured Dormay, his second cousin, and two years his senior, for speaking of King James' son as the Pretender, and was ready, at any time, to do battle with any boy of his own age, in the same cause. Alured's father, John Dormay, had ridden over to Lynnwood, to complain of the violence of which his son had been the victim, but he obtained no redress from Sir Marmaduke. "The boy is a chip of the old block, cousin, and he did right. I myself struck a blow at the king's enemies, when I was but eight years old, and got my skull well-nigh cracked for my pains. It is well that the lads were not four years older, for then, instead of taking to fisticuffs, their swords would have been out, and as my boy has, for the last four years, been exercised daily in the use of his weapon, it might happen that, instead of Alured coming home with a black eye, and, as you say, a missing tooth, he might have been carried home with a sword thrust through his body. "It was, to my mind, entirely the fault of your son. I should have blamed Charlie, had he called the king at Westminster Dutch William, for, although each man has a right to his own opinions, he has no right to offend those of others--besides, at present it is as well to keep a quiet tongue as to a matter that words cannot set right. In the same way, your son had no right to offend others by calling James Stuart the Pretender. "Certainly, of the twelve boys who go over to learn what the Rector of Apsley can teach them, more than half are sons of gentlemen whose opinions are similar to my own. "It would be much better, John Dormay, if, instead of complaining of my boy, you were to look somewhat to your own. I marked, the last time he came over here, that he was growing loutish in his manners, and that he bore himself with less respect to his elders than is seemly in a lad of that age. He needs curbing, and would carry himself all the better if, like Charlie, he had an hour a day at sword exercise. I speak for the boy's good. It is true that you yourself, being a bitter Whig, mix but little with your neighbours, who are for the most part the other way of thinking; but this may not go on for ever, and you would, I suppose, like Alured, when he grows up, to mix with others of his rank in the county; and it would be well, therefore, that he should have the accomplishments and manners of young men of his own age." John Dormay did not reply hastily--it was his policy to keep on good terms with his wife's cousin, for the knight was a man of far higher consideration, in the county, than himself. His smile, however, was not a pleasant one, as he rose and said: "My mission has hardly terminated as I expected, Sir Marmaduke. I came to complain, and I go away advised somewhat sharply." "Tut, tut, man!" the knight said. "I speak only for the lad's good, and I am sure that you cannot but feel the truth of what I have said. What does Alured want to make enemies for? It may be that it was only my son who openly resented his ill-timed remarks, but you may be sure that others were equally displeased, and maybe their resentment will last much longer than that which was quenched in a fair stand-up fight. Certainly, there need be no malice between the boys. Alured's defeat may even do him good, for he cannot but feel that it is somewhat disgraceful to be beaten by one nearly a head shorter than he." "There is, no doubt, something in what you say, Sir Marmaduke," John Dormay said blandly, "and I will make it my business that, should the boys meet again as antagonists, Alured shall be able to give a better account of himself." "He is a disagreeable fellow," Sir Marmaduke said to himself, as he watched John Dormay ride slowly away through the park, "and, if it were not that he is husband to my cousin Celia, I would have nought to do with him. She is my only kinswoman, and, were aught to happen to Charlie, that lout, her son, would be the heir of Lynnwood. I should never rest quiet in my grave, were a Whig master here. "I would much rather that he had spoken wrathfully, when I straightly gave him my opinion of the boy, who is growing up an ill-conditioned cub. It would have been more honest. I hate to see a man smile, when I know that he would fain swear. I like my cousin Celia, and I like her little daughter Ciceley, who takes after her, and not after John Dormay; but I would that the fellow lived on the other side of England. He is out of his place here, and, though men do not speak against him in my presence, knowing that he is a sort of kinsman, I have never heard one say a good word for him. "It is not only because he is a Whig. There are other Whig gentry in the neighbourhood, against whom I bear no ill will, and can meet at a social board in friendship. It would be hard if politics were to stand between neighbours. It is Dormay's manner that is against him. If he were anyone but Celia's husband, I would say that he is a smooth-faced knave, though I altogether lack proof of my words, beyond that he has added half a dozen farms to his estate, and, in each case, there were complaints that, although there was nothing contrary to the law, it was by sharp practice that he obtained possession, lending money freely in order to build houses and fences and drains, and then, directly a pinch came, demanding the return of his advance. "Such ways may pass in a London usurer, but they don't do for us country folk; and each farm that he has taken has closed the doors of a dozen good houses to John Dormay. I fear that Celia has a bad time with him, though she is not one to complain. I let Charlie go over to Rockley, much oftener than I otherwise should do, for her sake and Ciceley's, though I would rather, a hundred times, that they should come here. Not that the visits are pleasant, when they do come, for I can see that Celia is always in fear, lest I should ask her questions about her life at home; which is the last thing that I should think of doing, for no good ever comes of interference between man and wife, and, whatever I learned, I could not quarrel with John Dormay without being altogether separated from Celia and the girl. "I am heartily glad that Charlie has given Alured a sound thrashing. The boy is too modest. He only said a few words, last evening, about the affair, and I thought that only a blow or two had been exchanged. It was as much as I could do, not to rub my hands and chuckle, when his father told me all about it. However, I must speak gravely to Charlie. If he takes it up, every time a Whig speaks scornfully of the king, he will be always in hot water, and, were he a few years older, would become a marked man. We have got to bide our time, and, except among friends, it is best to keep a quiet tongue until that time comes." To Sir Marmaduke's disappointment, three more years went on without the position changing in any way. Messengers went and came between France and the English Jacobites, but no movement was made. The failure of the assassination plot had strengthened William's hold on the country, for Englishmen love fair play and hate assassination, so that many who had, hitherto, been opponents of William of Orange, now ranged themselves on his side, declaring they could no longer support a cause that used assassination as one of its weapons. More zealous Jacobites, although they regretted the assassination plot, and were as vehement of their denunciations of its authors as were the Whigs, remained staunch in their fidelity to "the king over the water," maintaining stoutly that his majesty knew nothing whatever of this foul plot, and that his cause was in no way affected by the misconduct of a few men, who happened to be among its adherents. At Lynnwood things went on as usual. Charlie continued his studies, in a somewhat desultory way, having but small affection for books; kept up his fencing lesson diligently and learned to dance; quarrelled occasionally with his cousin Alured, spent a good deal of his time on horseback, and rode over, not unfrequently, to Rockley, choosing, as far as possible, the days and hours when he knew that Alured and his father were likely to be away. He went over partly for his own pleasure, but more in compliance with his father's wishes. "My cousin seldom comes over, herself," the latter said. "I know, right well, that it is from no slackness of her own, but that her husband likes not her intimacy here. It is well, then, that you should go over and see them, for it is only when you bring her that I see Ciceley. I would she were your sister, lad, for she is a bright little maid, and would make the old house lively." Therefore, once a week or so, Charlie rode over early to Rockley, which was some five miles distant, and brought back Ciceley, cantering on her pony by his side, escorting her home again before nightfall. Ciceley's mother wondered, sometimes, that her husband, who in most matters set his will in opposition to hers, never offered any objection to the girl's visits to Lynnwood. She thought that, perhaps, he was pleased that there should be an intimacy between some member, at least, of his family, and Sir Marmaduke's. There were so few houses at which he or his were welcome, it was pleasant to him to be able to refer to the close friendship of his daughter with their cousins at Lynnwood. Beyond this, Celia, who often, as she sat alone, turned the matter over in her mind, could see no reason he could have for permitting the intimacy. That he would permit it without some reason was, as her experience had taught her, out of the question. Ciceley never troubled her head about the matter. Her visits to Lynnwood were very pleasant to her. She was two years younger than Charlie Carstairs; and although, when he had once brought her to the house, he considered that his duties were over until the hour arrived for her return, he was sometimes ready to play with her, escort her round the garden, or climb the trees for fruit or birds' eggs for her. Such little courtesies she never received from Alured, who was four years her senior, and who never interested himself in the slightest degree in her. He was now past eighteen, and was beginning to regard himself as a man, and had, to Ciceley's satisfaction, gone a few weeks before, to London, to stay with an uncle who had a place at court, and was said to be much in the confidence of some of the Whig lords. Sir Marmaduke was, about this time, more convinced than ever that, ere long, the heir of the Stuarts would come over from France, with men, arms, and money, and would rally round him the Jacobites of England and Scotland. Charlie saw but little of him, for he was frequently absent, from early morning until late at night, riding to visit friends in Westmoreland and Yorkshire, sometimes being away two or three days at a time. Of an evening, there were meetings at Lynnwood, and at these strangers, who arrived after nightfall, were often present. Charlie was not admitted to any of these gatherings. "You will know all about it in time, lad," his father said. "You are too young to bother your head with politics, and you would lose patience in a very short time. I do myself, occasionally. Many who are the foremost in talk, when there is no prospect of doing anything, draw back when the time approaches for action, and it is sickening to listen to the timorous objections and paltry arguments that are brought forward. Here am I, a man of sixty, ready to risk life and fortune in the good cause, and there are many, not half my age, who speak with as much caution as if they were graybeards. Still, lad, I have no doubt that the matter will straighten itself out, and come right in the end. It is always the most trying time, for timorous hearts, before the first shot of a battle is fired. Once the engagement commences, there is no time for fear. The battle has to be fought out, and the best way to safety is to win a victory. I have not the least doubt that, as soon as it is known that the king has landed, there will be no more shilly-shallying or hesitation. Every loyal man will mount his horse, and call out his tenants, and, in a few days, England will be in a blaze from end to end." Charlie troubled himself but little with what was going on. His father had promised him that, when the time did come, he should ride by his side, and with that promise he was content to wait, knowing that, at present, his strength would be of but little avail, and that every week added somewhat to his weight and sinew. One day he was in the garden with Ciceley. The weather was hot, and the girl was sitting, in a swing, under a shady tree, occasionally starting herself by a push with her foot on the ground, and then swaying gently backward and forward, until the swing was again at rest. Charlie was seated on the ground, near her, pulling the ears of his favourite dog, and occasionally talking to her, when a servant came out, with a message that his father wanted to speak to him. "I expect I shall be back in a few minutes, Ciceley, so don't you wander away till I come. It is too hot today to be hunting for you, all over the garden, as I did when you hid yourself last week." It was indeed but a short time until he returned. "My father only wanted to tell me that he is just starting for Bristowe's, and, as it is over twenty miles away, he may not return until tomorrow." "I don't like that man's face who brought the message to you, Charlie." "Don't you?" the boy said carelessly. "I have not noticed him much. He has not been many months with us. "What are you thinking of?" he asked, a minute later, seeing that his cousin looked troubled. "I don't know that I ought to tell you, Charlie. You know my father does not think the same way as yours about things." "I should rather think he doesn't," Charlie laughed. "There is no secret about that, Ciceley; but they don't quarrel over it. Last time your father and mother came over here, I dined with them for the first time, and I noticed there was not a single word said about politics. They chatted over the crops, and the chances of a war in Europe, and of the quarrel between Holstein and Denmark, and whether the young king of Sweden would aid the duke, who seems to be threatened by Saxony as well as by Denmark. I did not know anything about it, and thought it was rather stupid; but my father and yours both seemed of one mind, and were as good friends as if they were in equal agreement on all other points. But what has that to do with Nicholson, for that is the man's name who came out just now?" "It does not seem to have much to do with it," she said doubtfully, "and yet, perhaps it does. You know my mother is not quite of the same opinion as my father, although she never says so to him; but, when we are alone together, sometimes she shakes her head and says she fears that trouble is coming, and it makes her very unhappy. One day I was in the garden, and they were talking loudly in the dining room--at least, he was talking loudly. Well, he said--But I don't know whether I ought to tell you, Charlie." "Certainly you ought not, Ciceley. If you heard what you were not meant to hear, you ought never to say a word about it to anyone." "But it concerns you and Sir Marmaduke." "I cannot help that," he said stoutly. "People often say things of each other, in private, especially if they are out of temper, that they don't quite mean, and it would make terrible mischief if such things were repeated. Whatever your father said, I do not want to hear it, and it would be very wrong of you to repeat it." "I am not going to repeat it, Charlie. I only want to say that I do not think my father and yours are very friendly together, which is natural, when my father is all for King William, and your father for King James. He makes no secret of that, you know." Charlie nodded. "That is right enough, Ciceley, but still, I don't understand in the least what it has to do with the servant." "It has to do with it," she said pettishly, starting the swing afresh, and then relapsing into silence until it again came to a standstill. "I think you ought to know," she said suddenly. "You see, Charlie, Sir Marmaduke is very kind to me, and I love him dearly, and so I do you, and I think you ought to know, although it may be nothing at all." "Well, fire away then, Ciceley. There is one thing you may be quite sure of, whatever you tell me, it is like telling a brother, and I shall never repeat it to anyone." "Well, it is this. That man comes over sometimes to see my father. I have seen him pass my window, three or four times, and go in by the garden door into father's study. I did not know who he was, but it did seem funny his entering by that door, as if he did not want to be seen by anyone in the house. I did not think anything more about it, till I saw him just now, then I knew him directly. If I had seen him before, I should have told you at once, but I don't think I have." "I daresay not, Ciceley. He does not wait at table, but is under the steward, and helps clean the silver. He waits when we have several friends to dinner. At other times he does not often come into the room. "What you tell me is certainly curious. What can he have to say to your father?" "I don't know, Charlie. I don't know anything about it. I do think you ought to know." "Yes, I think it is a good thing that I should know," Charlie agreed thoughtfully. "I daresay it is all right, but, at any rate, I am glad you told me." "You won't tell your father?" she asked eagerly. "Because, if you were to speak of it--" "I shall not tell him. You need not be afraid that what you have told me will come out. It is curious, and that is all, and I will look after the fellow a bit. Don't think anything more about it. It is just the sort of thing it is well to know, but I expect there is no harm in it, one way or the other. Of course, he must have known your father before he came to us, and may have business of some sort with him. He may have a brother, or some other relation, who wants to take one of your father's farms. Indeed, there are a hundred things he might want to see him about. But still, I am glad you have told me." In his own mind, Charlie thought much more seriously of it than he pretended. He knew that, at present, his father was engaged heart and soul in a projected Jacobite rising. He knew that John Dormay was a bitter Whig. He believed that he had a grudge against his father, and the general opinion of him was that he was wholly unscrupulous. That he should, then, be in secret communication with a servant at Lynnwood, struck him as a very serious matter, indeed. Charlie was not yet sixteen, but his close companionship with his father had rendered him older than most lads of his age. He was as warm a Jacobite as his father, but the manner in which William, with his Dutch troops, had crushed the great Jacobite rebellion in Ireland, seemed to him a lesson that the prospects of success, in England, were much less certain than his father believed them to be. John Dormay, as an adherent of William, would be interested in thwarting the proposed movement, with the satisfaction of, at the same time, bringing Sir Marmaduke into disgrace. Charlie could hardly believe that his cousin would be guilty of setting a spy to watch his father, but it was certainly possible, and as he thought the matter over, as he rode back after escorting Ciceley to her home, he resolved to keep a sharp watch over the doings of this man Nicholson. "It would never do to tell my father what Ciceley said. He would bundle the fellow out, neck and crop, and perhaps break some of his bones, and then it would be traced to her. She has not a happy home, as it is, and it would be far worse if her father knew that it was she who had put us on our guard. I must find out something myself, and then we can turn him out, without there being the least suspicion that Ciceley is mixed up in it." The next evening several Jacobite gentlemen rode in, and, as usual, had a long talk with Sir Marmaduke after supper. "If this fellow is a spy," Charlie said to himself, "he will be wanting to hear what is said, and to do so he must either hide himself in the room, or listen at the door, or at one of the windows. It is not likely that he will get into the room, for to do that he must have hidden himself before supper began. I don't think he would dare to listen at the door, for anyone passing through the hall would catch him at it. It must be at one of the windows." The room was at an angle of the house. Three windows looked out on to the lawn in front; that at the side into a large shrubbery, where the bushes grew up close to it; and Charlie decided that here, if anywhere, the man would take up his post. As soon, then, as he knew that the servants were clearing away the supper, he took a heavy cudgel and went out. He walked straight away from the house, and then, when he knew that his figure could no longer be seen in the twilight, he made a circuit, and, entering the shrubbery, crept along close to the wall of the Muse, until within two or three yards of the window. Having made sure that at present, at any rate, no one was near, he moved out a step or two to look at the window. His suspicions were at once confirmed. The inside curtains were drawn, but the casement was open two or three inches. Charlie again took up his post, behind a bush, and waited. In five minutes he heard a twig snap, and then a figure came along, noiselessly, and placed itself at the window. Charlie gave him but a moment to listen, then he sprang forward, and, with his whole strength, brought his cudgel down upon the man's head. He fell like a stone. Charlie threw open the window, and, as he did so, the curtain was torn back by his father, the sound of the blow and the fall having reached the ears of those within. Sir Marmaduke had drawn his sword, and was about to leap through the window, when Charlie exclaimed: "It is I, father. I have caught a fellow listening at the window, and have just knocked him down." "Well done, my boy! "Bring lights, please, gentlemen. Let us see what villain we have got here." But, as he spoke, Charlie's head suddenly disappeared, and a sharp exclamation broke from him, as he felt his ankles grasped and his feet pulled from under him. He came down with such a crash that, for a moment, he was unable to rise. He heard a rustling in the bushes, and then his father leapt down beside him. "Where are you, my boy? Has the scoundrel hurt you?" "He has given me a shake," Charlie said as he sat up; "and, what is worse, I am afraid he has got away." "Follow me, gentlemen, and scatter through the gardens," Sir Marmaduke roared. "The villain has escaped!" For a few minutes, there was a hot pursuit through the shrubbery and gardens, but nothing was discovered. Charlie had been so shaken that he was unable to join the pursuit, but, having got on to his feet, remained leaning against the wall until his father came back. "He has got away, Charlie. Have you any idea who he was?" "It was Nicholson, father. At least, I am almost certain that it was him. It was too dark to see his face. I could see the outline of his head against the window, and he had on a cap with a cock's feather which I had noticed the man wore." "But how came you here, Charlie?" "I will tell you that afterwards, father. Don't ask me now." For, at this moment, some of the others were coming up. Several of them had torches, and, as they approached, Sir Marmaduke saw something lying on the ground under the window. He picked it up. "Here is the fellow's cap," he said. "You must have hit him a shrewd blow, Charlie, for here is a clean cut through the cloth, and a patch of fresh blood on the white lining. How did he get you down, lad?" "He fell so suddenly, when I hit him, that I thought I had either killed or stunned him; but of course I had not, for it was but a moment after, when I was speaking to you, that I felt my ankles seized, and I went down with a crash. I heard him make off through the bushes; but I was, for the moment, almost dazed, and could do nothing to stop him." "Was the window open when he came?" "Yes, sir, two or three inches." "Then it was evidently a planned thing. "Well, gentlemen, we may as well go indoors. The fellow is well out of our reach now, and we may be pretty sure he will never again show his face here. Fortunately he heard nothing, for the serving men had but just left the room, and we had not yet begun to talk." "That is true enough, Sir Marmaduke," one of the others said. "The question is: how long has this been going on?" Sir Marmaduke looked at Charlie. "I know nothing about it, sir. Till now, I have not had the slightest suspicion of this man. It occurred to me, this afternoon, that it might be possible for anyone to hear what was said inside the room, by listening at the windows; and that this shrubbery would form a very good shelter for an eavesdropper. So I thought, this evening I would take up my place here, to assure myself that there was no traitor in the household. I had been here but five minutes when the fellow stole quietly up, and placed his ear at the opening of the casement, and you may be sure that I gave him no time to listen to what was being said." "Well, we had better go in," Sir Marmaduke said. "There is no fear of our being overheard this evening. "Charlie, do you take old Banks aside, and tell him what has happened, and then go with him to the room where that fellow slept, and make a thorough search of any clothes he may have left behind, and of the room itself. Should you find any papers or documents, you will, of course, bring them down to me." But the closest search, by Charlie and the old butler, produced no results. Not a scrap of paper of any kind was found, and Banks said that he knew the man could neither read nor write. The party below soon broke up, considerable uneasiness being felt, by all, at the incident of the evening. When the last of them had left, Charlie was sent for. "Now, then, Charlie, let me hear how all this came about. I know that all you said about what took place at the window is perfectly true; but, even had you not said so, I should have felt there was something else. What was it brought you to that window? Your story was straight-forward enough, but it was certainly singular your happening to be there, and I fancy some of our friends thought that you had gone round to listen, yourself. One hinted as much; but I said that was absurd, for you were completely in my confidence, and that, whatever peril and danger there might be in the enterprise, you would share them with me." "It is not pleasant that they should have thought so, father, but that is better than that the truth should be known. This is how it happened;" and he repeated what Ciceley had told him in the garden. "So the worthy Master John Dormay has set a spy upon me," Sir Marmaduke said, bitterly. "I knew the man was a knave--that is public property--but I did not think that he was capable of this. Well, I am glad that, at any rate, no suspicion can fall upon Ciceley in the matter; but it is serious, lad, very serious. We do not know how long this fellow has been prying and listening, or how much he may have learnt. I don't think it can be much. We talked it over, and my friends all agreed with me that they do not remember those curtains having been drawn before. To begin with, the evenings are shortening fast, and, at our meeting last week, we finished our supper by daylight; and, had the curtains been drawn, it would have been noticed, for we had need of light before we finished. Two of the gentlemen, who were sitting facing the window, declared that they remembered distinctly that it was open. Mr. Jervoise says that he thought to himself that, if it was his place, he would have the trees cut away there, for they shut out the light. "Therefore, although it is uncomfortable to think that there has been a spy in the house, for some months, we have every reason to hope that our councils have not been overheard. Were it otherwise, I should lose no time in making for the coast, and taking ship to France, to wait quietly there until the king comes over." "You have no documents, father, that the man could have found?" "None, Charlie. We have doubtless made lists of those who could be relied upon, and of the number of men they could bring with them, but these have always been burned before we separated. Such letters as I have had from France, I have always destroyed as soon as I have read them. Perilous stuff of that sort should never be left about. No; they may ransack the place from top to bottom, and nothing will be found that could not be read aloud, without harm, in the marketplace of Lancaster. "So now, to bed, Charlie. It is long past your usual hour." Chapter 2: Denounced. "Charlie," Sir Marmaduke said on the following morning, at breakfast, "it is quite possible that that villain who acted as spy, and that other villain who employed him--I need not mention names--may swear an information against me, and I may be arrested, on the charge of being concerned in a plot. I am not much afraid of it, if they do. The most they could say is that I was prepared to take up arms, if his majesty crossed from France; but, as there are thousands and thousands of men ready to do the same, they may fine me, perhaps, but I should say that is all. However, what I want to say to you is, keep out of the way, if they come. I shall make light of the affair, while you, being pretty hot tempered, might say things that would irritate them, while they could be of no assistance to me. Therefore, I would rather that you were kept out of it, altogether. I shall want you here. In my absence, there must be somebody to look after things. "Mind that rascal John Dormay does not put his foot inside the house, while I am away. That fellow is playing some deep game, though I don't quite know what it is. I suppose he wants to win the goodwill of the authorities, by showing his activity and zeal; and, of course, he will imagine that no one has any idea that he has been in communication with this spy. We have got a hold over him, and, when I come back, I will have it out with him. He is not popular now, and, if it were known that he had been working against me, his wife's kinsman, behind my back, my friends about here would make the country too hot to hold him." "Yes, father; but please do not let him guess that we have learnt it from Ciceley. You see, that is the only way we know about it." "Yes, you are right there. I will be careful that he shall not know the little maid has anything to do with it. But we will think of that, afterwards; maybe nothing will come of it, after all. But, if anything does, mind, my orders are that you keep away from the house, while they are in it. When you come back, Banks will tell you what has happened. "You had better take your horse, and go for a ride now. Not over there, Charlie. I know, if you happened to meet that fellow, he would read in your face that you knew the part he had been playing, and, should nothing come of the business, I don't want him to know that, at present. The fellow can henceforth do us no harm, for we shall be on our guard against eavesdroppers; and, for the sake of cousin Celia and the child, I do not want an open breach. I do not see the man often, myself, and I will take good care I don't put myself in the way of meeting him, for the present, at any rate. Don't ride over there today." "Very well, father. I will ride over and see Harry Jervoise. I promised him that I would come over one day this week." It was a ten-mile ride, and, as he entered the courtyard of Mr. Jervoise's fine old mansion, he leapt off his horse, and threw the reins over a post. A servant came out. "The master wishes to speak to you, Master Carstairs." "No ill news, I hope, Charlie?" Mr. Jervoise asked anxiously, as the lad was shown into the room, where his host was standing beside the carved chimney piece. "No, sir, there is nothing new. My father thought that I had better be away today, in case any trouble should arise out of what took place yesterday, so I rode over to see Harry. I promised to do so, one day this week." "That is right. Does Sir Marmaduke think, then, that he will be arrested?" "I don't know that he expects it, sir, but he says that it is possible." "I do not see that they have anything to go upon, Charlie. As we agreed last night, that spy never had any opportunity of overhearing us before, and, certainly, he can have heard nothing yesterday. The fellow can only say what many people know, or could know, if they liked; that half a dozen of Sir Marmaduke's friends rode over to take supper with him. They can make nothing out of that." "No, sir; and my father said that, at the worst, it could be but the matter of a fine." "Quite so, lad; but I don't even see how it could amount to that. You will find Harry somewhere about the house. He has said nothing to me about going out." Harry Jervoise was just the same age as Charlie, and was his greatest friend. They were both enthusiastic in the cause of the Stuarts, equally vehement in their expressions of contempt for the Dutch king, equally anxious for the coming of him whom they regarded as their lawful monarch. They spent the morning together, as usual; went first to the stables and patted and talked to their horses; then they played at bowls on the lawn; after which, they had a bout of sword play; and, having thus let off some of their animal spirits, sat down and talked of the glorious times to come, when the king was to have his own again. Late in the afternoon, Charlie mounted his horse and rode for home. When within half a mile of the house, a man stepped out into the road in front of him. "Hullo, Banks, what is it? No bad news, I hope?" And he leapt from his horse, alarmed at the pallor of the old butler's face. "Yes, Master Charles, I have some very bad news, and have been waiting for the last two hours here, so as to stop you going to the house." "Why shouldn't I go to the house?" "Because there are a dozen soldiers, and three or four constables there." "And my father?" "They have taken him away." "This is bad news, Banks; but I know that he thought that it might be so. But it will not be very serious; it is only a question of a fine," he said. The butler shook his head, sadly. "It is worse than that, Master Charles. It is worse than you think." "Well, tell me all about it, Banks," Charlie said, feeling much alarmed at the old man's manner. "Well, sir, at three this afternoon, two magistrates, John Cockshaw and William Peters--" ("Both bitter Whigs," Charlie put in.) "--Rode up to the door. They had with them six constables, and twenty troopers." "There were enough of them, then," Charlie said. "Did they think my father was going to arm you all, and defend the place?" "I don't know, sir, but that is the number that came. The magistrates, and the constables, and four of the soldiers came into the house. Sir Marmaduke met them in the hall. "'To what do I owe the honour of this visit?' he said, quite cold and haughty. "'We have come, Sir Marmaduke Carstairs, to arrest you, on the charge of being concerned in a treasonable plot against the king's life.' "Sir Marmaduke laughed out loud. "'I have no design on the life of William of Orange, or of any other man,' he said. 'I do not pretend to love him; in that matter there are thousands in this realm with me; but, as for a design against his life, I should say, gentlemen, there are few who know me, even among men like yourselves, whose politics are opposed to mine, who would for a moment credit such a foul insinuation.' "'We have nothing to do with that matter, Sir Marmaduke,' John Cockshaw said. 'We are acting upon a sworn information to that effect.' "Sir Marmaduke was angry, now. "'I can guess the name of the dog who signed it,' he said, 'and, kinsman though he is by marriage, I will force the lie down his throat.' "Then he cooled down again. "'Well, gentlemen, you have to do your duty. What do you desire next?' "'Our duty is, next, to search the house, for any treasonable documents that may be concealed here.' "'Search away, gentlemen,' Sir Marmaduke said, seating himself in one of the settles. 'The house is open to you. My butler, James Banks, will go round with you, and will open for you any cupboard or chest that may be locked.' "The magistrates nodded to the four soldiers. Two of them took their post near the chair, one at the outside door, and one at the other end of the room. Sir Marmaduke said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders, and then began to play with the ears of the little spaniel, Fido, that had jumped up on his knees. "'We will first go into the study,' John Cockshaw said; and I led them there. "They went straight to the cabinet with the pull-down desk, where Sir Marmaduke writes when he does write, which is not often. It was locked, and I went to Sir Marmaduke for the key. "'You will find it in that French vase on the mantel,' he said. 'I don't open the desk once in three months, and should lose the key, if I carried it with me.' "I went to the mantel, turned the vase over, and the key dropped out. "'Sir Marmaduke has nothing to hide, gentlemen,' I said, 'so, you see, he keeps the key here.' "I went to the cabinet, and put the key in. As I did so I said: "'Look, gentlemen, someone has opened, or tried to open, this desk. Here is a mark, as if a knife had been thrust in to shoot the bolt.' "They looked where I pointed, and William Peters said to Cockshaw, 'It is as the man says. Someone has been trying to force the lock--one of the varlets, probably, who thought the knight might keep his money here.' "'It can be of no importance, one way or the other,' Cockshaw said roughly. "'Probably not, Mr. Cockshaw, but, at the same time I will make a note of it.' "I turned the key, and pulled down the door that makes a desk. They seemed to know all about it, for, without looking at the papers in the pigeonholes, they pulled open the lower drawer, and took two foreign-looking letters out from it. I will do them the justice to say that they both looked sorry, as they opened them, and looked at the writing. "'It is too true,' Peters said. 'Here is enough to hang a dozen men.' "They tumbled all the other papers into a sack, that one of the constables had brought with him. Then they searched all the other furniture, but they evidently did not expect to find anything. Then they went back into the hall. "'Well, gentlemen,' Sir Marmaduke said, 'have you found anything of a terrible kind?' "'We have found, I regret to say,' John Cockshaw said, 'the letters of which we were in search, in your private cabinet--letters that prove, beyond all doubt, that you are concerned in a plot similar to that discovered three years ago, to assassinate his majesty the king.' "Sir Marmaduke sprang to his feet. "'You have found letters of that kind in my cabinet?' he said, in a dazed sort of way. "The magistrate bowed, but did not speak. "'Then, sir,' Sir Marmaduke exclaimed, 'you have found letters that I have never seen. You have found letters that must have been placed there by some scoundrel, who plotted my ruin. I assert to you, on the honour of a gentleman, that no such letters have ever met my eye, and that, if such a proposition had been made to me, I care not by whom, I would have struck to the ground the man who offered me such an insult.' "'We are sorry, Sir Marmaduke Carstairs,' Mr. Peters said, 'most sorry, both of us, that it should have fallen to our duty to take so painful a proceeding against a neighbour; but, you see, the matter is beyond us. We have received a sworn information that you are engaged in such a plot. We are told that you are in the habit of locking up papers of importance in a certain cabinet, and there we find papers of a most damnatory kind. We most sincerely trust that you may be able to prove your innocence in the matter, but we have nothing to do but to take you with us, as a prisoner, to Lancaster.' "Sir Marmaduke unbuckled his sword, and laid it by. He was quieter than I thought he could be, in such a strait, for he has always been by nature, as you know, choleric. "'I am ready, gentlemen,' he said. "Peters whispered in Cockshaw's ear. "'Ah yes,' the other said, 'I had well-nigh forgotten,' and he turned to me. 'Where is Master Charles Carstairs?' "'He is not in the house,' I said. 'He rode away this morning, and did not tell me where he was going.' "'When do you expect him back?' "'I do not expect him at all,' I said. 'When Master Charles rides out to visit his friends, he sometimes stays away for a day or two.' "'Is it supposed,' Sir Marmaduke asked coldly, 'that my son is also mixed up in this precious scheme?' "'It is sworn that he was privy to it,' John Cockshaw said, 'and is, therefore, included in the orders for arrest.' "Sir Marmaduke did not speak, but he shut his lips tight, and his hand went to where the hilt of his sword would have been. Two of the constables went out and questioned the grooms, and found that you had, as I said, ridden off. When they came back, there was some talk between the magistrates, and then, as I said, four constables and some soldiers were left in the house. Sir Marmaduke's horse was brought round, and he rode away, with the magistrates and the other soldiers." "I am quite sure, Banks, that my father could have known nothing of those letters, or of any plot against William's life. I have heard him speak so often of the assassination plot, and how disgraceful it was, and how, apart from its wickedness, it had damaged the cause, that I am certain he would not have listened to a word about another such business." "I am sure of that, too," the old butler said; "but that is not the question, Master Charles. There are the papers. We know that Sir Marmaduke did not put them there, and that he did not know that they were there. But how is it to be proved, sir? Everyone knows that Sir Marmaduke is a Jacobite, and is regarded as the head of the party in this part of the country. He has enemies, and one of them, no doubt, has played this evil trick upon him, and the putting of your name in shows what the motive is." "But it is ridiculous, Banks. Who could believe that such a matter as this would be confided to a lad of my age?" "They might not believe it in their hearts, but people often believe what suits their interest. This accusation touches Sir Marmaduke's life; and his estate, even if his life were spared, would be confiscated. In such a case, it might be granted to anyone, and possibly even to the son of him they would call the traitor. But the accusation that the son was concerned, or was, at any rate, privy to the crime intended by the father, would set all against him, and public opinion would approve of the estates passing away from him altogether. "But now, sir, what do you think you had best do?" "Of course I shall go on, Banks, and let them take me to join my father in Lancaster jail. Do you think I would run away?" "No, sir, I don't think you would run away. I am sure you would not run away from fear, but I would not let them lay hands on me, until I had thought the matter well over. You might be able to do more good to Sir Marmaduke were you free, than you could do if you were caged up with him. He has enemies, we know, who are doing their best to ruin him, and, as you see, they are anxious that you, too, should be shut up within four walls." "You are right, Banks. At any rate, I will ride back and consult Mr. Jervoise. Besides, he ought to be warned, for he, too, may be arrested on the same charge. How did you get away without being noticed?" "I said that I felt ill--and I was not speaking falsely--at Sir Marmaduke's arrest, and would lie down. They are keeping a sharp lookout at the stables, and have a soldier at each door, to see that no one leaves the house, but I went out by that old passage that comes out among the ruins of the monastery." "I know, Banks. My father showed it to me, three years ago." "I shall go back that way again, sir, and no one will know that I have left the house. You know the trick of the sliding panel, Master Charles?" "Yes, I know it, and if I should want to come into the house again, I will come that way, Banks." "Here is a purse," the butler said. "You may want money, sir. Should you want more, there is a store hidden away, in the hiding place under the floor of the Priest's Chamber, at the other end of the passage. Do you know that?" "I know the Priest's Chamber of course, because you go through that to get to the long passage, but I don't know of any special hiding place there." "Doubtless, Sir Marmaduke did not think it necessary to show it you then, sir, but he would have done it later on, so I do not consider that I am breaking my oath of secrecy in telling you. You know the little narrow loophole in the corner?" "Yes, of course. There is no other that gives light to the room. It is hidden from view outside by the ivy." "Well, sir, you count four bricks below that, and you press hard on the next, that is the fifth, then you will hear a click, then you press hard with your heel at the corner, in the angle of the flag below, and you will find the other corner rise. Then you get hold of it and lift it up, and below there is a stone chamber, two feet long and about eighteen inches wide and deep. It was made to conceal papers in the old days, and I believe food was always kept there, in case the chamber had to be used in haste. "Sir Marmaduke uses it as a store place for his money. He has laid by a good deal every year, knowing that money would be wanted when troops had to be raised. I was with him about three weeks ago, when he put in there half the rents that had been paid in. So, if you want money for any purpose, you will know where to find it." "Thank you, Banks. It may be very useful to have such a store, now." "Where shall I send to you, sir, if I have any news that it is urgent you should know of?" "Send to Mr. Jervoise, Banks. If I am not there, he will know where I am to be found." "I will send Will Ticehurst, Master Charles. He is a stout lad, and a shrewd one, and I know there is nothing that he would not do for you. But you had best stop no longer. Should they find out that I am not in the house, they will guess that I have come to warn you, and may send out a party to search." Charlie at once mounted, and rode back to Mr. Jervoise's. "I expected you back," that gentleman said, as he entered. "Bad news travels apace, and, an hour since, a man brought in the news that Sir Marmaduke had been seen riding, evidently a prisoner, surrounded by soldiers, on the road towards Lancaster. So that villain we chased last night must have learnt something. I suppose they will be here tomorrow, but I do not see what serious charge they can have against us. We have neither collected arms, nor taken any steps towards a rising. We have talked over what we might do, if there were a landing made from France, but, as there may be no landing, that is a very vague charge." "Unfortunately, that is not the charge against my father. It is a much more serious business." And Charlie repeated the substance of what Banks had told him, interrupted occasionally by indignant ejaculations from Mr. Jervoise. "It is an infamous plot," he said, when the lad had concluded his story. "Infamous! There was never a word said of such a scheme, and no one who knows your father would believe it for an instant." "Yes, sir, but the judges, who do not know him, may believe it. No doubt those who put those papers there, will bring forward evidence to back it up." "I am afraid that will be the case. It is serious for us all," Mr. Jervoise said thoughtfully. "That man will be prepared to swear that he heard the plot discussed by us all. They seized your father, today, as being the principal and most important of those concerned in it, but we may all find ourselves in the same case tomorrow. I must think it over. "It is well that your man warned you. You had best not stay here tonight, for the house may be surrounded at daybreak. Harry shall go over, with you, to one of my tenants, and you can both sleep there. It will not be necessary for you to leave for another two or three hours. You had better go to him now; supper will be served in half an hour. I will talk with you again, afterwards." Harry was waiting outside the door, having also heard the news of Sir Marmaduke's arrest. "It is villainous!" he exclaimed, when he heard the whole story. "No doubt you are right, and that John Dormay is at the bottom of it all. The villain ought to be slain." "He deserves it, Harry; and, if I thought it would do good, I would gladly fight him, but I fear that it would do harm. Such a scoundrel must needs be a coward, and he might call for aid, and I might be dragged off to Lancaster. Moreover, he is Ciceley's father, and my cousin Celia's husband, and, were I to kill him, it would separate me altogether from them. However, I shall in all things be guided by your father. He will know what best ought to be done. "It is likely that he, too, may be arrested. This is evidently a deep plot, and your father thinks that, although the papers alone may not be sufficient to convict my father, the spy we had in our house will be ready to swear that he heard your father, and mine, and the others, making arrangements for the murder of William of Orange; and their own word to the contrary would count but little against such evidence, backed by those papers." They talked together for half an hour, and were then summoned to supper. Nothing was said, upon the subject, until the servitors had retired, and the meal was cleared away. Mr. Jervoise was, like Sir Marmaduke, a widower. "I have been thinking it all over," he said, when they were alone. "I have determined to ride, at once, to consult some of my friends, and to warn them of what has taken place. That is clearly my duty. I shall not return until I learn whether warrants are out for my apprehension. Of course, the evidence is not so strong against me as it is against Sir Marmaduke; still, the spy's evidence would tell as much against me as against him. "You will go up, Harry, with your friend, to Pincot's farm. It lies so far in the hills that it would probably be one of the last to be searched, and, if a very sharp lookout is kept there, a body of men riding up the valley would be seen over a mile away, and there would be plenty of time to take to the hills. There Charlie had better remain, until he hears from me. "You can return here, Harry, in the morning, for there is no probability whatever of your being included in any warrant of arrest. It could only relate to us, who were in the habit of meeting at Sir Marmaduke's. You will ride over to the farm each day, and tell Charlie any news you may have learnt, or take any message I may send you for him. "We must do nothing hastily. The first thing to learn, if possible, is whether any of us are included in the charge of being concerned in a plot against William's life. In the next place, who are the witnesses, and what evidence they intend to give. No doubt the most important is the man who was placed as a spy at Sir Marmaduke's." "As I know his face, sir," Charlie said eagerly, "could I not find him, and either force him to acknowledge that it is all false, or else kill him? I should be in my right in doing that, surely, since he is trying to swear away my father's life by false evidence." "I should say nothing against that, lad. If ever a fellow deserved killing he does; that is, next to his rascally employer. But his death would harm rather than benefit us. It would be assumed, of course, that we had removed him to prevent his giving evidence against us. No doubt his depositions have been taken down, and they would then be assumed to be true, and we should be worse off than if he could be confronted with us, face to face, in the court. We must let the matter rest, at present." "Would it be possible to get my father out of prison, sir? I am sure I can get a dozen men, from among the tenants and grooms, who would gladly risk their lives for him." "Lancaster jail is a very strong place," Mr. Jervoise said, "and I fear there is no possibility of rescuing him from it. Of course, at present we cannot say where the trial will take place. A commission may be sent down, to hold a special assizes at Lancaster, or the trial may take place in London. At any rate, nothing whatever can be done, until we know more. I have means of learning what takes place at Lancaster, for we have friends there, as well as at most other places. When I hear from them the exact nature of the charge, the evidence that will be given, and the names of those accused of being mixed up in this pretended plot, I shall be better able to say what is to be done. "Now, I must mount and ride without further delay. I have to visit all our friends who met at Lynnwood, and it will take me until tomorrow morning to see and confer with them." A few minutes after Mr. Jervoise had ridden off, his son and Charlie also mounted. A man went with them, with a supply of torches, for, although Harry knew the road--which was little better than a sheep track--well enough during the day, his father thought he might find it difficult, if not impossible, to follow it on a dark night. They congratulated themselves upon the precaution taken, before they had gone very far, for there was no moon, the sky was overcast, and a drizzling rain had begun to come down. They could hardly see their horses' heads, and had proceeded but a short distance, when it became necessary for their guide to light a torch. It took them, therefore, over two hours to reach the mountain farm. They were expected, otherwise the household would have been asleep. Mr. Jervoise had, as soon as he determined upon their going there, sent off a man on horseback, who, riding fast, had arrived before night set in. There was, therefore, a great turf fire glowing on the hearth when they arrived, and a hearty welcome awaiting them from the farmer, his wife, and daughters. Harry had, by his father's advice, brought two changes of clothes in a valise, but they were so completely soaked to the skin that they decided they would, after drinking a horn of hot-spiced ale that had been prepared for them, go at once to bed, where, in spite of the stirring events of the day, both went off to sleep, as soon as their heads touched the pillows. The sun was shining brightly, when they woke. The mists had cleared off, although they still hung round the head of Ingleborough, six miles away, and on some of the other hilltops. The change of weather had an inspiriting effect, and they went down to breakfast in a brighter and more hopeful frame of mind. As soon as the meal was over, Harry started for home. "I hope it won't be long before I can see you again, Harry," Charlie said, as he stood by the horse. "I hope not, indeed; but there is no saying. My father's orders are that I am to stay at home, if people come and take possession, and send a man off to you with the news privately, but that, if no one comes, I may myself bring you over any news there is; so I may be back here this afternoon." "I shall be looking out for you, Harry. Remember, it will be horribly dull for me up here, wondering and fretting as to what is going on." "I know, Charlie; and you shall hear, as soon as I get the smallest scrap of news. If I were you, I would go for a good walk among the hills. It will be much better for you than moping here. At any rate, you are not likely to get any news for some hours to come." Charlie took the advice, and started among the hills, not returning until the midday meal was ready. Before he had finished his dinner there was a tap at the door, and then a young fellow, whom he knew to be employed in Mr. Jervoise's stables, looked in. Charlie sprang to his feet. "What's the news?" he asked. "Master Harry bade me tell you, sir, that a magistrate, and four constables, and ten soldier men came today, at nine o'clock. He had returned but a half-hour when they rode up. They had an order for the arrest of Mr. Jervoise, and have been searching the house, high and low, for papers. No one is allowed to leave the place, but Master Harry came out to the stables and gave me his orders, and I did not find much difficulty in slipping out without their noticing me. Mr. Harry said that he had no news of Mr. Jervoise, nor any other news, save what I have told you. He bade me return at once as, later on, he may want to send me again. I was to be most careful that no one should see me when I got back, and, if I was caught, I was on no account to say where I had been to." The farmer insisted upon the young fellow sitting down at the table, and taking some food, before he started to go back. He required no pressing, but, as soon as his hunger was satisfied, he started again at a brisk run, which he kept up as long as Charlie's eye could follow him down the valley. Although the boy by no means wished Mr. Jervoise to be involved in his father's trouble, Charlie could not help feeling a certain amount of pleasure at the news. He thought it certain that, if his father escaped, he would have to leave the country, and that he would, in that case, take him as companion in his flight. If Mr. Jervoise and Harry also left the country, it would be vastly more pleasant for both his father and himself. Where they would go to, or what they would do, he had no idea, but it seemed to him that exile among strangers would be bearable, if he had his friend with him. It would not last many years, for surely the often talked-of landing could not be very much longer delayed; then they would return, share in the triumph of the Stuart cause, and resume their life at Lynnwood, and reckon with those who had brought this foul charge against them. That the Jacobite cause could fail to triumph was a contingency to which Charlie did not give even a thought. He had been taught that it was a just and holy cause. All his school friends, as well as the gentlemen who visited his father, were firm adherents of it, and he believed that the same sentiments must everywhere prevail. There was, then, nothing but the troops of William to reckon with, and these could hardly oppose a rising of the English people, backed by aid from France. It was not until after dark that the messenger returned. "Master Harry bade me tell you, sir, that a gipsy boy he had never seen before has brought him a little note from his father. He will not return at present, but, if Mr. Harry can manage to slip away unnoticed in the afternoon, tomorrow, he is to come here. He is not to come direct, but to make a circuit, lest he should be watched and followed, and it may be that the master will meet him here." Charlie was very glad to hear this. Harry could, of course, give him little news of what was going on outside the house, but Mr. Jervoise might be able to tell him something about his father, especially as he had said he had means of learning what went on in Lancaster jail. He was longing to be doing something. It seemed intolerable to him that he should be wandering aimlessly among the hills, while his father was lying in Lancaster, with a charge affecting his life hanging over him. What he could do he knew not, but anything would be better than doing nothing. Mr. Jervoise had seemed to think that it was out of the question to attempt a rescue from Lancaster; but surely, if he could get together forty or fifty determined fellows, a sudden assault upon the place might be successful. Then he set to work reckoning up the grooms, the younger tenants, and the sons of the older ones, and jotted down the names of twenty-seven who he thought might join in the attempt. "If Harry could get twenty-three from his people, that would make it up to the number," he said. "Of course, I don't know what the difficulties to be encountered may be. I have ridden there with my father, and I know that the castle is a strong one, but I did not notice it very particularly. The first thing to do will be to go and examine it closely. No doubt ladders will be required, but we could make rope ladders, and take them into the town in a cart, hidden under faggots, or something of that sort. "I do hope Mr. Jervoise will come tomorrow. It is horrible waiting here in suspense." The next morning, the hours seemed endless. Half a dozen times he went restlessly in and out, walking a little distance up the hill rising from the valley, and returning again, with the vain idea that Mr. Jervoise might have arrived. Still more slowly did the time appear to go, after dinner. He was getting into a fever of impatience and anxiety, when, about five o'clock, he saw a figure coming down the hillside from the right. It was too far away to recognize with certainty, but, by the rapid pace at which he descended the hill, he had little doubt that it was Harry, and he at once started, at the top of his speed, to meet him. The doubt was soon changed into a certainty. When, a few hundred yards up the hill, he met his friend, both were almost breathless. Harry was the first to gasp out: "Has my father arrived?" "Not yet." Harry threw himself down on the short grass, with an exclamation of thankfulness. "I have run nearly every foot of the way," he said, as soon as he got his breath a little. "I had awful difficulty in getting out. One of the constables kept in the same room with me, and followed me wherever I went. They evidently thought I might hear from my father, or try to send him a message. At last, I got desperate, and ran upstairs to that room next mine, and closed and locked the door after me. You know the ivy grows high up the wall there, and directly I got in, I threw open the casement and climbed down by it. It gave way two or three times, and I thought I was gone, but I stuck to it, and managed each time to get a fresh hold. The moment I was down, I ran along by the foot of the wall until I got round behind, made a dash into that clump of fir trees, crawled along in a ditch till I thought I was safe, and then made a run for it. I was so afraid of being followed that I have been at least three miles round, but I don't mind, now that my father hasn't arrived. I was in such a fright that he might come and go before I got here." Chapter 3: A Rescue. The two lads walked slowly down the hill together. Harry had heard no more than Charlie had done, of what was going on. The messenger from his father was a young fellow, of seventeen or eighteen, with a gipsy face and appearance. How he had managed to elude the vigilance of the men on watch, Harry did not know. He, himself, had only learnt his presence when, as he passed some bushes in the garden, a sharp whisper made him stop, and a moment later a hand was thrust through the foliage. He took the little note held out, and caught sight of the lad's face, through the leaves, as he leant forward and said: "Go on, sir, without stopping. They may be watching you." Harry had thrust the note into his pocket, and sauntered on for some time. He then returned to the house, and there read the letter, with whose contents Charlie was already acquainted. Eagerly, they talked over what each had been thinking of since they had parted, early on the previous day; and discussed Charlie's idea of an attack on Lancaster jail. "I don't know whether I could get as many men as you say, Charlie. I don't think I could. If my father were in prison, as well as yours, I am sure that most of the young fellows on the estate would gladly help to rescue him, but it would be a different thing when it came to risking their lives for anyone else. Of course I don't know, but it does not seem to me that fifty men would be of any use, at all, towards taking Lancaster Castle. It always seemed to me a tremendously strong place." "Yes, it does look so, Harry; but perhaps, on examining it closely, one would find that it is not so strong as it looks, by a long way. It seems to me there must be some way or other of getting father out, and, if there seems even the least bit of a chance, I shall try it." "And you may be sure I will stand by you, Charlie, whatever it is," Harry said heartily. "We have been just like brothers, and, of course, brothers ought to stick to each other like anything. If they don't, what is the use of being brothers? I daresay we shall know more, when we hear what my father has to say; and then we may see our way better." "Thank you, Harry. I knew you would stick by me. Of course, I don't want to do any mad sort of thing. There is no hurry, anyhow, and, as you say, when we know more about it, we may be able to hit upon some sort of plan." It was not until eight o'clock that Mr. Jervoise arrived. He looked grievously tired and worn out, but he spoke cheerfully as he came in. "I have had a busy two days of it, boys, as you may guess. I have no particularly good news to tell you, but, on the other hand, I have no bad news. I was in time to warn all our friends, and when the soldiers came for them in the morning, it was only to find that their nests were empty. "They have been searching the houses of all Sir Marmaduke's tenants, Charlie, and questioning man, woman, and child as to whether they have seen you. "Ah! Here is supper, and I am nearly famished. However, I can go on talking while I eat. I should have been here sooner, but I have been waiting for the return of the messenger I sent to Lancaster. "Yesterday morning there was an examination of your father, Charlie, or rather, an examination of the testimony against him. First the two letters that were discovered were put in. Without having got them word for word, my informer was able to give me the substance of them. Both were unsigned, and professed to have been written in France. The first is dated three months back. It alludes to a conversation that somebody is supposed to have had with Sir Marmaduke, and states that the agent who had visited him, and who is spoken of as Mr. H, had assured them that your father was perfectly ready to join, in any well-conceived design for putting a stop to the sufferings that afflicted the country, through the wars into which the foreign intruder had plunged it, even though the plan entailed the removal of the usurper. The writer assured Sir Marmaduke of the satisfaction that such an agreement on his part had caused at Saint Germains, and had heightened the high esteem in which Sir Marmaduke was held, for his long fidelity to the cause of his majesty. It then went on to state that a plan had been already formed, and that several gentlemen in the south were deeply pledged to carry it out, but that it was thought specially advisable that some from the north should also take part in it, as, from their persons being unknown near the court, they could act with more surety and safety. They would, therefore, be glad if he would take counsel, with the friends he had mentioned, as to what might seem to them the best course of proceeding. There was no occasion for any great haste and, indeed, some weeks must elapse before the blow was struck, in order that preparations should be made, in France, for taking instant advantage of it. "The rest of the letter was to the same purpose, but was really a repetition of it. The second letter was dated some time later, and was, as before, an answer to one the knight was supposed to have written. It highly approved of the suggestions therein made; that Sir Marmaduke and his friends should travel, separately and at a few days' interval, to London, and should take lodgings there in different parts of the town, and await the signal to assemble, near Richmond, when it was known that the king would go hunting there. It said that special note had been made of the offer of Sir Marmaduke's son, to mingle among the king's attendants and to fire the first shot, as, in the confusion, he would be able to escape and, being but a boy, as he said, none would be able to recognize him afterwards. "In the event, of course, of the first shot failing, the rest of the party, gathered in a body, would rush forward, despatch the usurper, cut their way, sword in hand, through any who barred their path to the point where their horses were concealed, and then at once scatter in various directions. For this great service, his majesty would not fail to evince the deepest gratitude, upon his restoration to his rightful throne, and pledged his royal word that each of the party should receive rank and dignity, together with ample estates, from the lands of which the chief supporters of the usurper would be deprived. "So you see, Charlie, you were to have the honour of playing the chief part in this tragedy." "Honour indeed!" Charlie exclaimed passionately. "Dishonour, sir. Was there ever so infamous a plot!" "It is a well-laid plot, Charlie, and does credit to the scoundrel who planned it. You see, he made certain that Sir Marmaduke would be attainted, and his estates forfeited, but there existed just a possibility that, as you are but a boy, though a good big one, it might be thought that, as you were innocent of the business, a portion at least of the estate might be handed to you. To prevent this, it was necessary that you also should be mixed up in the affair." "Has John Dormay appeared in the matter so far, Mr. Jervoise?" "Not openly, Charlie. My informant knows that there have been two or three meetings of Whig magistrates, with closed doors, and that at these he has been present, and he has no doubt, whatever, that it is he who has set the ball rolling. Still, there is no proof of this, and he did not appear yesterday. The man who did appear was the rascal who tried to overhear us the other night. He stated that he had been instigated by a gentleman of great loyalty--here one of the magistrates broke in, and said no name must be mentioned--to enter the household of Sir Marmaduke, a gentleman who, as he believed, was trafficking with the king's enemies. He had agreed to do this, in spite of the danger of such employment, moved thereto not so much by the hope of a reward as from his great loyalty to his majesty, and a desire to avert from him his great danger from popish plots. Having succeeded in entering Sir Marmaduke's service, he soon discovered that six gentlemen, to wit, myself and five friends, were in the habit of meeting at Lynnwood, where they had long and secret talks. Knowing the deep enmity and hostility these men bore towards his gracious majesty, he determined to run any hazard, even to the loss of his life, to learn the purport of such gatherings, and did, therefore, conceal himself, on one occasion behind the hangings of a window, and on another listened at an open casement, and did hear much conversation regarding the best manner in which the taking of the king's life could be accomplished. This, it was agreed, should be done in the forest at Richmond, where all should lie in wait, the said Sir Marmaduke Carstairs undertaking that he and his son would, in the first place, fire with pistol or musquetoon, and that, only if they should fail, the rest should charge forward on horse, overthrow the king's companions, and despatch him, Mr. William Jervoise undertaking the management of this part of the enterprise. No date was settled for this wicked business, it being, however, agreed that all should journey separately to London, and take up their lodging there under feigned names; lying hid until they heard from a friend at court, whose name was not mentioned, a day on which the king would hunt at Richmond. He further testified that, making another attempt to overhear the conspirators in order that he might gather fuller details as to the manner of the plot, he was seen by Master Charles Carstairs, who, taking him by surprise, grievously assaulted him, and that he and the others would have slain him, had he not overthrown Master Carstairs and effected his escape before the others, rushing out sword in hand, had time to assail him. "During his stay at Lynnwood he had, several times, watched at the window of the room where Sir Marmaduke Carstairs sits when alone, and where he writes his letters and transacts business, and that he observed him, more than once, peruse attentively papers that seemed to be of importance, for, after reading them, he would lay them down and walk, as if disturbed or doubtful in mind, up and down the room; and these papers he placed, when he had done with them, in the bottom drawer of a desk in his cabinet, the said desk being always carefully locked by him. "That is all that I learnt from Lancaster, save that instructions have been given that no pains should be spared to secure the persons of those engaged in the plot, and that a special watch was to be set at the northern ports, lest they should, finding their guilt discovered, try to escape from the kingdom. So you see that your good father, Sir Marmaduke, is in a state of sore peril, and that the rest of us, including yourself, will be in a like strait if they can lay hands on us." "But it is all false!" Charlie exclaimed. "It is a lie from beginning to end." "That is so, but we cannot prove it. The matter is so cunningly laid, I see no way to pick a hole in it. We are Jacobites, and as such long regarded as objects of suspicion by the Whig magistrates and others. There have been other plots against William's life, in which men of seeming reputation have been concerned. This man's story will be confirmed by the man who set him on, and by other hidden papers, if necessary. As to the discovery of the documents, we may know well enough that the fellow himself put them there, but we have no manner of proof of it. It is evident that there is nothing for us but to leave the country, and to await the time when the king shall have his own again. My other friends, who were with me this afternoon when the news came from Lancaster, all agreed that it would be throwing away our lives to stay here. We all have money by us, for each has, for years, laid by something for the time when money will be required to aid the king on his arrival. "Having agreed to take this course, we drew up a document, which we all signed, and which will be sent in when we have got clear away. In it we declare that being informed that accusations of being concerned in a plot against the life of William of Orange have been brought against us, we declare solemnly before God that we, and also Sir Marmaduke Carstairs and his son, are wholly innocent of the charge, and that, although we do not hesitate to declare that we consider the title of the said William to be king of this realm to be wholly unfounded and without reason, and should therefore take up arms openly against it on behalf of our sovereign did occasion offer, yet that we hold assassination in abhorrence, and that the crime with which we are charged is as hateful in our sight as in that of any Whig gentleman. As, however, we are charged, as we learn, by evilly disposed and wicked persons, of this design, and have no means of proving our innocence, we are forced to leave the realm until such time shall arrive when we can rely on a fair trial, when our reputation and honour will weigh against the word of suborned perjurers and knaves. "We were not forgetful of your father's case, and we debated long as to whether our remaining here could do him service. We even discussed the possibility of raising a force, and attacking Lancaster Castle. We agreed, however, that this would be nothing short of madness. The country is wholly unprepared at present. The Whigs are on the alert, and such an attempt would cost the lives of most of those concerned in it. Besides, we are all sure that Sir Marmaduke would be the first to object to numbers of persons risking their lives in an attempt which, even if, for the moment, successful, must bring ruin upon all concerned in it. Nor do we see that, were we to remain and to stand in the dock beside him, it would aid him. Our word would count for no more than would this protest and denial that we have signed together. A prisoner's plea of not guilty has but a feather's weight against sworn evidence. "At the same time, Charlie, I do not intend to leave the country until I am sure that nothing can be done. As force is out of the question, I have advised the others to lose not an hour in trying to escape and, by this time, they are all on the road. Two are making for Bristol, one for Southampton, and two for London. It would be too dangerous to attempt to escape by one of the northern ports. But, though force cannot succeed, we may be able to effect your father's escape by other means, and it is for this purpose that I am determined to stay, and I shall do so until all hope is gone. Alone you could effect nothing; but I, knowing who are our secret friends, may be able to use them to advantage. "We will stay here tonight, but tomorrow we must change our quarters, for the search will be a close one. During the day we will go far up over the hills, but tomorrow night we will make for Lancaster. I have warned friends there to expect us, and it is the last place where they would think of searching for us." "You will take me with you, too, father?" Harry exclaimed eagerly; while Charlie expressed his gratitude to Mr. Jervoise, for thus determining to risk his own life in the endeavour to effect the escape of Sir Marmaduke. "Yes, I intend to take you with me, Harry. They will pretend, of course, that, in spite of our assertions of innocence, our flight is a confession of guilt, and you may be sure that we shall be condemned in our absence, and our estates declared confiscated, and bestowed upon some of William's minions. There will be no place for you here. "My own plans are laid. As you know, your mother came from the other side of the border, and a cousin of hers, with whom I am well acquainted, has gone over to Sweden, and holds a commission in the army that the young king is raising to withstand Russia and Saxony; for both are thinking of taking goodly slices of his domains. I could not sit down quietly in exile, and, being but forty, I am not too old for service, and shall take a commission if I can obtain it. There are many Scottish Jacobites who, having fled rather than acknowledge Dutch William as their king, have taken service in Sweden, where their fathers fought under the great Gustavus Adolphus; and, even if I cannot myself take service, it may be that I shall be able to obtain a commission for you. You are nearly sixteen, and there are many officers no older. "Should evil befall your father, Charlie, which I earnestly hope will not be the case, I shall regard you as my son, and shall do the same for you as for Harry. "And now, I will to rest, for I have scarce slept the last two nights, and we must be in the saddle long before daybreak." The little bedroom, that Charlie had used the two previous nights, was given up to Mr. Jervoise; while Harry and Charlie slept on some sheep skins, in front of the kitchen fire. Two hours before daybreak they mounted and, guided by the farmer, rode to a shepherd's hut far up among the hills. Late in the afternoon, a boy came up from the farm, with the news that the place had been searched by a party of troopers. They had ridden away without discovering that the fugitives had been at the farm, but four of the party had been left, in case Mr. Jervoise should come there. The farmer, therefore, warned them against coming back that way, as had been intended, naming another place where he would meet them. As soon as the sun was setting they mounted and, accompanied by the shepherd on a rough pony, started for Lancaster. After riding for three hours, they stopped at a lonely farm house, at which Mr. Jervoise and his friends had held their meeting on the previous day. Here they changed their clothes for others that had been sent for their use from Lancaster. Mr. Jervoise was attired as a small trader, and the lads in garb suitable to boys in the same rank of life. They still, however, retained their swords, and the pistols in their holsters. Three miles farther they met their host, as arranged, at some crossroads, and rode on until within three miles of Lancaster. They then dismounted, placed their pistols in their belts, and handed their horses to the two men, who would take them back to the hut in the hills, where they would remain until required. It was two o'clock in the morning when they entered Lancaster and, going up to a small house, standing in a garden in the outskirts of the town, Mr. Jervoise gave three low knocks in quick succession. The door was opened almost immediately. No light was shown, and they entered in the dark, but as soon as the door was closed behind them, a woman came out with a candle from an inner room. "I am glad to see you safe, Mr. Jervoise," a man said. "My wife and I were beginning to be anxious, fearing that you might have fallen into the hands of your enemies." "No, all has gone well, Herries; but it is a long ride from the hills here, and we walked the last three miles, as we wanted to get the horses back again before daylight. We are deeply grateful to you for giving us shelter." "I would be ready to do more than that," the man said, "for the sake of the good cause. My wife's father and mine both fell at Naseby, and we are as loyal to the Stuarts as they were. You are heartily welcome, sir, and, as we keep no servant, there will be none to gossip. You can either remain in the house, in which case none will know of your presence here; or, if you wish to go abroad in the town, I will accompany you, and will introduce you to any acquaintance I may meet as a cousin of my wife who, with his two sons, has come over from Preston to pay us a visit. I don't think that anyone would know you, in that attire." "I will run no more risks than are necessary, Herries. Those I wish to see will visit me here, and, if I go out at all, it will not be until after dark." For a fortnight they remained at the house. After dark each day, a man paid Mr. Jervoise a visit. He was the magistrates' clerk, and had an apartment in the castle. From him they learned that a messenger had been despatched to London, with an account of the evidence taken in Sir Marmaduke's case; and that, at the end of twelve days, he had returned with orders that all prisoners and witnesses were to be sent to town, where they would be examined, in the first place, by his majesty's council; and where Sir Marmaduke's trial for high treason would take place. They were to be escorted by a party of twelve troopers, under the command of a lieutenant. The fugitives had, before, learned that the search for Mr. Jervoise had been given up; it being supposed that he, with his son and young Carstairs had, with their accomplices, all ridden for the coast at the first alarm, and had probably taken ship for France before the orders had arrived that all outgoing vessels should be searched. Harry and Charlie had both been away for two or three days, and had been occupied in getting together ten young fellows, from the two estates, who would be willing and ready to attempt to rescue Sir Marmaduke from his captors' hands. They were able to judge, with tolerable accuracy, when the messenger would return from London and, two days previously, the men had been directed to ride, singly and by different roads, and to put up at various small inns in Manchester, each giving out that he was a farmer in from the country, either to purchase supplies, or to meet with a customer likely to buy some cattle he wished to dispose of. Charlie had paid a visit to Lynnwood, and had gone by the long passage into the Priest's Chamber, and had carried off the gold hidden there. As soon as it was known that the messenger had returned, Herries had borrowed a horse, and had ridden with a note to the farmer, telling him to go up to the hills and bring the horses down, with one of his own, to the place where he had parted from them, when they entered Lancaster. There he was met by Mr. Jervoise and the lads and, mounting, they started with the spare horse for Blackburn, choosing that line in preference to the road through Preston, as there were troops stationed at the latter town. The next day they rode on to Manchester. They went round, that evening, to the various inns where the men had put up, and directed them to discover whether, as was probable, the escort was to arrive that night. If so, they were to mount at daybreak, and assemble where the road crossed the moor, three miles north of Chapel le Frith, where they would find Mr. Jervoise awaiting them. At nine o'clock that evening the troop rode in and, at daybreak, Mr. Jervoise and the boys started. Two of the men were already at the spot indicated, and, half an hour later, the whole of them had arrived. Mr. Jervoise led them back to a spot that he had selected, where the road dipped into a deep valley, in which, sheltered from the winds, was a small wood. Leaving one at the edge, to give warning directly the escort appeared on the road over the brow, he told the rest to dismount. Most of them were armed with pistols. All had swords. "Do you," he said, "who are good shots with your pistols, fire at the men when I give the word--let the rest aim at the horses. The moment you have opened fire, dash forward and fall on them. We are already as numerous as they are, and we ought to be able to dismount or disable four or five of them, with our first fire. I shall give the order as Sir Marmaduke arrives opposite me. Probably the officer will be riding. I shall make the officer my special mark, for it may be that he has orders to shoot the prisoner, if any rescue is attempted. "I don't suppose they will be at all prepared for an attack. They were vigilant, no doubt, for the first two days but, once out of Lancashire, they will think that there is no longer any fear of an attempt at rescue. Pursue those that escape for half a mile or so, and then draw rein, and, as soon as they are out of sight, strike due north across the fells. Keep to the east of Glossop, and then make your way singly to your homes. It will be better for you to travel up through Yorkshire, till you are north of Ingleborough, so as to come down from the north to your farms. "I know that you have all engaged in this affair for love of Sir Marmaduke or myself, and because you hate to see a loyal gentleman made the victim of lying knaves; but when we come back with the king, you may be sure that Sir Marmaduke and I will well reward the services you have rendered." It was an hour before the man on the lookout warned them that the troop had just appeared over the hill. They mounted now, and, pistol in hand, awaited the arrival of the party. Two troopers came first, trotting carelessly along, laughing and smoking. A hundred yards behind came the main body, four troopers first, then the lieutenant and Sir Marmaduke, followed by the other six troopers. With outstretched arm, and pistol pointed through the undergrowth, Mr. Jervoise waited till the officer, who was riding on his side of the road, came abreast of him. He had already told the boys that he intended to aim at his shoulder. "They are the enemies of the king," he said, "but I cannot, in cold blood, shoot down a man with whom I have no cause for quarrel. I can depend upon my aim, and he will not be twelve paces from the muzzle of my pistol." He fired. The officer gave a sudden start, and reeled on his horse, and, before he could recover himself, the band, who had fired at the flash of the first pistol, dashed out through the bushes and fell upon the troopers. Four men had dropped, one horse had fallen, and two others were plunging wildly as, with a shout, their assailants dashed upon them. All who could turn their horse's head rode furiously off, some along the road forward, others back towards Manchester. The lieutenant's horse had rolled over with him, as that of Mr. Jervoise struck it on the shoulder, with the full impetus of its spring. "It is all over, Sir Marmaduke, and you are a free man. We have nothing to do now but to ride for it." And, before the knight had fairly recovered from his astonishment, he found himself riding south across the moor, with his son on one side of him, and Mr. Jervoise and Harry on the other. "You have saved my life, Jervoise," he said, holding out his hand to his friend. "They had got me so firmly in their clutches, that I thought my chances were at an end. "How are you, Charlie? I am right glad to see you, safe and sound, for they had managed to include you in their pretended plot, and, for aught I knew, you had been all this time lying in a cell next mine in Lancaster Castle. "But who are the good fellows who helped you?" Mr. Jervoise briefly gave an account of the affair. "They are only keeping up a sham pursuit of the soldiers, so as to send them well on their way. I told them not to overtake them, as there was no occasion for any further bloodshed, when you were once out of their hands. By tomorrow morning they will all be at work on their farms again, and, if they keep their own counsel, need not fear." Suddenly Sir Marmaduke reined in his horse. "We are riding south," he said. "Certainly we are," Mr. Jervoise said. "Why not? That is our only chance of safety. They will, in the first place, suspect us of having doubled back to the hills, and will search every farmhouse and cottage. Our only hope of escape is to ride either for Bristol, or one of the southern ports." "I must go back," Sir Marmaduke said doggedly. "I must kill that scoundrel John Dormay, before I do anything else. It is he who has wound this precious skein, in order to entrap us, expecting, the scoundrel, to have my estates bestowed on him as a reward." "It were madness to ride back now, Sir Marmaduke. It would cost you your life, and you would leave Charlie here fatherless, and with but little chance of ever regaining the estate. You have but to wait for a time, and everything will right itself. As soon as the king comes to his own, your estates will be restored, and then I would not seek to stay your hand, if you sought vengeance upon this cunning knave." "Besides, father," Charlie put in, "much as he deserves any punishment you can give him, you would not kill cousin Celia's husband and Ciceley's father. When the truth is all made known, his punishment will be bitter enough, for no honest man would offer him a hand, or sit down to a meal with him. "Ciceley has been as a young sister to me, and her mother has ever been as kind as if she had been my aunt. I would not see them grieved, even if that rogue came off scot free from punishment; but, at any rate, father, I pray you to let it pass at present. This time we have happily got you out of the clutches of the Whigs, but, if you fell into them again, you may be sure they would never give us another chance." Sir Marmaduke still sat irresolute, and Charlie went on: "Besides, father, Mr. Jervoise has risked his life in lingering in Lancashire to save you, and the brave fellows who aided us to rescue you have risked theirs, both in the fray and afterwards, if their share in it should ever be known; and it would not be fair to risk failure, after all they have done. I pray you, father, be guided by the opinion of your good friend, Mr. Jervoise." Sir Marmaduke touched his horse's flank with his heel. "You have prevailed, Charlie. Your last argument decided me. I have no right to risk my life, after my good friends have done so much to save me. John Dormay may enjoy his triumph for a while, but a day of reckoning will surely come. "Now, tell me of the others, Jervoise. Have all escaped in safety?" "All. Your boy brought me the news of your arrest, and that we were charged with plotting William's assassination. I rode that night with the news, and next day all were on the road to the coast, and were happily on board and away before the news of their escape could be sent to the ports." "And now, what are your plans, Jervoise--that is, if you have any plans, beyond reaching a port and taking ship for France?" "I am going to Sweden," Mr. Jervoise said, and then repeated the reasons that he had given Charlie for taking this step. "I am too old for the wars," Sir Marmaduke said. "I was sixty last birthday, and though I am still strong and active, and could strike a shrewd blow in case of need, I am too old for the fatigues and hardships of campaigning. I could not hope, at my age, to obtain a commission in the Swedish service." "No, I did not think of your joining the army, Sir Marmaduke, though I warrant you would do as well as most; but I thought that you might take up your residence at Stockholm, as well as at Saint Germains. You will find many Scottish gentlemen there, and not a few Jacobites who, like yourself, have been forced to fly. Besides, both the life and air would suit you better than at Saint Germains, where, by all accounts the life is a gay one, and men come to think more of pleasure than of duty. Moreover, your money will go much further in Sweden than in France." Sir Marmaduke, checking the horse's speed, said, "I have not so much as a penny in my pocket, and methinks I am like to have some trouble in getting at the hoard I have been collecting, ever since Dutch William came to the throne, for the benefit of His Majesty when he arrives." "You will have no trouble in getting at that, father," Charlie said laughing, "seeing that you have nothing to do but to lean over, and put your hand into my holsters, which are so full, as you see, that I am forced to carry my pistols in my belt." "What mean you, lad?" "I mean, father, that I have the whole of the hoard, that was stowed away in the priest's hiding place;" and he then related how Banks had revealed to him the secret of the hiding place, and how he had, the night before Sir Marmaduke was removed from Lancaster Castle, visited the place and carried away the money. "I could not see Banks," he said, "but I left a few words on a scrap of paper, saying that it was I who had taken the money. Otherwise he would have been in a terrible taking, when he discovered that it was gone." "That is right good news, indeed, lad. For twelve years I have set aside half my rents, so that in those bags in your holsters there are six years' income, and the interest of that money, laid out in good mortgages, will suffice amply for my wants in a country like Sweden, where life is simple and living cheap. The money itself shall remain untouched, for your use, should our hopes fail and the estates be lost for all time. That is indeed a weight off my mind. "And you are, I hope, in equally good case, Jervoise, for if not, you know that I would gladly share with you?" "I am in very good case, Sir Marmaduke, though I none the less thank you for your offer. I too have, as you know, put aside half my income. My estates are not so large as those of Lynnwood. Their acreage may be as large, but a good deal of it is mountain land, worth but little. My fund, therefore, is not as large as yours, but it amounts to a good round sum; and as I hope, either in the army or in some other way, to earn an income for myself, it is ample. I shall be sorry to divert it from the use for which I intended it, but that cannot now be helped. I have had the pleasure, year by year, of putting it by for the king's use, and, now that circumstances have changed, it will be equally useful to myself." "Do you know this country well, Jervoise?" "Personally I know nothing about it, save that the sun tells me that, at present, I am travelling south, Sir Marmaduke. But, for the last few days I have been so closely studying a map, that I know the name of every town and village on the various routes." "And whither think you of going?" "To London or Southampton. Strangers are far less noticed in large towns than in small, and we could hardly hope to find a ship, bound for Sweden, in any of the Dorset or Devon ports." Chapter 4: In Sweden. After much discussion, the party agreed that it would be best to make for Southampton. The road thither was less frequented than that leading to London, and there were fewer towns to be passed, and less chance of interruption. Mr. Jervoise had brought with him a valise and suit of clothes for Sir Marmaduke, of sober cut and fashion. They avoided all large towns and, at the places where they put up, represented themselves as traders travelling from the Midlands to the southern coast, and they arrived at Southampton without having excited the smallest suspicion. Indeed, throughout the journey, they had heard no word of the affray near Chapel le Frith, and knew, therefore, that the news had not travelled as fast as they had. At Southampton, however, they had scarcely put up at an inn when the landlord said: "I suppose, gentlemen, they are talking of nothing else, in London, but the rescue of a desperate Jacobite by his friends. The news only reached here yesterday." "It has occasioned a good deal of scare," Mr. Jervoise replied. "I suppose there is no word of the arrest of the man, or his accomplices? We have travelled but slowly, and the news may have passed us on the way." "Not as yet," the landlord replied. "They say that all the northern and eastern ports are watched, and they make sure of catching him, if he presents himself there. The general opinion is that he will, for a time, go into hiding with his friends, in the hills of Cumberland or Westmoreland, or perhaps on the Yorkshire moors; but they are sure to catch him sooner or later." "It is a bad business altogether," Mr. Jervoise said, "and we can only hope that all guilty persons will in time get the punishment they so well deserve. How can trade be carried on, if the country is to be disturbed by plots, and conspiracies?" "How, indeed?" the landlord repeated heartily. "I do not meddle in politics, being content to earn my living by my business, and to receive all who can pay their reckoning, without caring a jot whether they be Whigs or Tories." The next morning Mr. Jervoise and Sir Marmaduke went down to the port, leaving the lads to wander about the town at their pleasure, as two persons were likely to attract less attention than four. They found that there were two vessels in port, loading with munitions of war for Sweden, and that one of them would sail shortly. They at once went on board her, and saw the captain. "Do you carry any passengers?" "None have applied so far," the captain said; "but, if they were to offer, I should not say no to them." "We want to take passage for Sweden," Mr. Jervoise said. "The King of that country is, as they say, fitting out an army. Clothes are as necessary for troops as swords and guns, and we think we could obtain a contract for these goods. There is no hope of doing so, unless we ourselves go over, and, though sorely loath to do so, for neither of us have ever before set foot on board a ship, we determined on making the journey, together with our two clerks, for whom we will take passage at the same rate as for ourselves, seeing that they are both related to us." "Have you any goods with you?" "We shall take over but a bale or two of cloth, as samples of the goods we can supply; but, beyond that, we have but little luggage, seeing that our stay may be a very short one." There was a little haggling for terms, as the two gentlemen did not wish to appear eager to go; but the matter was finally settled to the satisfaction of both parties. On their return to the inn, Mr. Jervoise took the host aside. "We have business connected with our trade in cloth in Sweden, where we hope to obtain a large contract. The matter may occupy us a week, or a month or two for aught we know, and we do not want our horses to be eating their heads off, here, while we are away. Besides, we may be able, on our return, to take a passage to one of the Devonshire ports, which would suit us much better. But we should not be able to do so, if there were need for returning here for our horses. Therefore, we would fain dispose of them, and, if you can find us a purchaser by tomorrow night, we will pay you a fair commission on the money we receive." "I doubt not that I can do that readily enough," the landlord said. "Three of them are fine animals, fit for any gentleman's riding. The other is a stout hackney. Trust me, I will get the best price I can for them." The next day he came up to their room. "I have had a good offer for the horses," he said. "Two gentlemen, who arrived yesterday from France, and are staying at the inn of a friend of mine, are requiring horses for themselves and their servants, and I have promised my friend a slice of my commission, if he will bring them round hither. Will you name your price for them?" "No, I would rather not," Mr. Jervoise said cautiously. "If we asked too high a figure, we might frighten the purchasers away. If we should ask too little, we should be the losers. I daresay they have named, to your friend, the price they are willing to give. You had better ask from them a good bit above that, then you can come down little by little, and maybe, seeing the horses are really good ones, they may advance a bit. I am not used to a horse deal, and will leave it to you to make the bargain. We are sorry to part with the animals, but they might die on the voyage, or get so injured as to be worthless; and, moreover, we shall have no use for them there. Therefore, as we must sell, we are ready to take the best terms we can get." When they returned to the inn, after an absence of two hours, they found that the landlord had sold the horses, for a sum nearly approaching their value, the gentlemen being as anxious to purchase them as they were to sell. The next day, they bought three or four rolls of west country cloth, and a supply of clothes suitable to their condition, together with trunks for their carriage. All these were sent down to the ship, in the course of the afternoon, and they themselves embarked late in the evening, as she was to set sail at daybreak. The lads, accustomed to spacious and airy rooms, were quite taken aback at the small and stuffy cabin allotted to their joint use, and slept but badly, for the loading of the ship continued by torchlight, until within an hour of the time of their departure. After tossing about for some hours in their narrow beds, they were glad to go on deck, and to plunge their heads into a pail of water, and were then, after combing their long hair, able to take an interest in what was passing round them. The sailors were busy; stowing away the cargo last received, tidying the decks, and coiling down the ropes. There were but few persons on the quay, for those who had been engaged in loading the cargo had gone off to bed, as soon as the last bale was on board. In half an hour the sailors began to hoist the sails, the hawsers were thrown off, and, with a gentle wind blowing aft, the ship glided along past the shore, being helped by the tide, which had begun to ebb half an hour before. The lads were greatly interested in watching the well-wooded slope on the left, with the stately ruins of Tintern Abbey rising above the trees. Then they passed the round fort, at the water's edge, on their right, and issued out from Southampton Water into the broad sheet between the island and the mainland. It was dotted with sails; fishing craft and coasters for the most part, but with some larger ships bound from the east to Southampton, and others that had come in through the Solent. This was very entertaining to the boys, and they were still more pleased when they saw the fortifications of Portsmouth, with cannon pointing seaward, and with many vessels riding in the strait by the side of the town. "That fort would give the French or the Dutch a hot reception, were they at any time to think to capture the dockyard and shipping," Sir Marmaduke said. "The Dutch have already captured the place, and that without shedding a drop of blood," Mr. Jervoise remarked. "'That is true enough," the knight said, stamping his foot angrily on the deck, "but what has been won so easily may be lost as quickly. I have seen several changes since I can first remember, and I hope I may live to see another. However, we need not talk of that now." "No, indeed," Mr. Jervoise agreed. "It may be, Sir Marmaduke, that it would be better if we had talked and thought less of it, during the last twelve years; better for ourselves, and for these lads. We might still have been ready to join His Majesty as soon as he landed, but as, till then, we could do nothing, it seems to me now that it would have been wiser had we gone about our business without worrying our heads, to say nothing of risking them, about a matter that may not take place during our lives; as we know, well enough, the King of France uses the Stuarts only for his own convenience, and at heart cares nothing for them or their cause. It is convenient to have the means of creating trouble here, and of so weakening William; and it may be that, some day or other, it may suit him to send over an army here to fight William, with the aid of the Stuarts' friends, instead of fighting him in Holland or elsewhere. But whether he may think fit to do so in one year, or in twenty years hence, who can say? It is a question solely of military policy. "The Stuarts are simply used, by the French king, to pull English chestnuts out of the fire. I would that they had established themselves anywhere rather than in France. It does them harm with vast numbers who would otherwise be their friends, at any rate in England. In Scotland it is otherwise, for Scotland has always been in alliance with France; but in England it is different. France has always been the national foe; and, had not Charles and James proved themselves so subservient to Louis, William of Orange would never have been crowned king. There are vast numbers in England who would rather see a Stuart than a Dutchman on the throne, but who will never strike a blow to replace them there, and that because they will come over backed up by French bayonets. "Well, let us talk of something else. If the time ever comes to act, we shall be ready, but till then we can let the matter sleep, the more so as we have a new life before us, and plenty of other things to occupy our thoughts." "What is it, father," Harry asked, "that the Swedes and Danes are going to fight about?" "It is a difficult question, Harry; but there can be little doubt that Denmark is in the wrong. The King of Sweden died in April, 1697. His death was unfortunate, for the powers contending in Europe had all agreed to refer their quarrels to his mediation. At his death, Denmark endeavoured to obtain the honour, but failed; and by the mediation, chiefly, of the Swedish regency, peace was concluded between France, England, and Holland, in the autumn of that year; and, shortly afterwards, the struggle between the German Emperor, France, and Spain was also concluded, but not at all to the satisfaction of the Swedish mediators. "While Sweden was occupied in this matter of the pacification of Europe, the King of Denmark thought to take advantage of the fact that Charles of Sweden was but a minor, to press Frederick, Duke of Holstein, who was in close alliance with him. "There had long been serious differences between the rulers of Denmark and Holstein, both of whom were branches of the Oldenburg family, and this in reference to the Duchy of Schleswig. The quarrel had arisen from the act of Christian the Third, of Denmark, who decreed that the descendants of his brother Adolphus should govern Holstein, jointly with the King of Denmark, and that Holstein and Schleswig should belong to them in common, neither making any change in Holstein without the consent of the other A more foolish arrangement could not have been conceived, for anyone might have foreseen that it would lead to disputes and troubles. In fact, quarrels continually arose, until, at the Peace of Rosahild, in 1658, the duchy was adjudged to Denmark. "Holstein, however, never acquiesced in this, and in 1675 there was war, when, Holstein being defeated, the Danes imprisoned its duke, Christian Albertus, until he signed a renunciation of all his rights. "His troops were disarmed, and all his towns and fortresses garrisoned by Danish troops. On his release, the duke went to Hamburg, where he remained till, at the Peace of Fontainebleau, four years later, he was replaced in possession of his estates and rights of sovereignty. "But this did not last long. New troubles arose, but Sweden, England, and Holland interested themselves in favour of the duke, and a peace was concluded in 1689, by which he was confirmed in the rights given him, ten years before, with full liberty to raise a certain number of troops, and of building fortresses, on the condition that he should raise none to the prejudice of Denmark. "This was another of those stipulations which inevitably lead to trouble, for it afforded to Denmark a pretext for continual complaint and interference. When Frederick the Fourth succeeded his father as Duke of Holstein, in 1694, the quarrel grew so hot that Denmark would have invaded Holstein, had not the parties to the Treaty of '89 interfered, and brought about a conference. This lasted all through the year 1696, but the negotiators appointed to settle the matter were unable to arrive at any conclusion. "The following year, Charles of Sweden, who had just succeeded his father, furnished the duke with some troops, to help him to build some forts that were intended to protect the frontier, in case of invasion by Denmark. Christian of Denmark at once attacked and captured these forts, and levelled them to the ground. The duke, being too weak to engage in a war with his powerful neighbour, did not resent this attack, and the negotiations were continued as before. In view of the danger of the situation, and the necessity for a monarch at the head of affairs, the Swedish Diet met, at Stockholm, to take part in the funeral of the late king, which was to be performed on the 24th of November, and to deliberate upon the situation. "By the will of the late king, Charles was not to ascend the throne until he reached the age of eighteen, but the diet passed a vote overruling this, and, as the regency concurred, he was at once crowned, and the alliance with Holstein was cemented by the marriage, that had been previously arranged between Charles's eldest sister and the Duke of Holstein, being celebrated at Stockholm. Charles the Twelfth at once concluded treaties with France, England, and Holland; while Denmark is reported to have prepared for war by making a secret alliance with Augustus of Saxony, King of Poland, and the Czar of Russia. Both these monarchs were doubtless desirous of extending their dominions, at the cost of Sweden, whose continental possessions are considerable. "Augustus is not yet very firmly seated on the throne of Poland. There are several parties opposed to him, and these united in obtaining, from the diet, a refusal to pay the Saxon troops Augustus had brought with him. The king, no doubt, considered that these could be employed for the conquest of Livonia, and that the addition of so large a territory to Poland would so add to his popularity, that he would have no further troubles in his kingdom. "Charles the Twelfth, being in ignorance of this secret agreement, sent an embassy to Russia, to announce his accession to the throne. The ambassadors were kept a long time waiting for an audience, as the czar was bringing a war with the Turks to a conclusion, and did not wish to throw off the mask until he was free to use his whole force against Sweden. The ambassadors were, at last, received civilly, but the czar evaded taking the usual oaths of friendship, and, after long delays, the embassy returned to Sweden, feeling somewhat disquieted as to the intentions of the czar, but having no sure knowledge of them. "The King of Poland was more successful in disguising his leaning towards Denmark, sending the warmest assurances to Charles, requesting him to act as mediator in the quarrel between himself and the Duke of Brandenburg, and signing a treaty of alliance with Sweden. But, while Sweden had no idea of the triple alliance that had been formed against her, the intention of Denmark to make war was evident enough, for King Christian was gathering a great naval armament. "The Duke of Holstein, becoming much alarmed at these preparations, hastened on the fortifications of Tonningen, on the Eider, three leagues from its mouth. The garrison of the place was a weak one, and a thousand Swedish troops were thrown in to strengthen it. The King of Denmark complained that this was a breach of the treaty, but, as his own preparations for war were unmistakable, no one could blame the Duke of Holstein for taking steps to defend his territories. "As you know, Christian of Denmark died about this time, and was succeeded by his son Frederick the Fourth. "Last August, he commenced the war, by sending a naval squadron to cover the passage of four regiments into Pomerania. Charles of Sweden, seeing that Holstein must be crushed by its powerful neighbour, called upon Holland and the Duke of Lunenburg, who were with Sweden guarantors of the treaty, to enforce its provisions; and a joint protest was sent to the King of Denmark, who was informed that, if he invaded Holstein, they should consider it a breach of the Treaty of Altena, and treat him as a common enemy. Frederick replied by sending some troops into the duchy. "No active operations took place, until the beginning of this year. Up to that time, Sweden had not doubted the friendship of the King of Poland, and Charles, at first, could hardly believe the reports he received from the governor of Livonia, that the Saxon troops were approaching the frontier. "A few days later, however, came the news that they were advancing against Riga. The governor prepared for defence, and hastily mounted cannon on the walls. His powers of resistance, however, were lessened by the fact that the river Duna was frozen over. Fleming, who commanded the Saxon troops, arrived before the town, early in February, with four thousand men. The governor had set fire to the suburbs on the previous day; and Fleming was surprised to find that, instead of taking it by surprise, as he had hoped, the place was in a position to offer a stout resistance. However, he attacked the fort of Cobrun, on the opposite side of the river, and carried it by assault. "The news was brought to young Charles the Twelfth when he was out hunting, a sport of which he is passionately fond. By all accounts, he is an extraordinary young fellow. He is not content with hunting bears and shooting them, but he and his followers engage them armed only with forked sticks. With these they attack the bears, pushing and hustling the great creatures, with the forks of their sticks, until they are completely exhausted, when they are bound and sent away. In this hunt Charles took fourteen alive, one of which nearly killed him before it was captured. He did not break up the hunting party, but continued his sport to the end, sending off, however, orders for the concentration of all the troops, in Livonia and Finland, to act against the Saxons. "As soon as the King of Denmark heard of the siege of Riga, he ordered the Duke of Wurtemberg-Neustadt, his commander-in-chief, to enter Holstein with his army, sixteen thousand strong. All of that country was at once overrun, the ducal domains seized, and great contributions exacted from Schleswig and Holstein. Fleming and the Saxons, after one severe repulse, forced the garrison of the fort of Dunamund, commanding the mouth of the Duna, to surrender. Tonningen is the only fortress that now holds out in Holstein. So you see, lads, there is every chance of there being brisk fighting, and I warrant the young King of Sweden will not be backward in the fray. A man who is fond of engaging with bears, armed with nothing but a forked stick, is not likely to hang back in the day of battle. "But, at present, we will say no more on the matter. Now that we have got beyond the shelter of the island, the waves are getting up, and the vessel is beginning to toss and roll. I see that Sir Marmaduke has retired to his cabin. I mean to remain here as long as I can, and I should advise you both to do the same. I have always heard that it is better to fight with this sickness of the sea, as long as possible, and that it is easier to do so in fresh air than in a close cabin." The lads quite agreed with this opinion, but were, in spite of their efforts, presently prostrate. They remained on deck for some hours, and then crawled to their cabin, where they remained for the next three days, at the end of which time they came on deck again, feeling better, but as weak as if they had suffered from a long illness. Mr. Jervoise had been in frequently to see them, having escaped the malady, from which, as he told them, Sir Marmaduke was suffering to the full as severely as they were. "So you have found your feet again," the captain said, when they appeared on deck. "You will be all right now." "We feel much better," Harry said, "now that the storm is over." "Storm! What storm? The weather has been splendid. We cannot wish for anything better. It has been just as you see it now--a bright sun, and just enough wind for her to carry whole sail." The lads both looked astonished. "Then why should we roll and toss about so much?" Harry asked. "Roll and toss! Nonsense, lad! There has been a little movement, of course, as there always must be when there is a brisk wind; but as for rolling and tossing, you must wait till you see a storm, then you will begin to have an idea of what the sea is." The boys both felt rather crestfallen, for they had flattered themselves that their sufferings were caused by something quite out of the ordinary way, and it was mortifying to know that the weather had been really fine, and there had been nothing even approaching a storm. The rest of the voyage was a pleasant one. They found they had regained their appetites, and were able to enjoy their meals; still they were not sorry when they saw the coast of Sweden, and, a few hours later, entered the port of Gottenburg, where Sir Marmaduke, for the first time, came on deck--looking a mere shadow of his former jovial self. "Well, lads," he said, "I was glad to hear that you got through this business quicker than I did. Here we are in Sweden, and here I, at least, am likely to stay, unless I can pass by land through Holland, France, and across from Calais, for never again will I venture upon a long voyage. I have been feeling very ungrateful, for, over and over again, I wished that you had not rescued me, as death on Tower Hill would have been nothing to the agonies that I have been enduring!" As soon as the vessel was warped alongside the quay, they landed, and put up at an hotel, Sir Marmaduke insisting that the ground was as bad as the sea, as it kept on rising and falling beneath his feet. Mr. Jervoise agreed to return on board the following day, to fetch the luggage, which would by that time have been got up from the hold. At the hotel, they met several persons able to speak English, and from them learnt how matters had been going on since they had last heard. The town and fortress of Tonningen had fallen, after a vigorous defence; it had been bombarded for eight days, and had repulsed one assault, but had been captured at the second attack. England and Holland had agreed to furnish fleets, and an army of twelve thousand Swedes were in readiness to march, at once, while other armies were being formed. The king had, the week before, reviewed the army gathered at Malmoe; and had, on the previous day, arrived at Gottenburg, accompanied by the Duke of Holstein. Mr. Jervoise went, the same afternoon, to find out some of his friends who resided at Gottenburg. He was fortunate enough to find one of them, who was able to inform him that his wife's cousin was now a major, in one of the newly-raised regiments stationed at Gottenburg. He found him without difficulty. Major Jamieson was delighted at the coming of his former friend. "You are the last person I expected to see here, Jervoise. It is true that, when we met last, you said that if matters went wrong in England you should come out here, instead of taking refuge in France; but, as everything is quiet, I had little hope of seeing you again, until I paid another visit to Scotland, of which at present there is but little prospect. Have you grown tired of doing nothing, and is it a desire to see something of a stirring life that has brought you over here?" Mr. Jervoise related, shortly, the events by which he had been driven into exile, and expressed his desire to serve in the army of Sweden, and that his son and young Carstairs should also enter the army. "They are but sixteen yet," he said, "but are stout, active fellows, and could hold their own in a day's march or in a stout fight with many men. Of course, if I could obtain commissions for them, all the better, but if not they are ready to enlist in the ranks. Roughing it will do them no harm." "Their age is no drawback," Major Jamieson said. "There are many no older, both in the ranks and as officers. Men in Sweden of all ages and of all ranks are joining, for this unprovoked attack, on the part of Poland, has raised the national spirit to boiling heat. The chief difficulty is their and your ignorance of the language. Were it not for that, I could obtain, from the minister of war, commissions for you at once." He sat thinking for some minutes, in silence. "I think I see how it can be managed, Jervoise. I have some twenty or thirty Scotchmen in my regiment, and I know a colonel who has as many in his, and these I could manage to get, in exchange for an equal number of my Swedes. Ships are coming daily from Scotland, and most of them bring young fellows who have come out to join the army. "You know how the Scots fought, under Gustavus Adolphus, and there is scarce a glen in Scotland where there are not traditions of fathers, or grandfathers, who fought in Hepburn's Green Brigade. Therefore, it is natural that, seeing there is no chance of military service at home, there should be many young fellows coming out to join. "I can go across this evening to the minister of war, who is a personal friend of mine, and get him to give you permission to raise a company of Scotchmen for service. I shall, of course, point out to him that you will enlist them here. I shall show him the advantage of these men being gathered together, as their ignorance of the language makes them, for some time, useless as soldiers if enrolled in a Swedish regiment. I shall mention that I have twenty in my own corps, who are at present positively useless, and in fact a source of great trouble, owing to their understanding nothing that is said to them, and shall propose that they be at once handed over to you. As to the exchange, we can manage that quietly between ourselves. You would have no difficulty with fresh-landed men, as these will naturally be delighted at joining a company of their own countrymen." "Thank you very heartily, Jamieson. This altogether exceeds my hopes, but I fear that I know nothing of drilling them." "Two of my men are sergeants, and, having been in the army for some years, speak Swedish well. They will do the drilling at first. The manoeuvres are not complicated, and, for a pound or two, they will be glad to teach you all the orders necessary. I don't know how you are situated as to money, but I can assure you my purse is at your service." "Thank you; I am, in that respect, excellently well provided, as is my friend Sir Marmaduke. We have both made provision for unexpected contingencies." "Then, if you will call tomorrow after breakfast, I shall probably have your commission ready. As a matter of course, you will have the appointment of your own officers, and will only have to send in their names. Each company is from a hundred and forty to a hundred and fifty strong, and has a captain, two lieutenants, and two ensigns." Mr. Jervoise's news was, on his return to the inn, received with delight by the two lads; and Sir Marmaduke said: "I wish I could shake off twenty of my years, Jervoise, and join also. Well, well, I daresay I shall get on comfortably enough. I know there are a good many English and Scotch Jacobites settled in the town or neighbourhood, and I shall not be long before I meet someone I know. "As the matter seems settled, I should advise you lads to go down, the first thing in the morning, to the wharves. There is no saying when ships may come in. Moreover, it is likely enough that you may light upon young fellows who have landed within the last few weeks, and who have been kept so far, by their ignorance of the language, from enlisting." "That is a very good idea," Mr. Jervoise said. "They will be delighted to hear a friendly voice, and be only too glad to enlist in a Scottish company. You can say that each man will have a free outfit given him." Accordingly, the next morning early, the two lads went down to the wharf. Presently they saw three young fellows, who were evidently Scotch by their dress and caps, talking together. They strolled up near enough to catch what they were saying. "It is hard," one said, "that, now we are here, we can make no one understand us, and it seems to me we had far better have stayed at home." "We shall find some one who speaks our language presently, Jock," another said more cheerfully. "The old man, where we lodged last night, said in his broken tongue, that we had but to go over to Malmoe, or some such place as that, where there is a big camp, and walk up to an officer and say we wish to enlist." "Oh, that is all very well," the other grumbled; "but, if he did not understand us, we should be no better off than before." "Are you wanting to enlist?" Harry said, going up to them. The men gave an exclamation of pleasure, at being addressed in their own tongue. "That we do, sir. If you can put us in the way, we shall be grateful." "That I can do easily," Harry said. "My father is raising a company of Scotch and Englishmen, for the regiment commanded by Colonel Jamieson. This will be far better than joining a Swedish company, where no one will understand your language, and you will not be able to make out the orders given. My father will give each man who joins a free outfit." "That is the very thing for us, sir. We expected to find Scotch regiments here, as there were in the old times, and we had hoped to join them; but whether it is a company or regiment, it makes but little difference, so that we are with those who speak our tongue." "Very well, then. If you come to the Lion Inn, at nine o'clock, you will see my father there. If you know of any others in the same mind as yourselves, and willing to join, bring them with you." "There are ten or twelve others who came over in the ship with us, two days since, and I have no doubt they will be fine and glad to join." "Well, see if you can hunt them up, and bring them with you." On returning to the inn, they found that Mr. Jervoise had already received his commission as captain, and, by ten o'clock, fifteen young Scotchmen had been sworn in. All of them had brought broadswords and dirks, and Captain Jervoise at once set to work buying, at various shops, iron head pieces, muskets, and other accoutrements. During the next three days ten other English and Scotchmen had joined, and then a ship came in, from which they gathered another four-and-twenty recruits. Arms had already been purchased for them, and, on the following day, Captain Jervoise marched off to Malmoe with his forty-nine recruits. Harry accompanied them, Charlie being left behind, with his father, to gather another fifty men as the ships arrived. A week later this number was obtained, and Charlie started with them for the camp, Sir Marmaduke accompanying them on horseback, in order to aid Charlie in maintaining order among his recruits. He had already fixed upon a small house, just outside the town, and, having met two or three old friends, who had been obliged to leave England at William's accession, he already began to feel at home. "Don't you fidget about me, Charlie," he said. "Ferrers tells me that there are at least a score of Jacobites here, and that they form quite a society among themselves. Living is very cheap, and he will introduce me to a man of business, who will see that my money is well invested." Chapter 5: Narva. For the next fortnight, drilling went on from morning till night, the officers receiving instructions privately from the sergeants, and further learning the words of command by standing by while the men were being drilled. At the end of that time, both officers and men were sufficiently instructed to carry out the simple movements which were, alone, in use in those days. It was not, however, until two months later that they were called upon to act. The English and Dutch fleets had arrived, and effected a junction with that of Sweden, and the Danish fleet had shut themselves up in the port of Copenhagen, which was closely blockaded. A large army had crossed to Zeeland, and repulsed the Danes, who had endeavoured to prevent their landing, and had then marched up to within sight of the walls of Copenhagen, which they were preparing to besiege; when the King of Denmark, alarmed at this unexpected result of his aggression on Holstein, conceded every point demanded, and peace was signed. The negotiations were carried on in Holland, and the Swedes were extremely angry, when they found that they were baulked of their expected vengeance on their troublesome neighbours. The peace, however, left Charles the Twelfth at liberty to turn his attention to his other foes, and to hurry to the assistance of Riga, which was beleaguered by the Saxons and Poles; and of Narva, against which city the Russians had made several unsuccessful assaults. Without losing an hour, the king crossed to Malmoe. The troops there were ordered to embark, immediately, in the vessels in the harbour. They then sailed to Revel, where the Swedish commander, Welling, had retired from the neighbourhood of Riga, his force being too small to meet the enemy in the open field. No sooner had the troops landed than the king reviewed them, and General Welling was ordered, at once, to march so as to place himself between the enemy and Wesenberg, where a large amount of provisions and stores for the use of the army had been collected. The two lieutenants, in the company of Captain Jervoise, were young Scotchmen of good family, who had three months before come over and obtained commissions, and both had, at the colonel's request, been transferred to his regiment, and promoted to the rank of lieutenants. Captain Jervoise and his four officers messed together, and were a very cheerful party; indeed, their commander, to the surprise both of his son and Charlie, had quite shaken off his quiet and somewhat gloomy manner, and seemed to have become quite another man, in the active and bracing life in which he was now embarked. Cunningham and Forbes were both active young men, full of life and energy, while the boys thoroughly enjoyed roughing it, and the excitement and animation of their daily work. Sometimes they slept in the open air, sometimes on the floor of a cottage. Their meals were rough but plentiful. The king's orders against plundering were very severe, and, even when in Denmark, the country people, having nothing to complain of, had brought in supplies regularly. Here in Linovia they were in Swedish dominions, but there was little to be purchased, for the peasantry had been brought to ruin by the foraging parties of the Russians and Poles. There was some disappointment, that the enemy had fallen back at the approach of Welling's force, but all felt sure that it would not be long before they met them, for the king would assuredly lose no time in advancing against them, as soon as his army could be brought over. They were not, however, to wait for the arrival of the main force, although the cavalry only took part in the first affair. General Welling heard that a force of three thousand Circassians had taken up their quarters in a village, some fifteen miles away, and sent six hundred horse, under Majors Patkul and Tisenbausen, to surprise them. They were, at first, successful and, attacking the Circassians, set fire to the village, and were engaged in slaughtering the defenders, when twenty-one squadrons of Russian cavalry came up and fell upon them, attacking them on all sides, and posting themselves so as to cut off their retreat. The Swedes, however, gathered in a body, and charged the Russians so furiously that they cut a way through their ranks, losing, however, many of their men, while Major Patkul and another officer were made prisoners. The king was at Revel when this engagement took place, and, although but few of the troops had arrived, he was too impatient for action to wait until the coming of the fleet. He therefore marched to Wesenberg, with his bodyguard and a few troops from Revel. He at once despatched a thousand men, to cover the frontier, and issued orders for the rest of the troops to leave the whole of their baggage behind them, to take three days' provision in their haversacks, and to prepare to march the next morning. Major Jamieson came into the cottage, occupied by Captain Jervoise and his officers, late in the evening. They had a blazing fire, for it was now the middle of November, and the nights were very sharp. "Well, Jervoise, what do you think of the orders?" he asked, as he seated himself on a log that had been brought in for the fire. "I have not thought much about them, except that we are going to do a long and quick march somewhere." "And where is that somewhere, do you think?" "That, I have not the slightest idea." "You would not say that it was to Narva?" "I certainly should not, considering that we have but five thousand infantry, and three thousand cavalry, and of these a large number have been so weakened, by fever, as to be unfit for fighting; while at Narva, report says there are eighty thousand Russians, in a strongly intrenched camp." "Well, that is where we are going, Jervoise, nevertheless. At least, that is what the colonel has told me." "He must have been surely jesting, major. We may be going to push forward in that direction, and occupy some strong position until the army comes up, but it would be the height of madness to attack an enemy, in a strong position, and just tenfold our force." "Well, we shall see," Jamieson said coolly. "It is certain that Narva cannot hold out much longer, and I know that the king has set his heart on relieving it; but it does seem somewhat too dangerous an enterprise to attack the Russians. At any rate, that is the direction in which we are going, tomorrow. It is a good seventy miles distant, and, as they say that the whole country has been devastated, and the villagers have all fled, it is evident that when the three days' bread and meat we carry are exhausted we shall have to get some food, out of the Russian camp, if nowhere else." Captain Jervoise laughed, as did the others. "We can live for a short time on the horses, Jamieson, if we are hard pushed for it, though most of them are little beyond skin and bone." "That is true. The cavalry are certainly scarcely fit for service. Welling's troops have had a very hard time of it, and we may thank our stars, though we did not think so at the time, that we were kept nearly three months at Malmoe, instead of being here with Welling." "But do you seriously think, major, that the king means to attack the Russians?" Cunningham asked. "My own idea is that he does, Cunningham. I cannot see what else there is for us to do. At any rate, if he does, you may be sure that we shall make a tough fight for it. The cavalry showed, the other day, that they can stand up against many times their number of the Russians, and if they can do it, I fancy we can. There is one thing, the very audacity of such an attempt is in its favour." "Well, we will all do our best, you may be sure; but since Thermopylae, I doubt if men have fought against longer odds." The next morning the men fell in. Captain Jervoise, who, like all of his rank, was mounted, took his place at the head of his company, and the little army marched away from Wesenberg. It was a dreary march to Purts, but the sight of the ruined villages, and devastated fields, aroused a feeling of indignation and fury among the troops, and a fierce longing to attack men who had so ruthlessly spread ruin through a fertile country. Orders were issued, that evening, that the men were to husband their provisions as much as possible, and the order was more strictly obeyed than such orders usually are, for the men saw, for themselves, that there was no possibility of obtaining fresh supplies in the wasted country, and were well aware that there existed no train of waggons and horses capable of bringing up stores from Wesenberg. There were a few aged men and women remaining at Purts, and from these they learned that their next day's march would take them to a very difficult pass, which was held by six hundred of the Russian cavalry, together with a force of infantry and some guns. It was the intention of the king to encamp that evening near the pass, and, when within three or four miles of it, General Meidel, who had with him the quartermaster of the army, and four hundred cavalry, rode on ahead to choose a site for the camp. He presently saw a large body of Russian foragers in front of him, and sent back to the king for permission to attack them. Charles ordered the army to continue its march, and, hurrying forward with some of his officers, joined General Meidel and charged the foragers, killing many, taking others prisoners, and putting the rest to flight. He followed close upon their heels, and rode right up to the mouth of the pass, in spite of the heavy fire of artillery and musketry opened by the Russians. He at once determined to take advantage of the alarm produced by the defeat of the Russian cavalry, and, although darkness was now drawing on, brought up some of his infantry and artillery, and attacked with such vigour that the Russians fled, after offering a very feeble resistance. A battalion of foot were ordered to occupy the pass, while the rest of the army piled their arms, and lay down where they stood. In the morning, they were astonished at the strength of the position that had been gained so easily. The defile was deep and narrow, a rapid stream ran through it, and the ground was soft and marshy. A few determined men should have been able to bar the advance of an army. The troops were in high spirits at the result of this, their first action against the enemy, and were the more pleased that they found, in the Russian camp, sufficient provisions to replace those they had used. After a hearty meal, they again advanced at a brisk march. The defile was captured on the evening of the 17th November, and, early in the morning of the 20th, the army reached Lagena, a league and a half from Narva, and, ordering the troops to follow, the king rode forward to reconnoitre the Russian position. The troops were weary with their long marches, and many of those who had, but recently, recovered from fever were scarce able to drag themselves along, while great numbers were unfit to take part in a battle, until after two or three days of rest. The officers of the Malmoe Regiment, for it had taken its name from the camp where it had been formed, were gathered in a group at its head, discussing the situation. Most of the officers were of opinion that, to attack at once, with men and horses worn out with fatigue, was to ensure destruction; but there were others who thought that, in face of so great an army as that gathered in front of them, the only hope was in an immediate attack. Major Jamieson was one of these. "The king is right," he said. "If the Russian army have time to form, and to advance against us in order of battle, we must be annihilated. At present, their camp is an extensive one, for, as I hear, it extends in a great semi-circle four or five miles long, with the ends resting on the river. They cannot believe that we intend to attack them, and, if we go straight at them, we may possibly gain a footing in their intrenchments, before the whole army can gather to aid those at the point of attack. It will be almost a surprise, and I think the king is right to attempt it, for it is only by a quick and sudden stroke that we can gain a success over so great an army." The halt was but a short one and, as soon as the regiments had arrived at the positions assigned to them, they advanced. As soon as they appeared, on a rise of ground facing the intrenchments, the enemy opened fire. The king had already reconnoitred a portion of their position, exposing himself recklessly to their shot, and, as soon as the troops came up, he issued orders for them to prepare to attack in two columns. First, however, several of the regiments were ordered to fall out, and to cut down bushes and make fascines, to enable the troops to cross the ditches. The intrenchment was a formidable one, being provided with parapets armed with chevaux de frise, and flanked by strong exterior works, while several batteries had been placed to sweep the ground across which an enemy must advance. The right column, under General Welling, was to march to a point nearly in the centre of the great semicircle; while the left, under General Rhenschild, was to assault a point about halfway between the centre and the river, where one of the largest and most powerful of the enemy's batteries was placed. The king himself was with this wing, with his bodyguard, and he hoped that here he might meet the czar commanding in person. The Russian emperor had, however, left the camp that morning, to fetch up forty thousand men who were advancing from Plescow, and the command of the army had been assumed by the Duke of Croy. The Swedish left wing had with it a battery of twenty-one guns, while sixteen guns covered the attack on the right. It was two o'clock in the afternoon when two guns gave the signal for the advance. Hitherto the weather had been fine, but it had become gradually overcast, and, just as the signal was given, a tremendous storm of snow and hail began. It set right in the face of the Russians, and concealed from them the movement of the Swedes, for which, indeed, they were wholly unprepared, believing that the small force they saw was but the advance guard of a great Swedish army, and that no attack need be expected until the main body arrived. The consequence was, the Swedes were almost at the edge of the ditch before they were perceived, and both columns attacked with such vigour and courage that, in a quarter of an hour, they had gained a footing in the intrenchments, and had so filled up the ditch with the fascines that the cavalry were able to follow them. The Russians were so astounded at this sudden attack that they lost heart altogether. The Swedish left, as soon as it entered the intrenchments, swept along them, the Russians abandoning their guns and batteries, and making for their bridge across the river. Unfortunately for them, their huts were built close behind the works, and in rear was another intrenchment, designed to repel assaults from the town; and the terrified crowd, unable to make their way rapidly along, over ground encumbered by their huts, crossed the interior intrenchments, thinking to make their way faster through the fields to the bridge. The Swedish king, however, placed himself at the head of his bodyguard, and, followed by the rest of his horse, charged right upon them, cutting down great numbers, and driving the rest before them towards the river, while the infantry kept up a heavy fire upon the fugitives in the intrenchments. The panic had spread quickly, and the Russian troops nearest to the bridge were already pouring over, when the mass of the fugitives arrived. These pressed upon the bridge in such numbers that it speedily gave way, cutting off the retreat of their comrades behind. Ignorant of the result, the terrified crowd pushed on, pressing those in front of them into the river, and the number of drowned was no less than that of those who fell beneath the bullets, pikes, and sabres of the Swedes. In their despair the Russians, rallied by some of their generals, now attempted to defend themselves, and, by occupying some houses and barracks, and barricading the passages between these with overturned waggons, they fought bravely, and repulsed, for some time, every effort of the Swedes. Darkness was now falling, and the king hastened to the spot where the battle was fiercely raging. As he ran towards it, he fell into a morass, from which he was rescued with some difficulty, leaving his sword and one boot behind him. However, he at once pushed on, and placed himself at the head of the infantry engaged in the assault. But even his presence and example did not avail. The Russians maintained their position with desperate courage, and, when it became quite dark, the assault ceased. The right column had met with equal success. It had penetrated the intrenchments, defeated all the Russians who opposed it, and now moved to assist the left wing. The king, however, seeing that the Russian defences could not be carried, by a direct assault, without great loss, gathered the army in the space between the town and the Russian intrenchments, and placed them in a position to repel an attack, should the Russians take the offensive; giving orders that, at daylight, the hill on which the enemy had their principal battery should be assaulted. The guns here commanded all the intrenchments, and the capture of that position would render it impossible for the Russians to continue their defence, or for the now separated wings of the army to combine. The officers in command of the Russian right wing, finding themselves unable to cross the river on their broken bridge, and surrounded by the Swedes, sent in to surrender in the course of the evening, and two battalions of the Swedish Guards took possession of the post that had been so gallantly defended. The king granted them permission to retire with their arms, the colours and standards being given up, and the superior officers being retained as prisoners of war. The broken bridge was repaired and, early the next morning, the Russian troops passed over. Their left wing was, after the surrender of their right, in a hopeless position, for on that side no bridge had been thrown over the river, and their retreat was wholly cut off. On learning, before daybreak, that the right wing had surrendered, they too sent in to ask for terms. The king granted them freedom to return to their country, but without their standards or arms. They filed off before him, officers and soldiers bareheaded, and passed over the bridge, their numbers being so great that all had not crossed until next morning. The Russians lost over 18,000 men killed or drowned, a hundred and forty-five cannon, and twenty-eight mortars, all of which were new, besides vast quantities of military stores and provisions. A hundred and fifty-one colours, and twenty standards, and the greater proportion of their muskets, together with the military chest, the Duke of Croy, their commander-in-chief, and the whole of their generals, colonels, majors, and captains, fell into the hands of the Swedes, as prisoners of war. The total loss in killed and wounded of the Swedes was under two thousand, the chief loss being due to the desperate resistance of the Russians, after the battle was irretrievably lost. It may be doubted whether so complete and surprising a victory, between armies so disproportionate in force, was ever before gained. The king had exposed himself, throughout the day, most recklessly, and was everywhere in the thick of the Russian bullets, and yet he escaped without so much as a scratch. The Malmoe Regiment had been with the left wing, but suffered comparatively little loss, as they were one of the last to enter the intrenchments, and it was only when darkness was closing in that they were called up to take a part in the attack on the position held by the Russians. "Never was the saying, that fortune favours the brave, more signally verified, Jervoise," Major Jamieson said, as he sat down to a rough breakfast with the officers of the Scottish company, on the morning after the Russian surrender. "That's true enough, but Russians are brave, too, as they showed at the end of the day. I fancy you have a scotch proverb to the effect that 'fou folk come to no harm.' I think that is more applicable in the present case." The major laughed. "The fou folk relates rather to drunkenness than madness, Jervoise. But, of course, it would do for both. I own that the whole enterprise did seem, to me, to be absolute madness, but the result has justified it. That sudden snowstorm was the real cause of our victory, and, had it not been for that, I still think that we could not have succeeded. The Russian cannon certainly continued to fire, but it was wholly at random, and they were taken by surprise when we suddenly appeared at the side of the ditch, while we were across before they could gather any force sufficient to defend it. "After that, panic did the rest. The commander in chief fell early into our hands. There was no one to give orders, no one to rally them, and I expect the Russian soldiers gave us credit for having brought on that storm, to cover our assault, by the aid of malign spirits. "Well, lads, and how did you feel when the shots were whistling about?" "I did not like it at all, major," Charlie said. "It seemed such a strange thing, marching along in the thick of that snowstorm, hearing the rush of cannonballs overhead, and the boom of guns, and yet be unable to see anything but the rear files of the company in front." "It was an uncanny feeling, Charlie. I felt it myself, and was very grateful that we were hidden from the enemy, who, of course, were blazing away in the direction in which they had last seen us. We only lost three killed and twelve wounded, altogether, and I think those were, for the most part, hit by random shots. "Well, if this is the way the king means to carry on war, we shall have enough of it before we are done." The sick and wounded were sent into the town, the first thing, but it was not until the Russians had all crossed the river that the king, himself, rode triumphantly into the place, surrounded by his staff, amid the wild enthusiasm of the inhabitants, whom his victory had saved from ruin and massacre. The town, although strongly fortified, was not a large one, and its houses were so dilapidated, from the effects of the Russian bombardment, that but few of the troops could be accommodated there. The rest were quartered in the Russian huts. On the 26th, a solemn service of thanksgiving for the victory was celebrated, with a salute from all the cannon of the town and camp, and by salvos of musketry from the troops. The question of provisions was the most important now. It was true that large quantities had been captured in the Russian camp, but, beyond a magazine of corn, abandoned by the fugitives at Tama and brought in, there was no prospect of replenishing the store when exhausted, for the whole country, for a great distance round, had been completely devastated by the Russians. These had not retreated far, having been rallied by the czar at Plescow, and quartered in the towns of the frontier of Livonia, whence they made incursions into such districts as had not been previously wasted. "This is dull work," Archie Cunningham said, one day. "The sooner we are busy again, the better. There is nothing to do, and very little to eat. The cold is bitter, and fuel scarce. One wants something to warm one's blood." "You are not likely to have anything of that kind, for some months to come," Major Jamieson replied dryly. "You don't suppose we are going to have a battle of Narva once a week, do you? No doubt there will be a few skirmishes, and outpost encounters, but beyond that there will be little doing until next spring. You can make up your mind, for at least five months, of the worst side of a soldier's life--dull quarters, and probably bad ones, scanty food, cold, and disease." "Not a very bright lookout, major," Forbes laughed. "I hope it won't be as bad as that." "Then I advise you to give up hoping, and to make up your mind to realities, Forbes. There is a good deal of illness in the camp now, and there will be more and more as the time goes on. There is nothing like inaction to tell upon the health of troops. However, we certainly shall not stay here. It would be impossible to victual the army, and I expect that, before long, we shall march away and take up quarters for the winter. "As to operations on a great scale, they are out of the question. After the thrashing they have had, the Russians will be months before they are in a condition to take the offensive again; while we are equally unable to move because, in the first place, we are not strong enough to do so, and in the second we have no baggage train to carry provisions with us, and no provisions to carry if we had it." On the 13th of December, the king quitted Narva with the army, and on the 19th arrived at Lais, an old castle six miles from Derpt, and here established his headquarters. A few of the troops were stationed in villages, but the greater part in rough huts in the neighbourhood, and along the frontier. It was not long before Major Jamieson's predictions were verified. A low fever, occasioned by the fatiguing marches and the hardships they had endured, added to the misery from the cold and wet that penetrated the wretched huts, spread rapidly through the army. Many died, and great numbers were absolutely prostrated. The king was indefatigable in his efforts to keep up the spirits of the troops. He constantly rode about from camp to camp, entering the huts, chatting cheerfully with the soldiers, and encouraging them by kind words and assurances that, when the spring came, they would soon gain strength again. At Narva the four young officers had all purchased horses. Most of the Swedish officers were mounted; and the king encouraged this, as, on occasion, he could thereby collect at once a body of mounted men ready for any enterprise; but their own colonel preferred that, on the march, the lieutenants and ensigns should be on foot with their men, in order to set them an example of cheerful endurance. Those who wished it, however, were permitted to have horses, which were, on such occasions, led in the rear of the regiment. Captain Jervoise had approved of the purchase of the horses, which were got very cheaply, as great numbers had been captured. "If we can get over the difficulty of the forage," he said, "you will find them very useful for preserving your health during the winter. A ride will set your blood in motion, and, wherever we are quartered, there are sure to be camps within riding distance. The king approves of officers taking part in dashing expeditions, so you may be able to take a share in affairs that will break the monotony of camp life." They found great benefit from being able to ride about. Forage was indeed very scarce. They had no means of spending their pay on luxuries of any kind, their only outlay being in the purchase of black bread, and an occasional load of forage from the peasants. Their regiment was with the force under the command of Colonel Schlippenbach, which was not very far from Marienburg, a place open to the incursions of the Russians. Baron Spens was at Signiz, and Colonel Alvedyhl at Rounenberg, and to both these places they occasionally paid a visit. In order to keep the company in health, Captain Jervoise encouraged the men to get up games, in which the four young officers took part. Sometimes it was a snowball match in the open; at other times a snow fort was built, garrisoned, and attacked. Occasionally there were matches at hockey, while putting the stone, throwing the caber, running and wrestling matches, were all tried in turn; and the company suffered comparatively little from the illness which rendered so large a proportion of the Swedish army inefficient. Colonel Schlippenbach was an energetic officer, and had, several times, ridden past when the men were engaged in these exercises. He expressed to Captain Jervoise his approval of the manner in which he kept his men in strength and vigour. "I shall not forget it," he said, one day, "and if there is service to be done, I see that I can depend upon your company to do it." In January, he took a party of horse, and reconnoitred along the River Aa, to observe the motions of the Saxons on the other side; and, hearing that a party of them had entered Marienburg, he determined to take possession of that place, as, were they to fortify it, they would be able greatly to harass the Swedes. Sending word to the king of his intention, and asking for an approval of his plan of fortifying the town, he took three companies of infantry and four hundred horse, made a rapid march to Marienburg, and occupied it without opposition. He had not forgotten his promise, and the company of Captain Jervoise was one of those selected for the work. Its officers were delighted at the prospect of a change, and, when the party started, Captain Jervoise was proud of the show made by his men, whose active and vigorous condition contrasted strongly with the debility and feebleness evident, so generally, among the Swedish soldiers. As soon as Marienburg was entered, the men were set to work, to raise and strengthen the rampart and to erect bastions; and they were aided, a few days later, by a reinforcement of two hundred infantry, sent by the king, with some cannon, from the garrison of Derpt. As the place was surrounded by a morass, it was, ere long, put into a position to offer a formidable defence against any force that the Russians or Saxons might bring against it. The Swedes engaged on the work gained strength rapidly, and, by the time the fortifications were finished, they had completely shaken off the effects of the fever. Chapter 6: A Prisoner. A fortnight after the fortifications of Marienburg were completed, Colonel Schlippenbach sent off Lieutenant Colonel Brandt, with four hundred horse, to capture a magazine at Seffwegen, to which the Saxons had forced the inhabitants of the country round to bring in their corn, intending later to convey it to the headquarters of their army. The expedition was completely successful. The Saxon guard were overpowered, and a thousand tons of corn were brought, in triumph, into Marienburg. Some of it was sent on to the army, abundance being retained for the use of the town and garrison, in case of siege. It was now resolved to surprise and burn Pitschur, a town on the frontier from which the enemy constantly made incursions. It was held by a strong body of Russians. Baron Spens was in command of the expedition. He had with him both the regiments of Horse Guards. Much excitement was caused, in Marienburg, by the issue of an order that the cavalry, and a portion of the infantry, were to be ready to march at daylight; and by the arrival of a large number of peasants, brought in by small parties of the cavalry. Many were the surmises as to the operation to be undertaken, its object being kept a strict secret. Captain Jervoise's company was one of those in orders, and paraded at daybreak, and, after a march of some distance, the force joined that of Baron Spens. The troops were halted in a wood, and ordered to light fires to cook food, and to prepare for a halt of some hours. Great fires were soon blazing and, after eating their meal, most of the troops wrapped themselves in the blankets that they carried, in addition to their greatcoats, and lay down by the fires. They slept until midnight, and were then called to arms again. They marched all night, and at daybreak the next morning, the 13th of February, were near Pitschur, and at once attacked the Russian camp outside the town. Taken completely by surprise, the Russians fought feebly, and more than five hundred were killed before they entered the town, hotly pursued by the Swedes. Shutting themselves up in the houses, and barricading the doors and windows, they defended themselves desperately, refusing all offers of surrender. The Livonian peasants were, however, at work, and set fire to the town in many places. The flames spread rapidly. Great stores of hides and leather, and a huge magazine filled with hemp, added to the fury of the conflagration, and the whole town was burned to the ground; numbers of the Russians preferring death by fire, in the houses, to coming out and surrendering themselves. Many of the fugitives had succeeded in reaching a strong position on the hill commanding the town. This consisted of a convent, surrounded by strong walls mounted with cannon, which played upon the town while the fight there was going on. As Baron Spens had no guns with him, he was unable to follow up his advantage by taking this position, and he therefore gave orders to the force to retire, the peasants being loaded with booty that they had gathered before the fire spread. The loss of the Swedes was thirty killed and sixty wounded, this being a small amount of loss compared with what they had inflicted upon the enemy. "I call that a horrible business, Captain Jervoise," Charlie said, when the troops had returned to Marienburg. "There was no real fighting in it." "It was a surprise, Charlie. But they fought desperately after they gained the town." "Yes, but we did nothing there beyond firing away at the windows. Of course, I had my sword in my hand; but it might as well have been in its sheath, for I never struck a blow, and I think it was the same with most of our men. One could not cut down those poor wretches, who were scarce awake enough to use their arms. I was glad you held our company in rear of the others." "Yes; I asked the colonel before attacking to put us in reserve, in case the enemy should rally. I did it on purpose, for I knew that our men, not having, like the Swedes, any personal animosity against the Russians, would not like the work. If it had come to storming the convent, I would have volunteered to lead the assault. At any rate, I am glad that, although a few of the men are wounded, no lives are lost in our company." Harry cordially agreed with his friend. "I like an expedition, Charlie, if there is fighting to be done; but I don't want to have anything more to do with surprises. However, the cavalry had a good deal more to do with it than we had; but, as you say, it was a ghastly business. The only comfort is they began it, and have been robbing the peasants and destroying their homes for months." Many small expeditions were sent out with equally favourable results; but Captain Jervoise's company took no part in these excursions. Charles the Twelfth was passionately fond of hunting and, in spite of his many occupations, found time occasionally to spend a day or two in the chase. A few days after the attack upon Pitschur, he came to Marienburg to learn all particulars of the Russian position from Colonel Schlippenbach, as he intended, in the spring, to attack the triangle formed by three fortresses, in order to drive the Russians farther back from the frontier. "I hear that there are many wolves and bears in the forest, five leagues to the north. I want a party of about fifty footmen to drive the game, and as many horse, in case we come across one of the parties of Russians. I want some hearty, active men for the march. I will send the foot on this afternoon, and ride with the horse so as to get there by daybreak. Which is your best company of infantry?" "My best company is one composed chiefly of Scotchmen, though there are some English among them. It belongs to the Malmoe Regiment, and is commanded by Captain Jervoise, an Englishman. I do not say that they are braver than our Swedes; they have not been tested in any desperate service; but they are healthier and more hardy, for their officers, since the battle of Narva, have kept them engaged in sports of all kinds--mimic battles, foot races, and other friendly contests. I have marked them at it several times, and wondered sometimes at the rough play. But it has had its effect. While the rest of Suborn's regiment suffered as much from fever as the other troops, scarce a man in this company was sick, and they have, all the winter, been fit for arduous service at any moment." "That is good indeed, and I will remember it, and will see that, another winter, similar games are carried on throughout the army. Let the company be paraded at once. I will, myself, inspect them." The company's call was sounded, and, surprised at a summons just as they were cooking their dinners, the troops fell in, in front of their quarters, and the officers took their places in front of them, and waited for orders. "I wonder what is up now," Nigel Forbes said to Harry. "You have not heard anything, from your father, of our being wanted, have you?" "No; he was just as much surprised as I was, when a sergeant ran up with Schlippenbach's order that the company were to fall in." Five minutes after they had formed up, three officers were seen approaching on foot. "It is the colonel himself," Forbes muttered, as Captain Jervoise gave the word to the men to stand to attention. A minute later, Captain Jervoise gave the order for the salute, and Harry saw that the tall young officer, walking with the colonel, was the king. Without speaking a word, Charles walked up and down the line, narrowly inspecting the men, then he returned to the front. "A fine set of fellows, Schlippenbach. I wish that, like my grandfather, I had some fifteen thousand of such troops under my orders. Present the captain to me." The officers were called up, and Captain Jervoise was presented. "Your company does you great credit, Captain Jervoise," the king said. "I would that all my troops looked in as good health and condition. Colonel Schlippenbach tells me that you have kept your men in good health, all through the winter, by means of sports and games. It is a good plan. I will try to get all my officers to adopt it another winter. Do the men join in them willingly?" Captain Jervoise and his officers had all, during the nine months that had passed since they landed in Sweden, done their best to acquire the language, and could now speak and understand it thoroughly. "They like it, your majesty. Our people are fond of games of this kind. My four officers take part in them with the men." The king nodded. "That is as it should be. It must create a good feeling on both sides. Present your officers to me, Captain Jervoise." This was done, and the king spoke a few words to each. Charlie had often seen the king at a distance, but never before so close as to be able to notice his face particularly. He was a tall young fellow, thin and bony. His face was long, and his forehead singularly high and somewhat projecting. This was the most noticeable feature of his face. His eyes were quick and keen, his face clean-shaven, and, had it not been for the forehead and eyes, would have attracted no attention. His movements were quick and energetic, and, after speaking to the officers, he strode a step or two forward and, raising his voice, said: "I am pleased with you, men. Your appearance does credit to yourselves and your officers. Scottish troops did grand service under my grandfather, Gustavus Adolphus, and I would that I had twenty battalions of such soldiers with me. I am going hunting tomorrow, and I asked Colonel Schlippenbach for half a company of men who could stand cold and fatigue. He told me that I could not do better than take them from among this company, and I see that he could not have made a better choice. But I will not separate you, and will therefore take you all. You will march in an hour, and I will see that there is a good supper ready for you, at the end of your journey." Colonel Schlippenbach gave Captain Jervoise directions as to the road they were to follow, and the village, at the edge of the forest, where they were to halt for the night. He then walked away with the king. Highly pleased with the praise Charles had given them, the company fell out. "Get your dinners as soon as you can, men," Captain Jervoise said. "The king gave us an hour. We must be in readiness to march by that time." On arriving at the village, which consisted of a few small houses only, they found two waggons awaiting them, one with tents and the other with a plentiful supply of provisions, and a barrel of wine. The tents were erected, and then the men went into the forest, and soon returned with large quantities of wood, and great fires were speedily lighted. Meat was cut up and roasted over them, and, regarding the expedition as a holiday, the men sat down to their supper in high spirits. After it was eaten there were songs round the fires, and, at nine o'clock, all turned into their tents, as it was known that the king would arrive at daylight. Sentries were posted, for there was never any saying when marauding parties of Russians, who were constantly on the move, might come along. Half an hour before daybreak, the men were aroused. Tents were struck and packed in the waggon, and the men then fell in, and remained until the king, with three or four of his officers and fifty cavalry, rode up. Fresh wood had been thrown on the fires, and some of the men told off as cooks. "That looks cheerful for hungry men," the king said, as he leaped from his horse. "I did not know whether your majesty would wish to breakfast at once," Captain Jervoise said; "but I thought it well to be prepared." "We will breakfast by all means. We are all sharp set already. Have your own men had food yet?" "No, sir. I thought perhaps they would carry it with them." "No, no. Let them all have a hearty meal before they move, then they can hold on as long as may be necessary." The company fell out again, and, in a quarter of an hour, they and the troopers breakfasted. A joint of meat was placed, for the use of the king and the officers who had come with him, and Captain Jervoise and those with him prepared to take their meal a short distance away, but Charles said: "Bring that joint here, Captain Jervoise, and we will all take breakfast together. We are all hunters and comrades." In a short time, they were all seated round a fire, with their meat on wooden platters on their knees, and with mugs of wine beside them; Captain Jervoise, by the king's orders, taking his seat beside him. During the meal, he asked him many questions as to his reasons for leaving England, and taking service with him. "So you have meddled in politics, eh?" the king laughed, when he heard a brief account of Captain Jervoise's reason for leaving home. "Your quarrels, in England and Scotland, have added many a thousand good soldiers to the armies of France and Sweden, and, I may say, of every country in Europe. I believe there are some of your compatriots, or at any rate Scotchmen, in the czar's camp. I suppose that, at William's death, these troubles will cease." "I do not know, sir. Anne was James' favourite daughter, and it may be she will resign in favour of her brother, the lawful king. If she does so, there is an end of trouble; but, should she mount the throne, she would be a usurper, as Mary was up to her death in '94. As Anne has been on good terms with William, since her sister's death, I fear she will act as unnatural a part as Mary did, and, in that case, assuredly we shall not recognize her as our queen." "You have heard the news, I suppose, of the action of the parliament last month?" "No, sir, we have heard nothing for some weeks of what is doing in England." "They have been making an Act of Settlement of the succession. Anne is to succeed William, and, as she has no children by George of Denmark, the succession is to pass from her to the Elector of Hanover, in right of his wife Sophia, as the rest of the children of the Elector of the Palatinate have abjured Protestantism, and are therefore excluded. How will that meet the views of the English and Scotch Jacobites?" "It is some distance to look forward to, sire. If Anne comes to the throne at William's death, it will, I think, postpone our hopes, for Anne is a Stuart, and is a favourite with the nation, in spite of her undutiful conduct to her father. Still, it will be felt that for Stuart to fight against Stuart, brother against sister, would be contrary to nature. Foreigners are always unpopular, and, as against William, every Jacobite is ready to take up arms. But I think that nothing will be done during Anne's reign. The Elector of Hanover would be as unpopular, among Englishmen in general, as is William of Orange, and, should he come to the throne, there will assuredly ere long be a rising to bring back the Stuarts." Charles shook his head. "I don't want to ruffle your spirit of loyalty to the Stuarts, Captain Jervoise, but they have showed themselves weak monarchs for a great country. They want fibre. William of Orange may be, as you call him, a foreigner and a usurper, but England has greater weight in the councils of Europe, in his hands, than it has had since the death of Elizabeth." This was rather a sore point with Captain Jervoise, who, thorough Jacobite as he was, had smarted under the subservience of England to France during the reigns of the two previous monarchs. "You Englishmen and Scotchmen are fighting people," the king went on, "and should have a military monarch. I do not mean a king like myself, who likes to fight in the front ranks of his soldiers; but one like William, who has certainly lofty aims, and is a statesman, and can join in European combinations." "William thinks and plans more for Holland than for England, sire. He would join a league against France and Spain, not so much for the benefit of England, which has not much to fear from these powers, but of Holland, whose existence now, as of old is threatened by them." "England's interest is similar to that of Holland," the king said. "I began this war, nominally, in the interest of the Duke of Holstein, but really because it was Sweden's interest that Denmark should not become too powerful. "But we must not waste time in talking politics. I see the men have finished their breakfast, and we are here to hunt. I shall keep twenty horse with me; the rest will enter the forest with you. I have arranged for the peasants here to guide you. You will march two miles along by the edge of the forest, and then enter it and make a wide semicircle, leaving men as you go, until you come down to the edge of the forest again, a mile to our left. "As soon as you do so, you will sound a trumpet, and the men will then move forward, shouting so as to drive the game before them. As the peasants tell me there are many wolves and bears in the forest, I hope that you will inclose some of them in your cordon, which will be about five miles from end to end. With the horse you will have a hundred and thirty men, so that there will be a man every sixty or seventy yards. That is too wide a space at first, but, as you close in, the distances will rapidly lessen, and they must make up, by noise, for the scantiness of their numbers. If they find the animals are trying to break through, they can discharge their pieces; but do not let them do so otherwise, as it would frighten the animals too soon, and send them flying out all along the open side of the semicircle." It was more than two hours before the whole of the beaters were in position. Just before they had started, the king had requested Captain Jervoise to remain with him and the officers who had accompanied him, five in number. They had been posted, a hundred yards apart, at the edge of the forest. Charlie was the first officer left behind as the troop moved through the forest, and it seemed to him an endless time before he heard a faint shout, followed by another and another, until, at last, the man stationed next to him repeated the signal. Then they moved forward, each trying to obey the orders to march straight ahead. For some time, nothing was heard save the shouts of the men, and then Charlie made out some distant shots, far in the wood, and guessed that some animals were trying to break through the lines. Then he heard the sound of firing directly in front of him. This continued for some time, occasionally single shots being heard, but more often shots in close succession. Louder and louder grew the shouting, as the men closed in towards a common point, and, in half an hour after the signal had been given, all met. "What sport have you had, father?" Harry asked, as he came up to Captain Jervoise. "We killed seventeen wolves and four bears, with, what is more important, six stags. I do not know whether we are going to have another beat." It soon turned out that this was the king's intention, and the troops marched along the edge of the forest. Charlie was in the front of his company, the king with the cavalry a few hundred yards ahead, when, from a dip of ground on the right, a large body of horsemen suddenly appeared. "Russians!" Captain Jervoise exclaimed, and shouted to the men, who were marching at ease, to close up. The king did not hesitate a moment, but, at the head of his fifty cavalry, charged right down upon the Russians, who were at least five hundred strong. The little body disappeared in the melee, and then seemed to be swallowed up. "Keep together, shoulder to shoulder, men. Double!" and the company set off at a run. When they came close to the mass of horsemen, they poured in a volley, and then rushed forward, hastily fitting the short pikes they carried into their musket barrels; for, as yet, the modern form of bayonets was not used. The Russians fought obstinately, but the infantry pressed their way step by step through them, until they reached the spot where the king, with his little troop of cavalry, were defending themselves desperately from the attacks of the Russians. The arrival of the infantry decided the contest, and the Russians began to draw off, the king hastening the movement by plunging into the midst of them with his horsemen. Charlie was on the flank of the company as it advanced, and, after running through a Russian horseman with the short pike that was carried by officers, he received a tremendous blow on his steel cap, that stretched him insensible on the ground. When he recovered, he felt that he was being carried, and soon awoke to the fact that he was a prisoner. After a long ride, the Russians arrived at Plescow. They had lost some sixty men in the fight. Charlie was the only prisoner taken. He was, on dismounting, too weak to stand, but he was half carried and half dragged to the quarters of the Russian officer in command. The latter addressed him, but, finding that he was not understood, sent for an officer who spoke Swedish. "What were the party you were with doing in the wood?" "We were hunting wolves and bears." "Where did you come from?" "From Marienburg." "How strong were you?" "Fifty horse and a hundred and forty foot," Charlie replied, knowing there could be no harm in stating the truth. "But it was a long way to march, merely to hunt, and your officers must have been mad to come out, with so small a party, to a point where they were likely to meet with us." "It was not too small a party, sir, as they managed to beat off the attack made upon them." The Russian was silent for a moment, then he asked: "Who was the officer in command?" "The officer in command was the King of Sweden," Charlie replied. An exclamation of surprise and anger broke from the Russian general, when the answer was translated to him. "You missed a good chance of distinguishing yourself," he said to the officer in command of the troops. "Here has this mad King of Sweden been actually putting himself in your hands, and you have let him slip through your fingers. It would have got you two steps in rank, and the favour of the czar, had you captured him, and now he will be in a rage, indeed, when he hears that five hundred cavalry could do nothing against a force only a third of their number." "I had no idea that the King of Sweden was there himself," the officer said humbly. "Bah, that is no excuse. There were officers, and you ought to have captured them, instead of allowing yourself to be put to flight by a hundred and fifty men." "We must have killed half the horsemen before the infantry came up." "All the worse, colonel, that you did not complete the business. The infantry would not have been formidable, after they discharged their pieces. However, it is your own affair, and I wash my hands of it. What the czar will say when he hears of it, I know not, but I would not be in your shoes for all my estates." As Charlie learned afterwards, the colonel was degraded from his rank by the angry czar, and ordered to serve as a private in the regiment he commanded. The officer who acted as translator said something in his own tongue to the general, who then, through him, said: "This officer tells me that by your language you are not a Swede." "I am not. I am English, and I am an ensign in the Malmoe Regiment." "All the worse for you," the general said. "The czar has declared that he will exchange no foreign officers who may be taken prisoners." "Very well, sir," Charlie said, fearlessly. "He will be only punishing his own officers. There are plenty of them in the King of Sweden's hands." The general, when this reply was translated to him, angrily ordered Charlie to be taken away, and he was soon lodged in a cell in the castle. His head was still swimming from the effects of the blow that had stricken him down, and, without even trying to think over his position, he threw himself down on the straw pallet, and was soon asleep. It was morning when he woke and, for a short time, he was unable to imagine where he was, but soon recalled what had happened. He had been visited by someone after he had lain down, for a platter of bread and meat stood on the table, and a jug of water. He was also covered with two thick blankets. These had not been there when he lay down, for he had wondered vaguely as to how he should pass the night without some covering. He took a long draught of water, then ate some food. His head throbbed with the pain of the wound. It had been roughly bandaged by his captors, but needed surgical dressing. "I wonder how long I am likely to be, before I am exchanged," he said to himself. "A long time, I am afraid; for there are scores of Russian officers prisoners with us, and I don't think there are half a dozen of ours captured by the Russians. Of course, no exchange can take place until there are a good batch to send over, and, it may be, months may pass before they happen to lay hands on enough Swedish officers to make it worth while to trouble about exchanging them." An hour later the door opened, and an officer entered, followed by a soldier with a large bowl of broth and some bread. "I am a doctor," he said in Swedish. "I came in to see you yesterday evening, but you were sound asleep, and that was a better medicine than any I can give; so I told the man to throw those two barrack rugs over you, and leave your food in case you should wake, which did not seem to me likely. I see, however, that you did wake," and he pointed to the plate. "That was not till this morning, doctor. It is not an hour since I ate it." "This broth will be better for you, and I daresay you can manage another breakfast. Sit down and take it, at once, while it is hot. I am in no hurry." He gave an order in Russian to the soldier, who went out, and returned in a few minutes with a small wooden tub, filled with hot water. By this time Charlie had finished the broth. The doctor then bathed his head for some time in hot water, but was obliged to cut off some of his hair, in order to remove the bandage. As he examined the wound, Charlie was astounded to hear him mutter to himself: "It is a mighty nate clip you have got, my boy; and, if your skull had not been a thick one, it is lying out there on the turf you would be." Charlie burst into a fit of laughter. "So you are English, too," he exclaimed, as he looked up into the surgeon's face. "At laste Irish, my boy," the doctor said, as surprised as Charlie had been. "To think we should have been talking Swedish to each other, instead of our native tongue. And what is your name? And what is it you are doing here, as a Swede, at all?" "My name is Charles Carstairs. I come from Lancashire, just on the borders of Westmoreland. My father is a Jacobite, and so had to leave the country. He went over to Sweden, and I, with some friends of his, got commissions." "Then our cases are pretty much alike," the doctor said. "I had gone through Dublin University, and had just passed as a surgeon, when King James landed. It didn't much matter to me who was king, but I thought it was a fine opportunity to study gunshot wounds, so I joined the royal army, and was at the battle of the Boyne. I had plenty of work with wounds, early in the day, but when, after the Irish had fairly beat the Dutchman back all day, they made up their minds to march away at night, I had to lave my patients and be off too. Then I was shut up in Limerick; and I was not idle there, as you may guess. When at last the surrender came, I managed to slip away, having no fancy for going over with the regiments that were to enter the service of France. I thought I could have gone back to Dublin, and that no one would trouble about me; but someone put them up to it, and I had to go without stopping to ask leave. I landed at Bristol, and there, for a time, was nearly starving. "I was well nigh my wits' end as to what to do for a living, and had just spent my last shilling, when I met an English captain, who told me that across at Gottenburg there were a good many Irish and Scotchmen who had, like myself, been in trouble at home. He gave me a passage across, and took me to the house of a man he knew. Of course, it was no use my trying to doctor people, when they could not tell me what was the matter with them, and I worked at one thing and another, doing anything I could turn my hands to, for four or five months. That is how I got to pick up Swedish. Then some people told me that Russia was a place where a doctor might get on, for that they had got no doctors for their army who knew anything of surgery, and the czar was always ready to take on foreigners who could teach them anything. I had got my diploma with me, and some of my friends came forward and subscribed enough to rig me out in clothes and pay my passage. What was better, one of them happened to have made the acquaintance of Le Ford, who was, as you may have heard, the czar's most intimate friend. "I wished myself back a hundred times before I reached Moscow, but when I did, everything was easy for me. Le Ford introduced me to the czar, and I was appointed surgeon of a newly-raised regiment, of which Le Ford was colonel. That was eight years ago, and I am now a sort of surgeon general of a division, and am at the head of the hospitals about here. Till the war began I had not, for five years, done any military work, but had been at the head of a college the czar has established for training surgeons for the army. I was only sent down here after that business at Narva. "So, you see, I have fallen on my feet. The czar's is a good service, and we employ a score or two of Scotchmen, most of them in good posts. He took to them because a Scotchman, General Gordon, and other foreign officers, rescued him from his sister Sophia, who intended to assassinate him, and established him firmly on the throne of his father. "It is a pity you are not on this side. Perhaps it isn't too late to change, eh?" Charlie laughed. "My father is in Sweden, and my company is commanded by a man who is as good as a father to me, and his son is like my brother. If there were no other reason, I could not change. Why, it was only yesterday I was sitting round a bivouac fire with King Charles, and nothing would induce me to fight against him." "I am not going to try to persuade you. The czar has treated me well, and I love him. By the way, I have not given you my name after all. It's Terence Kelly." "Is not the czar very fierce and cruel?" "Bedad, I would be much more cruel and fierce if I were in his place. Just think of one man, with all Russia on his shoulders. There is he trying to improve the country, working like a horse himself, knowing that, like every other Russian, he is as ignorant as a pig, and setting to improve himself--working in the dockyards of Holland and England, attending lectures, and all kinds of subjects. Why, man, he learnt anatomy, and can take off a leg as quickly as I can. He is building a fleet and getting together an army. It is not much good yet, you will say, but it will be some day. You can turn a peasant into a soldier in six months, but it takes a long time to turn out generals and officers who are fit for their work. "Then, while he is trying everywhere to improve his country, every man jack of them objects to being improved, and wants to go along in his old ways. Didn't they get up an insurrection, only because he wanted them to cut off their beards? Any other man would have lost heart, and given it up years ago. It looks as hopeless a task as for a mouse to drag a mountain, but he is doing it. "I don't say that he is perfect. He gets into passions, and it is mighty hard for anyone he gets into a passion with. But who would not get into passions, when there is so much work to be done, and everyone tries to hinder instead of to help? It would break the heart of Saint Patrick! Why, that affair at Narva would have broken down most men. Here, for years, has he been working to make an army, and the first time they meet an enemy worthy of the name, what do they do? Why, they are beaten by a tenth of their number of half-starved men, led by a mad-brained young fellow who had never heard a shot fired before, and lose all their cannon, guns, ammunition, and stores. Why, I was heartbroken, myself, when I heard of it; but Peter, instead of blowing out his brains, or drowning himself, set to work, an hour after the news reached him, to bring up fresh troops, to re-arm the men, and to prepare to meet the Swedes again, as soon as the snow is off the ground. "If James of England had been Peter of Russia, he would be ruling over Ireland now, and England and Scotland, too. "But now, I must be off. Don't you worry about your head. I have seen as bad a clip given by a blackthorn. I have got to go round now and see the wounded, and watch some operations being done, but I will come in again this evening. Don't eat any more of their messes, if they bring them in. You and I will have a snug little dinner together. I might get you put into a more dacent chamber, but the general is one of the old pig-headed sort. We don't pull together, so I would rather not ask any favours from him. "The czar may come any day--he is always flying about. I will speak to him when he comes, and see that you have better entertainment." Chapter 7: Exchanged. Late in the afternoon, Doctor Kelly came in again to the cell. "Come along," he said; "I have got lave for you to have supper with me, and have given my pledge that you won't try to escape till it is over, or make any onslaught on the garrison, but will behave like a quiet and peaceable man." "You are quite safe in giving the pledge, doctor," Charlie laughed. "Come along then, me boy, for they were just dishing up when I came to fetch you. It is cold enough outside, and there is no sinse in putting cold victuals into one in such weather as this." They were not long in reaching a snugly-furnished room, where a big fire was burning. Another gentleman was standing, with his back to it. He was a man of some seven or eight and twenty, with large features, dark brown hair falling in natural curls over his ears, and large and powerful in build. "This is my friend, Charlie Carstairs," the doctor said. "This, Carstairs, is Peter Michaeloff, a better doctor than most of those who mangle the czar's soldiers." "Things will better in time," the other said, "when your pupils begin to take their places in the army." "I hope so," the doctor said, shrugging his shoulders. "There is one comfort, they can't be much worse." At this moment a servant entered, bearing a bowl of soup and three basins. They at once seated themselves at the table. "So you managed to get yourself captured yesterday," Doctor Michaeloff said to Charlie. "I have not had the pleasure of seeing many of you gentlemen here." "We don't come if we can help it," Charlie laughed. "But the Cossacks were so pressing, that I could not resist. In fact, I did not know anything about it, until I was well on the way." "I hope they have made you comfortable," the other said, sharply. "I can't say much for the food," Charlie said, "and still less for the cell, which was bitterly cold. Still, as the doctor gave me two rugs to wrap myself up in, I need not grumble." "That is not right," the other said angrily. "I hear that the King of Sweden treats our prisoners well. "You should have remonstrated, Kelly." The Irishman shrugged his shoulders. "I ventured to hint to the general that I thought an officer had a right to better treatment, even if he were a prisoner, but I was told sharply to mind my own business, which was with the sick and wounded. I said, as the prisoner was wounded, I thought it was a matter that did come to some extent under my control." "What did the pig say?" "He grumbled something between his teeth, that I did not catch, and, as I thought the prisoner would not be kept there long, and was not unaccustomed to roughing it, it was not worthwhile pressing the matter further." "Have you heard that an officer has been here this afternoon, with a flag of truce, to treat for your exchange?" Doctor Michaeloff said, turning suddenly to Charlie. "No, I have not heard anything about it," Charlie said. "He offered a captain for you, which you may consider a high honour." "It is, no doubt," Charlie said, with a smile. "I suppose his majesty thought, as it was in his special service I was caught, he was bound to get me released, if he could." "It was a hunting party, was it not?" "Yes. There was only the king with four of his officers there, and my company of foot, and fifty horse. I don't think I can call it an escort, for we went principally as beaters." "Rustoff missed a grand chance there, Kelly. "What regiment do you belong to?" And he again turned to Charlie. "The Malmoe Regiment. The company is commanded by an English gentleman, who is a neighbour and great friend of my father. His son is an ensign, and my greatest friend. The men are all either Scotch or English, but most of them Scotch." "They are good soldiers, the Scotch; none better. There are a good many in the Russian service, also in that of Austria and France. They are always faithful, and to be relied upon, even when native troops prove treacherous. And you like Charles of Sweden?" "There is not a soldier in his army but likes him," Charlie said enthusiastically. "He expects us to do much, but he does more himself. All through the winter, he did everything in his power for us, riding long distances from camp to camp, to visit the sick and to keep up the spirits of the men. If we live roughly, so does he, and, on the march, he will take his meals among the soldiers, and wrap himself up in his cloak, and sleep on the bare ground, just as they do. And as for his bravery, he exposes his life recklessly--too recklessly, we all think--and it seemed a miracle that, always in the front as he was, he should have got through Narva without a scratch." "Yes, that was a bad bit of business, that Narva," the other said thoughtfully. "Why do you think we were beaten in the horrible way we were?--because the Russians are no cowards." "No; they made a gallant stand when they recovered from their surprise," Charlie agreed. "But in the first place, they were taken by surprise." "They ought not to have been," the doctor said angrily. "They had news, two days before, brought by the cavalry, who ought to have defended that pass, but didn't." "Still, it was a surprise when we attacked," Charlie said, "for they could not suppose that the small body they saw were going to assail them. Then, we had the cover of that snowstorm, and they did not see us, until we reached the edge of the ditch. Of course, your general ought to have made proper dispositions, and to have collected the greater part of his troops at the spot facing us, instead of having them strung out round that big semicircle, so that, when we made an entry they were separated, and each half was ignorant of what the other was doing. Still, even then they might have concentrated between the trenches and the town. But no orders had been given. The general was one of the first we captured. The others waited for the orders that never came, until it was too late. If the general who commanded on the left had massed his troops, and marched against us as we were attacking the position they held on their right, we should have been caught between two fires." "It was a badly managed business, altogether," Doctor Michaeloff growled; "but we shall do better next time. We shall understand Charles's tactics better. We reckoned on his troops, but we did not reckon on him. "Kelly tells me that you would not care to change service." "My friends are in the Swedish army, and I am well satisfied with the service. I daresay, if Russia had been nearer England than Sweden is, and we had landed there first, we should have been as glad to enter the service of the czar as we were to join that of King Charles. Everyone says that the czar makes strangers welcome, and that he is a liberal master to those who serve him well. As to the quarrel between them, I am not old enough to be able to give my opinion on it, though, as far as I am concerned, it seems to me that it was not a fair thing for Russia to take advantage of Sweden's being at war with Denmark and Augustus of Saxony, to fall upon her without any cause of quarrel." "Nations move less by morality than interest," Doctor Michaeloff said calmly. "Russia wants a way to the sea--the Turks cut her off to the south, and the Swedes from the Baltic. She is smothered between them, and when she saw her chance, she took it. That is not good morality. I admit that it is the excuse of the poor man who robs the rich, but it is human nature, and nations act, in the long run, a good deal like individuals." "But you have not told me yet, doctor," Charlie said, turning the conversation, "whether the proposal for an exchange was accepted." "The general had no power to accept it, Carstairs. It had to be referred to the czar himself." "I wish his majesty could see me, then," Charlie laughed. "He would see that I am but a lad, and that my release would not greatly strengthen the Swedish army." "But then the czar may be of opinion that none of his officers, who allowed themselves to be captured by a handful of men at Narva, would be of any use to him," Doctor Michaeloff laughed. "That may, doubtless, be said of a good many among them," Charlie said, "but, individually, none of the captains could be blamed for the mess they made of it." "Perhaps not, but if all the men had been panic stricken, there were officers enough to have gathered together and cut their way through the Swedes." "No doubt there were; but you must remember, Doctor Michaeloff, that an officer's place is with his company, and that it is his duty to think of his men, before thinking of himself. Supposing all the officers of the left wing, as you say, had gathered together and cut their way out, the czar would have had a right to blame them for the capture of the whole of the men. How could they tell that, at daybreak, the general would not have given orders for the left wing to attack the Swedes? They were strong enough still to have eaten us up, had they made the effort, and had the czar been there in person, I will warrant he would have tried it." "That he would," Doctor Michaeloff said warmly. "You are right there, young sir. The czar may not be a soldier, but at least he is a man, which is more than can be said for the officer who ordered sixty thousand men to lay down their arms to eight thousand." "I am sure of that," Charlie said. "A man who would do as he has done, leave his kingdom, and work like a common man in dockyards, to learn how to build ships, and who rules his people as he does, must be a great man. I don't suppose he would do for us in England, because a king has no real power with us, and Peter would never put up with being thwarted in all his plans by parliament, as William is. But for a country like Russia, he is wonderful. Of course, our company being composed of Scotchmen and Englishmen, we have no prejudices against him. We think him wrong for entering upon this war against Sweden, but we all consider him a wonderful fellow, just the sort of fellow one would be proud to serve under, if we did not serve under Charles of Sweden. "Well, Doctor Kelly, when do you think the czar will be here?" The doctor did not reply, but Michaeloff said quietly: "He arrived this afternoon." "He did!" Charlie exclaimed excitedly. "Why did you not tell me before, Doctor Kelly? Has he been asked about my exchange, and is the Swedish officer still here?" "He is here, and you will be exchanged in the morning. "I have other things to see about now, and must say goodnight; and if you should ever fall into the hands of our people again, and Doctor Kelly does not happen to be near, ask for Peter Michaeloff, and he will do all he can for you." "Then I am really to be exchanged tomorrow, doctor?" Charlie said, as Doctor Michaeloff left the room. "It seems like it." "But did not you know?" "No, I had heard nothing for certain. I knew the czar had come, but I had not heard of his decision. I congratulate you." "It is a piece of luck," Charlie said. "I thought it might be months before there was an exchange. It is very good of the king to send over so quickly." "Yes; and of the czar to let you go." "Well, I don't see much in that, doctor, considering that he gets a captain in exchange for me; still, of course, he might have refused. It would not have been civil, but he might have done it." "What did you think of my friend, Charlie?" "I like him. He has a pleasant face, though I should think he has got a temper of his own. He has a splendid figure, and looks more like a fighting man than a doctor. I will write down his name, so as not to forget it, as he says he might be able to help me if I am ever taken prisoner again, and you did not happen to be with the army. It is always nice having a friend. Look at the difference it has made to me, finding a countryman here." "Yes, you may find it useful, Carstairs; and he has a good deal of influence. Still, I think it probable that if you ever should get into a scrape again, you will be able to get tidings of me, for I am likely to be with the advanced division of our army, wherever it is, as I am in charge of its hospitals. "You had better turn in now, for I suppose you will be starting early, and I have two or three patients I must visit again before I go to bed. This is your room, next to mine. I managed, after all, to get it changed." "That is very good of you, doctor, but it really would not have mattered a bit for one night. It does look snug and warm, with that great fire." "Yes, the stoves are the one thing I don't like in Russia. I like to see a blazing fire, and the first thing I do, when I get into fresh quarters, is to have the stove opened so that I can see one. This is a second room of mine. There were three together, you see, and as my rank is that of a colonel, I was able to get them, and it is handy, if a friend comes to see me, to have a room for him." An hour later, just as Charlie was dozing off to sleep, the doctor put his head in to the door. "You are to start at daybreak, Carstairs. My servant will call you an hour before that. I shall be up. I must put a fresh bandage on your head before you start." "Thank you very much, doctor. I am sorry to get you up so early." "That is nothing. I am accustomed to work at all hours. Good night." At eight o'clock, having had a bowl of broth, Charlie descended to the courtyard in charge of an officer and two soldiers, the doctor accompanying him. Here he found a Swedish officer belonging to the king's personal staff. The Russian handed the lad formally over to his charge, saying: "By the orders of the czar, I now exchange Ensign Carstairs for Captain Potoff, whom you, on your part, engage to send off at once." "I do," the Swede said; "that is, I engage that he shall be sent off, as soon as he can be fetched from Revel, where he is now interned, and shall be safely delivered under an escort; and that if, either by death, illness, or escape, I should not be able to hand him over, I will return another officer of the same rank." "I have the czar's commands," the Russian went on, "to express his regret that, owing to a mistake on the part of the officer commanding here, Ensign Carstairs has not received such worthy treatment as the czar would have desired for him, but he has given stringent orders that, in future, any Swedish officers who may be taken prisoners shall receive every comfort and hospitality that can be shown them." "Goodbye, Doctor Kelly," Charlie said, as he mounted his horse, which had been saddled in readiness for him. "I am greatly obliged to you for your very great kindness to me, and hope that I may some day have an opportunity of repaying it." "I hope not, Carstairs. I trust that we may meet again, but hope that I sha'n't be in the position of a prisoner. However, strange things have happened already in this war, and there is no saying how fortune may go. Goodbye, and a pleasant journey." A Russian officer took his place by the side of the Swede, and an escort of twenty troopers rode behind them, as they trotted out through the gate of the convent. "It was very kind of the king to send for me," Charlie said to the Swede, "and I am really sorry that you should have had so long a ride on my account, Captain Pradovich." "As to that, it is a trifle," the officer said. "If I had not been riding here, I should be riding with the king elsewhere, so that I am none the worse. But, in truth, I am glad I came, for yesterday evening I saw the czar himself. I conversed with him for some time. He expressed himself very courteously with respect to the king, and to our army, against whom he seems to bear no sort of malice for the defeat we inflicted on him at Narva. He spoke of it himself, and said, 'you will see that, some day, we shall turn the tables upon you.' "The king will be pleased when I return with you, for we all feared that you might be very badly hurt. All that we knew was that some of your men had seen you cut down. After the battle was over, a search was made for your body. When it could not be found, questions were asked of some of our own men, and some wounded Russians, who were lying near the spot where you had been seen to fall. "Our men had seen nothing, for, as the Russians closed in behind your company as it advanced, they had shut their eyes and lay as if dead, fearing that they might be run through, as they lay, by the Cossack lances. The Russians, however, told us that they had seen two of the Cossacks dismount, by the orders of one of their officers, lift you on to a horse, and ride off with you. There was therefore a certainty that you were still living, for the Russians would assuredly not have troubled to carry off a dead body. His majesty interested himself very much in the matter, and yesterday morning sent me off to inquire if you were alive, and if so, to propose an exchange. "I was much pleased, when I reached Plescow yesterday, to learn that your wound is not a serious one. I saw the doctor, who, I found, was a countryman of yours, and he assured me that it was nothing, and made some joke that I did not understand about the thickness of North Country skulls. "The czar arrived in the afternoon, but I did not see him until late in the evening, when I was sent for. I found him with the general in command, and several other officers, among whom was your friend the doctor. The czar was, at first, in a furious passion. He abused the general right and left, and I almost thought, at one time, that he would have struck him. He told him that he had disgraced the Russian name, by not treating you with proper hospitality, and especially by placing you in a miserable cell without a fire. "'What will the King of Sweden think?' he said. 'He treats his prisoners with kindness and courtesy, and after Narva gave them a banquet, at which he himself was present. The Duke of Croy writes to me, to say he is treated as an honoured guest rather than as a prisoner, and here you disgrace us by shutting your prisoner in a cheerless cell, although he is wounded, and giving him food such as you might give to a common soldier. The Swedes will think that we are barbarians. You are released from your command, and will at once proceed to Moscow and report yourself there, when a post will be assigned to you where you will have no opportunity of showing yourself ignorant of the laws of courtesy. "'Doctor,' he went on, 'you will remember that all prisoners, officers and men, will be henceforth under the charge of the medical department, and that you have full authority to make such arrangements as you may think necessary for their comfort and honourable treatment. I will not have Russia made a byword among civilized peoples.' "Then he dismissed the rest of them, and afterwards sat down and chatted with me, just as if we had been of the same rank, puffing a pipe furiously, and drinking amazing quantities of wine. Indeed, my head feels the effects of it this morning, although I was quite unable to drink cup for cup with him, for, had I done so, I should have been under the table long before he rose from it, seemingly quite unmoved by the quantity he had drank. I have no doubt he summoned me especially to hear his rebuke to the general, so that I could take word to the king how earnest he was, in his regrets for your treatment." "There was nothing much to complain of," Charlie said; "and, indeed, the cell was a palace after the miserable huts in which we have passed the winter. I am glad, however, the czar gave the general a wigging, for he spoke brutally to me on my arrival. You may be sure, now, that any prisoners that may be taken will be well treated; for Doctor Kelly, who has been extremely kind to me, will certainly take good care of them. As to my wound, it is of little consequence. It fell on my steel cap, and I think I was stunned by its force, rather than rendered insensible by the cut itself." After three hours' riding they came to a village. As soon as they were seen approaching, there was a stir there. A man riding ahead waved the white flag that he carried, and, when they entered the village, they found a party of fifty Swedish cavalry in the saddle. The Russian escort, as soon as the Swedish officer and Charlie had joined their friends, turned and rode off. A meal was in readiness, and when Charlie, who was still feeling somewhat weak from the effects of his wound, had partaken of it, the party proceeded on their way, and rode into Marienburg before nightfall. Two or three miles outside the town, they met Harry Jervoise. Two soldiers had been sent on at full speed, directly Charlie reached the village, to report that he had arrived there and was not seriously wounded, and, knowing about the time they would arrive, Harry had ridden out to meet his friend. "You are looking white," he said, after the first hearty greeting. "I am feeling desperately tired, Harry. The wound is of no consequence, but I lost a good deal of blood, and it is as much as I can do to keep my saddle, though we have been coming on quietly on purpose. However, I shall soon be all right again, and I need hardly say that I am heartily glad to be back." "We have all been in a great way about you, Charlie, for we made sure that you were very badly wounded. I can tell you, it was a relief when the men rode in three hours ago, with the news that you had arrived, and were not badly hurt. The men seemed as pleased as we were, and there was a loud burst of cheering when we told them the news. Cunningham and Forbes would have ridden out with me; but Cunningham is on duty, and Forbes thought that we should like to have a chat together." On his arrival, Charlie was heartily welcomed by Captain Jervoise and the men of the company, who cheered lustily as he rode up. "You are to go and see the king at once," Captain Jervoise said as he dismounted. "I believe he wants to hear, especially, how you were treated. Make the best of it you can, lad. There is no occasion for the feeling of Charles against the Russians being embittered." "I understand," Charlie said. "I will make things as smooth as I can." He walked quickly to the little house where the king had taken up his quarters. There was no sentry at the door, or other sign that the house contained an occupant of special rank. He knocked at the door, and hearing a shout of "Enter," opened it and went in. "Ah, my young ensign; is it you?" the king said, rising from a low settle on which he was sitting by the fire, talking with Colonel Schlippenbach. "Hurt somewhat, I see, but not badly, I hope. I was sure that you would not have been taken prisoner, unless you had been injured." "I was cut down by a blow that clove my helmet, your majesty, and stunned me for some time; but, beyond making a somewhat long gash on my skull, it did me no great harm." "That speaks well for the thickness of your skull, lad, and I am heartily glad it is no worse. Now, tell me, how did they treat you?" "It was a somewhat rough cell into which I was thrown, sir, but I was most kindly tended by an Irish doctor high in the czar's service, and, when the czar himself arrived, and learned that I had not been lodged as well as he thought necessary, I hear he was so angered that he disgraced the general, deprived him of his command, and sent him to take charge of some fortress in the interior of Russia; and I was, by his orders, allowed to occupy the doctor's quarters, and a bedroom was assigned to me next to his. I heard that the czar spoke in terms of the warmest appreciation of your treatment of your prisoners, and said that any of your officers who fell into his hands should be treated with equal courtesy." Charles looked gratified. "I am glad to hear it," he said. "In the field, if necessary, blood must flow like water, but there is no reason why we should not behave towards each other with courtesy, when the fighting is over. You know nothing of the force there, at present?" "No, sir, I heard nothing. I did not exchange a word with anyone, save the doctor and another medical man; and as the former treated me as a friend, rather than as an enemy, I did not deem it right to question him, and, had I done so, I am sure that he would have given me no answer." "Well, you can return to your quarters, sir. Your company did me good service in that fight, and Colonel Schlippenbach did not speak in any way too warmly in their favour. I would that I had more of these brave Englishmen and Scotchmen in my service." Charlie's head, however, was not as hard as he had believed it to be; and the long ride brought on inflammation of the wound, so that, on the following morning, he was in a high state of fever. It was a fortnight before he was convalescent, and the surgeon then recommended that he should have rest and quiet for a time, as he was sorely pulled down, and unfit to bear the hardships of a campaign; and it was settled that he should go down with the next convoy to Revel, and thence take ship for Sweden. He was so weak, that although very sorry to leave the army just as spring was commencing, he himself felt that he should be unable to support the fatigues of the campaign, until he had had entire rest and change. A few hours after the decision of the surgeon had been given, Major Jamieson and Captain Jervoise entered the room where he was sitting, propped up by pillows. "I have a bit of news that will please you, Charlie. The king sent for the major this morning, and told him that he intended to increase our company to a regiment, if he could do so. He had heard that a considerable number of Scotchmen and Englishmen had come over, and were desirous of enlisting, but, from their ignorance of the language, their services had been declined. He said that he was so pleased, not only with the conduct of the company in that fight, but with its discipline, physique, and power of endurance, that he had decided to convert it into a regiment. He said he was sorry to lose its services for a time; but, as we lost twenty men in the fight, and have some fifteen still too disabled to take their places in the ranks, this was of the less importance. "So we are all going to march down to Revel with you. Major Jamieson is appointed colonel, and I am promoted to be major. The king himself directed that Cunningham and Forbes shall have commissions as captains, and you and Harry as lieutenants. The colonel has authority given him to nominate Scotch and English gentlemen of good name to make up the quota of officers, while most of our own men will be appointed non-commissioned officers, to drill the new recruits. The king has been good enough, at Colonel Jamieson's request, to say that, as soon as the regiment is raised and organized, it shall be sent up to the front." "That is good news, indeed," Charlie said, with more animation than he had evinced since his illness. "I have been so accustomed to be attended to, in every way, that I was quite looking forward with dread to the journey among strangers. Still, if you are all going, it will be a different thing altogether. I don't think you will be long in raising the regiment. We only were a week in getting the company together, and, if they have been refusing to accept the services of our people, there must be numbers of them at Gottenburg." Early on the following morning, Charlie and the men unable to march were placed in waggons, and the company started on its march to Revel. It was a heavy journey, for the frost had broken up, and the roads were in a terrible state from the heavy traffic passing. There was no delay when they reached the port, as they at once marched on board a ship, which was the next day to start for Sweden. Orders from the king had already been received that the company was to be conveyed direct to Gottenburg, and they entered the port on the fifth day after sailing. The change, the sea air, and the prospect of seeing his father again greatly benefited Charlie, and, while the company was marched to a large building assigned to their use, he was able to make his way on foot to his father's, assisted by his soldier servant, Jock Armstrong. "Why, Charlie," Sir Marmaduke Carstairs exclaimed as he entered, "who would have thought of seeing you? You are looking ill, lad; ill and weak. What has happened to you?" Charlie briefly related the events that had brought about his return to Gottenburg, of which Sir Marmaduke was entirely ignorant. Postal communications were rare and uncertain, and Captain Jervoise had not taken advantage of the one opportunity that offered, after Charlie had been wounded, thinking it better to delay till the lad could write and give a good account of himself. "So Jervoise, and his son, and that good fellow Jamieson are all back again? That is good news, Charlie; and you have been promoted? That is capital too, after only a year in the service. And you have been wounded, and a prisoner among the Russians? You have had adventures, indeed! I was terribly uneasy when the first news of that wonderful victory at Narva came, for we generally have to wait for the arrival of the despatches giving the lists of the killed and wounded. I saw that the regiment had not been in the thick of it, as the lists contained none of your names. I would have given a limb to have taken part in that wonderful battle. When you get as old as I am, my boy, you will feel a pride in telling how you fought at Narva, and helped to destroy an entire Russian army with the odds ten to one against you. "Of course, you will stay here with me. I suppose you have leave at present?" "Yes, father, Colonel Jamieson told me that my first duty was to get strong and well again, and that I was to think of no other until I had performed that. And how have you been getting on, father?" "Very well, lad. I don't pretend that it is not a great change from Lynnwood, but I get along very well, and thank heaven, daily, that for so many years I had set aside a portion of my rents, little thinking that the time would come when they would prove my means of existence. My friends here have invested the money for me, and it bears good interest, which is punctually paid. With the English and Scotch exiles, I have as much society as I care for, and as I find I am able to keep a horse--for living here is not more than half the cost that it would be in England--I am well enough contented with my lot. "There is but one thing that pricks me. That villain John Dormay has, as he schemed for, obtained possession of my estates, and has been knighted for his distinguished services to the king. I heard of this some time since, by a letter from one of our Jacobite friends to whom I wrote, asking for news. He says that the new knight has no great cause for enjoyment in his dignity and possessions, because, not only do the Jacobite gentry turn their backs upon him, when they meet him in the town, but the better class of Whigs hold altogether aloof from him, regarding his elevation, at the expense of his wife's kinsman, to be disgraceful, although of course they have no idea of the evil plot by which he brought about my ruin. There is great pity expressed for his wife, who has not once stirred beyond the grounds at Lynnwood since he took her there, and who is, they say, a shadow of her former self. Ciceley, he hears, is well. That cub of a son is in London, and there are reports that he is very wild, and puts his father to much cost. As to the man himself, they say he is surrounded by the lowest knaves, and it is rumoured that he has taken to drink for want of better company. It is some comfort to me to think that, although the villain has my estates, he is getting no enjoyment out of them. "However, I hope some day to have a reckoning with him. The Stuarts must come to their own, sooner or later. Until then I am content to rest quietly here in Sweden." Chapter 8: The Passage of the Dwina. A few hours after Charlie's arrival home, Major Jervoise and Harry came round to the house. "I congratulate you, Jervoise, on your new rank," Sir Marmaduke said heartily, as he entered; "and you, too, Harry. It has been a great comfort to me, to know that you and Charlie have been together always. At present you have the advantage of him in looks. My lad has no more strength than a girl, not half the strength, indeed, of many of these sturdy Swedish maidens." "Yes, Charlie has had a bad bout of it, Carstairs," Major Jervoise said cheerfully; "but he has picked up wonderfully in the last ten days, and, in as many more, I shall look to see him at work again. I only wish that you could have been with us, old friend." "It is of no use wishing, Jervoise. We have heard enough here, of what the troops have been suffering through the winter, for me to know that, if I had had my wish and gone with you, my bones would now be lying somewhere under the soil of Livonia." "Yes, it was a hard time," Major Jervoise agreed, "but we all got through it well, thanks principally to our turning to at sports of all kinds. These kept the men in health, and prevented them from moping. The king was struck with the condition of our company, and he has ordered that, in future, all the Swedish troops shall take part in such games and amusements when in winter quarters. Of course, Charlie has told you we are going to have a regiment entirely composed of Scots and Englishmen. I put the Scots first, since they will be by far the most numerous. There are always plenty of active spirits, who find but small opening for their energy at home, and are ready to take foreign service whenever the chance opens. Besides, there are always feuds there. In the old days, it was chief against chief. Now it is religion against religion; and now, as then, there are numbers of young fellows glad to exchange the troubles at home for service abroad. There have been quite a crowd of men round our quarters, for, directly the news spread that the company was landing, our countrymen flocked round, each eager to learn how many vacancies there were in the ranks, and whether we would receive recruits. Their joy was extreme when it became known that Jamieson had authority to raise a whole regiment. I doubt not that many of the poor fellows are in great straits." "That I can tell you they are," Sir Marmaduke broke in. "We have been doing what we can for them, for it was grievous that so many men should be wandering, without means or employment, in a strange country. But the number was too great for our money to go far among them, and I know that many of them are destitute and well-nigh starving. We had hoped to ship some of them back to Scotland, and have been treating with the captain of a vessel sailing, in two or three days, to carry them home." "It is unfortunate, but they have none to blame but themselves. They should have waited until an invitation for foreigners to enlist was issued by the Swedish government, or until gentlemen of birth raised companies and regiments for service here. However, we are the gainers, for I see that we shall not have to wait here many weeks. Already, as far as I can judge from what I hear, there must be well-nigh four hundred men here, all eager to serve. "We will send the news by the next ship that sails, both to Scotland and to our own country, that men, active and fit for service, can be received into a regiment, specially formed of English-speaking soldiers. I will warrant that, when it is known in the Fells that I am a major in the regiment, and that your son and mine are lieutenants, we shall have two or three score of stout young fellows coming over." The next day, indeed, nearly four hundred men were enlisted into the service, and were divided into eight companies. Each of these, when complete, was to be two hundred strong. Six Scottish officers were transferred, from Swedish regiments, to fill up the list of captains, and commissions were given to several gentlemen of family as lieutenants and ensigns. Most of these, however, were held over, as the colonel wrote to many gentlemen of his acquaintance in Scotland, offering them commissions if they would raise and bring over men. Major Jervoise did the same to half a dozen young Jacobite gentlemen in the north of England, and so successful were the appeals that, within two months of the return of the company to Gottenburg, the regiment had been raised to its full strength. A fortnight was spent in drilling the last batch of recruits, from morning till night, so that they should be able to take their places in the ranks; and then, with drums beating and colours flying, the corps embarked at Gottenburg, and sailed to join the army. They arrived at Revel in the beginning of May. The port was full of ships, for twelve thousand men had embarked, at Stockholm and other ports, to reinforce the army and enable the king to take the field in force; and, by the end of the month, the greater portion of the force was concentrated at Dorpt. Charlie had long since regained his full strength. As soon as he was fit for duty, he had rejoined, and had been engaged, early and late, in the work of drilling the recruits, and in the general organization of the regiment. He and Harry, however, found time to take part in any amusement that was going on. They were made welcome in the houses of the principal merchants and other residents of Gottenburg, and much enjoyed their stay in the town, in spite of their longing to be back in time to take part in the early operations of the campaign. When they sailed into the port of Revel, they found that the campaign had but just commenced, and they marched with all haste to join the force with which the king was advancing against the Saxons, who were still besieging Riga. Their army was commanded by Marshal Steinau, and was posted on the other side of the river Dwina, a broad stream. Charles the Twelfth had ridden up to Colonel Jamieson's regiment upon its arrival, and expressed warm gratification at its appearance, when it was paraded for his inspection. "You have done well, indeed, colonel," he said. "I had hardly hoped you could have collected so fine a body of men in so short a time." At his request, the officers were brought up and introduced. He spoke a few words to those he had known before, saying to Charlie: "I am glad to see you back again, lieutenant. You have quite recovered from that crack on your crown, I hope. But I need not ask, your looks speak for themselves. You have just got back in time to pay my enemies back for it." The prospect was not a cheerful one, when the Swedes arrived on the banks of the Dwina. The Saxons were somewhat superior in force, and it would be a desperate enterprise to cross the river, in the teeth of their cannon and musketry. Already the king had caused a number of large flat boats to be constructed. The sides were made very high, so as to completely cover the troops from musketry, and were hinged so as to let down and act as gangways, and facilitate a landing. Charlie was standing on the bank, looking at the movements of the Saxon troops across the river, and wondering how the passage was to be effected, when a hand was placed on his shoulder. Looking round, he saw it was the king, who, as was his custom, was moving about on foot, unattended by any of his officers. "Wondering how we are to get across, lieutenant?" "That is just what I was thinking over, your majesty." "We want another snowstorm, as we had at Narva," the king said. "The wind is blowing the right way, but there is no chance of such another stroke of luck, at this time of year." "No, sir; but I was thinking that one might make an artificial fog." "How do you mean?" the king asked quickly. "Your majesty has great stacks of straw here, collected for forage for the cattle. No doubt a good deal of it is damp, or if not, it could be easily wetted. If we were to build great piles of it, all along on the banks here, and set it alight so as to burn very slowly, but to give out a great deal of smoke, this light wind would blow it across the river into the faces of the Saxons, and completely cover our movements." "You are right!" the king exclaimed. "Nothing could be better. We will make a smoke that will blind and half smother them;" and he hurried away. An hour later, orders were sent out to all the regiments that, as soon as it became dusk, the men should assemble at the great forage stores for fatigue duty. As soon as they did so, they were ordered to pull down the stacks, and to carry the straw to the bank of the river, and there pile it in heavy masses, twenty yards apart. The whole was to be damped, with the exception of only a small quantity on the windward side of the heaps, which was to be used for starting the fire. In two hours, the work was completed. The men were then ordered to return to their camps, have their suppers, and lie down at once. Then they were to form up, half an hour before daybreak, in readiness to take their places in the boats, and were then to lie down, in order, until the word was given to move forward. This was done, and just as the daylight appeared the heaps of straw were lighted, and dense volumes of smoke rolled across the river, entirely obscuring the opposite shore from view. The Saxons, enveloped in the smoke, were unable to understand its meaning. Those on the watch had seen no sign of troops on the bank, before the smoke began to roll across the water, and the general was uncertain whether a great fire had broken out in the forage stores of the Swedes, or whether the fire had been purposely raised, either to cover the movements of the army and enable them to march away and cross at some undefended point, or whether to cover their passage. The Swedish regiments, which were the first to cross, took their places at once in the boats, the king himself accompanying them. In a quarter of an hour the opposite bank was gained. Marshal Steinau, an able general, had called the Saxons under arms, and was marching towards the river, when the wind, freshening, lifted the thick veil of smoke, and he saw that the Swedes had already gained the bank of the river, and at once hurled his cavalry against them. The Swedish formation was not complete and, for a moment, they were driven back in disorder, and forced into the river. The water was shallow, and the king, going about among them, quickly restored order and discipline, and, charging in solid formation, they drove the cavalry back and advanced across the plain. Steinau recalled his troops and posted them in a strong position, one flank being covered by a marsh and the other by a wood. He had time to effect his arrangements, as Charles was compelled to wait until the whole of his troops were across. As soon as they were so, he led them against the enemy. The battle was a severe one, for the Swedes were unprovided with artillery, and the Saxons, with the advantages of position and a powerful artillery, fought steadily. Three times Marshal Steinau led his cavalry in desperate charges, and each time almost penetrated to the point where Charles was directing the movements of his troops; but, at last, he was struck from his horse by a blow from the butt end of a musket; and his cuirassiers, with difficulty, carried him from the field. As soon as his fall became known, disorder spread among the ranks of the Saxons. Some regiments gave way, and, the Swedes rushing forward with loud shouts, the whole army was speedily in full flight. This victory laid the whole of Courland at the mercy of the Swedes, all the towns opening their gates at their approach. They were now on the confines of Poland, and the king, brave to rashness as he was, hesitated to attack a nation so powerful. Poland, at that time, was a country a little larger than France, though with a somewhat smaller population, but in this respect exceeding Sweden. With the Poles themselves he had no quarrel, for they had taken no part in the struggle, which had been carried on solely by their king, with his Saxon troops. The authority of the kings of Poland was much smaller than that of other European monarchs. The office was not a hereditary one; the king being elected at a diet, composed of the whole of the nobles of the country, the nobility embracing practically every free man; and, as it was necessary, according to the constitution of the country, that the vote should be unanimous, the difficulties in the way of election were very great, and civil wars of constant occurrence. Charles was determined that he would drive Augustus, who was the author of the league against him, from the throne; but he desired to do this by means of the Poles themselves, rather than to unite the whole nation against him by invading the country. Poland was divided into two parts, the larger of which was Poland proper, which could at once place thirty thousand men in the field. The other was Lithuania, with an army of twelve thousand. These forces were entirely independent of each other. The troops were for the most part cavalry, and the small force, permanently kept up, was composed almost entirely of horsemen. They rarely drew pay, and subsisted entirely on plunder, being as formidable to their own people as to an enemy. Lithuania, on whose borders the king had taken post with his army, was, as usual, harassed by two factions, that of the Prince Sapieha and the Prince of Oginski, between whom a civil war was going on. The King of Sweden took the part of the former, and, furnishing him with assistance, speedily enabled him to overcome the Oginski party, who received but slight aid from the Saxons. Oginski's forces were speedily dispersed, and roamed about the country in scattered parties, subsisting on pillage, thereby exciting among the people a lively feeling of hatred against the King of Poland, who was regarded as the author of the misfortunes that had befallen the country. From the day when Charlie's suggestion, of burning damp straw to conceal the passage of the river, had been attended with such success, the king had held him in high favour. There was but a few years' difference between their ages, and the suggestion, so promptly made, seemed to show the king that the young Englishman was a kindred spirit, and he frequently requested him to accompany him in his rides, and chatted familiarly with him. "I hate this inactive life," he said one day, "and would, a thousand times, rather be fighting the Russians than setting the Poles by the ears; but I dare not move against them, for, were Augustus of Saxony left alone, he would ere long set all Poland against me. At present, the Poles refuse to allow him to bring in reinforcements from his own country; but if he cannot get men he can get gold, and with gold he can buy over his chief opponents, and regain his power. If it costs me a year's delay, I must wait until he is forced to fly the kingdom, and I can place on the throne someone who will owe his election entirely to me, and in whose good faith I can be secure. "That done, I can turn my attention to Russia, which, by all accounts, daily becomes more formidable. Narva is besieged by them, and will ere long fall; but I can retake Narva when once I can depend upon the neutrality of the Poles. Would I were king of Poland as well as of Sweden. With eighty thousand Polish horse, and my own Swedish infantry, I could conquer Europe if I wished to do so. "I know that you are as fond of adventure as I am, and I am thinking of sending you with an envoy I am despatching to Warsaw. "You know that the Poles are adverse to business of all kinds. The poorest noble, who can scarcely pay for the cloak he wears, and who is ready enough to sell his vote and his sword to the highest bidder, will turn up his nose at honest trade; and the consequence is, as there is no class between the noble and the peasant, the trade of the country is wholly in the hands of Jews and foreigners, among the latter being, I hear, many Scotchmen, who, while they make excellent soldiers, are also keen traders. This class must have considerable power, in fact, although it be exercised quietly. The Jews are, of course, money lenders as well as traders. Large numbers of these petty nobles must be in their debt, either for money lent or goods supplied. "My agent goes specially charged to deal with the archbishop, who is quite open to sell his services to me, although he poses as one of the strongest adherents of the Saxons. With him, it is not a question so much of money, as of power. Being a wise man, he sees that Augustus can never retain his position, in the face of the enmity of the great body of the Poles, and of my hostility. But, while my agent deals with him and such nobles as he indicates as being likely to take my part against Augustus, you could ascertain the feeling of the trading class, and endeavour to induce them, not only to favour me, but to exert all the influence they possess on my behalf. As there are many Scotch merchants in the city, you could begin by making yourself known to them, taking with you letters of introduction from your colonel, and any other Scotch gentleman whom you may find to have acquaintanceship, if not with the men themselves, with their families in Scotland. I do not, of course, say that the mission will be without danger, but that will, I know, be an advantage in your eyes. What do you think of the proposal?" "I do not know, sire," Charlie said doubtfully. "I have no experience whatever in matters of that kind." "This will be a good opportunity for you to serve an apprenticeship," the king said decidedly. "There is no chance of anything being done here, for months, and as you will have no opportunity of using your sword, you cannot be better employed than in polishing up your wits. I will speak to Colonel Jamieson about it this evening. Count Piper will give you full instructions, and will obtain for you, from some of our friends, lists of the names of the men who would be likely to be most useful to us. You will please to remember that the brain does a great deal more than the sword, in enabling a man to rise above his fellows. You are a brave young officer, but I have many a score of brave young officers, and it was your quick wit, in suggesting the strategy by which we crossed the Dwina without loss, that has marked you out from among others, and made me see that you are fit for something better than getting your throat cut." The king then changed the subject with his usual abruptness, and dismissed Charlie, at the end of his ride, without any further allusion to the subject. The young fellow, however, knew enough of the king's headstrong disposition to be aware that the matter was settled, and that he could not, without incurring the king's serious displeasure, decline to accept the commission. He walked back, with a serious face, to the hut that the officers of the company occupied, and asked Harry Jervoise to come out to him. "What is it, Charlie?" his friend said. "Has his gracious majesty been blowing you up, or has your horse broken its knees?" "A much worse thing than either, Harry. The king appears to have taken into his head that I am cut out for a diplomatist;" and he then repeated to his friend the conversation the king had had with him. Harry burst into a shout of laughter. "Don't be angry, Charlie, but I cannot help it. The idea of your going, in disguise, I suppose, and trying to talk over the Jewish clothiers and cannie Scotch traders, is one of the funniest things I ever heard. And do you think the king was really in earnest?" "The king is always in earnest," Charlie said in a vexed tone; "and, when he once takes a thing into his head, there is no gainsaying him." "That is true enough, Charlie," Harry said, becoming serious. "Well, I have no doubt you will do it just as well as another, and after all, there will be some fun in it, and you will be in a big city, and likely to have a deal more excitement than will fall to our lot here." "I don't think it will be at all the sort of excitement I should care for, Harry. However, my hope is, that the colonel will be able to dissuade him from the idea." "Well, I don't know that I should wish that if I were in your place, Charlie. Undoubtedly, it is an honour being chosen for such a mission, and it is possible you may get a great deal of credit for it, as the king is always ready to push forward those who do good service. Look how much he thinks of you, because you made that suggestion about getting up a smoke to cover our passage." "I wish I had never made it," Charlie said heartily. "Well, in that case, Charlie, it is likely enough we should not be talking together here, for our loss in crossing the river under fire would have been terrible." "Well, perhaps it is as well as it is," Charlie agreed. "But I did not want to attract his attention. I was very happy as I was, with you all. As for my suggestion about the straw, anyone might have thought of it. I should never have given the matter another moment's consideration, and I should be much better pleased if the king had not done so, either, instead of telling the colonel about it, and the colonel speaking to the officers, and such a ridiculous fuss being made about nothing." "My dear Charlie," Harry said seriously, "you seem to be forgetting that we all came out here, together, to make our fortune, or at any rate to do as well as we could till the Stuarts come to the throne again, and our fathers regain their estates, a matter concerning which, let me tell you, I do not feel by any means so certain as I did in the old days. Then, you know, all our friends were of our way of thinking, and the faith that the Stuarts would return was like a matter of religion, which it was heresy to doubt for an instant. Well, you see, in the year that we have been out here one's eyes have got opened a bit, and I don't feel by any means sanguine that the Stuarts will ever come to the throne of England again, or that our fathers will recover their estates. "You have seen here what good soldiers can do, and how powerless men possessing but little discipline, though perhaps as brave as themselves, are against them. William of Orange has got good soldiers. His Dutch troops are probably quite as good as our best Swedish regiments. They have had plenty of fighting in Ireland and elsewhere, and I doubt whether the Jacobite gentlemen, however numerous, but without training or discipline, could any more make head against them than the masses of Muscovites could against the Swedish battalions at Narva. All this means that it is necessary that we should, if possible, carve out a fortune here. So far, I certainly have no reason to grumble. On the contrary, I have had great luck. I am a lieutenant at seventeen, and, if I am not shot or carried off by fever, I may, suppose the war goes on and the army is not reduced, be a colonel at the age of forty. "Now you, on the other hand, have, by that happy suggestion of yours, attracted the notice of the king, and he is pleased to nominate you to a mission in which there is a chance of your distinguishing yourself in another way, and of being employed in other and more important business. All this will place you much farther on the road towards making a fortune, than marching and fighting with your company would be likely to do in the course of twenty years, and I think it would be foolish in the extreme for you to exhibit any disinclination to undertake the duty." "I suppose you are right, Harry, and I am much obliged to you for your advice, which certainly puts the matter in a light in which I had not before seen it. If I thought that I could do it well, I should not so much mind, for, as you say, there will be some fun to be got out of it, and some excitement, and there seems little chance of doing anything here for a long time. But what am I to say to the fellows? How can I argue with them? Besides, I don't talk Polish." "I don't suppose there are ten men in the army who do so, probably not five. As to what to say, Count Piper will no doubt give you full instructions as to the line you are to take, the arguments you are to use, and the inducements you are to hold out. That is sure to be all right." "Well, do not say anything about it, Harry, when you get back. I still hope the colonel will dissuade the king." "Then you are singularly hopeful, Charlie, that is all I can say. You might persuade a brick wall to move out of your way, as easily as induce the King of Sweden to give up a plan he has once formed. However, I will say nothing about it." At nine o'clock, an orderly came to the hut with a message that the colonel wished to speak to Lieutenant Carstairs. Harry gave his friend a comical look, as the latter rose and buckled on his sword. "What is the joke, Harry?" his father asked, when Charlie had left. "Do you know what the colonel can want him for, at this time of the evening? It is not his turn for duty." "I know, father; but I must not say." "The lad has not been getting into a scrape, I hope?" "Nothing serious, I can assure you; but really, I must not say anything until he comes back." Harry's positive assurance, as to the impossibility of changing the king's decision, had pretty well dispelled any hopes Charlie might before have entertained, and he entered the colonel's room with a grave face. "You know why I have sent for you, Carstairs?" "Yes, sir; I am afraid that I do." "Afraid? That is to say, you don't like it." "Yes, sir; I own that I don't like it." "Nor do I, lad, and I told his majesty so. I said you were too young for so risky a business. The king scoffed at the idea. He said, 'He is not much more than two years younger than I am, and if I am old enough to command an army, he is old enough to carry out this mission. We know that he is courageous. He is cool, sharp, and intelligent. Why do I choose him? Has he not saved me from the loss of about four or five thousand men, and probably a total defeat? A young fellow who can do that, ought to be able to cope with Jewish traders, and to throw dust in the eyes of the Poles. "I have chosen him for this service for two reasons. In the first place, because I know he will do it well, and even those who consider that I am rash and headstrong, admit that I have the knack of picking out good men. In the next place, I want to reward him for the service he has done for us. I cannot, at his age, make a colonel of him, but I can give him a chance of distinguishing himself in a service in which age does not count for so much, and Count Piper, knowing my wishes in the matter, will push him forward. Moreover, in such a mission as this, his youth will be an advantage, for he is very much less likely to excite suspicion than if he were an older man.' "The king's manner did not admit of argument, and I had only to wait and ask what were his commands. These were simply that you are to call upon his minister tomorrow, and that you would then receive full instructions. "The king means well by you, lad, and on turning it over, I think better of the plan than I did before. I am convinced, at any rate, that you will do credit to the king's choice." "I will do my best, sir," Charlie said. "At present, it all seems so vague to me that I can form no idea whatever as to what it will be like. I am sure that the king's intentions are, at any rate, kind. I am glad to hear you say that, on consideration, you think better of the plan. Then I may mention the matter to Major Jervoise?" "Certainly, Carstairs, and to his son, but it must go no farther. I shall put your name in orders, as relieved from duty, and shall mention that you have been despatched on service, which might mean anything. Come and see me tomorrow, lad, after you have received Count Piper's instructions. As the king reminded me, there are many Scotchmen at Warsaw, and it is likely that some of them passed through Sweden on the way to establish themselves there, and I may very well have made their acquaintance at Gottenburg or Stockholm. "Once established in the house of one of my countrymen, your position would be fairly safe and not altogether unpleasant, and you would be certainly far better off than a Swede would be engaged on this mission. The Swedes are, of course, regarded by the Poles as enemies, but, as there is no feeling against Englishmen or Scotchmen, you might pass about unnoticed as one of the family of a Scottish trader there, or as his assistant." "I don't fear its being unpleasant in the least, colonel. Nor do I think anything one way or the other about my safety. I only fear that I shall not be able to carry out properly the mission intrusted to me." "You will do your best, lad, and that is all that can be expected. You have not solicited the post, and as it is none of your choosing, your failure would be the fault of those who have sent you, and not of yourself; but in a matter of this kind there is no such thing as complete failure. When you have to deal with one man you may succeed or you may fail in endeavouring to induce him to act in a certain manner, but when you have to deal with a considerable number of men, some will be willing to accept your proposals, some will not, and the question of success will probably depend upon outside influences and circumstances over which you have no control whatever. I have no fear that it will be a failure. If our party in Poland triumph, or if our army here advances, or if Augustus, finding his position hopeless, leaves the country, the good people of Warsaw will join their voices to those of the majority. If matters go the other way, you may be sure that they will not risk imprisonment, confiscation, and perhaps death, by getting up a revolt on their own account. The king will be perfectly aware of this, and will not expect impossibilities, and there is really no occasion whatever for you to worry yourself on that ground." Upon calling upon Count Piper the next morning, Charlie found that, as the colonel had told him, his mission was a general one. "It will be your duty," the minister said, "to have interviews with as many of the foreign traders and Jews in Warsaw as you can, only going to those to whom you have some sort of introduction from the persons you may first meet, or who are, as far as you can learn from the report of others, ill disposed towards the Saxon party. Here is a letter, stating to all whom it may concern, that you are in the confidence of the King of Sweden, and are authorized to represent him. "In the first place, you can point out to those you see that, should the present situation continue, it will bring grievous evils upon Poland. Proclamations have already been spread broadcast over the country, saying that the king has no quarrel with the people of Poland, but, as their sovereign has, without the slightest provocation, embarked on a war, he must fight against him and his Saxon troops, until they are driven from the country. This you will repeat, and will urge that it will be infinitely better that Poland herself should cast out the man who has embroiled her with Sweden, than that the country should be the scene of a long and sanguinary struggle, in which large districts will necessarily be laid waste, all trade be arrested, and grievous suffering inflicted upon the people at large. "You can say that King Charles has already received promises of support from a large number of nobles, and is most desirous that the people of the large towns, and especially of the capital, should use their influence in his favour. That he has himself no ambition, and no end to serve save to obtain peace and tranquillity for his country, and that it will be free for the people of Poland to elect their own monarch, when once Augustus of Saxony has disappeared from the scene. "In this sealed packet you will find a list of influential citizens. It has been furnished me by one well acquainted with the place. The Jews are to be assured that, in case of a friendly monarch being placed on the throne, Charles will make a treaty with him, insuring freedom of commerce to the two countries, and will also use his friendly endeavours to obtain, from the king and Diet, an enlargement of the privileges that the Jews enjoy. To the foreign merchants you will hold the same language, somewhat altered, to suit their condition and wants. "You are not asking them to organize any public movement, the time has not yet come for that; but simply to throw the weight of their example and influence against the party of the Saxons. Of course our friends in Warsaw have been doing their best to bring round public opinion in the capital to this direction, but the country is so torn by perpetual intrigues, that the trading classes hold aloof altogether from quarrels in which they have no personal interest, and are slow to believe that they can be seriously affected by any changes which will take place. "Our envoy will start tomorrow morning. His mission is an open one. He goes to lay certain complaints, to propose an exchange of prisoners, and to open negotiations for peace. All these are but pretences. His real object is to enter into personal communication with two or three powerful personages, well disposed towards us. "Come again to me this evening, when you have thought the matter over. I shall then be glad to hear any suggestion you may like to make." "There is one thing, sir, that I should like to ask you. It will evidently be of great advantage to me, if I can obtain private letters of introduction to Scotch traders in the city. This I cannot do, unless by mentioning the fact that I am bound for Warsaw. Have I your permission to do so, or is it to be kept a close secret?" "No. I see no objection to your naming it to anyone you can implicitly trust, and who may, as you think, be able to give you such introductions, but you must impress upon them that the matter must be kept a secret. Doubtless the Saxons have in their pay people in our camp, just as we have in theirs, and were word of your going sent, you would find yourself watched, and perhaps arrested. We should, of course wish you to be zealous in your mission, but I would say, do not be over anxious. We are not trying to get up a revolution in Warsaw, but seeking to ensure that the feeling in the city should be in our favour; and this, we think, may be brought about, to some extent, by such assurances as you can give of the king's friendship, and by such expressions of a belief in the justice of our cause, and in the advantages there would be in getting rid of this foreign prince, as might be said openly by one trader to another, when men meet in their exchanges or upon the street. So that the ball is once set rolling, it may be trusted to keep in motion, and there can be little doubt that such expressions of feeling, among the mercantile community of the capital, will have some effect even upon nobles who pretend to despise trade, but who are not unfrequently in debt to traders, and who hold their views in a certain respect." "Thank you, sir. At what time shall I come this evening?" "At eight o'clock. By that time, I may have thought out farther details for your guidance." Chapter 9: In Warsaw. Upon leaving the quarters of Count Piper, Charlie returned to the camp, and, after discussing the matter with Major Jervoise, proceeded with him to the colonel's hut. "Well, you look brighter this morning, Carstairs. Are you better pleased, now you have thought the matter over?" "Yes, sir. What you said last night has been quite confirmed by Count Piper, and the matter does not really seem so difficult. I am merely, as a foreigner in the employment of the King of Sweden, to talk with foreigners in Warsaw, to assure them that the king is sincere in his desire to avoid war with Poland, and will gladly make a lasting peace between the two countries, to urge upon them to show themselves favourable to his project for securing such a peace, by forcing Augustus to resign the crown, and to use what influence they can in that direction, both upon their fellow traders and upon the Poles." "There is nothing very difficult about that," Colonel Jamieson said cheerfully, "as it happens to be quite true; and there can be no real question as to the true interest of Poland, and especially of the trading classes in the great towns, from whom heavy contributions towards the expenses of war are always exacted by their own rulers, and who have to pay a ruinous ransom in case of their city being captured by the enemy. The traders of Warsaw will need no reminder of such well-known facts, and will be only too glad to be assured that, unless as a last resource, our king has no intention of making war upon Poland, and they will certainly be inclined to bestir themselves to avert such a possibility. You have, I suppose, a list of names of the people with whom you had best put yourself into communication?" "Yes, sir. Here is a list. There are, I see, ten Scotchmen, fifteen Frenchmen, and about as many Jews." "I know nothing of the Frenchmen, and less of the Jews," the colonel said, taking the list; "but I ought to know some of the Scotchmen. They will hail from Dundee and Glasgow, and, it may be, Dumfries." He ran his eye down the list. "Aha! Here is one, and we need go no further. Allan Ramsay; we were lads together at the High School of Glasgow, and were classmates at the College. His father was a member of the city council, and was one of the leading traders in the city. Allan was a wild lad, as I was myself, and many a scrape did we get into together, and had many a skirmish with the watch. Allan had two or three half brothers, men from ten to twenty years older than himself, and, a year or two after I came out to Sweden and entered the army as an ensign, who should I meet in the streets of Gottenburg, but Allan Ramsay. "We were delighted to see each other, and he stopped with me nearly a week. He had, after leaving the College, gone into his father's business, but when the old man died he could not get on with his half brothers, who were dour men, and had little patience with Allan's restlessness and love of pleasure. So, after a final quarrel, they had given him so much money for his share of the business, and a letter of introduction to a trader in Poland, who had written to them saying that he wanted a partner with some capital; and Allan was willing enough to try the life in a strange country, for he was a shrewd fellow, with all his love of fun. "Five years afterwards, he came through Gottenburg again. I did not see him, for my regiment was at Stockholm at the time, but he wrote me a letter saying that he had been in Scotland to marry and bring back one Janet Black, the daughter of a mercer, whom I remember well enough as an old flame of his. "He reported that he was doing well, and that the Poles were not bad fellows to live among, though less punctual in their payments than might be wished. He said he did not suppose that, as a Swedish officer, I should ever be in Poland, unless Sweden produced another Gustavus Adolphus; but if I was, he would be delighted to welcome me, and that anyone I asked in Warsaw would direct me to his shop. I wonder that I did not think of him before; but that is ten years ago, and it had altogether passed out of my mind, till I saw his name here. Unless he is greatly changed, you may be sure of a hearty welcome from Allan Ramsay, for my sake. We need not trouble about the other names. He will know all about them, and will be able to put you in the way of getting at them." This was a great relief to Charlie, who felt that it would be an immense advantage to have the house of someone, from whom he might expect a welcome, to go to on his arrival in Warsaw; and he was able, during the day, to talk over the prospects of the journey, with Harry Jervoise, with a real sense of interest and excitement in his mission. In the evening, he again went to the house of the minister. The latter, a close observer of men, saw at once that the young officer was in much better spirits than he had been in the morning. "Have you obtained information respecting any of the persons whose names I gave you?" he asked. "Yes, sir. It seems that, most fortunately, the trader named Allan Ramsay is an old friend of Colonel Jamieson, and the colonel has given me a letter to him which will, he assures me, procure me a hearty welcome." "And have you thought anything more of your best plan of action?" "Yes, sir. It seems to me that I had better dress myself in an attire such as might be worn by a young Scotchman, journeying through the country to place himself with a relation established in business. I could ride behind the royal envoy, as if I had received permission to journey under the protection of his escort, and could drop behind a few miles from the capital, and make my way in alone. I could not, of course, inquire for Allan Ramsay in Polish, but I know enough French to ask for him at any shop having a French name over it, if I did not happen to light upon one kept by a Scotchman." "Yes, that plan will do very well. But you will have no difficulty in finding the house, as I have arranged that a man shall accompany you as servant. He is a Lithuanian, and is the grandson of a soldier of Gustavus Adolphus, who married and settled there. His grandfather kept up his connection with his native country, and the young fellow speaks Swedish fairly, and, of course, Polish. For the last three weeks I have employed him in various matters, and find him shrewd and, I believe, faithful. Such a fellow would be of great use to you, and could, if necessary, act as your interpreter in any interviews you may have with Polish Jews, although you will find that most of these men speak other languages besides their own." He touched a bell, and on a servant entering, said: "Bring Stanislas Bistron here." An active, well-built young fellow of some four and twenty years of age entered the room a minute later. His fair hair and blue eyes showed that he took after his Swedish ancestors. "This is the gentleman, Stanislas, that you are to accompany to Warsaw, as his servant. You will obey him, in all respects, as if he had hired you in his service, and, should he arrive at any situation of danger or difficulty, I trust that you will not be found wanting." The man had looked closely at Charlie. "I will do my best, sir, and I doubt not that the gentleman's service will suit me. He has the look of one who would be kind to his servants." "Wait at the outside door," the count said. "Captain Carstairs will speak to you as he leaves." The man bowed and went out, and the count then said, with a smile at the look of surprise on Charlie's face: "It was not a slip of the tongue. Here is a commission, signed by his majesty, appointing you to the rank of captain, as he has long considered that you had well won your promotion, by your suggestion which enabled him to cross the Dwina without loss; but he thought there would be a difficulty in placing you over the heads of so many officers senior to yourself. This inconvenience no longer exists, now that you have what may be considered a staff appointment, and the rank may, moreover, add to your weight and influence in your interviews with persons at Warsaw. "You will need money. Here is a purse for your expenses. You may meet with some of these men, especially among the Jewish traders, who may need a bribe. Bribery is common, from the highest to the lowest, in Poland. You will find, in this letter of instructions, that you are authorized to promise sums of money to men whose assistance may be valuable. It is impossible to fix the sums. These must depend upon the position of the men, and the value of their services; and I can only say do not be lavish, but at the same time do not hesitate to promise a sum that will secure the services of useful men. Your best plan will be to find out, if you are able, what each man expects, and to make what abatement you can. The only limit placed is that you must not commit the royal treasury to a total sum exceeding ten thousand crowns. You will, I hope, find a smaller sum suffice. "The envoy will start at six tomorrow morning. I do not know that there are any further instructions to give you. You will find details, in these written instructions, as to the manner in which you are to communicate, from time to time, the result of your mission, and you will receive orders when to return." Outside the house, Charlie saw his new servant waiting him. "You have a horse, Stanislas?" "Yes, sir, I have been provided with one. I have also a brace of pistols, and a sword." "I hope you will not have to use them, but in these disturbed times they are necessaries." "I have better clothes than these, sir, if you wish me to look gay." "By no means," Charlie replied. "I am going in the character of a young Scotchman, on my way to join a relative in business in Warsaw, and you accompany me in the capacity of guide and servant. As I should not be in a position to pay high wages, the more humble your appearance, the better. We start at six in the morning. The envoy will leave the royal quarters at that hour, and we travel with his escort. Join me a quarter of an hour before that at my hut. You had better accompany me there now, so that you may know the spot. I shall not require your services before we start, as my soldier servant will saddle my horse, and have all in readiness." Harry came to the door of the hut, as he saw his friend approaching. "Well, Charlie, is all satisfactorily settled? "Yes, quite satisfactorily, I think. That is my new servant. Count Piper has appointed him. He speaks Swedish and Polish." "That will be a great comfort to you, Charlie. Jock Armstrong, who has not picked up ten words of Swedish since he joined, would have been worse than useless." "I have another piece of news, Harry, that I am in one way very glad of, and in another sorry for. I had always hoped that we should keep together, and that, just as we joined together, and were made lieutenants at the same time, it would always be so." "You have got another step?" Harry exclaimed. "I am heartily glad of it. I thought very likely you might get it. Indeed, I was surprised that you did not get it, at once, after our fight with the Saxons. I am sure you deserved it, if ever a fellow did, considering what it saved us all." "Of course it is for that," Charlie replied, "though I think it is very absurd. Count Piper said the king would have given it to me at once, only it would have taken me over the heads of so many men older than myself; but he considered that, now I am going on a sort of staff work, away from the regiment, I could be promoted, and he thought, too, that the title of Captain would assist me in my mission." "Of course it will," Harry said, warmly. "That is just what I told you, you know. This business was not quite to your liking, but it was a good long step towards making your fortune. Don't you think that I shall be jealous of your going ahead, for I am not in the least. I am sorry you are going away, for I shall miss you terribly; but I am quite content to be with the regiment, and to work my way up gradually. As it is, I am senior lieutenant in the regiment, and the first battle may give me my company; though I don't expect it, for I do not think my father would wish the colonel to give me the step, if it occurred, for all the other lieutenants are older than we are, though they are junior to us in the regiment, and I feel sure that he would prefer me to remain for another two or three years as lieutenant. In fact, he said as much to me, a short time ago. Still, when I am fit to command a company, there is no doubt I shall get it. "Of course, I am sorry you are going, very sorry, Charlie; but, even if you go altogether on to the staff, I shall see a good deal of you, for, as the king is always with the army, this must be your headquarters still. "I wonder how long you will be away. I like the look of the fellow who is going with you. It was an honest, open sort of face, as far as I saw it. At any rate, it is a comfort to think that you won't be absolutely alone, especially among people whose language you don't know. Mind, if you are sending letters to Count Piper, be sure you send a few lines, by the same messenger, to let me know how you are going on. Not long letters, you know; I expect you will have your hands pretty well full; but just enough to give me an idea of how you are, and what you are doing." The following morning, Charlie started. He had said goodbye to no one, except the colonel, Major Jervoise, and Harry, as it was not considered advisable that his departure with the envoy for Warsaw should be talked about. He only joined the party, indeed, after they had ridden out of the camp. He had laid aside his uniform, and was dressed in clothes which Major Jervoise had procured for him, from one of the last-joined recruits who had but just received his uniform. The lieutenant commanding the escort of twenty troopers rode up to him, as he joined the party. "Baron Seckers informs me that he has given permission to a young Scotchman and his servant, travelling to Warsaw, to ride under his protection. Are you the person in question, sir?" "It is all right, Lieutenant Eberstein," Charlie said, with a smile. "Don't you recognize me?" "Of course--Lieutenant Carstairs. I was at the hunt where you were taken prisoner; but I did not expect to see you in this garb." "I am going on duty," Charlie said, "and am dressed according to orders. Do not address me by my name. I am at present Sandy Anderson, going to join a relation in Warsaw." "Ah, ah! Is that so? Going to put your head into the den of the Lion Augustus. Well, I rather envy you, for it is likely, by all accounts, to be dull work here for some time. It is hard to be sitting idle, while the Russian guns are thundering round Narva. Now, I must join the baron again. Where would you rather ride--after us, or behind the escort?" "Behind the escort. I think it will be more natural, and I can chat more freely with my servant. He is a Lithuanian, but speaks Swedish, and I hope to get some information from him." The lieutenant rode on, and, as he passed the troopers, he told them that the two men behind had the baron's permission to ride with them, in order that they might have protection from the bands of pillagers who were roaming through the country. "Now, Stanislas," Charlie said. "We can talk freely together. Do you know Warsaw?" "I have been there several times, sir, but I never stopped there long. Still, I can find my way about the town." "When were you there last?" "Some two months ago. It was just before I entered the Swedish service." "And what do the people say about the war?" "They are bitterly opposed to it. The king entered upon it without consulting the diet, which was altogether contrary to the constitution. It is true that the king may do so, in cases of emergency, and obtain the sanction of the diet afterwards. There was no urgency here, and the king made his agreement with the czar and the king of Denmark without anyone knowing of it. He certainly obtained a sort of sanction from the diet afterwards, but everyone knows how these things are worked. He has a strong party, of course, because it is the interest of a great many people to retain him in power, as no one can say who would be chosen to succeed him. But among the people in general, the traders and the peasants, he is hated, and so are his Saxon soldiers. "Suppose he had gained a slice of Swedish territory. It would not have benefited them; while, as it is, all sorts of misfortunes and troubles have come upon the country, and none can say how much greater may ensue. "Poland is always split up into parties. They used to unite against the Turk, and they would unite again against the Swedes, if their country was invaded; but as long as King Charles keeps his army beyond the frontier, they are too deeply engaged in their own quarrels to think of anything else." "Then, even if I were known, in the city, to be in the Swedish service, there would be little danger, Stanislas?" "I do not say that, at all," the man said gravely. "In the first place, Warsaw is held by Saxon soldiers, who would show you but scant mercy, were you known to be a Swedish officer; and, in the second place, the lower classes are ever ready to make tumults; and, if worked upon by the archbishop, or the nobles of the king's party, they would readily enough tear a stranger to pieces. "Going as you do as a Scotchman, there is, I hope, little danger, especially if you are received into a Scottish household." The journey passed without incident, until they were within a few miles of Warsaw, when Charlie, after formally thanking Baron Seckers for the protection his escort had afforded him, fell behind with his servant. Several parties of armed men had been met with, but they knew better than to interfere with the little body of Swedish cavalry; while, in the towns through which they passed, the baron was respectfully received as the envoy of the dreaded King of Sweden. "Is there another gate to the city, on this side of the town, beside that by which the Swedes will enter? If so, it would be as well to use it, so that there should seem to be no connection between us and them," said Charlie. There was another gate, and by this they rode into Warsaw, at that time a city of far greater importance than it is at present. The gate was unguarded, and they passed through without question. The citizens were talking excitedly in groups, evidently discussing the question of the arrival of the Swedish envoy, and the chances of peace; and no attention was paid to the travellers, whose appearance denoted them to be persons of no importance. Richly-attired nobles, in costumes of almost oriental magnificence, galloped through the streets on splendid horses, scattering the groups of citizens, and paying no attention whatever to the angry murmurs that followed them. Charlie stopped at a small inn, and there the horses were put up. Stanislas made inquiries for the shop of Allan Ramsay, mentioning that his employer was a relation of the Scottish merchant, and had come out to be with him, until he had learned the language. "The Scots know their business," the landlord grumbled. "They and the French and the Jews, together, have their hand in everyone's pocket. They buy the cattle and grain of the peasants, for what they choose to give for them, and send them out of the country, getting all the profits of the transaction; while, as to the nobles, there is scarce one who is not deep in their books." "Still, you could not do without them," Stanislas said. "There must be somebody to buy and to sell, and as the nobles won't do it, and the peasants can't, I don't see that the foreigners are to be blamed for coming in and taking the trade." "That is true enough," the landlord admitted reluctantly. "Still, there is no doubt the country is kept poor, while, between them, these men gather up the harvest." "Better that than let it rot upon the ground," Stanislas said unconcernedly; and then, having obtained the name of the street where several of the Scottish traders had places of business, he and Charlie started on foot. They were not long in finding the shop with the sign of the merchant swinging over the door. "You had better wait outside, Stanislas, while I go in and see the master. No; if he is not in the shop, his men will not understand me, so come in with me till you see that I have met him, and then go back to the inn for the night. Whether I join you there will depend upon the warmth of my welcome." Two or three young Poles were in the shop. Stanislas asked them for Allan Ramsay, and they replied that he was taking his evening meal upstairs, whereupon Charlie produced the letter from Colonel Jamieson, and Stanislas requested one of them to take it up to the merchant. Three minutes later the inner door opened, and a tall man with a ruddy face and blue eyes entered, holding the open letter in his hand. Charlie took a step forward to meet him. "So you are Sandy Anderson," he said heartily, with a merry twinkle in his eye, "my connection, it seems, and the friend of my dear classmate Jamieson? Come upstairs. Who is this Scotch-looking lad with you?" "He is my servant and interpreter. His grandfather was a Swede, and to him he owes his fair hair and complexion. He is a Lithuanian. He is to be trusted, I hope, thoroughly. He was sent with me by--" "Never mind names," the Scotchman said hastily. "We will talk about him afterwards. Now come upstairs. Your letter has thrown me quite into a flutter. "Never say anything in English before those Poles," he said, as he left the shop; "the fellows pick up languages as easily as I can drink whisky, when I get the chance. One of them has been with me two years, and it is quite likely he understands, at any rate, something of what is said. "Here we are." He opened a door, and ushered Charlie into a large room, comfortably furnished. His wife, a boy eight years of age, and a girl a year older, were seated at the table. "Janet," the merchant said, "this is Captain Carstairs, alias Sandy Anderson, a connection of ours, though I cannot say, for certain, of what degree." "What are you talking of, Allan?" she asked in surprise; for her husband, after opening and partly reading the letter, had jumped up and run off without saying a word. "What I say, wife. This gentleman is, for the present, Sandy Anderson, who has come out to learn the business and language, with the intent of some day entering into partnership with me; also, which is more to the point, he is a friend of my good friend Jock Jamieson, whom you remember well in the old days." "I am very glad, indeed, to see any friend of Jock Jamieson," Janet Ramsay said warmly, holding out her hand to Charlie, "though I do not in the least understand what my husband is talking about, or what your name really is." "My name is Carstairs, madam. I am a captain in the Swedish service, and am here on a mission for King Charles. Colonel Jamieson, for he is now colonel of the regiment to which I belong--" "What!" the merchant exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that our Jock Jamieson is a colonel? Well, well, who would have thought he would have climbed the tree so quickly?" "It is a regiment entirely of Scotch and Englishmen," Charlie said; "and he was promoted, to take its command, only a short time since." "Well, please to sit down and join us," Mrs. Ramsay said. "It is bad manners, indeed, to keep you talking while the meat is getting cold on the table. When you have finished, it will be time enough to question you." While the meal was going on, however, many questions were asked as to Colonel Jamieson, the regiment, and its officers. "As soon as matters are more settled," the merchant said, "I will give myself a holiday, and Janet and I will go and spend a few days with Jock. Many of the names of the officers are well known to me, and two or three of the captains were at Glasgow College with Jock and myself. It will be like old times, to have four or five of us talking over the wild doings we had together." The supper over, the children were sent off to bed. Allan Ramsay lit a long pipe. A bottle of wine and two glasses were placed on the table, and Mrs. Ramsay withdrew, to see after domestic matters, and prepare a room for Charlie. "Now, lad, tell me all about it," Allan Ramsay said. "Jock tells me you are here on a mission, which he would leave it to yourself to explain; but it is no business of mine, and, if you would rather keep it to yourself, I will ask no questions." "There is no secret about it, as far as you are concerned, Mr. Ramsay, for it is to you and to other merchants here that I have come to talk it over;" and he then went fully into the subject. The Scotchman sat, smoking his pipe in silence, for some minutes after he had concluded. "We do not much meddle with politics here. We have neither voice nor part in the making of kings or of laws, and, beyond that we like to have a peace-loving king, it matters little to us whom the diet may set up over us. If we were once to put the tips of our fingers into Polish affairs, we might give up all thought of trade. They are forever intriguing and plotting, except when they are fighting; and it would be weary work to keep touch with it all, much less to take part in it. It is our business to buy and to sell, and so that both parties come to us, it matters little; one's money is as good as the other. If I had one set of creditors deeper in my books than another, I might wish their party to gain the day, for it would, maybe, set them up in funds, and I might get my money; but, as it is, it matters little. There is not a customer I have but is in my debt. Money is always scarce with them; for they are reckless and extravagant, keeping a horde of idle loons about them, spending as much money on their own attire and that of their wives as would keep a whole Scotch clan in victuals. But, if they cannot pay in money, they can pay in corn or in cattle, in wine or in hides. "I do not know which they are fondest of--plotting, or fighting, or feasting; and yet, reckless as they are, they are people to like. If they do sell their votes for money, it is not a Scotchman that should throw it in their teeth; for there is scarce a Scotch noble, since the days of Bruce, who has not been ready to sell himself for English gold. Our own Highlanders are as fond of fighting as the Poles, and their chiefs are as profuse in hospitality, and as reckless and spendthrift. "But the Poles have their virtues. They love their country, and are ready to die for her. They are courteous, and even chivalrous, they are hospitable to an excess, they are good husbands and kindly masters, they are recklessly brave; and, if they are unduly fond of finery, I, who supply so many of them, should be the last to find fault with them on that score. They are proud, and look down upon us traders, but that does not hurt us; and, if they were to take to trading themselves, there would be no place for us here. But this has nothing to do with our present purpose. "Certainly, if it was a question of Polish affairs, neither the foreign nor the Jewish merchants here would move a finger one way or the other. We have everything to lose, and nothing to gain. Suppose we took sides with one of the parties, and the other got the upper hand. Why, they might make ordinances hampering us in every way, laying heavy taxes on us, forbidding the export of cattle or horses, and making our lives burdensome. True, if they drove us out they would soon have to repeal the law, for all trade would be at an end. But that would be too late for many of us. "However, I do not say that, at the present time, many would not be disposed to do what they could against Augustus of Saxony. We are accustomed to civil wars; and, though these may cause misery and ruin, in the districts where they take place, they do not touch us here in the capital. But this is a different affair. Augustus has, without reason or provocation, brought down your fiery King of Sweden upon us; and, if he continues on the throne, we may hear the Swedish cannon thundering outside our walls, and may have the city taken and sacked. Therefore, for once, politics become our natural business. "But, though you may find many well wishers, I doubt if you can obtain any substantial aid. With Saxon troops in the town, and the nobles divided, there is no hope of a successful rising in Warsaw." "The king did not think of that," Charlie said. "His opinion was, that were it evident that the citizens of Warsaw were strongly opposed to Augustus of Saxony, it would have a great moral effect, and that, perhaps, they might influence some of the nobles who, as you say, are deeply in their books, or upon whose estates they may hold mortgages, to join the party against the king." "They might do something that way," Allan Ramsay agreed. "Of course, I have no money out on mortgages. I want badly enough all the money I can lay hands on in my own business. Giving credit, as we have to, and often very long credit, it requires a large capital to carry on trade. But the Jews, who no doubt do hold large mortgages on the land, cannot exert much power. They cannot hold land themselves, and, were one of them to venture to sell the property of any noble of influence, he would be ruined. The whole class would shrink from him, and, like enough, there would be a tumult got up, his house would be burned over his head, and he and his family murdered. "Still, as far as popular opinion goes, something might be done. At any rate, I will get some of my friends here tomorrow, and introduce you to them and talk it over. But we must be careful, for Augustus has a strong party here, and, were it suspected that you are a Swedish officer, it would go very hard with you. "Tomorrow you must fetch your servant here. I have already sent round to the inn, and you will find your valises in your room. You said you could rely thoroughly upon him?" "Yes, he was handed over to me by Count Piper himself; and moreover, from what I have seen of him, I am myself confident that he can be trusted. He is of Swedish descent, and is, I think, a very honest fellow." For a fortnight, Charlie remained at Allan Ramsay's, and then, in spite of the pressing entreaties of his host and hostess, took a lodging near them. He had, by this time, seen a good many of the leading traders of the town. The Scotch and Frenchmen had all heartily agreed with his argument, that it was for the benefit of Poland, and especially for that of Warsaw, that Augustus of Saxony should be replaced by another king, who would be acceptable to Charles of Sweden; but all were of opinion that but little could be done, by them, towards bringing about this result. With the Jewish traders his success was less decided. They admitted that it would be a great misfortune, were Warsaw taken by the Swedes, but, as Poles, they retained their confidence in the national army, and were altogether sceptical that a few thousand Swedes could withstand the host that could be put in the field against them. Several of them pointedly asked what interest they had in the matter, and, to some of these, Charlie was obliged to use his power of promising sums of money, in case of success. There were one or two, however, of whom he felt doubtful. Chief among these was Ben Soloman Muller, a man of great influence in the Jewish community. This man had placed so large a value upon his services, that Charlie did not feel justified in promising him such a sum. He did not like the man's face, and did not rely upon the promises of silence he had given, before the mission was revealed to him. It was for this reason, principally, that he determined to go into lodgings. Should he be denounced, serious trouble might fall upon Allan Ramsay, and it would at least minimize this risk, were he not living at his house when he was arrested. Ramsay himself was disposed to make light of the danger. "I believe myself that Ben Soloman is an old rogue, but he is not a fool. He cannot help seeing that the position of the king is precarious, and, were he to cause your arrest, he might get little thanks and no profit, while he would be incurring the risk of the vengeance of Charles, should he ever become master of the town. Did he have you arrested, he himself would be forced to appear as a witness against you, and this he could hardly do without the matter becoming publicly known. "I do not say, however, that, if he could curry favour with the king's party by doing you harm, without appearing in the matter, he would hesitate for a moment. "Even if you were arrested here, I doubt whether any great harm would befall me, for all the Scotch merchants would make common cause with me, and, although we have no political power, we have a good deal of influence one way or another, and Augustus, at this time, would not care to make fresh enemies. However, lad, I will not further dispute your decision. Were I quite alone, I would not let you leave me, so long as you stop in this city, without taking great offence; but, with a wife and two children, a man is more timid than if he had but himself to think of." Charlie therefore moved into the lodging, but every day he went for three or four hours to the shop, where he kept up his assumed character by aiding to keep the ledgers, and in learning from the Polish assistants the value of the various goods in the shop. One evening, he was returning after supper to his lodging, when Stanislas met him. "I observed three or four evil-looking rascals casting glances at the house today, and there are several rough-looking fellows hanging about the house this evening. I do not know if it means anything, but I thought I would let you know." "I think it must be only your fancy, Stanislas. I might be arrested by the troops, were I denounced, but I apprehend no danger from men of the class you speak of. However, if we should be interfered with, I fancy we could deal with several rascals of that sort." At the corner of his street, three or four men were standing. One of them moved, as he passed, and pushed rudely against him, sending his hat into the gutter. Then, as his face was exposed, the fellow exclaimed: "It is he, death to the Swedish spy!" They were the last words he uttered. Charlie's sword flew from its scabbard, and, with a rapid pass, he ran the man through the body. The others drew instantly, and fell upon Charlie with fury, keeping up the shout of, "Death to the Swedish spy!" It was evidently a signal--for men darted out of doorways, and came running down the street, repeating the cry. "Go, Stanislas!" Charlie shouted, as he defended himself against a dozen assailants. "Tell Ramsay what has happened; you can do no good here." A moment later, he received a tremendous blow on the back of the head, from an iron-bound cudgel, and fell senseless to the ground. Chapter 10: In Evil Plight. When Charlie recovered his senses, he found himself lying bound in a room lighted by a dim lamp, which sufficed only to show that the beams were blackened by smoke and age, and the walls constructed of rough stone work. There was, so far as he could see, no furniture whatever in it, and he imagined that it was an underground cellar, used perhaps, at some time or other, as a storeroom. It was some time before his brain was clear enough to understand what had happened, or how he had got into his present position. Gradually the facts came back to him, and he was able to think coherently, in spite of a splitting headache, and a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head. "I was knocked down and stunned," he said to himself, at last. "I wonder what became of Stanislas. I hope he got away. "This does not look like a prison. I should say that it was a cellar, in the house of one of the gang that set upon me. It is evident that someone has betrayed me, probably that Jew, Ben Soloman. What have they brought me here for? I wonder what are they going to do with me." His head, however, hurt him too much for him to continue the strain of thought, and, after a while, he dozed off to sleep. When he awoke, a faint light was streaming in through a slit, two or three inches wide, high up on the wall. He still felt faint and dizzy, from the effects of the blow. Parched with thirst, he tried to call out for water, but scarce a sound came from his lips. Gradually, the room seemed to darken and become indistinct, and he again lapsed into insensibility. When he again became conscious, someone was pouring water between his lips, and he heard a voice speaking loudly and angrily. He had picked up a few words of Polish from Stanislas--the names of common things, the words to use in case he lost his way, how to ask for food and for stabling for a horse, but he was unable to understand what was said. He judged, however, that someone was furiously upbraiding the man who was giving him water, for the latter now and then muttered excuses. "He is blowing the fellow up, for having so nearly let me slip through their fingers," he said to himself. "Probably they want to question me, and find out who I have been in communication with. They shall get nothing, at present, anyhow." He kept his eyes resolutely closed. Presently, he heard a door open, and another man come in. A few words were exchanged, and, this time, wine instead of water was poured down his throat. Then he was partly lifted up, and felt a cooling sensation at the back of his head. Some bandages were passed round it, and he was laid down again. There was some more conversation, then a door opened and two of the men went out; the third walked back to him, muttering angrily to himself. Charlie felt sure that he had been moved from the place in which he had been the evening before. His bonds had been loosed, and he was lying on straw, and not on the bare ground. Opening his eyelids the slightest possible degree, he was confirmed in his belief, by seeing that there was much more light than could have entered the cellar. He dared not look farther, and, in a short time, fell into a far more refreshing sleep than that he before had. The next time he woke his brain was clearer, though there was still a dull sense of pain where he had been struck. Without opening his eyes, he listened attentively. There was some sound of movement in the room, and, presently, he heard a faint regular breathing. This continued for some time, and he then heard a sort of grunt. "He is asleep," he said to himself, and, opening his eyes slightly looked round. He was in another chamber. It was grimy with dirt, and almost as unfurnished as the cellar, but there was a window through which the sun was streaming brightly. He, himself, lay upon a heap of straw. At the opposite side of the room was a similar heap, and upon this a man was sitting, leaning against the wall, with his chin dropped on his chest. The thought of escape at once occurred to Charlie. Could he reach the window, which was without glass and a mere opening in the wall, without awakening his guard, he could drop out and make for Allan Ramsay's. As soon as he tried to move, however, he found that this idea was for the present impracticable. He felt too weak to lift his head, and, at the slight rustle of straw caused by the attempt, the man opposite roused himself with a start. He gave another slight movement, and then again lay quiet with his eyes closed. The man came across and spoke, but he made no sign. Some more wine was poured between his lips, then the man returned to his former position, and all was quiet. As he lay thinking his position over, Charlie thought that those who had set his assailants to their work must have had two objects--the one to put a stop to his efforts to organize an agitation against the king, the second to find out, by questioning him, who were those with whom he had been in communication, in order that they might be arrested, and their property confiscated. He could see no other reason why his life should be spared by his assailants, for it would have been easier, and far less troublesome, to run him through as he lay senseless on the ground, than to carry him off and keep him a prisoner. This idea confirmed the suspicion he had first entertained, that the assault had been organized by Ben Soloman. He could have no real interest in the king, for he was ready to join in the organization against him, could he have obtained his own terms. He might intend to gain credit with the royal party, by claiming to have stopped a dangerous plot, and at the same time to benefit himself, by bringing about the expulsion or death of many of his foreign trade rivals. For this end, the Jew would desire that he should be taken alive, in order to serve as a witness against the others. "He will not get any names from me," he said. "Besides, none of them have promised to take any active measures against Augustus. I did not ask them to do so. There is no high treason in trying to influence public opinion. Still, it is likely enough that the Jew wants to get me to acknowledge that an insurrection was intended, and will offer me my freedom, if I will give such testimony. As I am altogether in his power, the only thing to do is to pretend to be a great deal worse than I am, and so to gain time, till I am strong enough to try to get away from this place." All this was not arrived at, at once, but was the result of half-dreamy cogitation extending over hours, and interrupted by short snatches of sleep. He was conscious that, from time to time, someone came into the room and spoke to his guard; and that, three or four times, wine was poured between his lips. Once he was raised up, and fresh cloths, dipped in water, and bandages applied to his head. In the evening, two or three men came in, and he believed that he recognized the voice of one of them as that of Ben Soloman. One of the men addressed him suddenly and sharply in Swedish. "How are you feeling? Are you in pain? We have come here to give you your freedom." Charlie was on his guard, and remained silent, with his eyes closed. "It is of no use," Ben Soloman said in his own language. "The fellow is still insensible. The clumsy fool who hit him would fare badly, if I knew who he was. I said that he was to be knocked down, silenced, and brought here; and here he is, of no more use than if he were dead." "He will doubtless come round, in time," another said in an apologetic tone. "We will bring him round, if you will have patience, Ben Soloman." "Well, well," the other replied, "a few days will make no difference; but mind that he is well guarded, directly he begins to gain strength. I will get him out of the town, as soon as I can. Allan Ramsay has laid a complaint, before the mayor, that his countryman has been attacked by a band of ruffians, and has been either killed or carried off by them. It is a pity that servant of his was not killed." "We thought he was dead. Two or three of us looked at him, and I could have sworn that life was out of him." "Well, then, you would have sworn what was not true, for he managed to crawl to Ramsay's, where he lies, I am told, dangerously ill, and an official has been to him, to obtain his account of the fray. It was a bungled business, from beginning to end." "We could not have calculated on the fellows making such a resistance," the other grumbled. "This one seemed but a lad, and yet he killed three of our party, and the other killed one. A nice business that; and you will have to pay their friends well, Ben Soloman, for I can tell you there is grumbling at the price, which they say was not enough for the work, which you told them would be easy." "It ought to have been," the Jew said sullenly. "Fifteen or twenty men to overpower a lad. What could have been more easy? However, I will do something for the friends of the men who were fools enough to get themselves killed, but if I hear any grumbling from the others, it will be worse for them; there is not one I could not lay by the heels in jail. "Well, as to this young fellow, I shall not come again. I do not want to be noticed coming here. Keep a shrewd lookout after him." "There is no fear about that," the man said. "It will be long ere he is strong enough to walk." "When he gets better, we will have him taken away to a safe place outside the town. Once there, I can make him say what I like." "And if he does not get well?" "In that case, we will take away his body and bury it outside. I will see to that myself." "I understand," the other sneered. "You don't want anyone to know where it is buried, so as to be able to bring it up against you." "You attend to your own business," the Jew said angrily. "Why should I care about what they say? At any rate, there are some matters between you and me, and there is no fear of your speaking." "Not until the time comes when I may think it worth my while to throw away my life, in order to secure your death, Ben Soloman." "It is of no use talking like that," the Jew said quietly. "We are useful to each other. I have saved your life from the gibbet, you have done the work I required. Between us, it is worse than childish to threaten in the present matter. I do not doubt that you will do your business well, and you know that you will be well paid for it; what can either of us require more?" Charlie would have given a good deal to understand the conversation, and he would have been specially glad to learn that Stanislas had escaped with his life; for he had taken a great fancy to the young Lithuanian, and was grieved by the thought that he had probably lost his life in his defence. Three days passed. His head was now clear, and his appetite returning, and he found, by quietly moving at night, when his guard was asleep, that he was gaining strength. The third day, there was some talking among several men who entered the room; then he was lifted, wrapt up in some cloths, and put into a large box. He felt this being hoisted up, it was carried downstairs, and then placed on something. A minute afterwards he felt a vibration, followed by a swaying and bumping, and guessed at once that he was on a cart, and was being removed, either to prison or to some other place of confinement. The latter he considered more probable. The journey was a long one. He had no means of judging time, but he thought that it must have lasted two or three hours. Then the rumbling ceased, the box was lifted down, and carried a short distance, then the lid was opened and he was again laid down on some straw. He heard the sound of cart wheels, and knew that the vehicle on which he had been brought was being driven away. He was now so hungry that he felt he could no longer maintain the appearance of insensibility. Two men were talking in the room, and when, for a moment, their conversation ceased, he gave a low groan, and then opened his eyes. They came at once to his bedside, with exclamations of satisfaction. "How do you feel?" one asked in Swedish. "I do not know," he said in a low tone. "Where am I, how did I get here?" "You are with friends. Never mind how you got here. You have been ill, but you will soon get well again. Someone hit you on the head, and we picked you up and brought you here." "I am weak and faint," Charlie murmured. "Have you any food?" "You shall have some food, directly it is prepared. Take a drink of wine, and see if you can eat a bit of bread while the broth is preparing." Charlie drank a little of the wine that was put to his lips, and then broke up the bread, and ate it crumb by crumb, as if it were a great effort to do so, although he had difficulty in restraining himself from eating it voraciously. When he had finished it, he closed his eyes again, as if sleep had overpowered him. An hour later, there was a touch on his shoulder. "Here is some broth, young fellow. Wake up and drink that, it will do you good." Charlie, as before, slowly sipped down the broth, and then really fell asleep, for the jolting had fatigued him terribly. It was evening when he awoke. Two men were sitting at a blazing fire. When he moved, one of them brought him another basin of broth, and fed him with a spoon. Charlie had been long enough in the country to know, by the appearance of the room, that he was in a peasant's hut. He wondered why he had been brought there, and concluded that it must be because Allan Ramsay had set so stringent a search on foot in the city, that they considered it necessary to take him away. "They will not keep me here long," he said to himself. "I am sure that I could walk now, and, in another two or three days, I shall be strong enough to go some distance. That soup has done me a deal of good. I believe half my weakness is from hunger." He no longer kept up the appearance of unconsciousness, and, in the morning, put various questions, to the man who spoke Swedish, as to what had happened and how he came to be there. This man was evidently, from his dress and appearance, a Jew, while the other was as unmistakably a peasant, a rough powerfully-built man with an evil face. The Jew gave him but little information, but told him that in a day or two, when he was strong enough to listen, a friend would come who would tell him all about it. On the third day, he heard the sound of an approaching horse, and was not surprised when, after a conversation in a low tone outside, Ben Soloman entered. Charlie was now much stronger, but he had carefully abstained from showing any marked improvement, speaking always in a voice a little above a whisper, and allowing the men to feed him, after making one or two pretended attempts to convey the spoon to his mouth. "Well, Master Englishman," Ben Soloman said, as he came up to his bedside, "what do you think of things?" "I do not know what to think," Charlie said feebly. "I do not know where I am, or why I am here. I remember that there was a fray in the street, and I suppose I was hurt. But why was I brought here, instead of being taken to my lodgings?" "Because you would be no use to me in your lodging, and you may be a great deal of use to me here," Ben Soloman said. "You know you endeavoured to entrap me into a plot against the king's life." Charlie shook his head, and looked wonderingly at the speaker. "No, no," he said, "there was no plot against the king's life. I only asked if you would use your influence among your friends to turn popular feeling against Augustus." "Nothing of the kind," the Jew said harshly. "You wanted him removed by poison or the knife. There is no mistake about that, and that is what I am going to swear, and what, if you want to save your life, you will have to swear too; and you will have to give the names of all concerned in the plot, and to swear that they were all agreed to bring about the death of the king. Now you understand why you were brought here. You are miles away from another house, and you may shout and scream as loud as you like. You are in my power." "I would die rather than make a false accusation." "Listen to me," the Jew said sternly. "You are weak now, too weak to suffer much. This day week I will return, and then you had best change your mind, and sign a document I shall bring with me, with the full particulars of the plot to murder the king, and the names of those concerned in it. This you will sign. I shall take it to the proper authorities, and obtain a promise that your life shall be spared, on condition of your giving evidence against these persons." "I would never sign such a villainous document," Charlie said. "You will sign it," Ben Soloman said calmly. "When you find yourself roasting over a slow charcoal fire, you will be ready to sign anything I wish you to." So saying, he turned and left the room. He talked for some time to the men outside, then Charlie heard him ride off. "You villain," he said to himself. "When you come, at the end of a week, you will not find me here; but, if I get a chance of having a reckoning with you, it will be bad for you." Charlie's progress was apparently slow. The next day he was able to sit up and feed himself. Two days later he could totter across the room, and lie down before the fire. The men were completely deceived by his acting, and, considering any attempt to escape, in his present weak state, altogether impossible, paid but little heed to him, the peasant frequently absenting himself for hours together. Looking from his window, Charlie saw that the hut was situated in a thick wood, and, from the blackened appearance of the peasant's face and garments, he guessed him to be a charcoal burner, and therefore judged that the trees he saw must form part of a forest of considerable extent. The weather was warm, and his other guard often sat, for a while, outside the door. During his absence, Charlie lifted the logs of wood piled beside the hearth, and was able to test his returning strength, assuring himself that, although not yet fully recovered, he was gaining ground daily. He resolved not to wait until the seventh day; for Ben Soloman might change his mind, and return before the day he had named. He determined, therefore, that on the sixth day he would make the attempt. He had no fear of being unable to overcome his Jewish guard, as he would have the advantage of a surprise. He only delayed as long as possible, because he doubted his powers of walking any great distance, and of evading the charcoal burner, who would, on his return, certainly set out in pursuit of him. Moreover, he wished to remain in the hut nearly up to the time of the Jew's return, as he was determined to wait in the forest, and revenge himself for the suffering he had caused him, and for the torture to which he intended to put him. The evening before the day on which he decided to make the attempt, the charcoal burner and the Jew were in earnest conversation. The word signifying brigand was frequently repeated, and, although he could not understand much more than this, he concluded, from the peasant's talk and gestures, that he had either come across some of these men in the forest, or had gathered from signs he had observed, perhaps from their fires, that they were there. The Jew shrugged his shoulders when the narration was finished. The presence of brigands was a matter of indifference to him. The next day, the charcoal burner went off at noon. "Where does he go to?" Charlie asked his guard. "He has got some charcoal fires alight, and is obliged to go and see to them. They have to be kept covered up with wet leaves and earth, so that the wood shall only smoulder," the man said, as he lounged out of the hut to his usual seat. Charlie waited a short time, then went to the pile of logs, and picked out a straight stick about a yard long and two inches in diameter. With one of the heavier ones he could have killed the man, but the fellow was only acting under the orders of his employer, and, although he would doubtless, at Ben Soloman's commands, have roasted him alive without compunction, he had not behaved with any unkindness, and had, indeed, seemed to do his best for him. Taking the stick, he went to the door. He trod lightly, but in the stillness of the forest the man heard him, and glanced round as he came out. Seeing the stick in his hand he leaped up, exclaiming, "You young fool!" and sprang towards him. He had scarce time to feel surprise, as Charlie quickly raised the club. It described a swift sweep, fell full on his head, and he dropped to the ground as if shot. Charlie ran in again, seized a coil of rope, bound his hands and feet securely, and dragged him into the hut. Then he dashed some cold water on his face. The man opened his eyes, and tried to move. "You are too tightly bound to move, Pauloff," he said. "I could have killed you if I had chosen, but I did not wish to. You have not been unkind to me, and I owe you no grudge; but tell your rascally employer that I will be even with him, someday, for the evil he has done me." "You might as well have killed me," the man said, "for he will do so when he finds I let you escape." "Then my advice to you is, be beforehand with him. You are as strong a man as he is, and if I were in your place, and a man who meant to kill me came into a lonely hut like this, I would take precious good care that he had no chance of carrying out his intentions." Charlie then took two loaves of black bread and a portion of goat's flesh from the cupboard; found a bottle about a quarter full of coarse spirits, filled it up with water and put it in his pocket, and then, after taking possession of the long knife his captive wore in his belt, went out of the hut and closed the door behind him. He had purposely moved slowly about the hut, as he made these preparations, in order that the Jew should believe that he was still weak; but, indeed, the effort of dragging the man into the hut had severely taxed his strength, and he found that he was much weaker than he had supposed. The hut stood in a very small clearing, and Charlie had no difficulty in seeing the track by which the cart had come, for the marks of the wheels were still visible in the soft soil. He followed this until, after about two miles' walking, he came to the edge of the wood. Then he retraced his steps for a quarter of a mile, turned off, and with some difficulty made his way into a patch of thick undergrowth, where, after first cutting a formidable cudgel, he lay down, completely exhausted. Late in the afternoon he was aroused from a doze by the sound of footsteps, and, looking through the screen of leaves, he saw his late jailers hurrying along the path. The charcoal burner carried a heavy axe, while the Jew, whose head was bound up with a cloth, had a long knife in his girdle. They went as far as the end of the forest, and then retraced their steps slowly. They were talking loudly, and Charlie could gather, from the few words he understood, and by their gestures, something of the purport of their conversation. "I told you it was of no use your coming on as far as this," the Jew said. "Why, he was hardly strong enough to walk." "He managed to knock you down, and afterwards to drag you into the house," the other said. "It does not require much strength to knock a man down with a heavy club, when he is not expecting it, Conrad. He certainly did drag me in, but he was obliged to sit down afterwards, and I watched him out of one eye as he was making his preparations, and he could only just totter about. I would wager you anything he cannot have gone two hundred yards from the house. That is where we must search for him. I warrant we shall find him hidden in a thicket thereabouts." "We shall have to take a lantern then, for it will be dark before we get back." "Our best plan will be to leave it alone till morning. If we sit outside the hut, and take it in turns to watch, we shall hear him when he moves, which he is sure to do when it gets dark. It will be a still night, and we should hear a stick break half a mile away. We shall catch him, safe enough, before he has gone far." "Well, I hope we shall have him back before Ben Soloman comes," the charcoal burner said, "or it will be worse for both of us. You know as well as I do he has got my neck in a noose, and he has got his thumb on you." "If we can't find this Swede, I would not wait here for any money. I would fly at once." "You would need to fly, in truth, to get beyond Ben Soloman's clutches," the charcoal burner said gruffly. "He has got agents all over the country." "Then what would you do?" "There is only one thing to do. It is our lives or his. When he rides up tomorrow, we will meet him at the door as if nothing had happened, and, with my axe, I will cleave his head asunder as he comes in. If he sees me in time to retreat, you shall stab him in the back. Then we will dig a big hole in the wood, and throw him in, and we will kill his horse and bury it with him. "Who would ever be the wiser? I was going to propose it last time, only I was not sure of you then; but, now that you are in it as deep as I am--deeper, indeed, for he put you here specially to look after this youngster--your interest in the matter is as great as mine." The Jew was silent for some time, then he said: "He has got papers at home which would bring me to the gallows." "Pooh!" the other said. "You do not suppose that, when it is found that he does not return, and his heirs open his coffers, they will take any trouble about what there may be in the papers there, except such as relate to his money. I will warrant there are papers there which concern scores of men besides you, for I know that Ben Soloman likes to work with agents he has got under his thumb. But, even if all the papers should be put into the hands of the authorities, what would come of it? They have got their hands full of other matters, for the present, and with the Swedes on their frontier, and the whole country divided into factions, who do you think is going to trouble to hunt up men for affairs that occurred years ago? Even if they did, they would not catch you. They have not got the means of running you down that Ben Soloman has. "I tell you, man, it must be done. There is no other way out of it." "Well, Conrad, if we cannot find this fellow before Ben Soloman comes, I am with you in the business. I have been working for him on starvation pay for the last three years, and hate him as much as you can." When they reached the hut they cooked a meal, and then prepared to keep alternate watch. Charlie slept quietly all night, and, in the morning, remained in his hiding place until he heard, in the distance, the sound of a horse's tread. Then he went out and sat down, leaning against a tree by the side of the path, in an attitude of exhaustion. Presently he saw Ben Soloman approaching. He got up feebly, and staggered a few paces to another tree, farther from the path. He heard an angry shout, and then Ben Soloman rode up, and, with a torrent of execrations at the carelessness of the watchers, leapt from his horse and sprang to seize the fugitive, whom he regarded as incapable of offering the slightest resistance. Charlie straightened himself up, as if with an effort, and raised his cudgel. "I will not be taken alive," he said. Ben Soloman drew his long knife from his girdle. "Drop that stick," he said, "or it will be worse for you." "It cannot be worse than being tortured to death, as you said." The Jew, with an angry snarl, sprang forward so suddenly and unexpectedly that he was within the swing of Charlie's cudgel before the latter could strike. He dropped the weapon at once, and caught the wrist of the uplifted hand that held the knife. The Jew gave a cry of astonishment and rage, as they clasped each other, and he found that, instead of an unresisting victim, he was in a powerful grasp. For a moment there was a desperate struggle. The Jew would, at ordinary times, have been no match for Charlie, but the latter was far from having regained his normal strength. His fury at the treatment he had received at the man's hands, however, enabled him, for the moment, to exert himself to the utmost, and, after swaying backwards and forwards in desperate strife for a minute, they went to the ground with a crash, Ben Soloman being undermost. The Jew's grasp instantly relaxed, and Charlie, springing to his feet and seizing his cudgel, stood over his fallen antagonist. The latter, however, did not move. His eyes were open in a fixed stare. Charlie looked at him in surprise for a moment, thinking he was stunned, then he saw that his right arm was twisted under him in the fall, and at once understanding what had happened, turned him half over. He had fallen on the knife, which had penetrated to the haft, killing him instantly. "I didn't mean to kill you," Charlie said aloud, "much as you deserve it, and surely as you would have killed me, if I had refused to act as a traitor. I would have broken your head for you, but that was all. However, it is as well as it is. It adds to my chance of getting away, and I have no doubt there will be many who will rejoice when you are found to be missing. "Now," he went on, "as your agents emptied my pockets, it is no robbery to empty yours. Money will be useful, and so will your horse." He stooped over the dead man, and took the purse from his girdle, when suddenly there was a rush of feet, and in a moment he was seized. The thought flashed through his mind that he had fallen into the power of his late guardians, but a glance showed that the men standing round were strangers. "Well, comrade, and who are you?" the man who was evidently the leader asked. "You have saved us some trouble. We were sleeping a hundred yards or two away, when we heard the horseman, and saw, as he passed, he was the Jew of Warsaw, to whom two or three of us owe our ruin, and it did not need more than a word for us to agree to wait for him till he came back. We were surprised when we saw you, still more so when the Jew jumped from his horse and attacked you. We did not interfere, because, if he had got the best of you, he might have jumped on his horse and ridden off, but directly he fell we ran out, but you were so busy in taking the spoil that you did not hear us. "I see the Jew is dead; fell on his own knife. It is just as well for him, for we should have tied him to a tree, and made a bonfire of him, if we had caught him." Charlie understood but little of this, but said when the other finished: "I understand but little Polish." "What are you then--a Russian? You do not look like one." "I am an Englishman, and am working in the house of Allan Ramsay, a Scotch trader in Warsaw." "Well, you are a bold fellow anyhow, and after the smart way in which you disposed of this Jew, and possessed yourself of his purse, you will do honour to our trade." "I hope you will let me go," Charlie said. "My friends in Warsaw will pay a ransom for me, if you will let me return there." "No, no, young fellow. You would of course put down this Jew's death to our doing, and we have weight enough on our backs already. He is a man of great influence, and all his tribe would be pressing on the government to hunt us down. You shall go with us, and the purse you took from Ben Soloman will pay your footing." Charlie saw that it would be useless to try and alter the man's decision, especially as he knew so little of the language. He therefore shrugged his shoulders, and said that he was ready to go with them, if it must be so. The Jew's body was now thoroughly searched. Various papers were found upon him, but, as these proved useless to the brigands, they were torn up. "Shall we take the horse with us?" one of the men asked the leader. "No, it would be worse than useless in the forest. Leave it standing here. It will find its way back in time. Then there will be a search, and there will be rejoicing in many a mansion throughout the country, when it is known that Ben Soloman is dead. They say he has mortgages on a score of estates, and, though I suppose these will pass to others of his tribe, they can hardly be as hard and mercenary as this man was. "I wonder what he was doing in this forest alone? Let us follow the path, and see where he is going. "Honred, you have a smattering of several languages, try then if you can make our new comrade understand." The man tried in Russian without success, then he spoke in Swedish, in which language Charlie at once replied. "Where does this pathway lead to?" "To a hut where a charcoal burner lives. I have been imprisoned there for the last fortnight. It was all the Jew's doing. It was through him that I got this knock here;" and he pointed to the unhealed wound at the back of his head. "Well, we may as well pay them a visit," the chief said, when this was translated to him. "We are short of flour, and they may have some there, and maybe something else that will be useful." Chapter 11: With Brigands. The man who had spoken to Charlie drew the long knife from the back of the Jew, wiped it on the grass, and handed it to him. "That ought to be your property," he said. "It has done you good service." Not sorry to have a weapon in addition to his cudgel, Charlie placed it in his belt, and then started with the bandits. He would not have cared to face the charcoal burner alone; but now that the band regarded him as enrolled among their number, he felt no uneasiness respecting him. When they issued from the trees, the Jew was seen standing at the door of the hut. He at once ran in on seeing them, and came out again, accompanied by the charcoal burner, who carried his axe on his shoulder. The Jew started, on catching sight of Charlie among the ranks of the brigands, and said a word or two to his companion. "Well, Master Charcoal Burner," the leader of the party said, "how is it that honest woodmen consort with rogues of the town?" "I don't know that they do so, willingly," the man said gruffly. "But some of us, to our cost, have put our heads into nooses, and the rogues of the town have got hold of the other end of the ropes, and we must just walk as we are told to." "Well, that is true enough," the brigand said. "And you, Jew, what are you doing here?" "I am like Conrad," he replied, sulkily. "It is not only countrymen who have their necks in a noose, and I have to do what I am ordered." "By a bigger rogue than yourself?" "That is so; bigger and cleverer." "You are expecting him here now, our new comrade tells us. Well, you need expect him no longer. He will not come. If you will go along the path, you will come upon his body, and may bury him if you like to take the trouble." An exclamation of satisfaction broke from the two men. "You have done us a service, indeed," the charcoal burner said. "We had thought to do it for ourselves, this morning, for after the escape of him you call your new comrade, he would have shown us no mercy." "You may thank our new comrade, and not us," the brigand said. "We only arrived on the spot when it was all over." The Jew looked at Charlie in astonishment. "What! Did he kill Ben Soloman?" "That did he; or rather, the Jew killed himself. There was a grapple hand to hand, and a wrestle. The Jew fell undermost, and was pierced with his own knife." "But the lad is but just out of a sickbed, and has no strength for a struggle, and Ben Soloman, though past middle life, was strong and active." "Neither strong enough nor active enough," the man laughed. "You have been nicely taken in. Who would have thought that two Jews and a Pole would have been cheated by an English lad? His face shows that he has been ill, and doubtless he has not yet recovered his full strength, but he was strong enough, anyhow, to overthrow Ben Soloman. "Now, what have you in the hut? We are in need of provisions." The hut was ransacked; the flour, two bottles of spirits, and a skin of wine seized, and the meat cut up and roasted over the fire. After the meal was eaten, the captain called upon Charlie to tell his story more fully, and this he did, with the aid of the man who spoke Swedish; starting, however, only at the point when he was attacked in the street, as he felt it better to remain silent as to his connection with the Swedish army. "But what was the cause of Ben Soloman's hostility to you?" "There are some in Warsaw who are of opinion that Augustus of Saxony has done much harm to Poland, in engaging without cause in the war against Charles of Sweden, and who think that it would be well that he should be dethroned, and some other prince made king in his place. To this party many of the traders belong, and the Jew had reason to think that I was acquainted with the design, and could give the names of those concerned in it. There was really no plot against Augustus, but it was only intended that a popular demonstration against his rule should be made. But Soloman wanted me to give evidence that there was a conspiracy against the king's life, so that he might gain great credit by exposing it, and might at the same time rid himself of many of his rivals in the trade." "He was an artful fox," the leader of the brigands said, when this had been translated to him. "But where is the Jew he put over you?" Three or four of the men sprang to their feet and ran out, but the Jew was nowhere to be seen. The captain was furious, and abused his men right and left, while his anger was in no way mitigated when one of them told him that, if he had wanted the Jew kept, he should have given one of them orders to look after him. This was so evident that the chief was silenced for a moment. "How long is it since any of you saw him last?" "He went round with the wineskin, and filled our cups just as we sat down to breakfast," one of the men said. "I have not noticed him since." Nor had any of the others. "Then it will be no use to pursue. He has had more than half an hour's start, and long before this he will have mounted Ben Soloman's horse, and have ridden off. "Well, comrade," he said, turning to Charlie, "this settles your movements. I was but half in earnest before as to your joining us; but it is clear now that there's nothing else for you to do, for the present. This fellow will, directly he gets to Warsaw, denounce you as the murderer of his master. That he is sure to do to avert suspicion from himself, and, if you were to return there, it would go hard with you. So, for a time, you must throw in your lot with us." When this was translated to Charlie, he saw at once the force of the argument. He could not have denied that the Jew had fallen in a hand-to-hand struggle with himself, and, were he to appear in Warsaw, he might be killed by the co-religionists of Ben Soloman; or, if he escaped this, might lie in a dungeon for months awaiting his trial, and perhaps be finally executed. There was nothing for him now but to rejoin the Swedes, and it would be some time, yet, before he would be sufficiently recovered to undertake such a journey. "I should not mind, if I could send a letter to Allan Ramsay, to tell him what has befallen me. He will be thinking I am dead, and will, at any rate, be in great anxiety about me." "I have taken a liking to you, young fellow," the leader said, "and will send in one of my men to Warsaw with a letter; that is, if you can write one." "Yes, I can write. Fortunately there are paper, pen, and an ink horn on that shelf. Ben Soloman brought them the last time he came, to write down the lies he wanted me to testify to. I am greatly obliged to you, and will do it at once." As he had, only the day before he was attacked, sent off a messenger to Count Piper, telling him all he had done the previous week, there was no occasion to repeat this, and he had only to give an account of his capture, and the events that had since occurred. "You see," he said, "I cannot return to Warsaw. The Jew who was here unfortunately heard that it was in a struggle with me Ben Soloman was killed, and he will, of course, denounce me as his murderer, though the deed was done in fair fight. I should have all his tribe against me, and might be imprisoned for months awaiting trial. I am still very weak, and could not attempt the journey to the frontier. I am, however, gaining strength, and, as soon as I am quite recovered, I shall take the first opportunity of leaving the men I am with, and making for the Swedish camp. Please forward this news by a sure hand to Count Piper, and express my sorrow that my mission has not been completed, although, indeed, I do not think that my further stay at Warsaw would have been any great service, for it is clear that the great majority of the traders will not move in the matter until the Swedes advance, and, from their point of view, it is not to their interest to do so. "I know but little of the men I am with at present, beyond the fact that they are bandits, nor can I say whether they are disbanded soldiers, or criminals who have escaped from justice; but at any rate they show me no ill will. I have no doubt I shall be able to get on fairly with them, until I am able to make my escape. I wish I had poor Stanislas with me. Only one of the men here speaks Swedish, and he does not know very much of the language. I cannot say, at present, whether the twenty men here are the whole of the band, or whether they are only a portion of it. Nor do I know whether the men subsist by plundering the peasants, or venture on more serious crimes. Thanking you for your great kindness during my stay at Warsaw, I remain, yours gratefully-- "Charlie Carstairs." While he was occupied in writing this letter, an animated conversation was going on between the bandits. Charlie gathered that this related to their future operations, but more than this he could not learn. In a postscript to the letter, he requested Allan Ramsay to hand over to the bearer some of the clothes left in his lodgings, and to pay him for his trouble. "As to the money I left in your hands, I do not think it worth while for you to send it. However much these men may consider me a comrade, I have not sufficient faith in their honesty to believe that money would reach me safely; but, if you send me a suit of clothes, two or three gold pieces might be wrapped up in a piece of cloth and shoved into the toe of a shoe. The parcel must be a small one, or there would be little chance of the man carrying it far. I will ask him, however, to bring me a sword, if you will buy one for me, and my pistols." He folded up the letter and gave it to the captain. There was no means of fastening it, but this mattered little, because, being written in English, there was no chance of its being read. The captain handed it to one of the men, with instructions for its delivery. The messenger started at once. The others, after remaining a short time in the hut, set out through the forest. After an hour's walking, Charlie was unable to go further. The captain, seeing this, ordered four of the men to stop with him, and to follow the next morning. As soon as he had gone on with the rest of the band, the men set about collecting sticks and making a fire. Charlie, who was utterly exhausted, threw himself on the ground, and was not long before he fell sound asleep. When he awoke, the shades of evening were already falling, and the men were sitting over the fire, roasting a portion of a goat, one of a flock they had fallen in with in the wood, where large numbers roamed about in a semi-wild state. The man who could speak Swedish was one of those who had remained with him, and, from him, he learnt that the present headquarters of the band were some six miles farther away. This distance was performed next morning, frequent halts being made to enable him to sit down and rest; and it was not till five hours after the start that they arrived. Overgrown as it now was, with trees and undergrowth, he could see that a village once stood there. It must, however, have been abandoned a very long time, as trees of considerable size grew among the low walls and piles of stones that marked where cottages had stood. The place occupied by the brigands had, in former times, been a castellated building of some strength, standing on a knoll in the middle of the village, which had probably been inhabited by the retainers of its owner. Part of the wall had fallen, but a large arched room, that had doubtless been the banqueting hall of the castle, remained almost intact, and here the brigands had established themselves. Several fires burned on the flagged floors, the smoke finding its way out through holes and crevices in the roof. Some fifty men were gathered round these, and were occupied in cooking their midday meal. "I am glad to see that you have arrived," the captain said, coming across to Charlie. "I expected you two hours ago, and intended, as soon as we had finished our meal, to send out another four men to meet you and help to carry you in." "Thank you," Charlie said. "It is not the men's fault we are late, but the last part of the way we came on very slowly. I was getting so exhausted that I had to stop every few hundred yards." "Well, you had better eat something, and then lie down for a sleep. Meat is plentiful with us, for there are thousands of goats in the forest, and occasionally we get a deer or wild boar. If we had but bread and wine we should live like nobles. Our supplies, however, are low at present, and we shall have to make an expedition, tomorrow or next day, to replenish them." Charlie ate a few mouthfuls of meat, and then lay down and slept, for some hours, on a bed of leaves. He was awoke by loud and excited talking among the men, and learnt from Honred that one of the men, who had been left on watch at the mouth of the path by which he had entered the forest, had just brought in the news that a party of a hundred infantry, led by the Jew, had arrived with a cart. In this the body of Ben Soloman had been sent off, while the troops had established themselves in the little clearing round the hut. "This comes of letting that Jew escape," the captain said. "No doubt he told the story his own way, and the Jewish traders went to the governor and asked that troops should be sent to root us out. Well, they are far enough away at present, and I have sent off to have their movements watched. It is a good nine miles, from here to the hut, and they may look for a week before they find this place, unless that rascally Jew has heard of it from the woodman, or they get hold of the fellow himself, though I should think they will hardly do that. I fancy he has some cause of quarrel with the authorities, and will not put himself in the way of being questioned closely, if he can help it." The next morning when Charlie awoke, two men were standing beside him. His eyes first fell on the one who had been to the town, and who held a large bundle in his hand. Then he turned his eyes to the other, and gave an exclamation of pleasure, as he saw that it was Stanislas. He looked pale and weak, and was evidently just recovering from a severe illness. "Why, Stanislas!" he exclaimed. "This is a pleasure, indeed. I never for a moment dreamt of seeing you. I heard from the Jew who guarded me that you got away, but I was afraid that you had been badly wounded. Why, my brave fellow, what brings you here?" "I have come to be with your honour," the man said. "It was, of course, my duty to be by your side. I was very ill for a week, for I had half a dozen wounds, but I managed, after the assailants left me, to crawl back to Mr. Ramsay's to tell him what had happened. I don't remember much about the next few days. Since then I have been mending rapidly. None of the wounds were very serious, and it was more loss of blood, than anything else, that ailed me. Mr. Ramsay searched high and low for you, and we had all given you up for dead, till a few hours before this man arrived with your letter. "We heard you had killed Ben Soloman. I had a long talk with your messenger, who received a handsome present from Mr. Ramsay, and he agreed to conduct me here, upon my solemn promise that, if the captain would not receive me, I would not give any information, on my return, as to the whereabouts of the band. Mr. Ramsay hired a light cart, and that brought us yesterday far into the forest. We camped there, and I had not more than a couple of miles to walk to get here this morning." "Have you seen the captain?" Charlie asked eagerly. "Yes. I was stopped by some sentries, a quarter of a mile away, and was kept there while my guide came on and got permission of the captain for me to be brought in. When I met him, I had no great difficulty in persuading him to let me stop, for Mr. Ramsay had given me fifty rix-dollars to give him; and so, your honour, here I am, and here is a letter from Mr. Ramsay himself." "I cannot tell you how glad I am to have you, Stanislas. I am getting better, but I am so weak that I took five hours, yesterday, to get six miles. Now I have got you to talk to, I shall pick up strength faster than I have been doing, for it has been very dull work having no one who could understand me. There is only one man here who understands a word of Swedish." "We will soon get you round, sir, never fear. I have brought with me four casks of wine. They were left at the place where the cart stopped last night, but the captain has sent off men already to bring them in. You will be all the better for a suit of clean clothes." "That I shall. It is a month now since I had a change, and my jerkin is all stained with blood. I want a wash more than anything; for there was no water near the hut, and the charcoal burner used to bring in a small keg from a spring he passed on his way to his work. That was enough for drinking, but not enough for washing--a matter which never seemed to have entered into his head, or that of the Jew, as being in the slightest degree necessary." "There is a well just outside," Stanislas said. "I saw them drawing water in buckets as we came in. I suppose it was the well of this castle, in the old time." "I will go and have a wash, and change my clothes the first thing," Charlie said. "Mr. Ramsay's letter will keep till after that." They went out to the well together. "So you heard the story, that I had killed Ben Soloman, before you left?" "Yes; before your letter arrived, Mr. Ramsay sent for me, and told me a Jewish trader had just informed him that news had come that Ben Soloman had been murdered, and the deed had been done by the young Scotchman who had been with him. Mr. Ramsay did not believe the story in the slightest. He admitted that Ben Soloman might have been murdered, and even said frankly that, hated as he was, it was the most natural end for him to come to; but that you should have done so was, he said, absurd. In the first place, he did not think that you were alive; and in the second, it was far more probable that you had been murdered by Ben Soloman, than that he should have been murdered by you. "However, even before your letter came, three or four hours later, there seemed no longer any doubt that you had killed the Jew. By that time, there was quite an uproar among his people. He was the leader of their community, and had dealings with so many nobles that his influence was great; and, although he was little liked, he was regarded as an important person, and his loss was a very heavy one to the Jewish community. A deputation went to the governor, and we heard that troops would be at once sent out to capture you, and the band of brigands you had joined. Mr. Ramsay told me that it was fortunate, indeed, that you had not returned to the city. But, no doubt, he has told you all that in the letter." "I feel quite another man, Stanislas," Charlie said, when he had changed his garments. "Now I can read the letter you brought me." After expressing the great satisfaction he felt, at the news that Charlie was alive, Mr. Ramsay went on to say that, even were he well, he could not return to Warsaw in the present state of public feeling. "Your story that you were attacked, grievously wounded, and, after being confined here for some days, carried away and confined in the wood, by order of Ben Soloman, and that he visited you there, would be treated with derision. The version given by the man who brought in the story of the Jew's death was that he himself was staying in the cottage of a charcoal burner, an acquaintance of his, and that a party of brigands, of whom you were one, arrived there, and that they were boasting of having caused the death of Ben Soloman, who had fallen by your hand. He managed to escape from the brigands, and on the road found the dead body of his employer, who was, he knew, that morning coming out to give him some instructions. My opinion, and that of my friends who knew you, was that the fellow had himself killed and robbed his master; but your letter, of course, showed that his account was true to some extent--that Ben Soloman had fallen in a struggle with you, and that you yourself were a prisoner in the hands of these bandits. Still, as it would be next to impossible for you to prove the truth of your story, and as the Jews of the place, who are numerous and influential, are dead against you, your life would certainly be forfeited were you to be captured. "I know your story to be true, but it would appear wildly improbable, to others, that this wealthy Jew should have conspired, in the first place, to cause an attack to be made upon an unknown young stranger, still less that he should have had him carried off to the forest, and should have gone to visit him there. The explanation that you were a Swedish officer in disguise would not benefit you in any way, while it would involve us who knew you in your danger, and would cause the Jew to be regarded as a man who had lost his life in endeavouring to unmask a plot against Poland. Therefore, I think it is extremely fortunate that you are, for the present, safe in the hands of these brigands, and should certainly advise you to make no attempt to leave them, until you are perfectly well and strong. "I have, as you directed me, hidden a few pieces of gold in your shoe, and have handed the rest of your money to your man, who is starting to join you. He will conceal it about him. I have just heard that a body of troops are starting at once for the forest, and that orders have been sent to other towns, to send detachments into it at different points, so it is evident the authorities are determined to catch you, if possible. If you had killed half a dozen traders in a smaller way, they would have cared little about it; but just at present, pressed as the king is by want of money, he is bound to do everything he can to please the Jewish traders, as it is upon them that he must rely for loans for the payment of his troops. "In this matter, then, he will leave no stone unturned to gratify them, and I should strongly advise your band to move away from the neighbourhood, at any rate for a time. They may plunder whole villages with impunity, but what is regarded as the murder of the richest citizen of Warsaw, a man mixed up in business and politics with half the principal nobles of the land, is a different matter altogether. Do not think of trying to traverse the country until you are perfectly strong. It will be a dangerous business at the best, but with your man with you, to bear the brunt of replying to questions, I have every confidence that you will succeed in making your way through. As to this, I can give no advice, as there is no saying as to the point from which you may start, or the directions in which you may travel. "Should you, at any time, find yourself in a town in which there are any of my countrymen established in trade, and you will find them nearly everywhere, use my name. I think it is pretty generally known to Scotchmen in Poland. You will see I have inclosed a note that will be useful to you." The inclosure contained only a few words: "I, Allan Ramsay, merchant of Warsaw, do declare the bearer of this note to be my friend, and beg any countrymen of mine, to whom he may present himself, to assist him in every way, and, should he require money, to furnish him with it, I undertaking to make myself responsible for the same, and to pay all monies and other charges that he may incur." "The first thing to do," Charlie said, as he placed the letters in his doublet, "is to let the leader of our band know that other bodies of troops, besides that at the hut, are about to enter the forest. He may decide that it is necessary to march away at once." As soon, indeed, as the outlaw received the tidings, he issued orders for the band to prepare for instant departure. "A party of five or six men together," he said to Charlie, "might hide in this forest for years. But a band of fifty is too large to be long concealed. To begin with, they must get food, and must either buy it or hunt for it; and in the second, there are a considerable number of men living in the forest, charcoal burners and herders of goats and swine, and any of these, if questioned by the troops, might mention that they had seen a considerable number of men passing. As it is, we will break up into parties of seven or eight, and appoint a rendezvous where we may meet again." The band was speedily mustered, for, with the exception of those who were watching the forest through which the troops at the hut must march to reach them, the whole were close at hand. A messenger was sent off to call in the scouts. Then the booty that had been taken during their late excursions was brought out, and emptied on the ground. It consisted of money and jewellery. It was divided into equal portions, of which each member took one, the lieutenants of the band two, and the captain three. "You don't share this time," the latter said to Charlie; "but next time, of course, you and your comrade will each have your portion." When this was done, the men were told off in parties of six or seven, and instructions given as to the point of rendezvous. Each band chose its own leader, and, in an hour from the reception of the news, the place was deserted, and the parties were making their way in different directions through the forest. Charlie and Stanislas formed part of the captain's own force, which numbered ten in all. "Do you think they will all turn up at the meeting place?" Charlie asked the leader, whose name he now ascertained was Ladislas Koffski. "They may," he said. "But it is seldom that bands, when they once disperse like this, ever come together again. It is impossible to content everyone, and any man who is chosen leader of a party may, if he is dissatisfied, persuade those with him to join some other band. Even if they do not go in a body, many are sure to break off and make for their homes, to enjoy the booty they have gathered. "But, upon the other hand, as we go we shall gather up fresh recruits. With so many disbanded soldiers and discontented men roaming the country, there is no difficulty in getting as many men as one cares to keep together. "Fifty is the outside that is advisable, for with more, even if one makes a good haul, it comes to so little, a head, that the men are dissatisfied. Of course they work in small parties, but this does not succeed so well as when a small band are under a single leader." "How long have you been at this work?" "Since last autumn." "And you find it pay?" "We do not get much in money. As you saw, there were but four rix dollars a head, and that is the result of a month's work. Still, that is not bad for men who might otherwise starve. Sometimes we do worse and sometimes better, but that is about the average. Still, the life is a pleasant one, and unless we disbanded soldiers took to it, what would there be for us to do? If government would keep us on regular pay, there would soon be no brigands left, except the men who have escaped from justice. But the treasury is empty, and, even at the best of times, the troops are badly and irregularly paid, and are forced to plunder to keep life together. They are almost in rags, and though we Poles do not mind fighting, there is generally a difficulty in getting sufficient infantry. As for the cavalry, they are nobles, and draw no pay. "How do you feel today?" "Better. The night's rest, and a wash and change of clothes this morning, have made me feel another man. How far do you intend to march?" "We shall go slowly for a day or two. The other parties have all pushed on ahead fast, but by taking matters quietly, and by keeping a sharp lookout, we need have no great fear of being surprised. I know the forest well, and its thickest hiding places, so we can afford to travel slowly, and as you become accustomed to it you will be able to make longer journeys." For ten days they travelled through the forest, increasing their distance daily, as Charlie regained his strength. The last day or two they did not make less than twenty miles a day. Their faces were turned steadily east. Occasionally they passed large tracts of cleared land, villages, and cultivated fields. At some of these they stopped and replenished their stock of flour, which they took without paying for it, but did no farther damage. Of meat they had abundance. Two or three men started each day as soon as they halted, and, in a short time, returned with a goat or young pig. "We are now close to the Bug River," Ladislas said at their last halting place. "Tomorrow we shall meet some, at least, of our comrades. I do not expect a great many, for we were pretty equally divided as to the direction we should travel in. Practically, we were safe from pursuit when we had gone fifteen miles, for the forest there spreads out greatly, and those in search of us would know that further pursuit would be useless. Many of my men did not care about going farther, but all this part of the country has been so harried, for the last two or three years, that we thought it best to try altogether new ground. When we have crossed the Bug we shall be beyond the forest, but there are great swamps and morasses, and hills with patches of wood. Many streams take their rise there, all meeting farther on, and forming the Dnieper. We must keep north of that river, for to the south the country is thinly populated, and we should have difficulty in maintaining ourselves." Charlie made no comment, but he was glad to hear that the band intended to keep to the north of the Dnieper, for that river would have formed a serious obstacle to his making his way to rejoin the Swedes. The next day, they reached the bank of the Bug, and, following the river down, came after an hour's walking upon a great fire, round which fifteen men were stretched. These, as the captain's party approached, rose to their feet with a shout of welcome. "That is better than I expected," Ladislas said, as they came up to them. "Five and twenty is quite enough for work here. In the forests one can do with more, but, moving steadily on, as we mean to do, till we get pretty near the eastern frontier, five and twenty is ample. It is enough, when together, to surprise a village; and it is not too many, travelling in twos and threes, to attract attention. Things always go on better, too, after a dispersal. Many who are discontented, or who want to command a band of their own, break off, and one starts fresh, with just the men one likes best to keep." "We had begun to give you up, captain," one of the men said, as he joined the other party. "We have been here six days." "We travelled but slowly, at first, and it is only the last two days we have really made fair journeys; but there was no reason for any great haste. The world is all our own, and, at any rate, as long as we were in the forest, there was no fear of wanting food. "So I see some of our comrades have left us." "We can do very well without them, captain. There were thirty of us here two days ago. Essos and Polinski quarrelled, and Essos was killed. Then Polinski wanted us to elect him captain, and to move away at once. Four or five, who have always been grumblers, joined him at once, and persuaded some of the others, till we were about equally divided. It came pretty nearly to a fight; but neither liked to begin, and they moved away." "There are quite enough of us left," Ladislas said. "As to Essos and Polinski, I am heartily glad that they have gone. I know they have both been scheming for the leadership for some time. Most of the others can be very well spared, too. There are plenty of us here for travel. There is no doubt, as we agreed before starting, that there is not much more to be done in this part of the country. What with the civil wars, and the bands of soldiers without a leader, and others like ourselves who do not mean to starve, the peasants have been wrought up into a state of desperation. They have little left to lose, but what they have got they are ready to fight to the death for, and, lately, at the first alarm they have sounded the bells and assembled for miles round, and, equipped with scythes and flails, routed those who meddled with them. We had more than one hot fight, and lost many good men. Besides, many of the nobles who have suffered have turned out, with their followers, and struck heavy blows at some of the bands; so that the sooner we get out of this country, which is becoming a nest of hornets, the better, for there is little booty and plenty of hard blows to be got. "We will go on, as we agreed, till near the eastern frontier. The country is well covered with forest there, and we can sally out on which side we like, for, if there is not much gold to be had in the Russian villages, there is plenty of vodka, and sometimes things worth taking in their churches. The priests and headmen, too, have generally got a little store, which can be got at with the aid of a few hot coals, or a string twisted tight enough round a thumb. At any rate we sha'n't starve; but we must move on pretty fast, for we shall have to get up a warm hut in the forest, and to lay in a stock of provisions before the winter sets in. So we must only stop to gather a little plunder when a good opportunity offers." Chapter 12: Treed By Wolves. Charlie and Stanislas were, that evening, sitting apart from the rest, at a short distance from the fire, talking over the future. They agreed that it would be comparatively easy to withdraw from the band as they journeyed forward, if, as seemed likely, they travelled in very small parties. If, indeed, they found themselves with two others, they could leave openly, for these would scarcely care to enter upon a desperate struggle, merely for the sake of retaining two unwilling companions in the band. The difficulties would only begin when they started alone. As they were talking, the captain came across to them. "I can guess," he said, "that you are talking together as to the future. I like you, young Englishman, and I like your companion, who seems an honest fellow, but I would not keep you with me by force. I understand that you are not placed as we are. We have to live. Most of us would live honestly if we could, but at present it is the choice of doing as we do, or starving. We occasionally take a few crowns, if we come across a fat trader, or may ease a rich farmer of his hoard, but it is but seldom such a chance comes in our way. As a rule, we simply plunder because we must live. It is different with you. Your friends may be far away, but if you can get to them you would have all that you need. Therefore, this life, which is hard and rough, to say nothing of its danger, does not suit you; but for all that, you must stay with us, for it would be madness for you to attempt to escape. "As I told you, the peasants are maddened, and would kill any passing stranger as they would a wild beast. They would regard him as a spy of some band like ours, or of a company of disbanded soldiers, sent forward to discover which houses and villages are best worth plundering. In your case, you have other dangers to fear. You may be sure that news has been sent from Warsaw to all the different governors, with orders for your arrest for killing Ben Soloman, and these orders will be transmitted to every town and village. Your hair and eyes would at once betray you as strangers, and your ignorance of the language would be fatal to you. If, therefore, you escaped being killed as a robber by the peasants, you would run the risk of arrest at the first town or village you entered. "Translate that to him, Stanislas. He is learning our language fast, but he cannot understand all that." "That is just what we were talking about," Charlie said, when Stanislas had repeated the captain's speech, "and the danger seems too great to be risked. Think you, that when we get farther to the east, we shall be able to make our way more easily up into Livonia?" "Much more easily, because the forest is more extensive there; but not until the winter is over. The cold will be terrible, and it would be death to sleep without shelter. Besides, the forests are infested with wolves, who roam about in packs, and would scent and follow and devour you. But when spring comes, you can turn your faces to the north, and leave us if you think fit, and I promise you that no hindrance shall be thrown in your way. I only ask you not to risk your lives by trying now to pass through Poland alone." "I think you are right, Ladislas, and I promise you that we will not attempt to leave you during our journey east. As you say, it would be impossible for us to travel after winter had once set in. It is now the end of September." "And it will be November before we reach our destination. We shall not travel fast. We have no motive for doing so. We have to live by the way, and to gather a little money to help us through the winter. We may shoot a bear or an elk sometimes, a few deer, and hares, but we shall want two or three sacks of flour, and some spirits. For these we must either get money, or take the goods. The first is the best, for we have no means of dragging heavy weights with us, and it would not do to infuriate the peasants by plundering any of them within twenty miles of the place where we mean to winter. That would set them all against us." "I tell you frankly, Ladislas, that we shall not be willing to aid in any acts of robbery. Of course, when one is with an army one has to plunder on a large scale, and it has often gone terribly against the grain, when I have had to join parties sent out to forage. But it has to be done. I would rather not join men in taking food, yet I understand that it may be necessary. But as to taking money, I will have nothing to do with it. At the same time, I understand that we cannot share your food, and be with you, without doing something. Stanislas has brought me a little money from Warsaw, and I shall be ready to pay into the common treasury a sum sufficient to pay for our share of the food. As to money taken, we shall not expect any share of it. If you are attacked, we shall of course fight, and shall be ready to do our full share in all work. So, at any rate, you will not be losers by taking us with you." "That is fair enough," the captain said, when Stanislas had translated what Charlie said, suppressing, however, his remarks about foraging with the army, as the brigands were ignorant that Charlie and he had any connection with the Swedes, or that he was not, as he had given out, a young Englishman come out to set up as a trader. The band now journeyed slowly on, keeping near the north bank of the Dnieper. They went by twos and threes, uniting sometimes and entering a village or surrounding a farmhouse at night, and taking what they wanted. The people were, however, terribly poor, and they were able to obtain but little beyond scanty supplies of flour, and occasionally a few gold or silver trinkets. Many other bands of plunderers had passed along, in the course of the summer, and the robbers themselves were often moved to pity by the misery that they everywhere met with. When in small parties they were obliged to avoid entering any villages, for once or twice furious attacks were made upon those who did so, the women joining the men in arming themselves with any weapon that came to hand, and in falling upon the strangers. Only once did they succeed in obtaining plunder of value. They had visited a village, but found it contained nothing worth taking. One of the women said: "Why do you trouble poor people like us? There is the count's chateau three miles away. They have every luxury there, while we are starving." After leaving the village, the man to whom she had spoken repeated what she had said, and it was agreed to make the attempt. At the first cottage they came to they made further inquiries, and found that the lord of the soil was very unpopular; for, in spite of the badness of the times, he insisted on receiving his rents without abatement, and where money was not forthcoming, had seized cattle and horses, assessing them at a price far below what they would have fetched at the nearest market. They therefore marched to the house. It was a very large one. The captain thoughtfully placed Charlie and Stanislas among the six men who were to remain without, to prevent any of the inmates leaving the chateau. With the rest, he made a sudden attack on the great door of the house, and beat it down with a heavy sledge hammer. Just as it gave way, some shots were fired from the inside, but they rushed in, overpowered the servants, and were soon masters of the place. In half an hour they came out again, laden with booty. Each man carried half a dozen bottles of choice wine, from the count's cellar, slung at his belt. On their shoulders they carried bundles containing silver cups and other valuables; while six of them had bags of silver money, that had been extracted from the count by threats of setting fire to the chateau, and burning him and his family. A halt was made two or three miles away, when the silver was divided into shares as usual, the men being well satisfied when they learned that Charlie and his companion claimed no part of it. Some of the provisions they had also taken were eaten. Each man had a flask of wine, with which the count's health was derisively drunk. "This has been a good night's work," the leader said, "and you have each sixty rix dollars in your pockets, which is more than you have had for months past. That will keep us in provisions and spirits all through the winter; but mind, although we took it without much trouble, we have not heard the last of the business. No doubt, by this time, the count has sent off a messenger to the nearest town where there are troops, and, for a day or two, we shall have to march fast and far. It is one thing to plunder villages, and another to meddle with a rich nobleman." For the next forty-eight hours they marched by night instead of by day, keeping always together, and prepared to resist an attack. One morning they saw, from their hiding place among some high reeds near the river, a body of about sixty horsemen ride past at a distance. They were evidently searching for something, for parties could be seen to break off several times, and to enter woods and copses, the rest halting till they came out again. As the band had with them enough food for another three days, they remained for thirty-six hours in their hiding place, and then, thinking the search would by that time be discontinued, went on again. The next day they killed two or three goats from a herd, the boy in charge of them making off with such speed that, though hotly pursued and fired at several times, he made his escape. They carried the carcasses to a wood, lit a fire, and feasted upon them. Then, having cooked the rest of the flesh, they divided it among the band. By this time the wine was finished. The next day they again saw horsemen in the distance, but remained in hiding till they had disappeared in the afternoon. They then went into a village, but scarcely had they proceeded up the street when the doors were opened, and from every house men rushed out armed with flails, clubs, and axes, and fell upon them furiously, shouting "Death to the robbers!" They had evidently received warning that a band of plunderers were approaching, and everything had been prepared for them. The band fought stoutly, but they were greatly outnumbered, and, as but few of them carried firearms, they had no great advantage in weapons. Charlie and Stanislas, finding that their lives were at stake, were forced to take part in the fray, and both were with the survivors of the band, who at last succeeded in fighting their way out of the village, leaving half their number behind them, while some twenty of the peasants had fallen. Reduced now to twelve men and the captain, they thought only of pushing forward, avoiding all villages, and only occasionally visiting detached houses for the sake of obtaining flour. The country became more thinly populated as they went on, and there was a deep feeling of satisfaction when, at length, their leader pointed to a belt of trees in the distance, and said: "That is the beginning of the forest. A few miles farther, and we shall be well within it." By nightfall they felt, for the first time since they had set out on their journey, that they could sleep in safety. A huge fire was lit, for the nights were now becoming very cold, and snow had fallen occasionally for the last four or five days, and in the open country was lying some inches deep. The next day they journeyed a few miles farther, and then chose a spot for the erection of a hut. It was close to a stream, and the men at once set to work, with axes, to fell trees and clear a space. It was agreed that the captain and two of the men, of the most pacific demeanour, should go to the nearest town, some forty miles away, to lay in stores. They were away five days, and then returned with the welcome news that a cart, laden with flour and a couple of barrels of spirits, was on a country track through the forest a mile and a half away. "How did you manage, captain?" Charlie asked. "We went to the house of a well-to-do peasant, about a mile from the borders of the wood. I told him frankly that we belonged to a band who were going to winter in the forest, that we would do him no harm if he would give us his aid, but that if he refused he would soon have his place burnt over his head. As we said we were ready to pay a fair sum for the hire of his cart, he did not hesitate a moment about making the choice. The other two remained at his cottage, so as to keep his family as hostages for his good faith, and I went with him to the town, where we bought six sacks of good flour and the two barrels of spirits. We got a few other things--cooking pots and horns, and a lot of coarse blankets, and a thick sheepskin coat for each man. They are all in the car. I see that you have got the hut pretty nearly roofed in, so, in a day or two, we shall be comfortable." They went in a body to the place where the cart had been left, but it required two journeys before its contents were all transported to the hut. Another three days and this was completed. It was roughly built of logs, the interstices being filled in with moss. There was no attempt at a door, an opening being left four feet high and eighteen inches wide for the purpose of an entry. The skin of a deer they had shot, since they arrived, was hung up outside; and a folded rug inside. There was no occasion for windows. A certain amount of light made its way in by an orifice, a foot square, that had been left in the roof for the escape of smoke. The hut itself consisted of one room only, about eighteen feet square. When this was finished, all hands set to work to pile up a great stack of firewood, close to the door, so as to save them from the necessity of going far, until snow had ceased falling, and winter had set in in earnest. The cart had brought six carcasses of sheep, that had been purchased from a peasant; these were hung up outside the hut to freeze hard, and the meat was eaten only once a day, as it would be impossible to obtain a fresh supply, until the weather became settled enough to admit of their hunting. The preparations were but just finished when the snow began to fall heavily. For a week it came down without intermission, the wind howled among the trees, and even Charlie, half stifled as he was by the smoke, felt no inclination to stir out, except for half an hour's work to clear away the snow from the entrance, and to carry in wood from the pile. The time passed more cheerfully than might have been expected. He had by this time begun to talk Polish with some facility, and was able to understand the stories that the men told, as they sat round the fire; sometimes tales of adventures they themselves had gone through, sometimes stories of the history of Poland, its frequent internal wars, and its struggles with the Turks. Making bread and cooking occupied some portion of the time, and much was spent in sleep. At the end of a week the snow ceased falling and the sun came out, and all were glad to leave the hut and enjoy the clear sky and the keen air. While they had been confined to the hut, two of the men had made a large number of snares for hares, and they at once started into the forest, to set these in spots where they saw traces of the animals' passage over the snow. The rest went off in parties of twos and threes in search of other game. With the exception of Charlie, all were accustomed to the woods; but, as Stanislas had much less experience than the others, the captain decided to go with them. "It is easy for anyone to lose his way here," he said. "In fact, except to one accustomed to the woods, it would be dangerous to go far away from the hut. As long as it is fine, you will find your way back by following your own tracks, but if the weather changed suddenly, and it came on to snow, your case would be hopeless. One of the advantages of placing our hut on a stream is that it forms a great aid to finding one's way back. If you strike it above, you follow it down; if below, upwards, until you reach the hut. Of course you might wander for days and never hit it, still it is much more easy to find than a small object like the hut, though even when found, it would be difficult to decide whether it had been struck above or below the hut. "Now, there is one rule if, at any time, you get lost. Don't begin to wander wildly about, for, if you did, you would certainly walk in a circle, and might never be found again. Sit down quietly and think matters over, eat if you have got any food with you; then examine the sky, and try to find out from the position of the sun, or the direction in which the clouds are going, which way the hut ought to lie. Always take with you one of your pistols; if you fire it three times, at regular intervals, it will be a signal that you want help, and any of us who are within hearing will come to aid you." With the exception of hares, of which a good many were snared, the hunting was not productive. Tracks of deer were seen not unfrequently, but it was extremely difficult, even when the animals were sighted, to get across the surface of the snow to within range of the clumsy arquebuses that two or three of the men carried. They did, however, manage to shoot a few by erecting a shelter, just high enough for one man to lie down under, and leaving it until the next snowstorm so covered it that it seemed but a knoll in the ground, or a low shrub bent down and buried under the weight of the snow. These shelters were erected close to paths taken by the deer, and, by lying patiently all day in them, the men occasionally managed to get a close shot. Several bears were killed, and two elks. These afforded food for a long time, as the frozen flesh would keep until the return of spring. Holes were made in the ice on the stream, and baited hooks being set every night, it was seldom that two or three fish were not found fast on them in the morning. Altogether, therefore, there was no lack of food; and as, under the teaching of the captain, Charlie in time learnt to be able to keep his direction through the woods, he was often able to go out, either with Stanislas or alone, thus keeping clear of the close smoky hut during the hours of daylight. Upon the whole he found the life by no means an unpleasant one. Among the articles purchased by the captain were high boots, lined with sheepskin, coming up to the thigh. With these and the coats, which had hoods to pull over the head, Charlie felt the cold but little during the day; while at night he found the hut often uncomfortably warm, sleeping, as they all did, in the same attire in which they went out. In February the weather became excessively severe, more so, the peasants and charcoal burners they occasionally met with declared, than they ever remembered. The wild animals became tamer, and in the morning when they went out, they frequently found tracks of bears that had been prowling round the hut in search of offal, or bones thrown out. They were now obliged to hang their supply of meat, by ropes, from boughs at some distance from the ground, by which means they were enabled to prevent the bears getting at it. They no longer dared to venture far from the hut, for large packs of wolves ranged through the forest, and, driven by hunger, even entered villages, where they attacked and killed many women and children, made their entrance into sheds, and tore dogs, horses, and cattle to pieces, and became at last so dangerous that the villagers were obliged to keep great fires burning in the streets at night, to frighten them away. Several times the occupants of the hut were awakened by the whining and snarling of wolves outside. But the walls and roof were alike built of solid timber, and a roughly-made door of thick wood was now fastened, every night, against the opening, and so stoutly supported by beams behind it as to defy assault. Beyond, therefore, a passing grumble at being awakened by the noise, the men gave themselves no trouble as to the savage animals outside. "If these brutes grow much bolder," the captain said one day, "we shall be prisoners here altogether. They must have come down from the great forest that extends over a large part of Russia. The villages are scarce there, and the peasants take good care to keep all their beasts in shelter, so no doubt they are able to pick up more at the edge of the forest here." "How far are we from the Russian frontier?" "I do not think anyone could tell you. For aught I know, we may be in Russia now. These forests are a sort of no man's land, and I don't suppose any line of frontier has ever been marked. It is Russia to the east of this forest, some thirty miles away, and it is Poland to the west of it. The forest is no good to anyone except the charcoal burners. I have met both Russians and Poles in the wood, and, as there is plenty of room for all--ay, and would be were there a thousand to every one now working in it--they are on friendly terms with each other, especially as the two nations are, at present, allied against Sweden." In spite of the wolves, Charlie continued his walks in the forest, accompanied always by Stanislas. Both carried axes and pistols, and, although Charlie had heard many tales of solitary men, and even of vehicles, being attacked by the wolves in broad daylight, he believed that most of the stories were exaggerations, and that the chances of two men being attacked in daylight were small, indeed. He had found that the track, by which the cart had brought the stores, was a good deal used, the snow being swept away or levelled by the runners of sledges, either those of peasants who came into the forest for wood or charcoal, or of travellers journeying between Russia and Poland. He generally selected this road for his walk, both because it was less laborious than wading through the untrodden snow, and because there was here no fear of losing his way, and he was spared the incessant watchfulness for signs that was necessary among the trees. At first he had frequently met peasants' carts on the road, but, since the cold became more severe and the wolves more numerous and daring, he no longer encountered them. He had indeed heard, from some of the last he saw, that they should come no more, for that the charcoal burners were all abandoning their huts, and going into the villages. One afternoon, when they had, on their return, nearly reached the spot where they left the road to strike across the forest to the hut, they heard a noise behind them. "That is a pack of wolves, in full cry!" Stanislas exclaimed. "You had better get up into a tree. They are after something." They hastily clambered into a tree, whose lower branches were but six or seven feet from the ground. A moment later two horses, wild with fright, dashed past, while some twenty yards behind them came a pack of fifty or sixty wolves. They were almost silent now, with their red tongues hanging out. "The brutes have been attacking a sledge," Stanislas said in a low tone. "You saw the horses were harnessed, and their broken traces were hanging by their side. It is easy to read the story. The sledge was attacked; the horses, mad with fear, broke their traces and rushed off, or perhaps the driver, seeing at the last moment that escape was impossible, slashed the ropes with his knife, so as to give the horses a chance. I expect they got a start, for the wolves would be detained a little at the sledge." "Do you think the poor beasts will get safe out of the forest, Stanislas?" "I don't think so, but they may. The chase has evidently been a long one, and the wolves have tired themselves with their first efforts to come up to them. It did not seem to me that they were gaining when they passed us. It is simply a question of endurance, but I fancy the wolves will last longest. "See, here is a party of stragglers. I suppose they stopped longer at the sledge." "It seems to me they are on our scent, Stanislas. Do you see, they are coming along at the side of the road where we walked, with their heads down." "I am afraid they are. Well, we shall soon see. Yes, they are leaving the road where we did." A moment later a dozen wolves ran up to the trunk of the tree, and there gathered snuffing and whining. Presently one caught sight of the two figures above them, and with an angry yelp sprang up in the air, and immediately all were growling, snarling, and leaping. Charlie laughed out loud at their impotent efforts. "It is no laughing matter, sir," Stanislas said gravely. "They cannot climb up here, Stanislas." "No, but they can keep us here. It will be dark in an hour, and likely enough they will watch us all night." "Then we had better shoot two of them, and jump down with our hatchets. Keeping back to back, we ought to be able to face ten wolves." "Yes, if that were all; but see, here come three or four more, and the dozen will soon swell to a score. No, we shall have to wait here all night, and probably for some time tomorrow, for the men are not likely to find us very early, and they will hardly hear our pistols unless some of them happen to come in this direction." "Do you think, if we shoot two or three of them, the rest will go?" "Certainly not. It will be all the worse. Their comrades would at once tear them to pieces and devour them, and the scent of blood would very soon bring others to the spot." "Well, if we have got to wait here all night, Stanislas, we had better choose the most comfortable place we can, at once, before it gets dark. We must mind we don't go to sleep and tumble off." "There will be no fear of our sleeping," Stanislas said. "The cold will be too great for that. We shall have to keep on swinging our hands and feet, and rubbing our noses, to prevent ourselves from getting frostbitten." "Well, I have never felt the cold in these clothes," Charlie said. "No, sir, but you have never been out at night, sitting cramped on a tree." Hour after hour passed. Even in the darkness they could see the wolves lying in the snow below them, occasionally changing their position, keeping close together for warmth, and often snarling or growling angrily, as one or two shifted their position, and tried to squeeze in so as to get into a warm spot. The cold was intense and, in spite of swinging his legs and arms, Charlie felt that his vital heat was decreasing. "This is awful, Stanislas. I do not think we can last on till morning." "I begin to have doubts myself, sir. Perhaps it would be better to leap down and make a fight of it." "We might shoot some of them first," Charlie said. "How many charges have you?" "I have only two, besides one in the barrel." "And I have only three," Charlie said. "Powder has run very short. The captain was saying, yesterday, that we must send to the village and try to get some more. Still, six shots will help us." "Not much, sir. There must be thirty or forty of them now. I have seen some come from the other way. I suppose they were part of the pack that followed the horses." Charlie sat for some time thinking. Then he exclaimed: "I think this is a dead tree." "It is, sir. I noticed it when we climbed up. The head has gone, and I think it must have been struck with lightning last summer." "Then I think we can manage." "Manage what, sir?" the man asked in surprise. "Manage to make a fire, Stanislas. First of all, we will crawl out towards the ends of the branches as far as we can get, and break off twigs and small boughs. If we can't get enough, we can cut chips off, and we will pile them all where these three big boughs branch off from the trunk. We have both our tinderboxes with us, and I see no reason why we should not be able to light a fire up here." "So we might," Stanislas said eagerly. "But if we did, we might set the whole tree on fire." "No bad thing, either," Charlie rejoined. "You may be sure the fire will keep the wolves at a respectful distance, and we could get down and enjoy the heat without fear." "I believe your idea will save our lives, sir. Ten minutes ago I would not have given a crown for our chances." They at once crawled out upon two of the great branches, and a renewed chorus of snarls from below showed that their foes were watchful. The snapping of the small branches excited a certain amount of uneasiness among them, and they drew off a short distance. In ten minutes Charlie and his companion worked themselves back to the main trunk, each carrying an armful of twigs. They first cut off a number of small dry chips, and made a pile of these at the junction of one of the branches with the trunk. They then got out their tinderboxes and bunches of rags, shook a few grains of powder from one of the horns among the chips, and then got the tinder alight. A shred of rag, that had been rubbed with damp powder, was applied to the spark and then placed among the shavings. A flash of light sprang up, followed by a steady blaze, as the dried chips caught. One by one at first, and then, as the fire gained strength, several sticks at a time were laid over the burning splinters, and in five minutes a large fire was blazing. Charlie and his companion took their seats where the other two big branches shot out from the trunk. These were two or three feet higher than that on which the fire had been lighted, and, ere long, a sensation of genial warmth began to steal over them. Fresh sticks were lighted as the first were consumed, and before long the trunk, where the flames played on it, began to glow. Light tongues of flame rose higher and higher, until the trunk was alight ten or twelve feet up. "The wolves are all gone," Charlie said, looking down. "I don't suppose they have gone very far, sir. But when the tree once gets fairly alight, you may be sure they won't venture anywhere near it." They had already been forced to move some little distance away from the trunk, by the heat, and as the flames rose higher and higher, embracing in the course of half an hour the whole of the trunk and upper branches, they felt that it was perfectly safe to drop off into the snow beneath them. Blazing brands soon began to fall. They stood a short distance away, so as to be beyond the risk of accident, but, at Charlie's suggestion, they ran in from time to time, gathered up the brands and laid them at the foot of the trunk, and in a short time a second fire was kindled here. The tree was now a pyramid of fire, lighting up the snow for a long distance round. Outside this circle the wolves could be heard whining and whimpering, occasionally uttering a long-drawn howl. "They know that they are baulked of their prey," Stanislas said. "We shall have some of the big branches falling soon, and shall be able to keep up a roaring fire, that will last until daylight. I should think by that time the wolves will be tired of it, and will make off; but if not, the captain will be sure to send men out to search for us. He will guess we have been treed by wolves, and we have only to get into another tree, and fire our pistols, to bring them in this direction." "But they may be attacked, too," Charlie remarked. "There are ten of them, and they are sure to come armed with axes and swords. They ought to be able to fight their way through a good-sized pack. Besides, the wolves will be so cowed by this great fire, that I don't think they will have the courage to meddle with so strong a party." One by one the arms of the tree fell, burnt through at the point where they touched the trunk. They would have been far too heavy to be dragged, but three or four of them fell across the lower fire, and there lay blazing. Not knowing which way the tree itself would fall, Charlie and his companion were obliged to remain at some distance off, but the heat there was amply sufficient for them. At last the trunk fell with a crash, and they at once established themselves as near the fire as they could sit, without being scorched, and there chatted until morning began to break. They felt sure that some, at least, of the wolves were around them, as they occasionally caught sight of what looked like two sparks among the undergrowth; these being, as they knew, the reflection of the fire in the eyes of a wolf. There was a tree hard by in which they could, if necessary, take refuge, and they therefore resolved to stay near the fire. Fortunately the night had been perfectly still, and, as the tree they had fired was a detached one, the flames had not spread, as Charlie had at one time been afraid they would do. Half an hour after daylight had fairly broken, they discharged three shots at regular intervals with their pistols, then they waited half an hour. "Shall we fire again?" "No. Not until we hear shots from them," Charlie replied. "We have but four charges left, and if the wolves made a sudden rush, we might want to use them." After a time, both thought they heard the distant report of a musket. Stanislas looked at Charlie inquiringly. The latter shook his head. "No, no! Stanislas. That gun would be heard twice as far as one of these pistols. Let us wait until we are pretty sure that they are near. I don't like leaving ourselves without other protection than our axes." Chapter 13: A Rescued Party. After a considerable pause, a gun was again fired, this time much nearer to them. Charlie drew out his pistol and was about to reply, when his companion touched his arm. "Look!" he said. Charlie turned in time to see several gray forms flit rapidly between the bushes. He stepped to the edge of the road, and saw some wolves spring out through the bushes, and go straight along the road. "What can have scared them?" he asked, in surprise. "The gun was not near enough for that." "No, besides they would have fled deeper into the forest, instead of taking to the road. Perhaps they hear something coming." Almost at the same moment, two shots were heard in the direction towards which the wolves were making. "That is it!" Charlie excitedly exclaimed. "Another body of wolves have attacked a passing traveller. Heap the wood on, Stanislas. If we make a great fire, and they get as far as this, possibly they could spring off and take refuge here. At any rate, the brands will be better weapons even than our axes." The ends of such branches as they were able to move were brought together, and a few blows with their axes speedily broke off several of the outer ends of charred wood. These were thrown on, and the fire soon blazed up high again. Two more shots were heard, this time close at hand. They ran into the road. A sledge, with several figures in it, was coming along at full speed. It was almost surrounded by wolves, and, as they looked, two of them sprang at the horses' heads; but two shots again rung out, and they dropped backwards among their companions, many of whom threw themselves at once upon their bodies, while the sledge continued on its headlong course. "Here! here!" Charlie shouted at the top of his voice, waving his hands to show the direction which they were to take. A moment later the sledge dashed past them, and swept up to the fire. "Seize the blazing brands!" Charlie shouted, as those in the sledge threw themselves out. He and Stanislas rolled the two first wolves over with their pistols, and then joined the others. The driver had run at once to the horses, and had muffled them, by throwing his coat over the head of one, and a rug over the head of the other, and, though snorting and trembling in every limb, they stood quiet until he had thrown a head rope round each of their necks, and fastened them to the heaviest of the branches. Then he seized a handful of fallen leaves, which were exposed by the melting of the snow above them, and threw them into the fire, whence a dense smoke poured out. The wolves had again stopped to devour the two animals that had been shot, and this gave time to the men, by their united efforts, to move a heavy branch and place it across two others, whose ends lay in the fire, so as to form with them a sort of triangular breastwork, the face of which, next to them, was manned by the two travellers, their servants, Charlie, and Stanislas, with blazing brands. Charlie and his companion hastily loaded their pistols again. The two gentlemen had each rifles and a brace of pistols, as had their servants. A lady and child had been lifted from the sledge, and these crouched down at the angle by the fire. The sledge and the two horses protected one of the faces of the position, and the driver, at his master's orders, took his position on the front seat again, so as to shoot down any wolf that might try to attack the flank of the outside horse. The wolves looked doubtful at the appearance of the dense smoke rising up, but, after a little hesitation, they rushed to the attack. Four were rolled over by bullets from the rifles, and, as they came within a few yards, the pistols cracked out in rapid succession. As soon as these were all emptied, the six men caught up the blazing brands, and struck full in the faces of the wolves, shouting loudly as they did so. Seized with a momentary panic, the animals turned and fled, and then a fierce fight took place between the injured wolves and their companions. There was but just time to recharge the rifles and pistols, when they came on again. Although the fire of the defenders was as deadly as before, the wolves seemed this time determined to get at their victims. In vain were blows showered on their heads, while those who first sprang on the tree were stabbed with the knives the defenders held in their left hands. The contest could have had but one termination, when suddenly two shots were heard, and then, with loud shouts, a party of men burst through the forest, and with pistol and axe fell on the wolves. This unexpected onslaught had a decisive effect, and, with loud howls and yelps, the wolves turned and fled. Up to this time, not a word had been exchanged by the defenders, beyond Charlie's first shout of "Lay this branch across those two," and the order of one of the gentlemen to the coachman to take his place in the sledge--where he had done his work well, for four wolves lay dead by the flank of the outside horse. Several of those that had sprung at the heads of the horses had been shot or cut down by the master, who had placed himself close to them, and the horses' thick mufflings had saved them from any serious injury. As soon as the wolves fled, the gentleman turned to Charlie, and, flinging down his weapons, threw his arms round his neck. "You have preserved us from death, sir. You have saved my wife and child from being torn to pieces. How can I express my thanks to you?" "It was fortunate that we happened to be here," Charlie said, "and that we had this fire handy." A cry from the child called off the gentleman's attention, and he ran to his wife, who had sunk fainting on the ground; and Charlie, not a little pleased at this diversion, turned to Ladislas and his men, who were looking on with the most intense astonishment at the scene. Charlie leapt over the branch, and grasped Ladislas by the hand. "You have arrived at the nick of time, Ladislas. Another three minutes, and it would have been all over with us." "Yes, I could see it was a close thing as soon as I caught sight of you. We have been wondering all night what became of you, and set out as soon as it was light. We fired a shot occasionally, but we listened in vain for your three shots." "We fired them half an hour after daylight," Charlie said; "but, as we had then only five charges left between us, and there were wolves all round, we dared not waste them." "We heard firing at last," the captain went on. "First two shots faintly, then two nearer, and a minute later two others. We knew then that you must be engaged with wolves, and we were running as hard as we could in the direction of the shots, when we heard a number fired close together. Of course we could make nothing of it, but on we ran. Then there was another outbreak of firing, this time quite close. A moment later we caught sight of a confused mass. There was a fire, and a sledge with two horses, and a man standing up in it shooting; and we could see a desperate fight going on with the wolves in front, so Alexander and Hugo fired their pieces into the thick of them. We set up a yell, and went at them with our axes, yet I did not feel by any means sure that they would not be too many for us. "But what on earth does it all mean? And how is it that you have lived through the night? We had no expectation of finding you alive. However, that fire tells its own tale, as though nothing less than burning up a big tree would content you." "I will tell you all, presently. It is too long a story now. Let us help these travellers to go their way, before the wolves rally again." "They will not do that," the captain said confidently. "If it was night, they might hang about the neighbourhood, but they are cowardly beasts in the daytime, and easily scared. They are still going away at their best pace, I will be bound." While Charlie was speaking to Ladislas, one of the travellers had been talking to Stanislas, who, in answer to his question, had informed him that he was in Charlie's service, and that the latter was an English gentleman, who had, from a variety of circumstances, especially the suspicion with which all strangers were regarded, been unable to travel through the country, and had therefore been passing the winter hunting, with this company of disbanded soldiers who had so opportunely arrived to their assistance. The other traveller had, by this time, carried his wife beyond the heat of the fire, and had applied some snow to her forehead, pouring a little brandy from the flask between her lips. She had now begun to revive, and, leaving her, he approached the party. His brother met him, and in a few words told him what he had learned from Stanislas. "My friends," he said, "my brother tells me that you are a party of discharged soldiers, who are passing the winter in a hut here in the forest, supporting yourselves by shooting and fishing. I have to thank Providence for the thought that sent you here. I have to thank you for your prompt assistance, to which we are indebted for our lives. "I am Count Nicholas Staroski, and can at least make a substantial return for the service you have done me. My estates lie some sixty miles to the north. You will have no difficulty in finding me. Present yourselves there at Easter. I shall certainly be at my chateau then. I will then talk over what can be done for you. Those who like to settle down on land shall have land, those who would like employment in my household shall have it, those who would prefer money to go their own way and settle in their own villages shall each have a heavy purse." Then he turned to Charlie. "You, sir, as my brother has learned from your brave follower here, are an English gentleman. To you I owe far heavier obligation than to these soldiers, for you and your man incurred a terrible risk, and well-nigh sacrificed your lives for ours. I pray you come with us, and stay with us for a time. I shall then hear your plans, and your object in visiting this country, and if I can in any way further them, you may be sure I will do so to the utmost; for the present, I can promise you at least excellent hunting, and the heartiest welcome." "I thank you very heartily, Count Staroski, and accept gladly your invitation; but I must first speak to the captain of these men, to whom I am much beholden for the kindness he has shown me." He went across to Ladislas, who had heard what was said. "You will not think it ungrateful for me to quit you so suddenly, Ladislas," he said in a low voice. "Assuredly not. You have done us a service, indeed, in thus enabling us to obtain favour with the count. He is one of our richest and most powerful nobles, and our fortunes are as good as made." "I will introduce you to him personally," Charlie said. "This, count, is the leader of the party. He has shown me very great kindness, and has proved a true friend. From what I have seen of him, I have no doubt whatever that, in spite of certain acts of lawlessness to which he and his friends have been driven of late, you will find him, in any position you may be good enough to give him, an honest and thoroughly trustworthy man." "I will bear it in mind," the count said. "Now, the sooner we are off, the better. How far is it to the next village?" "About seven miles, count." The count gave orders for the sledge to be taken on to the road again. "One moment," the captain said, taking Charlie aside. "Pray tell us, in a few words, what has happened. The burning of the tree is a mystery to us, and we shall die of curiosity if we have to remain here for another two months with the matter unexplained." In as few words as possible, Charlie related to the men the story of the preceding night, which was greeted with exclamations of surprise and admiration. "Truly, you have your wits about you," the captain said. "I should have been frozen to death, if I had been in your position, for I should certainly never have thought of lighting a fire up in a tree. "Well, goodbye, if we do not see you again, may all good fortune attend you, and may the saints protect you from all danger." Charlie shook hands with the men all round, and then hurried down to the sledge. The coachman was already in the front seat, the countess and her child had taken their places, and the two armed servants and Stanislas were standing behind, in readiness to jump on to a board fastened above the runners. "I must apologize for keeping you waiting, countess," Charlie said as he ran up. "I had to explain to my friends, in a few words, how this had all come about." "We are also longing to know," the count said. "But I have not yet introduced you to my wife, nor have I learned the name of the gentleman to whom I owe so much." "Ah, sir," the young countess said, holding out her hand after Charlie had given his name, "what do we not owe you? I shall never forget it all, never." "We will talk when we have started, Feodora. Let us get out of this forest as soon as we can." He took his place beside his wife, and set the child on his knees; his brother and Charlie sitting opposite to him. The servants spread a bearskin rug over their knees, and then jumped into their places, as the driver cracked his whip, and the horses started. "You must think us almost mad to be driving through the forest, at this time of the year," the count said to Charlie. "But the countess is a Russian. We have been staying two months at her father's place, a hundred miles to the east. My two youngest children are at home, and two days since a message arrived, saying that one of them was dangerously ill. We had heard, of course, many tales of the numbers and fierceness of the wolves, but we hoped that, by travelling only by day and with excellent horses, there was not much to fear, especially as we were five armed men. "We fell in with a few wolves yesterday, but beat them off easily enough. Last night, we stopped at a little village in the forest. They certainly made me feel uneasy there, with their tales about the wolves, but there was no help for it. We started as soon as day broke, and had driven some fifteen miles, before we came up to you. We had not gone five when the wolves began to show themselves. "At first, they kept well behind us, but presently we came upon a large number, who joined in near where we saw an overturned sledge, with the snow stained with blood all round it. From there we kept up a running fight, and must have killed a score; but their numbers increased, rather than diminished, and when a fresh pack came up from ahead, a quarter of a mile before we saw you, it looked as if our case was hopeless; for the horses, which had been going at the top of their speed from the time we started, were beginning to flag, while the wolves were fast closing in upon us, and were just beginning to attack the horses, when I saw you in the road. "And now, pray tell us how you came to be there so opportunely, and how it was that you had that great fire blazing." Charlie gave the full history of the previous night's adventure. "Wonderful!" the count and his brother exclaimed; and the former went on: "I have heard many stories of escapes from wolves, but never one like yours. It was an admirable thought, indeed, that of at once obtaining heat and frightening the wolves away, by setting the tree on fire. That thought saved our lives as well as your own, for our fate would have been the same as those unfortunate travellers, whose horses you saw, and who brought the wolves upon you. "And now, sir, would it be impertinent to ask for what purpose you have come to Poland? Believe me, I only put the question in order to see if I can in any way be of assistance to you." "I do not know, count, whether my avowal will affect you unfavourably, but I know that it will make no difference in your conduct towards me. I am, as my servant told you, an Englishman by birth; but I and my father were obliged, in consequence of political opinions, to leave the country, and I am now a captain in the service of Charles of Sweden." Exclamations of surprise broke from his hearers. "Well, sir," the count said, smiling, "as his majesty King Charles, although not yet one-and-twenty, is one of the greatest generals in Europe, I cannot consider it strange that you, who appear to me to be no older, should be a captain in his service. But I own that I pictured, to myself, that the officers of these wonderful soldiers were fierce-looking men, regular iron veterans." "I am but eighteen," Charlie said, "and I myself feel it absurd that I should be a captain. It is but two years since I was appointed an ensign, and the king happening to be with my company, when we had a sharp fight with the Russians, he rewarded us by having us made into a regiment; so each of us got promotion. I was appointed captain last May, as a reward for a suggestion that turned out useful." "May I ask what it was, Captain Carstairs, for it seems to me that you are full of happy ideas?" "King Charles, as you may have heard, speaks freely to officers and soldiers as he moves about the camp. I was standing on the edge of the river, looking across at the Saxons, on the day before we made the passage, when the king came up and spoke to me. He said there was no hope of our passage being covered--as our advance against the Russians at Narva had been--by a snowstorm; and I said that, as the wind was at our backs, if we were to set fire to the great straw stacks the smoke would hide our movements from the Saxons. The idea was a very simple one, and would no doubt have occurred to the king himself; however, he put it into execution with success, and was good enough, afterwards, to promote me to the rank of captain." "So it was owing to you that our army--or rather the Saxon army, for but few Poles were engaged in the battle--was defeated," the count said, smiling. "Well, sir, it will do you no harm with us, for personally we are entirely opposed to Augustus of Saxony. But you have not yet explained how you, an officer in the Swedish service, came to be here." "I was sent by King Charles to Warsaw, to ascertain the feeling of the trading classes there. I had an introduction to a Scottish merchant, and I passed as a countryman of his, who had come out to enter his business. One of the objects of my mission was to endeavour to induce the foreign merchants in Warsaw to do what they could to promote a feeling in favour of peace with the Swedes, and the substitution of another king in place of Augustus." "It is not very clear, Captain Carstairs, how you can be fulfilling that object by passing your winter with a party of robbers--for I suppose your disbanded soldiers were little better--in a forest on the confines of Russia." Charlie laughed. "It is rather a long story, count. Perhaps you will kindly tell me the news about public affairs, first." "By no means," the count said. "That is a long story, too, and my wife would much rather hear yours than listen to it. She has not yet recovered from the events of this morning. But we will wait until we are at the village. We have left the forest behind us, and another half hour will take us to Stromoff, where we can get pretty good accommodation." The horses, a splendid pair of animals, had, during their passage through the forest, shown every sign of fear; starting nervously, swerving, and going in sharp, sudden rushes, and always needing a constant strain on the reins to keep them from bolting. Once away from the trees, however, they settled down into a fast trot, and the seven miles to Stromoff were done in less than half an hour. No sooner did the landlord of the inn learn the name of his guest, than he, his wife, and sons bustled about in the greatest haste to make things comfortable for them. Huge fires were lighted in the guest rooms, and the common room was cleared of the other customers, until the chamber should be sufficiently warmed for occupation; while in the kitchen preparations were made for a meal, to which, in half an hour from their arrival, the party in the sledge sat down. When this was over, settles were placed round the fire, and Charlie then gave a full account of his adventures, from the time he was attacked in the streets of Warsaw. "So it was you, Captain Carstairs, after whom there was so keen a search in September. The death of Ben Soloman made a great stir, and I can assure you that there are a great many people who owe you a debt of gratitude. The man had no sons, and all his property passed to his widow, whom he had, it seems, treated harshly during his lifetime. She was from Holland, and wished to return to her people, so, as his means were very large, she made the easiest terms with all those on whose estates her husband had held mortgages, in order to wind up her affairs as soon as possible. Thus, his death was the subject of wide rejoicings. However, if you had been caught at the time, I fear it would have gone hard with you; for the Jews were all very keen about it--as the man, rascal though he was, was one of the chief heads of their religion--and were you to fall into their hands in any of the towns, they would either kill you or send you to Warsaw." "And now, sir, will you tell me what has taken place since September?" "Things have moved slowly. Augustus endeavoured, after his defeat on the Dwina, to make peace with Charles on his own account, and without the knowledge of the diet, but Charles refused to give audience to any of his agents, and would not even see the beautiful Countess of Konigsmark, who is, you know, herself a Swede, and whom Augustus sent, thinking that her blandishments might win over the young king. It was useless. Charles maintained the ground that he took up from the first--namely, that he would treat with the diet, but would have nothing whatever to say to Augustus. So the diet sent an embassy of four senators. "Instead of receiving them with every pomp and ceremony, as they expected, the king met them on horseback. He demanded that, as a first condition, they should dethrone Augustus. Parties in the diet were pretty equally divided; but the proposal was rejected, for even those most hostile to Augustus resented the proposal that we, a free and unconquered people, should be ordered by a foreign prince to change our king. So nothing came of it. "The Swedish army advanced a certain distance into Poland, and there were a great number of skirmishes, but there has been no serious fighting, nor is there much chance of any, until the snow has gone and the country dried up in the spring. At present, Augustus is quarrelling with the diet, who still set themselves against the importation of more Saxon troops. But doubtless, before the campaign begins in earnest, he will have settled matters with the senators, and will have his own way in that respect. There is, however, little chance of the diet agreeing to call out the whole forces of the country, and the next battle will, like the last, be between the Swedes and the Saxons, who may have with them perhaps a few thousand Poles, belonging to the king's party." "You don't belong to the king's party, count?" "No. I, like the majority of our nobles, have no interest whatever in the war, for we were never consulted before it began. It is an affair between Saxony and the Swedes. Let them fight it out. It would be a bad day for Poland, if Augustus and the Russians were to overcome and despoil Sweden. We want no addition of territory, for that would be to strengthen our kings against us. We see the trouble caused by Augustus having Saxony at his command, and if he had other territory, the country would be divided into two parts, one of which would have nothing in common with the other. "Still less do we wish to see Russia gain territory to the north of us. Hitherto we have thought but little of the Muscovites, but this war has shown that they can put great armies into the field, and the czar is making them into a nation which may some day be formidable to us. "Charles has sent every assurance that he has no ill will towards Poland, and is an enemy not of the country but of its king--who had formed a coalition against him in a time of profound peace--and that his hostility will altogether cease with the overthrow and expulsion of Augustus. So you see, we who live at a distance from the capital, and hold ourselves altogether aloof from the intrigues of court, look on at the fray as if it were one in which we have no part or lot. If Augustus drives out the Swedes, we shall probably have trouble with him afterwards. If Charles drives out Augustus, we shall have a fresh king, and shall no doubt choose one upon the recommendation of Charles, who will then march away again, leaving us to manage our own affairs. Therefore, we have no animosity whatever against you as a Swedish officer, but for comfort's sake it is better that nothing should be said of this, and that I should introduce you to my friends simply as an English gentleman, who has rendered me the greatest possible service." The countess retired to bed, a short time after they had finished their meal, and the others sat up talking until late in the evening. Charlie learnt that the country was still in a greatly disturbed state. Parties of disbanded soldiers and others, rendered desperate by cold and hardship, were everywhere plundering the peasantry, and many encounters had taken place between them and the nobles, who, with their retainers, had marched against them. Travel would be dangerous for a long time to come. "Therefore, until the spring, you must not think of moving," the count said. "Indeed, I think that your best plan, when you start, will be to work due north, and join the Swedish forces near Narva. It will be shorter as well as less dangerous. Still, we can talk of that later on." The next morning they started early, and arrived in the afternoon at the chateau of the count. It was not a fortified building, for the Poles differed from the western nations, abstaining from fortifying their towns and residences, upon the ground that they were a free people, capable of defending their country from foreign invasion, and therefore requiring no fortified towns, and that such places added to the risks of civil war, and enabled factions to set the will of the nation at defiance. The building was a large one, but it struck Charlie as being singularly plain and barn-like in comparison with the residences of country gentlemen in England. A number of retainers ran out as they drove up into the courtyard, and exclamations of surprise and dismay rose, as the wounds on the horses' flanks and legs were visible; and when, in a few words, the count told them that they had been attacked by wolves, and had been saved principally by the English gentleman and his follower, the men crowded round Charlie, kissed his hands, and in other ways tried to show their gratitude for his rescue of their master and mistress. "Come along," the count said, taking his arm and leading him into the house. "The poor fellows mean well, and you must not be vexed with them." The countess's first question had been for her child, and with an exclamation of thankfulness, when she heard that it was better, she had at once hurried into the house. As soon as they had entered, the count left Charlie in charge of his brother, and also hurried away. He was not long before he returned. "The child is doing well," he said, "and now that it has got its mother again, it will, I think, improve rapidly. The doctor said this morning that he considered it out of danger, but that it needed its mother sorely, to cheer and pet it." In a very short time the tables were laid. The count, his brother, and Charlie sat at an upper table, and the hall was filled with the various officers and retainers. The count's arrival was expected, for a horseman had been sent forward on their arrival at the inn the evening before. The dinner had therefore been cooked in readiness, and Charlie was astonished at the profusion with which it was served. Fish, joints, great pies, and game of many kinds were placed on the table in unlimited quantities; the drink being a species of beer, although excellent wine was served at the high table. He could now understand how often the Polish nobles impoverished themselves by their unbounded hospitality and love of display. "I suppose, for tomorrow, you will like to remain quiet," the count said, "but after that we will try to amuse you. There is game of all sorts to be shot, or if you have had enough sport, lately, there will be a sledge and horses at your disposal, whenever you choose to ride or drive, and in a few days we will give an entertainment, in honour at once of our return, your visit, and the child's restoration to health. Then you will have an opportunity of seeing our national dances." Charlie had had enough shooting, but he greatly enjoyed the drives in the sledges, behind the spirited horses. The entertainment came off a fortnight after his arrival at the chateau. The guests, for the most part, arrived early in the afternoon, many having driven in from great distances. The preparations had been on an immense scale, and the scene at night was a brilliant one. Never had Charlie seen anything like the magnificence of the dresses, not of the ladies only, but also of the gentlemen; the Poles having the true oriental love for rich costumes, a taste that their national dress permitted them to gratify to the utmost. Next to the splendour of the dresses, Charlie was surprised at the grace and spirit of the dancing, which was far more vivacious than that of western nations. The Poles were long considered to be the best dancers in the world. It was their great national amusement; and all danced, from noble to peasant, entering into it with spirit and enthusiasm, and uniting the perfection of rhythmical motion with the grace and ease peculiar to them, and to their kinsmen the Hungarians. The dancing was kept up, with unflagging energy, during the whole night; and then, after a substantial breakfast, the men and women were muffled up in furs, and took their places in the sledges. The count would gladly have had Charlie remain with him until spring began, but he was anxious to rejoin the army; and, seeing that this was so, the count did everything in his power to facilitate his journey, which, after talking it over, had been decided should be direct towards the royal camp. The count's brother insisted upon accompanying him on the journey, as in this way many of the difficulties would be avoided. Two sledges were prepared, the one for the use of Charlie and Count John, and the other for the two servants and baggage. Both were horsed by the fastest animals in the count's stables. Charlie himself had been loaded with presents, which he had been obliged somewhat reluctantly to accept, as he saw that a refusal would hurt and mortify his kind hosts. He had, on his arrival, been provided with an ample wardrobe of clothes of all kinds, and to these were now added dolmans, cloaks, rugs, and most costly furs. A splendid gun, pistols, and a sword, with the hilt studded with gems, completed his outfit; while Stanislas had been presented with a heavy purse of money. The whole of the retainers of the castle were assembled to see them start, and the count and countess, at parting, made him promise to come and pay them another visit, if the fortune of war should bring him within the possibility of reaching them. The journey was a delightful one. Each night they put up at the chateau of some nobleman. To many of these Count John Staroski was personally known; at the others, his name secured at once a hearty welcome for himself and his companion. Travelling only by day, and at the full speed of the horses, they escaped interruption by the marauding bands, and in fourteen days after starting they drove into the town where Charles of Sweden had his headquarters, after being twice stopped and questioned by bodies of Swedish horse. The town was crowded with troops, and they had some difficulty in finding a lodging for themselves, and stabling for the horses. As soon as this was done, Charlie proceeded alone to the quarters of Count Piper. Chapter 14: The Battle Of Clissow. Charlie sent in his name, and was shown in at once. "I am glad, indeed, to see you, Captain Carstairs," the minister said, as he entered. "We had given you up for lost. We heard first that you had been murdered in the streets of Warsaw. A month later, a man brought a letter to me from your Scotch friend Ramsay, to say that you were accused of the murder of a Jew trader, a man, it seems, of some importance in Warsaw. Ramsay said that you were in the company of a band of brigands, and that the man who went with you as your servant had joined you, and had taken you some money. He forwarded the letter you had sent him explaining your position, and said he thought that, upon the whole, it was the best thing you could have done, as a vigorous search had been set on foot, at the instance of the Jews, and there would have been but little chance of your making your way through the country alone. He added that he felt confident that, if alive, you would manage somehow to rejoin us before the campaign opened in the spring. "I am glad that you have been able to do so, but your appearance, at present, is rather that of a wealthy Polish noble, than of a companion of brigands." "I was able to do some service to Count Staroski, as, when travelling with his wife and child, and his brother, Count John, he was attacked by a pack of wolves. I have been staying with him for some weeks, and his brother has now had the kindness to accompany me here. He has thereby made my passage through the country easy, as we have travelled with fast horses in his sledge, and have always put up at the chateaux of nobles of his acquaintance. I have, therefore, avoided all risk of arrest at towns. In the letter forwarded to you I explained the real circumstances of the death of the Jew." "Yes, we quite understood that, Captain Carstairs. You had a very narrow escape from death at his hands, and, as the danger was incurred purely in the king's service, it will not be forgotten. Up to the time when the Jew organized the attack upon you in Warsaw, I was well satisfied with your reports of your work. So far nothing has come of it, as Augustus has been too strong for any movement against him, but we hope, ere long, to defeat him so decisively that our friends will be able to declare against him. I will inform the king of your return, and I have no doubt he will be glad to hear your story from your own lips. He loves tales of adventure, and time hangs somewhat heavily on hand, as, until the frost breaks, nothing can be done in the field." On the following day, indeed, Charlie was sent for to the royal quarters, and had to recount the story of his adventures in full to the king, who was highly interested in them, and at the conclusion requested him to introduce Count John Staroski, in order that he might express to him his obligation for the service he had rendered to one of his officers. This done, Charlie drove out with the count to the village where Colonel Jamieson's regiment was quartered, and where his return was received with delight by Harry, and with great pleasure by Major Jervoise and his fellow officers. He was obliged to give a short outline of what he had been doing since he left, but put off going into details for a future occasion. "And are you coming back to us now, Charlie?" Harry asked. "Certainly. My success in the diplomatic way was not sufficiently marked for them to be likely to employ me in that line again. We must return this afternoon, as the king has invited us both to sup with him tonight." Two days later, Count John Staroski started upon his return journey, much pleased with the reception he had met with from the King of Sweden, and determined to work vigorously, among the nobles of his acquaintance, to bring about the dethronement of Augustus of Saxony. Charlie had already seen Count Piper, who had told him that, although the king and himself were both well satisfied with the work he had done, there was not at present any mission of the same sort on which he could be employed. Indeed, it was evident that, until the Saxons had been decisively defeated, political action would be useless, and that, therefore, for the present he could either remain at headquarters, or rejoin his regiment. Charlie at once chose the latter alternative. "Very well, Captain Carstairs, you can rejoin when you like, but remember I may claim your services again. You see, now that you have acquired a knowledge of Polish, your value for this sort of work is largely increased." As soon as the frost had broken, the Swedish army commenced its advance. Skirmishes frequently took place, but Augustus had, as yet, no army with which he could meet them in the field, and he summoned a diet at Warsaw, in hopes of persuading the Poles to decide upon calling out the whole national force. In this he failed altogether. The citizens, led by the foreign traders, were already openly opposed to him, and their attitude so encouraged his opponents in the diet, that many of these rose and openly denounced the government, and the conduct of the king, that had brought the country into its present difficulties. As the Swedish army advanced, they were joined by the Duke of Holstein, and, in spite of the efforts of a considerable body of the enemy, under Prince Wisniowiski, progressed steadily, crossed the river Memel, and, when near Grodno, were met by an embassy sent by the diet, to endeavour to persuade Charles not to advance further. An interview took place between the king, the Poles, and his ministers, the conversation on both sides being in Latin. But as the ambassadors had no definite plans to propose, and their leaders were wholly devoted to Augustus, the king refused to allow his advance to be arrested, and continued his march. When near Praga they crossed the plain where Charles Gustavus, King of Sweden, had defeated the Polish army in a great battle, that had lasted for three days. The city was occupied, and a contribution of 20,000 crowns imposed upon it, in addition to food for the army while it remained there. Plundering, however, was strictly forbidden, and, as the king issued a proclamation declaring that he was no enemy of the Polish Republic, but simply of their king, the inhabitants were, on the whole, well satisfied with the conduct of the invaders. A halt was made here for some time, and a bridge was thrown across the Vistula, while the army rested after the long and fatiguing marches it had made. A fresh attempt was made to arrest the advance of the Swedes, and the Cardinal Primate, himself, met the king; but nothing came of the negotiations, and the army entered Warsaw. Here they were warmly received, and great entertainments were given to the king. Towards the end of June, they again advanced to meet the force that Augustus had gathered, and on the 6th of July the Swedes arrived within a few miles of Clissow. The next day some reinforcements arrived, and the king decided to give battle on the following day, which was the anniversary of the victory on the Dwina, the previous year. His army was twelve thousand strong, while that of Augustus was nearly double that strength, and was very strongly posted, his camp being surrounded by morasses, although situated on rising ground which commanded the whole of the country round it. The bogs in the front were found to be so impassable, that the Swedes were forced to make a circuit to the left, where the ground was firmer. This movement obliged the enemy also to change front, a movement that caused considerable confusion, as they themselves were forced to traverse boggy ground, to take up a new position facing that by which the Swedes would now advance. The attack was commenced by the division commanded by the Duke of Holstein, but, scarcely had he set his troops in motion than he was mortally wounded, by a ball from a falconet. His troops, however, pushed forward vigorously. The Polish division opposed to them resisted the two first assaults bravely, but gave way at the third attack, and were driven from the ground, in such confusion that they took no further part in the engagement. While this was going on, the Saxon cavalry had been repulsed by that of Charles, and, passing in their retreat under the fire of three infantry regiments, suffered so heavily that they left the field. The Swedish foot now advanced all along the line, and in the centre destroyed several battalions of Saxons. But the Swedish right was attacked so vigorously by the Saxon left, under Field Marshal Steinau, that for a time the conflict was doubtful. The Swedish horse guards and other cavalry, however, charged with such determination that the Saxon horse on this flank were also defeated, and driven off the field, while the Swedish infantry, advancing without firing, drove several battalions of Saxon foot into a village, where, being surrounded, almost all were killed or taken prisoners. The Saxon horse, gathering once more, attempted bravely to retrieve the fate of the day, and engaged the Swedish horse with such desperate valour, that a considerable portion of the Saxon infantry were enabled, under cover of the conflict, to draw off, cross the morasses, and make their escape. The battle lasted four hours, and had been, throughout, severely contested. The Saxons lost four thousand killed and wounded, and three thousand taken prisoners, while the Swedes had eleven hundred killed and wounded. Forty-eight cannon were captured by the victors, together with all the baggage and waggons. The death of the Duke of Holstein, a gallant prince who was exceedingly popular with the army, and beloved by the king, cast a gloom over this great victory, which virtually laid Poland at the feet of the victors, and insured the fulfilment of the object for which Charles had persisted in the war. Jamieson's regiment had been on the left wing, but, as it had been held in reserve, to strengthen the line at any point at which it might give way, the Scotch had taken but a small share in the fighting, and had but thirty men killed and wounded by the shot and bullets that passed over the heads of the fighting line. The captain of one of the companies was among those killed, and Charlie, who had, since he rejoined the regiment, been doing duty as lieutenant, now took the vacant place. The army still advanced. Augustus sent in several proposals for peace, but these were all rejected. The Saxons had speedily rallied after the battle, but were not in a position to oppose the advance of the victorious Swedes, who occupied Cracow without meeting with any resistance. Seeing that Augustus would not be strong enough to hazard another pitched battle, Charles had, on the morning after the victory, ordered three of his regiments, of which Jamieson's was one, to march with all speed to reinforce Major General Schlippenbach, who had sent an urgent request for aid, as he heard that the Russian army, fifty thousand strong, was preparing to cross the frontier; and as he had but six thousand, he could not hope to oppose their advance successfully. As the king's orders enjoined the troops to march with the greatest possible speed, they performed the journey back to Warsaw in four days, although the distance exceeded a hundred miles. Mounted messengers had been sent on before them, and, on reaching the town, they found boats already prepared to take them down the river to Danzic, where orders had already been sent for ships to be in readiness to convey them to Revel. The fatigues since the campaign opened had been severe, and the troops all enjoyed the long days of rest, while the craft that conveyed them dropped quietly down the Vistula. Then came the short sea passage. On their arrival at Revel, bad news met them. They had come too late. On the 16th of July the Russian army had passed the frontier, and the Swedes had tried to oppose them at the passage of the river Embach; but the water was low, from the effects of a long drought, and the Russians were enabled to ford it at several points. The Swedes fell upon those who first crossed, and for two hours repulsed their attacks, obtaining at some points considerable advantage, and capturing some guns, but, as fresh reinforcements poured across the river, the tide of battle turned. The Russian cavalry drove back the Swedish horse, who, as they retreated, rode through the infantry and threw them into disorder. These were attacked by the Russians before they could recover from their confusion, and were almost entirely destroyed or taken prisoners. The general, and many of the mounted officers, effected their escape, rallied the broken cavalry, and fell back towards Revel. The Russians spread over the country and plundered it, burning the little town of Valk, murdering its inhabitants, and carrying off into slavery the whole of the population who fell into their hands. The arrival of the three regiments was hailed with much satisfaction by the people of Revel, who feared that the Russians might besiege the town. They did not, however, approach within many miles, but, after completely wasting the country, retired across the frontier. The victory that had been gained over the Swedes at Embach, and the destruction of the greater part of General Schlippenbach's force, enabled the czar to turn his arms against Ingria, the extreme eastern province of Sweden, which included the shores of Lake Ladoga and the whole of the coast of the Baltic between Narva and Finland. Urgent messages were sent by the governor of that province to General Schlippenbach, requesting him to send him aid, as he had not even sufficient men to garrison the walled towns. The general was, however, afraid that Narva would be again besieged, and he therefore dared not reduce his small force to any considerable degree, but drew one company from each of the three regiments, and embarked them on board a ship for the mouth of the Neva. As there seemed little prospect of service, for a time, near Revel, all the officers were eager that their company should be chosen for the service in Ingria. Colonel Jamieson therefore said: "I do not wish to choose one company more than another; all can equally be depended upon. Therefore, I think the fairest way will be to draw lots as to which shall go." The lot fell upon Charlie's company, which therefore formed part of the expedition. On reaching the mouth of the Neva, they heard that the town of Notteburg, situated at the point where the Neva issues from the lake, was already besieged by the Russians, and that the Swedish vessels on the lake had been obliged to come down the river. A fort had been raised by the Russians on the bank, to prevent succour being conveyed into the town, and two thousand men had crossed the river and occupied a small redoubt on the northern side, so that the town was completely invested. The newly-arrived force was ordered to march, at once, with a hundred horse and four field pieces, the whole under the command of Major Sion, who was well acquainted with the country. "What do you think of this expedition, Captain Carstairs?" his lieutenant, John Bowyer, asked him. "I would rather be back with King Charles," Charlie replied. "Of course, I don't know the geography of the place, but if the Russians keep their eyes at all open, I don't see how a force like ours, with cavalry and guns, can hope to enter the town unnoticed. The addition of the horsemen seems to me altogether ridiculous, as they could be no good whatever, if they did enter the town. As for those four field pieces, they will hamper our march; and as they say the Russians have already some forty cannon in position about the town, those little pieces would be useless. "Four hundred infantry, making the attempt at night under good guidance, might manage to slip into the place, but this procession of ours is, to my mind, tempting destruction, for we certainly cannot hope to cut our way, by force, through the whole Russian army. "But even if we do get inside the town, our plight can be no better. The Russians' cannon are bombarding it, night and day, and more batteries are in course of erection, and Schlippenbach the governor, who is, I believe, a brother of the general, has but a few pieces to reply to them. "Were there an army advancing to the relief of the place, it would be different altogether, for our reinforcement might be of vital importance in repelling assaults, until aid arrived. But there is no hope of aid. The king's army is some nine hundred miles away, and his hands are full. General Schlippenbach has sent as many men as he could spare. They say there are at least twenty thousand Russians round the town, and where is an army to come from that can compel them to raise the siege? To my mind, we shall either be destroyed making our way into the town, or, if we do get in, shall be made prisoners of war, if not massacred--for the Russians have but vague ideas as to giving quarter--when the town falls, which may be a fortnight hence." "It seems a bad lookout, altogether," the lieutenant remarked. "Very much so. The best possible thing that could befall us would be for the Russians to make us out, before we get too far into their lines, in which case we may be able to fall back before they can gather in overwhelming strength, and may thus draw off without any very great loss." Major Sion called the captains of the infantry companies, and the troop of horse, to a sort of council of war, when the little force halted for an hour at three o'clock in the afternoon. "We have another ten miles to march, gentlemen, and I should like to ask your opinion as to whether it would be best to try to force our way in as soon as we get there, or to halt at a distance of three or four miles from the Russians, and make our effort at daybreak before they are fairly afoot." The other three officers gave their opinion in order of seniority, and all advocated the plan of falling upon the Muscovites at daybreak. "And what do you think, Captain Carstairs?" Major Sion asked Charlie. "I regret to say, major, that my opinion differs from that of the other gentlemen, and this for several reasons. In the first place, if we halt so near the Russians, our presence in their neighbourhood may be betrayed by a peasant, and we may be surprised in the night. If no such mishap should take place, we should have to be on foot two hours before sunrise. I in no way doubt your knowledge of the road, but it is at all times difficult to make out a mere track, like that we are following, at night, and in the morning we might well find ourselves involved in the Russian intrenchments, from which we could not extricate ourselves before a large force had gathered round us, in which case we must be all either killed or taken prisoners. My own suggestion would be that we should remain here another two hours, and then continue our march so as to reach the spot, where we are to endeavour to break through their line, about sunset. Should we be observed, as we most likely should be, we might at that hour be taken for a freshly-arrived body of Russian troops. There would be no risk of losing our way, and we might hope to be close upon them before we were discovered to be enemies. If we succeed, as I trust we shall, in breaking our way through and reaching the town, well and good. If, on the other hand, we find greater obstacles than we expect, and are forced to fall back fighting, we shall have the advantage that darkness will be setting in. The Russians, the greater part of whom will be ignorant of our strength, will lose time before they move, fearing they may be assaulted in other quarters, and in the darkness we might be able to make good our escape, which it is certain none of us would do, should we meet with a repulse at daybreak." "Your reasons are very just, Captain Carstairs. Though certainly my opinion was in accordance with that given by your fellow officers, I am bound to say that your argument seems unanswerable. "What say you, gentlemen? I have two objects in view--the first to reinforce the garrison of Notteburg, the second to save the troops under my command, if I should fail in doing so. I know the country well, but its features will be considerably altered. Trees will have been cut down, houses levelled, intrenchments thrown up, camps scattered here and there, and I own that in the dark, I might, as Captain Carstairs says, very easily miss my way. I think his proposal therefore unites the greatest chances of getting through their line and entering the town, with a possibility of drawing off the troops without great loss, in case of failure." The other three officers at once agreed, and orders were issued for the men to lie down until five o'clock and rest themselves before pursuing their march. It was past that hour before they were in motion again. Major Sion, with a peasant from the neighbourhood of Notteburg, rode ahead. Then came the troop of cavalry, with the guns close behind them, followed by the infantry. As they approached the Russian lines, the peasant several times went on in advance, and presently a trooper rode down the line, with the order that the troops with firearms were to light their matches, and the spearmen to keep in a compact body. They were now not far from the Russian lines, and the destruction that had been wrought during the last ten days was visible to them. Every tree and bush had been felled, for use in the intrenchments or for the erection of shelters. A few blackened walls alone showed where houses had stood. Gardens had been destroyed, and orchards levelled. Light smoke could be seen rising at many points from the Russian fires, and, when the troops were halted, they were but half a mile from the intrenchments. Word was passed down that the rapid Swedish march was to be moderated, and that they were to move carelessly and at a slow rate, as if fatigued by a long march, and that the spears were to be carried at the trail, as they were so much longer than those used by the Russians that their length would, if carried erect, at once betray the nationality of the troops. There was no attempt at concealment, for the cavalry would be visible for a considerable distance across the flat country. Considerable bodies of men could be seen, gathered round fires at a distance of not more than a quarter of a mile on either hand, but, as the column passed between them, there was no sign of any stir. In a short time, the order was passed for the troops to form from column into line, and the cavalry officer who brought it said that there was a Russian battery erected right across the road, a little more than a quarter of a mile ahead. "Things look better, Captain Carstairs," the lieutenant said, as the company, which happened to be leading, fell into line. "Yes, I have no doubt we shall take their battery, coming down, as we do, upon its rear. The question is, are there any intrenchments ahead? Major Sion told us, when we halted, that the peasant assured him that there were no works beyond it, and that it was the weakest point of the line; but it is three days since he came out from Notteburg, and, working hard as the Russians evidently do, they may have pushed on their intrenchments far in advance of the battery by this time." The force halted for a moment. The guns were unlimbered, turned round, and loaded. Then the line of cavalry opened right and left, the four pieces poured a discharge of grape into the Russians, clustered thickly in the battery four hundred yards away, and then, with a shout, the Swedish cavalry charged, the infantry coming on at a run behind them. The surprise was complete. With cries of terror, the Russians for the most part leapt from the battery and fled, and the few who attempted to defend their guns were sabred by the cavalry. "There are other works ahead!" Major Sion exclaimed, as, sitting on his horse, he looked over the parapet, "and bodies of troops scattered all about. Push forward, men, at a double, and do you, Captain Sherlbach, cut a way for us with your cavalry." The sun had set a few minutes before the guns were fired, and Charlie, as he led his men over the earthwork, and saw the Russian lines in front, congratulated himself upon the fact that, in another half hour, it would be quite dark. As they approached the next line of works, a scattering fire of musketry opened upon them, but the aim was wide, and without loss they reached the work. The Russians, though inferior in numbers, defended themselves obstinately, and continually received reinforcements of bodies of men, running up from all sides. In five minutes the Swedes cleared the works of them, but, as they prepared to advance again, they saw a large body of horse riding down to bar their advance, while numbers of footmen were running to occupy some intrenchments ahead of them. Trumpets were sounding to the right, left, and rear. "We cannot force our way farther," the major said to Charlie. "We knew nothing of these works, and they are fatal to our enterprise. We must retreat while we can. Do you not think so?" "Yes, sir, I think the enterprise is quite hopeless." The order was given. The troops faced about, formed into closer order, and at the double retraced their steps, the spearmen of each company forming its front line, and the musketeers the second. Already it was growing dusk. The cavalry, riding ahead, scattered the small bodies of men who threw themselves in their way, and the battery they had first taken was entered without loss. There was a momentary halt here, for the men to recover their wind. Then the musketeers poured a volley into a dark line advancing upon them, the horsemen charged in among them, the long pikes of the front line cleared the way, and, with a shout, the Swedes passed through their foes and pressed forward. But more troops were gathering to bar their way, and the major changed the line of march sharply to the right, sweeping along by the side of the force through which they had just cut their way, the musketeers on the flank firing into them as they passed. The movement was an adroit one, for in the gathering darkness the enemy in front would not be able to distinguish friends from foes, or to perceive the nature of the movement. For a few minutes they were unmolested, then the course was again changed, and Charlie was beginning to think that, in the darkness, they would yet make their escape, when a dull heavy sound was heard in their rear. "That's the Russian cavalry, Bowyer. Take the musketeers on with you, and keep close to the company ahead. I will break them up with the pikemen. If they do come up to you, give them a volley and then continue your retreat with the rest." While the captains of the other two companies had placed their pikemen in the front line, Charlie had placed his in the rear, in order to repel any attack of cavalry from that direction. He now formed them in a close clump, taking his place among them. The Russian squadrons came along with a deep roll like that of thunder. They were but thirty yards away when they perceived the little cluster of men with levelled lances. A few, unable to check their horses, rushed upon the points, but most of them reined in their little steeds in time. In a moment, the Swedes were surrounded by a wall of yelling horsemen, some of whom tried to break through the hedge of spears, while others discharged their pistols. Charlie listened anxiously for the roll of a volley of musketry, but no sound came, and he felt sure that the whole body of cavalry had halted round him, and that his movement had saved the rest, who would now, if fortunate, be able to make their way off in the darkness. But the men were falling now from the pistol fire of the Cossacks, and, feeling that the work had been done, he determined to make one effort to save the men with him. "Level your spears, and charge through them shoulder to shoulder," he said. "It is your only chance. Once through, throw away your spears, and break up in the darkness. Most of you may escape. "Now!" With a shout, the Swedes rushed forward in a body. Horses and riders went down before them. There was a rush from behind. Charlie shouted to the rear rank, to face about, but in the confusion and din his words were unheard. There was a brief struggle in the darkness. Charlie emptied his pistols, and cut down more than one of his opponents, then a sword fell on his shoulder, while at the same moment he was ridden over by a Cossack, and was stunned by the force of his fall. When he recovered consciousness, several men with torches were moving about him, and, at the orders of an officer, were examining the bodies of the fallen. He saw them pass their swords through the bodies of three of his own men, who were lying near him, and as they came up to him he closed his eyes, expecting a similar fate. "This is an officer, captain," one of the torch bearers said in Russian. "Very well. Carry him to the camp, then. If he is alive, the general may want to question him." Seeing that he breathed, four of the Russian soldiers took him upon their shoulders, and carried him away. The pain of his wound, caused by the movement, was acute, but he retained consciousness until, after what seemed to him a journey of immense length, he was again laid down on the ground, close to a large fire. Several officers stood round him, and he asked, first in Polish and then in Swedish, for water, and at the orders of one who seemed of superior rank to the others, some was at once brought to him. "Your king treats his prisoners well," the officer said. "We will do everything we can for you." Half an hour later, a doctor came to his side, and cutting open his coat, applied a bandage to his shoulder. "Is it a serious wound?" Charlie asked in Swedish. "It might be worse, but it will be a troublesome one; it is a sabre cut, and has cleft right through your shoulder bone. Are you hurt anywhere else?" "No, I do not think so. I was knocked down in the dark, and I believe stunned, though I have a sort of recollection of being trampled on, and I feel sore all over." The surgeon felt his ribs and limbs, repeatedly asking him if it hurt him. When he finished the examination, he said: "You are doubtless badly bruised, but I don't think anything is broken. Our Cossack horses are little more than ponies. Had they been heavy horse, they would have trod your life out." A few moments later there was a sound of trampling horses. They halted close by. The officers drew back, and a moment later Marshal Scheremetof, the commander of the Russian army, came up to Charlie's side. "Which of you speaks Swedish?" he asked the officers, and one of them stepped forward. "Ask him what force was this that attacked us, and with what object." As Charlie saw no reason for concealment, he replied that it was a body of four hundred Swedish infantry, and a troop of horse, with four guns, and that their object was to enter the town. "They must have been mad to attempt to cut their way through our whole army," the general said, when the answer was translated to him; "but, by Saint Paul, they nearly succeeded. The Swedes are mad, but this was too much even for madmen. Ask him whence the force came. It may be that a large reinforcement has reached Vyburg, without our knowing it." "We arrived two days since," Charlie replied, when the question was put to him. "We came in a ship together from Revel." "Did others come with you?" was next asked, at the general's dictation. "No other ship but ours has arrived." "But others are coming?" As Charlie had no doubt that great efforts would be made to send further reinforcements, he replied: "Many more troops are coming, but I cannot say when they will arrive." "Will it be soon?" "That I cannot say, but I don't think they will come from Revel. There was a talk of large reinforcements, but whether from Sweden or from the king's army, I cannot say." "Are you a Swede?" the general asked. "I am an Englishman in the Swedish service, general." "We have many of your countrymen with us," the general said. "It would have been better for you, had you come to the czar. "See that he is well treated," he said to the officers, and then mounted and rode away. Chapter 15: An Old Acquaintance. The next morning Charlie was placed in a tent, in which lay several officers who had been wounded, either the night before or by shots from the town. He learned with great pleasure, upon questioning the doctor, that the Swedes had got off safely in the darkness. Some eight or ten men only had straggled and been made prisoners, and not more than twenty had been left dead on the field. He had the satisfaction, therefore, of knowing that the defence made by his own pikemen had been the means of saving the whole force. In other respects he had nothing to complain of, for he was well attended to, and received the same treatment as the Russians. For another ten days the roar of the cannon continued, some seventy guns keeping up an incessant fire on the town. At the end of that time the governor capitulated, and was allowed to march out with the honours of war. Only forty out of the brave garrison remained unwounded at the end of the siege. They, as well as such of their comrades as were strong enough to travel, passed through the lines of the Russians, and marched to Vyburg. Three weeks after being made a prisoner, Charlie's wound was so far healed that the surgeon pronounced him able to sit a horse, and, under the escort of an officer and four Cossacks, he was taken by easy stages to Bercov, a prison fortress a short distance from Moscow. He had inquired from the surgeon who attended him for Doctor Kelly. The doctor knew him, but said that he was not with the army, but was, he believed, away visiting some towns on the Volga, where a serious pestilence was raging. Charlie remained but a short time at Bercov. His wound was healing rapidly, and the surgeon who attended him assured him that there was every prospect of his making a complete cure, if he would but keep his arm, for some weeks, in a sling. He had nothing to complain of, either as to his comfort or food. The governor, who spoke a little Polish, visited him every day, and asked many questions as to his native country. On one of these visits he said to him: "You asked me yesterday if I knew Doctor Kelly, one of the chief surgeons of the army, who, as you had heard, was at present on the Volga. You mentioned that he was a friend of yours, and that you had made his acquaintance, when you were unlucky enough before to be a prisoner in our hands. I am sorry to say that I have today seen an official report, in which his name appears among the list of those who have fallen victims to the pestilence." "I am sorry to hear that," Charlie exclaimed; "both because he was very kind to me, and I liked him much, and because, in the second place, I was sure that he would have used his influence, with the czar, to obtain my exchange as soon as possible." "It is very unfortunate," the governor said, "especially as these exchanges are of rare occurrence. A few officers may be taken prisoners on each side in the skirmishes, but the numbers are too small to make the loss of any importance, either to Russia or Sweden, and it is months since either have taken any steps to bring about exchanges. I myself have no influence. My appointment here is a sort of punishment, for having offended the czar by not having brought up my regiment in time to take part in the fight, when you attacked us at Narva. I saved the regiment, but that was not regarded as any excuse for having been three days longer on the march than the czar expected; so I was sent here, as a sort of dismissal from active service. "You know no one else who could move in your matter?" "No one. The governor of the castle at Plescow was a surly fellow, and was reprimanded by the czar, at least so I heard, for not having treated me sufficiently well. I was only three or four days there, and the only officer I saw besides Doctor Kelly was a friend of his, another doctor. He was at the table when I dined with Kelly. He seemed to me to be a fine fellow, and, by the by, he did say jokingly that, if I was ever made prisoner again, I was to ask for him, and that he would do anything he could for me." "What was his name?" the governor asked. "Peter Michaeloff. "Do you know him?" he added, as he saw a look of surprise in the governor's face. "I know one of that name," the governor said doubtfully, "I don't know that he is a doctor; though he may be, for he knows something of many things." "Oh, he was a doctor," Charlie said confidently. "I know Kelly said he could take off a limb as well as he could do it, himself." "What sort of man was he?" "He was a tall, strong man, with black hair and gray eyes. He has rather a positive way of talking, and seemed to have very strong opinions about things. He looked good tempered, but I should say that he could be passionate enough, if he were put out." "That might be the Peter Michaeloff I know," the governor said. "You are sure he said that you were to ask for him, if you were a second time taken prisoner?" "I am quite certain he said so, though I don't know whether the promise meant much. But he certainly spoke as if he thought he might be able to help me, and, though it did not seem likely that I could have such bad luck twice, I think he meant at the time what he said, and I should think he was the sort of man who would keep his word." "I will make some inquiries," the governor said, "and find out, if I can, where he is at present. Yes, I should think that he would be able to assist you, if he chose to interest himself in the matter." Ten days later, the governor came into Charlie's room. "An officer has arrived, with an order for your removal," he said. "You are to be taken up again to Notteburg." "I am very sorry," Charlie said. "I have been very comfortable here. You have been very kind to me, and I feel sure the change will not be for the better. Besides, we are nearly into September now, and in that marshy country round the lake and river, the winter will be even more severe than it is here. The only thing I can think of is that the Swedes at Vyburg may have taken a Russian captain prisoner, and that they are going to exchange us." The governor shook his head. "There are no longer any Swedes at Vyburg. All Ingria is in our hands and the Swedes have retired into Finland. It may be that it is the work of your friend. I sent a message to Peter Michaeloff, should he be found in that neighbourhood, by an officer who was going there, telling him that you were here, and that, having met him when a prisoner at Plescow, you relied on his good offices. Should the officer have found him there, and have given him my message, he may probably have begged the field marshal to order you to be taken to the prison there, where he could be near you, and visit you sometimes." "Your doctors must have a good deal more influence in your army than they have among the Swedes," Charlie remarked, "if that is how it has come about." "It would be a matter of favour," the governor said. "If Michaeloff is acquainted with the field marshal, or had attended him when unwell, he could ask a little favour of that sort. If the field marshal sent you here, he could send for you again without more trouble than signing his name to the order." "Well, if it is Michaeloff who has done this," Charlie grumbled; "no doubt he meant it kindly, but I would much rather that he left me here. A ride of two hundred and fifty miles, in August, is not pleasant to begin with, and the thought of winter in those swamps is enough to make one shiver." "With a comfortable room and a warm stove, you will not find much to complain of, Captain Carstairs," the governor said with a smile; "and, no doubt, Michaeloff may be enabled to obtain leave for you to go out with him on parole. I was about myself to ask you, now that you are strong and well again, whether you would like to give your parole, and offer you the use of my horse for a ride, when inclined for it." "Thank you, governor. If Michaeloff can do that, it will certainly be a boon, but I am not disposed to agree that the change can be his work. In the first place, we don't know that he is there. In the second, I can hardly think that he could have managed it; and, most of all, I do not see he could possibly have had a hand in the matter, for, even supposing the officer had found him directly he arrived, and then given him the message, and he had acted upon it at once, there would have been no time for the order to get here. It would have needed a messenger riding night and day, with frequent relays of horses, to have got to Notteburg and back since the day I spoke to you about the matter. "When am I to start?" "As soon as you have eaten your breakfast. The order says 'send at once,' and field marshals expect their orders to be attended to promptly." On descending to the courtyard after breakfast, Charlie was surprised to see that, instead of a horse as he had expected, a well-appointed carriage, with an ample supply of rugs, was standing there. The governor was there to see him off. "Well, sir," Charlie said. "If this is the way in which you convey prisoners from one place to another in Russia, I shall certainly be able, when I meet King Charles, to report to him most favourably as to the treatment of his officers who have fallen into the czar's hands. This will make the journey a very much more pleasant one than I had expected." "I am glad you are pleased," the governor said, "and that you have no unpleasant recollection of your stay here." A minute later, the carriage dashed out through the gate of the prison. An officer was seated by Charlie's side, two Cossacks galloping in front, while two others rode behind. "It was worth making the change, if only for this drive," Charlie thought cheerfully, as the dust flew up in a cloud before the horses' hoofs, and he felt a sense of exhilaration from the keen air that blew in his face. The journey was performed with great rapidity. One of the Cossacks galloped ahead, as soon as they arrived at the station where they changed horses, and had fresh ones in readiness at the next post house. The Cossacks themselves were changed at every other station, fresh relays from the men stationed there taking their place. Excellent meals were served three times a day, and each night a comfortable bed was provided, at the last post house where they stopped. The officer was a pleasant fellow, but he spoke nothing except Russian, and, although Charlie fancied he understood him to some extent when he spoke to him in Polish, he shook his head and gave no answers in that language. Late in the evening of the third day, they arrived at Notteburg. The building at which the carriage stopped was of considerable size. It stood in the heart of the town, and had no outward appearance of a prison. It was apparently at a side entrance at which they stopped. On the officer knocking at the door, it was opened by two Cossacks, who, after exchanging a few words in Russian with the officer, led Charlie along a passage and up a narrow staircase, which led into a somewhat spacious corridor. They opened a door, and he found himself in a comfortable room. A table laid for dinner with handsome silver and appointments stood in the middle of the room, which was carpeted with tartar rugs. One of the Cossacks opened an inner door, which led into a bedroom, snugly furnished. "It must be the doctor, after all," Charlie murmured to himself, in great surprise. "I see now that there was plenty of time for a letter to come up here and have gone back again, and I suppose the good fellow has got leave for me to stay for a night in his quarters, before I am handed over to the prison. Well, for the last three days I have travelled like a prince, and this is the closing act of it." He enjoyed a good wash, then returned to the other room, and sat down in a comfortable chair to wait for his host. He was on the point of dozing off, when the door opened, and Peter Michaeloff entered. Charlie sprang to his feet. "Well, Captain Carstairs," the Russian said, holding out his hand, "so it seems you had bad luck again. You must have quite an affection for our prisons." "I shall have, at least, a pleasant remembrance of the kindness shown to me as a prisoner," Charlie said; "and I am sure it is you that I have to thank for my transfer here, and for the pleasant journey I have had. I could not have travelled more comfortably, if I had been a Russian grandee." "Well, I am glad to meet you again," the doctor said heartily. "Let me see, it is some twenty months since we supped together last at Kelly's quarters. Poor fellow! I shall miss him greatly. You have heard of his death?" "The governor of Bercov told me of it, a fortnight ago. I was indeed sorry to hear it. I shall never forget his kindness to me." "Yes, he was a good man, skilful in his profession, and full of zeal and energy. The blood runs faster somehow, in the veins of you islanders, than of us sluggish Muscovites. If we could but at one sweep banish every Russian official, from the highest to the lowest, and fill their places with men from your islands, what progress we should make, what work could we get done, what reforms could be carried out! "However, at present," he went on, changing the subject abruptly, "the point is supper. I am as hungry as a bear, for I have been at work since daylight, and have eaten nothing since I broke my fast." He rang a handbell placed on the table. Two Cossacks entered bearing dishes, and the doctor and his guest at once fell to on the supper, which was excellent. "Hard work deserves good food," the Russian said, in reply to a remark of Charlie's as to the excellence both of the food and wine. "Your Charles does not think so, I hear, and lives on the roughest of food. What will be the consequence? He will wear himself out. His restless activity will exhaust his powers, and weaken his judgment. I can eat rough food if I can get no better, but I take the best, when opportunity offers. "What have you been doing ever since you left Plescow? I inquired after you the other day, when our troops broke up Schlippenbach's force on the Embach. I found you were not among the prisoners, and I wondered if you were among the killed." "I was not in Livonia at the time. I was with the king's army at Warsaw. Three regiments were sent off, the day after the battle of Clissow, by boats down the Vistula, and then by ship to Revel. Mine was one of them, but we arrived a fortnight too late." "Then you were present at Charles' third victory? How that young fellow handles his troops, and what wonderful troops they are! Now we will get into our easy chairs again, and you shall tell me something about what you have been doing, since we last met." Charlie gave a sketch of his adventures. "So you fought at the Dwina, too? You have had luck in going through three battles without a wound." When Charlie stated that he had gone to Warsaw on a private mission, whose nature was immaterial to the story, the doctor broke in: "You need not tell me what it was, it was of course something to do with Augustus. The way Charles is hunting down that unfortunate king is shocking, it is downright malignity. Why, he has wasted fifteen months over it already, and it has cost him Ingria. He could have made any terms with Poland he liked, after his victory on the Dwina, and would then have been free to use all his forces against us. As it is, he has wasted two summers, and is likely to waste another, and that not for any material advantage, but simply to gratify his hatred against Augustus; and he has left us to take Ingria almost without a blow, and to gain what Russia has wanted for the last hundred years, a foothold on the Baltic. He may be a great general, but he is no politician. No real statesman would throw away solid advantages in order to gratify personal pique." "He considers Augustus the author of this league against him," Charlie said. "He and the czar had no grounds at all of quarrel against him." "We talked over that, the last time we met," the doctor said with a laugh, "and I told you then that a foothold on the Baltic was so necessary to Russia, that she would have accepted the alliance of the Prince of Darkness himself to get it. As to Augustus, I don't defend him. He was ambitious, as I suppose most of us are. He thought he saw an opportunity of gaining territory. He has found that he has made a mistake, and will of course lose a province. But Charles' persecution of him goes beyond all bounds. Never before did a sovereign insist upon a nation consenting to dethrone its king at his dictation. "But go on with your story." He listened without remark, until Charlie concluded. "I wish you had been in our service," he said, "instead of that of Sweden. You would have mounted fast. You have all the requisites for success, above all, promptitude of decision and quickness of invention. You did well in getting away from that Jewish scoundrel in the hut, and in killing his master, but it was your adventure with the wolves that showed your quality. That idea of setting fire to the tree in which you were sitting, in order at once to warm yourself and to frighten away the wolves, would never have occurred to a Russian, and the quickness with which you formed, with three logs, a redoubt against the wolves, showed a quick military eye, and the ability to think and act in a moment of danger. "Now tell me how it was that you were the only officer captured the other day." Charlie briefly related how he, with the pikemen of his company, had stayed behind to check the pursuit of the Russian horse, and to gain time for the main body to lose themselves in the darkness. The Russian struck his fist on the arm of his chair. "It was well done," he said. "There is the difference. A Russian captain would have done it, if he had been ordered, and he and his men would, without a question, have sacrificed themselves to cover the retreat of the rest, but he would never have done it on his own initiative. The idea would never have struck him. He would have plodded along until the enemy's cavalry came up and annihilated them all. By the way, why did you not ask for me at once?" "I had asked for Doctor Kelly the day after I was taken prisoner, and was told that he had gone to the Volga. I thought that he would be back before long, and it was only when I heard of his death that it occurred to me to endeavour to find one who had kindly promised, after a few hours' acquaintance only, to befriend me should I ever find myself in a similar scrape." "It would have saved you the journey down to Moscow. I heard, of course, that a Swedish captain had been made prisoner that night, but I was myself at Moscow at the time, and did not happen to notice the name of the officer taken. Were you well treated at Bercov?" "The governor there was most kind, and all the arrangements of the prison seem excellent. I had no reason whatever to complain. The governor was good enough to come frequently himself to talk to me. He is a fine soldierly man, and though he did not say much, I think he is eating his heart out at being laid on the shelf there, instead of aiding to fight the battles of his country." The Russian took out a pocketbook and made a note, then he rose. "It is time for bed," he said. "I am up at daybreak." "I hope I shall see you often in the prison," Charlie said. "I suppose I shall go in there tomorrow morning. I am indebted to you, indeed, for the very great kindness you have shown me." "No, you will not go in early. I have got leave for you for another day, and I am going to take you for a drive in the morning. You will be called an hour before sunrise. Take your breakfast as soon as you are dressed. Do not wait for me. I have work to do before I start, and shall breakfast elsewhere." As soon as Charlie had breakfasted the next morning, a Cossack told him that the carriage was below, and he followed him to the door where he had entered on the previous evening. The carriage was a simple one, but the three horses harnessed abreast to it were magnificent animals. Charlie stood admiring them for some little time. "I should think," he said to himself, "the doctor must be a man of large property, and most likely of noble family, who has taken up his profession from pure love of it. He is evidently full of energy, and has an intense desire to see Russia greater and higher in the rank of nations. I suppose that, like Kelly, he is one of the principal medical officers in the army. Certainly he must be a man of considerable influence to obtain my transfer here so easily, and to see that I travelled so comfortably. I wonder where he is going to take me this morning." Four or five minutes later Charlie's friend appeared at the door. He was evidently out of temper. He sprung hastily into the vehicle, as if he had altogether forgotten that he had asked Charlie to accompany him. Then, as his eye fell on him, he nodded and said briefly, "Jump in." A little surprised at the unceremonious address, Charlie sprang into the seat beside him without hesitation, seeing that his companion was evidently so much out of temper that he was not thinking of what he was doing at the moment. The coachman cracked his whip, and the spirited horses went off, at a rate of speed that threatened danger to persons traversing the narrow streets of the town. The cracking of the coachman's whip, and an occasional loud shout and the jangling of the bells, gave, however, sufficient warning of their approach. Charlie smiled at the alacrity with which every one sprang out of the way, and either leapt into doorways or squeezed themselves against the wall. He was surprised, however, to see that not only did the townspeople show no resentment, at the reckless pace at which the carriage was driven, but that the soldiers, officers as well as men, cleared out as quickly, and without any expression of indignation or anger. Indeed, most of them, as soon as they gained a place of safety, saluted his companion. "These Russians have evidently a higher respect for their doctors than have the Swedes," he said to himself. "I am sure that not even the chief surgeon of the army would be treated with anything like the same respect, and, indeed, no one would recognize him at all, if he were not in uniform." The doctor seemed to pay no attention to what was passing round him, but was muttering angrily to himself. It was not until they dashed out into the open country that he seemed to remember Charlie's presence at his side. "These people are enough to vex one of the saints, by their stupidity," he said. "Unless they have some one standing behind them with a whip, they cannot be trusted to do what they are told. It is not that they are not willing, but that they are stupid. No one would believe that people could be so stupid. They drive me well nigh to madness sometimes, and it is the more irritating because, against stupidity, one is powerless. Beating a man or knocking him down may do him good if he is obstinate, or if he is careless, but when he is simply stupid it only makes him more stupid than before. You might as well batter a stone wall. "You slept well and breakfasted well, Captain Carstairs?" "Excellently well, thank you. What superb horses you have, doctor." "Yes. I like travelling fast. Life is too short to throw away time in travelling. A busy man should always keep good horses." "If he can afford to do so," Charlie said with a laugh. "I should say that every one, busy or not, would like to sit behind such horses as these, and, as you say, it would save a good deal of time to one who travelled much. But three such horses as these would only be in the reach of one with a very long purse." "They were bred here. Their sire was one of three given by the king of England to the czar. The dams were from the imperial stables at Vienna. So they ought to be good." Charlie guessed that the team must have been a present from the czar, and, remembering what Doctor Kelly had said of the czar's personal communications with him, he thought that the ruler of Russia must have a particular liking for doctors, and that the medical profession must be a more honoured and profitable one in Russia than elsewhere. After driving with great rapidity for upwards of an hour along the banks of the Neva, Charlie saw a great number of people at work on an island in the middle of the river, some distance ahead, and soon afterwards, to his surprise, observed a multitude on the flat, low ground ahead. "This is what I have brought you to see," his companion said. "Do you know what they are doing?" "It seems to me that they are building a fortress on that island." "You are right. We have got a footing on the sea, and we are going to keep it. While Charles of Sweden is fooling away his time in Poland, in order to gratify his spite against Augustus, we are strengthening ourselves here, and never again will Sweden wrest Ingria from our hands." "It is marvellous how much has been done already," Charlie said, as he looked at the crowd of workmen. "Everything was prepared," his companion said. "While the army was invading Livonia, and driving the remnant of the Swedes into Revel, thousands of carts laden with piles of wood, stone, and cement were moving towards Ingria. Tens of thousands of workmen and peasants were in motion from every part of Russia towards this point, and, the day after Notteburg surrendered, they began their work here. It was the opportunity in the lifetime of a nation, and we have seized it. The engineers who had, in disguise, examined it months ago, had reported that the island was covered at high tides, and was unfit to bear the foundations of even the slightest buildings. Piles are being driven in, as close as they will stand, over every foot of ground in it. Over this a coating of concrete many feet thick will be laid, and on this the fortress, which is to be the centre and heart of Russia, will rise. In the fort will stand a pile, which will be the tomb of the future czars of Russia, and there in front of us, where you see fifty thousand peasants at work, shall be the future capital of the empire." "But it is a swamp," Charlie said in astonishment, alike at the vastness of the scheme, and the energy with which it was being prosecuted. "Nature has made it a swamp," his companion said calmly, "but man is stronger than nature. The river will be embanked, the morass drained, and piles driven everywhere, as has been done in the island, and the capital will rise here. The fort has already been named the Fortress of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. The capital will be named alike after the patron saint and its founder--Petersburg." They had now reached the spot. The carriage stopped and they alighted. Charlie saw, with astonishment, that a wide deep cut had been driven, between the road and the river, in a straight line. Looking down into it, he saw that it was paved with the heads of piles, and that carts were already emptying loads of concrete down upon it. "Every bag of cement, every stone that you see, has been brought from a great distance," his companion said. "There is not a stone to be had within fifty miles of this spot. The work would seem well-nigh impossible, but it is the work of a nation. In another month, there will be a hundred and fifty thousand peasants at work here, and well nigh as many carts, bringing materials for the work and provisions for the workers." "It is stupendous! But it will take years to complete, and it will surely be terribly unhealthy here?" "I calculate the work will occupy ten years, and will cost a hundred thousand, maybe two hundred thousand lives," the other said calmly; "but what is that to the making of a nation? Before, Russia was stifled, she could not grow. Now we have a communication with the world. The island that lies at the mouth of the Neva will be fortified, and become a great naval arsenal and fort. Along the walls which will rise here will be unloaded the merchandise of Europe, and in exchange the ships will carry away our products. Some day we shall have another port on the south, but for the present this must suffice. You will say that this is dangerously near our frontier, but that will soon be remedied. As we have pushed the Swedes out of Ingria, so in time shall we drive them from Livonia on the west, and from Finland on the north. "But I must to work." And he motioned to a group of five or six officers, who had been standing a short distance away, to approach him. Charlie was struck with the air of humility with which they saluted his companion, who at once asked a number of questions as to the supplies that had arrived, the progress that had been made, at a point where they had met with a deep slough into which the piles had penetrated without meeting with any firm ground, the number of huts that had been erected during the past three days for the reception of labourers, the state of stocks of meat and flour, and other particulars. To each he gave short, sharp orders. When they had left, he turned to Charlie. "You guess who I am, I suppose?" "I guess now, your majesty," Charlie said respectfully, "but until now the idea that my kind friend was the czar himself never entered my mind. I understood, from Doctor Kelly, that you were a surgeon." "I don't think he said so," the czar replied. "He simply said that I could perform an amputation as well as he could, which was not quite true. But I studied surgery for a time in Holland, and performed several operations under the eyes of the surgeons there. "I saw that you did not recognize my name. It is known to every Russian, but doubtless you never heard of me save as Peter the Czar. Directly you mentioned it to the commandant at Bercov, and described my appearance, he knew who it was you were speaking of, and despatched a messenger at once to me. He will be here in the course of a week or so. Upon your report of the state of the prison, I at once despatched an order for him to hand over his command to the officer next in rank, and to proceed hither at once. He is evidently a good administrator, and heaven knows I have need of such men here. "I was pleased with you, when I saw you with my friend Doctor Kelly. It was pleasant not to be known, and hear a frank opinion such as you gave me, and as you know, I sent you back on the following morning. I certainly told Kelly, at the time, not to mention who I was, but I did not intend that he should keep you in ignorance of it after I had left, and it was not until I heard, from your jailer at Bercov, that you were ignorant that Peter Michaeloff was the czar, that I knew that he had kept you in ignorance of it until the end. "I should have liked to have kept you as my guest for a time, but winter comes on early and suddenly, and if you did not go now you might be detained here until the spring. I have therefore given orders that one of the Swedish vessels we captured on the lake should be got in readiness, and its crew placed on board again. You shall embark in an hour, and it shall carry you to any port in Sweden you may choose. The wind is from the east, and you have every chance of a quick run thither." Charlie expressed his warm thanks to the czar for his thoughtful kindness. "I have much to do now," the czar said, "and must hand you over to the care of one of my officers. He will accompany you, in my carriage, to the spot where the vessel is lying, near the mouth of the river, and will there see you on board. Should the fortune of war again throw you into our hands, do not lose an hour in sending a message to Peter Michaeloff." So saying, the czar shook hands with Charlie, beckoned an officer to him and gave him instructions, and then moved away among the workmen, while Charlie, with his conductor, took their places in the vehicle and drove rapidly off. An hour later, he was on board the Swedish vessel, whose master and crew were delighted at their sudden and unlooked for release. The former was overjoyed, for the vessel was his own property. "You will find your things in your cabin, sir," he said. "They were sent on board this morning, together with food and wine sufficient for a month's voyage, whereas, with this wind, we ought not to be more than four days. At which port will you land?" "I would rather go to Gottenburg, captain, though it is farther for you than Stockholm." "It shall be Gottenburg, sir. It is thanks to you that I have got my liberty and my ship, and a day or two can make no difference to me." Charlie, indeed, had thought the matter over as he drove along. He would not be able to rejoin the army until it had gone into winter quarters, and therefore decided that he would go to Gottenburg, apply for six months' leave, and spend the winter with his father. Somewhat puzzled at the mention of his things having gone on board, he went into the cabin, and found there a handsome pelisse trimmed with costly furs, two robes composed of valuable skins, and a change of clothes. The wind held fair, blowing strongly, and four days later he arrived at Gottenburg. Chapter 16: In England Again. Charlie was received with delight by his father, whom he had not seen since the spring of the previous year. "Then you got my letter, Charlie?" Sir Marmaduke asked, when the first greetings were over. "And yet, I do not see how you could have done so. It is little over a fortnight since I wrote, and I had not looked for you for another month yet." "I have certainly received no letter, father. A fortnight ago I was in a Russian prison, and my arrival here, in so short a time, seems to me almost miraculous;" and he then briefly related his singular experiences. "Now about the letter, father," he said, as he concluded. "I suppose you must have written to ask me to get leave for a time, as it seems that you were expecting me shortly. I suppose you felt that you would like me with you, for a time." "So I should, lad, of that you may be sure, but I should not have called you away for that. No, I had this letter the other day from old Banks. You know he writes to me once a year. His letters have been only gossip so far, for you know my precious cousin kicked him out of the house, as soon as he took possession; but this is a different matter. Read it for yourself." Charlie took the letter, and with some trouble spelt through the crabbed handwriting. It began: "Honoured sir and master, I hope that this finds you and Captain Charles both well in health. I have been laid up with rhematis in the bones, having less comfort in my lodgings than I used to have at Lynnwood. Your honour will have heard that King William has fallen from his horse, and broken his collarbone, and died. May the Lord forgive him for taking the place of better men. Anne has come to the throne, and there were some hopes that she would, of herself, step aside and let him to whom the throne rightly belongs come to it. Such, however, has not been the case, and those who know best think that things are no forwarder for William's death, rather indeed the reverse, since the Princess Anne is better liked by the people than was her sister's husband. "There is no sure news from Lynnwood. None of the old servants are there; and I have no one from whom I can learn anything for certain. Things however are, I hear, much worse since young Mr. Dormay was killed in the duel in London, of which I told you in my last letter. "Dame Celia and Mistress Ciceley go but seldom abroad, and when seen they smile but little, but seem sad and downcast. The usurper has but small dealing with any of the gentry. There are always men staying there, fellows of a kind with whom no gentleman would consort, and they say there is much drinking and wild going on. As Captain Charles specially bade me, I have done all that I could to gather news of Nicholson. Till of late I have heard nothing of him. He disappeared altogether from these parts, just after your honour went away. News once came here from one who knew him, and who had gone up to London on a visit to a kinsman, that he had met him there, dressed up in a garb in no way according with his former position, but ruffling it at a tavern frequented by loose blades, spending his money freely, and drinking and dicing with the best of them. "A week since he was seen down here, in a very sorry state, looking as if luck had gone altogether against him. Benjamin Haddock, who lives, as you know, close to the gate of Lynnwood, told me that he saw one pass along the road, just as it was dusk, whom he could swear was that varlet Nicholson. He went to the door and looked after him to make sure, and saw him enter the gate. Next day Nicholson was in Lancaster. He was spending money freely there, and rode off on a good horse, which looked ill assorted with his garments, though he purchased some of better fashion in the town. It seemed to me likely that he must have got money from the usurper. I do not know whether your honour will deem this news of importance, but I thought it well to write to you at once. Any further news I may gather, I will send without fail. "Your humble servant, "John Banks." "There is no doubt that this is of importance," Charlie said, when he had read the letter through. "It is only by getting hold of this villain that there is any chance of our obtaining proof of the foul treachery of which you were the victim. Hitherto, we have had no clue whatever as to where he was to be looked for. Now, there can be little doubt that he has returned to his haunts in London. I understand now, father, why you wanted me to get leave. You mean that I shall undertake this business." "That was my thought, Charlie. You are now well-nigh twenty, and would scarce be recognized as the boy who left four years ago. The fellow would know me at once, and I might be laid by the heels again under the old warrant; besides being charged with breaking away from the custody of the soldiers. Besides, in this business youth and strength and vigour are requisite. I would gladly take the matter in my own hands, but methinks you would have a better chance of bringing it to a favourable issue. Now that Anne is on the throne, she and her advisers will look leniently upon the men whose only fault was devotion to her father; and if we can once get this foul charge of assassination lifted from our shoulders, I and Jervoise and the others who had to fly at the same time, may all be permitted to return, and obtain a reversal of the decree of the Act of Confiscation of our estates. "I have no friends at court, but I know that Jervoise was a close acquaintance, years ago, of John Churchill, who is now Duke of Marlborough, and they say high in favour with Anne. I did not think of it when I wrote to you, but a week later it came to my mind that his intervention might be very useful, and I took advantage of an officer, leaving here for the army, to send by him a letter to Jervoise, telling him that there was now some hope of getting at the traitor who served as John Dormay's instrument in his plot against us. I said that I had sent for you, and thought it probable you would take the matter in hand; and I prayed him to send me a letter of introduction for you to the duke, so that, if you could by any means obtain the proof of our innocence of this pretended plot, he might help you to obtain a reversal of the Act of Confiscation against us all. I have asked him to write at once, and I will send the letter after you, as soon as I get it. "I know nothing of London, but I have heard of the Bull's Head, in Fenchurch Street, as being one frequented by travellers from the country. You had best put up there, and thither I will forward the note from Jervoise." "The letter will be a useful one, indeed, father, when I have once wrung the truth from that villain Nicholson. It will be an expedition after my own heart. There is first the chance of punishing the villain, and then the hope of restoring you to your place at dear old Lynnwood." "You must be careful, Charlie. Remember it would never do to kill the rascal. That would be the greatest of misfortunes; for, with his death, any chance of unmasking the greater villain would disappear." "I will be careful, father. I cannot say how I shall set about the matter, yet. That must depend upon circumstances; but, as you say, above all things I must be careful of the fellow's life. When is there a ship sailing, father?" "The day after tomorrow, Charlie. You will want that time for getting clothes, suitable to a young gentleman of moderate condition, up from the country on a visit to London. You must make up your mind that it will be a long search before you light on the fellow, for we have no clue as to the tavern he frequents. As a roistering young squire, wanting to see London life, you could go into taverns frequented by doubtful characters, for it is probably in such a place that you will find him. "However, all this I must leave to you. You showed yourself, in that Polish business, well able to help yourself out of a scrape, and if you could do that among people of whose tongues you were ignorant, you ought to be able to manage on English soil." "At any rate, I will do my best, father, of that you may be sure. I have the advantage of knowing the fellow, and am pretty certain that he will not know me." "Not he, Charlie," his father said confidently. "Even in the last two years, since you were here with Jervoise and the others, you have changed so much that I, myself, might have passed you in the street without knowing you. "Now, you had better go off and see about your things. There is no time to be lost. I have drawn out a hundred guineas of my money, which will, I should say, serve you while you are away; but don't stint it, lad. Let me know if it runs short, and I will send you more." "I have money, too, father. I have four months' pay due, besides money I have in hand, for there was but little need for us to put our hands in our pockets." Ten days later, Charlie arrived in the Port of London, and took up his abode at the Bull's Head, where he found the quarters comfortable, indeed, after the rough work of campaigning. The next morning he took a waiter into his confidence. "I have come to London to see a little life," he said, "and I want to be put into the way of doing it. I don't want to go to places where young gallants assemble. My purse is not deep enough to stand such society. I should like to go to places where I shall meet hearty young fellows, and could have a throw of the dice, or see a main fought by good cocks, or even sally out and have a little fun with the watch. My purse is fairly lined, and I want some amusement--something to look back upon when I go home again. What is the best way to set about it?" "Well, sir, if that is your humour, I have a brother who is one of the mayor's tipstaffs. He knows the city well, ay, and Westminster, too, and the purlieus of Saint James's, and whether you want to meet young gallants or roistering blades, or to have a look in at places where you can hire a man to cut another's throat for a few crowns, he can show you them. He will be on duty now, but I will send him a message to come round this evening, and I warrant me he will be here. He has showed young squires from the country over the town before this, and will guess what is on hand when he gets my message." Having nothing to do, Charlie sauntered about the town during the day, looking into the shops, and keeping a keen eye on passers by, with the vague hope that he might be lucky enough to come across his man. After he had finished his supper, the waiter came up and told him that his brother was outside. "I have spoken to him, sir, and he warrants that he can take you into the sort of society you want to meet, whatever it may be." Charlie followed him out. A man was standing under the lamp that swung before the door. "This is the gentleman I was speaking to you of, Tony." As the man took off his cap, Charlie had a good view of his face. It was shrewd and intelligent. "You understand what I want?" he asked, as the waiter ran into the house again, to attend to his duties. "Yes, sir. So far as I understood him, you wish to go to taverns of somewhat inferior reputations, and to see something of that side of London life. If you will pardon my boldness, it is somewhat of a dangerous venture. In such places brawls are frequent, and rapiers soon out. "You look to me like one who could hold his own in a fray," he added, as his eye ran over the athletic figure before him, "but it is not always fair fighting. These fellows hang together, and while engaged with one, half a dozen might fall upon you. As to your purse, sir, it is your own affair. You will assuredly lose your money, if you play or wager with them. But that is no concern of mine. Neither, you may say, is your life; but it seems to me that it is. One young gentleman from the country, who wanted, like you, to see life, was killed in a brawl, and I have never forgiven myself for having taken him to the tavern where he lost his life. Thus, I say that, though willing enough to earn a crown or two outside my own work, I must decline to take you to places where, as it seems to me, you are likely to get into trouble." "You are an honest fellow, and I like you all the more, for speaking out frankly to me," Charlie said, "and were I, as I told your brother, thinking of going to such places solely for amusement, what you say would have weight with me. But, as I see that you are to be trusted, I will tell you more. I want to find a man who did me and mine a grievous ill turn. I have no intention of killing him, or anything of that sort, but it is a matter of great importance to lay hand on him. All I know of him is that he is a frequenter of taverns here, and those not of the first character. Just at present he is, I have reason to believe, provided with funds, and may push himself into places where he would not show himself when he is out of luck. Still, it is more likely he is to be found in the lowest dens, among rascals of his own kidney. I may lose a little money, but I shall do so with my eyes open, and solely to obtain a footing at the places where I am most likely to meet him." "That alters the affair," the man said gravely. "It will add to your danger; for as you know him, I suppose he knows you, also." "No. It is four years since we met, and I have so greatly changed, in that time, that I have no fear he would recognize me. At any rate, not here in London, which is the last place he would suspect me of being in." "That is better. Well, sir, if that be your object, I will do my best to help you. What is the fellow's name and description?" "He called himself Nicholson, when we last met; but like enough that is not his real name, and if it is, he may be known by another here. He is a lanky knave, of middle height; but more than that, except that he has a shifty look about his eyes, I cannot tell you." "And his condition, you say, is changeable?" "Very much so, I should say. I should fancy that, when in funds, he would frequent places where he could prey on careless young fellows from the country, like myself. When his pockets are empty, I should say he would herd with the lowest rascals." "Well, sir, as you say he is in funds at present, we will this evening visit a tavern or two, frequented by young blades, some of whom have more money than wit; and by men who live by their wits and nothing else. But you must not be disappointed, if the search prove a long one before you run your hare down, for the indications you have given me are very doubtful. He may be living in Alsatia, hard by the Temple, which, though not so bad as it used to be, is still an abode of dangerous rogues. But more likely you may meet him at the taverns in Westminster, or near Whitehall; for, if he has means to dress himself bravely, it is there he will most readily pick up gulls. "I will, with your permission, take you to the better sort to begin with, and then, when you have got more accustomed to the ways of these places, you can go to those a step lower, where, I should think, he is more likely to be found; for such fellows spend their money freely, when they get it, and unless they manage to fleece some young lamb from the country, they soon find themselves unable to keep pace with the society of places where play runs high, and men call for their bottles freely. Besides, in such places, when they become unable to spend money freely, they soon get the cold shoulder from the host, who cares not to see the money that should be spent on feasting and wine diverted into the pockets of others. "I shall leave you at the door of these places. I am too well known to enter. I put my hand on the shoulder of too many men, during the year, for me to go into any society without the risk of someone knowing me again." They accordingly made their way down to Westminster, and Charlie visited several taverns. At each he called for wine, and was speedily accosted by one or more men, who perceived that he was a stranger, and scented booty. He stated freely that he had just come up to town, and intended to stay some short time there. He allowed himself to be persuaded to enter the room where play was going on, but declined to join, saying that, as yet, he was ignorant of the ways of town, and must see a little more of them before he ventured his money, but that, when he felt more at home, he should be ready enough to join in a game of dice or cards, being considered a good hand at both. After staying at each place about half an hour, he made his way out, getting rid of his would-be friends with some little difficulty, and with a promise that he would come again, ere long. For six days he continued his inquiries, going out every evening with his guide, and taking his meals, for the most part, at one or other of the taverns, in hopes that he might happen upon the man of whom he was in search. At the end of that time, he had a great surprise. As he entered the hotel to take supper, the waiter said to him: "There is a gentleman who has been asking for you, in the public room. He arrived an hour ago, and has hired a chamber." "Asking for me?" Charlie repeated in astonishment. "You must be mistaken." "Not at all, sir. He asked for Mr. Charles Conway, and that is the name you wrote down in the hotel book, when you came." "That must be me, sure enough, but who can be asking for me I cannot imagine. However, I shall soon know." And, in a state of utter bewilderment as to who could have learnt his name and address, he went into the coffee room. There happened, at the moment, to be but one person there, and as he rose and turned towards him, Charlie exclaimed in astonishment and delight: "Why, Harry, what on earth brings you here? I am glad to see you, indeed, but you are the last person in the world I should have thought of meeting here in London." "You thought I was in a hut, made as wind tight as possible, before the cold set in, in earnest. So I should have been, with six months of a dull life before me, if it had not been for Sir Marmaduke's letter. Directly my father read it through to me he said: "'Get your valises packed at once, Harry. I will go to the colonel and get your leave granted. Charlie may have to go into all sorts of dens, in search of this scoundrel, and it is better to have two swords than one in such places. Besides, as you know the fellow's face you can aid in the search, and are as likely to run against him as he is. His discovery is as important to us as it is to him, and it may be the duke will be more disposed to interest himself, when he sees the son of his old friend, than upon the strength of a letter only.' "You may imagine I did not lose much time. But I did not start, after all, until the next morning, for when the colonel talked it over with my father, he said: "'Let Harry wait till tomorrow. I shall be seeing the king this evening. He is always interested in adventure, and I will tell him the whole story, and ask him to write a few lines, saying that Harry and Carstairs are young officers who have borne themselves bravely, and to his satisfaction. It may help with the duke, and will show, at any rate, that you have both been out here, and not intriguing at Saint Germains.' "The colonel came in, late in the evening, with a paper, which the king had told Count Piper to write and sign, and had himself put his signature to it. I have got it sewn up in my doublet, with my father's letter to Marlborough. They are too precious to lose, but I can tell you what it is, word for word: "'By order of King Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. This is to testify, to all whom it may concern, that Captain Charles Carstairs, and Captain Harry Jervoise--'" "Oh, I am glad, Harry!" Charlie interrupted. "It was horrid that I should have been a captain, for the last year, and you a lieutenant. I am glad, indeed." "Yes, it is grand, isn't it, and very good of the king to do it like that. Now, I will go on-- "'Have both served me well and faithfully during the war, showing great valour, and proving themselves to be brave and honourable gentlemen, as may be seen, indeed, from the rank that they, though young in years, have both attained, and which is due solely to their deserts.' "What do you think of that?" "Nothing could be better, Harry. Did you see my father at Gottenburg?" "Yes. The ship I sailed by went to Stockholm, and I was lucky enough to find there another, starting for England in a few hours. She touched at Gottenburg to take in some cargo, and I had time to see Sir Marmaduke, who was good enough to express himself as greatly pleased that I was coming over to join you." "Well, Harry, I am glad, indeed. Before we talk, let us go in and have supper, that is, if you have not already had yours. If you have, I can wait a bit." "No; they told me you had ordered your supper at six, so I told them I would take mine at the same time; and, indeed, I can tell you that I am ready for it." After the meal, Charlie told his friend the steps he was taking to discover Nicholson. "Do you feel sure that you would know him again, Harry?" "Quite sure. Why, I saw him dozens of times at Lynnwood." "Then we shall now be able to hunt for him separately, Harry. Going to two or three places, of an evening, I always fear that he may come in after I have gone away. Now one of us can wait till the hour for closing, while the other goes elsewhere." For another fortnight, they frequented all the places where they thought Nicholson would be most likely to show himself; then, after a consultation with their guide, they agreed that they must look for him at lower places. "Like enough," the tipstaff said, "he may have run through his money the first night or two after coming up to town. That is the way with these fellows. As long as they have money they gamble. When they have none, they cheat or turn to other evil courses. Now that there are two of you together, there is less danger in going to such places; for, though these rascals may be ready to pick a quarrel with a single man, they know that it is a dangerous game to play with two, who look perfectly capable of defending themselves." For a month, they frequented low taverns. They dressed themselves plainly now, and assumed the character of young fellows who had come up to town, and had fallen into bad company, and lost what little money they had brought with them, and were now ready for any desperate enterprise. Still, no success attended their search. "I can do no more for you," their guide said. "I have taken you to every house that such a man would be likely to use. Of course, there are many houses near the river frequented by bad characters. But here you would chiefly meet men connected, in some way, with the sea, and you would be hardly likely to find your man there." "We shall keep on searching," Charlie said. "He may have gone out of town for some reason, and may return any day. We shall not give it up till spring." "Well, at any rate, sirs, I will take your money no longer. You know your way thoroughly about now, and, if at any time you should want me, you know where to find me. It might be worth your while to pay a visit to Islington, or even to go as far as Barnet. The fellow may have done something, and may think it safer to keep in hiding, and in that case Islington and Barnet are as likely to suit him as anywhere." The young men had, some time before, left the inn and taken a lodging. This they found much cheaper, and, as they were away from breakfast until midnight, it mattered little where they slept. They took the advice of their guide, stayed a couple of nights at Islington, and then went to Barnet. In these places there was no occasion to visit the taverns, as, being comparatively small, they would, either in the daytime or after dark, have an opportunity of meeting most of those living there. Finding the search ineffectual, Charlie proposed that they should go for a long walk along the north road. "I am tired of staring every man I meet in the face, Harry. And I should like, for once, to be able to throw it all off and take a good walk together, as we used to do in the old days. We will go eight or ten miles out, stop at some wayside inn for refreshments, and then come back here for the night, and start back again for town tomorrow." Harry at once agreed, and, taking their hats, they started. They did not hurry themselves, and, carefully avoiding all mention of the subject that had occupied their thoughts for weeks, they chatted over their last campaign, their friends in the Swedish camp, and the course that affairs were likely to take. After four hours' walking they came to a small wayside inn, standing back twenty or thirty yards from the road. "It is a quiet-looking little place," Charlie said, "and does but a small trade, I should say. However, no doubt they can give us some bread and cheese, and a mug of ale, which will last us well enough till we get back to Barnet." The landlord placed what they demanded before them, and then left the room again, replying by a short word or two to their remarks on the weather. "A surly ill-conditioned sort of fellow," Harry said. "It may be, Harry, that badness of trade has spoiled his temper. However, so long as his beer is good, it matters little about his mood." They had finished their bread and cheese, and were sitting idly, being in no hurry to start on their way back, when a man on horseback turned off from the road and came up the narrow lane in which the house stood. As Charlie, who was facing that way, looked at him he started, and grasped Harry's arm. "It is our man," he said. "It is Nicholson himself! To think of our searching all London, these weeks past, and stumbling upon him here." The man stopped at the door, which was at once opened by the landlord. "All right, I suppose, landlord?" the man said, as he swung himself from his horse. "There is no one here except two young fellows, who look to me as if they had spent their last penny in London, and were travelling down home again." He spoke in a lowered voice, but the words came plainly enough to the ears of the listeners within. Another word or two was spoken, and then the landlord took the horse and led it round to a stable behind, while its rider entered the room. He stopped for a moment at the open door of the taproom, and stared at the two young men, who had just put on their hats again. They looked up carelessly, and Harry said: "Fine weather for this time of year." The man replied by a grunt, and then passed on into the landlord's private room. "That is the fellow, sure enough, Charlie," Harry said, in a low tone. "I thought your eyes might have deceived you, but I remember his face well. Now what is to be done?" "We won't lose sight of him again," Charlie said. "Though, if we do, we shall know where to pick up his traces, for he evidently frequents this place. I should say he has taken to the road. There were a brace of pistols in the holsters. That is how it is that we have not found him before. Well, at any rate, there is no use trying to make his acquaintance here. The first question is, will he stay here for the night or not--and if he does not, which way will he go?" "He came from the north," Harry said. "So if he goes, it will be towards town." "That is so. Our best plan will be to pay our reckoning and start. We will go a hundred yards or so down the road, and then lie down behind a hedge, so as to see if he passes. If he does not leave before nightfall, we will come up to the house and reconnoitre. If he does not leave by ten, he is here for the night, and we must make ourselves as snug as we can under a stack. The nights are getting cold, but we have slept out in a deal colder weather than this. However, I fancy he will go on. It is early for a man to finish a journey. If he does, we must follow him, and keep him in sight, if possible." Two hours later they saw, from their hiding place, Nicholson ride out from the lane. He turned his horse's head in their direction. "That is good," Charlie said. "If he is bound for London, we shall be able to get into his company somehow; but if he had gone up to some quiet place north, we might have had a lot of difficulty in getting acquainted with him." As soon as the man had ridden past they leapt to their feet, and, at a run, kept along the hedge. He had started at a brisk trot, but when, a quarter of a mile on, they reached a gate, and looked up the road after him, they saw to their satisfaction that the horse had already fallen into a walk. "He does not mean to go far from Barnet," Charlie exclaimed. "If he had been bound farther, he would have kept on at a trot. We will keep on behind the hedges as long as we can. If he were to look back and see us always behind him, he might become suspicious." They had no difficulty in keeping up with the horseman. Sometimes, when they looked out, he was a considerable distance ahead, having quickened his pace; but he never kept that up long, and by brisk running, and dashing recklessly through the hedges running at right angles to that they were following, they soon came up to him again. Once, he had gone so far ahead that they took to the road, and followed it until he again slackened his speed. They thus kept him in sight till they neared Barnet. "We can take to the road now," Harry said. "Even if he should look round, he will think nothing of seeing two men behind him. We might have turned into it from some by-lane. At any rate, we must chance it. We must find where he puts up for the night." Chapter 17: The North Coach. Barnet was then, as now, a somewhat straggling place. Soon after entering it, the horseman turned off from the main road. His pursuers were but fifty yards behind him, and they kept him in sight until, after proceeding a quarter of a mile, he stopped at a small tavern, where he dismounted, and a boy took his horse and led it round by the side of the house. "Run to earth!" Harry said exultantly. "He is not likely to move from there tonight." "At any rate, he is safe for a couple of hours," Charlie said. "So we will go to our inn, and have a good meal. By that time it will be quite dark, and we will have a look at the place he has gone into; and if we can't learn anything, we must watch it by turns till midnight. We will arrange, at the inn, to hire a horse. One will be enough. He only caught a glimpse of us at that inn, and certainly would not recognize one of us, if he saw him alone. The other can walk." "But which way, Charlie? He may go back again." "It is hardly likely he came here merely for the pleasure of stopping the night at that little tavern. I have no doubt he is bound for London. You shall take the horse, Harry, and watch until he starts, and then follow him, just managing to come up close to him as he gets into town. I will start early, and wait at the beginning of the houses, and it is hard if one or other of us does not manage to find out where he hides." They had no difficulty in arranging with the landlord for a horse, which was to be left in a stable he named in town. They gave him a deposit, for which he handed them a note, by which the money was to be returned to them by the stable keeper, on their handing over the horse in good condition. After the meal they sallied out again, and walked to the tavern, which was a small place standing apart from other houses. There was a light in the taproom, but they guessed that here, as at the other stopping place, the man they wanted would be in a private apartment. Passing the house, they saw a light in a side window, and, noiselessly opening a little wicket gate, they stole into the garden. Going a short distance back from the window, so that the light should not show their faces, they looked in, and saw the man they sought sitting by the fire, with a table on which stood a bottle and two glasses beside him, and another man facing him. "Stay where you are, Harry. I will steal up to the window, and find out whether I can hear what they are saying." Stooping close under the window, he could hear the murmur of voices, but could distinguish no words. He rejoined his companion. "I am going to make a trial to overhear them, Harry, and it is better that only one of us should be here. You go back to the inn, and wait for me there." "What are you going to do, Charlie?" "I am going to throw a stone through the lower part of the window. Then I shall hide. They will rush out, and when they can find no one, they will conclude that the stone was thrown by some mischievous boy going along the road. When all is quiet again I will creep up to the window, and it will be hard if I don't manage to learn something of what they are saying." The plan was carried out, and Charlie, getting close up to the window, threw a stone through one of the lowest of the little diamond-shaped panes. He heard a loud exclamation of anger inside, and then sprang away and hid himself at the other end of the garden. A moment later he heard loud talking in the road, and a man with a lantern came round to the window; but in a few minutes all was quiet again, and Charlie cautiously made his way back to the window, and crouched beneath it. He could hear plainly enough, now, the talk going on within. "What was I saying when that confounded stone interrupted us?" "You were saying, captain, that you intended to have a week in London, and then to stop the North coach." "Yes, I have done well lately, and can afford a week's pleasure. Besides, Jerry Skinlow got a bullet in his shoulder, last week, in trying to stop a carriage on his own account, and Jack Mercer's mare is laid up lame, and it wants four to stop a coach neatly. Jack Ponsford is in town. I shall bring him out with me." "I heard that you were out of luck a short time ago." "Yes, everything seemed against me. My horse was shot, and, just at the time, I had been having a bad run at the tables and had lost my last stiver. I was in hiding for a fortnight at one of the cribs; for they had got a description of me from an old gentleman, who, with his wife and daughter, I had eased of their money and watches. It was a stupid business. I dropped a valuable diamond ring on the ground, and in groping about for it my mask came off, and, like a fool, I stood up in the full light of the carriage lamp. So I thought it better, for all reasons, to get away for a month or so, until things quieted down. I wanted to visit my banker, and it was a good many miles to tramp." "Oh, you have got a banker, captain?" "I have one who is just as good, though I cannot say he shells out his money willingly--in fact he was rude enough to say, when I called this time, that if I ever showed my face to him again he would shoot me, even if he were hung for it. Bad taste, wasn't it? At any rate, I mustn't call on him again too soon." "You haven't settled on the night yet, I suppose, captain?" "About the end of next week. Friday will be a full moon, I think, and I like a moon for the work. It gives light enough to see what you are doing, and not light enough for them to see much of you. So I suppose I may as well fix Friday. I will send up a message for Jack Mercer and Jerry Skinlow to be here on Thursday evening. I will be here that afternoon, and settle matters with them as to where they shall meet me, and what each man shall do. Then I will ride back to town, and come out again just as it gets dark, with Jack Ponsford." "I suppose you will do it north of here?" "No, I will do it a mile or two out of town. The road north of this is getting rather a bad reputation, and in going out of Barnet the guard now looks to his blunderbuss, and the passengers get their pistols ready. It isn't once in a hundred times they have pluck enough to use them, but they always think they will, until the time comes. Near town we shall take them by surprise, and stop them before they have time to think of getting out their arms. "Confound that window. Shove something into the hole, Johnson. I can feel the cold right down my back." A cloth was pushed into the broken pane, and Charlie could hear no more of what was said inside. He had heard, indeed, enough for his purpose, but he had hoped to gather the name of the place at which the man would put up in London. However, he was well satisfied with his success, and at once made his way back to the inn. "Well, Charlie, how have you succeeded?" Harry asked, as he sat down at the table. "Could not be better, Harry, though I did not find out where he puts up in London. However, that is of small consequence. In the first place, I found out that our suspicions were right, and that the fellow is a highwayman, and seems to be captain of a gang consisting anyhow of three, and perhaps of more, fellows like himself. In the second place, he intends, with his three comrades, to attack the coach on Friday week, two or three miles out of town. Nothing could better suit our purpose, even if we had planned the affair ourselves. Of course, we will be there. If we can capture him while engaged in that work, we can get anything out of him. He has either got to confess or be hanged." "That is a stroke of good luck, indeed," Harry exclaimed. "It will be rather difficult to manage, though. The fellows will be sure to be masked; and, if we were to shoot him instead of one of the others, it would be fatal." "Yes, that would be awkward. Besides," Charlie said, "even if we did recognize him and shot his horse, he might jump up behind one of the other men, or might make off across the country, and we might lose sight of him before we could get down from the top of the coach to pursue." "It might be better if we were mounted, instead of being on the coach." "Better in some ways, Harry; but if they heard two mounted men coming along beside the coach, they would probably take the alarm and not attack at all; while, if we were to keep a bit behind, and ride up as soon as we heard the firing--for they generally shoot one of the horses to bring the coach to a standstill--they might ride off as soon as they heard the sound of the horses on the road. Those fellows are splendidly mounted. Their lives depend upon it, and nothing we should be able to hire would be likely to have a chance with them." "Well, we shall have plenty of time to think this over, Charlie. I suppose we shall carry out our plan tomorrow, as we arranged." "Certainly. It is as important to find out where he lives in London as it was before, for if he gets away, we can then look him up there. We may as well go to bed at once, for I shall start at four, so as to get to town before him, however early he may be off. But as we know, now, he is going up on pleasure and not on business, I don't suppose he will be in any hurry in the morning." Charlie arrived in town about eight o'clock, and, having breakfasted at the first tavern he came to, walked along for some distance, to decide upon the spot where he should take up his position. As Nicholson was going up, as he said, to enjoy himself, it was not likely that he would put up at Islington, but would take up his quarters in the centre of the town. He therefore decided to walk on, until he came to some junction of important roads; and there wait, as the man might make either for the city or Westminster, though the latter appeared the more probable direction. Here he walked up and down for an hour, and then, entering a tavern, took his place at the window, where he could see up the street, called for a stoup of wine, and prepared for a long wait. It was not, indeed, until three o'clock that he saw Nicholson coming along. He was more gaily dressed than he had been on the previous day. He had on a green cloth coat with gold braid round the cuffs, an embroidered waistcoat, yellow breeches, top boots, and three-cornered hat. He was riding at foot pace. Charlie went to the door as soon as he passed, and saw that, as he expected, he took the road to Westminster. Looking round, he saw Harry riding about a hundred yards behind. Charlie had no difficulty in keeping up with Nicholson, and traced him to a house in a quiet street lying behind the Abbey. A boy came out and held the horse, while its rider dismounted, and then led it away to the stable of an inn a short distance away. Charlie turned at once, and joined Harry. "I need not have taken all the trouble I have, Harry, still there was no knowing. Evidently the fellow has no fear of being detected, and is going to pass, for a week, as a gentleman from the country. I suppose he is in the habit of stopping at that house whenever he comes up with his pockets lined, and is regarded there as a respectable gentleman by the landlord. Now you had better take your horse to the stable, where you agreed to hand it over, and we will meet at our lodgings and plan what to do next." The discussion did not lead to much. There did not seem, to them, anything to do until the day when the coach was to be attacked, but they agreed it would be well to take the advice of their friend the tipstaff. Hitherto, they had not told him more of their motive for desiring to find Nicholson, than Charlie had said at his first interview with him. They thought it would be better, now, to make him more fully acquainted with the facts, for they had found him shrewd, and eager to assist them to the best of his power. They therefore sent a boy with a note to him, at the court, and at seven o'clock he came to their lodgings. "We have found our man," Charlie said as he entered. "I am very glad to hear it, gentlemen. I had quite given up all hopes that you would be able to do so, and thought he must have left town altogether for a time." "Sit down and take a glass of wine. We want your advice in this matter, and unless you know how much there is at stake, you will not be able to enter fully into the affair. "Some four years ago, this fellow was concerned in a plot by which six gentlemen, among whom were our friends, were brought to ruin. They were in the habit of meeting together, being all of similar political opinions, and advantage was taken of this by a man, who hoped to profit largely by their ruin, especially by that of my father. In order to bring this about, he recommended this fellow we are in search of to my father, who happened, at the time, to be in want of a servant. "The fellow undoubtedly acted as a spy, for I once caught him at it. But spying alone would have been of no use, for there was nothing at any time said that would have brought harm upon them. They simply discussed what thousands of other people have discussed, the measures that should be taken on behalf of the Stuarts, if one of them came over from France supported by a French force. The fellow, however, swore that the object of these meetings was to arrange for an assassination of William. He gave full details of the supposed plot, and in order to give substance to his statements, he hid, in a cabinet of my father's, a number of compromising papers, professing to be letters from abroad. "These were found by the officers sent to arrest my father. He and his five friends managed to escape, but their estates were forfeited. Of course, what we want to prove is the connection between this spy and his employer, who, for his services in bringing this supposed plot to light, received as a reward my father's estates. There is no way of doing this, unless this man can be brought to confess his own villainy in the matter of the letters, and to denounce the scoundrel whose agent he was. Probably, by this time, he has got nearly all he can expect from his employer, and will at least feel no scruples in exposing him, if by so doing he can save his own neck. "Now, we have not only discovered the man, but have found out that he is a notorious highwayman, and the leader of a gang; but more, I have found out the day and hour on which he proposes to stop and rob the North coach." "Well, Mr. Carstairs, if you have done that," the man said, "you have done marvels. That you should find the man might be a piece of good luck, but that you should have learned all this about him seems to me wonderful." "It was a lucky accident, altogether. We saw him, watched him, and managed to overhear a conversation from which we gathered these facts. It was all simple enough. Of course, our idea is that we should, if possible, catch him in the act of robbing the coach, bind and take charge of him, saying that we should hand him over to justice, when the coachman and passengers would, of course, appear to testify against him. Instead of doing this, we should take him somewhere, and then give him the option of either making a clean breast of the whole story, and remaining in our custody until called upon to testify to his statement in a court of justice, whenever required; or of being handed over to the authorities, to be tried and hung as a highwayman. "One of our greatest difficulties is how to effect his capture. The attack will be made at night on the coach, and in the darkness we might shoot him, or he might get away. He is at present in London, at a lodging in a street behind the Abbey, where, doubtless, his real profession is altogether unsuspected by the people of the house. "Now you know the whole affair. Let us have your opinion as to the manner in which we had best set about the business." The man sat for some time, in silence. "I can think of no better plan than yours, sir, and yet it seems to me that there is scarcely any chance of your catching him at the coach. Of course, it would be easy enough if you did not care whether you killed or caught him. All you would have to do would be to get half a dozen stout fellows, armed with pistols, on the coach with you instead of passengers, and then you would be pretty certain to kill some of them, perhaps all; but, as you can't do that, and are afraid to shoot lest you should kill him, it seems to me that you have a very small chance of catching him that way." Charlie and his friend so thoroughly saw this, that they sat silent when he ceased speaking. "We could not arrest him now, I suppose?" Harry said at last. "Well, you see, you have got nothing against him. He may have been a Knight of the Road for the last five years, but you have no witnesses to prove it, and it is not much use to accuse him of intending to rob the North mail. You have no proofs, even of that. It is only your word against his. "There is no doubt that, after they have robbed the coach, they will separate. They may go away in twos, or singly. Now, you see, we know three of this fellow's hiding places. He would hardly choose the one at Barnet. It is too close. It is more likely he would choose the next place, the little inn in which you saw him first; but I think it more likely still that he and his mates will divide the plunder, half a mile or so from the place where they stopped the coach, and will then separate, and I am inclined to think his most likely course is to strike off from the main road, make a long round, and come down before morning to where he is now. He may take his horse into its stable, or, more likely, he may leave it at some place he may know of on the road leading out through Putney, and then arrive at his lodgings just about daybreak. He would explain he had been at a supper, and had kept it up all night, and no one would even have a suspicion he had been engaged in the affair with the coach. I am sure that is his most likely plan." "Then, what would you do?" Harry asked. "What I should do is this. I will get two sharp active boys. I know of two who would just do, they have done jobs for us before now. I will give them the exact description of those two taverns, and send them down the day before the coach is to be attacked, and tell them that, that night, they are each to keep watch over one of them, see who goes in, watch till they come out, and then follow them, for days if necessary, and track them down. Then they can send word up by the guard of the coach, each day; so that, if we find our man does not come back here by Saturday morning, we shall have news that will put us on his track again, before long. "However, I think he is sure to come back here. You had better point out to me, this evening, where he lodges, and I shall be able to find out, before long, whether they are respectable people, or whether they are likely to be pals of his. "If they are respectable, I will see them on Friday evening, show them my badge, and tell them that the man who has been lodging here is a notorious highwayman, and that I am going to arrest him. To prevent any chance of a mistake, I will put three or four of my mates round the house, to see that no one goes out to give him the alarm. I will come down and open the door for you, at two o'clock in the morning. You can then come up with me into his bedroom, and as he comes in, I will nab him. "If, on the other hand, I find the people of the house have a doubtful reputation in the neighbourhood, we must simply hide in doorways, make a rush upon him as he goes up to the house, and overpower him there. If one stands in his doorway, and leaps out on him as he comes up, he won't have much chance of using a pistol. I will have a cart ready, close by. We will truss him up tightly, gag him and put him into it, and I will have some place ready for us to drive him to, if you think that plan is as good as any other." "I think it is an excellent plan, and could not be better," Charlie exclaimed, and his friend heartily agreed with him. "I think you will be able to get anything out of him, when you get him there," said the tipstaff. "He is sure to have some of the swag about him, and, even if none of the passengers of the coach are able to swear to him, that and the talk you overheard would be sufficient to hang him." "Can those boys you speak of write?" "Not they, sir." "There might be a difficulty about a verbal message." "The guard will give it, all right, if he gets half a crown with it. You need not trouble about that, sir. I will have a man to meet each coach, as it comes in. "And now we have arranged matters, sir, I will go with you to see the house, and will send a sharp fellow down tomorrow, to make inquiries about the people of the place." When they returned, the friends sat for a long time, talking together. The suggested plan looked so hopeful that they felt confident of its success. "I think, Charlie," Harry said, "it would be a good thing for us to present ourselves to the Duke of Marlborough. Then we shall see if he is disposed to take an interest in us, and help us. If he is, he will tell us what had best be done towards getting Nicholson's statement made in the presence of some sort of official who will act on it. If he gives us the cold shoulder, we shall have to do as best we can in some other direction, and it will be well to have the matter settled, if possible, before we catch the fellow." "I think that will be a very good plan, Harry. I know where he lives. I inquired directly I came over. Tomorrow morning we can go there and inquire, at the door, at what hour he receives callers." The next day at eleven o'clock the young men, dressed in their best attire, called at the duke's. They were informed that the great man was at home, and would be as likely to see them then as at any other hour. Accordingly they entered, and were shown into an anteroom, and sent their names in by a footman. He returned with a request that they would follow him, and were shown into a library, where a singularly handsome man, in the prime of life, was sitting at a desk. He looked at them in some surprise. "Is there not some mistake, young gentlemen?" he asked. "My servant gave the names as Captain Jervoise, and Captain Carstairs. I do not recall the names as those of officers in her majesty's service." "No, my lord, we have the honour to be captains in the service of King Charles of Sweden, as this document, signed both by his minister, Count Piper, and by the king himself, will testify." The duke took the paper, and read it. "The king of Sweden speaks very highly of you both, gentlemen," he said cordially. "It is no mean credit to have gained such warm praise from the greatest general of his time. What can I do for you? Do you wish to be transferred from the service of Sweden to that of her majesty? We have need of good officers, and I can promise that you shall receive the same rank that you now hold, and it is likely that, before long, you will have an opportunity of seeing some service under your national flag." "I thank you warmly for your kindness, my lord, but it is not with that view that we have now come to you, though I am sure that we both should prefer to fight under our own flag, rather than under that of a foreign king, however kindly he may be disposed to us, personally. We have called upon a private matter, and I am the bearer of this letter from my father, who had once the honour of your lordship's friendship." "Jervoise," the duke repeated, as he took the letter. "Not Mat Jervoise, surely?" "That is my father's name, sir." "Do I remember him? Why, he was one of my closest friends when I was a lad, and I once stayed with him at his father's place, for a fortnight, on a journey I took to the north. But I will read his letter-- "What changes happen," he said, as he laid it down. "To think that Mat Jervoise should be an exile, his old home in the hands of strangers, and he a major in the Swedish service; and that I should never have heard a word about it! "Well, young sir," and he held out his hand to Harry, "I can promise you my aid and protection, to the utmost, in whatever matter you may be concerned. I seem to remember the name of your companion, too." "His father, Sir Marmaduke, was a neighbour of ours. There has always been great friendship between the two families." "Of course, I remember him now. He was some fifteen or twenty years older than your father. I remember that I went over with your father and grandfather, and dined at his place. He is still alive and well, I hope?" "He is both, sir," Charlie said; "but, like Major Jervoise, an exile." "You amaze me, but I will not ask you to tell me more, now. I have to be at Saint James's at twelve. "Let me see, this evening I shall be engaged. Come tomorrow morning, at half past eight, and I shall then be able to give you an hour, or maybe two, if necessary, and will then hear the whole story fully." The young men, on presenting themselves the next morning, at the hour named, were at once ushered in. "Now, let us lose no time," the duke said, after shaking hands heartily. "Which of you will tell the story?" "Carstairs will do so, my lord," Harry replied. "The mischief was hatched in his house, and my father, and six other gentlemen, were the victims of the treachery of a kinsman of his." Charlie told the story of the events that had brought about the ruin of his father and friends. "It is monstrous!" the duke exclaimed indignantly, when he had brought this part of his story to a conclusion. "That my old friend, Mat Jervoise, should be concerned in a plot for assassination, is, I would pledge my life, untrue; and Sir Marmaduke Carstairs was, I know, an honourable gentleman, who would be equally incapable of such an act. That they were both Jacobites, I can well believe, for the Jacobites are strong everywhere in the north, but, as half of us are or have been Jacobites, that can scarcely be counted as an offence. At any rate, a Stuart is upon the throne now, and, as long as she reigns, there is no fear that a civil war will be set up by another of the race. The story, as you have told it, sir, is, I doubt not for a moment, true, but at present it is unsupported; and though, on my assurance of their loyalty, I think I can promise that her majesty would extend a pardon to the gentlemen who have been so unjustly accused, I fear that she could not, by her own act, restore the estates that have been confiscated, unless you can bring some proof that this fellow you speak of was suborned to get up false evidence against them." "That, sir, is what I shall have the honour to inform you now." And Charlie then related the story of their quest for the man Nicholson, and its result. "Rarely devised and carried out," the duke said warmly. "Do you lay the knave by the heels, and frighten him into confessing the truth, and I will see to the rest of the matter. I do not know that I ought to let the North coach be robbed, after the information you have given me, but, as we will hunt down all the other fellows, and shall probably recover the booty they carry off, the passengers will have no reason to grumble. "Well, young sirs, the king of Sweden has given you a testimonial as to your bravery and conduct. If necessary, I will give you one for your ingenuity in planning and carrying out a difficult scheme. "So you have both been with the Swedes through their campaign against the Russians and Poles. I envy you. King Charles' service is a grand school for soldiers, and that victory of Narva is the most extraordinary one ever seen. Had you the honour of any personal intercourse with the king?" "Only during three days, when our company formed part of his escort at a hunting expedition," Harry, whom he addressed, replied. "But Carstairs spoke to him more frequently. He has been a captain nearly two years, while I only had my promotion two months ago. We were in the same regiment, and of the same rank, but Carstairs was promoted by the king, after the battle at the passage of the Dwina, as a reward for the suggestion he made in conversation with him, that the passage might be made under the screen of smoke caused by the lighting of the forage stacks." "I must have a long talk with you both. It is certain that, next spring, the campaign with France will re-open, and your experience in the field will be very useful to me. The Swedes are wonderful soldiers. The Muscovites, at present, are little better than barbarians carrying European arms, but the Saxons are good troops, and the Swedes have twice beaten them heavily, and they evidently retain the fighting qualities that, under Gustavus Adolphus, shook the imperial power to its centre. "The trouble is to find time. I am pestered with men desirous of employment in the army, with persons who want favours at court, with politicians of both parties, with people with schemes and intrigues of all kinds. I have to be in attendance at the palace, and to see into the whole details of the organization of the army. I have no doubt that, at present, my antechamber is crowded with people who want to see me." He looked at his tablets. "Next Wednesday evening I am free, except for a reception at Lord Godolphin's, but I can look in there late. I will not ask you here, because I want you to myself. I will have a private room at Parker's coffee house in Covent Garden. We will sup at seven. When you go there, ask for Mr. Church's room, and make yourself comfortable there until I come, for I can never answer for my own hours. In that way, we shall be free from all chance of interruption, and I can pick your brains undisturbed. You will remember the day and hour. Should there be any change in this private matter of yours, do not hesitate to come to me here." Tony Peters, their guide and adviser, reported favourably as to the people with whom the highwayman was lodging. "The house is kept by the widow of an usher at the palace. She entertains gentlemen from the country, who come up on business at the courts of justice, or with people of influence at court. I have ascertained that our man passes as a well-to-do trader of Salisbury, who comes up, two or three times a year, to transact business, and to enjoy for a short time the pleasures of town. He is liberal in his payments, and is held in high respect by the woman, whose only objection to him, as a lodger, is the late hours he keeps. He is a crafty fellow this, for by always going to the same house, and comporting himself with moderation, he secures a place of retirement, where, however close the quest after him, there will be no suspicion whatever, as to his profession, on the part of the people he is with. "My man found out all these matters from the servant wench. We shall have no difficulty in taking him quietly. The woman will be so terrified, when I tell her what he is wanted for, that she will do anything rather than have a scandal that would damage the reputation of the house." He assured Charlie that he need give the matter no further thought. All the arrangements would be made, and, unless he heard farther from him, he and Harry would only have to present themselves, at the door of the house in question, at two o'clock on the morning of Saturday. The evening with the duke passed off pleasantly. The general's questions turned, not so much upon the actual fighting, as upon the organization of the Swedes, their methods of campaigning, of victualling the army, of hutting themselves in winter, the maintenance of discipline in camp, and other military points that would be of service to him in his next campaign. "Your king is very wise, in so strictly repressing all plundering and violence," he said. "Only so can a general maintain an army in an enemy's country. If the peasantry have confidence in him, and know that they will get a fair price for their produce, they will bring it into the market gladly, in spite of any orders their own government may issue to the contrary. I am determined that, if I again lead an English army in the field, I will follow King Charles' example; though I shall find it more difficult to enforce my orders than he does, for he is king as well as general, and his Swedes are quiet, honest fellows, while my army will be composed of ne'er-do-wells--of men who prefer to wear the queen's uniform to a prison garment, of debtors who wish to escape their creditors, and of men who find village life too quiet for them, and prefer to see the world, even at the risk of being shot, to honest labour on the farms. It requires a stern hand to make a disciplined army out of such materials, but when the time of fighting comes, one need wish for no better." Before parting with them, the duke inquired farther into their arrangements for the arrest of the highwayman, and said he should expect to see them on Saturday, and that, if he heard that all had gone well, he would at once take steps for bringing the matter before a court that would deal with it. The young men felt restless, as the day approached. They had seen no more of Tony, but they felt complete confidence in him, and were sure that they would hear if any difficulties arose; but though, throughout Friday, they did not quit their lodging, no message reached them. Chapter 18: A Confession. At the appointed hour, as the clock of the Abbey was striking, they gave three gentle knocks at the door of the house. It was immediately opened by Tony, who held a candle in his hand, closed the door quietly behind them, and then led them into a parlour. "Well, Tony, I suppose all has gone well, as we have not heard from you." "There was nothing to tell you, sir, and, indeed, I have been mightily busy. In the first place, I got two days' leave from the courts, and went down myself, in a light cart, with the boys and two men. That way I made sure that there should be no mistake as to the houses the boys were to watch. The two men I sent on, ten miles beyond the farthest tavern there to watch the road, and if any horseman goes by tonight, to track him down. "This evening I came here. I brought with me one of my comrades from the courts, and we told the good woman the character of the lodger we had seen leave the house a quarter of an hour before. She almost fainted when we showed her our badges, and said we must arrest him, on his return, as a notorious highwayman and breaker of the laws. She exclaimed that her house would be ruined, and it took some time to pacify her, by saying that we would manage the job so quietly that no one in the house need know of it, and that we would, if possible, arrange it so that the place of his arrest should not be made public. "At that, she at once consented to do all that we wished her. We searched his room carefully, and found some watches, rings, and other matters, that answered to the description of those stolen from a coach that was stopped near Dorking, three weeks ago. My mate has taken them away. As she was afraid that a scuffle in the bedroom might attract the attention of the four other gentlemen who are lodging here, I arranged that it should be done at the door. In that case, if there was any inquiry in the morning, she could say that it was some drunken fellow, who had come to the house by mistake, and had tried to force his way in. "So she put this parlour at our disposal, and, as I have got the shutters up and the curtains drawn, there is no fear of his noticing the light, for, as we may have some hours to wait, it is more pleasant to have a candle, than to sit in the dark." "Does she come down to let him in?" Harry asked. "No, sir, the door is left on the latch. She says he finds his way up to his room, in the dark, and the candle and a tinderbox are always placed handy for him there. We will take our shoes off presently, and, when we hear footsteps come up to the door and stop, we will blow out the candle and steal out into the passage, so as to catch him directly he closes the door. I have got handcuffs here, some rope, and a gag." "Very well, then. I will undertake the actual seizing of him," Charlie said. "You slip on the handcuffs, and you, Harry, if you can find his throat in the dark, grip it pretty tightly, till Tony can slip the gag into his mouth. Then he can light the candle again, and we can then disarm and search him, fasten his legs, and get him ready to put in the cart." The hours passed slowly, although Tony did his best to divert them, by telling stories of various arrests and captures in which he had been concerned. The clock had just struck five, when they heard a step coming up the quiet street. "That is likely to be the man," Tony said. "It is about the hour we expected him." He blew out the candle and opened the door quietly, and they went out into the passage. A moment later the step stopped at the door, the latch clicked, and it was opened. A man entered, and closed the door behind him. As he did so Charlie, who had marked his exact position, made a step forward and threw his arms round him. The man gave an exclamation of surprise and alarm, and then struggled fiercely, but he was in the hands of one far stronger than himself. A moment later, he felt that his assailant was not alone, for he was grasped by the throat, and at the same time he felt something cold close round his wrists. There was a sharp click, and he knew that he was handcuffed. Then a low voice said, "I arrest you, in the name of the queen, for being concerned in the robbery of the Portsmouth coach at Dorking." Then a gag was forced between his teeth. Bewildered at the suddenness of the attack, he ceased to struggle, and remained quiet, in the grasp of his captors, till there was the sound of the striking of flint and steel hard by. Then Tony came out of the parlour with a lighted candle, the highwayman was lifted into the room, and the door was shut. He then saw that his captors were three in number. There were two young gentlemen, and a smaller man, who, as he looked at him, held out a badge, and showed that he was an officer of the law. His pistols and sword were removed, then his pockets were searched, and two watches and three purses, with some rings and bracelets, were taken out and laid on the table. "It came off, you see," Tony said to Charlie. "Well, Master Nicholson, to use one of your aliases, of which you have, no doubt, a score or more, you may consider yourself under arrest, not only for the robbery of the Portsmouth coach three weeks ago, but of the North coach last evening." The prisoner started. It seemed impossible to him that that affair should be known yet, still less his connection with it. "You know what that means?" Tony went on grimly. "Tyburn. Now I am going to make you a little safer still. You have been a hard bird to catch, and we don't mean to let you slip through our fingers again." So saying, he bound his arms closely to his side with a rope, and then, with a shorter piece, fastened his ankles securely together. "Now I will fetch the cart." He had been gone but five minutes, when they heard a vehicle stop at the door. The others lifted the highwayman by his shoulders and feet, carried him out, and laid him in the cart. Tony closed the door quietly behind them, and then jumped up by the side of the driver, who at once started the horse at a brisk trot. They crossed Westminster Bridge, and, after another ten minutes' drive, stopped at a small house standing back from the road, in a garden of its own. "We will carry him in, Tony," Charlie said, "if you will get the door open." They carried him in through the door, at which a woman was standing, into a room, where they saw, to their satisfaction, a blazing fire. The prisoner was laid down on the ground. Leaving him to himself, Charlie and his friends sat down to the table, which was laid in readiness. Two cold chickens, and ham, and bread had been placed on it. "Now, Tony, sit down. You must be as hungry as we are." "Thank you, gentlemen. I am going to have my breakfast in the kitchen, with my wife." As he spoke, the woman came in with two large tankards full of steaming liquid, whose odour at once proclaimed it to be spiced ale. "Well, wife, we have done a good night's work," Tony said. "A good night's work for all of us," Charlie put in. "Your husband has done us an immense service, Mrs. Peters, and, when our fathers come to their own again, they will not forget the service he has rendered us." When they had made a hearty meal, Tony was called in again. "Now, Tony, we will proceed to business. You have got pen and ink and paper, I suppose?" "I have everything ready, sir. I will clear away this table, so as to have all in order." When this was done, the highwayman was lifted up and placed in a chair, and the gag removed from his mouth. "You don't remember us, I suppose, my man?" Charlie began. "The last time I saw you was when I brought my stick down on your head, when you were listening outside a window at Lynnwood." An exclamation of surprise broke from the prisoner. "Yes, I am Charlie Carstairs, and this gentleman is Harry Jervoise. By the way, I have made a mistake. I have seen you twice since then. The first time was in a wayside tavern, some twelve miles beyond Barnet, nine days ago. The second time was at another tavern in Barnet. You will remember that a mischievous boy threw a stone, and broke one of the lattice panes of the window, where you were sitting talking over this little affair of the North coach." A deep execration broke from the lips of the highwayman. "Now you see how we know all about it," Charlie went on. "Now, it entirely depends on yourself whether, in the course of another hour, we shall hand you over to a magistrate, as the leader of the gang who robbed the North coach, and took part in the robbery near Dorking--we have found some of the watches and other plunder in your bedroom--or whether you escape trial for these offences. You may be wanted for other, similar affairs." "Yes, sir," Tony put in. "Now I see him, he answers exactly to the description of a man the officers have been in search of, for a long time. He goes by the name of Dick Cureton, and has been engaged in at least a dozen highway robberies, to my knowledge." "You see," Charlie went on, "there is no doubt whatever what will happen, if we hand you over to the officers. You will be hung at Tyburn, to a moral certainty. There is no getting out of that. "Now, on the other hand, you have the alternative of making a clean breast of your dealings with John Dormay, of how he put you at Lynnwood to act as a spy, how you hid those two letters he gave you in my father's cabinet, and how he taught you the lying story you afterwards told before the magistrates at Lancaster. After having this story written down, you will sign it in the presence of this officer and his wife, and you will also repeat that story before any tribunal before which you may be brought. "I don't know whether this is a hanging matter, but, at any rate, I can promise that you shall not be hung for it. The Duke of Marlborough has taken the matter in hand, and will, I have no doubt, be able to obtain for you some lesser punishment, if you make a clean breast of it. I don't say that you will be let free. You are too dangerous a man for that. But, at any rate, your punishment will not be a heavy one--perhaps nothing worse than agreeing to serve in the army. You understand that, in that case, nothing whatever will be said as to your being Dick Cureton, or of your connection with these last coach robberies. You will appear before the court simply as Robert Nicholson, who, having met Captain Jervoise and myself, felt constrained to confess the grievous wrong he did to our fathers, and other gentlemen, at the bidding of, and for money received from, John Dormay." "I do not need any time to make up my mind," the highwayman said. "I am certainly not going to be hung for the advantage of John Dormay, who has paid me poorly enough, considering that it was through me that he came into a fine estate. I take it that you give me your word of honour, that if I make a clean breast of it, and stick to my story afterwards, this other business shall not be brought up against me." "Yes, we both promise that on our word of honour." "Very well then; here goes." The story he told was in precise accordance with the suspicions that his hearers had entertained. He had been tramping through the country, sometimes pilfering, sometimes taking money as a footpad. He had, one day, met John Dormay and demanded his money. He was armed only with a heavy cudgel, and thought Dormay was defenceless. The latter, however, produced a pistol from his pocket, and compelled him to drop his stick; and then, taking him by the collar, made him walk to his house. He had asked him questions as to his previous life, and had then given him the choice of going to jail, or of acting under his instructions, in which case he would be well rewarded. Naturally, he had chosen the second alternative. And, having him completely under his thumb, John Dormay had made him sign a paper, acknowledging his attempt at highway robbery upon him. The rest of the story was already known to his hearers. He had, several times, overheard the conversations in the dining room, but had gathered nothing beyond talk of what would be done, if the Pretender came over. John Dormay had taught him the story of the assassination plot, and had given him the letters to hide. He now swore that the whole story was false, and had been told entirely at the dictation of John Dormay, and from fear of the consequence to himself, if he refused to obey his orders. When he had finished, Tony's wife was called in, and she made her mark, and her husband signed his name, as witnesses to the signature of Robert Nicholson. "Now, I hope I may have something to eat," the man said, recklessly. "I am ready to tell my story to whomsoever you like, but am not ready to be starved." "Give him food, Tony," Charlie said, "and keep a sharp lookout after him. We will go across, and show this paper to the duke." "I will bring the matter, at once, before the council," the general said, when Charlie gave him the document, and briefly stated its contents. "There is a meeting at three o'clock today. I shall see the queen previously, and will get her to interest herself in the matter, and to urge that justice shall be done without any delay. I will arrange that the man shall be brought before the council, at the earliest date possible. If you will come here this evening, I may be able to tell you more. Come at eight. I shall be in then to dress, as I take supper at the palace, at nine." "I have ventured to promise the man that he shall not be hung, my lord." "You were safe in doing so. The rogue deserves the pillory or branding, but, as he was almost forced into it, and was the mere instrument in the hands of another, it is not a case for hanging him. He might be shipped off to the plantations as a rogue and a vagabond. "What are you smiling at?" "I was thinking, sir, that, as you said there were a good many of that class in the army, the man might have the option of enlisting given him." "And so of getting shot in the Netherlands, instead of getting hung at Tyburn, eh? Well, I will see what I can do." At eight o'clock, they again presented themselves. The duke looked at them critically. "You will do," he said. "Put your cloaks on again, and come with me. Where do you suppose that you are going?" "Before the council, sir," Harry suggested. "Bless me, you don't suppose that your business is so pressing, that ministers have been summoned in haste to sit upon it. No, you are going to sup with the queen. I told her your story this afternoon. She was much interested in it, and when I informed her that, young as you both were, you had fought behind Charles of Sweden, in all his desperate battles, and that he had not only promoted you to the rank of captain, but that he had, under his own hand, given you a document expressing his satisfaction at your conduct and bravery, she said that I must bring you to supper at the palace. I told her that, being soldiers, you had brought with you no clothes fit for appearance at court; but, as at little gatherings there is no ceremony, she insisted that I should bring you as you are. "My wife Sarah went on half an hour ago, in her chair. There will probably be two others, possibly Godolphin and Harley, but more likely some courtier and his wife. "You do not feel nervous, I hope? After being accustomed to chat with Charles of Sweden, to say nothing of the Czar of Russia, Carstairs, you need not feel afraid of Queen Anne, who is good nature itself." Nevertheless, both the young men felt nervous. After being conducted up some private stairs, the duke led them into an oak-panelled room, of comparatively small size, lighted by numerous tapers, which displayed the rich hangings and furniture. A lady was sitting by the fire. A tall, handsome woman, with a somewhat imperious face, stood on the rug before her, talking to her, while a pleasant-looking man, who by his appearance and manner might have been taken for a country squire, was sitting opposite, playing with the ears of a spaniel lying on his knee. The tall lady moved aside, as they entered, and Charlie noticed a little glance of affectionate welcome pass between her and the duke--for the pair were devotedly attached to each other--then he bowed to the seated lady. "Madam," he said, "allow me to present to you the two young officers, of whose bravery Charles of Sweden has written so strongly, and whose parents have, with other gentlemen, been driven from the land by villainy." The young men bowed deeply. Anne held out her hand, and each in turn, bending on one knee, raised it to his lips. "There," she said, "let that be the beginning and end of ceremony. This is not a court gathering, but a family meeting. I want to hear your stories, and I want you, for the time, to forget that I am Anne of England. I know that your fathers have always been faithful to our house, and I hope that their sons will, ere long, do as good service for me as they have done for a foreign prince. "You have not seen these gentlemen yet, Sarah?" "No, my husband has kept them to himself." "I have had but little time to give them, Sarah, and wanted it all, to question them on the Swedish modes of warfare." "And you thought I should be an interruption? "I am glad to meet you both, nevertheless. Since my husband likes you, I am sure to do so;" and she smiled pleasantly, as she gave a hand to each. They were then introduced to the Prince Consort, George of Denmark. At this moment, supper was announced. The queen and the duchess went in together, followed by the four gentlemen. "Lord Godolphin and Mr. Harley were to have been of the party tonight," the queen said, as she took her seat at table, "but I put them off till tomorrow, as I wanted to hear these gentlemen's story." During the meal, the conversation was gay. As soon as the last dish was removed, the party returned to the other room. Then the queen called upon the young men to tell their story. Charlie began, and related up to the time when he had aided in the rescue of his father from the hands of his escort. Harry told the story of their military experiences, and then Charlie related his narrow escape at Warsaw, his adventure with the brigands, and the fight with the wolves. "That is the most exciting of all," the queen said. "I think that even you, general, would rather have gone through the battle of Narva, than have spent that night among the wolves." "That would I, indeed, madam, and I doubt if I should have got as well through it as Captain Carstairs did. I am sure, madam, you will agree with me, that these young gentlemen ought to be fighting under our flag, rather than that of Sweden. There is no blame to them, for they were most unjustly driven from the country; but I hope that, by Monday at this time, I shall have the pleasure of presenting a document for your majesty's signature, stating that, in the opinion of the council, a very grave miscarriage of justice has taken place; and that the gentlemen, whose estates were four years ago confiscated, are proved to be innocent of the crime of which they were accused, and are true and faithful subjects of your majesty; and that the proceedings against them are hereby quashed, and their estates restored to them. "I had the honour of relating to you, this afternoon, the manner in which these gentlemen have succeeded in bringing the truth to light." Shortly afterwards, the party broke up, the queen speaking most graciously to each of the young men. On Monday morning, they received a summons to appear before the council, at two o'clock in the afternoon, and to produce one Robert Nicholson, whose evidence was required in a matter of moment. They hired a carriage, and took the highwayman with them to Saint James's, and were conducted to the council chamber; where they found Lord Godolphin, the Marquis of Normanby, Mr. Harley, and the Duke of Marlborough, together with two judges, before whom the depositions, in the case of Sir Marmaduke Carstairs and his friends, had been laid. Lord Normanby, as privy seal, took the chair, and briefly said that, having heard there had been a grievous miscarriage of justice, he had summoned them to hear important evidence which was produced by Captains Carstairs and Jervoise, officers in the service of the king of Sweden. "What have you to say, Captain Carstairs?" "I have, sir, only to testify that this man, who stands beside me, is Robert Nicholson, who was in my father's employment for two years, and was, I believe, the principal witness against him. Captain Jervoise can also testify to his identity. I now produce the confession, voluntarily made by this man, and signed in the presence of witnesses." He handed in the confession, which was read aloud by a clerk standing at the lower end of the table. A murmur of indignation arose from the council, as he concluded. "You have acted the part of a base villain," Lord Normanby said to Nicholson. "Hanging would be too good for such a caitiff. What induced you to make this confession?" "I have long repented my conduct," the man said. "I was forced into acting as I did, by John Dormay, who might have had me hung for highway robbery. I would long ago have told the truth, had I known where to find the gentlemen I have injured; and, meeting them by chance the other day, I resolved upon making a clean breast of it, and to take what punishment your lordships may think proper; hoping, however, for your clemency, on account of the fact that I was driven to act in the way I did." One of the judges, who had the former depositions before him, asked him several questions as to the manner in which he had put the papers into Sir Marmaduke's cabinet. He replied that he found the key in a vase on the mantel, and after trying several locks with it, found that it fitted the cabinet. "His statement agrees, my lords," the judge said, "with that made by Sir Marmaduke Carstairs in his examinations. He then said that he could not account for the papers being in his cabinet, for it was never unlocked, and that he kept the key in a vase on the mantel, where none would be likely to look for it." In a short time, all present were requested to withdraw, but in less than five minutes they were again called in. "Gentlemen," Lord Normanby said to the young officers, "I have pleasure in informing you, that the council are of opinion that the innocence of your fathers and friends, of the foul offence of which they were charged, is clearly proven; and that they have decided that the sentence passed against them, in their absence, shall be quashed. They will also recommend, to her majesty, that the sentence of confiscation against them all shall be reversed. "As to you, sir, seeing that you have, however tardily, endeavoured to undo the evil you have caused, we are disposed to deal leniently, and, at the request of the Duke of Marlborough, we have agreed, if you are ready to leave the country and enlist at once, as a soldier in the army of Flanders, and there to expiate your fault by fighting in the service of your country, we will not recommend that any proceedings shall be taken against you. But if, at any time, you return hither, save as a soldier with a report of good conduct, this affair will be revived, and you will receive the full punishment you deserve. "For the present you will be lodged in prison, as you will be needed to give evidence, when the matter of John Dormay comes up for hearing." Nicholson was at once removed in custody. The two young officers retired, an usher bringing them a whispered message, from Marlborough, that they had better not wait to see him, as the council might sit for some time longer; but that, if they would call at his house at five o'clock, after his official reception, he would see them. "This is more than we could have hoped for," Harry said, as they left Saint James's. "A fortnight ago, although I had no intention of giving up the search, I began to think that our chances of ever setting eyes on that rascal were of the slightest; and now everything has come right. The man has been found. He has been made to confess the whole matter. The case has been heard by the council. Our fathers are free to return to England, and their estates are restored to them; at least, the council recommends the queen, and we know the queen is ready to sign. So that it is as good as done." "It seems too good to be true." "It does, indeed, Charlie. They will be delighted across the water. I don't think my father counted, at all, upon our finding Nicholson, or of our getting him to confess; but I think he had hoped that the duke would interest himself to get an order, that no further proceedings should be taken in the matter of the alleged plot. That would have permitted them to return to England. He spoke to me, several times, of his knowledge of the duke when he was a young man; but Churchill, he said, was a time server, and has certainly changed his politics several times; and, if a man is fickle in politics, he may be so in his friendships. It was a great many years since they had met, and Marlborough might not have been inclined to acknowledge one charged with so serious a crime. "But, as he said to me before I started, matters have changed since the death of William. Marlborough stands far higher, with Anne, than he did with William. His leanings have certainly been, all along, Jacobite, and, now that he and the Tories are in power, and the Whigs are out of favour, Marlborough could, if he chose, do very much for us. It is no longer a crime to be a Jacobite, and indeed, they say that the Tories are intending to upset the act of succession, and bring in a fresh one, making James Stuart the successor to Anne. "Still, even if we had succeeded so far, by Marlborough's influence, that our fathers could have returned to England without fear of being tried for their lives, I do not think that either of them would have come, so long as the charge of having been concerned in an assassination plot was hanging over them. "Now that they are cleared, and can come back with honour, it will be different, altogether. It will be glorious news for them. Of course, we shall start as soon as we get the official communication that the estates are restored. We shall only have to go back to them, for, as you know, yours is the only estate that has been granted to anyone else. The others were put up for sale, but no one would bid for them, as the title deeds would have been worth nothing if King James came over. So they have only been let to farmers, and we can walk straight in again, without dispossessing anyone." "I don't know what to do about John Dormay," Charlie said. "There is no doubt that, from what the judge said, they will prosecute him." "So they ought to," Harry broke in. "He has striven, by false swearing, to bring innocent men to the scaffold. Why, it is worse than murder." "I quite agree with you, Harry, and, if I were in your place, I would say just as strongly as you do that he ought to be hung. But you see, I am differently situated. The man is a kinsman of ours by marriage. My cousin Celia has been always most kind to me, and is my nearest relative after my father. She has been like an aunt, and, indeed, did all she could to supply the place of a mother to me; and I am sure my little sweetheart Ciceley has been like a sister. This must have been a most terrible trial to them. It was a bad day for cousin Celia when she married that scoundrel, and I am sure that he has made her life a most unhappy one. Still, for their sake, I would not see his villainy punished as it deserves, nor indeed for our own, since the man is, to a certain extent, our kinsman. "Besides, Harry, as you must remember well enough, Ciceley and I, in boy and girl fashion, used to say we should be some day husband and wife, and I have never since seen anyone whom I would so soon marry as my bonny little cousin; and if Ciceley is of the same mind, maybe some day or other she may come to Lynnwood as its mistress; but that could hardly be, if her father were hung for attempting to swear away the life of mine." "No, indeed, Charlie. I know how fond you were of your cousin." "Indeed, Harry, there was a talk between my father and cousin Celia, a few months before the troubles came, of a formal betrothal between us, and, had it not been for the coolness between our fathers, it would have taken place." "Yes, I remember now your telling me about it, Charlie. "Well, what is to be done? for I agree with you that, if possible, John Dormay must escape from the punishment he deserves. But how is it to be done?" "Well, Harry, a week or two will make no difference to our fathers. They will have no expectation of hearing from us, for a long time to come. I should say it were best that I should go down and warn him, and I shall be glad if you will go with me." "Of course I will go," Harry said. "Indeed, it were best that the warning came from me. The man is a villain, and a reckless one; and in his passion, when he hears that his rascality is known, the prize for which he schemed snatched from him, and his very life in danger, might even seek to vent his rage and spite upon you. Now it is clear, Charlie, that you could not very well kill a man, and afterwards marry his daughter. The thing would be scarce seemly. But the fellow is no kinsman of mine. He has grievously injured us, and I could kill him without the smallest compunction, and thereby rid the world of a scoundrel, and you of a prospective father-in-law of the most objectionable kind." Charlie laughed. "No, Harry; we will have no killing. We will go down and see him together. We will let him know that the orders are probably already on the road for his arrest, and that he had best lose not an hour, but at once cross the water. I should not think that he would wish to encumber himself with women, for I never thought he showed the least affection to either his wife or daughter. At any rate, we will see that he does not take them with him. I will tell him that, if he goes, and goes alone, I will do my best to hush up the matter; and that, so long as he remains abroad, the tale of his villainy shall never be told; but that, if he returns, the confession of Nicholson shall be published throughout the country, even if no prosecution is brought against him." When they called upon the duke, he shook them warmly by the hand. "This parchment is the royal assent to the decision of the council, that the estates of those inculpated in the alleged plot for the assassination of the late king should be forthwith restored to them, it having been clearly proved that they have been falsely accused of the said crime, and that her majesty is satisfied that these gentlemen are her true and loyal subjects. "I think I may say," the duke continued with a smile, "that no affair of state has ever been so promptly conducted and carried through." "We feel how deeply indebted we are, for our good fortune, to your kindness, your grace," Charlie said. "We know that, but for you, months might have elapsed, even years, before we could have obtained such a result, even after we had the confession of Nicholson in our hands." "I am glad, in every way, to have been able to bring this about," the duke said. "In the first place, because I have been able to right a villainous piece of injustice; in the second, because those injured were loyal gentlemen, with no fault save their steadfast adherence to the cause of the Stuarts; and lastly, because one of these gentlemen was my own good friend, Mat Jervoise, of whose company I have so many pleasant recollections. "I hope that, as soon as you have informed your fathers that their names are cleared, and their property restored, you will think of what I said, and will decide to quit the service of Sweden, and enter that of your queen. "An officer fighting for a foreign monarch is, after all, but a soldier of fortune, however valiantly he fights. He is fighting for a cause that is not his own, and, though he may win rewards and honours, he has not the satisfaction that all must feel who have risked their lives, not for gold, but in the service of their country. But I do not want any answer from you on that head now. It is a matter for you to decide upon after due thought. I only say that I shall go out, early in the spring, to take command of the army; and that, if you present yourselves to me before I leave, I shall be glad to appoint you on my personal staff, with the same rank you now hold. "You can now leave the country without any farther trouble. As to the affair of the man Dormay, a messenger has been sent off, this afternoon, with an order to the magistrates at Lancaster, to arrest him on the charge of suborning false evidence, by which the lives of some of her majesty's subjects were endangered; and of forging letters whereby such evil designs might be furthered. I do not suppose I shall see you again before you sail, for tomorrow we go down to our country place, and may remain there some weeks. I may say that it was the desire to get your affair finished, before we left town, that conduced somewhat to the speed with which it has been carried through." After again thanking the duke most warmly for his kindness, and saying that they would lay his offer before their fathers, and that their own inclinations were altogether in favour of accepting it, the young men took their leave. "It is unfortunate about Dormay." "Most unfortunate," Harry said. "I think, if we start tomorrow morning, Harry, we shall be in time. There is no reason why the messenger should travel at any extraordinary speed, and, as he may be detained at Lancaster, and some delay may arise before officers are sent up to Lynnwood to make the arrest, we may be in time. "We must take a note of the date. It is one we shall remember all our lives. It is the 25th of November, and we will keep it up as a day of festivity and rejoicing, as long as we live." "That will we," Harry agreed. "It shall be the occasion of an annual gathering of those who got into trouble from those suppers at Sir Marmaduke's. I fancy the others are all in France, but their friends will surely be able to let them know, as soon as they hear the good news. "I think we shall have a stormy ride tomorrow. The sky looks very wild and threatening." "It does, indeed; and the wind has got up very much, in the last hour.'' "Yes, we are going to have a storm, beyond all doubt." The wind got up hourly, and when, before going to bed, they went to pass an hour at a tavern, they had difficulty in making their way against it. Several times in the night they were awoke by the gusts, which shook the whole house, and they heard the crashing of falling chimney pots above the din of the gale. They had arranged to start as soon as it was light, and had, the evening before, been to a posting inn, and engaged a carriage with four horses for the journey down to Lancashire. "There is no starting today, gentlemen," the landlord said, as they went down to breakfast by candlelight. "I have looked out, and the street is strewn with chimney pots and tiles. Never do I remember such a gale, and hour by hour it seems to get worse. Why, it is dangerous to go across the street." "Well, we must try," Charlie said, "whatever the weather. It is a matter of almost life and death." "Well, gentlemen, you must please yourselves, but I am mistaken if any horse keeper will let his animals out, on such a day as this." As soon as they had eaten their breakfasts, they wrapped themselves up in their cloaks, pressed their hats over their heads, and sallied out. It was not until they were in the streets that they realized how great was the force of the gale. Not only were the streets strewn with tiles and fragments of chimney pots, but there was light enough for them to see that many of the upper windows of the houses had been blown in by the force of the wind. Tiles flew about like leaves in autumn, and occasionally gutters and sheets of lead, stripped from the roofs, flew along with prodigious swiftness. "This is as bad as a pitched battle, Charlie. I would as lief be struck by a cannonball as by one of those strips of lead." "Well, we must risk it, Harry. We must make the attempt, anyhow." It was with the greatest difficulty that they made their way along. Although powerful young fellows, they were frequently obliged to cling to the railings, to prevent themselves from being swept away by the gusts, and they had more than one narrow escape from falling chimneys. Although the distance they had to traverse was not more than a quarter of a mile, it took them half an hour to accomplish it. The post master looked at them in surprise, as they entered his office flushed and disordered. "Why, gentlemen, you are not thinking of going on such a day as this? It would be a sheer impossibility. Why, the carriage would be blown over, and if it wasn't, no horses would face this wind." "We would be willing to pay anything you may like to ask," Charlie said. "It ain't a question of money, sir. If you were to buy the four horses and the carriage, you would be no nearer, for no post boy would be mad enough to ride them; and, even supposing you got one stage, which you never would do, you would have to buy horses again, for no one would be fool enough to send his animals out. You could not do it, sir. Why, I hear there are half a dozen houses, within a dozen yards of this, that have been altogether unroofed, and it is getting worse instead of better. If it goes on like this, I doubt if there will be a steeple standing in London tomorrow. "Listen to that!" There was a tremendous crash, and, running out into the street, they saw a mass of beams and tiles lying in the roadway--a house two doors away had been completely unroofed. They felt that, in such a storm, it was really impossible to proceed, and accordingly returned to their lodgings, performing the distance in a fraction of the time it had before taken them. For some hours the gale continued to increase in fury. Not a soul was to be seen in the streets. Occasional heavy crashes told of the damage that was being wrought, and, at times, the house shook so that it seemed as if it would fall. Never was such a storm known in England. The damage done was enormous. The shores were strewn with wrecks. Twelve ships of the royal navy, with fifteen hundred men, were lost; and an enormous number of merchant vessels. Many steeples, houses, and buildings of all kinds were overthrown, and the damage, in London alone, was estimated at a million pounds. There were few who went to bed that night. Many thought that the whole city would be destroyed. Towards morning, however, the fury of the gale somewhat abated, and by nightfall the danger had passed. The next morning the two friends started, and posted down to Lancashire. The journey was a long one. In many places the road was completely blocked by fallen trees, and sometimes by the ruins of houses and barns. In the former case, long detours had often to be made through villainous roads, where the wheels sank almost to their axles, and, in spite of the most liberal bribes to post boys and post masters, the journey occupied four days longer than the usual time. At last, they reached the lodge gate of Lynnwood. A man came out from the cottage. He was the same who had been there in Sir Marmaduke's time. Charlie jumped out of the post chaise. "Why, Norman, don't you know me?" The man looked hard at him. "No, sir, I can't say as I do." "What, not Charlie Carstairs?" "Bless me, it is the young master!" the man said. "To think of my not knowing you. But you have changed wonderful. Why, sir, I have been thinking of you often and often, and most of all the last three days, but I never thought of you like this." "Why the last three days, Norman?" "Haven't you heard the news, sir?" "No, I have heard nothing. Captain Jervoise and I--my old friend, you know, Norman--have posted all the way from London, and should have been here six days ago, if it had not been for the storm." "Well, sir, there is bad news; at least, I don't know whether you will consider it bad. Most of the folk about here looks at it the other way. But the man in there shot hisself, three days ago. A magistrate, with some men from Lancaster, came over here. They say it was to arrest him, but I don't know the rights of the case. Anyhow, it is said they read some paper over to him, and then he opened a drawer at the table where he was sitting, and pulled out a pistol, and shot hisself before anyone could stop him. "There have been bad goings here of late, Mr. Charles, very bad, especially for the last year. He was not friends with his son, they say, but the news of his death drove him to drink, worse than before; and besides, there have been dicing, and all sorts of goings on, and I doubt not but that the ladies have had a terrible time of it. There were several men staying in the house, but they all took themselves off, as soon as it was over, and there are only the ladies there now. They will be glad enough to see you, I will be bound." Charlie was shocked; but at the same time, he could not but feel that it was the best thing that could happen, and Harry freely expressed himself to that effect. "We won't take the carriage up to the house," Charlie said, after a long pause. "Take the valises out, and bring them up to the house presently, Norman." He paid the postilion who had brought them from Lancaster, and stood quiet until the carriage had driven off. "I hope Sir Marmaduke is well, sir. We have missed him sorely here." "He was quite well when I saw him, ten weeks ago. I hope he will be here before long. I am happy to say that his innocence of the charge brought against him has been proved, and his estates, and those of Mr. Jervoise and the other gentlemen, have been restored by the queen." "That is good news, indeed, sir," the man exclaimed. "The best I have heard for many a long year. Everyone about here will go wild with joy." "Then don't mention it at present, Norman. Any rejoicings would be unseemly, while John Dormay is lying dead there." "Shall I go up with you, Charlie, or will you go alone?" Harry asked. "Of course, there are some horses here, and you could lend me one to drive over to our own place." "You shall do that presently, Harry, and tell them the news. But come in now. You know my cousin and Ciceley. It will be all the better that you should go in with me." His cousin received Charlie with a quiet pleasure. She was greatly changed since he had seen her last, and her face showed that she had suffered greatly. Ciceley had grown into a young woman, and met him with delight. Both were pleased to see Harry. "We were talking of you but now, Charlie," Mrs. Dormay said. "Ciceley and I agreed that we would remove at once to our old place, and that this should be kept up for you, should you at any time be able to return. Now that Queen Anne is on the throne, and the Tories are in power, we hoped that you, at least, would ere long be permitted to return. How is your dear father?" "He is well, cousin, and will, I trust, be here ere long. Our innocence of the charge has been proved, the proceedings against us quashed, and the Act of Confiscation against my father, Mr. Jervoise, and the others reversed." "Thank God for that," Mrs. Dormay said earnestly, and Ciceley gave an exclamation of pleasure. "That accounts, then, for what has happened here. "I do not want to talk about it, Charlie. You may imagine how Ciceley and I have suffered. But he was my husband, spare him for my sake." "I will never allude to the subject again, cousin," Charlie said. "But I must tell you that Harry and I have posted down from London, in hopes of being in time to warn him, and enable him to escape. I need not say we did so because he was your husband, and Ciceley's father." Harry then turned the subject, by a remark as to the effects of the storm. Then Ciceley asked questions as to their life abroad, and there was so much to tell, and to listen to, that even Mrs. Dormay's face brightened. Harry willingly allowed himself to be persuaded to remain for the night, and to ride over to his place in the morning. The funeral took place two days later. Charlie went as sole mourner. "He was my kinsman," he said to Harry, "and, though I can pretend no sorrow at his death, my attendance at the funeral will do something towards stopping talk, and will make it easier for my cousin." The next day, Mrs. Dormay and Ciceley returned to Rockley, whose tenant had fortunately left a few weeks before. Charlie and Harry both went over with them, and stayed for three or four days, and they were glad to see that Mrs. Dormay seemed to be shaking off the weight of her trouble, and was looking more like her old self. They then rode to Lancaster, and returned to London by coach. They crossed to Gottenburg by the first vessel that was sailing, and Sir Marmaduke was delighted to hear the success of their mission, and that he was at liberty to return at once, as master of Lynnwood. "Luck favoured you somewhat, Charlie, in throwing that vagabond in your way, but for all else we have to thank you both, for the manner in which you have carried the affair out, and captured your fox. As for John Dormay, 'tis the best thing that could have happened. I have often thought it over, while you have been away, and have said to myself that the best settlement of the business would be that you, Harry, when you obtained proofs, should go down, confront him publicly, and charge him with his treachery, force him to draw, and then run him through the body. Charlie would, of course, have been the proper person, in my absence, so to settle the matter, but he could not well have killed my cousin's husband, and it would have added to the scandal. "However, the way it has turned out is better altogether. It will be only a nine days' wonder. The man has been cut by all the gentry, and when it is known that he shot himself to escape arrest, many will say that it was a fit ending, and will trouble themselves no more concerning him. "You are coming back with me, I hope, Charlie. I have seen but little of you for the last four years, and if you are, as you say, going with the Duke of Marlborough to the war in the spring, I don't want to lose sight of you again till then. You can surely resign your commission here without going back to the army, especially as you have leave of absence until the end of March." Charlie hesitated. "I think so, too," Harry said. "I know that the colonel told the king the whole story, when he asked for leave for me and obtained that paper. He told my father that the king was greatly interested, and said: 'I hope the young fellows will succeed, though I suppose, if they do, I shall lose two promising young officers.' So he will not be surprised when he hears that we have resigned. "As for me, I shall, of course, go on at once. My father will, I am sure, be delighted to return home. The hardships have told upon him a good deal, and he has said several times, of late, how much he wished he could see his way to retiring. I think, too, he will gladly consent to my entering our own service, instead of that of Sweden. He would not have done so, I am sure, had William been still on the throne. Now it is altogether different." "Well, Harry, if you do see the king, as it is possible you may do, or if you do not, you might speak to the colonel, and ask him, in my name, to express to Charles my regret at leaving his service, in which I have been so well treated, and say how much I feel the kindly interest that his majesty has been pleased to take in me. If there had been any chance of the war coming to an end shortly, I should have remained to see it out; but, now that the Polish business may be considered finished, it will be continued with Russia, and may go on for years, for the czar is just as obstinate and determined as Charles himself." Accordingly, the next morning, Charlie sent in the formal resignation of his commission to the war minister at Stockholm, and Harry left by ship for Revel. Sir Marmaduke placed his business affairs in the hands of a Scotch merchant at Gottenburg, with instructions to call in the money he had lent on mortgage, and, two days later, took passage with Charlie for Hull, whence they posted across the country to Lancaster, and then drove to Lynnwood. As soon as the news spread that Sir Marmaduke had returned, the church bells rang a joyous peal, bonfires were lighted, the tenants flocked in to greet him, and the gentry for miles round rode over to welcome and congratulate him. The next morning he and Charlie rode over to Rockley. "Oh, Marmaduke," cried Celia, "I am happy indeed to know that you are back again. I have never known a day's happiness since you went." "Well, don't let us think any more about it, Celia," Sir Marmaduke said, as he kissed her tenderly. "Let us look on it all as an ugly dream. It has not been without its advantages, as far as we are concerned. It has taken me out of myself, and broadened my view of things. I have not had at all an unpleasant time of it in Sweden, and shall enjoy my home all the more, now that I have been away from it for a while. As to Charlie, it has made a man of him. He has gained a great deal of credit, and had opportunities of showing that he is made of good stuff; and now he enters upon life with every advantage, and has a start, indeed, such as very few young fellows can have. He enters our army as a captain, under the eye of Marlborough himself, with a reputation gained under that of the greatest soldier in Europe. "So we have no reason to regret the past, cousin, and on that score you have no cause for grief. As to the future, I trust that it will be bright for both of us, and I think," he added meaningly, "our former plans for our children are likely to be some day realized." Four years later, indeed, the union that both parents had at heart took place, during one of the pauses of the fierce struggle between the British forces under Marlborough, and the French. At Blenheim, Ramillies, and Oudenarde, and in several long and toilsome sieges, Charlie had distinguished himself greatly, and was regarded by Marlborough as one of the most energetic and trustworthy of his officers. He had been twice severely wounded, and had gained the rank of colonel. Harry Jervoise--who had had a leg shot away, below the knee, by a cannonball at Ramillies, and had then left the army with the rank of major--was, on the same day as his friend, married to the daughter of one of the gentlemen who had been driven into exile with his father. In the spring Charlie again joined the army, and commanded a brigade in the desperate struggle on the hill of Malplaquet, one of the hardest fought battles in the history of war. Peace was made shortly afterwards, and, at the reduction of the army that followed, he went on half pay, and settled down for life at Lynnwood, where Tony Peters and his wife had, at the death of the former occupant of the lodge, been established. When Harry Jervoise returned to the Swedish headquarters, with the news that his father was cleared, he was the bearer of a very handsome present from Charlie to his faithful servant Stanislas, who had, on their return from Poland, been at once employed by Count Piper on other service. When, years afterwards, the young Pretender marched south with the Highland clans, neither Charlie nor Harry were among the gentlemen who joined him. He had their good wishes, but, having served in the British army, they felt that they could not join the movement in arms against the British crown; and indeed, the strong Jacobite feelings of their youth had been greatly softened down by their contact with the world, and they had learned to doubt much whether the restoration of the Stuarts would tend, in any way, to the benefit or prosperity of Britain. They felt all the more obliged to stand aloof from the struggle, inasmuch as both had sons, in the army, that had fought valiantly against the French at Dettingen and Fontenoy. The families always remained united in the closest friendship, and more than one marriage took place between the children of Charlie Carstairs and Harry Jervoise. 
26090	----	* * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; please see detailed list of printing issues at the end of the text. * * * * * CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST * * * * * MR. HENTY'S HISTORICAL TALES. THE CAT OF BUBASTES: A Story of Ancient Egypt. 5s. THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. 6s. FOR THE TEMPLE: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. 6s. BERIC THE BRITON: A Story of the Roman Invasion. 6s. THE DRAGON AND THE RAVEN: or, The Days of King Alfred. 5s. WULF THE SAXON: A Story of the Norman Conquest. 6s. A KNIGHT OF THE WHITE CROSS: The Siege of Rhodes. 6s. IN FREEDOM'S CAUSE: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. 6s. THE LION OF ST. MARK: A Story of Venice in the 14th Century. 6s. ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. 5s. A MARCH ON LONDON: A Story of Wat Tyler. 5s. BOTH SIDES THE BORDER: A Tale of Hotspur and Glendower. 6s. AT AGINCOURT: A Tale of the White Hoods of Paris. 6s. BY RIGHT OF CONQUEST: or, With Cortez in Mexico. 6s. ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S EVE: A Tale of the Huguenot Wars. 6s. BY PIKE AND DYKE: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. 6s. BY ENGLAND'S AID: or, The Freeing of the Netherlands. 6s. UNDER DRAKE'S FLAG: A Tale of the Spanish Main. 6s. THE LION OF THE NORTH: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus. 6s. WON BY THE SWORD: A Tale of the Thirty Years' War. 6s. WHEN LONDON BURNED: A Story of the Great Fire. 6s. ORANGE AND GREEN: A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. 5s. A JACOBITE EXILE: In the Service of Charles XII. 5s. IN THE IRISH BRIGADE: A Tale of War in Flanders and Spain. 6s. THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE: or, With Peterborough in Spain. 5s. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. 6s. WITH CLIVE IN INDIA: or, The Beginnings of an Empire. 6s. WITH FREDERICK THE GREAT: The Seven Years' War. 6s. WITH WOLFE IN CANADA: or, The Winning of a Continent. 6s. TRUE TO THE OLD FLAG: The American War of Independence. 6s. HELD FAST FOR ENGLAND: A Tale of the Siege of Gibraltar. 5s. IN THE REIGN OF TERROR: The French Revolution. 5s. NO SURRENDER! A Tale of the Rising in La Vendée. 5s. A ROVING COMMISSION: A Story of the Hayti Insurrection. 6s. THE TIGER OF MYSORE: The War with Tippoo Saib. 6s. AT ABOUKIR AND ACRE: Napoleon's Invasion of Egypt. 5s. WITH MOORE AT CORUNNA: A Tale of the Peninsular War. 6s. UNDER WELLINGTON'S COMMAND: The Peninsular War. 6s. WITH COCHRANE THE DAUNTLESS: A Tale of his Exploits. 6s. THROUGH THE FRAY: A Story of the Luddite Riots. 6s. THROUGH RUSSIAN SNOWS: The Retreat from Moscow. 5s. ONE OF THE 28TH: A Story of Waterloo. 5s. IN GREEK WATERS: A Story of the Grecian War (1821). 6s. ON THE IRRAWADDY: A Story of the First Burmese War. 5s. THROUGH THE SIKH WAR: A Tale of the Punjaub. 6s. MAORI AND SETTLER: A Story of the New Zealand War. 5s. WITH LEE IN VIRGINIA: A Story of the American Civil War. 6s. BY SHEER PLUCK: A Tale of the Ashanti War. 5s. OUT WITH GARIBALDI: A Story of the Liberation of Italy. 5s. FOR NAME AND FAME: or, To Cabul with Roberts. 5s. THE DASH FOR KHARTOUM: A Tale of the Nile Expedition. 6s. CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST: A Story of Escape from Siberia. 5s. WITH BULLER IN NATAL: or, A Born Leader. 6s. * * * * * [Illustration: GODFREY IS CAPTURED BY THE RUSSIAN POLICE.] * * * * * CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST A STORY OF ESCAPE FROM SIBERIA BY G. A. HENTY Author of "Beric the Briton" "In Freedom's Cause" "The Lion of the North" "The Young Carthaginian" "Under Wellington's Command" &c. _ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER PAGET_ LONDON BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW AND DUBLIN PREFACE. There are few difficulties that cannot be surmounted by patience, resolution, and pluck, and great as are the obstacles that nature and the Russian government oppose to an escape from the prisons of Siberia, such evasions have occasionally been successfully carried out, and that under far less advantageous circumstances than those under which the hero of this story undertook the venture. For the account of life in the convict establishments in Siberia I am indebted to the very valuable books by my friend the Rev. Dr. Lansdell, who has made himself thoroughly acquainted with Siberia, traversing the country from end to end and visiting all the principal prisons. He conversed not only with officials, but with many of the prisoners and convicts, and with Russian and foreign residents in the country, and his testimony as to the management of the prisons and the condition of the convicts is confirmed by other independent writers personally cognizant of the facts, and like him able to converse fluently in the language, and writing from intimate knowledge of the subject. G. A. HENTY. CONTENTS. CHAP. Page I. A GREAT CHANGE, 11 II. A CAT'S-PAW, 33 III. A HUNTING PARTY, 52 IV. A PRISONER, 67 V. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, 86 VI. AN ESCAPE, 104 VII. THE BURIAT'S CHILD, 123 VIII. THE MINES OF KARA, 142 IX. PRISON LIFE, 163 X. PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT, 182 XI. AFLOAT, 202 XII. WINTER, 222 XIII. HUNTING, 242 XIV. THE BREAK-UP OF WINTER, 262 XV. COASTING, 282 XVI. A SAMOYEDE ENCAMPMENT, 302 XVII. A SEA FIGHT, 322 XVIII. HOME AGAIN, 339 ILLUSTRATIONS. Page GODFREY IS CAPTURED BY THE RUSSIAN POLICE, _FRONTIS._ 70 A SUPPER OF ROASTED SQUIRRELS, 121 GODFREY PUNISHES KOBYLIN IN THE CONVICT PRISON, 166 SPEARING FISH BY TORCH-LIGHT, 218 GODFREY BRINGS DOWN AN ELK, 245 THE SLAUGHTERED WOLVES, 259 LUKA FACES THE BEAR, 277 GODFREY AND LUKA ESCAPING FROM THE SAMOYEDES, 318 MAP OF RUSSIAN EMPIRE, 80 CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST. CHAPTER I. A GREAT CHANGE. Half a dozen boys were gathered in one of the studies at Shrewsbury. A packed portmanteau and the general state of litter on the floor was sufficient to show that it was the last day of term. "Well, I am awfully sorry you are going, Bullen; we shall all miss you. You would certainly have been in the football team next term; it is a nuisance altogether." "It is a nuisance; and I am beastly sorry I am leaving. Of course I have known for some time that I should be going out to Russia; but I did not think the governor would have sent me until after I had gone through the school. His letter a fortnight ago was a regular stumper. I thought I should have had another year and a half or two years, and, of course, that is just the jolliest part of school life. However, it cannot be helped." "You talk the language, don't you, Bullen?" "Well, I used to talk it, but I don't remember much about it now. You see I have been home six years. I expect I shall pick it up again fast enough. I should not mind it so much if the governor were out there still; but you see he came home for good two years ago. Still it won't be like going to a strange place altogether; and as he has been living there so long, I shall soon get to know lots of the English there. Still I do wish I could have had a couple of years more at Shrewsbury. I should have been content to have gone out then." "Well, it is time for us to be starting. I can hear the omnibus." In a few minutes the omnibus was filled with luggage inside and out; the lads started to walk to the station. As the train drew up there were hearty good-byes, and then the train steamed out of the station, the compartment in which Godfrey Bullen had taken his seat being filled with boys going, like himself, straight through to town. All were in high spirits, and Bullen, who had felt sorry at leaving school for the last time, was soon as merry as any of them. "You must mind what you are up to, Bullen," one of his companions said. "They are terrible fellows those Nihilists, they say." "They won't hurt Bullen," another put in, "unless he goes into the secret police. I should say he would make a good sort of secret policeman." "No, no; he is more likely to turn a Nihilist." "Bosh!" Bullen said, laughing. "I am not likely to turn a secret policeman; but I am more likely to do that than to turn Nihilist. I hate revolutionists and assassins, and all those sort of fellows." "Yes, we all know that you are a Tory, Bullen; but people change, you know. I hope we shall never see among the lists of Nihilists tried for sedition and conspiracy, and sentenced to execution, the name of one Godfrey Bullen." "Oh, they wouldn't execute Bullen!" another said; "they would send him to Siberia. Bullen's always good at fighting an uphill game, and he would show off to great advantage in a chain-gang. Do they crop their hair there, Bullen, and put on a gray suit, as I saw them at work in Portsmouth dockyard last year?" "I am more likely to see you working in a chain-gang at Portsmouth, Wilkinson, when I come back, than I am to form part of a convict gang in Siberia--at any rate for being a Nihilist. I won't say about other things, for I suppose there is no saying what a fellow may come to. I don't suppose any of the men who get penal servitude for forgery, and swindling, and so on, ever have any idea, when they are sixteen, that that is what they are coming to. At present I don't feel any inclination that way." "I should say you were not likely to turn forger anyhow, Bullen, whatever you take to." "Why is that, Parker?" "Because you write such a thundering bad hand that you would never be able to imitate anyone else's signature, unless he couldn't go farther than making a cross for his name, and the betting is about even that you would blot that." There was a roar of laughter, for Bullen's handwriting was a perpetual source of trouble to him, and he was continually losing marks for his exercises in consequence. He joined heartily in the laugh. "It is an awful nuisance that handwriting of mine," he said, "especially when one is going to be a merchant, you know. The governor has talked two or three times about my going to one of those fellows who teach you to write copperplate in twenty lessons. I shouldn't be surprised if he does let me have a course these holidays. I should not mind if he does, for my writing is disgusting." "Never mind, Bullen; bad handwriting is a sign of genius, you know. You have never shown any particular genius yet, except for rowing and boxing, and I suppose that is muscular genius; but you may blossom out in a new line some day." "I don't want to disturb the harmony of this last meeting, Parker, or I should bring my muscular genius into play at your expense." "No, no, Bullen," another boy said, "you keep that for Russia. Fancy Bullen polishing off a gigantic Cossack, or defending the Czar's life against half a dozen infuriated Nihilists. That would be the thing, Bullen. It would be better than trade any day. Why, you would get an estate as big as an English county, with ten thousand serfs, and sacks upon sacks of roubles." "What bosh you fellows talk!" Bullen laughed. "There is one thing I do expect I shall learn in Russia, and that is to skate. Fancy six months of regular skating, instead of a miserable three or four days. I shall meet some of you fellows some day at the Round Pond, and there you will be just working away at the outside edge, and I shall be joining in those skating-club figures and flying round and round like a bird." "What birds fly round and round, Bullen?" "Lots of them do, as you would know, Jordan, if you kept your eyes open, instead of being always on the edge of going to sleep. Swallows do, and eagles. Never mind, you fellows will turn yellow with jealousy when you see me." And so they laughed and joked until they reached London. Then there was another hearty good-bye all round, and in a couple of minutes they were speeding in hansoms to their various destinations. Godfrey Bullen's was Eccleston Square. His father was now senior partner in a firm that carried on a considerable business with the east of Europe. He had, when junior partner, resided at St. Petersburg, as the firm had at that time large dealings in the Baltic. From various causes this trade had fallen off a good deal, and the firm had dealt more largely with Odessa and the southern ports. Consequently, when at the death of the senior partner Mr. Bullen returned to England to take up the principal management of the affairs of the firm, it was not deemed advisable to continue the branch at St. Petersburg, and Ivan Petrovytch, a Russian trader of good standing, had been appointed their agent there. The arrangement had not worked quite satisfactorily. Petrovytch was an excellent agent as far as he went. The business he did was sound, and he was careful and conscientious; but he lacked push and energy, had no initiative, and would do nothing on his own responsibility. Mr. Bullen had all along intended that Godfrey should, on leaving school, go for a few years to Russia, and should, in time, occupy the same position there that he himself had done; but he had now determined that this should take place earlier than he had before intended. He thought that Godfrey would now more speedily pick up the language again, than if he remained another two or three years in England, and that in five or six years' time he might be able to represent the firm there, either in conjunction with Ivan Petrovytch or by himself. Therefore, ten days before the breaking-up of the school for the long holidays, he had written to Godfrey, telling him that he should take him away at the end of the term, and that in two or three months' time he would go out to St. Petersburg. Mr. Bullen's family consisted of two girls in addition to Godfrey. Hilda, the elder, was seventeen, a year older than the lad, while Ella was two years his junior. "Well, Godfrey," his father said, as, after the first greeting, they sat down to dinner, which had been kept back for half an hour for his arrival, "you did not seem very enthusiastic in your reply to my letter." "I did not feel very enthusiastic, father," Godfrey replied. "Of course one's two last years at school are just the jolly time, and I was really very sorry to leave. Still, of course you know what is best for me; and I dare say I shall get on very well at St. Petersburg." "I have no doubt of that, Godfrey. I have arranged for you to live with Mr. Petrovytch, as you will regain the language much more quickly in a Russian family than you would in an English one; besides, it will be handy for your work. In Russia merchants' offices are generally in their houses, and it is so with him; but, of course, you will know most of the English families. I shall write to several of my old friends, and I am sure they will do all they can for you; but I shall write more to my Russian acquaintances than to my English. The last are sure to call upon you when they hear you have come out; but it is not so easy to get a footing in Russian families, and you might be some time before you make acquaintances that way. Besides, it is much better for you to be principally in the Russian set than in the English, in the first place, because of the language; and in the second, because you will get a much better acquaintance with the country in general with them than among the English. "There are not many English lads of your own age out there--very few indeed; and those nearest your age would be young clerks. I have nothing whatever to say against young clerks; but, as a rule, they consort together, spend their evenings in each others' rooms or in playing billiards, or otherwise amuse themselves, and so learn very little of the language and nothing of the people. It is unfortunate that it should be so; but they are not altogether to blame, for, as I have said, the Russians, although friendly enough with Englishmen in business, in the club, and so on, do not as a rule invite them to their houses; and therefore the English, especially the class I am speaking of, are almost forced to associate entirely with each other and form a sort of colony quite apart from native society. I was fortunate enough to make some acquaintances among them soon after I went out, and your mother and I were much more in Russian society than is usual with our countrymen there. I found great advantage from it, and shall be glad for you to do the same. You will have one very great advantage, that you will be able to speak Russian fluently in a short time." "I don't think I remember much about it now, father." "I dare say not, Godfrey; that is to say, you know it, but you have lost a good deal of the facility of speaking it. You have always got on fairly enough with it when we have spoken it occasionally during your holidays since we have been in England, and in a very few weeks you will find that it has completely come back to you. You spoke it as you did English, indeed better, when you came over to school when you were ten, and in six years one does not forget a language. If you had been another five or six years older, no doubt you would have lost it a good deal; but even then you would have learnt it very much more quickly than you would have done had you never spoken it. Your mother and the girls have been grumbling at me a good deal for sending you away so soon." "It is horrid, father," Hilda said. "We have always looked forward so to Godfrey's coming home; and of course it would be better still as he got older. We could have gone about everywhere with him; and we shall miss him especially when we go away in summer." "Well, you must make the most of him this time then," her father said. "Have you settled where we are going?" Godfrey asked. "No, we would not settle until you came home, Godfrey," Mrs. Bullen said. "As this was to be your last holiday we thought we would give you the choice." "Then I vote for some quiet sea-side place, mother. We went to Switzerland last year, and as I am going abroad for ever so long I would rather stop at home now; and, besides, I would rather be quiet with you all, instead of always travelling about and going to places. Only, of course if the girls would rather go abroad, I don't mind." However, it was settled that it should be as Godfrey wished. "But I do think, father," Godfrey said, "that it will be a good thing if I had lessons in writing from one of those fellows who guarantee to teach you in a few lessons. I suppose that is all bosh; but if I got their system and worked at it, it might do me good. I really do write badly." The girls laughed. "I don't think that quite describes it, Godfrey," his father said. "If anyone asked me about your accomplishments I should say that you knew a good deal of Latin and Greek, that you had a vague idea of English, and that you could read, but unfortunately you were quite unable to write. According to my idea it is perfectly scandalous that at the great schools such an essential as writing is altogether neglected, while years are spent over Greek, which is of no earthly use when you have once left school. I suppose the very worst writers in the world are men who have been educated in public schools. "Well, I am glad you have had the good sense to suggest it, Godfrey. I had thought of it myself, but I was afraid you would think it was spoiling your last holidays at home. I will see about it to-morrow. I cannot get away very well for another fortnight. If you have a dozen lessons before we go, you can practise while we are away; and mind, from to-day we will talk nothing but Russian when we are alone." This had been indeed a common habit in the family since they had come home two years before, as the two girls and Mr. and Mrs. Bullen spoke Russian as fluently as English, and Mr. Bullen thought it was just as well that they should not let it drop altogether. Indeed on their travels in Switzerland they had several times come across Russians, and had made pleasant acquaintances from their knowledge of that language. The holidays passed pleasantly at Weymouth. Godfrey practised two hours a day steadily at the system of handwriting: and although he was, at the end of the holidays, very far from attaining the perfection shown in the examples produced by his teachers of the marvels they had effected in many of their pupils, he did improve vastly, and wrote a fair current hand instead of the almost undecipherable scrawl that had so puzzled and annoyed a succession of masters at Shrewsbury. After another month spent in London, getting his clothes and outfit, Godfrey started for St. Petersburg. On his last evening at home his father had a serious talk with him. "I have told Petrovytch," he said, "that you may possibly some day take up the agency with him, but that nothing is decided as to that at present, and that it will all depend upon circumstances. However, in any case, you will learn the ins and outs of the trade there; and if, at the end of a few years, you think that you would rather work by yourself than with him, I can send out a special clerk to work with you. On the other hand, it is possible that I may require you at home here. Venables has no family, and is rather inclined to take it easy. Possibly in a few years he may retire altogether, and I may want you at home. At five or six and twenty you should be able to undertake the management of the Russian part of the business, running out there occasionally to see that everything goes on well. I hope I need not tell you to be steady. There is a good deal too much drinking goes on out there, arising, no doubt, from the fact that the young men have no family society there, and nothing particular to do when work is over. "Stick to the business, lad. You will find Petrovytch himself a thoroughly good fellow. Of course he has Russian ways and prejudices, but he is less narrow than most of his countrymen of that class. Above all things, don't express any opinion you may feel about public affairs--at any rate outside the walls of the house. The secret police are everywhere, and a chance word might get you into a very serious scrape. As you get on you will find a good deal that you do not like. Even in business there is no getting a government contract, or indeed a contract at all, without bribing right and left. It is disgusting, but business cannot be done without it. The whole system is corrupt and rotten, and you will find that every official has his price. However, you won't have anything to do with this for the present. If I were you I should work for an hour or two a day with a German master. There are a great many Germans there, and you will find a knowledge of the language very useful to you. You see your Russian has pretty nearly come back to you during the last two months, and you will very soon speak it perfectly; so you will have no trouble about that." Godfrey found the long railway journey across the flat plains of Germany very dull, as he was unable to exchange a word with his fellow-passengers; but as soon as he crossed the Russian frontier he felt at home again, and enjoyed the run through the thickly-wooded country lying between Wilna and St. Petersburg. As he stepped out at the station everything seemed to come back vividly to his memory. It was late in October and the first snow had fallen, and round the station were a crowd of sledges drawn by rough little horses. Avoiding the importunities of the drivers of the hotel vehicles he hailed an Isvostchik in furred cap and coat lined with sheepskin. His portmanteaus were corded at the back of the sledge; he jumped up into the seat behind the driver, pulled the fur rug over his legs, and said, "Drive to the Vassili Ostrov, 52, Ulitsa Nicolai." The driver gave a peculiar cry, cracked his whip half a dozen times, making a noise almost as loud as the discharge of a pistol, and the horse went off at a sharp trot. "I thought your excellency was a foreigner," the driver said, "but I see you are one of us." "No, I am an Englishman, but I lived here till I was ten years old. The snow has begun earlier than usual, has it not?" "It won't last," the Isvostchik said. "Sometimes we have a week at this time of year, but it is not till December that it sets in in earnest. We may have droskies out again to-morrow instead of the sledges." "The sledges are the pleasantest," Godfrey said. "Yes, your excellency, for those that travel, but not for us. At night when we are waiting we can get into the drosky and sleep, while it is terrible without shelter. There are many of us frozen to death every winter." Godfrey felt a sense of keen enjoyment as the sledge glided along. There were many rough bumps and sharp swings, for the snow was not deep enough to cover thoroughly the roughness of the road below; but the air was brisk and the sun shone brightly, and he looked with pleasure at the people and costumes, which seemed, to his surprise, perfectly familiar to him. He was quite sorry when the journey came to an end at the house of Ivan Petrovytch. The merchant, whose office was on the ground-floor and who occupied the floor above (the rest of the house being let off by floors to other families), came out to greet him. "I am glad to see you, Godfrey Bullen," he said. "I should have sent to the station to meet you, but your good father did not say whether you would arrive by the morning or evening train; and as my driver did not know you, he would have missed you. I hope that all has gone well on the journey. Paul," he said to a man who had followed him out, "carry these trunks upstairs." After paying the driver Godfrey followed his host to the floor above. Petrovytch was a portly man, with a pleasant but by no means good-looking face. "Wife," he said as he entered the sitting-room, "this is Godfrey Bullen; I will leave him in your hands for the present, as I have some business that I must complete before we close." "My name," Mrs. Petrovytch said, "is Catharine. You know in this country we always address each other by our names. The high-born may use titles, but simple people use the Christian name and the family name unless they are very intimate, and then the Christian name only. I heard you speaking to my husband as you came in, so that you have not forgotten our language. I should have thought that you would have done so. I can remember you as quite a little fellow before you went away." "I have been speaking it for the last two months at home," Godfrey said, "and it has nearly come back to me." "And your father and mother and your sisters, are they all well?" "They are quite well, and my father and mother begged me to give their kind regards to you." At this moment the servant came in with the samovar, or tea-urn. "It is four o'clock now; we dine at five o'clock, when the office is closed. Many dine at one, but my husband likes it when he has done his work, as then he does not need to hurry." After drinking a tumbler of tea and eating a flat-cake or two with it, Godfrey went to his room to have a wash after his long journey, and to unpack some of his things. He thought that he should like both Petrovytch and his wife, but that the evenings would be dull if he had to spend them in the house. Of this, however, he had but little fear, for he was sure that between his father's friends and the acquaintances he might himself make he should be out as much as he liked. In the course of the next week Godfrey called at the houses of the various people to whom he had letters of introduction, and left them with the hall porter. His host told him that he thought he had better take a fortnight to go about the capital and see the sights before he settled down to work at the office; and as not only the gentlemen with whom he had left letters of introduction and his card--for in Russia strangers always call first--but many others of his father's friends called or invited him to their houses, he speedily made a large number of acquaintances. At the end of the fortnight he took his place in the office. At first he was of very little use there; for although he could talk and understand Russian as spoken, he had entirely forgotten the written characters, and it took him some little time before he could either read the business correspondence or make entries in the office books. Ivan Petrovytch did his best to assist him, and in the course of a month he began to master the mysteries of Russian writing. At five o'clock the office closed. Godfrey very frequently dined out, but if he had no engagement he took his meal with the merchant and his wife, and then sallied out and went either alone or with some of his acquaintances to a Russian theatre. With December, winter set in in earnest. The waters were frozen, and skating began. The season at St. Petersburg commenced about the same time, and as Godfrey was often sent with messages or letters to other business houses he had an opportunity of seeing the streets of St. Petersburg by day as well as by night. He was delighted with the scene on the Nevski Prospekt, the principal street of St. Petersburg. The footways were crowded with people: the wealthy in high boots, coats lined with sable, and caps to match; the poorer in equally ample coats, but with linings of sheep, fox, or rabbit skins, with the national Russian cap of fur with velvet top, and with fur-lined hoods, which were often drawn up over the head. The shops were excellent, reminding Godfrey rather of Paris than London. But the chief interest of the scene lay in the roadway. There were vehicles of every description, from the heavy sledge of the peasant, piled up with logs for fuel, or carrying, perhaps, the body of an elk shot in the woods, to the splendid turn-outs of the nobles with their handsome fur wraps, their coachmen in the national costume, and horses covered with brown, blue, or violet nets almost touching the ground, to prevent the snow from being thrown up from the animals' hoofs into the faces of those in the sledge. The harness was in most cases more or less decorated with bells, which gaily tinkled in the still air as the sledges dashed along. Most struck was Godfrey with the vehicles of the nobles who adhered to old Russian customs. The sledge was drawn by three horses; the one in the centre was trained to trot, while the two outside went at a canter. The heads of the latter were bent half round, so that they looked towards the side, or even almost behind them as they went. An English acquaintance to whom Godfrey expressed his surprise the first time he saw one of these sledges replied, "Yes, that is the old Russian pattern; and, curiously enough, if you look at Greek bas-reliefs and sculptures of the chariot of Phoebus, or at any other representations of chariots with three or four horses, you will see that the animals outside turn their heads in a similar manner." "But it must be horribly uncomfortable for the horses to have their heads turned round like that." "It is the effect of training. They are always tied up to the stables with their heads pulled in that way, until it becomes a second nature to go with them in that position." "It is a very curious idea," Godfrey said, "but it certainly looks nice. What magnificent beards all the drivers in the good sledges have!" "Yes, that again is an old Russian custom. A driver with a big beard is considered an absolute necessity for a well-appointed turn-out, and the longer and fuller the beard the higher the wages a man will command and the greater the pride of his employer." "It seems silly," Godfrey said. "But there is no doubt those fellows do look wonderfully imposing with their fur caps and their long blue caftans and red sashes and those splendid beards. They remind me of pictures of Neptune. Certainly I never saw such beards in England." Besides these vehicles there were crowds of public sledges, driven by the Isvostchiks, long rough country sledges laden perhaps with a dozen peasant women returning from market, light well-got-up vehicles of English and other merchants, dashing turn-outs carrying an officer or two of high rank, and others filled with ladies half buried in rich furs. The air was tremulous with the music of countless bells, and broken by the loud cracking of whips, with which the faster vehicles heralded their approach. These whips had short handles, but very long heavy thongs; and Godfrey observed that, however loud he might crack this weapon, it was very seldom indeed that a Russian driver ever struck one of his horses with it. Sometimes when Ivan Petrovytch told him that there was little to be done in the office, and that he need not return for an hour or two, Godfrey would stroll into the Isaac or Kasan cathedrals, both splendid structures, and wonder at the taste that marred their effect, by the profusion of the gilding lavished everywhere. He was delighted by the singing, which was unaccompanied by instruments, the bass voices predominating, and which certainly struck him as being much finer than anything he had ever heard in an English cathedral. There was no lack of amusement in the evening. Some of his English friends at once put Godfrey up as a member of the Skating Club. This club possessed a large garden well planted with trees. In this was an artificial lake of considerable extent, broken by wooded islets. This was always lit up of an evening by coloured lights, and twice in the week was thrown open upon a small payment to the public, when a military band played, and the grounds were brilliantly illuminated. The scene was an exceedingly gay one, and the gardens were frequented by the rank and fashion of St. Petersburg. The innumerable lights were reflected by the snow that covered the ground and by the white masses that clung to the boughs of the leafless trees. The ice was covered with skaters, male and female, the latter in gay dresses, tight-fitting jackets trimmed with fur, and dainty little fur caps. Many of the former were in uniform, and the air was filled with merry laughter and the ringing sound of innumerable skates. Sometimes parties of acquaintances executed figures, but for the most part they moved about in couples, the gentleman holding the lady's hand, or sometimes placing his arm round her waist as if dancing. Very often Godfrey spent the evening at the houses of one or other of his Russian or English friends, and occasionally went to the theatre. Sometimes he spent a quiet evening at home. He liked Catharine Petrovytch. She was an excellent housewife, and devoted to the comfort of her husband; but when not engaged in household cares she seldom cared to go out, and passed her time for the most part on the sofa. She was, like most other Russian ladies when at home and without visitors, very careless and untidy in her dress. Among the acquaintances of whom Godfrey saw most were two young students. One of them was the son of a trader in Moscow, the other of a small landed proprietor. He had met them for the first time at a fair held on the surface of the Neva, and had been introduced to them by a fellow-student of theirs, a member of a family with whom Godfrey was intimate. Having met another acquaintance he had left the party, and Godfrey had spent the afternoon on the ice with Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff. He found them pleasant young men. He was, they told him, the first Englishman they had met, and asked many questions about his country. He met them several times afterwards, and one day they asked him if he would come up to their room. "It is a poor place," one said laughing. "But you know most of us students are poor, and have to live as best we can." "It makes no odds to me," Godfrey said. "It was a pretty bare place I had when I was at school. I shall be very glad to come up." The room which the students shared was a large one, at the top of a house in a narrow street. It was simply furnished enough, containing but two beds, a deal table, four chairs, and the indispensable stove, which kept the room warm and comfortable. "We are in funds just at present," Akim said. "Petroff has had a remittance, and so you find the stove well alight, which is not always the case." "But how do you manage to exist without a fire?" "We don't trouble the room much then," Petroff said. "We walk about till we are dead tired out, and then come up and sleep in one bed together for warmth, and heap all the coverings from the other bed over us. Oh, we get on very well! Food is cheap here if you know where to get it; fuel costs more than food. Now which will you take, tea or vodka?" Godfrey declared for tea. Some of the water from a great pot standing on the top of the stove was poured into the samovar. Some glowing embers were taken from the stove and placed in the urn, and in a few minutes the water was boiling, and three tumblers of tea with a slice of lemon floating on the top were soon steaming on the table. The conversation first turned upon university life in Russia, and then Petroff began to ask questions about English schools and universities, and then the subject changed to English institutions in general. "What a different life to ours!" Akim said. "And the peasants, are they comfortable?" "Well, their lives are pretty hard ones," Godfrey acknowledged. "They have to work hard and for long hours, and the pay is poor. But then, on the other hand, they generally have their cottages at a very low rent, with a good bit of garden and a few fruit trees. They earn a little extra money at harvest time, and though their pay is smaller, I think on the whole they are better off and happier than many of the working people in the towns." "And they are free to go where they like?" "Certainly they are free, but as a rule they don't move about much." "Then if they have a bad master they can leave him and go to someone else?" "Oh, yes! They would go to some other farmer in the neighbourhood. But there are seldom what you may call bad masters. The wages are always about the same through a district, and the hours of work, and so on; so that one master can't be much better or worse than another, except in point of temper; and if a man were very bad tempered of course the men would leave him and work somewhere else, so he would be the loser, as he would soon only get the very worst hands in the neighbourhood to work for him." "And they are not beaten?" "Beaten! I should think not," Godfrey said. "Nobody is beaten with us, though I think it would be a capital thing if, instead of shutting up people in prison for small crimes, they had a good flogging. It would do them a deal more good, and it would be better for their wives and families, who have to get on as best they can while they are shut up." "And nobody is beaten at all?" "No; there used to be flogging in the army and navy, but it was very rare, and is now abolished." "And not even a lord can flog his peasants?" "Certainly not. If a lord struck a peasant the peasant would certainly hit him back again, and if he didn't feel strong enough to do that he would have him up before the magistrates and he would get fined pretty heavily." "And how do they punish political prisoners?" "There are no political prisoners. As long as a man keeps quiet and doesn't get up a row, he may have any opinions he likes; he may argue in favour of a republic, or he may be a socialist or anything he pleases; but, of course, if he tried to kick up a row, attack the police, or made a riot or anything of that sort he would be punished for breaking the law, but that would have nothing to do with his politics." The two young men looked in surprise at each other. "But if they printed a paper and attacked the government?" Akim asked. "Oh, they do that! there are as many papers pitch into the government as there are in favour of the government; parties are pretty equally divided, you see, and the party that is out always abuses the party which is in power." "And even that is lawful?" "Certainly it is. You can abuse the government as much as you like, say that the ministers are a parcel of incompetent fools, and so on; but, of course, you cannot attack them as to their private life and character any more than you can anyone else, because then you would render yourself liable to an action for libel." "And you can travel where you like, in the country and out of the country, without official permits or passports?" "Yes, there is nothing like that known in England. Every man can go where he likes, and live where he likes, and do anything he likes, providing that it does not interfere with the rights of other people." "Ah! shall we ever come to this in Russia, Akim?" Petroff said. Akim made no answer, but Godfrey replied for him. "No doubt you will in time, Petroff; but you see liberties like these do not grow up in a day. We had serfs and vassals in England at one time, and feudal barons who could do pretty much what they chose, and it was only in the course of centuries that these things got done away with." At this moment there was a knock at the door. "It is Katia," Akim said, jumping up from his seat and opening the door. A young woman entered. She was pleasant and intelligent looking. "Katia, this is an English gentleman, a friend of ours, who has been telling us about his country. Godfrey, this is my cousin Katia; she teaches music in the houses of many people of good family." "I did not expect to find visitors here," the girl said smiling. "And how do you like our winter? it is a good deal colder than you are accustomed to." "It is a great deal more pleasant," Godfrey said: "I call it glorious weather. It is infinitely better than alternate rains and winds, with just enough frost occasionally to make you think you are going to do some skating, and then a thaw." "You are extravagant," the girl said, looking round; "it is a long time since I have felt the room as warm as this. I suppose Petroff has got his allowance?" "Yes, and a grumbling letter. My father has a vague idea that in some way or other I ought to pick up my living, though he never offers a suggestion as to how I should do it." The young woman went to the cupboard, fetched another tumbler and poured herself out some tea, and then chatted gaily about St. Petersburg, her pupils, and their parents. "Do you live at the house of one of your pupils?" Godfrey asked. "Oh no!" she said. "I don't mind work, but I like to be free when work is over. I board in an honest family, and live in a little room at the top of the house which is all my own and where I can see my friends." After chatting for some time longer Godfrey took his leave. As soon as he had gone the girl's manner changed. "Do you think you are wise to have him here, Akim?" "Why not?" the student asked in turn. "He is frank and agreeable, he is respectable, and even you will allow that it would be safer walking with him than some we know; we do not talk politics with him." "For all that I am sorry, Akim. You know how it will be; we shall get him into trouble. It is our fate; we have a great end in view; we risk our own lives, and although for the good of the cause we must not hesitate even if others suffer, I do hate with all my heart that others should be involved in our fortunes." "This is not like you, Katia," Petroff said. "I have heard you say your maxim is 'At any cost,' and you have certainly lived up to it." "Yes, and I shall live up to it," she said firmly; "but it hurts sometimes, Petroff; it hurt me just now when I thought that that lad laughing and chatting with us had no idea that he had better have thrust his hand into that stove than have given it to us. I do not shrink; I should use him as I should use anyone else, as an instrument if it were needful, but don't suppose that I like it." "I don't think there is any fear of our doing him harm," Akim said; "he is English, and would find no difficulty in showing that he knew nothing of us save as casual acquaintances; they might send him out of the country, but that would be all." "It would all depend," she said, "upon how he fell into their hands. If you happened to be arrested only as you were walking with him down the Nevski Prospekt he would be questioned, of course, but as soon as they learned who he was and that he had nothing to do with you, they would let him go. But if he were with us, say here, when we were pounced upon, and you had no time to pull the trigger of the pistol pointing into that keg of powder in the cupboard, he would be hurried away with us to one of the fortresses, and the chances are that not a soul would ever know what had become of him. Still it cannot be helped now; he may be useful, and as we give our own lives, so we must not shrink from giving others'. But this is not what I came here to talk to you about; have you heard of the arrest of Michaelovich?" "No," they both exclaimed, leaping from their seats. "It happened at three o'clock this morning," Katia said. "They surrounded the house and broke in suddenly, and rushed down into the cellar and found him at work. He shot two of them, and then he was beaten down and badly wounded." "Where were the other two?" Akim asked. "He sent them away but an hour before, but he went on working himself to complete the number of hand-bills. Of course he was betrayed. I don't think there are six people who knew where the press was; even I didn't know." "Where did you hear of it, Katia?" "Feodorina Samuloff told me; you know she often helps Michaelovich to work at the press; she thinks it must have been either Louka or Gasin. Why should Michaelovich have sent them away when he hadn't finished work if one or the other of them had not made some excuse so as to get out of the way before the police came? But that is nothing, there will be time to find out which is the traitor; they know nothing, either of them, except that they worked at the secret press with him; they were never much trusted. But Michaelovich is a terrible loss, he was always daring and full of expedients." "They will get nothing from him," Petroff said. "Not they," she agreed. "When do they ever get anything out of us? One of the outer-circle fellows like Louka and Gasin, who know nothing, who are instruments and nothing more, may tell all they know for gold, or for fear of the knout, but never once have they learned anything from one who knows. Fortunately the press was a very old one and there was but little type there, only just enough for printing small hand-bills; we have two others ready to set up." "Were there any papers there?" "No, Michaelovich was too careful for that." "I hear that old Libka died in prison yesterday," Akim said. "He is released from his suffering," Katia said solemnly. "Anything else, Akim?" "Yes, a batch of prisoners start for Siberia to-morrow, and there are ten of us among them." "Well, be careful for the next few days, Akim," Katia said; "don't do anything in the schools, it will not be long now before all is ready to strike a blow, and it is not worth while to risk anything until after that. I have orders that we are all to keep perfectly quiet till the plans are settled and we each get our instructions. Now I must go, I have two lessons to give this afternoon. It tries one a little to be talking to children about quavers and semiquavers when one's head is full of great plans, and you know that at any moment a policeman may tap you on the shoulder and take you off to the dungeons of St. Nicholas, from which one will never return unless one is carried out, or is sent to Siberia, which would be worse. Be careful; the police have certainly got scent of something, they are very active at present;" and with a nod she turned and left the room. "She is a brave girl," Akim said. "I think the women make better conspirators than we do, Petroff. Look at her. She was a little serious to-day because of Michaelovich, but generally she is in high spirits, and no one would dream that she thought of anything but her pupils and pleasure. Then there is Feodorina Samuloff. She works all day, I believe, in a laundry, and she looks as impassive as if she had been carved out of soap. Yet she is ready to go on working all night if required, and if she had orders she would walk into the Winter Palace and throw down a bomb (that would kill her as well as everyone else within its reach) with as much coolness as if she was merely delivering a message." CHAPTER II. A CAT'S-PAW. One evening a fortnight later Godfrey went with two young Englishmen to a masked ball at the Opera. It was a brilliant scene. Comparatively few of the men were masked or in costume, but many of the ladies were so. Every other man was in uniform of some kind, and the floor of the house was filled with a gay laughing crowd, while the boxes were occupied by ladies of the highest rank, several of the imperial family being present. He speedily became separated from his companions, and after walking about for an hour he became tired of the scene, and was about to make his way towards the entrance when a hand was slipped behind his arm. As several masked figures had joked him on walking about so vaguely by himself, he thought that this was but another jest. "You are just the person I wanted," the mask said. "I think you have mistaken me for some one else, lady," he replied. "Not at all. Now put up your arm and look as if I belong to you. Nonsense! do as you are told, Godfrey Bullen." "Who are you who know my name?" Godfrey laughed, doing as he was ordered, for he had no doubt that the masked woman was a member of one of the families whom he had visited. "You don't know who I am?" she asked. "How should I when I can see nothing but your eyes through those holes?" "I am Katia, the cousin of your friend Akim." "Oh, of course!" Godfrey said, a little surprised at meeting the music mistress in such an assembly. "I fancied I knew your voice, though I could not remember where I had heard it. And now what can I do for you?" The young woman hesitated. "We have got up a little mystification," she said after a pause, "and I am sure I can trust you; besides, you don't know the parties. There is a gentleman here who is supposed to be with his regiment at Moscow; but there is a sweetheart in the case, and you know when there are sweethearts people do foolish things." "I have heard so," Godfrey laughed, "though I don't know anything about it myself, for I sha'n't begin to think of such luxuries as sweethearts for years to come." "Well, he is here masked," the girl went on, "and unfortunately the colonel of his regiment is here, and some ill-natured person--we fancy it is a rival of his--has told the colonel. He is furious about it, and declares that he will catch him and have him tried by court-martial for being absent without leave. The only thing is, he is not certain as to his information." "Well, what can I do?" Godfrey asked. "How can I help him?" "You can help if you like, and that without much trouble to yourself. He is at present in the back of that empty box on the third tier. I was with him when I saw you down here, so I left him to say good-bye to his sweetheart alone, and ran down to fetch you, for I felt sure you would oblige me. What I thought was this: if you put his mask and cloak on--you are about the same height--it would be supposed that you are he. The colonel is waiting down by the entrance. He will come up to you and say, 'Captain Presnovich?' You will naturally say, 'By no means.' He will insist on your taking your mask off. This you will do, and he will, of course, make profuse apologies, and will believe that he has been altogether misinformed. In the meantime Presnovich will manage to slip out, and will go down by the early train to Moscow. It is not likely that the colonel will ever make any more inquiries about it, but if he does, some of Presnovich's friends will be ready to declare that he never left Moscow." "But can't he manage to leave his mask and cloak in the box and to slip away without them?" "No, that would never do. It is necessary that the colonel should see for himself that the man in the cloak, with the white and red bow pinned to it, is not the captain." "Very well, then, I will do it," Godfrey said. "It will be fun to see the colonel's face when he finds out his mistake; but mind I am doing it to oblige you." "I feel very much obliged," the girl said; "but don't you bring my name into it though." "How could I?" he laughed. "I do not see that I am likely to be cross-questioned in any way; but never fear, I will keep your counsel." By this time they had arrived at the door of the box. "Wait a moment," she said, "I will speak to him first." She was two minutes gone, and then opened the door and let him in. "I am greatly obliged to you, sir," a man said as he entered. "It is a foolish business altogether, but if you will enact my part for a few minutes you will get me out of an awkward scrape." "Don't mention it," Godfrey replied. "It will be a joke to laugh over afterwards." He placed the broad hat, to which the black silk mask was sewn, on his head, and Katia put the cloak on his shoulders. "I trust you," she said in a low voice as she walked with him to the top of the stairs. "There, I must go now. I had better see Captain Presnovich safely off, and then go and tell the young lady, who is a great friend of mine--it is for her sake I am doing it, you know, not for his--how nicely we have managed to throw dust in the colonel's eyes!" Regarding the matter as a capital joke, Godfrey went down-stairs and made his way to the entrance, expecting every moment to be accosted by the irascible colonel. No one spoke to him, however, and he began to imagine that the colonel must have gone to seek the captain elsewhere, and hoped that he would not meet him as he went down the stairs with Katia. He walked down the steps into the street. As he stepped on to the pavement a man seized him from behind, two others grasped his wrists, and before he knew what had happened he was run forward across the pavement to a covered sledge standing there and flung into it. His three assailants leapt in after him; the door was slammed; another man jumped on to the box with the driver; and two mounted men took their places beside it as it dashed off from the door. The men had again seized Godfrey's hands and held them firmly the instant they entered the carriage. "It is of no use your attempting to struggle," one of the men said, "there is an escort riding beside the sledge, and a dozen more behind it. There is no chance of a rescue, and I warn you you had best not open your lips; if you do, we will gag you." Godfrey was still half bewildered with the suddenness of the transaction. What had he been seized for? Who were the men who had got hold of him? and why were they gripping his wrists so tightly? He had heard of arbitrary treatment in the Russian army, but that a colonel should have a captain seized in this extraordinary way merely because he was absent from his post without leave was beyond anything he thought possible. "I thought I was going to have the laugh all on my side," he said to himself, "but so far it is all the other way." In ten minutes the carriage stopped for a moment, there was a challenge, then some gates were opened. Godfrey had already guessed his destination, and his feeling of discomfort had increased every foot he went. There was no doubt he was being taken to the fortress. "It seems to me that Miss Katia has got me into a horrible scrape of some kind," he said to himself. "What a fool I was to let myself be humbugged by the girl in that way!" Two men with lanterns were at the door of a building, at which the carriage, after passing into a large court-yard, drew up. Still retaining their grip on his wrists, two of the men walked beside him down a passage, while several others followed behind. An officer of high rank was sitting at the head of a table, one of inferior rank stood beside him, while at the end of the table were two others with papers and pens before them. "So you have captured him!" the general said eagerly. "Yes, your excellency," the man who had spoken to Godfrey in the carriage said respectfully. "Has he been searched?" "No, your excellency, the distance was so short, and I feared that he might wrench one of his hands loose. Moreover, I thought that you might prefer his being searched in your presence." "It is better so. Take off that disguise." As the hat and mask were removed the officer sprang to his feet and exclaimed, "Why, who is this? This is not the man you were ordered to arrest; you have made some confounded blunder." "I assure you, your excellency," the official said in trembling accents, "this is the only man who was there in the disguise we were told of. There, your excellency, is the bunch of white and red ribbons on his cloak." "And who are you, sir?" the general thundered. "My name, sir, is Godfrey Bullen. I reside with Ivan Petrovytch, a merchant living in the Vassili Ostrov." "But how come you mixed up in this business, sir?" the general exclaimed furiously. "How is it that you are thus disguised, and that you are wearing that bunch of ribbon? Beware how you answer me, sir, for this is a matter which concerns your life." "So far as I am concerned, sir," Godfrey said, "I am absolutely ignorant of having done any harm in the matter, and have not the most remote idea why I have been arrested. I may have behaved foolishly in allowing myself to take part in what I thought was a masquerade joke, but beyond that I have nothing to blame myself for. I went to the Opera-house, never having seen a masked ball before. I was alone, and being young and evidently a stranger, I was spoken to and joked by several masked ladies. Presently one of them came up to me. I had no idea who she was; she was closely masked, and I could see nothing of her face." He then repeated the request that had been made him. "Do you expect me to believe this ridiculous nonsense about this Captain Presnovich and his colonel?" "I can only say, sir, what I am telling you is precisely what happened, and that I absolutely believed it. It seemed to me a natural thing that a young officer might come to a ball to see a lady who perhaps he had no other opportunity of meeting alone. I see now that I was very foolish to allow myself to be mixed up in the affair; but I thought that it was a harmless joke, and so I did as this woman asked me." "Go on, sir," the general said in a tone of suppressed rage. "There is little more to tell, sir. I went up with this woman to the box she had pointed out, and there found this Captain Presnovich as I believed him to be. I put on his hat, mask, and cloak, walked down the stairs, and was leaving the Opera-house when I was arrested, and am even now wholly ignorant of having committed any offence." "A likely story," the general said sarcastically. "And this woman, did you see her face?" "No, sir, she was closely masked. I could not even see if she were young or old; and she spoke in the same disguised, squeaking sort of voice that all the others that had spoken to me used." "And that is your entire story, sir; you have nothing to add to it?" "Nothing whatever, sir. I have told you the simple truth." The general threw himself back in his chair, too exasperated to speak farther, but made a sign to the officer standing next to him to take up the interrogation. The questions were now formal. "Your name is Godfrey Bullen?" he asked. "It is." "Your nationality?" "British." "Your domicile?" Godfrey gave the address. "How long have you been in Russia?" "Four months." "What is your business?" "A clerk to Ivan Petrovytch." "How comes it that you speak Russian so well?" "I was born here, and lived up to the age of ten with my father, John Bullen, who was a well-known merchant here, and left only two years ago." "That will do," the general said impatiently. "Take him to his cell and search him thoroughly." Naturally the most minute search revealed nothing of an incriminating character. At length Godfrey was left alone in the cell, which contained only a single chair and a rough pallet. "I have put my foot in it somehow," he said to himself, "and I can't make head nor tail of it beyond the fact that I have made an ass of myself. Was the whole story a lie? Was the fellow's name Presnovich? if not, who was he? By the rage of the general, who, I suppose, is the chief of the police, it was evident he was frightfully disappointed that I wasn't the man he was looking for. Was this Presnovich somebody that girl Katia knew and wanted to get safely away? or was she made a fool of just as I was? She looked a bright, jolly sort of girl; but that goes for nothing in Russia, all sorts of people get mixed up in plots. If she was concerned in getting him away I suppose she fixed on me because, being English and a new-comer here, it would be easy for me to prove that I had nothing to do with plots or anything of that sort, whereas if a Russian had been in my place he might have got into a frightful mess over it. Well, I suppose it will all come right in the end. It is lucky that the weather has got milder or I should have had a good chance of being frozen to death; it is cold enough as it is." Resuming his clothes, which had been thrown down on the pallet, Godfrey drew the solitary rug over him, and in spite of the uncertainty of the position was soon fast asleep. He woke just as daylight was breaking, and was so bitterly cold that he was obliged to get up and stamp about the cell to restore circulation. Two hours later the cell door was opened and a piece of dark-coloured bread and a jug of water were handed in to him. "If this is prison fare I don't care how soon I am out of it," he said to himself as he munched the bread. "I wonder what it is made of! Rye!" The day passed without anyone coming near him save the jailer, who brought a bowl of thin broth and a ration of bread for his dinner. "Can't you get me another rug?" he asked the man. "If I have got to stop here for another night I shall have a good chance of being frozen to death." Just as it was getting dark the man came in again with another blanket and a flat earthenware pan half full of sand, on which was burning a handful or two of sticks; he placed a bundle of wood beside it. "That is more cheerful by a long way," Godfrey said to himself as the man, who had maintained absolute silence on each of his visits, left the cell. "No doubt they have been making a lot of inquiries about me, and find that I have not been in the habit of frequenting low company. I should not have had these indulgences if they hadn't. Well, it will be an amusement to keep this fire up. The wood is as dry as a bone luckily, or I should be smoked out in no time, for there is not much ventilation through that narrow loophole." The warmth of the fire and the additional blanket made all the difference, and in a couple of hours Godfrey was sound asleep. When he woke it was broad daylight, and although he felt cold it was nothing to what he had experienced on the previous morning. At about eleven o'clock, as near as he could guess, for his watch and everything had been removed when he was searched, the door was opened and a prison official with two warders appeared. By these he was conducted to the same room where he had been first examined. Neither of the officers who had then been there was present, but an elderly man sat at the centre of the table. "Godfrey Bullen," he said, "a careful investigation has been made into your antecedents, and with one exception, and that not, for various reasons, an important one, we have received a good report of you. Ivan Petrovytch tells us that you work in his office from breakfast-time till five in the afternoon, and that your evenings are at your own disposal, but that you generally dine with him. He gave us the names of the families with which you are acquainted, and where, as he understood, you spend your evenings when you are not at the Skating Club, where you generally go on Tuesdays and Fridays at least. We learn that you did spend your evenings with these families, and we have learned at the club that you are a regular attendant there two or three times a week, and that your general associates are:" and he read out a list which included, to Godfrey's surprise, the names of every one of his acquaintances there. "Therefore we have been forced to come to the conclusion that your story, incredible as it appeared, is a true one. That you, a youth and a foreigner, should have had the incredible levity to act in the way you describe, and to assume the disguise of a person absolutely unknown to you, upon the persuasion of a woman also absolutely unknown to you, well-nigh passes belief. Had you been older you would at once have been sent to the frontier; but as it is, the Czar, to whom the case has been specially submitted, has graciously allowed you to continue your residence here, the testimony being unanimous as to your father's position as a merchant, and to the prudence of his behaviour while resident here. But I warn you, Godfrey Bullen, that escapades of this kind, which may be harmless in England, are very serious matters here. Ignorantly, I admit, but none the less certainly, you have aided in the escape of a malefactor of the worst kind; and but for the proofs that have been afforded us that you were a mere dupe, the consequences would have been most serious to you, and even the fact of your being a foreigner would not have sufficed to save you from the hands of justice. You are now free to depart; but let this be a lesson to you, and a most serious one, never again to mix yourself up in any way with persons of whose antecedents you are ignorant, and in future to conduct yourself in all respects wisely and prudently." "It will certainly be a lesson to me, sir. I am heartily sorry that I was so foolish as to allow myself to be mixed up in such an affair, and think I can promise you that henceforth there will be no fault to be found in my conduct." In the ante-room Godfrey's watch, money, and the other contents of his pocket were restored to him. A carriage was in waiting for him at the outer door, and he was driven rapidly to the house of the merchant. "This is a nice scrape into which you have got yourself, Godfrey," Ivan Petrovytch said as he entered. "It is lucky for you that you are not a Russian. But how on earth have you got mixed up in a plot? We know nothing about it beyond the fact that you had been arrested, for, although a thousand questions were asked me about you, nothing was said to me as to the charge brought against you. We have been in the greatest anxiety about you. All sorts of rumours were current in the city as to the discovery of a plot to assassinate one of the grand-dukes at the Opera-house, and there are rumours that explosive bombs had been discovered in one of the boxes. It is said that the police had received information of the attempt that was to be made, and that every precaution had been taken to arrest the principal conspirator, but that in some extraordinary manner he slipped through their fingers. But surely you can never have been mixed up in that matter?" "That is what it was," Godfrey said, "though I had no more idea of having anything to do with a plot than I had of flying. I see now that I behaved like an awful fool." And he told the story to Petrovytch and his wife as he had told it to the head of the police. Both were shocked at the thought that a member of their household should have been engaged, even unwittingly, in such a treasonable affair. "It is a wonder that we ever saw you again," the merchant's wife exclaimed. "It is fortunate that we are known as quiet people or we might have been arrested too. I could not have believed that anyone with sense could be silly enough to put on a stranger's mantle and hat!" "But I thought," Godfrey urged, "that at masked balls people did play all sorts of tricks upon each other. I am sure I have read so in books. And it did seem quite likely--didn't it now?--that an officer should have come up to meet a young lady masked whom he had no chance of meeting at any other time. It certainly seemed to me quite natural, and I believe almost any fellow, if he were asked to help anyone to get out of a scrape like that, would do it." "You may do it in England or in France, but it doesn't do to take part in anything that you don't know for certain all about here. The wonder is they made any inquiries at all. If you had been a Russian the chances are that your family would never have heard of you again from the time you left to go to the opera. Nothing that you could have said would have been believed. Your story would have been regarded by the police as a mere invention. They would have considered it as certain that in some way or other you were mixed up in the conspiracy. They would have regarded your denials as simple obstinacy, and you would have been sent to Siberia for life." "I should advise you, Godfrey," Ivan Petrovytch said, "to keep an absolute silence about this affair. Mention it to no one. Everyone knows that something has happened to you, as the police have been everywhere inquiring; but there is no occasion to tell anyone the particulars. Of course rumours get about as to the action of the Nihilists and of the police, but as little is said as possible. It is, of course, a mere rumour that a plot was discovered at the Opera-house. Probably there were an unusual number of police at all the entrances, and a very little thing gives rise to talk and conjecture. People think that the police would not have been there had they not had suspicion that something or other was going to take place, and as everything in our days is put down to the Nihilists, it was naturally reported that the police had discovered some plot; and as two of the grand-dukes were there, people made sure it was in some way connected with them. "As nothing came of it, and no one was, as far as was known, arrested, it would be supposed that the culprit, whoever he was, managed to evade the police. Such rumours as these are of very common occurrence, and it is quite possible that there is not much more truth in them this time than there is generally; however, of one thing you may be sure, the police are not fonder than other people of being outwitted, and whether the man for whom they were in search was a Nihilist or a criminal of some other sort you certainly aided him to escape. You are sure to be watched for some time, and it will be known to the police in a very few hours if you repeat this story to your acquaintances; if they find you keep silence about it, they will give you credit for discretion, while it would certainly do you a good deal of harm, and might even now lead to your being promptly sent across the frontier, were it known that you made a boast of having outwitted them. "There is another reason. You will find that for a time most of your friends here will be a little shy of you. People are not fond of having as their intimates persons about whom the police are inquiring, and you will certainly find for a time that you will receive very few invitations to enter the houses of any Russians. It would be different, however, if it were known that the trouble was about something that had no connection with politics; therefore, I should advise you, when you are asked questions, to turn it off with a laugh. Say you got mixed up in an affair between a young lady and her lover, and that, like many other people, you found that those who mingle in such matters often get left in the lurch. You need not say much more than that. You might do anything here without your friends troubling much about it provided it had nothing to do with politics. Rob a bank, perpetrate a big swindle, run away with a court heiress, and as long as the police don't lay hands on you nobody else will trouble their heads about the affair; but if you are suspected of being mixed up in the most remote way with politics, your best friends will shun you like the plague." "I will take your advice certainly," Godfrey said, "and even putting aside the danger you point out, I should not be anxious to tell people that I suffered myself to be entrapped so foolishly." For some time, indeed, Godfrey found that his acquaintance fell away from him, and that he was not asked to the houses of any of the Russian merchants where he had been before made welcome. Cautious questions would be asked by the younger men as to the trouble into which he got with the police; but he turned these off with a laugh. "I am not going to tell the particulars," he said, "they concern other people. I can only tell you that I was fool enough to be humbugged by a pretty little masker, and to get mixed up in a love intrigue in which a young lady, her lover a captain in the army, and an irascible colonel were concerned, and that the young people made a cat's-paw of me. I am not going to say more than that, I don't want to be laughed at for the next six months;" and so it became understood that the young Englishman had simply got into some silly scrape, and had been charged by a colonel in the army with running away with his daughter, and he was therefore restored to his former footing at most of the houses that he had before visited. Two days after his release a note was slipped into Godfrey's hand by a boy as he went out after dinner for a walk. It was unsigned, and ran as follows:-- "Dear Godfrey Bullen, my cousin is in a great state of distress. She was deceived by a third person, and in turn deceived you. She has heard since that the story was an entire fiction to enable a gentleman for whom the police were in search to escape. She only heard last night of your arrest and release, and is in the greatest grief that she should have been the innocent means of this trouble coming upon you. You know how things are here, and she is overwhelmed with gratitude that you did not in defence give any particulars that might have enabled them to trace her, for she would have found it much more difficult than a stranger would have done to have proved her innocence. She knows that you did say nothing, for had you done so she would have been arrested before morning; not improbably we might also have found ourselves within the walls of a prison, since you met her at our room, and the mere acquaintanceship with a suspected person is enough to condemn one here. By the way, we have moved our lodging, but will give you our new address when we meet you, that is, if you are good enough to continue our acquaintance in spite of the trouble that has been caused you by the credulity and folly of my cousin." Godfrey, who had begun to learn prudence, did not open the letter until he returned home, and as soon as he had read it dropped it into the stove. He was pleased at its receipt, for he had not liked to think that he had been duped by a girl. From the first he had believed that she, like himself, had been deceived, for it had seemed to him out of the question that a young music mistress, who did not seem more than twenty years old, could have been mixed up in the doings of a desperate set of conspirators; however, he quite understood the alarm she must have felt, for though his story might have been believed owing to his being a stranger, and unconnected in any way with men who could have been concerned in a Nihilist plot, it would no doubt have been vastly more difficult for her to prove her innocence, especially as it was known that there were many women in the ranks of the Nihilists. It was a fortnight before he met either of the students, and he then ran against them upon the quay just at the foot of the equestrian statue of Peter the Great, opposite the Isaac Cathedral. They hesitated for a moment, but he held out his hand cordially. "Where have you been, and how is it I have not seen you before?" "We were afraid that you might not care to know us further," Akim said, "after the trouble that that foolish cousin of mine involved you in." "That would have been ridiculous," Godfrey said. "If we were to blame our friends for the faults of persons to whom they introduce us, there would be an end to introductions." "Everyone wouldn't think as you do," Akim said. "We both wished to meet you, and thank you for so nobly shielding her. The silly girl might be on her way to Siberia now if you had given her name." "I certainly should not have done that in any case. It is not the way of an Englishman to betray his friend, especially when that friend is a woman; but I thought even before I got your letter that she must in some way or other have been misled herself." "It was very good of you," Petroff said. "Katia has been in great distress over it. She thinks that you can never forgive her." "Pray tell her from me, Petroff, that I have blamed myself, not her. I ought not to have let myself be persuaded into taking any part in the matter. I entered into it as a joke, thinking it would be fine fun to see the old colonel's face, and also to help a pair of lovers out of a scrape. It would have been a good joke in England, but this is not a country where jokes are understood. At any rate it has been a useful lesson to me, and in future young ladies will plead in vain to get me to mix myself up in other people's affairs." "We are going to a students' party to-night," Petroff said. "One of our number who has just passed the faculty of medicine has received an appointment at Tobolsk. It is a long way off; but it is said to be a pleasant town, and the pay is good. He is an orphan, and richer than most of us, so he is going to celebrate it with a party to-night before he starts. Will you come with us?" "I should like it very much," Godfrey said; "but surely your friend would not wish a stranger there on such an occasion." "Oh, yes, he would! he would be delighted, he is very fond of the English. I will answer for it that you will be welcome. Meet us here at seven o'clock this evening; he has hired a big room, and there will be two or three dozen of us there--all good fellows. Most of them have passed, and you will see the army and navy, the law and medicine, all represented." Godfrey willingly agreed to go. He thought he should see a new phase of Russian life, and at the appointed hour he met the two students. The entertainment was held in a large room in a traktar or eating-house in a small street. The room was already full of smoke, a number of young men were seated along two tables extending the length of the room, and crossed by one at the upper end. Several were in military uniform, and two or three in that of the navy. Akim and Petroff were greeted boisterously by name as they entered. "I will talk to you presently," Akim shouted in reply to various invitations to take his seat. "I have a friend whom I must first introduce to Alexis." He and Petroff took Godfrey up to the table at the end of the room. "Alexis," Akim said, "I have brought you a gentleman whom I am sure you will welcome. He has proved himself a true friend, one worthy of friendship and honour. His name is Godfrey Bullen." There was general silence as Akim spoke, and an evident curiosity as to the stranger their comrade had introduced. The host, who had risen to his feet, grasped Godfrey's hand warmly. "I am indeed glad to meet you, Godfrey Bullen," he said. "My friends, greet with me the English friend of Akim and Petroff." There was a general thumping of glasses on the table, and two or three of those sitting near Alexis rose from their seats and shook hands with Godfrey, with a warmth and cordiality which astonished him. Room was made for him and his two friends at the upper end of one of the side tables, and when he had taken his seat the lad was able to survey the scene quietly. Numbers of bottles were ranged down the middle of the tables, which were of bare wood without cloth. These contained, as Petroff told him, wines from various parts of Russia. There were wines similar to sherry and Bordeaux, from the Crimea; Kahetinskoe, strongly resembling good burgundy, from the Caucasus; and Don Skoe, a sparkling wine resembling champagne, from the Don. Besides these were tankards of Iablochin Kavas, or cider; Grushevoi Kavas, or perry; Malovinoi, a drink prepared from raspberries; and Lompopo, a favourite drink on the shores of the Baltic. The conversation naturally turned on student topics, of tricks played on professors, on past festivities, amusements, and quarrels. No allusion of any kind was made to politics, or to the matters of the day. Jovial songs were sung, the whole joining in chorus with great animation. At nine o'clock waiters appeared with trays containing the indispensable beginning of all Russian feasts. Each tray contained a large number of small dishes with fresh caviar, raw herrings, smoked salmon, dried sturgeon, slices of German sausage, smoked goose, ham, radishes, cheese, and butter. From these the guests helped themselves at will, the servants handing round small glasses of Kümmel Liftofka, a spirit flavoured with the leaves of the black-currant, and vodka. Then came the supper. Before each guest was placed a basin of stehi, a cabbage soup, sour cream being handed round to be added to it; then came rastigai patties, composed of the flesh of the sturgeon and isinglass. This was followed by cold boiled sucking pig with horse-radish sauce. After this came roast mutton stuffed with buck-wheat, which concluded the supper. When the table was cleared singing began again, but Godfrey stayed no longer, excusing himself to his host on the ground that the merchant kept early hours, and that unless when he had specially mentioned that he should not be home until late, he made a point of being in between ten and eleven. He was again surprised at the warmth with which several of the guests spoke to him as he said good-night, and went away with the idea in his mind that among the younger Russians, at any rate, Englishmen must be much more popular than he had before supposed. One or two young officers had given him their cards, and said that they should be pleased if he would call upon them. "I have had a pleasant evening," he said to himself. "They are a jolly set of fellows, more like boys than men. It was just the sort of thing I could fancy a big breaking-up supper would be if fellows could do as they liked, only no head-master would stand the tremendous row they made with their choruses. However, I don't expect they very often have a jollification like this. I suppose our host was a good deal better off than most of them. Petroff said that he was the son of a manufacturer down in the south. I wonder what he meant when he laughed in that quiet way of his when I said I wondered that as his father was well off he should take an appointment at such an out-of-the-way place as Tobolsk. 'Don't ask questions here,' he said, 'those fellows handing round the meat may be government spies.' I don't see, if they were, what interest they could have in the question why Alexis Stumpoff should go to Tobolsk. "However, I suppose they make a point of never touching on private affairs where any one can hear them, however innocent the matter may be. It must be hateful to be in a country where, for aught you know, every other man you come across is a spy. I daresay I am watched now; that police fellow told me I should be. It would be a lark to turn off down by-streets and lead the spy, if there is one, a tremendous dance; but jokes like that won't do here. I got off once, but if I give them the least excuse again they may send me off to the frontier. I should not care much myself, but it would annoy the governor horribly, so I will walk back as gravely as a judge." CHAPTER III A HUNTING PARTY. Two days later Robson, an English merchant who had been one of the most intimate of Godfrey's acquaintances, and to whom he had confided the truth about his arrest, said to him: "You are not looking quite yourself, lad." "Oh, I am all right!" he said; "but it is not a pleasant thing having had such a close shave of being sent to Siberia; and it isn't only that. No doubt the police feel that they owe me a grudge for having been the means of this fellow, whoever he was, slipping through their fingers, and I shall be a suspected person for a long time. Of course it is only fancy, but I am always thinking there is some one following me when I go out. I know it is nonsense, but I can't get rid of it." "I don't suppose they are watching you as closely as that," Mr. Robson said, "but I do think it is likely that they may be keeping an eye on you; but if they are they will be tired of it before long, when they see that you go your own way and have nothing to do with any suspected persons. You want a change, lad. I have an invitation to join a party who are going up to Finland to shoot for a couple of days. It is more likely than not that we shall never have a chance of firing a shot, but it will be an outing for you, and will clear your brain. Do you think you would like it?" "Thank you very much, Mr. Robson, I should like it immensely. Petrovytch was saying this morning that he thought I should be all the better for a holiday, so I am sure he will spare me. I am nothing of a shot, in fact I never fired a shot at game in my life, though I have practised a bit with the rifle, but I am sure it will be very jolly whether we shoot anything or not." "Very well, then, be at the station to catch the seven o'clock train in the morning. It is a four hours' railway journey." "Is there anything to bring, sir?" "No, you can take a hand-bag and sleeping things, but beyond a bit of soap and a towel I don't suppose you will have need of anything, for you will most likely sleep at some farm-house, or perhaps in a woodman's hut, and there will not be any undressing. There are six of us going from here, counting you, but the party is got up by two or three men we know there. They tell me some of the officers of the regiment stationed there will be of the party, and they will have a hundred or so of their men to act as beaters. I have a spare gun that I will bring for you." The next morning Godfrey joined Mr. Robson at the station. A Mr. White, whom he knew well, was one of the party, and the other three were Russians. They had secured a first-class compartment, and as soon as they started they rigged up a table with one of the cushions and began to play whist. "You don't play, I suppose, Godfrey?" Mr. Robson said. "No, sir. I have played a little at my father's, but it will be a long time before I shall be good enough to play. I have heard my father say that there is better whist at St. Petersburg than in any place in the world." "I think he is right, lad. The Russians are first-rate players and are passionately fond of the game, and naturally we English here have had to learn to play up to their standard. The game is similar to that in England, but they score altogether differently." The four hours passed rapidly. Godfrey sometimes looked out of the window at the flat country they were passing through, but more often watched the play. They were met at the station by two of Mr. Robson's friends, and found that sledges were in readiness and they were to start at once. "We have ten miles to drive," one of them said. "The others went on early; they will have had one beat by the time we get there, and are then to assemble for luncheon." The road was good and the horses fast, so that the sledges flew along rapidly. Most of the distance was through forest, but the last half-mile was open, and the sledge drew up at a large farm-house standing in the centre of the cleared space, and surrounded at a distance of half a mile on all sides by the forest. A dozen men, about half of whom were in uniform, poured out from the door as the four sledges drew up. "You are just in time," one of them said. "The soup is ready and in another minute we should have set to." The civilians all knew each other, but the new-comers were introduced to the Russian colonel and his five officers. "Have you had any luck, colonel?" Mr. Robson asked. "Wonderful," the latter replied with a laugh. "A stag came along and every one of us had a shot at it, and each and every one is ready to take oath that he hit it, so that every one is satisfied. Don't you call that luck?" Mr. Robson laughed. "But where is the stag?" he asked, looking round. "That is more than any one can tell you. He went straight on, and carried off our twelve bullets. Captain Fomitch here, and in fact all my officers, are ready to swear that the deer is enchanted, and they have all been crossing themselves against the evil omen. Such a thing was never heard of before, for being such crack shots, all of us, of course there can be no doubt about our each having hit the stag when it was not more than a hundred yards away at the outside; but come in, the soup smells too good to wait, and the sight of that enchanted beast has sharpened my appetite wonderfully." Godfrey entered with the rest. Large as the farm-house was, the greater portion of the ground-floor was occupied by the room they entered. It was entirely constructed of wood blackened with smoke and age. A great fire burned on the hearth, and the farmer's wife and two maids were occupied with several large pots, some suspended over the fire, others standing among the brands. The window was low, but extended half across one side of the room, and was filled with small lattice panes. From the roof hung hams, sides of bacon, potatoes in network bags, bunches of herbs, and several joints of meat. A table extended the length of the room covered with plates and dishes that from their appearance had evidently been brought out from the town, and differed widely from the rough earthenware standing on a great dresser of darkened wood extending down one side of the room. At one end the great pot was placed, the cloth having been pushed back for the purpose, and the colonel, seizing the ladle, began to fill the earthenware bowls which were used instead of soup plates. "Each man come for his ration before he sits down," he said. "It would be better if you did not sit down at all, for I know well enough that when my countrymen sit down to a meal it is a long time before they get up again, and we have to be in the forest again in three-quarters of an hour." "Quite right, colonel," one of the hosts said; "this evening you may sit as long as you like, but if we are to have another drive to-day we must waste no time. A basin of soup and a plate of stew are all you will get now, with a cup of coffee afterwards to arm you against the cold, and a glass of vodka or kümmil to top up with. No, colonel, not any punch just now. Punch in the evening; but if we were to begin with that now, I know that there would be no shooting this afternoon." "What are the beaters doing?" Mr. Robson asked as they hastily ate their dinner. "They have brought their bread with them," the colonel said, "and our friends here have provided a deer almost as fine as that which carried off the twelve bullets. It was roasting over a fire in the forest when we went past, and I saw some black bottles which I guessed were vodka." "Yes, colonel, I ordered that they should have a glass each with their dinner, and another glass when they had done this afternoon." "They would not mind being on fatigue duty every day through the winter on those terms," the colonel said. "It is better for them than soldiering. We must mind that we don't shoot any of them, gentlemen. The lives of the Czar's soldiers are not to be lightly sacrificed, and next time, you know, the whole of the bullets may not hit the mark as they did this morning." "There really is some danger in it," Mr. Robson said to Godfrey, who was sitting next to him; "in fact, I should say there was a good deal of danger. However, I fancy the beaters all throw themselves down flat when they hear the crack of the first rifle." "I see most of them have got a gun as well as a rifle." "Yes, there is no saying what may come along, and, indeed, they are more likely to get birds than fur. I was told there are a good many elk in the forest, and the peasants have been bringing an unusual number in lately. A friend of mine shot two last week; but as our party did not get one in their first drive they are not likely to get any afterwards. Occasionally in these big drives a good many animals are inclosed, but as a rule the noise the soldiers make as they move along to take up their places is enough to frighten every creature within a couple of miles. I told you you were not likely to have to draw a trigger. Expeditions like this are rather an excuse for a couple of days' fun than anything else. The real hunting is more quiet. Men who are fond of it have peasants in their pay all over the country, and if one of these hears of a bear or an elk anywhere in his neighbourhood he brings in the news at once, and then one or two men drive out to the village, where beaters will be in readiness for them, and have the hunt to themselves. "I used to do a good deal of it the first few years I came out, but it is bitter cold work waiting for hours till a beast comes past, or trying to crawl up to him. After all, there is no great fun in putting a bullet into a creature as big as a horse at a distance of thirty or forty yards. But there, they are making a move. They are going to drink the coffee and vodka standing, which is wise, for after standing in the snow for four hours, as they have been doing, they are apt to get so sleepy after a warm meal that if we were to stop here much longer you would find half the number would not make a start at all." The sledges were brought up, and there was a three miles drive through the forest. Then the shooters were placed in a line, some forty or fifty yards apart, each taking his station behind a tree. Then a small bugler sounded a note. Godfrey heard a reply a long distance off. Three-quarters of an hour passed without any further sound being heard, and then Godfrey, who had been stamping his feet and swinging his arms to keep himself warm, heard a confused murmur. Looking along the line he saw that the others were all on the alert, and he accordingly took up his gun and began to gaze across the snow. The right-hand barrel was loaded with shot, the left with ball. Presently a shot rang out away on his right, followed almost immediately afterwards by another. After this evidence that there must be something in the forest he watched more eagerly for signs of life. Presently he saw a hare coming loping along. From time to time it stopped and turned its head to listen, and then came on again. He soon saw that it was bearing to the left, and that it was not going to come within his range. He watched it disappear among the trees, and two minutes later heard a shot. Others followed to the right and left of him, and presently a hare, which he had not noticed, dashed past at full speed, almost touching his legs. He was so startled for the moment that the hare had got some distance before he had turned round and was ready to fire, and he was in no way surprised to see it dash on unharmed by his shot. When there was a pause in the firing the shouting recommenced, this time not far distant, and he soon saw men making their way towards him through the trees. "It is all over now," Mr. Robson shouted from the next tree. "If they have not done better elsewhere than we have here the bag is not a very large one." "Did you shoot anything, Mr. Robson?" "I knocked a hare over; that is the only thing I have seen. What have you done?" "I think I succeeded in frightening a hare, but that was all," Godfrey laughed. "It ran almost between my legs before I saw it, and I think it startled me quite as much as my shot alarmed it." The bugle sounded again, and the party were presently collected round the colonel. The result of the beat was five hares, and a small stag that had fallen to the gun of Mr. White. "Much cry and little wool," Mr. Robson said. "A hundred beaters, twenty guns, and six head of game." Another short beat was organized, resulting in two stags and three more hares. One of the stags and the three hares were placed on a sledge to be taken back to the farm-house, and the rest of the game was given to the soldiers. A glass of vodka was served out to each of them, and, highly pleased with their day's work, the men slung the deer to poles and set out on their march of eight miles back to the town. "They will have done a tremendous day's work by the time they have finished," Godfrey said. "Eight miles out and eight miles back, and three beats, which must have cost them four or five miles' walking at least. They must have gone over thirty miles through the snow." "It won't be as much as that, though it will be a long day's work," the colonel said. "They came out yesterday evening and slept in a barn. Another company come out to-night to take their place." It was already dark by the time the party reached the farm-house, and after a cup of coffee all round they began to prepare the dinner. They were like a party of school-boys, laughing, joking, and playing tricks with each other. Two of them undertook the preparation of hare-soup. Two others were appointed to roast a quarter of venison, keeping it turning as it hung by a cord in front of the fire, and being told that should it burn from want of basting they would forfeit their share of it. The colonel undertook the mixing of punch, and the odour of lemons, rum, and other spirits soon mingled with that of the cooking. Godfrey was set to whip eggs for a gigantic omelette, and most of the others had some task or other assigned to them, the farmer's wife and her assistants not being allowed to have anything to do with the matter. The dinner was a great success. After it was over a huge bowl of punch was placed on the table, and after the health of the Czar and that of the Queen of England had been drunk, speeches were made, songs were sung, and stories told. While this was going on, the farmer brought in a dozen trusses of straw. These his wife and the maids opened and distributed along both sides of the room, laying blankets over them. It was not long before Godfrey began to feel very drowsy, the result of the day's work in the cold, a good dinner, the heated air of the room and the din, and would have gladly lain down; but his movement to leave the table was at once frustrated, and he was condemned to drink an extra tumbler of punch as a penalty. After that he had but a confused idea of the rest of the evening. He knew that many songs were sung, and that everyone seemed talking together, and as at last he managed to get away and lie down on the straw he had a vague idea that the colonel was standing on a chair making a final oration, with the punch-bowl turned upside down and worn as a helmet. Godfrey had not touched the wine at dinner, knowing that he would be expected to take punch afterwards, and he had only sipped this occasionally, except the glass he had been condemned to drink; and when he heard the colonel shout in a stentorian voice "To arms!" he got up and shook himself, and felt ready for another day's work, although many of the others were sitting up yawning or abusing the colonel for having called them so early. However, it was already light. Two great samovars were steaming, and the cups set in readiness on the table. Godfrey managed to get hold of a pail of water and indulged in a good wash, as after a few minutes did all the others; while a cup or two of tea and a few slices of fried bacon set up even those who were at first least inclined to rise. A quarter of an hour later the sledges were at the door, and the party started. The hunt was even less successful than that of the previous day. No stag was seen, but some ten hares and five brace of grouse were shot. At three o'clock the party assembled again at the farm-house and had another hearty meal, terminating with one glass of punch round; then they took their places in their sledges and were driven back to the town; the party for St. Petersburg started by the six-o'clock train, the rest giving them a hearty cheer as the carriage moved off from the platform. "Well, have you enjoyed it, Godfrey?" Mr. Robson asked. "Immensely, sir. It has been grand fun. The colonel is a wonderful fellow." "There are no more pleasant companions than the Russians," Mr. Robson said. "They more closely resemble the Irish than any people I know. They have a wonderful fund of spirits, enjoy a practical joke, are fond of sport, and have too a sympathetic, and one may almost say a melancholy vein in their disposition, just as the Irish have. They have their faults, of course--all of us have; and the virtue of temperance has not as yet made much way here. Society, in fact, is a good deal like that in England two or three generations back, when it was considered no disgrace for a man to sit after dinner at the table until he had to be helped up to bed by the servants. Now, White, you have got the cards, I think." Godfrey watched the game for a short time, then his eyes closed, and he knew nothing more until Mr. Robson shook him and shouted, "Pull yourself together, Godfrey. Here we are at St. Petersburg." Three days later, when Ivan Petrovytch came in to breakfast at eleven o'clock--for the inmates of the house had a cup of coffee or chocolate and a roll in their rooms at half-past seven, and office work commenced an hour later--Godfrey saw that he and his wife were both looking very grave. Nothing was said until the servant, having handed round the dishes, left the room. "Has anything happened?" Godfrey asked. "Yes, there is bad news. Another plot against the life of the Czar has been discovered. The Nihilists have mined under the road by which he was yesterday evening to have travelled to the railway-station. It seems that some suspicion was felt by the police. I do not know how it arose; at any rate at the last moment the route was changed. During the night all the houses in the suspected neighbourhood were searched, and in the cellar of one of them a passage was found leading under the road. A mine was heavily charged with powder, and was connected by wires to an electric battery; and there can be no doubt that had the Czar passed by as intended he would have been destroyed by the explosion. It is terrible, terrible!" "Did they find any one in the cellar?" Godfrey asked. "No one. The conspirators had no doubt taken the alarm when they heard that the route was changed, and the place was deserted. It seems that the shop above was taken four months ago as a store for the sale of coal and wood, and the cellar and an adjoining one were hired at the same time. There was also a room behind the shop, where the man and woman who kept it lived. They say that arrests have been made all over the city this morning, and we shall no doubt have a renewal of the wholesale trials that followed the assassination of General Mesentzeff, the head of the police, last autumn. It is terrible! These misguided men hope to conquer the empire by fear. Instead of that, they will in the end only strengthen the hands of despotism. I have always been inclined to liberalism, but I have wished for gradual changes only. For large changes we are not yet fit; but as education spreads and we approach the western standard, some power and voice ought to be given to all intelligent enough to use it; that is to say, to the educated classes. I would not--no one in his senses would--give the power of voting to illiterate and ignorant men, who would simply be tools in the hands of the designing and ambitious; but the peoples of the great towns, St. Petersburg, Moskow, Kieff, Odessa, and others should be permitted to send representatives--men of their own choice--to the provincial councils, which should be strengthened and given a real, instead of a nominal, voice in the control of affairs. "That was all I and thousands like me ever wished for in the present, but it would have been the first step towards a constitution which the empire, when the people become fit for it, might enjoy. That dream is over. These men, by their wild violence, have thrown back the reforms for half a century at least. They have driven the Czar to war against them; they have strengthened the hands of the men who will use their acts as an excuse for the extremest measures of repression; they have ranged on the other side all the moderate men like myself, who, though desirous of constitutional changes, shrink with horror from a revolution heralded by deeds of bloodshed and murder." "I quite agree with you," Godfrey said warmly. "Men must be mad who could counsel such abominable plans. The French Revolution was terrible, although it began peacefully, and was at first supported by all the best spirits of France; but at last it became a hideous butchery. But here in Russia it seems to me that it would be infinitely worse, for it is only in the towns that there are men with any education; and if it began with the murder of the Czar, what would it grow to?" "What, indeed!" Ivan Petrovytch repeated. "And yet, like the French Revolution, the pioneers of this movement were earnest and thoughtful men, with noble dreams for the regeneration of Russia." "But how did it begin?" "It may be said to have started about 1860. The emancipation of the serfs produced a sort of fever. Every one looked for change, but it was in the universities, the seminaries, and among the younger professional men that it first began. Prohibited works of all kinds, especially those of European socialists, were, in spite of every precaution at the frontier, introduced and widely circulated. Socialistic ideas made tremendous progress among the class I speak of, and these, by writing, by the circulation of prohibited papers, and so on, carried on a sort of crusade against the government, and indeed against all governments, carrying their ideas of liberty to the most extreme point and waging war against religion as well as against society. "In the latter respect they were more successful than in the former, and I regret to say that atheism made immense strides among the educated class. They had some profound thinkers among them: Tchernyshevsky, Dobroluboff, Mikhailoff, besides Herzen and Ogareff, the two men who brought out the _Kolokol_ in London in the Russian language, and by their agents spread it broadcast over Russia. The stifling of the insurrection in Poland strengthened the reactionary party. More repressive edicts were issued, with the usual result, that secret societies multiplied everywhere. Then came the revolution and commune in Paris, which greatly strengthened the spread of revolutionary ideas here. Another circumstance gave a fresh impetus to this. Some time before, there had been a movement for what was called the emancipation of women, and a perfect furore arose among girls of all classes for education. "There were no upper schools or colleges open to them in Russia, and they went in enormous numbers to Switzerland, especially to Zurich. Girls of the upper classes shared their means with the poorer ones, and the latter eked out their resources by work of all descriptions. Zurich, as you know, is a hotbed of radicalism, and those young women who went to learn soon imbibed the wildest ideas. Then came a ukase, ordering the immediate return home of all Russian girls abroad. It was undoubtedly a great mistake. In Switzerland they were harmless, but when they returned to Russia and scattered over the towns and villages, they became so many apostles of socialism, and undoubtedly strengthened the movement. So it grew. Men of good families left their homes, and in the disguise of workmen expounded their principles among the lower classes. Among these was Prince Peter Krapotkine, the rich Cossack Obuchoff, Scisoko and Rogaceff, both officers, and scores of others, who gave up everything and worked as workmen among workmen. "Innumerable arrests were made, and at one trial a thousand prisoners were convicted. So wholesale were the arrests that even the most enthusiastic saw that they were simply sacrificing themselves in vain, and about 1877 they changed their tactics. The prisons were crowded, and the treatment there of the political prisoners was vastly harder than that given to those condemned for the most atrocious crimes, as you may imagine when I tell you that in the course of the trial of that one batch I spoke of, which lasted four years, seventy-five of the prisoners committed suicide, went mad, or died. Then when the authorities thought Nihilism was stamped out by wholesale severity the matter assumed another phase. The crusade by preaching had failed, and the Nihilists began a crusade of terror. First police spies were killed in many places, then more highly placed persons, officers of the police, judges, and officials who distinguished themselves by their activity and severity. Then in the spring of last year Vera Zasulitch shot at General Trépoff, who had ordered a political prisoner to be flogged. She was tried by a jury, and the feeling throughout the country was so much in favour of the people who had been so terribly persecuted that she was acquitted. The authorities were furious, and every effort was made to find and re-arrest Vera; and a verdict of the court acquitting many of the accused in one of the trials was annulled by the Czar. "Well, you know, Godfrey Bullen, I am not one who meddles with politics. You have never heard me speak of them before, and I consider the aims of these men would bring about anarchy. An anarchy that would deluge the land with blood seems to me detestable and wicked. But I cannot but think the government has made a terrible mistake by its severity. These people are all enthusiastic fanatics. They see that things are not as they should be, and they would destroy everything to right them. Hate their aims as one may, one must admit that their conduct is heroic. Few have quailed in their trials. All preserve a calmness of demeanour that even their judges and executioners cannot but admire. They seem made of iron; they suffer everything, give up everything, dare everything for their faith; they die, as the Christian martyrs died in Rome, unflinching, unrepentant. If they have become as wild beasts, severity has made them so. Their propaganda was at first a peaceful one. It is cruelty that has driven them to use the only weapon at their disposal, assassination. "One man, for example, in 1877, Jacob Stefanovic, organized a conspiracy in the district of Sighirino. It spread widely among the peasants. The priests, violating the secret of the confessional, informed the police, but these, although using every effort, could learn no more. Hundreds of arrests were made, but nothing discovered. Learning that the priests had betrayed them the peasants no longer went to confession, and to avoid betraying themselves in a state of drunkenness abstained from the use of brandy; but one man, tired and without food, took a glass. It made him drunk, and in his drunkenness he spoke to the man who had sold him spirits. He was arrested, and although he did not know all, gave enough clue for the police to follow up, and all the leaders and over a thousand persons were arrested. Two thousand others, who were affiliated to the society, were warned in time and escaped. You can guess the fate of those who were captured. "Last year, three months before you came here, General Mezentsoff, the head of the police, was assassinated, and since then we know that it is open war between the Nihilists and the Czar. The police hush matters up, but they get abroad. Threatening letters reach the Czar in his inmost apartments, and it is known that several attempts have been made to assassinate him, but have failed. "One of the most extraordinary things connected with the movement is that women play a large part in it. Being in the thick of every conspiracy they are the life and soul of the movement, and they are of all classes. There are a score of women for whose arrest the authorities would pay any money, and yet they elude every effort. It is horrible. This is what comes of women going to Switzerland and learning to look upon religion as a myth and all authority as hateful, and to have wild dreams of an impossible state of affairs such as never has existed in this world. It is horrible, but it is pitiable. The prisons in the land are full of victims; trains of prisoners set off monthly for Siberia. It is enough to turn the brain to think of such things. How it is to end no one can say." But it was only in bated breath and within closed doors that the discovery of the Nihilist plot was discussed in St. Petersburg. Elsewhere it was scarcely alluded to, although, if mentioned, those present vied with each other in the violence of their denunciation of it; but when society from the highest to the lowest was permeated by secret agents of the police, and every word was liable to be reported and misinterpreted, a subject so dangerous was shunned by common consent. It was known, though, that large numbers of arrests had been made, but even those whose dearest friends had suddenly disappeared said no word of it in public, for to be even a distant acquaintance of such a person was dangerous. Yet apparently everything went on as usual: the theatres were as well filled; the Nevski as crowded and gay. CHAPTER IV. A PRISONER. Soon after this St. Petersburg was startled at the news that there had been a terrible explosion at the Winter Palace, and that the Czar and royal family had narrowly escaped with their lives. Upon the following evening Godfrey was walking down the Nevski, where groups of people were still discussing the terrible affair. He presently met Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff. He had not seen them for some time, and as they had omitted to give him the address of the lodging into which they had moved, he was really glad to see them, for he liked them better than any of the Russians of his acquaintance, for both had an earnest manner and seemed to be free from narrow prejudices, sincere admirers of England, and on most subjects very well informed. "It is quite an age since I have seen you both," he said. "Where have you been hiding?" "We have been working harder than usual," Petroff said; "our last examinations are just coming off. But you said that you would come to see us, and you have never done so." "You did not tell me where you had moved to," Godfrey said, "or I should have done so long ago." "That was stupid indeed!" Akim said. "Have you an hour to spare now?" "Yes, I have nothing to do, and shall be very glad to come round and have a talk. This is a horrible business at the Winter Palace." "Horrible," Petroff said; "but it is just as well not to talk about it in the streets. Come along, we will take you to our place; we were just thinking of going back." A quarter of an hour's walking took them to the students' room, which was, like the last, at the top of the house. A lamp was lighted, the samovar placed on the table, and a little charcoal fire lit under it. A glass of vodka was handed round to pass the time until the water was boiling, pipes were brought out from the cupboard and filled, for cigars, which are cheap and good, are generally smoked in the streets in Russia by the middle and upper classes, pipes being only used there by Isvostchiks, labourers, and Englishmen. The conversation naturally for a time turned upon the explosion in the Winter Palace, the Russians expressing an indignation fully equal to that of Godfrey. Then they talked of England, both regretting that they were unable to speak the language. "I would give much to be able to read Shakespeare," Petroff said. "I have heard his works spoken of in such high terms by some of our friends who have studied your language, and I have heard, too, from them of your Dickens. They tell me it is like reading of another world--a world in which there are no officials, and no police, and no soldiers. That must be very near a paradise." "We have some soldiers," Godfrey laughed, "but one does not see much of them. About half of those we have at home are in two military camps, one in England and one in Ireland. There are the Guards in London, but the population is so large that you might go a week without seeing one, while in very few of the provincial towns are there any garrisons at all. There are police, and plenty of them, but as their business is only to prevent crime, they naturally don't play a prominent part in novels giving a picture of everyday life. As to officials, beyond rate-collectors we don't see anything of them, though there are magistrates, and government clerks, and custom officers, and that sort of thing, but they certainly don't play any prominent part in our lives." So they chatted for an hour, when at short intervals two other men came in. One was a tall handsome fellow who was introduced by Petroff as the son of Baron Kinkoff, the other was a young advocate of Moscow on a visit to St. Petersburg. Both, Godfrey observed, had knocked in a somewhat peculiar manner at the door, which opened, as he had noticed when they came in, only by a key. Akim observed a slight expression of surprise in Godfrey's face at the second knock, and said laughing: "Our remittances have not come to hand of late, Godfrey, and some of our creditors are getting troublesome, so we have established a signal by which we know our friends, while inconvenient visitors can knock as long as they like, and then go away thinking we are out." Godfrey chatted for a short time longer, and then got up to go. Akim went to the door with him. As it opened there was a sudden rush of men from outside that nearly knocked him down. Of what followed he had but a vague idea. Pistol shots rang out. There was a desperate struggle. He received a blow on the head which struck him to the ground, and an instant later there was a tremendous explosion. The next thing he knew was that he was being hauled from below some debris. As he looked round bewildered he saw that a considerable portion of the ceiling and of the roof above it had been blown out. Several bodies lay stretched on the floor. The room was still full of smoke, but by the light of two or three lanterns he perceived that the young baron, bleeding freely from a sabre wound across the forehead, was standing bound between two policemen with drawn swords. Policemen were examining the bodies on the floor, while others were searching the closets, cutting open the beds and turning out their contents. Akim lay on his back dead, and across him lay the young advocate. Of Petroff he could see nothing; the other bodies were those of policemen. Three of these near the door appeared to have been shot; the others were lying in contorted positions against the walls, as if they had been flung there by the force of the explosion. All this he saw in a state of vague wonderment, while the two policemen kneeling at his side were passing cords tightly round him. "This one still lives," one of the policemen said, stooping over the young advocate, "but I think he is nearly done for." "Never mind, bring him along with the others," a man in plain clothes said in tones of authority. "Get them away at once, we shall have half St. Petersburg here in a few minutes." Godfrey was lifted by the policemen, one at his head, and one at his feet, carried down-stairs, and flung into a vehicle at the door. Dully he heard a roar of excited shouts and questions, and the sharp orders of the police ranged round the vehicle. Three policemen took their places inside with him, and the vehicle drove off, slowly at first until it was free of the crowd, and then at a sharp gallop. Godfrey was conscious of but little as he went along; he had a vague idea of a warm moist feeling down the back, and wondered whether it was his own blood. Gradually his impressions became more and more indistinct, and he knew nothing more until he was conscious of a sensation of cold at the back of the head, and of a murmur of voices round him. Soon he was lifted up into a sitting position, and he felt that bandages were being wrapped round his head. Then he was laid down again, he heard a door slam and a key turn, and then he knew nothing more. When he awoke daylight was streaming in through a loophole high up in the wall. He tried to sit up, but could not, and looked round trying to recall where he was and what had happened. He was in a dark cell with no furniture save the straw on which he was lying. "It is a prison certainly," he muttered to himself. "How did I get here?" Then gradually the events of the night before came to his mind. There had been a terrible fight. Akim had been killed. There had been a tremendous explosion. The police had something to do with it. Was it all a dream, or was it real? Was he dreaming now? He was some time before he could persuade himself that it was all real, and indeed it was not until the door opened and two men entered that he felt quite sure that he, Godfrey Bullen, was really lying there in a prison cell, with a dull numbing pain at the back of his head, and too weak even to sit upright. One of the men leaned over him. Godfrey tried to speak, but could not do so above a whisper. "He will do now," the man said without paying any attention to his words. "He must have a thick skull or that sword-cut would have finished him. Give him some wine and water now, and some soup presently. We must not let him slip through our fingers." Some liquid was poured between his lips, and then he was left alone again. "Certainly it is all real," he said to himself. "Akim must have been killed, and I must be a prisoner. What in the world can it be all about?" He was too weak to think, but after another visit had been paid him, and he had been lifted up and given some strong broth, he began to think more clearly. "Can it have been a Nihilist arrest?" he thought to himself. "Akim and Petroff can never be Nihilists. The idea is absurd. I have never heard them say a word against the government or the Czar." Then he thought of their friend Katia, and how she had got him to aid in the escape of a Nihilist. "It is all nonsense," he murmured, "the idea of a girl like that being mixed up in a conspiracy." Then his ideas again became more and more confused, and when the doctor visited him again in the evening he was in a state of high fever, talking incoherently to himself. For seven days he continued in that state. There was no lack of care; the doctor visited him at very short intervals, and an attendant remained night and day beside him, applying cold bandages to his head, and carefully noting down in a book every word that passed his lips. Then a good constitution gradually triumphed over the fever, and on the eighth day he lay a mere shadow of himself, but cool and sensible, on a bed in an airy ward. Nourishing food was given to him in abundance, but it was another week before he was able to stand alone. Then one morning two attendants brought a stretcher to the side of his bed. He was assisted to put on his clothes, and was then placed on the stretcher and carried away. He was taken through long passages, up and down stairs, at last into a large room. Here he was lifted on the stretcher and placed in a chair. Facing him at a table were nine officers. "Prisoner," the president said, glancing at a large closely-written sheet of paper before him, "you are accused of taking part in a Nihilist conspiracy to murder the Czar." "I know nothing of any Nihilist conspiracy," Godfrey said. "I was accidentally in the room with my friends Akim and Petroff when the police entered." The president waved his hand impatiently. "That of course," he said. "Your name is Godfrey Bullen?" "Yes, sir." "Born in St. Petersburg, but of English parentage?" Godfrey bowed his head. "Three months since you took part in the plot by means of which the notorious Valerian Ossinsky escaped from the hands of the police, and you were the accomplice of Sophia Perovskaia in that matter." "I never heard the name before," Godfrey said. The president paid no attention, but went on: "You said at the time," he continued, reading from the notes, "that you did not know the woman who spoke to you, but it is known that she was an associate of Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff, at whose place you were captured the other day. There is therefore no doubt that you know her." "I knew her under another name," Godfrey said; "but if I had been told she was Sophia Perovskaia, it conveyed nothing to me, for I had never heard of her." "You are committing yourself, prisoner," the president said coldly. "When examined you denied all acquaintance with the woman, and declared that she was a stranger." "Excuse me, sir," Godfrey said, "I said it was a masked woman, and that I did not see her face, which was perfectly true. I admit now that I did know who she was, but naturally as a gentleman I endeavoured to shield her in a matter concerning which I believed that she was as innocent as I was." A murmur of incredulity ran round the circle of officers. "A few days after that," the president went on, again reading from his notes, "you were present with Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff at a supper in a trakir in Ossuloff Street. There were present on that occasion"--and he read a list of six names--"four of whom have since been convicted and punished, and two of whom, although not yet taken, are known to have been engaged in the murderous attempt at the Winter Palace. You were greeted there with significant enthusiasm, which was evidently a testimony on the part of these conspirators to the part you had played in the affair of Ossinsky." Godfrey felt that the meshes were closing round him. He remembered that he had wondered at the time why he had been received with such great cordiality. "Now," the president went on, "you are captured in the room of Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff, who were both beyond doubt engaged in the plot at the Winter Palace, with two other equally guilty conspirators, and were doubtless deliberating on some fresh atrocity when interrupted by the agents of the police. You shared in the desperate resistance they made, which resulted in the death of eight police officers by pistol shot, or by the explosion of gunpowder, by which Petroff Stepanoff, who fired it, was also blown to pieces. What have you to say in your defence?" "I still say that I am perfectly innocent," Godfrey said. "I knew nothing of these men being conspirators in any way, and I demand to be allowed to communicate with my friends, and to obtain the assistance of an advocate." "An advocate could say nothing for you," the president said. "You do not deny any of the charges brought against you, which are, that you were the associate of these assassins, that you aided Sophia Perovskaia in effecting the escape of Valerian Ossinsky, that you received the congratulations of the conspirators at the banquet, and that you were found in this room in company with four of the men concerned in the attempt to assassinate the Czar. But the court is willing to be merciful, and if you will tell all you know with reference to this plot, and give the names of all the conspirators with whom you have been concerned, your offence will be dealt with as leniently as possible." "I repeat that I know nothing, and can therefore disclose nothing, sir, and I venture to protest against the authority of this court to try and condemn me, an Englishman." "No matter what is the nationality of the person," the president said coldly, "who offends against the laws of this country, he is amenable to its laws, and his nationality affords him no protection whatever. You will have time given you to think the matter over before your sentence is communicated to you. Remove the prisoner." Godfrey was laid on the stretcher again and carried away. This time he was taken, not to the room where he had been placed while ill, but to a dark cell where scarce a ray of light penetrated. There was a heap of straw in one corner, a loaf of black bread, and a jug of water. Godfrey when left alone shook up the straw to make it as comfortable as he possibly could, then sat down upon it with his back against the wall. "Well, this is certainly a go," he said to himself. "If there was one thing that seemed less likely than another, it was that I should get involved in this Nihilist business. In the first place, the governor specially warned me against it; in the second place, I have been extremely careful never to give any opinion on public affairs; and in the third place, if there is one thing I detest more than another it is assassination. I cannot say it is cowardly in these men. The Nihilists do more than risk their lives; they give their lives away to carry out their end. Still, though I own it is not cowardly, I hate it. The question is, what next? Petrovytch will, of course, write home to say that I am missing. I don't suppose he will have the slightest idea that I have been arrested as a Nihilist. I don't see how he could think so. He is more likely to think that I have been made away with somehow. No doubt my father will come out; but, of course, he won't learn any more than Petrovytch, unless they choose to tell him. I don't suppose they will tell him. I have heard that generally families of people they seize know nothing about it, unless they are arrested too. They may guess what has happened, but they don't know. In my case I should fancy the police would say nothing. "They will hear from the inquiries that my father makes that he has no suspicion of what has happened to me, and they will know if they did tell him our ambassador would be making a row. But even if the governor were to learn what had become of me, and were to insist upon learning what crime I am accused of committing, I do not see that things would be much better. They would hand over the notes of the evidence on which I was convicted, and, taking it altogether, I am bound to say I do not see how they could help convicting me. Short of catching me like a sort of Guy Fawkes blowing up the palace, the case is about as strong as it could be. I certainly have put my foot in it. I was acquainted with these two conspirators; through them I got acquainted with that confounded woman Katia, though it seems that wasn't her name. Then through her I helped this fellow Ossinsky to escape. Then, trying to shield her, I make matters twenty times worse; for while my answer before led them to believe that she was a perfect stranger to me, I was ass enough to let out just now that I knew her. Then there was that supper. I could not make out at the time why they greeted me so heartily. Now, of course, it is plain enough; and now, just after this blowing-up business, here am I caught with four notorious conspirators, and mixed up in a fight in which eight or ten policemen are killed, and the roof blown off a house. That would be circumstantial evidence enough to condemn a man in England, let alone Russia. "I don't suppose they are going to hang me, because they publish the names of the fellows they hang; but imprisonment for years in one of their ghastly dungeons is bad enough. If it is to be, it will be Siberia, I hope. There must be some way of getting out of a big country like that--north, south, east, or west. Well, I don't see any use bothering over it. I have got into a horrible scrape, there is no doubt about that, and I must take what comes." Godfrey was essentially of a hopeful nature, and always looked at the bright side of things. He was a strong believer in the adage, "Where there is a will, there is a way." He had been in his full share of scrapes at school, and had always made a rule of taking things easily. He now examined the cell. "Beastly place!" he said, "and horribly damp. I wonder why dungeons are always damp. Cellars at home are not damp, and a dungeon is nothing but a cellar after all. Well, I shall take a nap." The next day Godfrey was again taken before the tribunal, and again closely questioned as to his knowledge of the Nihilists. He again insisted that he knew nothing of them. "Of course I knew Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff; but I had only been in their rooms once before, and the only person I met there before was the young woman who called herself Katia, but who you say was somebody else. This was at the lodgings they occupied before." "But you were found with Alexander Kinkoff and Paul Kousmitch." "They only arrived a short time before the police entered. I had never seen either of them before." These two prisoners had been examined before Godfrey entered, and had been questioned about him. Kousmitch had declared that he had never seen him before, and the court knew that the spies who had been watching the house had seen him enter but a short time before the police force arrived. As the two statements had been made independently it was thought probable that in this respect Godfrey was speaking the truth. Not so, however, his assertions that he was unacquainted with any of the other conspirators. He was again taken back to his cell, and for the next week saw no one but the warder who brought his bread and water, and who did not reply by a single word to any questions that he asked him. Godfrey did his best to keep up his spirits. He had learnt by heart at Shrewsbury the first two books of the Iliad, and these he daily repeated aloud, set himself equations to do, and solved them in his head, repeated the dates in Greek history, and went through everything he could remember as having learned. He occasionally heard footsteps above him, and wondered whether that also was a cell, and what sort of man the prisoner was. Once or twice at night, when all was quiet, he heard loud cries, and wondered whether they were the result of delirium or torture. His gruff jailer was somewhat won by his cheerfulness. Every day Godfrey wished him good morning as he visited the cell, inquired what the weather was like outside, expressed an earnest hope that silence didn't disagree with him, and generally joked and laughed as if he rather enjoyed himself than otherwise. At the end of the week an official entered the cell. "I have come to inform you, prisoner, that the sentence of death that had been passed upon you has, by the clemency of the Czar, been commuted to banishment for life to Siberia." "Very well, sir," Godfrey said. "I know, of course, that I am perfectly innocent of the crime of which I am charged; but as the Czar no doubt supposes that I am guilty of taking part in a plot against his life, I acknowledge and thank him for his clemency. I have no peculiar desire to visit Siberia, but at least it will be a change for the better from this place. I trust that it shall not be long before I start." As the official was unable to make out whether Godfrey spoke in mockery or not, he made no reply. "These Nihilists are men of iron," he said afterwards. "They walk to the scaffold with smiling faces; they exist in dungeons that would kill a dog in twenty-four hours, and nothing can tempt them to divulge their secrets; even starvation does not affect them. They are dangerous enemies, but it must be owned that they are brave men and women. This boy, for he is little more, almost laughed in our faces; and, in spite of his stay in that damp cell, seemed to be in excellent spirits. It is the same with them all, though I own that some of them do break down sometimes; but I think that those who commit suicide do so principally because they are afraid that, under pressure, they may divulge secrets against each other. Ossip, who attends that young fellow, says that he is always the same, and speaks as cheerfully to him every morning as if he were in a palace instead of in a dungeon." Two days later Godfrey was aroused in the night. "Why, it is not light yet," he said. "What are you disturbing me at this time for?" "Get up," the man said; "you are going to start." "Thank goodness for that!" Godfrey said, jumping up from his straw. "That is the best news that I have heard for a long time." In the court-yard seven prisoners were standing. They were placed at some distance from each other, and by each stood a soldier and a policeman. A similar guard took their places by the side of Godfrey as he came out. An official took charge of the whole party, and, still keeping a few paces apart, they sallied out through the prison doors and marched through the sleeping city. Perhaps Godfrey was the only one of the party who did not feel profoundly impressed. They were going to leave behind them for ever family and friends and country, and many would have welcomed death as an escape from the dreary prospect before them. Godfrey's present feeling was that of exhilaration. He had done his best to keep his mind at work, but the damp and unwholesome air of the cell had told upon him, enfeebled as he had been by the attack of fever. As he walked along now he drew in deep breaths of the brisk night air, and looked with delight at the stars glistening overhead. As to the future, just at that moment it troubled him but little. He knew nothing of Siberia beyond having heard that the prisoners there led a terrible life. That he should escape from it some time or other seemed to him a matter of course. How, he could form no idea until he got there; but as to the fact he had no misgiving, for it seemed to him ridiculous that in a country so enormous as Siberia a prisoner could not make his way out sooner or later. When they reached the railway-station a train stood in readiness. Each prisoner had a separate compartment, his two guards accompanying him. Godfrey addressed a word to his custodians. The policeman, however, said, "You are forbidden to speak," and in a minute or two the train moved off. Godfrey dozed occasionally until morning, and then looked out at the dark woods through which they passed for hours. Twice the train stopped at lonely stations, and the prisoners were supplied with food. In the afternoon Godfrey saw the gilded and painted domes of a great city, and knew that it must be Moscow. Here, however, they made no stay, but steamed straight through the station and continued their way. Godfrey slept soundly after it became dark, waking up once when the train came to a standstill. At early morning he was roused and ordered to alight, and in the same order as before the prisoners were marched through the streets of Nijni Novgorod to the bank of the Volga. Few people were yet abroad in the streets, but all they met looked pityingly at the group of exiles, a sight of daily occurrence in the springtime of the year. Ordinary prisoners, of whom from fifteen to twenty thousand are sent annually to Siberia, are taken down the Volga in a convict barge, towed by a steamer, in batches of six or seven hundred. Political prisoners are differently treated; they are carried on board the ordinary steamer, each having a separate cabin, and during the voyage they are allowed no intercourse whatever, either with each other or with the ordinary passengers. [Illustration: Map of Russian Empire] Of these there were a considerable number on board the steamer, as the season had but just begun, and merchants, traders, and officials were taking advantage of the river's being open to push forward into Siberia. At present, however, these were all below. The prisoners were conducted to the cabins reserved for them, and then locked in. Presently Godfrey heard a buzz of many voices and a general movement in the cabin outside, and the fact that he was a prisoner and cut off from the world came to him more strongly than it had hitherto done. An hour later there was a movement and shouting overhead. Then he felt the paddles revolving, and knew that the steamer was under way. He could, however, see nothing. A sort of shutter was fastened outside the scuttle, which gave him the opportunity to take a glimpse of the sky, but nothing of the shore or water. Nothing could be more monotonous than the journey, and yet the air and light that came down through the port-hole rendered it far more pleasant than existence in a prison cell. He knew, too, that, dull as it was in the cabin, there would be little to see on deck, for the shores of the rivers were everywhere flat and low. After twenty-four hours' travel the steamer stopped. Since Godfrey had been in Russia he had naturally studied the geography of the empire, and knew a good deal about the routes. He guessed, therefore, that the halt was at Kasan, the capital of the old Tartar kingdom. It was a break to him to listen to the noises overhead, to guess at the passengers who were leaving and coming on board, to listen to scraps of conversation that could be heard through the open port-hole, and to the shouts of farewell from those on board to those on shore as the vessel steamed on again. He knew that after two hours' more steaming down the Volga the vessel turned up the Kama, a large river running into it and navigable for 1400 miles. Up this the vessel steamed for three days and then reached Perm. In the evening Godfrey and his companions were disembarked and, strictly guarded as before, were marched to the railway-station, placed in a special carriage attached to a train, and after twenty-four hours' travel at the rate of about twelve miles an hour reached Ekaterinburg. This railway had only been open for a year, and until its completion this portion of the journey had been one of the most tiresome along the whole route, as the Ural Mountains intervene between Perm and Ekaterinburg; their height is not great here, and the railway crosses them at not more than 1700 feet above sea-level. On arriving at the station half the prisoners were at once placed in vehicles and the others were sent to the prison. Godfrey was one of the party that went on at once. The vehicle, which was called a telega, was a sort of narrow waggon without springs, seats, or cover; the bottom was covered with a deep layer of straw, and there were some thick rugs for coverings at night. It was drawn by three horses. Godfrey was in the last of the four vehicles that started together. His soldier guard took his place beside him, four mounted Cossacks rode, two on each side of the procession. The driver, a peasant, to whom the horses belonged, cracked his short-handled whip and the horses sprang forward. Siberian horses are wiry little animals, not taking to the eye, but possessing speed and great endurance. The post-houses are situated from twelve to twenty-five versts apart, according to the difficulty of the country, a verst being about two-thirds of an English mile. At these post-houses relays of horses are always kept in readiness for one or two vehicles, but word is sent on before when political prisoners are coming, and extra relays are obtained by the post-masters from the peasants. To Godfrey the sensation of being whirled through the air as fast as the horses could gallop was, after his long confinement, perfectly delightful, and he fairly shouted with joy and excitement. Now that they were past Ekaterinburg, Godfrey's guard, a good-tempered-looking young fellow, seemed to consider that it was no longer necessary to preserve an absolute silence, which had no doubt been as irksome to him as to his companion. "We can talk now. Why are you so merry?" "To be in the air again is glorious," Godfrey said, "I should not mind how long the journey lasted if it were like this. How far do we travel in carriages?" "To Tiumen, 300 versts; then we take steamer again, that is if you go farther." "You don't know where we are going to then?" "Not at all, it will be known at Tiumen; that is where these things are settled generally, but people like you are under special orders. You don't look very wicked;" and he smiled in a friendly way as he looked at the lad beside him. "I am not wicked at all, not in the way you think," Godfrey said. "Do not talk about that," the soldier interrupted, "I must not know anything about you; talk about other things, but not why you are here." Godfrey nodded. "If we go on beyond Tiumen we go by steamer, do we not?" "Yes, through Tobolsk to Tomsk, beyond that we shall drive. You are lucky, you people, that you drive, the others walk; it is long work, but not so long as it used to be, they say. I have been told that in the old times, when they started on foot from Moscow it took them sometimes two years to reach the farthest places. Now they have the railway, and the steamers on the river as far as Tomsk." "How do they take them in the steamers?" "They take them in great barges that are towed; we passed two on our way to Perm. They hold five or six hundred, there is a great iron cage on deck, and they let half the number up at a time in order to get air. They are always going along at this time of year, for they all go early in the season so as to get to the journey's end before the frosts set in." "But surely all these men cannot be guilty of great crimes," Godfrey said, "for I have heard that about twenty thousand a year are sent away?" "No, many of them are only lazy fellows who drink and will not work. We sent away three from my village the year before I was taken for a soldier. They were lazy and would not do their share of work, so the heads of the village met and decided that they should go to Siberia. They drew up a paper, which was sent to be confirmed by the judge of the district, and then soldiers came and took them away." "But you don't mean to say," Godfrey said, "that men are sent to prison all their lives because they are lazy." "Oh no, no one would think of such a thing as that! Men like these are only sent to the big towns, Tiumen, or Perm, or Tobolsk, and then they are settled on land or work in the towns, but they are free to do as they like. The country wants labour, and men who won't work at home and expect the community to keep them have to work here or else they would starve. Then there are numbers who are only guilty of some small offence. They have stolen something, or they have resisted the tax-gatherer, or something of that sort. They only go to prison for the term of their sentences, perhaps only three or four months, and then they too are free like the others, and can work in the towns, or trade if they happen to have money to set them up, or they can settle in a village and take up land and cultivate it. They can live where they like in Siberia. I had many rich men pointed out to me in Tobolsk who had come out as convicts." "You have been here before then?" Godfrey said. "Yes, this is my second journey. I hope I shall come no more. We get a little extra pay and are better fed than we are with the regiment, and we have no drill; but then it is sad. Last time I had one with me who had left his wife and family behind; he was always sad, he talked to me sometimes of them, there was no one else to talk to. He was here for life, and he knew he should never see them again. She was young and would marry again." "But she couldn't do that as long as he lived," Godfrey said. "Oh yes; from the day a prisoner crosses the frontier his marriage is annulled and his wife can marry again. She may come with him if she likes, but if she does she can never go back again." "And do many wives come?" "A good many," the soldier said; "but I only know what I have heard. I was with one of you last time, and it was only on the way back that I heard of things about the others. Formerly the guards remained in Siberia if they chose, it was too far to send them back to Russia; but now that the journey is done so quickly, and we can get back all the way from Tomsk by the rivers, except this little bit, we go back again as soon as we have handed over our charges. I did not go farther than Tomsk last time, and I was back at Nijni in less than three months after starting. What part of Russia do you come from?" "I am an Englishman." The soldier looked round in surprise. "I did not know Englishmen could speak our language so well; of course I noticed that your speech was not quite like mine, but I am from the south and I thought you must come from somewhere in the north or from Poland. How did--" and here he stopped. "But I must not ask that; I don't want to know anything, not even your name. Look there, we are just going to pass a convoy of other prisoners." In a minute or two they overtook the party. It consisted of about a hundred and fifty prisoners escorted by a dozen mounted Cossacks. The men were in prison garb of yellowish-brown stuff with a coloured patch in the back between the shoulders. They had chains fastened to rings round the ankles and tied up to their belts. They were not heavy, and interfered very little with their walking. The procession in no way accorded with Godfrey's preconceived idea. The men were walking along without much attempt at regular order. They were laughing and talking together or with their guards, and some of them shouted chaffing remarks to the four vehicles as they swept past them. "They do not look very unhappy," Godfrey said. "Why should they?" the soldier replied; "they are better off than they would be at home. Lots of men break the law on purpose to be sent out; it is a good country. They say wives get rid of their husbands by informing against them and getting them sent here. I believe there are quite as many husbands with scolding wives who get themselves sent here to be free of them. As long as they are on the road or employed in hard labour they are fed better than they ever were at home, better a great deal than we soldiers are. Even in the prisons they do not work so very hard, for it is difficult to find work for them; only if they are sent to the mines their lot is bad. Of that I know nothing, but I have heard. As for the rest, from what I have seen of it I should say that a convict here is better off than a peasant at home. But here we are at the post-house." CHAPTER V. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. The stay at the post-houses was very short. As soon as the vehicles were seen coming along the straight level road, the first set of horses were brought out, and the leading tarantass was ready to proceed in two or three minutes. The other horses were changed as quickly, and in less than ten minutes from their arrival the whole were on their way again. While the horses were being changed the prisoners were permitted to get out and stretch their legs, but were not allowed to exchange a word with each other or with anyone else. At every fourth stage a bowl of soup with a hunch of bread was brought to each prisoner by one of the guards at the ostrov or prison, where the convicts were lodged as they came along. There were rugs in the vehicles to lay over them at night when the air was sharp and chilly, although in the day the sun had great power, and the dust rose in clouds under the horses' feet. There was little of interest to be seen on the journey. Only round the villages was there any cultivation, and the plains stretched away unbroken save by small groups of cattle, horses, and sheep. Although Godfrey had not minded the shaking of the springless vehicle for the first stage or two, he felt long before he reached the journey's end as if every bone was dislocated. As a rule the road was good, but in some places, where it passed through swampy tracts, it had given in the spring thaw, and had been cut into deep ruts. Here the shaking as they passed along at night was tremendous. Godfrey and his companion were dashed against each other or against the sides with such force that Godfrey several times thought his skull was fractured, and he was indeed thankful when, after forty hours on the road, they drove into Tiumen. Tiumen is a town of over 15,000 inhabitants, and is the first town arrived at in Siberia proper, the frontier between Russia and that country running between Ekaterinburg and that town. Here the prisoners were at once placed on board a steamer, and Godfrey was glad indeed to throw himself down upon the bed, where he slept without waking until the steamer got under way in the morning. He was delighted to see that the port-hole was not, as in the first boat, blocked by an outside shutter, but that he could look out over the country as they passed along. For a time the scenery was similar to that which they had been passing over, bare and desolate; but it presently assumed a different character; fields of green wheat stretched away from the river side; comfortable-looking little villages succeeded each other rapidly as the steamer passed along, and save for the difference of architecture and the peculiar green domes and pinnacles of the little churches he might have been looking over a scene in England. The river was about two hundred yards wide here, a smooth and placid stream. The steamer did not proceed at any great pace, as it was towing behind it one of the heavy convict barges, and although the passage is ordinarily performed in a day and a half, it took them nearly a day longer to accomplish, and it was not until late in the afternoon of the third day that Tobolsk came in sight. Through his port-hole Godfrey obtained a good view of the town, containing nearly 30,000 inhabitants, with large government buildings, and a great many houses built of stone. It is built in a very unhealthy position, the country round being exceedingly low and marshy. After passing Tobolsk they entered the Obi, one of the largest rivers in Asia. The next morning the steamer again started for her sixteen-hundred-mile journey to Tomsk. The journey occupied eight days, the convict barge having been left behind at Tobolsk. The time passed tediously to Godfrey, for the banks were low and flat, villages were very rare, and the steamer only touched at three places. Herds of horses were seen from time to time roaming untended over the country. The only amusement was in watching the Ostjaks, the natives of the banks of the Obi. These people have no towns or villages, but live in rough tents made of skins. He saw many of them fishing from their tiny canoes, but the steamer did not pass near enough to them to enable him to get a view of them, as they generally paddled away towards the shore as the steamer approached. He heard afterwards that they are wonderfully skilful in the use of the bow, which they use principally for killing squirrels and other small animals. These bows are six feet long, the arrows four feet. The head is a small iron ball, so as to kill without injuring the fur of small animals, and the feats recorded of the English archers of old times are far exceeded by the Ostjaks. Even at long distances they seldom fail to strike a squirrel on the head, and Godfrey was informed by a man who had been present that he saw an Ostjak shoot an arrow high into the air, and cut it in two with another arrow as it descended, a feat that seemed to him altogether incredible, but is confirmed by the evidence of Russian travellers. Tomsk is situated on the river Tom, an affluent of the Obi. The town is about the same size as Tobolsk; the climate of the district is considered the best in Siberia; the land is fertile, and among the mountains are many valuable mines. Although a comparatively small province in comparison to Tobolsk on one side and Yeneseisk on the other, it contains an area of half a million square miles, and, excluding Russia, is bigger than any two countries of Europe together. It contains a rural population of 725,000-130,000 natives, chiefly Tartars and Kalmucs, and 30,000 troops. Here Godfrey was landed, and marched to the prison. Of these there are two, the one a permanent convict establishment, the other for the temporary detention of prisoners passing through. Godfrey slipped a few roubles into the hand of his guard, for his watch, money, and the other things in his pockets had been restored to him before starting on his journey. After two days' stop in the prison the journey was continued as before, a soldier sitting by the driver, a police-officer taking the place of the soldier who had before accompanied him. He began to speak to Godfrey as soon as they started. "We are not so strict now," he said. "You will soon be across the line into Eastern Siberia, and you will no longer meet people through whom you might send messages or letters. As to escape, that would be out of the question since you left Ekaterinburg, for none can travel either by steamer or post without a permit, or even enter an inn, and the document must be shown at every village." "But I suppose prisoners do escape sometimes," Godfrey said. "There have not been a dozen escapes in the last fifty years," the policeman said. "There are great numbers get away from their prisons or employments every year, but the authorities do not trouble about them; they may take to the mountains or forests, and live on game for a few months in summer, but when winter arrives they must come in and give themselves up." "What happens to them then?" Godfrey asked. "Perhaps nothing but solitary confinement for a bit, perhaps a beating with rods, just according to the temper of the chief official at the time. Perhaps if it is a bad case they are sent to the mines for a bit; that is what certainly happens when they are political prisoners." "Why can't they get right away?" "Where are they to go to?" the officer said with a laugh. "To the south there are sandy deserts where they would certainly die of thirst; to the north trackless forests, cold that would freeze a bullock solid in a night, great rivers miles wide to cross, and terrible morasses, to say nothing of the wolves who would make short work of you. The native tribes to the west, and the people of the desert, are all fierce and savage, and would kill anyone who came among them merely for his clothes; and, besides, they get a reward from government for every escaped prisoner they bring in alive or dead. No, we don't want bolts or bars to keep prisoners in here. The whole land is a prison-house, and the prisoners know well enough that it is better to live under a roof and to be well fed there than to starve in the forest, with the prospect of a flogging at the end of their holiday. Still there are thousands take to the woods in the summer. The government does not care. Why should it? It is spared the expense of feeding them, and if they starve to death or kill each other off in their quarrels (for the greater part of them would think no more of taking life than of killing a fowl) there is an end of all further trouble about them, for you understand, it is only the men who have life sentences, the murderers, and so on, that attempt to run away; the short-sentence men are not such fools. "No," he went on kindly, seeing that Godfrey looked depressed at what he had heard; "whatever you do don't think of running away. If you behave well, and gain the good opinion of the authorities, you won't find yourself uncomfortable. You will be made a clerk or a store-keeper, and will have a good deal of liberty after a time. If you try to run away, you will probably be sent to the mines; and though it is not so bad there as they say, it is bad enough." But even this prospect was not very cheering to Godfrey. Hitherto it had seemed to him that there could be no real difficulty, although there might be many hardships and privations, in making his escape from so vast a prison. He had told himself that it must be possible to evade pursuit in so vast a region; but now it seemed that nature had set so strong a wall round the country that the Russians did not even trouble themselves to pursue, confident that in time the prisoners must come back again. But he was not silent long. With the buoyancy of youth he put the question aside for the present with the reflection, "Where there is a will there is a way; anyhow some fellows have got away, and if they have done it, I can." Godfrey had not as yet realized his situation; the sentence "for life" had fallen upon his ears but not upon his mind; he still viewed the matter as he might have viewed some desperate scrape at school. He had, as he would have said, put his foot in it horribly; but that he should really have to pass his whole life in these wilds, should never see England again, his father, mother, or sisters, was a thing that his mind absolutely refused to grasp. "Of course I shall get away somehow." This had been the refrain that was constantly running through his mind, and even now a satisfactory reply to the assertion that not a dozen men had made their escape at once occurred to him. There was no motive to induce them to make their escape. They could not return to Russia, and in any other country they would be even more in exile than here, where everyone spoke their language, and where, as far as he had seen, the climate was as good as that of Russia, and the country no more flat and ugly. "There is nothing they can want to escape for," he repeated to himself. "I have everything to escape for, and I mean to do it." Having once re-established that view to his satisfaction, he began to chat away cheerfully again to his companion. "It is not everyone," he said, "who possesses my advantages, or who can travel five or six thousand miles by rail, steamer, and carriage, without ever having to put his hand in his pocket for a single kopec. The only objection to it is that they don't give me a return ticket." "That is an objection," the policeman agreed, smiling. "We are not going to travel night and day, as we did between Ekaterinburg and Tiumen, I hope?" "Oh, no; we shall only travel while it is light." "Well, that is a comfort. It was bad enough for that short distance. It would be something awful if it had to be kept up for a fortnight. How long shall we be before we get to Irkoutsk?" "About a month. I know nothing as to what will be done with you beyond that. You may, for anything I know, go to the mines at Nertchinsk, which are a long distance east beyond Irkoutsk; or you may go to Verkhoyansk, a Yakout settlement 3000 miles from Irkutsk, within the Arctic Circle. There are lots of these penal settlements scattered over the country. They do not send the ordinary convict population there. There is no danger from them; but the theory is that the politicals are always plotting, and therefore they are for the most part sent where by no possibility can they get up trouble." Godfrey set his lips hard together and asked no questions for the next half-hour. Although the journey was not continued by night the telega was still Godfrey's constant place of abode. Sometimes it was wheeled under a shed, sometimes it stood in the road, but in all cases the policeman was by his side night and day. Godfrey was indifferent whether he slept in a bed or in the telega, which, when the straw was fresh shaken up and a couple of rugs laid upon it, was by no means uncomfortable. The nights were not cold and no rain had fallen since he left Nijni. He further reflected that probably there would be fleas and other vermin in the post-houses, and that altogether he was a gainer instead of a loser by the regulation. He was pleased with the appearance of Atchinsk, a bright little town a day's journey from Tomsk. It was, like all the Siberian towns, built of wood, but the houses were all painted white or gray, picked out with bright colours. It stood in the middle of a large grass plain, with inclosed meadows of luxuriant herbage and bright flowers, among which large numbers of sheep and cattle were feeding. Beyond this the country again became dull and monotonous. Krasnoiarsk was the next town reached. Between this town and Kansk the country was again cultivated. Scarce a day passed without large gangs of convicts being overtaken on the road. For some distance Godfrey suffered terribly from mosquitoes, which swarmed so thickly that the peasants working in the fields were obliged to wear black veils over their faces. Fortunately he had been warned by his guard at Atchinsk that there would be trouble with these pests on further, and the man had, at his request, bought for him a few yards of muslin, under which they sat during the day and spread over the telega at night. It was, however, a long and dreary journey, and Godfrey was heartily glad when at last they saw the domes of Irkoutsk, a city of fifty thousand inhabitants. They drove rapidly through the town to the prison, where he was placed in a cell by himself. The morning after his arrival the warder entered with a man carrying a basin and shaving apparatus. "Confound it!" Godfrey muttered. "I have been expecting this ever since I saw the first gang of convicts, but I hoped they did not do it to us." It was of course useless to remonstrate. His hair, which had grown to a great length since he left St. Petersburg, was first cut short; then the barber lathered his head and set to work with a razor. Godfrey wondered what his particular style of hair was going to be. He had noticed that all the convicts were partially shaved. Some were left bare from the centre of the head down one side; others had the front half of the head shaved, while the hair at the back was left; some had only a ridge of hair running along the top of the head, either from the forehead to the nape of the neck or from one ear to the other. "He is shaving me like a monk," he said to himself as the work proceeded. "Well, I think that is the best after all, for with a cap on it won't show." When the barber had done he stepped back and surveyed Godfrey with an air of satisfaction; while the jailer, as he wrote down the particulars in a note-book, grinned. Godfrey passed his hand over his head and found that, as he supposed, he had been shaved half-way down to the ears; but in the middle of this bald place the barber had left a patch of hair about the size of half-a-crown which stood up perfectly erect. He burst into a shout of laughter, in which the other two men joined. The jailer patted him approvingly on the shoulder. "Bravo, young fellow!" he said, pleased at seeing how lightly Godfrey took it, for many of the exiles who had stood bravely the loss of their liberty were completely broken down by the loss of a portion of their hair, which branded them wherever they went as convicts. Godfrey was then taken out into a large court-yard and out through a gate into another inclosure. This had evidently been added but a very short time to the precincts of the prison. It was of considerable size, being four or five acres in extent, and was surrounded on three sides by a palisade some fourteen feet in height, of newly-sawn timber. The wall of the prison formed the fourth side of the square. In each corner of the inclosure was placed a clump of six little wooden huts. Two low fences ran across the inclosure at right angles to each other, dividing the space into four equal squares. Where the fences crossed each other there was an inclosure a few yards across, and in this were two sentry-boxes with soldiers, musket in hand, standing by them. A few men were listlessly moving about, while others were digging and working in small garden patches into which the inclosures were divided. The policeman who accompanied Godfrey led him to one of the little huts. He opened the door and went in. A young man was sitting there. "I have brought you a companion," the policeman said. "He will share your hut with you. You can teach him what is required." With this brief introduction he closed the door behind him and left. The young man had risen, and he and Godfrey looked hard at each other. "Surely we have met before!" the prisoner said. "I know your face quite well." "And I know yours also," Godfrey replied. "Now that you speak I know you. You are the young Englishman, Godfrey Bullen." "I am," Godfrey replied; "and you?" "Alexis Stumpoff." "So it is!" Godfrey exclaimed in surprise, and, delighted at this meeting, they shook hands cordially. "But what are you here for?" Godfrey asked. "I thought that you had obtained an appointment at Tobolsk." "Yes, I was sent out as assistant to the doctor of one of the prisons. I suppose you understood that it was not the sort of appointment one would choose." "I was certainly surprised when I heard that you were going so far away," Godfrey said, "as my friends told me that you had property. It seemed almost like going into banishment." "That was just what it was," the young doctor laughed. "I had been too outspoken in my political opinions, and one or two of our set had been arrested and sent out here; and when I was informed, on the day after I passed my examinations, that I was appointed to a prison at Tobolsk, it was also intimated to me that it would be more agreeable to go there in that capacity than as a prisoner. As I was also of that opinion, and as, to tell you the truth, some of our friends were for pushing matters a good deal farther than I cared about doing, I was not altogether sorry to get out of it." "But how is it that you are here as a prisoner?" Godfrey asked. "That is more than I can tell you. Some two months ago the governor of the prison entered my room with two warders, and informed me briefly that I was to be sent here as a prisoner. I had ten minutes given me to pack up my things for the journey, and half an hour later was in the cabin of a steamer, with a Cossack at the door. What it was for, Heaven only knows. I had never broken any regulations, never spoken to a political prisoner when in the hospital except to ask him medical questions, and had never opened my lips on politics to a soul there." "I think perhaps I can enlighten you," Godfrey said; and he related to him the attempt to blow up the emperor at the Winter Palace, and the fate of Petroff Stepanoff and Akim Soushiloff. "That does indeed explain it," Alexis said. "I was very intimate with both of them, and it is quite enough to have been intimate with two men engaged in a plot against the life of the Czar to ensure one a visit to Siberia. So that is it! I have thought of everything, and it seemed to me that it must have been something at St. Petersburg--that my name had been found on a list when some of the Nihilists were arrested, or something of that sort; for I certainly did join them, but that was before there was any idea of taking steps against the Czar. No wonder you are here, after being mixed up in that escape of Valerian Ossinsky, and then being caught again with four Nihilists just after that terrible attempt to blow up the Czar. I wonder they did not hang you." "I wonder too," Godfrey said. "I suppose if I had been a year or two older they would have done so; but I can assure you I had not the slightest idea that Petroff and Akim were Nihilists. I do think that the country is horribly misgoverned, but as a foreigner that was no business of mine; and however strongly I felt, I would have had nothing to do with men who tried to gain their end by assassination. I was just as innocent in the affair of Ossinsky. I behaved like a fool, I grant, but that was all. I had met the woman, who as I now know was Sophia Perovskaia, but she was only known to me then from having met her once in Petroff and Akim's room, and she was introduced to me as Akim's cousin Katia. I met her at the Opera-house, and she told me a cock-and-bull story about a young officer who had come to see a lady there, and had left his regiment at Moscow without leave to do so. His colonel, who was at the Opera-house, had heard of his being there and was looking for him, and I was persuaded to change dominoes with him to enable him to slip off." "Oh that was it!" Alexis said. "I wondered how you got mixed up in the affair, and still more why they let you out after your having been caught in what they considered a serious business. Well, here we are, victims both, and it is a curious chance that has thrown us together again." "Well, what is our life here?" Godfrey asked. Alexis shrugged his shoulders. "As a life it is detestable, though were it for a short time only there would be nothing to grumble about. We are fairly fed; we have each a patch of ground, where we can grow vegetables. The twelve men in these huts can visit and talk to each other. When that is said all is said. Oh, by the way, we are also permitted to make anything we like! that is, we can buy the materials if we have money, and the work can be sold in the town. There is one man has made himself a turning-lathe, and he makes all sorts of pretty little things. There is another man who was an officer in the navy; he carves little models of ships out of wood and bone. Another man paints. I have not decided yet what I shall do. I had two or three hundred roubles when I was sent off here, and as I only spent four or five on the road, I have plenty to last me for some time for tea and tobacco." "But how do you get them?" "The warders smuggle them in. It is an understood thing, and there is no real objection to it, though they are very strict about bringing in spirits. Still we can get vodka if we have a mind to; it is only a question of bribery." "How long are you here for, Alexis?" "Fifteen years." "I am supposed to be in for life," Godfrey said. "Fifteen years is as bad as life," the young doctor said. "What is the use of your life after having been shut up here for fifteen years?" "Well, I don't mean to stay, that is one thing," Godfrey said. "There can't be any difficulty in escaping from here." "Not the least in the world," Alexis said quietly. "But where do you propose to go?" "I have not settled yet. It seems to me that any one with pluck and energy ought to be able to make his way out of this country somehow; besides, from what I hear great numbers do get away, and take to the woods." "Yes, but they have to give themselves up again." "That may be; but I hear also that if they give themselves up a long way from the prison they escape from, and refuse to give any account whatever of themselves, they are simply sent to prison again as vagabonds. In that case they are treated as ordinary convicts. Now from what I hear, an ordinary convict is infinitely better off than a political one. Of course you have to associate with a bad lot; still that is better than almost solitary confinement. The work they have to do is not hard, and if they are well conducted they are let out after a time, whereas there is no hope for a political prisoner. At any rate, even if I knew that if I was retaken I should be hung at once, I should try it." "But the distance to the frontier is enormous, and even when you get there you would be arrested at the first place you come to if you have no papers; besides, how could you get through the winter?" "I should get through the winter somehow," Godfrey said stoutly. "There are hundreds and thousands of people in scattered villages who live through the winter. Why shouldn't I? I would make friends with the natives in the north, and live in their huts, and hunt with them. But I am not thinking of that. The distance is, as you say, enormous, and the cold terrible. My idea is to escape by the south." "It is a desert, Godfrey." "Oh they call it a desert to frighten people from trying to escape that way. But I know there is a caravan route by which the teas come from China; besides, there are tribesmen who wander about there and pick up a living somehow. I don't say that I am going to succeed; I only say I am going to try. I may lose my life or I may be sent back again. Very well, then, I will try again some other way. We are not far from the Chinese frontier here, are we?" "No; the frontier is at Kiakhta, not more than three or four hundred miles away." "What are the people like?" "They are called Buriats, and are a sort of Mongol tribe, living generally in tents and wandering with their flocks and herds through the country like the patriarchs of old." "If they have large flocks and herds," Godfrey said, "the reward the Russians offer for escaped convicts can't tempt them much. Most likely they are hospitable; almost all these wandering tribes are. If one had luck one might get befriended and stick for a time to one of these tribes in their wanderings south, and then get hold of some other people, and so get passed on. There can't be anything impossible in it, Alexis. We know that travellers have made their way through Africa alone. Mungo Park did, and lots of other people have done so, and some of the negro tribes are, according to all accounts, a deal more savage than the Asiatic tribes. Once among them it doesn't much matter which way one goes, whether it is east to China or west to Persia." Alexis sat and looked with some wonder at his companion. "By the saints, Godfrey Bullen, I begin to understand now how it is that your people, living in a bit of an island which could be pinched out of Russia and never missed, are colonizing half the world; how they go in ships to explore the polar seas, have penetrated Africa in all directions as travellers, go among the wildest people as missionaries. We are brought up to have everything done for us: to think as we are told to think, to have officials keep their eyes over us at every turn, to be punished if we dare to think independently, till we have come to be a nation of grown-up children. You are only a boy, if you will forgive my calling you so, and yet you talk about facing the most horrible dangers as coolly as if you were proposing going for a promenade on the Nevski. We won't talk any more about it now, for you have made me feel quite restless. There, you have been here two hours, and I have forgotten all my duties as host, and have not even offered you a cup of tea; it is shameful." And Alexis brought out a samovar and soon had water boiling and tea made. After they had drunk it they went out of the hut, and Godfrey was introduced to the other exiles. Two of them who lived together were quite old men; they had been professors at the University of Kieff, and were exiled for having in their lectures taught what were considered pernicious doctrines. There were three military and two naval officers, a noble, another doctor, and two sons of merchants. All received him cordially, and Godfrey saw that in any other place the society would be a pleasant one; but there was an air of settled melancholy in the majority of the faces, while the sentry fifty yards away, and the high prison wall behind, seemed ever in their minds. By common consent, as it seemed, no allusion was ever made to politics. They had all strong opinions, and had sacrificed everything for them, but of what use to discuss matters the course of which they were powerless to influence in the smallest degree. Free, there was probably not one of them but would again have striven in one way or another to bring about reforms, either by instructing the ignorant, rousing the intelligent, or frightening the powerful. But here, with no hope of returning, the whole thing was best forgotten. The past was dead to them, and they were without a future. The news that Godfrey brought of the blow that had been struck against the Czar roused them for a few days. The war then was still being carried on. Others were wielding the weapons they had forged, but of what had happened afterwards Godfrey was ignorant. Four men had been arrested or killed; but whether they had played an important part in the matter he knew not, nor whether others had shared their fate. All he could say was, that so far as he heard, numerous arrests had taken place. But the excitement caused by the news very speedily died away, and they again became listless and indifferent. All worked for a little time in their gardens, but beyond that only those who had made some sort of occupation for themselves had anything to interest themselves actively in. Sometimes they played chess, draughts, or cards, but they did so, as Godfrey observed, in a half-hearted manner, with the exception, indeed, of one of the professors, who was by far the strongest chess-player of the party, and who passed all his time in inventing problems which, when complete, he carefully noted down in a book, with their solutions. "When I am dead," he said one day to Godfrey, who was watching him, "they will send this book to a nephew of mine; you see I have written his name and address outside. He is a great chess-player, and will send it to England or France to be published; and it is pleasant for me to think that my work, even here in prison, may serve as an amusement to people out in the world." Except in the dulness and monotony of the life there was little to complain of, and Godfrey was surprised to find how far it differed from his own preconceived notions of the life of a political prisoner in Siberia. It was only when, by an effort, he looked ahead for years and tried to fancy the possibility of being so cut off from the world for life, that he could appreciate the terrible nature of the punishment. Better a thousand times to be one of the murderers in the prison behind the wall. They had work to occupy their time, and constantly changing associates, with the knowledge that by good conduct they would sooner or later be released and be allowed to live outside the prison. When at eight o'clock in the evening the prisoners were locked up in their huts, he endeavoured to learn everything that Alexis Stumpoff knew of Siberia. He found that his knowledge was much more extensive than he had expected. "As I came out nominally, Godfrey, as a free man, I brought with me every book I could buy on the country, and I almost got them by heart. It seemed to me that I was likely to be kept here for years, if not for life. I might be sent from one government prison to another, from Tobolsk to the eastern sea; therefore every place possessed an interest for me. Besides this, although I was not actually a political prisoner myself I was virtually so, and my sympathies were wholly with the prisoners, and I thought that I might possibly be able to advise and counsel men who came under my charge: to describe to them the places where they might have relations or friends shut up, and to dissuade those who, like yourself, meditated escape, for my studies had not gone far before I became convinced that this was well-nigh hopeless. I learned how strict were the regulations on the frontier, how impossible, even if this were reached, to journey on without being arrested at the very first village that a fugitive entered, and that so strict were they that although numbers of the convict establishments were within comparatively short distances of the frontier, escapes were no more frequent from them than from those three thousand miles to the east. When I say escapes I mean escapes from Siberia. Escapes from the prisons are of constant occurrence, since most of the work is done outside the walls. There are thousands, I might almost say tens of thousands, get away every spring, but they all have to come back again in winter. The authorities trouble themselves little about them, for they know that they must give themselves up in a few months." "Yes, my guard told me about that. He said they were not punished much when they came in." "Sometimes they are flogged; but the Russian peasant is accustomed to flogging and thinks but little of it. More often they are not flogged. They have, perhaps, a heavier chain, for the convicts all wear chains--we have an advantage over them there--and they are put on poorer diet for a time. They lose the remission of sentence they would obtain by good behaviour, that is all, even when they are recognized, but as a rule they take care not to give themselves up at the prison they left, but at one many hundred miles from it. In the course of the summer their hair has grown again. They assert stoutly that they are free labourers who have lost their papers, and who cannot earn their living through the winter. The authorities know, of course, that they are escaped convicts, but they have no means of identifying them. They cannot send them the rounds of a hundred convict establishments; so instead of a man being entered as Alexis Stumpoff, murderer, for instance, he is put down by the name he gives, and the word vagabond is added. The next year they may break out again; but in time the hardships they suffer in the woods become distasteful and they settle down to their prison life, and then, after perhaps six, perhaps ten years of good conduct they are released and allowed to settle where they will. So you see, Godfrey Bullen, how hopeless is the chance of escape." "Not at all," Godfrey said. "These men are most of them peasants--men without education and without enterprise, incapable of forming any plan, and wholly without resources in themselves. I feel as certain of escaping as I am of being here at present. I don't say that I shall succeed the first time, but, as you say yourself, there is no difficulty in getting away, and if I fail in one direction I will try in another." CHAPTER VI. AN ESCAPE. The evenings were spent principally in conversations about Siberia, Godfrey being eager to learn everything that he could about its geography and peoples. Alexis told him all he knew as to the mountains and rivers, the various native tribes, the districts where the villages were comparatively numerous, and the mighty forests that, stretching away to the Arctic Sea, could hardly be said to be explored. Books and paper were forbidden to the political prisoners, and so strict were the regulations that the warders would not under any considerations bring them in. But Godfrey wrote all the particulars that he judged might in any way be useful with a burnt piece of stick upon the table as Alexis gave them, and then learned them by heart, washing them off after he had done so. But few of the details Alexis could give him would be of any use in the attempt he first intended to make. The southern frontier was so temptingly close that it seemed absurd to turn from that and to attempt a tremendous journey north, involving the certainty of having to struggle through an Arctic winter, and to face the difficulties of the passage west, either by land or sea. Beyond the fact that from Irkutsk he would have to make for the southern point of Lake Baikal, some sixty miles away, and then strike about south-east for another two hundred through a country inhabited almost entirely by Buriats, the doctor could tell him little. "Kiakhta," he said, "or rather, as far as the Russians are concerned, Troitzkosavsk, which is a sort of suburb of Kiakhta, is the frontier town. Kiakhta is a sort of neutral town inhabited only by merchants, and by a treaty between Russia and China no officer or stranger is allowed to sleep there. Across the frontier, a few miles away, is the Chinese, or I suppose I should say the Mongol, town of Maimatchin. Beyond the fact that the people about there are Mongols rather than Chinese, and that such religion as they have is that of Thibet rather than China, for their priests are called lamas, I know nothing except that the caravan route from Kiakhta to Pekin is somewhere about a thousand miles, and that the camels do it in about thirty-five days." "Then they make about thirty miles a day," Godfrey said. "I suppose there must be wells at their halting-places." "Ah! that is another matter, Godfrey. You see a camel can go three days without water easily enough, and of course they would carry skins of water for the travellers." "Oh, that is no odds," Godfrey said. "One could walk the ninety miles easily enough in three days, and there would be no difficulty in carrying water enough for that time. Besides, one would of course join a caravan if one could. Luckily enough I had two hundred roubles in notes when I was captured, and they restored them as well as my watch and other things when I started. I suppose the Mongols are just as fond of money as other people. The Chinese are, certainly, and I might get some Chinese tea-merchant to let me go in his train for a consideration." The Russian laughed. "'Pon my word, Godfrey, I begin to think you will do it." "There can't be anything impossible in doing it," Godfrey said. "Why, did not Burton disguise himself and go with a caravan to Mecca and visit the holy places, and that was twenty times as difficult and dangerous. Going along the caravan route of course the difficulty is the language and the Buriats. If one could talk Mongol, or whatever the fellows call their language, it would be easy sailing; but I own that it is a difficult thing to get along and explain what you want with people who cannot understand a word you say. I suppose the Buriats speak Russian." "I should say that a great many of them do, Godfrey. I know there are missionaries and schools among them, and some of them live in settled villages, though they are so wedded to their own wandering life that they build their houses on the exact model of their tents, with a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. Still, as they deal with the towns and come in to sell their cattle and sheep and herds and so on, no doubt the greater part of them, at any rate on this side of the frontier, speak a certain amount of Russian. The difficulty will be to persuade them not to give you up." "But I can pay them more not to give me up than they can get for doing so," Godfrey said. "They would kill you for what you have, Godfrey. They are permitted to kill runaways, in fact encouraged to do so, and the reward is the same whether they are brought in dead or alive." "I should think, Alexis, it is easier to bring in a live man than a dead one." "I don't know," the Russian laughed. "I don't think a Buriat would find it very easy to take you any distance alive, but there would be no trouble in chucking you into a cart and bringing you here after the preliminary operation of knocking you on the head." Godfrey smiled. "You forget there would be some preliminary trouble in knocking me on the head, Alexis; but seriously, I don't think any natives who have been in contact at all with civilization are disposed to take life without some strong motive. Of course robbery would be a motive, but I should certainly have nothing about me that a Tartar or a Buriat--I suppose they are all something of the same thing--would covet. You were telling me yourself that many of these people have very large flocks and herds. Is it likely such people as these would cut a stranger's throat on the chance of finding a few roubles in his pocket?" "Well, one would think not, Godfrey; but of course they are not all rich." "No; they may not be rich, but you say they are always nomads. Well, people who are nomads must always have some sort of animals to carry their tents, and a certain amount, anyhow, of cattle, horses, or sheep. No, I don't at all believe in cutting throats without a motive." "But let us understand a little more about your intentions, Godfrey. Do you mean to climb over that fence and then to stroll away to the south with your hands in your pockets and your hat on one side of your head, and to ask the first man you come upon to direct you to the shortest road to Pekin?" Godfrey laughed. "No, not quite that, Alexis. These clothes did very well in St. Petersburg, and though they are all the worse for the journey here I daresay they would pass well enough in the streets of Irkutsk. The first thing to do will be to get some clothes, for as far as I could see coming along the natives all dress a good deal like the Russians. I suppose in winter they wrap up more in furs, or they may wear their furs differently, but any sort of peasant dress would do, as it would not excite attention, while this tweed suit would be singular even in the streets here." "That fur-lined great-coat would be all right, Godfrey." "Yes. I bought that at St. Petersburg. I don't know that it would go very well with a peasant's dress, and it is certainly not suitable for the time of year, though I shall take it with me if I can. If I could roll it up and carry it as a knapsack it would be first rate for sleeping in, besides it might do as something to exchange when one gets to places where money is of little use. If I can get hold of a pistol anyhow I shall be glad. A pistol will always produce civility if one meets only one or two men. The other things I should want are a box of matches for making fires, a good knife, or better still, a small axe, for chopping wood, and a bottle or skin for holding water." "You will be seized and sent back in a week, Godfrey." "Very well, then, there will be no harm done. I regard this as a sort of preliminary investigation. I shall ascertain the difficulties of travel in Siberia, and shall learn lessons for next time. I believe myself the true way is to strike one of the great rivers, to build or steal a boat, to go down in it to the Arctic Sea, and then to coast along until one gets to Norway; but that is a big affair, and besides it is a great deal too late in the year for it. When I attempt that I shall make off as early in the spring as possible." "Remember you may be flogged when you are caught, Godfrey." "Well, I shouldn't like to be flogged, but as you say the convicts don't think much of it, I suppose I could bear it. They used to flog in our army and navy till quite lately." "It is a dishonour," Alexis exclaimed passionately. Godfrey shrugged his shoulders. "The dishonour lies in the crime and not in the punishment," he said. "At our great public schools in England fellows are flogged. Well, there is no disgrace in it if it's only for breaking the rules or anything of that sort, but it would be a horrible dishonour if it were for thieving. All that sort of thing is absurd. I believe flogging is the best punishment there is. It is a lot better to give a man a couple of dozen and send him about his business, than it is to keep him for a year in prison at the public expense, and to have to maintain his wife and children also at the public expense while he is there. Besides, I thought you said the other day that they did not flog political prisoners." "Well, they don't, at least not at any of the large prisons; but in some of the small establishments, with perhaps a brutal drunken captain or major as governor, no doubt it may be done sometimes." "Well, I will take my chance of it." "And when do you think of starting?" Alexis asked after a pause. "Directly. I have only to decide how I am to get out after the door is locked, and to make a rope of some sort to climb the fence with. The blankets tied together will do for that. As to the getting out there is no difficulty. One only has to throw a blanket over that cross beam, get up on that, and get off one of the lining boards, displace a few tiles, crawl through." "I have half a mind to go with you, Godfrey." "Have you, Alexis? I should be awfully glad, but at the same time I would not say a word to persuade you to do it. You know I make light of it, but I know very well that there will be some danger and a tremendous lot of hardship to be gone through." "I don't think I am afraid of that, Godfrey," Alexis said seriously. "It is not that I have been thinking of ever since you began to talk to me of getting away. I consider it is a hundred to one against success; but, as you say, if we fail and get brought back no great harm is done. If we get killed or die of hunger and thirst, again no harm is done, for certainly life is not a thing to cling to when one is a prisoner in Siberia; but it is not that. You see I am differently situated to you. If you do succeed in getting away you go home, and you are all right; if I succeed in getting away what is to become of me? I speak Russian and German, but there would be no return for me to Russia unless some day when a new Czar ascends the throne, or on some such occasion, when a general amnesty is granted; but even that would hardly extend to political prisoners. What am I to do? So far as I can see I might starve, and after all one might almost as well remain here as starve in Pekin or in some Chinese port. Granted that I could work my way back to Europe on board ship, what should I do if I landed at Marseilles or Liverpool? I could not go through the streets shouting in German 'I am a doctor, who wants to be cured?'" "No, Alexis," Godfrey agreed, "you could not well do that; but I will tell you what you could do. Of course at the first place I get to, where there is a telegraph to England, I will send a message to my father to cable to some firm there to let me have what money I require. Very well. Then, of course, you would go home with me to England, and there is one thing I could promise you, and that is a post in my father's office. You know we trade with Russia, and though our correspondence is generally carried on in German, I am quite sure that my father would, after you had been my companion on such a journey as that we propose, make a berth for you in the office to undertake correspondence in Russian and German, and that he would pay a salary quite sufficient for you to live in comfort; or if you would rather, I am sure that he would find you means for going out and settling, say in the United States, in the part where German is the general language." "Then in that case, Godfrey," the Russian said, shaking his hand warmly, "I am your man. I think I should have gone with you anyhow; but what you have said quite decides me. Now, then, what is our first proceeding?" Godfrey laughed. "I should say to take an inventory of our belongings, Alexis, or rather of your belongings, for mine are very briefly described. Two hundred roubles in notes, a watch, a pocket-knife, the suit of clothes I stand up in, half a dozen pairs of socks, and three flannel shirts I bought on the way, one great-coat lined with fur; I think that is about all. It is a very small share. Yours are much more numerous." "More numerous, but not much more useful," Alexis said. "They let me bring one large portmanteau of clothes, but as I can't carry that away on my shoulders it is of very little use. All I can take in that way is a suit of clothes and a spare flannel shirt or two, and some socks. I have got two cases of surgical instruments. I will take a few of the most useful and some other things, a pair of forceps for instance. We may come across a Tartar with a raging tooth, and make him our friend for ever by extracting it, and I will put a bandage or two and some plaster in my pocket. They are things one ought always to carry, for one is always liable to get a hurt or a sprain. As to money, I have a hundred and twenty roubles; they are all in silver. I changed my paper at Tobolsk, thinking that silver would be more handy here. Unfortunately they took away my pistol, but a couple of amputating knives will make good weapons. I have got a leather waistcoat, which I will cut up and make from it a couple of sheaths. Of course I have got fur cloaks, one of them a very handsome one. I will take that and another. There ought to be no difficulty whatever in getting some one to give us two peasants' dresses in exchange for that coat, for all these people know something of the value of furs." "Yes, and if you can get a gun and some ammunition thrown into the bargain, Alexis, it will be most useful, for we may have to depend upon what we shoot sometimes." "Yes, that would be a great addition, Godfrey. Well, we will set about making the sheaths at once. I have got a store of needles and stout thread." "They will be useful to take with us," Godfrey said, "not only for mending our clothes, if we want it, but for exchange. Women have to sew all over the world, and even the most savage people can appreciate the advantage of a good needle." "That is so, Godfrey. I have got a packet of capital surgical needles, and some silk. I will put them in with the others; they won't take up much room. Well, shall we start to-morrow night?" "I think we had better wait for two or three days," Godfrey said. "We must save up some of our food." "Yes, we shall want some bread," Alexis agreed. "We can't well get that in through the warders, it would look suspicious, but I will get in some meat through them. We have got some of the last lot left, so we can do with very little bread." For the next two days they found plenty to occupy them, while their stock of bread was accumulating. One of the Russian's coats was cut up and made into two bags like haversacks, with a band to pass over the shoulder, for carrying their belongings. Straps were make of the cloth for fastening the great-coats knapsack fashion. They agreed that however long they might have to wait they must choose a stormy night for their flight, as otherwise they could hardly break through the roof and scale the fence without being heard by the sentries who kept watch night and day. They were eager to be off, for it was already the end of July, and the winter would be severe in the country over which they had to travel. On the fourth day a heavy rain set in, and in the evening it began to blow hard. "Now is our time," Godfrey said; "nothing could have been better." They had already loosened two of the lining boards of the roof, and as soon as they had been locked up for the night they removed these altogether. They packed their haversacks with the articles they had agreed to take, with six pounds of bread each and some meat, rolled four blankets up and knotted them tightly together, strapped up the three fur-lined cloaks, and placed the knives in their belts. Then without much difficulty they prised up one of the thick planks with which the hut was roofed. Godfrey got through the opening, and Alexis passed out to him the haversacks and coats, and then joined him, and they slid down the roof and dropped to the ground. The paling was but twenty yards behind the huts. As soon as they reached it Godfrey climbed upon his companion's shoulders, threw the loop of a doubled rope over one of the palisades and climbed on to the top. Then with the rope he pulled up the coats and haversacks and dropped them outside. Alexis pulled himself up by the rope; this was then dropped on the outside and he slid down by it. Godfrey shifted the rope on to the point of one of the palings, so that it could be easily shaken off from below, and then slipped down it. The rope shaken off and two of the blankets opened, the haversacks hung over their shoulders, and the great-coats strapped on, each put one of the twisted blankets over his shoulder, scarf fashion, wrapped the other round as a cloak, and then set out on their way. Fortunately the prison lay on the south side of the town and at a distance of half a mile from it; and as their course to the extremity of Lake Baikal lay almost due south, they were able to strike right across the country. The wind was from the north, and they had therefore only to keep their backs to it to follow the right direction. It was half-past ten when they started, for the nights were short, and had it not been that the sky was covered with clouds and the air thick with rain, it would not have been dark enough for them to make the attempt until an hour later. By three o'clock it was light again, but they knew there was little chance of their escape being discovered until the warders came to unlock the hut at six in the morning, as the planks they had removed from the roof were at the back of the hut, and therefore invisible to the sentries. "No doubt they will send a few mounted Cossacks out to search for us, as we are political prisoners," Alexis said; "but we may calculate it will be seven o'clock before they set out, and as this is the very last direction they will imagine we have taken we need not trouble ourselves about them; besides, we shall soon be getting into wooded country. I believe it is all wood round the lower end of the lake, and we shall be quite out of the way of traffic, for everything going east from Irkutsk is taken across the lake by steamer." After twelve hours' walking, with only one halt of half an hour for refreshment, they reached the edge of the forest, and after again making a hearty meal of their bread and cold meat, and taking each a sip from a bottle containing cold tea, they lay down and slept until late in the afternoon. "Well, we have accomplished so much satisfactorily," Alexis said. "Now we have to keep on to Kaltuk, at the extreme south-western point of the lake. It is a very small place, I believe, and that is where we must get what we want. We shall be there by the evening. We shall be just right, as it wouldn't do for us to go in until it is pretty nearly dark. A place of that sort is sure to have a store where they sell clothes and other things, and trade with the people round." They struck the lake a mile or two from its extremity, and following it until they could see the roofs of the houses lay down for an hour until it should be dark enough to enter. "We had better put on our fur coats," Alexis said. "The people all wear long coats of some fashion or other, and in the dusk we shall pass well enough." It was a village containing some fifty or sixty houses, for the most part the tent-like structures of the Buriats. They met no one in the street, and kept on until they saw a light in a window of a house larger than any others, and looking in saw that it was the place for which they were in search. Opening the door they went in and closed it behind them. A man came out from the room behind the shop. He stopped for a moment at seeing two strangers, then advanced with a suspicious look on his face. "Do you want a bargain?" Alexis asked him abruptly. "I have little money to buy with," he said sullenly. "That matters little, for we will take it out in goods." The man hesitated. Alexis drew out the long keen amputating knife. "Look here," he said. "We are not to be fooled with. You may guess what we are or not; it is nothing to us and nothing to you. We want some of your goods, and are ready to give you good exchange for them; we are not robbers. Here is this coat; look at it; it is almost unworn. I have used it only one winter. You can see it is lined with real sable, and it cost me three hundred roubles. At any rate, it is worth a hundred to you, even if you take out the lining, sell the skins separately, and burn the coat. Examine it for yourself." The shopkeeper did so. "They are good skins," he said, and Alexis could see that he quite appreciated their value. "Now," Alexis said, "I want two peasant dresses complete, coat, trousers, high boots, and caps. What do you charge for them?" "Twenty roubles each suit." "Very well. Pick two suits the right size for us, and lay them down on the counter. Now we want two pounds of brick-tea and two pounds of tobacco. We want two skins that will each hold a gallon or a gallon and a half of water, and a tin pot that will hold a quart, and two tin drinking mugs. We want a gun and ammunition; it need not be a new one. I see you have got half a dozen standing over there in the corner. What do you charge your customers for those? I see they are all old single barrels and flint-locks." "I charge fifteen roubles a piece." "Well we will take two of them, and we want two pounds of powder and six pounds of shot, and a couple of dozen bullets. Now add that up and see how much it comes to." "Ninety-two roubles," the man said. "Well, I tell you what. I will give you this cloak and twelve paper roubles for them. I don't suppose the goods cost you fifty at the outside, and you will get at least a hundred for the skins alone." "I will take it," the man said. "I take it because I cannot help it." "You take it because you are making an excellent bargain," Alexis said fiercely. "Now, mind, if you give the alarm when we have gone it will be worse for you. They won't catch us; but you will see your house on fire over your head before the week is past." Godfrey placed a ten-rouble note and two one-rouble notes on the table; they gathered up their goods and made them into a bundle, carefully loaded their guns, and put the powder and shot into their haversacks. Then Alexis lifted the bundle, and shouldering the guns they left the shop. "Will he give the alarm, do you think?" Godfrey asked. "Not he. He is thoroughly well satisfied. I daresay he will get a hundred and fifty roubles for the coat; besides, he knows that escaped convicts are desperate men, and that we should be likely to execute my threat. Besides, I don't suppose he would venture to stir out. For aught he knows we may be waiting just outside the shop to see what he does, and he will fear that he might get that hungry-looking knife into him if he came out to raise the alarm." All was quiet, and they were soon beyond the limits of the village, and struck out for the country. They held on for two or three miles, filled their water-skins at a little stream running towards the lake, and then entering a wood pushed on for some little distance, lighted a fire, and made themselves some tea. "We are fairly off now, Godfrey. We have become what they call wanderers, and should be safe enough among the Russian peasants, most of whom have been convicts in their time, in the villages north, for they are always willing enough to help men who have taken to the woods. Well, except in the villages, of which there are few enough about here, we are not likely to come upon them. From here to the frontier are Buriats, and indeed beyond the frontier. However as we have both got guns, we need not be afraid of any small party. Of course some of them have guns too; but I don't suppose they will be fools enough to risk throwing their lives away for nothing. At any rate there is one comfort. There is nothing to show that we are political prisoners now. We might be honest peasants if it were not for these confounded heads of hair." "I should think," Godfrey said, "we had better get rid of our hair altogether. It will be some time before it grows, but anything will be better than it is now." "We have got no scissors, Godfrey, and we have no soap. If we had, those knives of ours are sharp enough to shave with." "We can singe it off," Godfrey said. "Not now, but in the morning when we can see. I will do it for you, and you can do it for me. I would rather be bald-headed altogether than be such a figure as I am now." Accordingly in the morning they singed off their hair with red-hot brands, then they changed their clothes for those they had obtained the night before, folded up their great-coats, divided the tea, tobacco, and the greater part of the powder and shot between them, put a portion in their haversacks, and rolled the rest up in the coats, then strapped these to their shoulders and started on their way. "Now I feel ready for anything," Alexis said as they tramped along. "We have no weight to speak of to carry, and we have means of getting a meal occasionally. Now if we keep a little west of south we shall strike the Selenga river, which runs through Maimatchin, and then we shall be in China. We shall have to avoid the town, because I know there is a treaty between Russia and China about sending back exiles who cross the frontier. Still, when we get there we are at the starting-place of the caravans." "Is it a desert the whole distance?" "No. The first part is a mountainous country with two or three rivers to cross. I don't think the real desert is more than eight or ten days' march across. We shall certainly have no difficulty about water for some time to come. There are plenty of squirrels in these woods; at least I expect so, for they abound in all the forests. We must knock some of them over if we can. I believe they are not bad eating, though I never tried one. Then by the streams we ought to be able to pick up some wild duck, though of course at this time of year the greater portion of them are far north. Still I have great hopes we shall be able to keep ourselves in food with the assistance of what we may be able to buy occasionally. I think the only thing we have got to fear at this part of our journey is the Buriats. The thing I am really afraid of is the getting into China. I don't mean the frontier here; this is Mongolia, and it is only nominally Chinese; but when we get across the desert and enter China itself, I tell you frankly I don't see our way. We neither of us can speak a word of the language. We have no papers, and we may be arrested and shut up as suspicious vagabonds. There is one thing; at Kalgan, which is close to the Great Wall, there are Russian traders, and I should go boldly to them and ask their help. Russians out of Russia are sure to be liberal, though they may not dare to be so when they are at home, and I feel sure they would help us when we tell them our story, if we can only get at them. However we need not trouble ourselves much about that at present." Once beyond the forest they were in an undulating country, the hills sometimes rising to a considerable height. Occasionally they saw in the distance encampments of natives, with sheep, cattle, and horses in considerable numbers. They kept clear of these, although occasionally they had to make wide detours to do so. Time was no object to them, and they made but short journeys, for the Russian, who had never been accustomed to walk long distances, had blistered both his feet badly on the first night's journey, and the subsequent travelling had added to the inflammation. On the fourth evening they halted for the night on a little rivulet, after making only five or six miles. "It is no use, Alexis," Godfrey said; "we must stop here until your feet are quite well. We shall gain by it rather than lose, for when you are quite right again we could do our five-and-twenty or thirty miles a day easily, and might do forty at a push; but your feet will never get well if you go on walking, and it makes your journey a perfect penance; so I vote we establish ourselves here for three or four days. There is water and wood, and I dare say I shall be able to shoot something--at any rate you can't go on as you are now." "It is horribly annoying," Alexis said, "to be knocked up like this just at the start." "But it makes no difference," Godfrey urged. "We are not due at Pekin on any given day. It is very pleasant out here, where one can enjoy one's freedom and exult that there is no policeman or Cossack watching every movement. It would make no difference to me if we stopped here for a month. Now let me pull those boots off for you, then you can sit with your feet in this little pool." "Warm water would be better, Godfrey. If you will get the kettle to boil I will dip my two flannel shirts in and wrap them round and keep on at that. That will be better than cold water." "All right! I will soon get a fire alight. By Jove, they are bad!" he exclaimed, as Alexis pulled off his stocking. "They must have been hurting you desperately. Why did you not say how bad they were two days ago? We might as well have stopped then as now." "I hoped they would have got better when I put on these big boots instead of those I started with. But I did not think they were as bad as they are. I am afraid this is going to be a troublesome business, Godfrey." "Well, it can't be helped," Godfrey said cheerfully. "At any rate, don't worry on my account." The Russian's feet were indeed greatly swollen and inflamed. The skin had been rubbed off in several places, and the wounds had an angry look, their edges being a fiery red, which extended for some distance round them. "Well, you have plenty of pluck, Alexis, or you never could have gone on walking with such feet as those. I am sure I could not have done so." "We thought over most difficulties, Godfrey, that we might possibly have to encounter, but not of this." "No, we did not think of it, though we might really have calculated upon it. After being three or four months without walking twenty yards it is only natural one's feet should go at first. We ought to have brought some soap with us--I do not mean for washing, though we ought to have brought it for that--but for soaping the inside of our stockings. That is a first-rate dodge to prevent feet from blistering. Well, I must see about the fire. I will go up to those trees on the hillside. I daresay I shall be able to find some sticks there for lighting it. These bushes round here will do well enough when it is once fairly burning, but we shall have a great trouble to get them to light to begin with." [Illustration: A SUPPER OF ROASTED SQUIRRELS.] In half an hour he was back with a large faggot. "It is lucky," he said, "there is a fallen tree. So we shall have no difficulty about firewood. We ought to have brought a hatchet when we got the other things. These knives are first-rate for cutting meat and that sort of thing, but they are of no use for rough work. My old knife is better." While he was talking he was engaged in cutting some shavings off the sticks. Then he split up another into somewhat larger pieces, and laying them over the shavings, struck a match, and applied it. The flame shot up brightly, and in five minutes there was an excellent fire, on which the kettle was placed. "We had better have our dinner first, Godfrey. Then I can go on steadily with these fomentations while you take your gun and look round." "Perhaps that will be the best way," Godfrey said. "We have nothing left but six squirrels. We finished the last piece of bread this morning and the meat last night. How had we better do these squirrels?" "I will skin them, Godfrey, while you are seeing to the fire. Then we will spit them on a ramrod, and I will hold them in the flame." "I think we can manage better than that," Godfrey said, and he went to the bushes and cut two sticks of a foot long with a fork at one end. He stuck these in the ground, on the opposite sides of the fire. "There," he said, "you can lay the ramrod on these forks, and all you have got to do is to give it a turn occasionally." "How long do you suppose these things want cooking?" "Not above five minutes, I should think. I know that a steak only takes about eight minutes before a good fire, and these little beggars are not half the thickness of a steak. They are beginning to frizzle already, and the water is just on the boil." The squirrels were pronounced very good eating. When the meal was over Godfrey filled the kettle again and gave it to Alexis, and then, taking his gun, started down the valley. He was away three hours, and brought back twenty birds of various sorts, but for the most part small. "No very great sport," he said as he emptied his haversack. "However, they will do for breakfast, and I may have better luck to-morrow. There are some fish in the pools, but I do not see how we are to get them. I saw one spring out of the water; it must have weighed a couple of pounds." "You might shoot them, Godfrey, if you could find a place where the bank is pretty high so as to look down on the water." "So I could; I did not think of that. I must try to-morrow." "If it hadn't been for my feet," Alexis said, "we should have been down on the Selenga to-morrow, and we had calculated on being able to buy food at one of the villages there." "We shall be able to hold on here," Godfrey said, "for a few days, and I expect that one day's good tramp, when your feet are better, will take us there. After that we ought to have no great difficulty till we get down near the desert." CHAPTER VII. THE BURIAT'S CHILD. After three days' rest the Russian's feet were so much better that he said he should be able to make a start the next morning. Godfrey, however, would not listen to the proposal. "We are getting on all right," he said. "I am not much of a shot, but at any rate I am able to bag enough birds to keep us going, and though I have only succeeded in shooting one fish as yet, it was a good big one and was a real help to us. It is no use going on till your feet get really hard, for you would only be laming yourself again. It will be quite time enough to talk about making a start in three days' time." The next morning Godfrey was roughly awakened by a violent kick. Starting up he saw a group of six Buriats standing round them. Three of them had guns, which were pointed at the prisoners, the others were armed with spears. Resistance was evidently useless; their guns had been removed to a distance and the knives taken from their belts before they were roused. Godfrey held out his hands to show that he surrendered, and addressed the usual Russian salutation to them. The men were short, square-built figures, with large skulls, low foreheads, flat noses, and long eyes like those of the Chinese. Their cheek-bones were high and wide apart, the complexion a yellow-brown, and the hair jet black and worn in a platted tail down the back. They made signs to their prisoners to accompany them. Alexis pulled on his boots. Two of the men with guns stood guard over them while the others examined the stores, and were evidently highly pleased with the two brightly polished knives. "Rather an abrupt termination to our journey, Godfrey." "Painfully so. I was almost afraid everything was going on too well with us, Alexis. It began to look so easy that one could not understand why there should not be hundreds of prisoners every year make their way across." "I should not have minded so much," Alexis said, "if we had not got such a satisfactory kit together. We had everything we really wanted for a journey across Asia." "Except food and water, Alexis." "Well, yes, those are important items certainly, and if we had difficulty about it here in a decent sort of country, what might be expected on farther? Well, we have had our outing; I only hope they won't give us up at Irkutsk. I suppose it depends where their grazing-grounds are. There are another two months of summer; I wish we could have had our fling till then." Half a mile along the valley they came upon a tent, evidently belonging to the men who had taken them. They talked a good deal among themselves as they approached it, but went straight on without making a stop. "I expect they are taking us down to some chief or other, if they call them chiefs," Alexis said. "I expect they came out to hunt for horses or cattle that have strayed." Seven or eight miles farther the valley opened on to a plain, and a short distance in front of them, on the stream, stood ten tents, one of which was considerably larger than the others. Great flocks of sheep grazed on the plain, and at a distance they could see numbers of cattle, while some horses with their saddles on were hobbled near the tents. "I think we are lucky, Godfrey. The owner of all this must be a rich man, and can hardly covet the roubles he would get for giving us up. Besides, he is sure to talk Russian." As they came up to the huts they saw that their occupants were all gathered, talking excitedly in front of a large tent. One of the men ran on and then returned; the news he gave was evidently bad. He talked excitedly, pointing to his own leg about half-way between the knee and the ankle. The men broke into exclamations of regret. "I wonder what is the matter, Alexis; something has happened. I should think that someone must have met with an accident." "Without wishing ill to anyone, Godfrey, I sincerely wish it may be so, then I might be able to win their good-will." Little attention was paid to the party when they joined the group, all were too busy in discussing some event or other. Three or four minutes later a man came to the door of the tent and waved his hand, and gave some order. His dress was a handsome one. The little crowd fell back, but one of the men who had brought the captives in went up and spoke to him. He again waved his hand impatiently, and was turning to enter the tent when Alexis cried loudly: "I am a doctor, if anyone has been hurt I may be of service to him." The man stepped hastily forward. "Do you say you are a doctor?" "I am." "Come in then," he said abruptly, and entered the tent. "I will call you if you can be of any use," Alexis said to Godfrey as he followed him. The tent was a large one. Some handsome Koord carpets covered the ground. Facing the door was another opening leading into a small tent serving as the women's apartment. There were several piles of sheep-skins round the tent, and by one of these three women were standing. Two of these were richly dressed in gowns of handsome striped materials. They wore head-dresses of silver work with beads of malachite and mother-of-pearl, and had heavy silver ornaments hanging on their breasts. Their hair fell down their backs in two thick braids. The other woman was evidently of inferior rank. All were leaning over a pile of skins covered with costly furs, on which a boy of seven or eight years old was lying. His father, for such the man evidently was, said something in his own language, and the women turned eagerly to Alexis. "You are a Russian doctor!" one of the women exclaimed joyfully. "I am, lady," he said. "I graduated at St. Petersburg." "Can you do anything for my son?" she asked. "Half an hour ago he went up incautiously behind a young horse that had been driven in from the herd only yesterday and it kicked him. See, it is terrible," and she burst into tears. Alexis went forward and lifted a wet cloth that had been placed on the leg. A slight exclamation broke from his lips as he did so. The bone was evidently completely smashed, and one of the splintered ends projected through the skin. "He must die," the mother sobbed, "nothing can save him." The father did not speak, but looked inquiringly at Alexis. The latter made a sign to him to move to the other side of the tent. "Well," the Buriat asked, "must he die?" "There is no reason for his dying," Alexis said, "but there is no possibility of saving his leg, it must be amputated." "What would be the use of living without a leg?" the Buriat exclaimed. "A great deal of use," Alexis said quietly. "There are hundreds, aye thousands, of men in Russia who have lost a leg, some from an accident like this, or from a waggon going over them, some from a wound in battle. In some cases the leg is taken off much above the knee, but even then they are able to get about and enjoy their lives; but when it is below the knee, like this, they are able to do everything just the same as if they had both feet. They can walk and ride, and, in fact, do everything like others; besides, for such men there are people at St. Petersburg who make feet of cork, and when these are on, with a boot and trousers, or with a high boot, no one could tell that the wearer had not two feet. I have met men who had lost a leg, and they walked so well that I did not know till I was told that they had not two legs." "I will speak to his mother," the Buriat said, and returning to the women he spoke to them in their own language. At first they appeared shocked and even terrified at the idea, but as he went on, evidently repeating what Alexis had told him, the expression of their faces changed. The Buriat called Alexis across. "You cannot hesitate, lady," he said, "when your child's life is at stake. No Russian mother would do so for a moment. It may seem to you dreadful that he should have but one foot, but in a little time, even with so rough a limb as I could make for him, he would be running about and playing again, and, as I have been telling his father, he can obtain from St. Petersburg a foot so perfect that when wearing a high boot no one would suspect the misfortune that has happened to him." "Can he not be cured without that?" "No, lady. If it had been a simple fracture his leg might be bandaged up so that it would heal in time, but, as you can see for yourself, the bone is all splintered and broken, and unless something is done mortification will set in, and in a few days he will cease to live." "But are you sure that he will live if you do it?" "I am sure, lady, that the operation will not kill him. I believe that he will live, but that is in the hands of God. You see him now, the shock has prostrated him. He has but little life in him, and if he dies he will die from that and not from the taking off of his foot. But I do not think he will die, he is young and hardy, and on my faith as a Russian gentleman I believe that he will live." "It shall be tried," the Buriat said abruptly. "God has doubtless sent you here at this moment. Why otherwise should a doctor be brought to my door when this has happened? Do as you will." Alexis felt the boy's pulse. "I must wait," he said, "until he has recovered somewhat from the shock. Give him some warm milk with a spoonful, not more, of vodka in it. Your men have taken the knives that I and my friend carried; they were specially made for this, and we shall need them. Do not fear as to the operation, it is the most simple in surgery. Let him have the milk at once. Let him remain quiet upon his back, and do not let him attempt to move his leg. Do not tell him about this, it would frighten and agitate him. If I had medicines that we use in our hospitals I could send him to sleep so that he would know nothing about it, and when he woke up would be ignorant that his foot had been removed; but as there is none of it within a hundred miles of us we must manage it as we best can. Please tell your men to release my friend, I shall need his assistance." After bidding the woman heat some milk at once the Buriat went out and ordered Godfrey's guards to release him at once, and to restore to them their knives and all their other possessions. Alexis informed Godfrey of what had taken place, and what he proposed to do. "The operation would be a very easy one if we had chloroform and proper implements. Unfortunately there is no chance of their having such a thing as a fine saw, and how in the world I am to make a clean cut through the bone I do not know. The knife that you carry is just the right thing for the job; but how about a saw? If we could have chloroformed him, we could, after making the cuts through the flesh, have put the leg on a log of wood and have cut clean through the bone with a chopper. It would not be a good plan, for it would probably splinter the bone, but it might have been tried, but without chloroform it is not to be thought of." Godfrey thought for a moment. "The knives are of a very good steel, Alexis?" "Oh yes, of the very best steel!" "Is it hard steel like that of a razor?" "Yes, very much the same." "Then I should think it could be managed. I know the least thing will notch a razor. Now I should think if we took the large knife, and with my pocket-knife or with the edge of a hard stone notch the edge carefully all the way down, it would make a very good saw." "I should think it might do anyhow, Godfrey, and the idea is a very good one. Well, let us set about it at once. I can get a piece of fresh bone to try on; no doubt they kill a sheep here every day." They set to work and in ten minutes had notched the blade of the knife all the way down. Alexis had, as he expected, no trouble in obtaining a freshly-picked bone, and they found that the knife sawed through it very cleanly. Then Alexis went in to see the boy again. Before, he had been lying with his eyes half-closed, without a vestige of colour in his cheeks; the warm milk had done its work almost instantaneously, and he was perfectly conscious and there was a slight colour in his cheeks. His pulse had recovered strength wonderfully. Alexis nodded approvingly to the Buriat. He drew him outside the tent. "If I were you," he said, "I would send away all the people from the other huts. If the poor child screams they may get excited and rush in, and it is better that everything should be perfectly quiet. I should send away also the ladies, unless of course his mother particularly wishes to be with him; but it will be trying for her, and I own that I would rather not have anyone in the tent but you and my friend." The Buriat went inside; he returned in two or three minutes. "My wife will stay; my sister and the attendant will go." Then he called to the men who were standing at the doors of their huts: "The doctor says there must be silence for some time; he is going to do something and he wishes that all shall retire to a distance until I wave my hand for them to return. Will there be anything you want?" he asked Alexis. "A large jug of warm water," he said, "a bowl, and some soft rag--that is all. By the time that is ready I shall be. You will have to hold his leg, Godfrey," he went on as the Buriat returned to his tent. "You must hold it just under the knee as firmly as possible, so as to prevent the slightest movement. But I am going to try to mesmerize him. I have seen it done with perfect success, and at any rate it is worth trying. In the weak state he is in I ought to be able to succeed without difficulty. Now I want a couple of small flat stones with rounded edges, a strip of soft skin, and a bit of stick three or four inches long and as thick as your finger, to make a tourniquet with." By the time that these were ready a perfect stillness reigned in the camp. The whole of the natives had gone away to a distance of over a quarter of a mile, and were sitting in a group watching the tents, and, Godfrey had no doubt, debating hotly as to the folly of allowing a stranger to have anything to do with the son of their employer. He now followed Alexis into the tent, where all was in readiness. The child's head was slightly raised by a skin folded and placed under it. His mother knelt beside him. "What do you wish me to do?" the Buriat asked. "I wish you to stand beside him and aid his mother to hold him should he struggle, and I may need you to dip the rag into the warm water, squeeze it out, and give it me." "Of course he will struggle," the Buriat said; "we men can bear pain, but a child cannot." "I am going to try to put him to sleep," Alexis replied; "a sleep so sound that he will not wake with the pain. I do not say that I shall be able to, but I will try." The Buriat looked at Alexis as if he doubted his sanity. That a Russian doctor should be able to take off the child's leg was within his comprehension. He had once seen a man in the street of Irkutsk with only one arm, but that anyone could make a child sleep so soundly that he would not wake under such an operation seemed to him beyond the bounds of possibility. "Tell the child that I am going to do him good," Alexis said to the mother, "and that he is to look at my eyes steadily." He placed himself at the side of the couch and gazed down steadily at the child; then he began to make passes slowly down his face. For three or four minutes the black eyes looked into his unwinkingly, then the lids closed a little. Alexis continued his efforts, the lids drooped more and more until they closed completely. He continued the motions of his hand for another minute or two, then stooping he lifted an eyelid; the eye was turned upwards, so that the iris was no longer visible. "Thank God, he has gone off!" he said. "Now for the tourniquet. That is right; twist gradually now, Godfrey, and place the stone on the main artery. Now," he said to the Buriat, "hold this stick firm with one hand and place the other on his chest to prevent his moving. Do you lay your arm across him," this to the mother; "that is right. Kneel with your face against his. Now, Godfrey, grasp the leg just below the knee and hold it firmly." Godfrey did so, and then shut his eyes as he saw the doctor about to use the knife, expecting to hear a piercing scream from the child. There was no sound, however, and in a very few seconds he heard Alexis utter a low exclamation of satisfaction. He looked now; the flesh was already cut through and no cry had escaped the child. Another moment the foot and the lower portion of the leg came away at the point where the bone was crushed; then Alexis pushed the flesh upwards so as to expose another inch of the shin-bone, and then took the saw and cut through it. Some strands of silk lay close to his hand; with a long needle he took up the ends of the arteries and tied them with the silk; then he took hold of the stick of the tourniquet and loosened it a little. The result was satisfactory; the arteries were securely tied. Then he tightened it again and gave it to the Buriat to hold, wiped the wound with the damp rag, drew down the flesh over the end of the bone, brought up the flap of flesh from behind, and with a few stitches sewed it in its place. "It is all done," he said, rising to his feet. Then he passed his hand several times across the child's forehead. "Tell him softly, when he opens his eyes," he said to the mother, "that he will soon be well now, and that he must go to sleep." He continued the passes for some time, occasionally lifting the eyelid. "He is coming round now," he said at last. A few more passes and the child drowsily opened its eyes. His mother spoke to him softly, and with a faint smile he closed them again. Alexis stood quietly for another minute or two. "He is asleep now," he said to the Buriat; "you need hold him no longer." The tears were running down the man's cheeks; he seized one of the hands of Alexis and pressed it to his lips, while the mother, sobbing with joy, did the same to the other. To them it seemed almost a miracle. "Have some milk kept warm," Alexis said, "and give it to him when he awakes. Do not tell him anything about his foot having been taken off. Keep a blanket lying over him so that he will not see it It is well that he should not be agitated, but tell him that he must lie perfectly quiet and not move his leg, as it would hurt him if he did so. Now, chief, it would be as well if you called the others back and told your servant to get some breakfast, for my friend and I have had nothing to eat since your men woke us this morning." The Buriat went outside the tent and waved a blanket, and the others came running in at the signal. "Tell them not to make a noise," Alexis said; "the longer the child sleeps quietly the better." The Buriats uttered exclamations of the most profound astonishment when the chief told them that the Russian doctor had taken off the leg of the child without his feeling the slightest pain, and that there was every hope of his speedily recovering, whereupon they looked at Alexis with a feeling of respect amounting to awe. A sheep was at once killed, skinned, cut up, and placed in a great cooking pot over a fire; but long before this was done two great bowls of hot milk were brought out by the Buriat to Alexis and Godfrey, to enable them to hold on until the meal was prepared. At his order the men at once set about erecting a tent for them close to his own, and as soon as this was up, piles of soft skins were brought in. "That has been a lucky stroke indeed, Godfrey," Alexis said as they took possession of their new abode. "It has indeed, Alexis. Nothing could have been more providential. We are in clover as long as we choose to stop here. Do you think the child will recover?" "I think there is every hope of his doing so. These natives are as hard as nails. I don't suppose the child has ever had a day's illness in his life, and in this pure dry air there is little fear of the wound doing badly. The next thing to do is to make him a pair of crutches to get about with till he can bear to have a wooden stump on. The only nuisance is that we shall be delayed. As a doctor, I cannot very well leave my patient till he is fairly on the road towards recovery." "Certainly not," Godfrey agreed. "Well, I daresay we shall put away the time pleasantly enough here." Half an hour later two horses were brought up, and these with their saddles and bridles were presented by the Buriat to his guests, and were picketed by their tent. The next three weeks passed pleasantly; they rode, hunted, and shot. The little patient made rapid progress towards recovery, and at the end of that time was able to get about on two crutches Godfrey had made for him. "It is better that you should make them, Godfrey, and also the wooden leg when he is ready for it," Alexis had said. "It is just as well that their gratitude should be divided a little, so I will hand that part of the work over to you." The Buriats were delighted indeed when they saw the child hopping about the camp with his crutches, and their gratitude knew no bounds to their guests. Alexis had made no secret to the Buriat of their intention of trying to make their way to Pekin. He endeavoured in every way to dissuade them from it. "You will never find your way across the desert," he said, "and will die for want of water. The people are wild and savage. They are ruled by their lamas, and if they do not put you to death, which they would be likely to do for what you have, they will certainly send you back to Kiakhta and hand you over to the Russians there; and even if you got through the desert the Chinese would seize you and send you back. It would be madness to try. It would be better than that to go south and make for Thibet, although even that would be a desperate expedition. The tribes are wild and savage, the desert is terrible for those who do not know it. You would never find the wells, and would perish miserably of thirst even if you escaped being killed by the tribesmen. Still your chances would be greater than they would be of reaching Pekin. But you had far better make up your minds to live here. I will give you flocks and herds. You should be as of my family, and you, Alexis, should marry my sister, who is rich as well as pretty, for she owns a third of all the flocks and herds you see." Alexis warmly thanked the Buriat for the offer, but said they must take time to consider it. "One might do worse," he said, laughing, to Godfrey when they were alone. "The women are certainly a great deal better-looking than the men, and the girl would be considered fair-looking even in Russia. At any rate it would be vastly better being a Buriat here than being inside that prison at Irkutsk." "I agree with you there, Alexis; but it would be horrible being cut off here from the world for life." "But one is cut off in prison, Godfrey; and though I agreed to share your attempt I have never been very hopeful about its success, and I am still less hopeful now from what I hear of the difficulties ahead of us. As I said when you first talked of it, there must be some frightful difficulties here, or this would be the way by which convicts would always try to escape, and yet we have never heard of one doing so." "Yes, I begin to think myself I have made a mistake, Alexis, in choosing this route instead of a northern one. Besides, we shall have winter upon us in a very few weeks now, which would of course add tremendously to our difficulties. But you are not seriously thinking of stopping here, are you?" "I don't know, Godfrey. You see you have got a home and friends waiting for you if you do get away, I have nothing but exile. I do believe we shall never succeed in getting out through China, and I think we couldn't do better than stop here for a year or two. By the end of that time we may succeed in establishing relations by means of this Buriat with some of the tea merchants at Kiakhta, and getting one of them to smuggle us through with a caravan; but, at any rate, if you still hold to going I shall go too. I have no intention of deserting you, I can assure you." In another fortnight Godfrey had made a stump for the child. The hollow was lined with sheepskin to take off the jar, and it strapped firmly on to the limb. The wound was not quite sufficiently healed yet for the child to use it regularly, but when on first trying it he walked across the tent the joy of his father and mother knew no bounds. They had only been waiting for this to make a move, for the pasture had for some time been getting short, and on the following day the tents were pulled down, and for three days they journeyed east, and then finding a suitable spot again pitched their tents. They were now, as the Buriat told them, only some thirty miles from Kiakhta. Godfrey and Alexis had talked matters over during the journey. They agreed that the season was now too late for them to think of attempting the journey until the following spring, and had almost concluded that the attempt to get through China should be altogether abandoned. Going north there were the rigour of the climate and the enormous distances as obstacles, but the passage would be chiefly by water. There was no danger from the tribes they would have to pass through, no difficulties such as they might meet with from the opposition of the Chinese, and they had pretty well resolved to pass the winter with the Buriats and to make a start in the spring. Their host was greatly pleased when they informed him of their intention at any rate to spend the winter with them, for he hoped that before the spring Alexis would have made up his mind to accept his offer, and to settle down as a member of the tribe. The day after the Buriats pitched their fresh camp one of the men reported that he had seen a large bear at the edge of a forest two miles from the huts. Alexis and Godfrey at once took their guns, borrowed a couple of long spears and two hunting knives, and started for the wood, the native going with them to show them the exact spot where he had seen the bear. There was a good deal of undergrowth about, and they thought it probable that the animal was not far off. The Buriat had brought a dog with him, and the animal at once began sniffing the ground. His master encouraged it, and presently it started, sniffing the ground as it went. It had gone but a few hundred yards when it stopped before a thick clump of bushes and began growling furiously. They had a short consultation, and then the two friends took up their post one at each corner of the bushes, while the Buriat went round to the rear of the clump with his dog and began beating the bushes with his stick, while the dog barked and yelped. A minute later a bear broke out of the bushes within four yards of Alexis. The Russian levelled his gun. Godfrey heard a report far louder than usual, and something flew close to his head. A moment later he saw Alexis struck to the ground by the bear. Godfrey rushed up, and fired when within two paces of the animal, which with a fierce growl turned upon him. He sprang aside and plunged his spear deep into its side. The bear struck at the handle and broke it in two, and then rose on its hind-legs. Godfrey drew his knife and awaited its rush, but it stood stationary for half a minute, swayed to and fro, and then fell on its side. Godfrey leaned over it and plunged his knife in deep behind its shoulders, pressing it until the blade disappeared. Then feeling certain it was dead he ran to Alexis, who lay motionless on the ground. By the side of him lay the stock of the gun and a portion of the barrel; it had exploded, completely shattering the Russian's left hand. But this was not his only or even his most serious injury. The bear had struck him on the side of the head, almost tearing off a portion of the scalp and ear. The Buriat had by this time come round, and Godfrey bade him run to the camp at the top of his speed to fetch assistance. Feeling in his friend's pocket he drew out the bandage which Alexis always carried, and wrapped up as well as he could his shattered hand, of which the thumb and two first fingers were altogether missing; the wound on the head was, he felt, altogether beyond him. In less than half an hour the chief Buriat and four of his men dashed up on horseback. They had brought with them two poles and a hide to form a litter. The chief was deeply concerned when he saw how serious were the Russian's injuries. No time was lost in lashing the hides to the poles. Alexis was lifted and laid upon the litter, and two of the Buriats took the poles while the others led back the horses. As soon as he arrived in camp Godfrey bathed the wounds with warm water, and poured some spirits between the lips of the wounded man, but he gave no signs of consciousness. "I am afraid," he said to the Buriat, who was looking on anxiously, "that his skull is injured or there is concussion of the brain. The only thing that I can see will be for him to be carried at once to Kiakhta. There is sure to be a hospital there and doctors." "That would be best," the Buriat said; "but I will take a house there, and my wife and sister shall nurse him." "That will be better than going into the hospital," Godfrey agreed, "for two reasons. In the first, because Alexis would certainly get more careful nursing among his friends than in a hospital, and he might then avoid, if he survives his injuries, being again imprisoned." No time was lost. Four Buriats took the poles, Godfrey walked beside the litter, and the Buriat, his wife and sister, mounted and rode off to have everything ready for them when they arrived at Troitzkosavsk, the suburb of Kiakhta. It was late before they reached it. The Buriat met them half a mile outside the town, and at once conducted them to a house that he had hired from a friend established there. As soon as Alexis was laid upon a couch Godfrey and the Buriat went out and ascertained where one of the surgeons of the military hospital lived. On reaching the house they were shown by the Cossack who acted as the doctor's servant to his room. "A friend of mine has been badly injured by a bear," the Buriat said; "I wish you to come and see him at once. He is in a house I have taken near this. I will be responsible for all charges." The doctor looked keenly at Godfrey and then said, "I will come. You are not a Buriat?" he said to Godfrey as they started. "I am not, doctor; though I have been living with them for some time." "And the man who is ill, is he a Buriat?" "No, sir; he is a Russian, and a member of your own profession." "He is clever," the Buriat said. "He saved the life of my child by taking off his leg, and he is running about again now. He is as a brother to me, and I would gladly give a thousand cattle rather than that he should die." No other words were spoken until they arrived at the house. The surgeon stooped over Alexis, lifted one of his eyelids, and felt his pulse. "Concussion of the brain," he said; "a serious case. Bring me rags and hot water." He bathed the wound for some time and then carefully examined it. "There is a fracture of the skull," he said to Godfrey, "and I fancy there is a piece of bone pressing on the brain. Put wet cloths round his head for the present; I will go and fetch my colleague, and I will send down some ice from the hospital. His hand is bandaged up, what is the matter with that?" "His gun burst, doctor, and has mangled his hand dreadfully. That was how it was the bear got at him and struck him." The surgeon removed the bandages and examined it. "Keep it bathed with warm water until I return," he said. Half an hour later he came back with the other surgeon, a man older than himself, both carrying cases of instruments. The wound on the head was again examined. They then proceeded to operate, and in a few minutes removed a portion of splintered bone. Then the flap of skin was carefully replaced in its position, and a few stitches put in to hold it. The hand was then attended to. "No, I don't think it need come off," the senior surgeon said; "we may save the third and little fingers. At any rate we will try; if it does not do we can take the whole off afterwards." The operation was performed, then ordering the ice that had just been brought to be applied to the head, the surgeons left. "We will look in again early in the morning," one of them said to Godfrey, "and then we will have a chat with you." The women took it by turns to watch, and Godfrey, worn out by the excitement of the day, slept until morning. Alexis was restless, moving uneasily and muttering to himself. His eyes were open, but he took no notice of what was going on around him. The surgeon they had first seen came alone. "He is better," he said to the Buriat, "but he is very far from being out of danger yet. It will be a long illness, but I hope that we may be able to bring him round. I will send him some medicine presently. Keep cloths with cold water and ice to his head." He beckoned to Godfrey to follow him out of the room. "I don't want to ask any questions," he said, "about my patient. I have been called in by this Buriat to see a friend of his, and it does not concern me who or what he may be; but it is different with you. As a Russian officer I cannot be seeing you daily without reporting that I have met a person who scarcely appears to be what he seems. It is painful to me to be obliged to say so. I do not give advice any way. I only say that if you do not wish to be asked questions, it would be best for you to leave here after nightfall; until then, I shall not consider it necessary to make any report. I shall be back again once or twice to-day; you had better think the matter over." Godfrey had been thinking the matter over as he walked beside the litter, and had already arrived at a decision. It was evident that many weeks, if not months, must elapse before Alexis would be fit to sustain the hardships that would attend an attempt to escape, and he thought it probable that more than ever he would be inclined to throw in his lot with the wandering Buriats; he had therefore only himself to think about. He had foreseen that he would not be able to stop at Kiakhta without being exposed to being questioned, and that there remained therefore only the option of living with the Buriats during the winter or of giving himself up. The former plan would be the most advantageous in the event of his trying to reach Pekin; but the difficulties in that direction appeared to him so great that he shrank from the thought of facing them, especially as he should now be alone, and he preferred the idea of trying to escape by the north. In this case a further sojourn among the Buriats would be useless; in a Russian prison he would be able to pick up many valuable hints from the men with whom he would work, and might find someone ready to make the attempt with him. The difficulties of escape from prison did not seem very great, and would, he thought, be even less at one of the penal settlements than if confined in an ordinary jail. When, however, the doctor spoke to him, Godfrey only thanked him, and said he would speak with him again when he next called. The Buriat saw that he was looking serious when he returned to the room. "What did he say to you?" he asked. "Did he threaten to report you?" "He spoke very kindly," Godfrey replied. "But he said that it would be his duty to do so if I remained here." The Buriat shook his head. "I was thinking of that yesterday, and was afraid for you. Out on the plains there would have been none to question you; but here in the town a stranger is noticed at once, for every resident is known. You must make off at once. You can take my horse, we will watch over your friend. Once in my tents you will be safe." Godfrey thanked him warmly, but told him that he had not quite decided as to what he should do, but would let him know later on. Then, as he could do nothing for Alexis, he threw himself down on a pile of skins, and thought the matter over in every light. CHAPTER VIII. THE MINES OF KARA. Godfrey found it a difficult matter to decide what was best to be done; but after two hours' thinking his mind was quite made up. He did not stand in the same position as Alexis with the Buriats. It was Alexis who had laid them under such an obligation by saving their child's life. He himself was simply liked as the doctor's companion, and without Alexis the long months of winter would be dreary indeed. He thought that imprisonment would be preferable to living alone in a Buriat hut. Accordingly he rose at last, and told the Buriat that his course was decided. "I shall give myself up," he said. "I know that you would make me welcome in your tents; but from what you have told me, I see that there is no prospect whatever of an escape through China, and that if I go out to the plains I shall be there for life, while if I go to a prison I may in time be released, or at any rate I can again escape." "Whenever you come to us you will be welcome," the Buriat said. "For yourself, you know best; but we shall be all sorry to lose you. Is there anything I can do for you? I know the governor here, for I have had large dealings with him for sheep and cattle for the troops." "I shall be very glad if you will go with me to him," Godfrey said. "A word from you may be of great advantage to me. There are no prisons here, and I am most anxious to be sent to Nertchinsk and not to Irkutsk, because it was from there we escaped." The Buriat's wife and sister were sorry when they heard Godfrey's determination, but they were too much occupied with Alexis to try and dispute it. "When will you go?" the Buriat said. "At once, if you will take me. I have no preparations to make; I only cause extra trouble here, and can be of no assistance. But first, if you will procure paper, pen, and ink, I will write a letter for you to give to Alexis when he recovers, telling him why I leave him." The Buriat sent out one of his men, who presently returned with writing materials, and Godfrey then wrote a long letter to Alexis, explaining at length the reasons that actuated him in deciding to give himself up. "You are in good hands," he said, "and I could do nothing for you; and in any case I should have to leave you now, for did I not give myself up I must leave this evening, therefore I could do no good to you in any case. I know that you were half inclined to stay with the Buriats, and you will now have even greater reasons for doing so than before. If, however, you should at any future time change your mind and try to make your escape, I need not tell you how delighted I should be to see you in England. I inclose the address of my father's office, where you will be sure either to find me or to hear of me. But even if I have not got home you will receive the heartiest welcome when you tell him of our having been together and show him this letter, and you may rely upon it that my father will be able to procure a situation for you in London, even if he cannot find a berth for you in his own house of business." When he had finished he handed the letter to the Buriat to give to Alexis. "Here is money," the Buriat said, "which my wife found upon Alexis. You had better take it with you." "I cannot do that," Godfrey said, "it is his; I have some of my own. I know he would gladly give it to me if he were conscious; but I cannot take it now." "Very well," the Buriat said, "you are doubtless right; but at any rate you can take some from me. I am rich. I have many thousands of sheep and cattle. If you do not take it I shall be offended, and shall think that in some way we have displeased you. A thousand roubles are nothing to me; I have given as much for one suit of furs for my wife. You must take this; if you ever attempt to escape again, you will need money." After much debate Godfrey accepted five hundred roubles in notes, seeing that the Buriat would be really pained by his refusal, and knowing that the money would indeed be useful to him when he next tried to make his escape. Being anxious to hear the surgeon's next report about Alexis, Godfrey delayed his start until after his visit. "There is no change," the doctor said, after examining his patient, "nor did I expect there would be after such serious injuries as he has received. It would be strange, indeed, if he did not suffer from the shock. It may be some days before any change takes place. It is vastly better that he should be restless, or even wildly delirious, than lying unconscious as he was when I first saw him. Well, and what are you going to do, young fellow?" "I am going to give myself up," he said. "You have had enough of the plains, eh?" "Yes, sir, for the present." "Mind, don't be foolish enough to say that you have escaped; there is not the least occasion for that; that would make the case a great deal worse." "My friend here was going with me to the governor, doctor, to tell him that I have been living with him for some time." "Yes, that is all well enough; but if you give yourself up it is a confession that you have escaped; that won't do at all. I tell you what will be the best thing: I will go with you to Colonel Prescoff, the governor. I shall tell him the truth, that I was attending one of the Buriat's men, who had been badly injured by a bear, when I saw you there. I found that you could not give a good account of yourself, and had no papers, and that, therefore, as was my duty, I brought you to him. Then you must say that you have been working here and there, and that you come from, say, Tomsk. I suppose you have been there?" Godfrey smiled. "That is near enough," the doctor went on. "As for your papers, you lost them, or they were burnt or stolen from you. He won't ask you many questions. Then the Buriat will speak up for you--he is rather an important man, being one of the richest of his tribe--and say what he can for you. Is there anything you want done particularly?" "I want to be sent to Nertchinsk instead of to Irkutsk. I would rather work in the mines or anywhere else than be shut up in prison." "And besides, you would not be known?" the doctor laughed. "That is the principal thing, sir." "Whatever you do, my lad," the doctor said, "if you have been a political prisoner--mind, I don't ask the question, and don't want to know--but if you have been, don't let it out. It is better to have been a murderer than a Nihilist out here. I dare say the colonel would send you to Nertchinsk if your friend here asks him, but it is a good deal further and a more expensive journey." "I will gladly pay for the vehicle, sir." "Ah, well; if you will do that, I should think it could be managed. I will go in first with your friend and have a talk with the colonel, and we will see if we can put the matter straight for you before you are called in." Godfrey took his fur-lined coat, said good-bye to the two ladies, gently put his hand on his comrade's shoulder, and followed the doctor and his host. When they arrived at the governor's house the doctor left him in the room where two military clerks were writing, and went in with the Buriat to the governor. In five minutes the bell rang. An orderly answered it, and returning, bade Godfrey follow him. The governor was seated at a table, the doctor and the Buriat standing near. "So I hear," the colonel said, looking sharply at Godfrey, "that you are unable to give an account of yourself, and have nothing but a cock-and-bull story of having wandered about through the country. We understand what that means. However, our friend here," and he motioned to the Buriat, "speaks well of you, and says that you have done him some service. However that cannot be taken into consideration. It is clear that having no papers and no domicile, you are a vagabond, and as such must be committed to prison. You will be taken to Nertchinsk." Godfrey bowed. The colonel touched the bell again, and the orderly entered. "Take this man to the cells." The Buriat stepped forward and shook hands with Godfrey. "Come again," he said in a low voice, "you will always be welcome." The doctor nodded. "I shall see you before you start," he said. Godfrey saluted the colonel and followed the orderly out of the room. He was taken across a court-yard to a cell. "A good style of young fellow," the colonel said when he left. "He has either been an officer and got into some scrape with his colonel, or he is a political." "One or the other, colonel, no doubt," the doctor agreed. "Well, it is no business of mine," the colonel said. "I suppose he has had four or five months in the woods and wants to get into snug quarters again before winter. Well, good morning, gentlemen!" and his visitors took their leave. Late in the evening the doctor came into Godfrey's cell. "By the bye," he said, "I put your name down as Ivan Holstoff. It was as good as any other, and you had to be entered by some name. I feared that you might blurt out your own whatever it may be, and that might be fatal, for if you are a political prisoner your name will have been sent to every station where there are troops." "I am very much obliged to you, doctor, for your kindness," Godfrey said. "I will take care to remain Ivan Holstoff. How much am I to pay for the carriage?" "Your friend the Buriat has seen to that, and handed the governor money for a vehicle there and back, as the soldier in charge of you will have to return." "It is very good of him," Godfrey said gratefully. "Please tell him when you see him how much obliged I am to him for his kindness to me." "I think my patient will do," the doctor said. "He is quieter and less feverish this evening. I think he will pull round; and now good bye! I think you have done right in giving yourself up. You are but a lad yet, and with good conduct, now that you are entered only as a vagabond, you will get leave to work outside the prison in two or three years, and get a permit to settle anywhere in Siberia a couple of years later." The next morning at daybreak Godfrey was placed in a vehicle. A soldier mounted by the side of the driver, the latter shouted to his horses, and started at full gallop. Soon after leaving the town they passed a caravan of forty carts carrying tea. The soldier, who appeared a chatty fellow, told him they would be three months on their way to Moscow. At a town named Verchne Udinsk they regained the main road and turned east and continued their journey through Chita, a town of three thousand inhabitants, to Nertchinsk, a distance of six hundred miles. The country was hilly, and for the most part wooded, but varied at times by rolling prairies on which large herds of cattle were grazing. The journey was far more pleasant than that Godfrey had before made, for being no longer regarded as a political prisoner his guard chatted with him freely; and at night, instead of having to sleep in the vehicle in the open air, he was lodged in the convict stations, which, as the season was late, were for the most part unoccupied. He was glad, however, when he arrived at Nertchinsk, for the jolting of the springless vehicle was very trying. He did not see the governor of the prison, but was at once assigned to a cell there on the guard handing to the authorities the official report of the governor at Kiakhta. "You are to go on again to-morrow," the warder said to him that evening. "We are full here, and there is a party going on to Kara. You will go with them. The barber will be here to shave you directly. You have not been out very long, judging by the length of your hair. Here is your prison dress. You must put that on to-morrow instead of the one you have on, but you may carry yours with you if you like, it will be useful to you when your term in the prison is done." Accordingly the next morning Godfrey was taken into the court-yard, where some fifty other prisoners were assembled, and ten minutes later marched off under a guard of eight mounted Cossacks. He carried his peasant's clothes and fur coat rolled up into a bundle on his shoulder, and had, after he changed his dress, sewn up his money in the collar of his jacket with a needle and thread he had brought with him, keeping out some twenty roubles for present purposes. The journey occupied five days, the marches averaging twenty-five miles apiece. The prisoners talked and sung by the way, picked the blackberries and raspberries that grew thickly on the bushes by the wayside, and at night slept in the stations, their food consisting of very fair broth, with cabbage in it, meat, and black bread. Godfrey was asked no questions. He did not know whether this was because the convicts thought only of themselves, and had no curiosity about their companions, or whether it was a sort of etiquette observed among them. Godfrey was surprised to find how much the country differed from the ideas he had formed of Siberia. The forests were beautiful with a great variety of foliage. Late lilies bloomed by the roadside with flowers of other kinds, of whose names he was ignorant. To the north was a chain of hills of considerable height. The forest was alive with birds, and he frequently caught sight of squirrels running about among the branches. No objection was offered by the guards to their making purchases at the villages through which they passed, except that they would not allow them to buy spirits. At the first opportunity Godfrey laid out four or five roubles in tea and tobacco, some of which he presented to the guards, and divided the rest among his fellow-prisoners, who forthwith dubbed him "the count." At length Kara was reached. It was not a town, but purely a convict settlement, the prisoners being divided among four or five prisons situated two or three miles from each other. They were first marched to the most central of these. Here they were inspected by the governor, who had the details of each case reported by the authorities of the prisons they had left. They were at once divided into parties in accordance with the vacancies in the various prisons. Only four were left behind. These were taken to a guardroom until allotted to the various wards. One by one they were taken out, Godfrey being the last to be summoned. He was conducted to a room in which several convicts were seated writing; through this a long passage led to the governor's room. "You are known as Ivan Holstoff," the governor said when the warder had retired. "Yes, sir." "Age?" "Seventeen." "Charged with being a vagabond, found without papers or documents, and unable to give a satisfactory account of yourself." Godfrey bowed. The colonel glanced through the paper by his side signed by the governor at Kiakhta, and saying that the prisoner had been most favourably reported upon by a wealthy Buriat, a government contractor with whom he had been living out on the plains. "You persist in giving no further account of yourself?" the governor asked. "I would rather say nothing further, sir," Godfrey replied. "You are not a Russian," the governor said sharply. "I am a Russian born," the lad replied. "You speak with a slight accent." "I was away for some years from my country," Godfrey replied. "I suppose you would call yourself a student?" "Yes, sir, I was a student until lately." "You are a young lad to have got yourself into trouble. How was it? Do not tell me what crime you are charged with, but you can tell me anything else. It will go no farther, and there will be no record of what you say." Godfrey liked the officer's face. It was stern, but sternness is a necessity when a man is in charge of some three thousand prisoners, the greater proportion of whom are desperate men; but there was a kindness in the half-smile with which he spoke. "I am here, sir, from pure misfortune. I have no doubt most people you question declare they are innocent, and I do not expect you to believe me. The facts against me were very strong, so strong that I believe any jury would have convicted me upon them, but in spite of that I was innocent. I behaved like a fool, and was made the dupe of others, but beyond that I have nothing whatever to blame myself for or to regret." "It may be as you say," Colonel Konovovitch said. "I am not here to revise sentences, but to see them carried out. Conduct yourself well, lad, and in two years you will get a permit to reside outside the prison. Three years later you will be practically free, and can go where you like in Siberia and earn your living in any way you choose. Many of the richest men in the country have been convicts. I shall keep an eye on you, and shall make matters as easy for you as I can." He touched the bell, and the warder re-entered and led Godfrey away. The colonel sat for some little time in thought. He liked the lad's face and his manner, which, although perfectly respectful, had none of the servility with which Russians generally address their superiors. "He did not say that he was a Russian," he said to himself, "only that he was born in Russia. I should say from his appearance and manner that he was English. What was he sent out here for, I wonder? He may have been a clerk and been condemned for forgery or embezzlement. He may have been a political prisoner, most likely that I should say. He may have got mixed up in some of these Nihilist plots; if so, he has done well to become a vagabond. I can't help thinking he was speaking the truth when he declared he was innocent. Well, perhaps in the long run it will be the best for him. A clerk's lot is not a very bright one, and I should say he is likely to make his way anywhere. He has a hard two years' time before him among those scoundrels, but I should think he is likely to hold his own." Then he dismissed the subject from his thoughts and turned to a pile of papers before him. Godfrey, on leaving the presence of the governor, was taken by the warder to one of the prison blocks, and was handed over to the prison official in charge of it. He was taken to a small room and there furnished with a bag in which to keep his underclothing and other effects. "You will use this bag for a pillow at night," the official said. "What money you have you can either give to me to take charge of for you, or can hand it over to the head man of the room to lay out for you as you require it, or you can keep it yourself. If you choose to hold it yourself you had better keep a very sharp look-out; not that there are any professional thieves here, it is only for very serious offences that men are sent east of Irkutsk." Godfrey thanked the official, but said that what little he had he might as well keep with him. His money in paper was safely hidden in the lining of his convict jacket, and as he knew that that would be worn by night as well as by day, it was perfectly safe there. He was provided with some flannel shirts and other underclothing. "I see you have underclothing of your own," the official said; "but of course you have the regular allowance given you; if you run short of money you can sell them. Now come along with me." Godfrey was led into a large room, where the scene somewhat widely differed from what he had pictured to himself would be the interior of a prison at the dreaded mines of Kara. The room was large and fairly lofty; the walls were clean and whitewashed; down both sides ran benches, six feet wide, similar to one he had seen in an English guard-house. There were some sixty men in the room; some of these were lying upon the bed-places smoking pipes, others were sitting on them talking together or mending their clothes, and several parties were engaged in card-playing. Save for the ugly gray uniforms with the coloured patches in the centre of the back, significant of the term of imprisonment to which their wearers had been sentenced, and the strangely shaved heads of those present, he might have been in a singularly free-and-easy barrack-room. Most of the men looked up as the official entered. "A new comrade," he said. "Mikail Stomoff, do you take him in your charge;" and having said this he at once left the room. Mikail Stomoff, a big powerful man, came across to Godfrey. He was the starosta or head man of the ward, elected to the position by the votes of his fellow-prisoners. It was his duty to keep order and prevent quarrelling, and to see that the ward was swept out and kept tidy. He transacted all business for the prisoners, made their purchases outside, and was generally the intermediary between them and the authorities. In return for all this he was free from labour at the mines. "Well, my lad," he said, "you began early. How long are you in for, and what have you done?" "I am in here for being a vagabond," Godfrey said, "and I believe the punishment for that is five years." "A vagabond, eh? we have not many of them here. The wanderers generally work their way west. However, I daresay you had your reasons, and I don't know that you are not right, for most of us prefer hard work here to the dulness of the prisons in the west. Now, lad," he went on, dropping his voice, "if you have got any money do not say a word about it. You will be robbed to a certainty if you keep it yourself. The best thing you can do is to hand it over to me, and I will take care of it for you." Godfrey nodded, and putting his hand in his pocket pulled out the ten-rouble note he had set aside, and two or three smaller notes, and slipped them into the man's hand. "You can have it out as you want it," the man said; "and anything you want outside I can get for you out of it. The only thing prohibited is vodka." Some of the other men came round, and Godfrey thought he had never seen more villainous faces. Some of them were heavy, stolid, and stupid; others were fierce and passionate. "He is a vagabond," Mikail said to them. "I don't know what he has been before that, and if he is wise," and he gave a significant glance at Godfrey, "he will keep that to himself." "I should say he had been a political," one of the men said in a tone of contempt, for there was a certain jealousy of the politicals among the convict class; because, although their lot was really much harder than that of ordinary convicts, they were allowed to retain their own clothes, were lodged separately, and were almost all men of education, and in many cases of noble family. The feeling was evidenced by the indifference with which the rest of the men strolled away again when they heard the suggestion. "How do they all get tobacco?" Godfrey asked the starosta. "Is it part of the rations? Surely the money they may have when they come in here must soon be spent." "We may buy the tobacco," Mikail said. "Every man has something for his work. They pretend it is half the value of the work we do, but of course we know better than that. Still we all get something each day, and can spend it as we like. I don't think they allow smoking in the western prisons, but they do in all those east of Irkutsk. The authorities encourage it, indeed, for it is considered healthy and keeps away fever. There are no fevers in summer, but in winter, from so many men being shut up together, the air gets bad and sometimes we have outbreaks of fever." "But where do you buy your tobacco?" "People come to the prison gates and sell it as we come back from work. You can buy anything except vodka, and you can buy that, though not openly; it gets smuggled in." "How many hours do you work a day?" "Thirteen; but of course it is only for five months in the year. In winter the ground is too hard." "Too hard!" Godfrey repeated. "Why, it never gets cold in mines." "You don't think you are going to work underground, do you?" the man said; "there are very few underground mines here. It is all on the surface. There are some underground, because I have worked in them. I would rather work there than here. They can't look after you so sharp, and you can take it as easily as you like." Godfrey looked astonished. His ideas of the Siberian mines had been taken from stories written by men who had never been within thousands of miles of them, and who drew terrible pictures of the sufferings of exiles simply for the purpose of exciting feeling throughout Europe against the Russian government. "But it is very unhealthy in the mines underground, is it not?" "No; why should it be? It is much cooler and pleasanter working underground than it is in the dust and heat, I can tell you." "But I thought all quicksilver mines were unhealthy." "Quicksilver!" the man repeated; "there is not a quicksilver mine in all Siberia. There is gold and silver, but I don't believe there is a place where quicksilver is found. Anyhow there is not one that is worked. They have been gammoning you, young fellow." "Well, they have gammoned a good many other people too," Godfrey said. "I know I have read frightful accounts of the sufferings of prisoners in quicksilver mines." "Who wrote them?" Mikail asked. "There are a few convicts who may years afterwards be proved innocent, and allowed to return to Russia, but they are not the sort that would write lies about this place, for if they did they would soon find themselves on the road again. There are not a dozen men who have ever made their escape. Some of them may have invented lies for the sake of getting pity, and make themselves out to be hard used. Have you ever read any books by them?" "Only one," Godfrey said. "It was written by Baron Rosen; he was a political prisoner who was pardoned after being here a great many years. He described the life of political prisoners, of course, and even that was not very bad. Many of them had their wives with them, and they seem to have lived together pretty comfortably." "Ah! well, I don't think a political prisoner who came here now would say as much. They are sent to lonely settlements, many of them up at Yakutsk; though, of course, there are some down here. It is a horribly dull life. Some of them do work in the mines, but they are better off than those who have no work to do at all. I would rather be in for murder a hundred times than be a political; and what name do you go by, young fellow?" "I am entered as Ivan Holstoff." "That will do well enough. Don't you be fool enough to tell any one what your real name is. There are sneaks here as well as elsewhere who are glad enough to curry favour so as to get easy jobs, or to be let out sooner than they otherwise would be, by acting as spies; so you keep your real name to yourself. If it got to the ears of the governor he might find out what prison you escaped from and what you were in for, and if you were a political you would either be sent back there, or put with the politicals here, so keep it to yourself." "Shall I give you my watch?" "Yes, I think you had better. It would be of no good to anyone who took it as long as he was in here, but he would be able to sell it when he went to live outside. I will take care of it for you. I have got a safe where I keep the money and things locked. "We have got to work, and pretty hard, but I tell you we are a good bit better off than they are in the prisons of Russia. We have got plenty to eat, though I cannot say much for its niceness; anyhow we are a long way better fed than the soldiers who look after us; but here comes the food." A warder brought in a huge tray upon which were placed bowls of a sort of soup, while two others brought baskets piled up with huge chunks of black bread. Mikail took from a cupboard a spoon, and gave it to Godfrey. "You keep this for yourself," he said; "we don't have knives and forks, and do not want them." "Is this a day's allowance of bread?" Godfrey asked, as he took hold of one of the lumps. "No. You get as much as that in the morning. Our allowance is four pounds a day, two in the morning and two in the evening. The evening bread generally lasts for evening and morning soup, and we take the morning bread away with us to eat in the middle of the day." Godfrey sat down on the edge of the bed bench and ate his supper. As he looked at the men more carefully he saw that there were greater differences between them than he had at first noticed. Some of them he judged to have been gentlemen, and he afterwards found that there were three or four who had been officers in the army, but sentenced for grave military crimes. There were half a dozen in for forgery or embezzlement, and over thirty for murder. Some among the prisoners were Tartars. These were all in for murder or robbery with violence. "Where am I to sleep?" he presently asked Mikail. "I sleep in that corner next to the wall. Put your bag next to mine. They are not so likely to play tricks with you then." Godfrey was not sorry to lay himself down on the boards. There was no attempt at undressing on the part of any of the convicts. He would have thought the bed a very hard one a few months since; but he was now well contented with it, though he would have preferred rather more room on each side. "I suppose I ought to feel very miserable," he said to himself. "I can't make out why I don't. Here am I shut up with about a hundred as villainous-looking fellows as one could want to see--something like half of them murderers, all desperate criminals. I ought to be down in the dumps. It seems unnatural that I shouldn't be. I suppose I have a sort of Mark Tapley disposition, and get jolly under difficulties. Of course I should feel it more if I hadn't made up my mind to escape somehow. The colonel seems a good sort of fellow, and even the prisoners speak well of him. Then it is a comfort to hear that all that talk about the quicksilver mines was a lie, and the work is going to be no worse than a gold-digger would have in California or a navvy at home. There is no great hardship about that, at any rate for a time. If it was not for the thought of how horribly anxious they must be at home about me, I should not mind. It will be something to talk about all one's life. The first thing for me to do is to learn from the others as much as possible about the country. I have learned a lot about the geography of Siberia from Alexis, and have got a good idea about all the rivers. I dare say I shall learn a good deal more from some of these men. Another thing is to pick up as much of their language as I can from these Tartar fellows. They seem to be scattered pretty well all over the country. At least I have seen some of them all the way I have gone. I know there are other tribes. Those fishing chaps they call Ostjaks are the ones I should have most to do with. I expect one could get on with them if one happened to get them in the right vein. I suppose they speak some sort of dialect like that of these Tartars. At any rate I should think it would be sure to be near enough for the natives to understand each other. I believe Russian helps with all these languages, for the Russians are themselves only civilized Tartars. At any rate one of the first things to be done is to learn to speak the language, and I should be able to learn a lot about the country from them too. I have got eight or nine months before one can think of making a start, for of course it must be done in the spring. It is the end of September now, though I have lost all account of the days of the month." So he lay thinking for a long time, always confidently and hopefully. Soon after daylight the convicts were astir. "Is there any place where we can get water to wash?" he asked Mikail. "There is a tap and a trough out there in the yard," the man said, looking somewhat surprised at the request. Godfrey hurried out, threw off his jacket and shirt, turned the tap on to his head, and enjoyed a thorough sluice. Feeling vastly better for the wash, he slipped on his things again and went into the room. He was not surprised now that he had woke with something like a headache, for the air of the room was close and unwholesome. Breakfast similar to the supper the night before was soon served. Godfrey had plenty of bread left from the evening before, and put the piece now served out to him under his jacket. Half an hour later the convicts, ranged two and two, started for the mines. The distance was five miles. The heavy tools were taken in carts drawn by horses, and a guard of soldiers with loaded muskets marched beside the line. The mine was a large open cutting, and the prisoners were employed in digging the sand and carrying it on hand-barrows to the place where it was to be washed. The work was not entirely performed by prisoners, as there were many free labourers also employed. Godfrey was given a shovel, and his work consisted in loading the sand and gravel, as the pickmen got it down, on to the barrows. Being unaccustomed to work, his back ached and his hands were blistered by the end of the day; but he knew, from his experience in rowing, that this would pass off before long. At any rate the labour was far easier than he had anticipated. He had expected to see overseers with whips, but there was nothing of the sort. A few men directed the labour, and spoke sharply enough if they saw any of the prisoners shirking, but there was nothing to distinguish it from any other work of the kind, save the Cossack guards here and there leaning upon their muskets, and certainly the men worked no harder than ordinary labourers would do. Indeed, when the time was up and the prisoners started on their return towards the prison, the free labourers continued their work, and would do so, he afterwards learned, for some hours, as it would take a considerable time for all the sand obtained during the day to be thoroughly washed up and the gold extracted. Godfrey had at first looked narrowly at the sand as he shovelled it, for specks of gold, but had seen none; and indeed the proportion of gold at the mines of Kara was so small that they would not have paid if worked by free labour; but the produce served to lessen the expenses of the prisons, and the mines afforded work to the convicts. The prisoners were not forbidden to talk, and Godfrey, who had happened to be placed next to a young fellow of the better class, learned a good many particulars as to the mines. He had seen no women at them, and asked if they were not employed at that labour. "I never heard of such a thing," the other said. "They have to work; they wash and mend our clothes, and scrub the floors, and help the cooks, but that is all. After working for a certain time, according to the length of their sentence, they are allowed to live out of prison, and after a still further time are at liberty to settle down anywhere in Siberia they choose." "Have you been here long?" Godfrey asked. "I have been here three years," he said, "and I should be out by this time if I had not run away last year." "How did you get on?" "I got on well enough till the cold weather came. There are plenty of berries in the woods, and besides we occasionally came down and stole things from the carts waiting at night at the post-houses. We got a chest of tea once, and that lasted us all through the summer. There were ten of us together. Besides that, the people all along the road are very good to escaped prisoners. They dare not give them anything, because, if it were known they did so, they would be severely punished; but on the window-sill of almost every house is placed at night a plate with food on it, in case any wanderer should come along. Of course when winter came I had to give myself up." "Do you think escape altogether is possible?" "I don't say that it is not possible, for some have done it; but I suppose for every one who has tried it, hundreds have died. There is no living in the mountains in winter. Men do get free. There are a great many private mines, and in some of these they ask no questions, but are glad enough to engage anyone who comes along. After working there as a free labourer for a couple of years it is comparatively easy to move somewhere else, and in time one may even settle down as a free labourer in a town; but there is no getting right away then, for no one can leave Siberia without a passport giving particulars of all his life. "You are not thinking of trying, are you? because, if you will take my advice, you won't. It is all very well to go out for a summer holiday, but that is a very different thing from attempting an escape. I was a fool to try it, but I had such a longing to be in the woods that I could not help it. So now I shall be obliged to work here for a couple of years longer before I can live outside the prison. I am here for knocking down my colonel. We were both in love with the same girl. She liked me best, and her father liked him best. He was a tyrannical brute. One day he insulted me before her, and I knocked him down. I was tried for that, and he trumped up a lot of other charges against me; and there was no difficulty in getting plenty of hounds to swear to them. So you see here I am with a ten years' sentence. I don't know that I am not lucky." "How is that?" Godfrey asked. "There were half a dozen fellows in the regiment--I was one of them--who ventured to think for themselves. We had secret meetings, and were in communication with men of other regiments. Well, I was sent off before anything came of it. But they got hold of the names of the others when they arrested some Nihilists at Kieff, and they were all sent out here for life. I met one of them a few months back, and he told me so. So you see it was rather lucky that I knocked down the colonel when I did. Besides, it is ever so much better to be a convict than a political. I don't know how it was you had the luck to get turned in with us. I can tell you there is no comparison between their lot and ours. Still it is hateful, of course, living among such a gang as these fellows." "They look pretty bad," Godfrey said. "Bad is not the word for it," the other said. "A man I know who works as a clerk in the office told me that there are about two thousand two hundred prisoners in the six prisons of Kara, but of these only about a hundred and fifty are women. They are even worse than the men, for of the hundred and fifty there are a hundred and twenty-five murderesses, and of the others twelve are classed as vagabonds, and I suppose most of these are murderesses too. Out of the two thousand men there are about six hundred and seventy murderers. That is not such a big proportion as among the women, though, as there are nearly seven hundred classed as vagabonds, you would not be far wrong if you put down every other man as a murderer." "It is horrible," Godfrey said. "Well, it is not pleasant; but you must remember that a great many of these murderers may be otherwise pretty honest fellows. A great many of them have killed a man or woman when mad with vodka; some of the others have done it in a fit of jealousy; a few perhaps out of vengeance for some great wrong. The rest, I grant, are thoroughly bad. "By the way, my name is Osip Ivanoff. There are two or three decent fellows in our ward. I will introduce you to them this evening. It makes it pleasanter keeping together. We have got some cards, and that helps pass away the summer evenings. In winter it is too dark to play. There is only one candle in the ward; so there is nothing for it but to lay up and go to sleep as soon as it gets dark. There is the prison. I dare say you won't be sorry when you are back. The first three or four days' work is always trying." CHAPTER IX. PRISON LIFE. Godfrey found that there was no Sunday break in the work at Kara, but that once a fortnight the whole of the occupants of the ward had baths, and upon these days no work was done. Upon a good many saints' days they also rested; so that, practically, they had a holiday about once in every ten days. For his own part he would have been glad had the work gone on without these breaks. When the men started for work at five in the morning, and returned to the prison at seven at night, the great majority, after smoking a pipe or two, turned in at once, while upon the days when there was no work quarrels were frequent; and, what was to him still more objectionable, men told stories of their early lives, and seemed proud rather than otherwise of the horrible crimes they had committed. His own time did not hang at all heavy upon his hands. One of the Tartar prisoners who spoke Russian was glad enough to agree, in exchange for a sufficient amount of tobacco to enable him to smoke steadily while so employed, to teach him his own dialect. Godfrey found, as he had expected, a sufficient similarity between the two languages to assist him very greatly, and with two hours' work every evening, and a long bout on each holiday, he made rapid progress with it, especially as he got into the habit of going over and over again through the vocabulary of all the words he had learned, while he was at work in the mine. When not employed with the Tartar he spent his time in conversation with Osip Ivanoff and the little group of men of the same type. They spent much of their time in playing cards, whist being a very popular game in Russia. They often invited Godfrey to join them, but his mind was so much occupied with his own plans that he felt quite unable to give the requisite attention to the game. He soon learnt the methods by which order and discipline were maintained in the prisons. For small offences the punishment was a decrease in the rations, the prohibition of smoking--the prisoners' one enjoyment--and confinement to the room. The last part of the sentence was that which the prisoners most disliked. So far from work being hardship, the break which it afforded to the monotony of their life rendered the privation of it the severest of punishments, and Godfrey learned that there was the greatest difficulty in getting men to accept the position of starosta, in spite of the privileges and power the position gave, because he did not go out to work. For more serious offences men were punished by a flogging, more or less severe, with birch rods. For this, however, they seemed to care very little, although sometimes incapacitated for doing work for some days, from the effects of the beating. Lastly, for altogether exceptional crimes, or for open outbreaks of insubordination, there was the _plete_--flogging with a whip of twisted hide, fastened to a handle ten inches long and an inch thick. The lash is at first the same thickness as the handle, tapering for twelve inches, and then divided into three smaller lashes, each twenty-five inches long and about the thickness of the little finger. This terrible weapon is in use only at three of the Siberian prisons, of which Kara is one. From twenty to twenty-five lashes are given, and the punishment is considered equivalent to a sentence to death, as in many cases the culprit survives the punishment but a short time. The prisoners were agreed that at Kara the punishment of the _plete_ was extremely rare, only being given for the murder of a convict or official by one of the convicts. The quarrels among the prisoners, although frequent, and attended by great shouting and gesticulation, very rarely came to blows, the Russians having no idea of using their fists, and the contests, when it came to that, being little more than a tussle, with hair pulling and random blows. Had the prisoners had knives or other weapons ready to hand, the results would have been very different. Godfrey had not smoked until he arrived at Kara; but he found that in the dense atmosphere of the prison room it was almost necessary, and therefore took to it. Besides smoking being allowed as useful to ward off fevers and improve the health of the prisoners, it also had the effect of adding to their contentment, rendering them more easy of management, as the fear of the smoking being cut off did more to ensure ready obedience than even the fear of the stick. Tea was not among the articles of prison diet; but a samovar was always kept going by Mikail, and the tea sold to the prisoners at its cost price, and the small sum paid to the convicts sufficed to provide them with this and with tobacco. Vodka was but seldom smuggled in, the difficulty of bringing it in being great, and the punishment of those detected in doing so being severe. At times, however, a supply was brought in, being carried, as Godfrey found, in skins similar to those used for sausages, filled with the spirit and wound round and round the body. These were generally brought in when one or other of the prisoners had received a remittance, as most of them were allowed to receive a letter once every three months; and these letters, in the case of men who had once been in a good position, generally contained money. This privilege was only allowed to men after two years' unbroken good conduct. Godfrey's teacher in the Tartar language had been recommended to him by Osip as being the most companionable of the Tartar prisoners. He was a young fellow of three or four and twenty, short and sturdy, like most of his race, and with a good-natured expression in his flat face. He was in for life, having in a fit of passion killed a Russian officer who had struck him with a whip. He came from the neighbourhood of Kasan in the far west. Godfrey took a strong liking to him, and was not long before he conceived the idea that when he made his escape he would, if possible, take Luka with him. Such companionship would be of immense advantage, and would greatly diminish the difficulties of the journey. As for Luka, he became greatly attached to his pupil. The Tartars were looked down upon by their fellow-prisoners, and the terms of equality with which Godfrey chatted with them, and his knowledge of the world, which seemed to the Tartar to be prodigious, made him look up to him with unbounded respect. The friendship was finally cemented by an occurrence that took place three months after Godfrey arrived at the prison. Among the convicts was a man named Kobylin, a man of great strength. He boasted that he had committed ten murders, and was always bullying and tyrannizing the quieter and weaker prisoners. One day he passed where Luka and Godfrey were sitting on the edge of the plank bed talking together. Luka happened to get up just as he came along, and Kobylin gave him a violent push, saying, "Get out of the way, you miserable little Tartar dog." Luka fell with his head against the edge of the bench, and lay for a time half stunned. Godfrey leapt to his feet, and springing forward struck the bully a right-handed blow straight from the shoulder. The man staggered back several paces, and fell over the opposite bench. Then, with a shout of fury, he recovered his feet and rushed at Godfrey, with his arms extended to grasp him; but the lad, who had been one of the best boxers at Shrewsbury, awaited his onset calmly, and, making a spring forward just as Kobylin reached him, landed a blow, given with all his strength and the impetus of his spring, under the Russian's chin, and the man went backwards as if he had been shot. A roar of applause broke from the convicts. Mikail rushed forward, but Godfrey said to him: "Let us alone, Mikail. This fellow has been a nuisance in the ward ever since I came. It is just as well that he should have a lesson. I sha'n't do him any harm. Just leave us alone for a minute or two; he won't want much more." [Illustration: GODFREY PUNISHES KOBYLIN IN THE CONVICT PRISON.] The Russian rose slowly to his feet, bewildered and half stupefied by the blow and fall. He would probably have done nothing more; but, maddened by the taunts and jeers of the others, he gathered himself together and renewed the attack, but he in vain attempted to seize his active opponent. Godfrey eluded his furious rushes, and before he could recover himself, always succeeded in getting in two or three straight blows, and at last met him, as in his first rush, and knocked him off his feet. By this time Kobylin had had enough of it, and sat on the floor bewildered and crestfallen. Everything that a Russian peasant does not understand savours to him of magic; and that he, Kobylin, should have been thus vanquished by a mere lad seemed altogether beyond nature. He could not understand how it was that he had been unable to grasp his foe, or how that, like a stroke of lightning, these blows had shot into his face. Even the jeering and laughter of his companions failed to stir him. The Russian peasant is accustomed to be beaten, and is humble to those who are his masters. Kobylin rose slowly to his feet. "You have beaten me," he said humbly. "I do not know how; forgive me; I was wrong. I am ignorant, and did not know." "Say no more about it," Godfrey replied. "We have had a quarrel, and there is an end of it. There need be no malice. We are all prisoners here together, and it is not right that one should bully others because he happens to be a little stronger. There are other things besides strength. You behaved badly, and you have been punished. Let us smoke our pipes, and think no more about it." The sensation caused in the ward by the contest was prodigious, and the victory of this lad was as incomprehensible to the others as to Kobylin himself. The rapidity with which the blows were delivered, and the ease with which Godfrey had evaded the rushes of his opponent, seemed to them, as to him, almost magical, and from that moment they regarded Godfrey as being possessed of some strange power, which placed him altogether apart from themselves. Osip and the other men of the same stamp warmly congratulated Godfrey. "What magic is this?" Osip said, taking him by the shoulders and looking with wonder at him. "I have been thinking you but a lad, and yet that strong brute is as a child in your hands. It is the miracle of David and Goliath over again." "It is simply skill against brute force, Osip. I may tell you, what I have not told anyone before since I came here, that my mother was English. I did not say so, because, as you may guess, I feared that were it known and reported it might be traced who I was, and then, instead of being merely classed as a vagabond, I should be sent back to the prison I escaped from, and be put among another class of prisoners." "I understand, Ivan. Of course I have all along felt sure you were a political prisoner; and I thought, perhaps, you might have been a student in Switzerland, which would account for you having ideas different to other people." "No, I was sent for a time to a school in England, and there I learned to box." "So, that is your English boxing," Osip said. "I have heard of it, but I never thought it was anything like that. Why, he never once touched you." "If he had, I should have got the worst of it," Godfrey laughed; "but there was nothing in it. Size and weight go for very little in boxing; and a man knowing nothing about it has not the smallest chance against a fair boxer who is active on his legs." "But you did not seem to be exerting yourself," Osip said. "You were as cool and as quiet as if you had been shovelling sand. You even laughed when he rushed at you." "That is the great point of boxing, Osip. One learns to keep cool, and to have one's wits about one; for anyone who loses his temper has but a poor chance indeed against another who keeps cool. Moreover a man who can box well will always keep his head in all times of danger and difficulty. It gives him nerve and self-confidence, and enables him at all times to protect the weak against the strong." "Just as you did now," Osip said. "Well, I would not have believed it if I had not seen it. I am sure we all feel obliged to you for having taken down that fellow Kobylin. He and a few others have been a nuisance for some time. You may be sure there will be no more trouble with them after the lesson you have given." Luka's gratitude to Godfrey was unbounded, and from that time he would have done anything on his behalf, while the respect with which he had before regarded him was redoubled. Therefore when one day Godfrey said to him, "When the spring comes, Luka, I mean to try to escape, and I shall take you with me," the Tartar considered it to be a settled thing, and was filled with a deep sense of gratitude that his companion should deem him worthy of sharing in his perils. Winter set in in three weeks after Godfrey reached Kara, and the work at the mine had to be abandoned. As much employment as possible was made for the convicts. Some were sent out to aid in bringing in the trees that had been felled during the previous winter for firewood, others sawed the wood up and split it into billets for the stoves, other parties went out into the forest to fell trees for the next winter's fires. Some were set to whitewash the houses, a process that was done five times a year; but in spite of all this there was not work for half the number. The time hung very heavily on the hands of those who were unemployed. Godfrey was not of this number, for as soon as the work at the mine terminated he received an order to work in the office as a clerk. He warmly appreciated this act of kindness on the part of the commandant. It removed him from the constant companionship of the convicts, which was now more unpleasant than before, as during the long hours of idleness quarrels were frequent and the men became surly and discontented. Besides this he received regular pay for his work, and this was of importance, as it was necessary to start upon such an undertaking as he meditated with as large a store of money as possible. He had, since his arrival, refused to join in any of the proposals for obtaining luxuries from outside. The supply of food was ample, for in addition to the bread and soup there was, three or four times a week, an allowance of meat, and his daily earnings in the mines were sufficient to pay for tobacco and tea. Even the ten roubles he had handed over to Mikail remained untouched. One reason why he was particularly glad at being promoted to the office was that he had observed, upon the day when he first arrived, a large map of Siberia hanging upon the wall; and although he had obtained from Alexis and others a fair idea of the position of the towns and various convict settlements, he knew nothing of the wild parts of the country through which he would have to pass, and the inhabited portion formed but a small part indeed of the whole. During the winter months he seized every opportunity, when for a few minutes he happened to be alone in the office, to study the map and to obtain as accurate an idea as possible of the ranges of mountains. One day, when the colonel was out, and the other two clerks were engaged in taking an inventory of stores, and he knew, therefore, that he had little chance of being interrupted, he pushed a table against the wall, and with a sheet of tracing paper took the outline of the northern coast from the mouth of the Lena to Norway, specially marking the entrances to all rivers however small. He also took a tracing, giving the positions of the towns and rivers across the nearest line between the head of Lake Baikal and the nearest point of the Angara river, one of the great affluents of the Yenesei. The winter passed slowly and uneventfully. The cold was severe, but he did not feel it, the office being well warmed, and the heat in the crowded prison far greater than was agreeable to him. At Christmas there were three days of festivity. The people of Kara, and the peasants round, all sent in gifts for the prisoners. Every one laid by a little money to buy special food for the occasion, and vodka had been smuggled in. The convicts of the different prisons were allowed to visit each other freely, and although there was much drunkenness on Christmas Day there were no serious quarrels. All were on their best behaviour, but Godfrey was glad when all was over and they returned to their ordinary occupations again, for the thought of the last Christmas he had spent in England brought the change in his circumstances home to him more strongly than ever, and for once his buoyant spirits left him, and he was profoundly depressed, while all around him were cheerful and gay. Nothing surprised Godfrey more than the brutal indifference with which most of the prisoners talked of the crimes they had committed, except perhaps the indifference with which these stories were listened to. It seemed to him indeed that some of the convicts had almost a pride in their crimes, and that they even went so far as to invent atrocities for the purpose of giving themselves a supremacy in ferocity over their fellows. He noticed that those who were in for minor offences, such as robbery with violence, forgery, embezzlement, and military insubordination, were comparatively reticent as to their offences, and that it was those condemned for murder who were the most given to boasting about their exploits. "One could almost wish," he said one day to his friend Osip, "that one had the strength of Samson, to bring the building down and destroy the whole of them." "I am very glad you have not, if you have really a fancy of that sort. I have not the least desire to be finished off in that sudden way." "But it is dreadful to listen to them," Godfrey said. "I cannot understand what the motive of government can be in sending thousands of such wretches out here instead of hanging them. I can understand transporting people who have been convicted of minor offences, as, when their term is up, they may do well and help to colonize the country. But what can be hoped from such horrible ruffians as these? They have the trouble of keeping them for years, and even when they are let out no one can hope that they will turn out useful members of the community. They probably take to their old trade and turn brigands." "I don't think they do that. Some of those who escape soon after coming out might do so, but not when they have been released. They would not care then to run the risk of either being flogged to death by the _plete_ or kept in prison for the rest of their lives. Running away is nothing. I have heard of a man, who had run away repeatedly, being chained to a barrow which he had to take with him wherever he went, indoors and out. That is the worst I ever heard of, for as for flogging with rods these fellows think very little of it. They will often walk back in the autumn to the same prison they went from, take their flogging, and go to work as if nothing had happened. They are never flogged with the _plete_ for that sort of thing; that is kept for murder or heading a mutiny in which some of the officials have been killed. No; the brigands are chiefly composed of long-sentence men who have got away early, and who perhaps have killed a Cossack or a policeman who tried to arrest them, or some peasant who will not supply them with food. After that they dare not return, and so join some band of brigands in order to be able to keep to the woods through the winter. I think that very few of the men who have once served their time and been released ever come back again." During the winter the food, although still ample, was less than the allowance they had received while working. The allowance of bread was reduced by a pound a day, and upon Wednesdays and Fridays, which were fast days, no meat was issued except to those engaged in chopping up firewood or bringing in timber from the forest. Leather gloves were served out to all men working in the open air, but in spite of this their hands were frequently frost-bitten. The evenings would have been long indeed to Godfrey had it not been for his Tartar instructor; the two would sit on the bench in the angle of the room and would talk together in Tartar eked out by Russian. The young fellow's face was much more intelligent than those of the majority of his countrymen, and there was a merry and good-tempered expression in his eyes. They chatted about his home and his life there. His mother had been an Ostjak, and he had spent some years among her tribe on the banks both of the Obi and Yenesei, but had never been far north on either river. He took his captivity easily. His father and mother both died when he had been a child, and when he was not with the Ostjaks he had lived with his father's brother, who had, he said, "droves of cattle and horses." "If they would put me to work on a river," he said, "I should not mind. Here one has plenty to eat, and the work is not hard, and there is a warm room to sleep in, but I should like to be employed in cutting timber and taking it in rafts down the river to the sea. I love the river, and I can shoot. All the Ostjaks can shoot, though shooting has brought me bad luck. If I had not had my bow in my hand when that Russian struck me I should not be here now. It was all done in a moment. You see I was on the road when his sledge came along. The snow was fresh and soft, and I did not hear it coming. The horses swerved, nearly upsetting the sledge, and knocking me down in the snow. Then I got up and swore at the driver, and then the Russian, who was angry because the sledge had nearly been upset, jumped out, caught the whip from the driver and struck me across the face. It hurt me badly, for my face was cold. I had been in the wood shooting squirrels, and I hardly know how it was, but I fitted an arrow to the string and shot. It was all over in a moment, and there he lay on the snow with the arrow through his throat. I was so frightened that I did not even try to run away, and was stupid enough to let the driver hold me till some people came up and carried me off to prison; so you see my shooting did me harm. But it was hard to be sent here for life for a thing like that. He was a bad man that Russian. He was an officer in one of the regiments there, and a soldier who was in prison with me afterwards told me that there was great joy among the soldiers when he was killed." "But it was very wrong, Luka, to kill a man like that." "Yes; but then you see I hadn't time to think. I was almost mad with pain, and it was all done in a minute. I think it is very hard that I should be punished as much as I am when there are many here who have killed five or six people, or more, and some of them women, and they have no worse punishment than I have. Look at Kobylin; he was a bandit first of all, as I have heard him say over and over again. He beat his wife to death, because she scolded him for being drunk, then he took to the woods. The first he killed was a Jew pedlar, then he burnt down the house of the head-man of a village because he had put the police on his track. He killed him as he rushed out from the door, and his wife and children were burnt alive. He killed four or five others on the road, and when he was betrayed, as he was asleep in the hut, he cut down with an axe two of the policemen who came to arrest him. He is in for life, but he is a great deal worse than I am, is he not? "Then there is that little Koshkin, the man who is always walking about smiling to himself. He was a clerk to a notary, and he murdered his master and mistress and two servant women, and got away with the money and lived on it for a year; then he went into another family and did the same, but this time the police got on his track and caught him. Nine lives he took altogether, not in a passion or because they were cruel to him. I heard him say that he was quite a favourite, and how he used to sing to them and was trusted in every way. No, I say it isn't fair that I, who did nothing but just pay a man for a blow, should get as much as those two." "It does seem rather hard on you, but you see there cannot be a great variety of punishments. You killed a man, and so you had sentence for life. They can't give more than that, and if they were to give less there would be more murders than there are, for every one would think that they could kill at least one person without being punished very heavily for it." "I don't call mine murder at all," Luka said. "I would not kill a man for his money; but this was just a fight. Whiz went his whip across my face, and then whiz went my arrow." "Oh, it is not so bad, Luka, I grant. If you had killed a man in cold blood I would have had nothing to do with you. I could not be friends with a man who was a cold-blooded murderer. I could never give him my hand, or travel with him, or sleep by his side. I don't feel that with you. In the eye of the law you committed a murder, and the law does not ask why it was done, or care in what way it was done. The law only says you killed the man, and the punishment for that is imprisonment for life. But I, as a man, can see that there is a great difference in the moral guilt, and that, acting as you did in a fit of passion, suddenly and without premeditation, and smarting under an assault, it was what we should in England call manslaughter. Before I asked you to teach me, when Osip first said that he should recommend me to try you, I saw by the badge on your coat that you were in for murder, and if it had not been that he knew how it came about, I would not have had anything to do with you, even if I had been obliged to give up altogether my idea of learning your language." The starosta continued a steady friend to Godfrey. The lad acted as a sort of deputy to him, and helped him to keep the accounts of the money he spent for the convicts, and the balance due to them, and once did him real service. As Mikail's office was due to the vote of the prisoners, his authority over them was but slight, and although he was supported by a considerable majority of them there were some who constantly opposed him, and at times openly defied his authority. Had Mikail reported their conduct they would have been severely punished; but they knew he was very averse to getting any one into trouble, and that he preferred to settle things for himself. He was undoubtedly the most powerful man in the ward, and even the roughest characters feared to provoke him singly. On one occasion, however, after he had knocked down a man who had refused to obey his orders, six or seven of his fellow convicts sprung on him. Godfrey, Osip, and three or four of the better class of convicts rushed to his assistance, and for a few minutes there was a fierce fight, the rest of the prisoners looking on at the struggle but taking no active part one way or the other. The assailants were eventually overpowered, and nothing might have been said about the matter had it not been that one of Mikail's party was seriously injured, having an arm broken and being severely kicked. Mikail was therefore obliged to report the matter, and the whole of the men concerned in the attack upon him received a severe flogging. "I should look out for those fellows, Mikail," Godfrey said, "or they may injure you if they have a chance." Mikail, however, scoffed at the idea of danger. "They have got it pretty severely now," he said, "and the colonel told them that if there was any more insubordination he would give them the _plete_; and they have a good deal too much regard for their lives to risk that. You won't hear any more of it. They know well enough that I would not have reported them if I had not been obliged to do so, owing to Boulkin's arm being broken; therefore it isn't fair having any grudge against me. They have been flogged before most of them, and by the time the soreness has passed off they will have forgotten it." Godfrey did not feel so sure of that, and determined to keep his eye upon the men. He did not think they would openly assault the starosta, but at night one of them might do him an injury, relying upon the difficulty of proving under such circumstances who had been the assailant. The solitary candle that burned in the ward at night was placed well out of reach and protected by a wire frame. It could not, therefore, be extinguished, but the light it gave was so faint that, except when passing just under the beam from which it hung, it would be impossible to identify any one even at arm's-length. Two of those concerned in the attack on Mikail were the men of whom Luka had been speaking. Kobylin the bandit muttered and scowled whenever the starosta came near him, and there could be little doubt that had he met him outside the prison walls he would have shown him no mercy. Koshkin on the other hand appeared to cherish no enmity. "I have done wrong, Mikail," he said half an hour after he had had his flogging, "and I have been punished for it. It was not your fault; it was mine. These things will happen, you know, and there is no need for malice;" and he went about the ward smiling and rubbing his hands as usual and occasionally singing softly to himself. As Godfrey knew how submissive the Russians are under punishment he would have thought this perfectly natural had he not heard from Luka the man's history. That was how, he thought to himself, the scoundrel smiled upon the master and mistress he had resolved to murder. "Of the two I think there is more to be feared from him than from that villain Kobylin, who has certainly been civil enough to me since I gave him that thrashing. I will keep my eye on the little fellow." Of necessity the ward became quiet very soon after night set in. The men talked and smoked for a short time, but in an hour after the candle was lit the ward was generally perfectly quiet. Godfrey, working as he did indoors, was far less inclined for sleep than either the men who had been working in the forest or those who had been listlessly passing the day in enforced idleness, and he generally lay awake for a long time, either thinking of home and school-days, or in meditating over his plans for escape as soon as spring arrived, and he now determined to keep awake still longer. "They are almost all asleep by seven o'clock," he said to himself. "If any of those fellows intend to do any harm to Mikail they will probably do it by ten or eleven, there will be no motive in putting it off longer; and indeed the ward is quieter then than it is later, for some of them when they wake light a pipe and have a smoke, and many do so early in the morning so as to have their smoke before going to work." Five evenings passed without anything happening, and Godfrey began to think that he had been needlessly anxious, and that Mikail must understand the ways of his own people better than he did. The sixth evening had also passed off quietly, and when Godfrey thought that it must be nearly twelve o'clock he was about to pull his blanket up over his ear and settle himself for sleep when he suddenly caught sight of a stooping figure coming along. It was passing under the candle when he caught sight of it. He did not feel quite sure that his eyes had not deceived him, for it was but a momentary glance he caught of a dark object an inch or two above the level of the feet of the sleepers. Godfrey noiselessly pushed down his blanket, gathered his feet up in readiness for a spring, and grasped one of his shoes, which as usual he had placed behind the clothes-bag that served as his pillow. Several of the sleepers were snoring loudly, and intently as he listened he heard no footfall. In a few seconds, however, a dark figure arose against the wall at the foot of the bench; it stood there immovable for half a minute and then leaned over Mikail, placing one hand on the wall as if to enable him to stretch as far over as possible without touching the sleeper. Godfrey waited no longer but brought the shoe down with all his force on the man's head, and then threw himself upon him pinning him down for a moment upon the top of Mikail. The latter woke with a shout of surprise followed by a sharp cry of pain. Godfrey clung to the man, who, as with a great effort he rose, dragged him from the bed, and the two rolled on the ground together. Mikail's shout had awakened the whole ward and a sudden din arose. Mikail leapt from the bench and as he did so fell over the struggling figures on the ground. "Get hold of his hands, Mikail," Godfrey shouted, "he has got a knife and I can't hold him." But in the dark it was some time before the starosta could make out the figures on the floor. Suddenly Godfrey felt Mikail's hand on his throat. "That's me," he gasped. The hand was removed and a moment later he felt the struggles of his adversary cease, and there was a choking sound. "That is right, Mikail, but don't kill him," he said. At this moment the door at the end of the ward opened and two of the guard ran in with lanterns. They shouted orders to the convicts to keep their places on the benches. "This way," Mikail called, "there has been attempted murder, I believe." The guards came up with the lanterns. "What has happened to him?" one of them said, bending over the man who was lying insensible on the ground. "He is short of wind," Mikail said, "that is all that ails him; I had to choke him off." "But what is it all about?" "I don't know myself," Mikail said. "I was asleep when I felt a thump as if a cow had fallen on me, then I felt a sharp stab on the hip, two of them one after the other, then the weight was lifted suddenly off and I jumped up. As I put my feet on the ground I tumbled over Ivan here and--who is it? Hold the lantern close to his face--ah, Koshkin. What is it, Ivan, are you hurt?" "He ran his knife pretty deep into my leg once or twice," Godfrey said. "I got his arms pinned down, but I could not keep him from moving his hands. If we had lain quiet he would have hurt me seriously, I expect; but we were both struggling, so he only got a chance to give me a dig now and then." "But what is it all about, Ivan, for I don't quite understand yet?" Mikail asked. "I told you, Mikail, that fellow would do you a mischief. You laughed at me, but I was quite sure that that smiling manner of his was all put on. I have lain awake for the last five nights to watch, and to-night I just caught sight of something crawling along at the edge of the bench. He stood up at your feet and leant over, as I thought then, and I know now, to stab you, but I flung myself on him, and you know the rest of it." "Well, you have saved my life, there is no mistake about that," and Mikail lifted and laid him on the bench. "Now," he said to the guards, "you had better take that fellow out and put him in the guard cell, the cold air will bring him round as soon as you get him out of this room. You had better hold him tight when he does, for he is a slippery customer. When you have locked him up will one of you go round to the doctor's? This young fellow is bleeding fast, and I fancy I have lost a good deal of blood myself." As soon as the soldiers had left the ward carrying Koshkin between them Mikail called Osip and Luka. "Here," he said, "get the lad's things down from under his iron belt and try and stop the bleeding till the doctor comes. I feel a bit faint myself or I would ask no one else to do it." In ten minutes the doctor arrived. Godfrey had three cuts about half-way between the hip and the knee. "They are of no consequence except for the bleeding," the doctor said. "Has anyone got a piece of cord?" "There is a piece in my bag," Mikail replied. The doctor took it and made a rough tourniquet above the wounds, then drew the edges together, put in two stitches in each, and then strapped them up. Then he attended to Mikail. "You have had a narrow escape," he said; "the knife has struck on your hip bone and made a nasty gash, and there is another just below it. If the first wound had been two inches higher there would have been nothing to do but to bury you." "Well, this is a nice business," Mikail said, when the doctor had left. "To think of that little villain being so treacherous! You were right and I was wrong, Ivan, though how you guessed he was up to mischief is more than I can imagine." "Well, you know the fellow's history, Mikail, and that he had murdered nine people he had lived among and who trusted him. What could one expect from a villain like that?" "Oh, I know he is a bad one," Mikail said, "but I did not think he dare take the risk." "I don't suppose he thought there was much risk, Mikail. If I had been asleep he would have stabbed you to the heart, and when we found you dead in the morning who was to know what prisoner had done it?" "Well, it was a lucky thought my putting you next to me, young fellow; I meant it for your good not for my own, and now you see it has saved my life." "A kind action always gets its reward, Mikail--always, sooner or later; in your case it has been sooner, you see. Now I shall go off to sleep, for I feel as drowsy as if I had been up for the last three nights." CHAPTER X PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT. The next morning Godfrey and Mikail were by the doctor's orders carried to the hospital and placed in a comfortable and well-arranged ward. "You won't have to be here many days," the doctor said when he came round the ward. "I only had you brought here because the air is sweeter and better than it is in that room you were in." An hour later the governor with a clerk came in. Mikail was first called upon for his statement, which was written down by the clerk. "Had you any reason for supposing that the man had any special enmity against you?" the governor asked. "Only because of that flogging he had for the row in the ward last week, sir." "Ah, yes, he was one of those who attacked you then and was flogged; that accounts for it." Then Godfrey gave his account of what had happened. "Did you observe anything that made you specially watchful?" the governor asked. "I thought perhaps one of them might try to take revenge on Mikail, sir. One or two of them were very sullen and surly, and would, I thought, do him harm if they had the chance; but I suspected this man more than the others because he seemed so unnaturally pleasant, and as I had heard him boasting about the things for which he is here, I thought he was more dangerous than those who grumbled and threatened." The governor nodded. "Yes, he is a thorough-paced villain; you have done very well, young man, and I shall not forget it." Five days later there was a stir in front of the hospital, and Mikail, whose bed was by the side of the window, raised himself on his elbow and looked out. "It is a punishment parade," he said; "I expect they are going to flog Koshkin with the _plete_. No governor of a prison is allowed to do that until the circumstances of the case have been sent to the governor of the province, and the sentence receives his approval; that is no doubt what has caused the delay. All the prisoners are mustering." Godfrey, who was in the next bed, managed to draw himself on to Mikail's, and then to sit up so as to look out. The whole of the convicts of that prison, some eight hundred in number, were drawn up forming three sides of a square; in front of them, four paces apart, were a line of soldiers with fixed bayonets, while behind was another line. Then Koshkin, stripped to the waist, was brought forward and bound to a thick board having an iron leg, so that when laid down the board inclined to an angle of about thirty degrees. On this he was so strapped as to be perfectly immovable. Then a man approached with the dreaded whip and took his place on one side of the criminal. The governor then entered the square. He was attended by all the prison officials. His face was very grave and stern, and he walked along the lines, scrutinizing closely each man as he passed him. Then he took his place in the centre of the square and held up his hand. "This man," he said, "has attempted to murder the starosta of his ward, and is for this sentenced to fifty lashes. Let this be a lesson to all here." Then he signalled to the executioner, who brought down his lash with great force upon the bare back of the prisoner. A terrible cry broke from Koshkin. Two more blows were given, and then the executioner moved to the other side and delivered another three blows. In this way the lashes crossed each other at an angle. Godfrey could look no more, but crawled back on to his own bed. Mikail continued looking out until the punishment was over. "He has not bled," he said; "he will die." "How do you mean, Mikail?" "Well, that is how it is, Ivan. It is as the executioner likes, or as he is ordered. He can, according to the way he strikes, cut the flesh or not each stroke. If it bleeds the man seldom dies, if it doesn't there is little chance for him. There are several ways of flogging the prisoner, and his friends generally bribe the executioner; then he strikes with all his strength the first blow that is terrible, but it seems to numb the flesh somehow, and afterwards he does not strike so hard, and the prisoner hardly feels the blows. The worst is when he hits softly at first and then harder and harder, then the man feels every blow to the end; but they are obliged to hit hard, if not they get flogged themselves. I saw a case where the executioner had been well bribed and, therefore, hit gently, and the prisoner was taken down and he was tied up in his place and got twenty lashes. Years ago they used the _plete_ at all the prisons, now they only use it at three prisons, where the worst criminals are sent, and this is one of them." A week later they were both discharged from the hospital and returned to the ward. The first thing they heard on entering it was that Koshkin had died the night before. Godfrey went back to his work in the office. He was doubtful how he should be received in the ward, but he found that, except by Kobylin and four or five others, he was welcomed quite cordially. "You have done us all a service," Osip said. "There was sure to have been trouble sooner or later, and that flogging will cow these fellows for some time. This is only the second there has been since I came here--I mean, of course, at this prison. Besides, Mikail is a good fellow, and we all like him, and everyone would have been sorry if he had been killed." "What is he in for? I never asked before. Of course, I see that he has the murderer's badge on his back. Do you know how it happened? I never heard him speak of it." "Yes, he told us about it one evening, that was before he became starosta. Some vodka had been smuggled in and he had more than was good for him, and that opened his lips. He had been a charcoal-burner and having had the good fortune to escape the conscription he married. She was a pretty girl, and it seems that the son of a rich proprietor had taken a fancy to her, and when the next year's conscription came he managed by some unfair means to get Mikail's name put down again on the list. Such things can be done, you know, by a man with influence. Mikail ran away and took to the woods. He was hunted for two or three months in vain. Then someone betrayed him, and one morning he woke up in a hut he had built for himself and saw the place was surrounded by soldiers. "With the officers was the man who had injured him. Mikail was mad with fury, and rushing out with a big club he had cut he stretched the fellow dead on the ground--and served him right. However, of course Mikail was taken, tried, and condemned. He had killed a noble's son, and three weeks later was on his way to Siberia. His wife has followed him, and is living now in a village two miles away. Another six months and Mikail will have served his ten years, which is the least time a murderer can serve before he gets leave to live outside the prison. He is sure to get it then, his conduct has been always good, and no doubt this affair will count in his favour. His wife came out two years after he was sent here. She keeps herself by spinning and helping at a farm. It has been a good thing for Mikail, for it has kept him straight. If it had not been for that he would have taken to the woods long ago." "I don't call that a murder," Godfrey said indignantly. "If I had been on the jury I would never have convicted him. He was treated illegally and had the right to resist." "I don't blame him very much myself," Osip said. "Of course it would have been wiser to have submitted, and then to have tried to get off serving, but I don't suppose anyone would have listened to him. If it hadn't been a noble he killed I have no doubt he would have got off." "But you are noble yourself, Osip." "Yes, but that does not give me any marked advantage at present. Of course it will make a difference when I get out. My friends will send me money, and I shall live at Tobolsk and marry some wealthy gold-miner's daughter, and be in the best society. Oh, yes, it is an advantage being noble born, even in Siberia." Godfrey was quite touched with the joy that Luka manifested when, on his return from work, he found him in the ward. "Ah, my master," he exclaimed, with tears in his eyes, "why did you not tell me that you were watching? I would have kept awake all night and would have thrown myself on that dog; it would have made no matter if he had killed me. It would not have hurt me so much as it did to see you bleeding." "You must not call me master," Godfrey said, holding out his hand, which the Tartar seized and pressed to his forehead. "You and I are friends, there are no masters here." Godfrey learnt that every effort had been made by the authorities to discover how Koshkin had obtained the knife, but without success. He must have bribed one of the guards to fetch it in for him, but there was no tracing which had been concerned in the matter. All the prisoners had been searched and their bags examined, but no other weapons had been discovered. Godfrey did not hear a single word of pity for Koshkin, or of regret at his death. Indifference for others was one of the leading characteristics of the prisoners. Although living so long together they seldom appeared to form a friendship of any kind; each man lived for and thought only of his own lot. Godfrey observed that it was very seldom that a prisoner shared any dainty he had purchased with another, and it was only when three or four had clubbed together to get in a ham, a young sucking pig, or some vodka that they were seen to partake of it together. Some of the prisoners, indeed, scarcely ever exchanged a word with the rest, but moved about in moody silence paying no attention to what was going on around them. Some again were always quarrelling, and seemed to take a delight in stirring up others by giving them unpleasant nicknames, or by turning them into ridicule. "I am glad indeed, Mikail," Godfrey said, as he lay down beside the starosta that night, "that you were not seriously hurt. I only heard to-day that you had a wife waiting for you outside." "Yes, it is true," Mikail replied. "I never talk of her. I dare not even let myself think of her, it seems too great a happiness to be true; and something may occur, one never knows. Ah, Ivan, if it had not been for you what news would have been taken to her! Think of it, after her long journey out here; after waiting ten years for me, to hear that it was useless. I tremble like a leaf when I think of it. That night I lay awake all night and cried like a young child, not for myself, you know, but for her. She has taken a cottage already, and is furnishing it with her savings. She is allowed to write to me, you know, once every month. At first it was every three months. What happiness it was to me when my first five years was up and she could write once a month! Do you think I shall know her? She will have changed much. I tell myself that always; and I--I have changed much too, but she will know me, I am sure she will know me. I tremble now at the thought of our meeting, Ivan; but I ought not to talk so, I ought not to speak to you of my happiness--you, who have no friend waiting to see you." "I like to hear you talk of your wife, Mikail. My friends are a long way off indeed; but I hope that I shall see them before very long." "You think that you may be pardoned?" Mikail asked. "No, I mean to escape." "Ah, lad," Mikail said kindly, "I don't suppose there is ever a prisoner comes here who does not say to himself, I will escape. Every spring there are thousands who take to the woods, and scarce one of these but hopes never to see the inside of a prison again, and yet they come back, every one of them." "But there have been escapes, Mikail, therefore there is nothing impossible in it." "There are twenty thousand convicts cross the frontier every year, lad. There is not one man makes his escape in five years." "Well, I mean to be the man this five years, Mikail." "I would not try if I were you. Were you in on a life sentence for murder, or still worse, as a political prisoner, I would say try if you like, for you would have nothing to lose; but you have a good prospect now. I am sure you must have been a political, but now that you have been a wanderer you are so no longer. You have won the governor's good-will, and as soon as your time is up, perhaps before, you will be allowed to live outside the prison. If you go away in the spring you will, when you return as winter comes on, forfeit all this, and have to begin again. When you come out there will be my little hut ready for you, and such a welcome from my wife and me that you will forget how small and rough it is, and there you will live with us till your five years are up, and you can go anywhere you like in Siberia." "I thank you sincerely, Mikail, and I should, I am sure, be as happy as an exile could be with you and your faithful wife; but if I have to try afresh every year for twenty years I will break out and strive to escape. You know that I am English by my mother's side. I can tell you now that I am altogether English, and I will gain England or die. At any rate, if it is to be done I will do it. I have health and strength and determination. I have learnt all that there is to be learnt as to the difficulties of the journey. I have more to gain, more to strive for than other prisoners. Even if they escape they cannot return home. They must still be exiled from Russia; must earn their bread among strangers as they are earning it here. I have a home awaiting me--a father, mother, and sisters--to whom I shall come back as one from the grave. Why, man, the difficulties are nothing in comparison to the reward. A journey across Asia is as nothing to the journeys many of my countrymen have made across Africa. Here there is no fear of fever, of savage tribes, or savage beasts. It is in comparison a mere pleasure excursion. I may not succeed next time, just as I did not succeed last year, but succeed in the end I will." "I believe you," Mikail said earnestly, infected by Godfrey's enthusiasm. "Did you not overthrow, as if he were a babe, Kobylin, whom everyone else feared? Yes, if anyone can do it you can." At last the long winter was over, the thaw came, and the work at the mine was renewed. Godfrey was afraid that he might be still kept in the office, and he spoke to Mikail on the subject; the latter spoke to one of the officials, and told him that the prisoner Ivan Holstoff petitioned that he might be again put to work on the mine instead of being kept in the office, as he felt his health suffering from the confinement. Two days later Godfrey was called into the governor's room. "I hear that you have asked to go to the mine again, lad." "Yes, sir; I like active work better than sitting indoors all day." The colonel looked at him keenly. "You are doing well here, lad; it will be a pity to have to begin over again. I can guess what is in your thoughts. Think it over, lad, don't do anything rash; but if--," and he hesitated, "if you are headstrong and foolish, remember you will be better off here than elsewhere, and that I am never very hard on runaways. That will do; you will go out again with the gang to-morrow." "Thank you, sir," Godfrey said earnestly, and with a bow returned to his work at the desk in the next room. On the following day work at the mine was resumed. Godfrey at once began his preparations for his flight, and as a first step managed to conceal under a lump of rock a heavy hammer and a pick used in the work; he had already laid in a stock of a dozen boxes of matches. The next evening he said to Mikail when they had lain down for the night,-- "Now, Mikail, I want you to help me." "So you really mean to go?" "Yes, my mind is quite made up. I want you to get me in some things from outside." "I will get you anything if you will tell me what you want." "I want most of all two long knives." "Yes, knives are useful," Mikail said; "but they are awkward things to get. I dare not ask any of the people who trade here to get such a thing. Ah! I know what I will do; I am losing my head. I will steal you two from the kitchen; but that must be done the last thing, for if knives were missed there would be a great search for them. What is the next thing?" "I should like a coil of thirty or forty yards of fine rope, and some string. They are always useful things to have." "That is so," the convict assented. "Then I shall want some thread and needles." "There is no difficulty about that; I can buy them for you at the gate. I don't know what excuse to make to get you the rope, but I will think of something." "I don't think there is anything else, except that I should like these twenty roubles changed into kopecks." The man nodded. "When will you try?" "To-morrow. It is dark now by the time we leave off work; it will be easy to slip away then. Luka is going with me." "That is good," Mikail said, "he will be very useful; he is a good little fellow, and will be faithful to you. You had best keep steadily west, and give yourself up at Irkutsk. It is a rough road working round by the north of Lake Baikal; but you had better take that way, it is safer than by the south. But no doubt if you are careful you might go that way too. Then the summer after, if you can get away again, you can give up at Tomsk. Once fairly away from here there is no fear of your being overtaken; they never take the trouble to hunt the woods far, they know it is of no use. Remember, as long as you don't go too far from the road, you will light upon cottages and little farm-houses where you can get something to eat; but if you go too far into the woods you may starve. There will be no berries except strawberries yet, and strawberries are not much use to keep life together when you are travelling." "Oh, by the by, there is one more thing I want you to get for me if possible, and that is fish-hooks and line." "That is difficult," Mikail said; "however, a rouble or two will go a long way. But you must put off your start for another two or three days. The rope and the hooks will need time to get." It was, indeed, the fourth evening before Mikail told Godfrey that he had got everything except the knives. "I will manage to get these in the morning," he said, "when I go into the kitchen and see about breakfast. If I were you, I would put on those two spare shirts over the one you wear, and take your three spare pairs of stockings. Of course you will wind the rope round your waist. I suppose you will buy bread from the others, there are always plenty ready to sell; you had better take enough for two or three days. Cut it in slices, put them inside your upper shirt with the other things you take, your belt will keep them safe. Don't try to slip away unless you see a really good opportunity; it is no use being shot at. Besides, with those irons on your legs, they would soon overtake you. Better put it off for another time than to run any risk." Godfrey at once informed Luka that they were to try to escape on the following evening, told him to put on his spare shirts at night, gave him the matches, and told him to stow away in the morning as much bread as he could carry. The young Tartar made no reply beyond a pleasant nod; his confidence in his companion was unbounded. The next morning, while eating their breakfasts by the dim light of a candle, Mikail passed close to Godfrey and slipped two long knives into his hand; these he hid instantly inside his shirt. "I have got the bread," Mikail said; "it was better for me to buy it than you. I have put it under your bag." As it was quite dark in the corner of the room Godfrey had no difficulty in cutting up the hunks of bread, and concealing them without observation. Mikail strolled up while he was so engaged. Godfrey had already given him money for the various purchases, and he now pressed a hundred-rouble note into his hand, and said: "Now, Mikail, you must take this from me; it is not a present to you, but to your brave wife. When you get out you will want to do your share towards making the house she has got for you comfortable. Till you get your free ticket you will still be working in the mines like the others; and though you will get the same pay as free labourers then, it will be some time before you can lay much by. When your term is over you will want to take up a piece of land and farm, and you must have money for this until your crops grow." "I will not take it," the man said huskily; "it is a hundred roubles. I would not rob you; you will want every kopeck you have. The money would be a curse to me." "I have five hundred still left, Mikail, which will be ample for me. You will grieve me if you refuse to take it. It will be pleasant to me, whether I am taken again or whether I escape, to think that I have made one home happier for my stay here, and that you and your brave wife, in your comfortable home, think sometimes of the young fellow you were kind to." "If you wish it I will take it," Mikail said. "Feodora and I will pray before the _ikon_ to the saints morning and night to protect you wherever you may be." "Pray for me as Godfrey Bullen, Mikail; that is my real name. I am English, and it is to England I shall make my way." "Godfrey Bullen," the man repeated four or five times over. "I shall not forget it. Feodora and I will teach it to our children if the good God should send us any." "I should like to let you know if I get safely home," Godfrey said; "how can I write to you?" "I can receive letters when I am out of prison," Mikail said. "You know my name, Mikail Stomoff; put Karoff, that is the name of the village my wife lives at--Karoff, near Kara. If the letter does not come until my term is over, and I have left, I will leave word there where it can be forwarded to me." "I hope that you will get it long before that, Mikail. The journey is too long to do in one summer. I shall winter somewhere in the north, and I hope to be in England by the following autumn; therefore, if I have got safely away, you may look for a letter before the Christmas after next. If it does not come by that time, you will know that I have failed in my first attempt, and then you will, I hope, get one a year later. I shall, of course, be careful what I say; in case it should be opened and read, there will be nothing in it about your knowing that I intended to escape." "We shall look for it, Godfrey Bullen, we shall look for it always, and pray the good God to send it to us." The next morning when Godfrey rose he wrung Mikail's hand warmly. "God bless you," the starosta said with tears in his eyes. "I shall not come near you again; they would see that something was strange with me, and when you were missing, would guess that I knew you were going. May all the saints preserve you." Before they formed up to march to their work, Godfrey shook hands with his friend Osip. "I am going to try on our way back to-night," he said. "Good-bye, and good luck to you," Osip replied. "I would go with you if I was in for life; but I have lost two years already by running away, and I dare not try again." During the day Godfrey observed very carefully the spot where he had hidden the tools, so that he might be able to find it in the dark, piling three small stones one on the top of the other by the roadside at the point nearest to it. When work was over, he managed to fall in with Luka at the rear of the line. A Cossack marched alongside of him. "Five roubles," Godfrey whispered, "if you will let us drop behind." Five roubles was a large sum to the soldier. The life of the guards was really harder than that of the prisoners, except that they did no work, for they had to mount guard at night when the convicts slept, and their rations were much more scanty than those given to the working convicts, and they were accustomed to eke out their scanty pay by taking small bribes for winking at various infractions of the prison rules. The Cossack at once held out his hand. Godfrey slipped five rouble notes into it. They kept on till they reached a wood, where beneath the shadow of the trees it was already perfectly dark. The Cossack had stepped forward two or three paces and was walking by the next couple. "Now, Luka," Godfrey said, and the two sprang off the path among the trees. They waited two or three minutes, then returned to the road and hurried back to the mine. They had been the last party to start for the prison, and the place was quite deserted. It took them fully half an hour to find the tools. The rings round their ankles were sufficiently loose to enable the pick to be inserted between them and the leg; thrusting it in as far as it would go under the rivet, it was comparatively easy work to break off the head with the hammer. In ten minutes both were free. Leaving the chains and tools behind them, they made their way out of the cutting and struck across the country, and in an hour entered the forest. It was too dark here to permit them to proceed farther; they lay down and slept until day began to break, and then continued their way up the rising ground until, after four hours' walking, they were well among the mountains. They found an open space by the side of a rivulet where the wild strawberries grew thickly, and here they sat down and enjoyed a hearty meal of bread and strawberries. "Now we have got to keep along on this side of that range of mountains in front of us till we get to Lake Baikal," Godfrey said. "We will push on for a day or two, and then we must find some cottages, and get rid of these clothes. What we want above all things, Luka, are guns." "Yes, or bows and arrows," Luka said. "It would be as difficult to get them as guns. They don't use them in these parts, Luka." "I can make them," Luka said; "not as good as the Ostjaks' bows, but good enough to kill with." "That is satisfactory, Luka. If I can get hold of a gun and you can make a bow and arrows we shall do very well." For four days they continued their journey through the forest, gathering much fruit, chiefly strawberries and raspberries, and eating sparingly of their bread. At night they lit fires, for the evenings were still cold, and slept soundly beside them. On the fifth morning Godfrey said, "We must turn south now, Luka, our bread won't last more than two days at the outside, and we must lay in a fresh supply. We have kept as near west as we could, and we know by the mountains that we cannot be far wrong, still it may take us some time to find a village." To Godfrey's satisfaction they arrived at the edge of the forest early in the afternoon. "We cannot be very far from Nertchinsk," he said. "We must be careful here, for there are lots of mines in the neighbourhood." After walking for another three or four hours several large buildings were seen among the trees in the valley, and these it was certain belonged to one or other of the mines. When it became dark they descended still farther, and kept down until they came upon a road. This they followed until about midnight they came upon a small village. They found, as they had hoped, bread and other provisions upon several of the window-sills, and thankfully stowing these away again struck off to the hills. "This is capital," Godfrey said, as after getting well into the forest they lighted a fire, threw themselves down beside it, and made a hearty meal. "If we could rely upon doing as well as this always I should not mind how long our journey lasted. It is glorious to be out in these woods after that close prison." The Tartar nodded. The closeness of the air in the prison never troubled him, but he was quite ready to agree to anything that Godfrey might say. "Good in summer," he said, "but not very good in winter." "No, I expect not; but we shall have to make the best of it, Luka, for it is quite certain that we shall have to spend the winter out somewhere." "We will make skin coats and keep ourselves warm," Luka said confidently. "Make a good hut." "Yes, that part of the thing seems simple enough," Godfrey agreed; "the difficulty will be in feeding ourselves. But we need not bother about that now. Well, we had better go off to sleep, Luka; we have been tramping fully eighteen hours, and I feel as tired as a dog." In a few minutes they were fast asleep, but they were on their feet again at daybreak and journeyed steadily for the next three days, always keeping near the edge of the forest. On the fourth day they saw a small farm-house lying not far from the edge of the wood. "Here is the place that we have been looking for for the last week," Godfrey said. "This is where we must manage to get clothes. The question is, how many men are there there? Not above two or three, I should say. But anyhow we must risk it." They waited until they saw lights in the cottage, and guessed that the family had all returned from their work. "Now then, Luka, come along. You must look fierce, you know, and try to frighten them a bit. But mind, if they refuse and show fight we must go away without hurting them." Luka looked up in surprise. "Why that?" he asked. "You could beat that pig Kobylin as if he were a child, why not beat them and make them give?" "Because I am not going to turn robber, Luka. I know some of the runaways do turn robbers, and murder peasants and travellers. You know some of the men in the prison boasted of what they had done, but that is not our way. We are honest men though we have been shut up in prison. I am willing to pay for what I want as long as I have money, after that we shall see about it. If these people won't sell we shall find others that will." They went quietly up to the house, lifted the latch and walked in, holding their long knives in their hands. Two men were seated at table, three women and several children were near the fire. There was a general exclamation of alarm as the two convicts entered. "Do not fear," Godfrey said loudly; "we do not wish to rob anyone. We are not bandits, we are ready to pay for what we require, but that we must have." The men were both convicts who had long since served out their time. "What do you want?" one of them asked. "We want clothes. You need not be afraid of selling them to us. If we were captured to-morrow, which we don't mean to be, we will swear to you that we will not say where we obtained them. We are ready to pay the full value. Why should you not make an honest deal instead of forcing us to take life?" "We will sell them to you," one of the men said after speaking a few words in a low tone to the other, and then rising to his feet. "Sit down," Godfrey said sternly. "We want no tricks. Tell the women to fetch in the clothes." The man, seeing that Godfrey was determined, abandoned his intention of seizing a club and making a fight for it, and told one of the women to fetch some clothes down. She returned in a minute or two with a large bundle. "Pick out two suits, Luka, one for you and one for me." Luka was making a careful choice when Godfrey said, "Don't pick out the best, Luka, I don't want Sunday clothes, but just strong serviceable suits; they will be none the worse for a patch or two. Now," he said to the men, "name a fair price for those clothes and I will pay you." The peasants had not in the slightest degree believed that the convicts were going to pay them, and their faces lighted up. They hesitated as to the price. "Come, I will give you ten roubles. I am sure that is more than they are worth to you now." "Very well," the man said, "I am contented." Godfrey placed a ten-rouble note upon the table. "Now," he said, "we want a couple of hats." Two fairly good ones were brought down. "Is there nothing else?" the man asked, ready enough to sell now that he saw that he was to be paid fair prices. "We want some meat and bread, ten pounds of each if you have got it." "We have a pig we salted down the other day," the man said. "We have no bread--we are going to bake to-morrow morning but you can have ten pounds of flour." "That will do. We want a small frying-pan, a kettle, and two tin mugs. Have you got any tea in the house?" "I have got about a pound." "We will take it all. We can't bother ourselves about sugar, Luka, we must do without that; every pound tells. We have brought plenty of tobacco with us to last some time. Have you got a gun?" he asked the man suddenly. "Yes," he said, "we have got two. The wolves are troublesome sometimes in winter. Fetch the guns, Elizabeth." The guns were brought down. One was a double-barrel of German make, the other a long single-barrel. "How much do you want for this?" he asked, taking up the former. "I don't use it much," the man said, "one will be enough for me, I will take fifty roubles." "No, no," Godfrey said. "You value your goods too high; money is not as plentiful with me as all that. I can't go higher than twenty roubles," and he laid the gun down again. "I will take thirty," the man said. After a good deal of bargaining Godfrey obtained the gun, a flask of powder, and a bag of bullets and shot for twenty-five roubles. Then he paid for the other goods he had purchased. Luka made them into a bundle and lifted them all on to his shoulder. Then saying good-bye to the peasants they again started for the forest. "We are set up now, Luka." "Yes indeed," the Tartar replied. "We could journey anywhere now; we want but two or three blankets and some furs and we could travel to Moscow." "Yes, if we had one more thing, Luka." "What is that?" "Passports." "Yes, we should want those; but I daresay we could do without them." They enjoyed their suppers greatly that night, frying some pork and then some dough-cakes in the fat, and washing it down with numerous cups of tea. "The next thing will be for you to make a bow and arrows, Luka. I did not buy the other gun for two reasons: in the first place because we could not afford it, and in the second because you said you liked a bow best." Luka nodded. "I never shot with a gun," he said. "A bow is just as good, and makes no noise." "That is true enough, Luka. Well, I shall be a good deal more comfortable when we leave those convict clothes behind us. Of course we shall be just as liable to be seized and shut up as vagabonds when we cannot produce papers as if we were in our convict suits, but there is something disgusting in being dressed up in clothing that tells every one you are a murderer or a robber, and to know there is that patch between one's shoulders." Luka was quite indifferent to any sentimental considerations. Still he admitted that it was an advantage to get rid of the convict garb. In the morning they put on the peasants' clothes. As Godfrey was about the same size as the man whose garments he had got, the things fitted him fairly. Luka's were a good deal too large for him, but as the Russian peasants' clothes always fit them loosely, this mattered little. The other things were divided into two bundles of equal weight. Luka would willingly have carried the whole, pointing out that Godfrey had the gun and ammunition, but the latter said: "If you take the frying-pan and kettle and the two tin mugs that will make matters even, Luka." The two convict suits were left at the foot of the tree where they had slept. Godfrey first thought of throwing them on to the fire, but changed his mind, saying: "Some poor beggar whose clothes are worn out may come upon them, and be glad of them, some time during the summer; we may just as well let them lie here. Now, Luka, we must walk in good earnest. We ought to be able to make five-and-thirty miles a day over a tolerably level country, and at that rate we shall be a long way off before winter." The forests abounded with squirrels. Although Luka assured him that they were excellent eating, Godfrey could not bring himself to shoot at the pretty creatures. "It would be a waste of powder and shot, Luka," he said. "We have plenty of meat to go on with at present, when it is gone it will be time enough to begin to think of shooting game; besides, there are numbers of mines about this country, and the sound of a gun might bring out the Cossacks." CHAPTER XI. AFLOAT. It was a pleasant journey through the forest, with its thick and varied foliage, that afforded a shade from the sun's rays, with patches of open ground here and there bright with flowers. Godfrey had enjoyed it at first, but he enjoyed it still more after he had got rid of the convict badge. He had now no fear of meeting anyone in the woods except charcoal-burners or woodmen, or escaped convicts like themselves. By such they would not be suspected of being aught but what they seemed--two peasants; unless indeed, a hat should fall off. The first night after leaving the prison Godfrey had done his best to obliterate the convict brand, by singeing it off as he had done before. Each day the air grew warmer, and they could pick as they walked any quantity of raspberries and whortleberries. Luka always filled the kettle at each streamlet they came to, as they could never tell how long they would be before they arrived at another, and the supply rendered them independent, and enabled them to camp whenever they took a fancy to a spot. They walked steadily from sunrise to sunset, and as they went at a good pace Godfrey was sure that they were doing fully the thirty-five miles a day he had calculated on. Although Sundays had not been observed at the prison, and the work went on those days as on others, Godfrey had not lost count, and knew that it was on a Monday evening that they had broken out, and each Sunday was used as a day of rest. "We are travelling at a good pace, Luka," he said, "and thirty-five miles a day six days a week is quite enough, so on Sundays we will always choose a good camping ground by a stream, wash our clothes, and rest." They had little trouble about provisions. At lonely houses they could always obtain them, and there they were received very hospitably, the peasants often refusing absolutely to accept money, or at any rate giving freely of all the articles they themselves raised, and taking pay only for tea and sugar, which they themselves had to purchase. When no such places could be met with they went down to villages at night, and never failed to find bread and cakes on the window-sills, though it was not often that meat was there, for the peasants themselves obtained it but seldom. Godfrey had no fear of his money running short for a long time. The six hundred roubles with which he arrived at Kara had been increased by his earnings during the nine months he had been there. He had spent but a few kopecks a week for tea and tobacco, and his pay while he had been a clerk was a good deal larger than while he had been working in the mine. Luka, too, had saved every kopeck he had received from the day when Godfrey told him that he would take him with him when he ran away. He had even given up smoking, and was with difficulty persuaded by Godfrey to take some tobacco occasionally from him. Between them in the nine months they had laid by nearly a hundred roubles, and had, therefore, after deducting the money given by Godfrey to Mikail and that paid for the gun and clothes, over five hundred roubles for their journey. They were glad, indeed, when at last they saw the broad sheet of Lake Baikal. They had for some time been bearing to the north of west, and struck the lake some twenty miles from its head. There were a good many small settlements round the lake, a good deal of fishing being carried on upon it, although the work was dangerous, for terrible storms frequently swept down from the northern mountains and sent the boats flying into port. The lake is one of the deepest in the world, soundings in many places being over five thousand feet. Many rivers run into the lake, the only outflow being by the Angara. Baikal is peculiar as being the only fresh-water lake in the world where seals are found, about two thousand being killed annually. The shores are in most places extremely steep, precipices rising a thousand feet sheer up from the edge of the water, with soundings of a hundred and fifty fathoms a few yards from their feet. Fish abound in the lake, and sturgeon of large size are captured there. Godfrey knew that there were guard-houses with Cossacks on the road between the northern point of water and the steep mountains that rise almost directly from it. He had specially studied the geography of this region, and knew that after passing round the head of the lake there was a track across the hills by which they would, after travelling a hundred and fifty miles, strike the main road from Irkutsk to Yakutsk, near the town of Kirensk, on the river Lena. From Kirensk it would be but little more than a hundred miles to the nearest point on the Angara, which is one of the principal branches of the Yenesei. To gain this river would be a great point. The Lena, which was even nearer to the head of Lake Baikal, also flowed into the Arctic Sea; but its course was almost due north, and it would be absolutely hopeless to endeavour to traverse the whole of the north coast of Siberia. The Angara and the Yenesei, on the other hand, flowed north-west, and fell into the Arctic Sea near the western boundary of Siberia, and when they reached that point they would be but a short distance from Russia. It seemed to him that the only chance was by keeping by a river. In the great ranges of mountains in the north of Siberia there would be no means of obtaining food, and to cross such a district would be certain death. By the rivers, on the other hand, there would at least be no fear of losing their way. The journey could be shortened by using a canoe if they could obtain one, and if not, a raft. They would often find little native villages or huts by the banks, and would be able to obtain fish from them. Besides, they could themselves catch fish, and might possibly even winter in some native village. For all these reasons he had determined on making for the Angara. Buying a stock of dried fish at a little fishing village on the lake they walked to within a mile of its head, there they slept for the night, and started an hour before daybreak, passed the Cossack guard-house unseen just as the daylight was stealing over the sky, and then went along merrily. The road was not much used, the great stream of traffic passing across Lake Baikal, but was in fair condition, and they made good progress along it. Long before that, Luka had, after several attempts, made a bow to his satisfaction. It was formed of three or four strips of tough wood firmly bound together with waxed twine, they having procured the string and the wax at a farmhouse on the way. There was one advantage in taking this unfrequented route. The road between Irkutsk and Tomsk was, as Godfrey had learned on his outward journey, frequented by bands of brigands who had no hesitation in killing as well as plundering wayfarers. Here they were only likely to fall in with convicts who had escaped from Irkutsk or from convoys along the road, and were for the most part perfectly harmless, seeking only to spend a summer holiday in freedom, and knowing that when winter came on they would have to surrender themselves. Of such men Godfrey had no fear, his gun and his companion's bow and arrows rendered them too formidable to be meddled with, and until they came down upon the main road there was no chance of their meeting police officers or Cossacks. No villages were passed on the journey, and Godfrey, therefore, had no longer any hesitation in shooting the squirrels that frisked about among the trees. He found them, as Luka had said, excellent eating, although it required three or four of them to furnish anything like a meal. He soon, however, gave over shooting, for he found that Luka was at least as certain with his bow as he was with the gun, with the advantage that the blunt arrow did not spoil the skins. These, as Luka told him, were valuable, and they would be able to exchange them for food, the Siberian squirrel furnishing a highly-prized fur. Each day Luka brought down at least a dozen of these little creatures, and these, with their dried fish and cakes made of flour, afforded them excellent food on their way. After four days' walking across a lofty plateau they descended into a cultivated valley, and before them rose the cupolas of Kirensk, while along the valley flowed the Lena, as yet but a small river, although it would become a mighty flood before it reached the sea, nearly four thousand miles away. It would have to be crossed at Kirensk, and they sat down and held a long council as to how they had best get through the town. They agreed that it must be done at night, for in the daytime they certainly would have to produce passports. "There will not be much chance of meeting a Cossack or a policeman at one or two o'clock in the morning, Luka, and if there were any about we ought to be able to get past them in the dark." "If one stops us I can settle him," Luka said, tapping his knife. "No, no, Luka, we won't have any bloodshed if we can help it, though I do not mean to be taken. If a fellow should stop us and ask any questions, and try to arrest us, I will knock him down, and then we will make a bolt for it. There is no moon now, and it will be dark as pitch, so that if we kick out his lantern he would be unable to follow us. If he does, you let fly one of your blunted arrows at him. That will hit him quite hard enough, though it won't do him any serious damage. Of course, if there are several of them we must fight in earnest, but it is very unlikely we shall meet with even two men together at that time of night." Accordingly they went in among some trees and lay down, and did not move until they heard the church bells of the distant town strike twelve. Then they resumed their journey, keeping with difficulty along the road. Once in the valley it became broader and better kept. At last they approached the bridge. Godfrey had had some fear that there might be a sentry posted here, and was pleased to find it entirely deserted. "We will take off our shoes here, Luka, tie them with a piece of string, and hang them round our necks. We shall go noiselessly through the town then, while if we go clattering along in those heavy shoes, every policeman there may be in the streets will be on the look-out to see who we are." They passed, however, through the town without meeting either policeman or soldier. The streets were absolutely deserted, and the whole population seemed to be asleep. Once through the town they put on their shoes again, followed the road for a short distance, and then lay down under some trees to wait for daylight. Now that they were in the country they had no fear of being asked for passports, and it was not until the sun was well up that they continued their journey. Four miles farther they came upon a village, and went boldly into a small shop and purchased flour, tea, and such articles as they required. Just as they came out the village policeman came along. "Where do you come from?" he asked. "I don't ask you where you come from," Godfrey replied. "We are quiet men and hunters. We pay for what we get, and harm no one who does not interfere with us. See, we have skins for sale if there is anyone in the village who will buy them." "The man at the spirit-shop at the end of the village will buy them," the policeman said; "he gives a rouble a dozen for them." "Thank you," and with a Russian salutation they walked on. "Of course he suspects what we are," Godfrey said to his companion; "but there was no fear of his being too inquisitive. The authorities do not really care to arrest the wanderers during the summer months, as they know they will get them all when winter comes on; besides, in these villages all the people sympathize with us, and as we are armed, and not likely to be taken without a fight, it is not probable that one man would care to venture his life in such a matter." On arrival at the spirit-shop they went in. "The policeman tells us you buy skins at a rouble for a dozen. We have ten dozen." "Are they good and uninjured?" the man asked. "They are. There is not a hole in any of them." The man looked them through carefully. "I will buy them," he said. "Do you want money, or will you take some of it in vodka?" "We want money. We do not drink in summer when we are hunting." The man handed over ten rouble notes, and they passed out. A minute later the policeman strolled in. "Wanderers?" he said with a wink. The vodka seller shrugged his shoulders. "I did not ask them," he said. "They came to me with a good recommendation, for they told me that you had sent them here. So after that it was not for me to question them." "I told them you bought skins," the policeman said. "They seemed well-spoken fellows. The one with the bow was a Tartar or an Ostjak, I should say; he may have been a Yakute, but I don't think so. However, it matters little to me. If there was anything wrong they ought to have questioned them at Kirensk; they have got soldiers there. Why should I interfere with civil people, especially when one has a gun and the other arrows?" "That was just my opinion," the other said. "Well, here is a glass of vodka, and I will take one with you. They are good skins, all shot with a blunt arrow." Godfrey and his companion now took matters easily. There was no motive for hurrying, and they devoted themselves seriously to the chase. "We must have skins for the winter," Luka said. "I can dress and sew them. The squirrels are plentiful here, and if we set snares we may catch some foxes. We shall want some to make a complete suit with caps for each of us, and skins to form bags for sleeping in; but these last we can buy on the way. The hunters in summer bring vast quantities of skins down to the rivers to be taken up to Krasnoiarsk by steamer, and you can get elk skins for a rouble or two, which will do for sleeping bags, but they are too thick for clothing unless they are very well prepared. At any rate we will get as many squirrel skins as we can, both for clothes, and to exchange for commoner skins and high boots." It was three weeks after they had left Kirensk before they struck the Angara, near Karanchinskoe. They had traversed a distance, as the crow flies, of some eight hundred miles since leaving Kara, but by the route they had travelled it was at least half as far again, and they had been little over ten weeks on the journey. Luka had assured Godfrey that they would have no difficulty in obtaining a boat. "Everywhere there are fishing people on the rivers," he said. "There are Tunguses--they are all over Siberia. There are the Ostjaks on all the rivers. There are my own people, but they are more to the south, near Minusinsk, and from there to Kasan, and seldom come far north. In summer everyone fishes or hunts. I could make you a boat with two or three skins of bullocks or horses or elk, it only needs these and a framework of wood; but we can buy one for three or four roubles a good one. We want one strong and large and light, for the river is terribly swift. There are places where it runs nearly as fast as a horse can gallop." "Certainly we will get a good-sized one, Luka. If the river runs so swiftly we shall have no paddling to do, and therefore it will not matter at all about her being fast; besides, we shall want to carry a good load. We will not land oftener than we can help, and can sleep on board, and it will be much more comfortable to have a boat that one can move about in without being afraid of capsizing her. Whatever it costs, let us get a good boat." "We will get one," Luka said confidently. "We shall find Ostjaks' huts all along the banks, and at any of these, if they have not a boat that will suit us, they will make us one in two or three days." Avoiding the town, and passing through the villages at night, they kept along down the river bank for four days. The river was as wide as the Thames at Greenwich, with a very rapid current. They saw in some of the quiet reaches fishing-boats at work, some with nets, others with lines, and at night saw them spearing salmon and sturgeon by torch-light. Across the river they made out several of the yourts or summer tents of the Ostjaks, but it was not until the fourth day that they came upon a group of seven or eight of these tents on the river bank. The men were all away fishing, but the women came out to look at the strangers. As Luka spoke their dialect he had no difficulty in opening the conversation with them. He told them that he and his companion wanted to go down the river to Yeneseisk, and wished to buy a boat, a good one. The women said that some of the men would be in that evening, and that the matter could be arranged. "They will be glad to sell us a boat," Luka said to Godfrey. "They are very poor the Ostjaks; they have nothing but their tents, their boats, and their clothes. They live on the fish they catch, but fish are so plentiful they can scarce get anything for them, so they are very glad when they can sell anything for money." The Ostjak men arrived just before it became dark. They wore high flat-topped fur caps, a dress something like a long loose blouse, and trousers of fine leather tucked into boots that came up to the knee. Most of them had bows and arrows in addition to their fishing gear. Godfrey felt no uneasiness among these men as he would have done among the Buriats in the east, for they were now at a distance from any convict settlements, and these people would know nothing about the rewards offered to the natives in the neighbourhood of the mines for the arrest of prisoners. A present of some tobacco, of which Godfrey had laid in a large stock, put the Ostjaks into an excellent temper. Fish were broiling over the fire when they returned, and the two travellers joined them at their meal. After this was over and pipes lighted the subject of the boat was discussed. The Ostjaks were perfectly ready to trade. They said they would sell any of their six boats for three roubles, and that if they did not think any of these large enough they would build them a larger one in three days for six roubles. Godfrey had exchanged twenty roubles for kopecks at the first village they had passed after reaching the river, as he knew that notes would be of no use among the native tribes, and without bargaining he accepted the offer they made. After passing the night stretched by the fire they went down with the men in the morning to inspect the boats. They were larger than he had expected to find them, as the fishing population often shift their quarters by the river and travel in boats, taking their family, tent, and implements with them. "What do you think, Luka?" "They are large enough," Luka said, "but they are not in very good condition. I should say that farthest one would do very well; but let us have a look at the state of the skins." The boat was hauled ashore and carefully examined. Three or four of the skins were found to be old and rotten; the rest had evidently been renewed from time to time. "We will take this if you will put in four good skins," Luka said to the owner. "It will be six roubles if we put in fresh skins," the Ostjak said. "We will put in good skins and grease all the boat, and then it will be the same as new. The other skins were all new last year." "No," Luka said. "You said you would build a whole boat larger than this for six roubles." The men talked together. "We will do it for five roubles," they said at last, and Luka at once agreed to the terms. There was no time lost. The Ostjaks ordered the women to set about it at once, and leaving the matter in their hands went off to their fishing. Godfrey asked them to take him with them, leaving Luka to see to the repairs of the boat. The fishing implements were of the roughest kind. The hooks were formed of fish bones, bound together by fine gut; the lines were twisted strips of skin, strong gut attaching the hook to these lines; the bait was small pieces of fat, varied by strips of fish with the skin on them. Clumsy as the appliances were, jack, tench, and other fish were caught in considerable numbers, and among them two or three good-sized salmon. The nets were of coarse mesh, made of hemp, which grows wild in many parts of Siberia. They were some ten feet in depth and some twenty yards long. The upper ends were supported by floats made of bladders, and the whole anchored across the stream by ropes at the extremities, fastened to heavy stones. In these nets a considerable quantity of fish were taken. The fishing was over early, for there had been a good supply taken on the previous day, and as at this time of year they would not keep, it was useless obtaining more. When they reached shore the common sorts of fish were thrown to the dogs; a dozen of the best picked out, and with these two of the men started at once for the nearest village, where they would be sold for a few kopecks; the rest were handed over to the women, while the men proceeded to throw themselves down by the fire and smoke. Godfrey went to see how the women were getting on with the boat. They had already made a great deal of progress. The skins, which had been chosen by Luka from a pile in the hut, were already prepared by having fat rubbed into them. The hair was left on them, as that would come inside. The bad skins had been taken off, the others cut to fit, and now only required sewing into their places. As a matter of course Godfrey and Luka took their meals with the Ostjaks and greatly enjoyed the change of diet. They gladdened the hearts of their hosts by producing a packet of tea, of which a handful was poured into a pot of water boiling over the fire. The liquor was drunk with delight by the Ostjak men and women, but Godfrey could not touch it, for some of the fish had already been boiled in the water, which the Ostjaks had not thought it necessary to change. At night he went out again with them in the boats for a short time to see them spear salmon. A man holding a large torch made of strips of resinous wood stood in the bow of the boat, and on either side of him stood an Ostjak holding a long barbed spear. In a short time there were swirls on the surface of the river. These increased till the water round the boat seemed to boil. The Ostjaks were soon at work, and in half an hour twenty fine salmon were lying in the bottom of the boat, and then having caught as much as there was any chance of selling the natives they returned to their yourts. The next morning the work on the boat was resumed, and as all the women assisted it was finished in a very short time. Then melted fat was poured into the seams, and the whole boat vigorously rubbed with the same. By twelve o'clock it was finished. Then there was a little fresh bargaining for two salmon spears, a supply of torches, half a dozen common fox skins, and three large hides for stretching over the boat at night. Some of the lines and fish-hooks were also bought, and a few fish for present consumption, then Godfrey and Luka took their places in the boat, and bidding farewell to the Ostjaks paddled out into stream. The boat was some twenty feet long and six feet wide in the centre. It was almost flat-bottomed, and drew but two or three inches of water. A flat stone had been placed on a layer of clay in the bottom, and they had taken with them a bundle of firewood. Godfrey was in the highest spirits. It was true that the real dangers of the journey had not yet begun, but so far everything had gone very much better than he had anticipated. He had not thought there would be any chance of recapture, for he knew that unless they came into the towns the Russians took no trouble about the escaped convicts. All the convicts with whom he had spoken had agreed that there was little trouble in sustaining life in the forests during summer, for that even if they could not obtain food from the peasants they had only to carry off a sheep at night from the folds. "That is why the peasants are so ready to give," one said. "I don't say that they are not sorry for us, but the real reason is they know that if they did not give we should take, and instead of being harmless wanderers, as they call us, we should be driven to become bandits." Still Godfrey had anticipated much greater difficulties than they had met with; in fact up to the present time it had been simply a delightful tramp through the woods. The next part of the journey would, he expected, be no less pleasant. They had a large and comfortable boat, well adapted for the navigation of the river. There would be no difficulty as to food, for fish could be obtained in any quantities, and grain was, he had heard from some of the Tartar prisoners who knew that portion of the Yenesei, abundant and extraordinarily cheap. He seated himself in the stern of the boat with a paddle. There was no occasion to steer, for it mattered in no way whether the boat drove down the river bow or stern first; but at present it was an amusement to keep her straight with an occasional stroke with the paddle. Luka sat on the floorboards at the bottom of the boat, and set himself to work to manufacture from the squirrels' skins two fur caps of the same pattern as those worn by the Ostjaks. Godfrey had asked him to do so in order that they might be taken for members of that tribe by anyone looking at them from the villages on the banks. As to the dress it did not signify, as many of the more settled Ostjaks had adopted the Russian costume. Godfrey intended to fish as they drifted along, but they had at present at least as much fish on board as they could consume while it was good. Luka, as he worked, sang a lugubrious native ditty, while with his knife he trimmed the skins into shape. Having done this he proceeded to sew them together with great skill. "Why, you are quite a tailor, Luka," Godfrey remarked. "Every one sews with us," Luka replied. "The women do most, but in winter the boys help, and sometimes the men, to make rugs and robes of the skins of the beasts we have taken in the summer. What do you say, shall I leave these tails hanging down all round, except just in front? They often wear them so in winter." "But it is not winter now, Luka." "No, it is not winter; but you see the Ostjaks and most of the Russians wear their hair long, quite down to the neck. Our hair is growing, but at present it will only just lie down flat. If I leave on these black tails round the caps, at a little distance it will look like hair. Then, if you like, I can make two summer caps to put on when we land to buy anything." "Very well, Luka, I think the idea is a good one. The people do wear their hair long, and our close crops might excite attention. This is better than gold-digging at Kara, isn't it?" Luka nodded. "No good for man always to work," he said. "Good to lie quiet sometimes." "I don't know that I care about lying quiet generally, Luka, but it is pleasant to do so in a boat. I am keeping a look-out for wild-fowl, it would make a pleasant change to fish diet." "Not so far south as this. The Yenesei swarms with them in winter, but in summer they go north. Just before the frost begins you can shoot as many as you like." "That will be something to look forward to. When does the weather begin to get cold and dry?" "Where I lived the nights began to get cold at the end of September, but we shall be far down the Yenesei by that time, and it will begin early in the month." "We shall be a long way down," Godfrey said, "if we keep on at this pace. We must be going past the banks eight or nine versts an hour." "That is nothing; it will be more than twice that some times. The Angara between the lake and Irkutsk runs fifteen versts. When I was taken east we saw barges, each towed up-stream by twenty horses, and it took them sometimes four days, sometimes six, to make forty-five versts." As they went along they passed several fishing-boats, but as they were keeping in the middle of the stream, while the boats lay in the slacker water near the shore, there was no conversation. Twice the Ostjaks shouted to know where they were going, but Luka only replied by pointing down the stream. The journey was singularly uneventful. At night they lit a torch for a short time, and generally speared sufficient fish for the next day, but if not, they cut a strip or two from the back of one they had caught, baited three or four hooks and dropped them overboard, and never failed in a short time to fill up their larder. Sometimes they grilled the fish over the fire, sometimes fried them, sometimes cut them up in pieces that would go into the kettle, and boiled them. Occasionally, when evening approached, they paddled to the shore near a village, and Luka, whose Tartar face was in keeping with his dress, went boldly in and purchased tobacco, tea, and flour, and a large block of salt, occasionally bringing off a joint of meat, for which the price was only four kopecks, or about a penny a pound; five kopecks being worth about three halfpence according to the rate of exchange. A hundred kopecks go to the rouble; the silver rouble being worth from two and tenpence to three shillings and twopence, the paper rouble about two shillings. At first Godfrey had steered half the night and Luka the other half, but after the second night they gave this up as a waste of labour, as the boat generally drifted along near the middle of the river, and even had it floated in-shore no harm would have been done. The fox skins made them a soft bed, and they spread a couple of the large skins over the boat and were perfectly warm and comfortable. Godfrey thought that on an average they did a hundred and twenty miles a day. On the eighth day the river, which had been widening gradually, flowed into another and greater stream, the Yenesei. Hitherto they had been travelling almost due west, but the Yenesei ran north. As they floated down they had had much conversation as to their plans. It was now nearly the end of August, and it would not be long before winter was upon them. Another month and the Yenesei would be frozen, and they would be obliged to winter. The question was where should they do so? [Illustration: SPEARING FISH BY TORCH-LIGHT.] Now they were on the Yenesei Luka was on his native river, though his home was fully a thousand miles higher up. Godfrey had at first proposed that he should disembark here and make his way up the banks home, but the offer filled Luka with indignation. "What are you going to do without me?" he asked. "You can talk a little Tartar, quite enough to get on among my people, but how could you get on with the Ostjaks? Besides, even if I were to leave you, and I would rather die than do that, I could not go to my home, for in my native village I should be at once arrested and sent back to the mines. I might live among other Tartars, but what good would that be? They would be strangers to me. Why should I leave you, who have been more than a brother to me, to go among strangers? No, wherever you go I shall go with you, and when you get to your own land I shall be your servant. You can beat me if you like, but I will not leave you. Did you not, for my sake, strike down the man in the prison? Did you not take me with you, and have you not brought me hither? What could I have done alone? If you are tired of me shoot me, but as long as I live I will not leave you." Godfrey hastened to assure Luka that he had only spoken for his good, that he was well aware that without him he should have little chance of getting through the winter, and that nothing therefore was farther from his thoughts than to separate himself from him if he was willing to remain. It was some time before Luka was pacified, but when he at last saw that Godfrey had no intention whatever of leaving him behind if he were willing to go with him, he recovered his spirits and entered into the discussion as to where they had better winter. He had never been below the town of Yeneseisk, but he knew that the Ostjaks were to be found fully a thousand miles below that town, especially on the left bank of the river, but below that, and all along the right bank, the Tunguses and Yuraks were the principal tribes. It was finally agreed that they should keep on for at least eight hundred miles beyond Yeneseisk, and then haul up their boat and camp at some Ostjak village, and there remain through the winter. "We will get at Yeneseisk whatever you think the Ostjak will prize most--knives and beads for the women, and some cheap trinkets and looking-glasses. Some small hatchets, too, would probably be valued." "Yes," Luka said, "Ostjaks have told me that their kindred far down the river were more like the people to the extreme north by the sea. They are pagans there, and not like us to the south. They have reindeer which draw their sledges. They are very poor and know nothing. From them we can get furs, but we can buy goat-skins and sheep-skins at Yeneseisk." "We shall have to depend upon them for food," Godfrey said. "Why, we can get food for ourselves," Luka said somewhat indignantly. "When the cold begins, before the river freezes, we shall get great quantities of fish. They will freeze hard, and last till spring. Then, too, the river will be covered with birds. We shall shoot as many as we can of these, and freeze them too. Flour we must take with us, but flour is very cheap at Yeneseisk. Corn will not grow there, but they bring it down in great boats from the upper river." "But how do they get the boats back, Luka?" "They do not get them back; they break them up for firewood. Firewood is dear at Yeneseisk, and they get much more for the barges for fires than it cost to build them in the forests higher up." "Then how do they do for fires among the Ostjaks?" "I have heard they do not have wood fires; they kill seals. There are numbers of them farther down the river, and from their fat they make oil for lamps and burn these. We shall be in no hurry as we go down. We will float near the banks, and may kill some seals. What are you thinking of?" for Godfrey was looking rather serious. "I was thinking, Luka, that these things we are thinking of buying, the things to trade with the Ostjaks, you know, and the flour, and tea, and goat-skins, and so on, will take a good deal of money. We don't spend much now, but when we get into Russia we shall want money. We can't beg our way right across the country." "No;" Luka said, "but we shall not be idle all the winter." "How do you mean we shall not be idle, Luka?" "We must hunt; that is what the Ostjaks and Tunguses do. We must get skins of beaver, sable, ermine, and black foxes, and we must sell them at Turukhansk. There are Russian traders there. They do not live there in the winter, but come down in the spring to buy the skins that have been taken in the winter." "That sounds more cheerful," Godfrey said. "You had better get another flask of powder, and some more bullets and shot for me, Luka, and some better arrow-heads for yourself." "Yes, we shall want them more than anything. We can do without flour, but we cannot do without weapons." "Well, you must do the buying, Luka. They will take you for an Ostjak, from some village up the river, who has come in to lay in his stock of provisions for the winter. It is of no use my trying to pass here as a native, though in Russia I might be taken as a Russian." CHAPTER XII. WINTER. A few hours after entering the Yenesei they saw on the right bank of the river, which was now of great width, the domes of the town. They ran in to the shore a mile above it. "I shall not land, Luka," Godfrey said. "I don't want to be questioned. I shall put off, and drop our anchor a quarter of a mile out and fish. You must make two or three journeys if necessary." "The things will not be heavy, Godfrey, the flour is the only thing that will weigh much. I will get someone to help me down with that." They had already gone over and over again the list of purchases to be made. "I shall drop down a little nearer the town, Luka, when I think it is about time for you to be coming back, so you won't have so far to carry the things. Don't be more than three hours whether you have got anything or not, or I shall begin to feel anxious about you." Luka nodded, and went off. Godfrey paddled the boat out a short distance, let down the stone, and began to fish. He was under no real uneasiness as to the young Tartar, there was nothing about him to distinguish him from other natives, and as these would be about this time arriving in considerable numbers at Yeneseisk to sell the skins of the animals they had taken in the chase during the summer, and to lay in stores for the winter, it was unlikely in the extreme that anyone would even question him. Such indeed was the case. There were numbers of natives in the stores of the Russian traders, and he made his purchases without any question whatever being asked. He bought rather more hatchets, knives, and trinkets than they had agreed upon, and two sacks of flour, although he deemed the latter to be a luxury that they could very well dispense with altogether. Godfrey was just thinking of taking up his anchor and going down towards the town when he saw him returning, accompanied by two natives carrying the sacks. He pulled up his anchor and paddled to shore. "Have you got everything, Luka?" he asked. "Everything--powder, shot, and balls; tea, salt; ten knives, and eight axes; beads, four goat-skins, looking-glasses, tobacco, and flour;" and one by one he handed the articles as he named them into the boat. "How much flour is there, Luka?" "Two hundred pounds. I have got more trinkets than we said. They were very cheap. They look like gold and silver, and only cost ten kopecks apiece. I have also brought two bottles of vodka." "That is bad, Luka." "The two only cost a rouble," Luka said calmly; "they may be very useful to us; and I bought more tea and tobacco than we said." The men who had carried the flour had received a few kopecks for their trouble, and had gone off as soon as they had laid down their burdens. Directly the things were handed into the boat, Luka stepped in and they pushed off into the stream. "I have bought plenty of arrow-heads, and two steel spear heads and shafts." "I wondered what those short poles were." "They are of tough wood and the right length, ten feet long. They are good for seal-hunting and for bears." "Well, I think you have done capitally, Luka. You have made the money go a long way. I suppose you have spent the hundred roubles you took with you?" "I have four left. I think I have done very well. We have everything we shall want through the winter." "Well, we are fairly off for the north now," Godfrey said, in high spirits that everything was settled, and that for eight months at least there would not be the slightest risk of meeting with a Russian policeman or soldier. "Hurrah for the north, Luka, and for shooting and adventures!" Luka smiled. It was rarely he laughed, but he was always ready to smile when Godfrey addressed him. "The air feels brisk and cold to-day. We shall soon have winter upon us." "Yes; look there!" Luka said, pointing into the air ahead of them. "What is it? It looks like a long black streak." "Geese," Luka said. "It is a flight of wild geese from the north." As it approached Godfrey saw that the Tartar was right. A solitary bird led the way, two followed him closely, then came rank after rank widening out till it was a broad band of fully fifty abreast. Line after line they followed in almost military array, and extending in length fully a quarter of a mile. "Why, there must be thirty or forty thousand of them there," he exclaimed in amazement. "You will see bigger flocks than that," Luka said. "Why, all the river, from Minusinsk down to Turukhansk, more than 2000 miles, is well-nigh covered with birds. We shall have no lack of meat presently." During the day many flights similar to those first seen passed overhead, some larger, some containing only a score or two birds. The next day the numbers were still larger, whole battalions coming along almost incessantly. These were by no means confined to geese. There were gulls and swans, flocks of small birds of many kinds, flights of wild ducks--the latter, for the most part, flying much lower than the geese, which kept far overhead. "We had better land to-night," Luka said. "They fly close after dark, and the flocks will settle on the banks. We will shoot them as they come overhead. You may not see them well, but they are so thick that you can hardly miss them." Accordingly, when evening came on they landed, fastened the boat, took a couple of sheep-skins each to throw over their shoulders (for even in these two days the cold had sensibly increased), and lay down to await the coming of the birds. All day long the air had been full of their cries, but it had grown quieter now, though occasionally they heard a sharp cry of the leader of a flock, followed by a responsive note from the birds following him. From time to time Godfrey could hear the whirring sound of a multitude of wings as the flocks passed overhead. These became louder as the time went on, and he knew that they were flying lower. He had loaded his gun with heavy shot, and once or twice was disposed to fire, but Luka each time stopped him. "They are much too high yet. They will come close down presently." The stars were shining brightly, and Godfrey could make out the outlines of the geese as they passed overhead. Presently there was a sharp call a few hundred yards higher up the bank. "This lot are coming low," Luka whispered. "They are probably going to settle to feed. Get ready now." Godfrey lay with his gun pointed upwards; a minute later he heard the rustling of wings, which rose to a sound like a mighty wind, and then some forty yards overhead a dark cloud of birds swept along across the sky. Godfrey fired one barrel, waited a moment and then fired again. With a loud cry of surprise and alarm the flock divided in two, and almost instantly there were several heavy thuds on the ground close by. "Hurrah! we have got some of them," Godfrey said, and leaping up they ran to collect the fallen birds. There were five of them. "That is grand," he exclaimed in delight. "Will you shoot some more?" Luka asked. "No, we have as many as we can eat, Luka, for the next three days at least. It would be a waste of powder and shot to kill more, and worse still, it would be a waste of life. It is right to kill what we require as food, but to my mind there is nothing more wicked than taking life merely for amusement. I consider that we should well deserve any misfortune that might happen to us if we were to kill any one of God's creatures wantonly. One of our best poets has written: "'He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.' "It makes me furious sometimes, Luka, when I read books of what is called sport, and find men boasting of killing numerous creatures merely for the pleasure of killing them. I feel that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to flog such brutes." Luka did not much understand this outburst of indignation, but as usual he grunted an assent, and carrying the birds they returned to the boat. "It is freezing to-night," the Tartar said as they stepped in. "I will lay the geese in the bow beyond the cover. They will be frozen by the morning." Godfrey was glad of the wrapping of warm furs that night, and even when he shook them off and looked out at sunrise, it was still so chilly that, after he had leaned over the side of the boat as usual, and sluiced his head with water, he was glad to take a paddle and work hard for a bit to keep himself warm. "Get the fire alight, Luka, and the kettle on," he said, "and cut up one of those geese. How are you going to get the feathers off? I suppose you will have to pluck them and singe them." "It would take much too long that. We can spare the feathers this time." So saying, with his knife he made a slight incision down the breast-bone, and then proceeded to tear off the skin, bit by bit, feathers and all. "That is a quick way," Godfrey said, "though it doesn't improve the bird's appearance; but that is a trifle. Never mind the bread, we shall have to do without that before long, and I feel as hungry as a hunter." In a very few minutes the fire was blazing, and portions of the goose frizzling over it, and in twenty minutes the meal was ready. Godfrey thought he had never eaten anything nicer; and the meat being much less rich than that of tame geese, he did very well without bread. For the next three days they made no pause, floating down night and day, the stream varying in speed from five to ten miles an hour. At points where the stream was most rapid, they paddled in towards the bank to avoid the waves raised by the river in its course. The light boat always floated easily over these, but she needed to be kept with her head to them; and Godfrey was afraid that a moment's carelessness might bring her broadside on to them, and therefore preferred to glide along at a somewhat slower rate near the shore. The river was now a mile and a half wide. To the left the country was flat, but on the right they could see hills rising far above each other. One or two small trading stations were seen on the right bank, but upon the left they passed only a few clusters of Ostjak yourts. On the right great pine forests came down in places to within a short distance of the river, but these were rarely seen on the left. On the fifth day after leaving Yeneseisk they saw a small trading station on the right bank. This Godfrey, who had got the geography of the river by heart, judged to be Peslovska, because it was one of the few trading stations which was not situated at a point where a tributary stream ran into the Yenesei. "We are far enough down now, Luka," he said. "We are not more than two hundred miles from Turukhansk. We will land at the next Ostjak huts we come to, and see if they are disposed to be friendly with us." "They will be friendly," Luka said confidently. "Why not? They are peaceable people, and they know that did they touch strangers they would be punished. There are Russian soldiers at Turukhansk. The Ostjaks are very poor. You have things to give them, and you want nothing of them." Twenty miles further they saw a group of seven huts on the left bank ahead of them, and paddling in landed close to them. Three or four canoes, much smaller than their own lay there, and as they climbed the lofty bank some of the Ostjaks came out from their huts. "What do you want?" one of them asked abruptly. "I am travelling with this gentleman, who has come from a far distant country to hunt and to shoot game here in winter. We would like to live beside your village and to hunt with you. You see he has a gun. He has many things as presents, and it will be well for the village where he settles. Here is some tobacco for all," and Luka handed a small roll of tobacco to each of the men. "We have also some presents for the women," and he produced two or three looking-glasses, and some rows of large blue and red beads. The women, who were listening in the huts, at once came out. "It is good," an old man, who seemed to be the leader of the Ostjaks, said. "Why should not the stranger live here with us and hunt with us if he chooses? He will be welcome. Let us help the strangers." The whole of the Ostjaks at once set to work. Godfrey chose a piece of level ground twenty or thirty yards lower down than the huts. He and Luka, aided by some of the men, carried the various articles out of the boat. While they were doing this, the women stuck some poles in the ground round the circle Godfrey had traced, and lashed them together in the middle with some strips of hide. The three large skins were placed against this on the northern side. Then the women paused. "You had better buy some more large skins if they have got them, Luka. Say that you will give a knife for hides enough to finish the huts with." The knives were large ones with rough handles and strong blades, and when Luka took one out from a bundle and said to the chief, "We will give this knife for enough skins to finish the hut," he gave an order to his wife, and she and two of the other women at once brought some elk hides from a pile lying by the side of his tent. A few stitches here and there with the needle made of a sharp fish-bone, with a thread of twisted gut, fastened the corners of the hides together, and in half an hour the tent was complete. The goat-skins were spread on the ground. The fox and other skins were made into two piles, one on each side of the tent, and all the goods stored inside. "This is splendid," Godfrey said; "here we are as snug as if we were born Ostjaks. I had no idea they would have made us so comfortable. We will give them a cup of tea all round, Luka, as a reward for their labours. We don't care for sugar, but the two pounds you bought at Yeneseisk will come in useful now. They will think a lot more of it if it is sweet. See if they have got a big kettle. That little thing of ours will only hold a couple of quarts." Upon inquiry the chief produced a cauldron, which he exhibited with great pride. It had evidently been used for melting down blubber. Luka carried it down to the water's edge, and then scrubbed it with sand until it was tolerably clean; then he rubbed it with wisps of coarse grass, filled it with water, and stood it on a fire that the Ostjaks had made from drift-wood picked up from the shore. In half an hour the water boiled. He put in two or three handfuls of tea and half a pound of sugar, let it boil for another minute or two, and then took the pot off the fire. Then he invited the Ostjaks to dip in their cups. In each of the huts they had a few tin mugs, for the expense and risk of carriage of crockery rendered the prices prohibitive, and even the tin mugs were prized as among their most precious possessions. Luka and Godfrey also dipped in their cups as an act of civility, but the latter made a wry face when it approached his lips, for the odour of the blubber was very strong, and he took an opportunity, when none of the Ostjaks were looking, to pour the contents of the tin upon the ground beside him; but to the Ostjaks the smell and flavour of blubber was no drawback, and men and women sat round the fire drinking the sweet liquor with great enjoyment, and evidently highly contented at the coming of this stranger among them. While they were partaking of it Godfrey heard a sound behind, and looking round saw a boy driving in several reindeer. He was delighted at the sight, not only because it promised hunting expeditions, but because they might aid to carry them across the frozen steppes, to the Obi, before the frost broke up. Talking with the Ostjaks Luka found that, as the temperature had been below freezing-point all day, they intended to commence fishing in earnest the next morning. The position of the huts had been specially selected for that purpose. The river made a sharp bend just above them, and the point threw the current across to the opposite bank, forming almost a back-water at the spot where the huts stood. It seemed strange to Godfrey, as he lay down that night, to be without the gentle motion of the boat to which he had been so long accustomed, and he lay awake for some time, not forgetting before he went to sleep to thank God for the wonderful success that had so far attended him, and to pray for a continuance of His protection. As soon as it was light the boats all put off, and anchoring a short distance out were soon engaged in fishing. Godfrey put down four lines, each with six of the hooks Mikail had purchased for him before starting from Kara. These were baited with strips of fish, and he and Luka were soon busy at work hauling in the fish. They were mostly jack or tench, and by the evening they had caught nearly a hundred. When they rowed to shore they found that they had been far more successful than any of the Ostjaks, this being due to the superiority of their hooks over the fish-bone contrivances of the natives. Following the example of the Ostjaks they laid the fish in lines in front of their tent to freeze during the night. After boiling their kettle, frying a couple of fish, and taking supper, they lighted two torches and again went out, returning before midnight with twenty-five salmon averaging fifteen pounds each. By the morning the fish were all frozen as hard as pieces of wood, and were then laid in a pile. For four days this work continued with equal success, and by the end of that time they had a pile of fish six feet square and three feet high, making, Godfrey calculated, nearly a ton of fish. They had observed that some of the Ostjaks had each morning brought in several wild geese and swans, and Luka learnt from them that there was a large marsh a mile away in which large flights of geese settled every night. Accompanied by two of the Ostjaks they started late in the evening for the spot. When they came near the marsh they could hear a low chattering noise as the birds fed on the aquatic grasses. Sometimes they heard cries in the air, answered by calls from the feeding birds, and followed speedily by a great rustling of wings as fresh flocks alighted. Godfrey and Luka had brought with them some fox-skins and sat wrapped up in them, but in spite of that they felt the cold as they waited hour after hour. Godfrey dozed off several times, and at last slept for three or four hours. He was awakened by a touch from Luka, and a low warning to keep silence. The morning was breaking. He found that the Ostjaks had built a sort of shelter of bushes, which had the effect of breaking the force of the north wind and of hiding them from the water-fowl. Raising his head cautiously he saw before him a sheet of shallow water; this was absolutely covered with geese, a few swans being seen here and there. Luka had warned him not to fire until the Ostjaks had shot all their arrows, as the sound of his gun would at once scare the whole flock. The edge of the water was about forty yards away. The Ostjaks and Luka had both made holes through the bushes in front of them so as to be able to shoot without exposing their heads. Moving gently Godfrey found a spot where he could see through the boughs. The natives were just ready to shoot. There were three swans close to the edge of the water, and the bows twanged almost together. Although he knew how marvellous was the shooting of the Ostjaks, he was nevertheless surprised at seeing that each of the birds was struck in the head, and was thus killed instantly without the slightest noise being made. Again and again they shot, and each arrow brought down its bird. Luka's third arrow was less successful; it wounded a bird on the neck, and with loud cries of pain and alarm it flew flapping across the pool. In an instant the whole mass of birds rose on the wing, circling round and round with loud cries. The natives, lying on their backs, shot arrow after arrow into the air, in each case transfixing a goose. Each had twelve arrows, and when they were exhausted Luka said, "Now, Godfrey, you can fire." Godfrey waited until a number of birds flew in a mass over him, and then discharged both barrels. Five geese fell, and then the whole vast flock flew away to the north, leaving the lagoon entirely deserted save by the floating bodies of their dead companions. "Arrow better than gun," Luka said as he rose. "Gun kill, but frighten all away. Arrow keep on killing." "That is true enough, Luka; there is no doubt the bow is the best for this sort of work; but I shall manage better another time." The birds were picked up. Twelve had fallen to each of the Ostjaks. Luka had eleven, and Godfrey five. It was a heavy burden to carry back to the huts. Godfrey and Luka's shares of the birds were laid by the pile of fish, with the exception of one which Luka proceeded to skin and hang up, while Godfrey saw to the fire and put on the kettle. When they had finished breakfast Godfrey said, "We will take three or four hours' sleep now, Luka, and then I am going down to have a look at that marsh." They accordingly started at mid-day. Godfrey made a detour round the lagoon, and a hundred yards beyond it, on the opposite side, found a clump of bushes that he thought would suit his purpose. With Luka's assistance he cleared a spot in the middle large enough for them to lie down on, and then returned to camp. They took their next meal early, and then, taking some furs to make themselves comfortable, again started round the lagoon. It was just sunset when they got there, and spreading two or three fox-skins on the ground, and throwing two over their shoulders, they waited. It was scarcely dusk when the first flock of geese passed close over their heads, on their way to the lagoon. Luka discharged two arrows, and then Godfrey fired his two barrels into them. Several fell, but the flock scattered with wild screams; but, after circling round and round for some time, settled in the lagoon. A quarter of an hour passed, and then another flock came along. All night the flocks continued to arrive at short intervals, and from each Godfrey brought down several. Luka's arrows were soon exhausted, but Godfrey continued firing until morning began to break. Then they got up to see the result of the night's shooting. Luka, although seldom excited, gave a shout of pleasure. The ground around them was thickly strewn with geese. Many were only wounded; but Luka, with a short, heavy stick, soon put them out of their pain, although not without several sharp chases. Then they collected and counted the birds. There were eighty-four in all. "Another night's shooting, Luka, and our larder will be full." Each taking up six geese, which was as much as they could carry, they returned to the tents, and then set out again, accompanied by all the boys and girls of the village; and this time the whole of the geese were carried to the hut. "It is an awful pity," Godfrey said, as he looked at the great pile, "that we haven't got anything we could use for holding the feathers. Well, we will have them picked anyhow. We can make a thick layer of them under the skins for the present. When it gets downright cold we can nestle in among them somehow." Accordingly the children were set to work to pluck the birds, which were then left out to freeze in the same way as the fish. That night and the next day they rested, and then had another night's shooting. The amount of success was as great as that which had attended the first. "We have plenty now to last us well on into the spring," Godfrey said as he looked at the great pile. "What is to be done next, Luka?" "Pour water over them and the fish and let them freeze." "Do they keep better that way, Luka?" "Yes; not get so dry." The Ostjaks had been astounded at the success of their visitors, both in fishing and shooting. Godfrey now had a conversation with their chief, and offered to shoot a supply of geese for the natives, if they would furnish him and his companion with a complete outfit of furs for the winter. This the chief at once agreed to, as they had a large supply of foxes' skins in camp, and these, with the exception of the rarer sorts, were practically worthless for the purpose of exchange. Godfrey made the chief another offer: to give him a hatchet, two knives, and six fish-hooks, if he would supply them with as much seal's flesh as they might require during the winter, and with blubber for lamps. The Ostjaks had already killed a good many seals; but the pursuit of them required time and patience, and Godfrey wanted to ensure a supply for the winter, although Luka told him they would have plenty of opportunities of getting seals then. Accordingly, for the next ten days the shooting was continued at night, Godfrey and Luka sleeping during the day, and leaving it to the young Ostjaks to collect and bring in the birds. The cold daily increased, and Godfrey began to feel much the want of warmer clothing. However, on the eighth day the Ostjaks brought in two suits. They were the joint work of the women of the village. As the Ostjaks were greatly pleased at the quantity of food coming in daily, which ensured them a sufficiency of meat throughout the winter, in addition to their own stock of fish, the work was well done. For each a closely-fitting shirt had been made of the squirrel skins they had brought down with them, with the fur inside. The trousers were of red fox-skin, with the hair outside. The upper garment was a long capote of the same fur, reaching down to the ankles, and furnished with a hood covering the head and face, with the exception of an opening from the eyes down to the mouth. In addition to these, was given to each as a present a pair of Ostjak boots. These were large and loose. They were made of goat-skins, rendered perfectly supple by grease and rubbing, and with the hair inside. They came up to the thighs, and had a thick sole made of layers of elk-hide. There was also for each a pair of socks of squirrel's skin, with the hair inside, and a pair of fingerless gloves of double skin, the fur being both inside and out, except in the palm, which was of single skin, with the fur inside. "Well, if it is cold enough to require all that," Godfrey said, "it will be cold indeed; but it will be awful walking about with it. Surely one can never want all those furs!" But in time Godfrey found that they were none too many, for at Turukhansk the thermometer in winter sometimes sinks to 60 degrees below zero. For a time, however, he found no occasion to use the capote, the fur shirt trousers and boots being amply sufficient, while the fur cap with the hanging tails kept his neck and ears perfectly warm. Already the ice was thick on the still reach of the river beside which the huts stood, although, beyond the shelter of the point, the Yenesei still swept along. The lagoon had been frozen over for some days, in spite of the water being kept almost perpetually in motion by the flocks of water-fowl, and the ground was as hard as iron. The Ostjaks were now for some days employed in patching up their huts and preparing them to withstand the cold of winter. An immense pile of firewood had been collected on the shore, for boughs of trees and drift-wood, brought down by the river, often came into the backwater, and these were always drawn ashore, however busied the men might be at the time in fishing. All through the summer every scrap of wood that came within reach had been landed, and the result was a great pile that would, they calculated, with the blubber they had stored, be sufficient to last them through the winter. "What will they do if fuel should run short?" Godfrey asked Luka. "They will cross the frozen river with their sledges to the forests. They would either take their huts down and establish themselves there, or would cut wood, fill their sledges, and bring it over. I have been talking to them. On the other side there are many Russian villages, for the post-road is on that side. In summer the carriages are drawn by horses; in winter they have reindeer. These people are very poor; the skins that they make their clothes with are all poor, the animals were torn by the dogs or injured--that is why they could not sell them. Those red fox-skins would have been worth two roubles each if they had been good; but the merchants will give nothing for those that are injured. They say it does not pay for the carriage. So they were glad to make them up for us." "What do they do with the reindeer?" "They milk them in summer, and in winter they let them to the owners of the post-stations. Of course, when they move they use them themselves." "What we want, Luka," Godfrey said, after sitting quiet for some time, "is more money. If we had that, we might hire sledges and reindeer as soon as the snow gets on the ground, and travel west; but of course there is no tempting these poor people to make such a journey without money to pay them well." "They will go hunting presently," Luka said. "You might get some good furs and sell them." "Yes; but I don't see why I should. No doubt many of the Russian peasants in the villages have guns; and if they don't get skins, why should I?" "A great many skins come down every year," the Tartar said. "Black fox is worth money, fifteen, twenty roubles; ermine is worth money; lots of them in the woods." "Well, we must hope for the best. If we can but get enough for them to take us across to the Obi, we ought to be able to coast round in a canoe to Archangel. But I don't think we could do it from this river in one season. The ice does not break up till June, and begins to form again in October. We can only rely upon three open months. I doubt whether we could get in that time from the Yenesei. However, it is of no use our bothering ourselves about that now." Another fortnight and the frost was so severe that the ice extended almost across the river, and a heavy fall of snow covered everything. As soon as it was deep enough Godfrey and Luka followed the example of the Ostjaks and raised a high wall of it encircling the tent to keep off the bitter north wind. Then the weather changed again. The wind set in from the south, and drenching rains fell. At the end of two or three days the ice on the river had disappeared, but it was not long before winter set in more bitterly than before. The ground became covered with the snow to a depth of upwards of three feet, and the river froze right across. The wall round the tent was rebuilt, Godfrey fashioning wooden shovels from some planks he found among the drift-wood. The Ostjaks took to their snow-shoes, and Godfrey fashioned for himself and Luka two pairs of runners, such as he had seen in use near St. Petersburg. These were about five feet long, by as many inches wide, and slightly turned up at each end. A strap was nailed across, under which the foot went. The ends were turned up by damping the wood and holding it over the fire, a string being fastened tightly from end to end, so as to keep the wood bent. When they were completed they practised with them steadily, and found that as soon as the surface of the snow hardened they could get along upon them at a good pace on level ground, completely distancing the Ostjaks on their broader snow-shoes. The Ostjaks evidently admired them greatly, but were too much wedded to their own customs to adopt them. Godfrey was so warmly clad that he felt the cold but little. His eyes, however, suffered from the glare of the snow, and he at once adopted spectacles, which were made for him by the Ostjaks. They were the shape of goggles, and made of skin with the hair on, narrow slits being cut in them, these slits being partly covered with the hair, and so shielding the eyes from the glare of the snow. They were fastened on by leathern straps, tied at the back of the head. The Ostjaks themselves seldom wore them, but they were used by Samoyedes, a kindred tribe, dwelling generally farther north, though many of them at times came down even as far as Yeneseisk. Early in November the Ostjaks prepared for a hunting expedition. The men, since they were confined to their huts by the snow, had been busy in manufacturing traps of various kinds and getting the sledges into order. On a large sledge, which was to be drawn by three reindeer, was placed the skins necessary for forming a tent. On these were piled a store of provisions, which were chopped out from the frozen masses by hatchets. On the smaller sledges were placed the traps and a quantity of the coarser kinds of frozen fish as food for the dogs. It had been settled that Godfrey and Luka should accompany them. They had contributed liberally from their store of geese and fish, and added to the load on the reindeer sledge their kettle, frying-pan, and a parcel of tea and tobacco. When all was ready the three reindeer were harnessed to the large sledge, one to each of the three small sledges, and soon after daybreak on the 5th of November they started, the Ostjaks being anxious to be off, for the weather again showed signs of breaking, and it might be another month before the river was permanently frozen for the winter. Six Ostjaks, including the chief, formed with Godfrey and Luka the hunting party; the others remained behind to look after the rest of the reindeer, as it was necessary to keep a space clear from snow, to enable them to get at the grass. They would, too, continue the fishing, keeping holes broken in the ice and catching fish by torch-light. The men walked with the sledges, which only went at a walking pace. Across the river the route was easy, the surface of the snow being crisp and hard, but it was hard work mounting the opposite bank, which was exceedingly steep. The reindeer pulled well, and at difficult points the men aided them. A short distance from the bank they crossed the post-road, and in another half-hour were in the forest. Godfrey had already been told that they would travel for several days before they began to hunt, as the villagers with their guns scared the wild animals from the forests in their neighbourhoods. There was no difficulty in travelling through the forest, for the pine-trees stood generally at some distance apart, and there was but little growth of underwood. All day they kept steadily on. When evening came they cut some young poles, erected their tent, and lit a fire in the centre. By this time Godfrey had become accustomed to the smoke, which escaped from the top of the tent by a hole. A couple of geese were cut up and broiled over the flame, and some cakes baked in the frying-pan, their pipes were lighted, and they lay down in a circle with their feet to the fire. For three more days the journey was continued. Then, as several tracks had been seen in the snow, they halted and prepared for the hunt. The method was simple. The men scattered in several directions, and when they struck upon a recent track followed it up. Each man took with him a dog, a certain amount of provisions, a box of matches from Godfrey's store, and a large skin to wrap himself in at night. Sometimes, as Godfrey found, the track had to be followed a long distance before they came up to the animal, which always travelled in zigzag courses hunting about for white mice and other prey. Sometimes it was found to have taken to a hole, and then a trap was set to catch it when it came out. The animals were principally ermine; but one or two sable, which are considerably larger, with much more valuable skins, and some martens were taken. All belong to the weasel family; the upper part of the ermine being brown in summer, but, like most animals in or near the arctic zone, changing into a pure white in winter, with the exception of the tail, which remains black as in summer. The ermine is but little larger than the English ferret, while the sable and marten are the size of large polecats. When the Ostjaks came up with them they either knocked them on the head with a club or shot them through the head. They were then carefully skinned, the bodies being thrown to the dogs for food. It had been agreed that the animals caught should be divided; but Godfrey felt that he was doing but little, for he was unable to shoot them, as this would have damaged their skins. However, he aided in tracking them down, and in setting traps when he traced them to a hole; and once or twice he came up with and killed one with a club. Occasionally he shot a squirrel--the little animals coming out from their nests in holes in the trees at the sound of footsteps, their curiosity costing them dear. After remaining four days at this spot the tent was pulled down and packed up, and they advanced another two days' journey into the forest. CHAPTER XIII. HUNTING. At the end of a fortnight one of the Ostjaks started with the large sledge for the huts, taking with him all the skins that had been collected. These had mounted up to a considerable number, the Ostjaks considering their luck to have been extraordinary, and putting it down in a great degree to their white companion, for whom they began to have an almost superstitious respect, since the way he had supplied their village with food for the winter seemed to them almost miraculous. The reindeer with the light sledge would accomplish the return journey in two days with ease, although the distance had taken them five days on their way out. It was to return with a fresh supply of provisions, especially for the dogs. The night after the sledge had left, the dogs barked fiercely for some time. They slept in the tent. Some of the Ostjaks made pillows of them, others allowed them to lie upon them, and they helped to keep the tent warm; the din when they began barking was prodigious. "What is it all about?" Godfrey shouted in Luka's ear. "I think it must be a bear," Luka shouted back. "Why don't they let the dogs out?" "They would drive the bears away, and it is too dark to see to shoot them. In the morning they will follow their track." The dogs presently ceased barking and with low growls lay down again. As soon as it was light the Ostjaks turned out and found great footmarks round the tent. Before starting from the huts Godfrey had exchanged the heads of their fishing-spears for the iron spear-heads they had purchased. Loading his gun with ball, Godfrey with Luka and four of the Ostjaks started in pursuit, taking six of the dogs, and a sledge, with them. On his long runners he would soon have left the Ostjaks behind; but Luka translated their warning that they must all keep together, for as there were two bears it would be dangerous to attack them in lesser numbers. In about an hour they arrived at a dense thicket, and it was evident that this was the lair of the bears until they took up their permanent winter quarters in a hollow tree. The dogs were urged to attack them, but could not be persuaded to enter far, confining themselves to barking fiercely. "How are we going to get at them?" Godfrey asked. The Ostjaks consulted together, and then they collected some dry pine needles and twigs, and two of them went to the windward side of the thicket and made a fire, upon which, as soon as it was fairly alight, they threw some dead leaves mixed with snow. "If they were to light the bushes themselves, it would drive them out quicker than that smoke," Godfrey said. "Not good, not good," Luka said earnestly. "Once catch fire, big flame run through forest, burn miles and miles." "I did not think of that," Godfrey said. "That would be a foolish trick." However, the smoke had the desired effect, and in a minute or two, two bears burst out on the other side, growling angrily. The dogs rushed at them, barking loudly but taking care to keep at a safe distance from their paws. The bears both raised themselves on their haunches. The Ostjak bows twanged and Godfrey fired. One of the bears rolled over, the other charged at his assailants. Godfrey fired his second barrel, then dropping his gun and grasping his spear, stood ready to meet the charge. But the bear did not reach him, for as it rose on its hind-legs the Ostjaks and Luka again shot their arrows, and the bear rolled over dead. The two animals were placed on the sledge, the reindeer harnessed, and, the Ostjaks taking ropes to aid it with its heavy burden, they returned to the tent. They had scarcely reached it when one of the other hunters returned with news that they had come upon the track of an elk. The bears were at once dragged into the tent, the entrance securely fastened to prevent a passing wolf or ounce from tearing them; then, taking with them this time all the dogs and the three sledges, they started, and in half an hour came to where the chief and his remaining followers were awaiting them. "They came along here yesterday afternoon," the chief said to Luka. "There is one big stag, and one young one, and three females." After three hours' walking they came to a spot where the snow was much trampled, and there were marks of animals having lain down. "That is where they slept," the chief said. "They are travelling south, but they will probably stop to feed before they have gone far; we may catch them then." He ordered one of the men to stop with the sledges, and the rest proceeded onwards. [Illustration: GODFREY BRINGS DOWN AN ELK.] Not a word was spoken now, and as they went they took the greatest pains not to brush against any branch or twig. The Ostjaks were now walking their fastest, and Godfrey had to exert himself to keep up with them. Their footfall was so light as to be scarce audible. After two hours' travelling they saw an opening among the trees, and here some young pines were growing thickly. The chief pointed significantly towards them, and Godfrey understood that the animals would probably be feeding there. They now went slowly, and the chief whispered orders that they were to make a circle round the opening and close round on the other side as noiselessly as possible. He himself would enter the thicket from the side on which he now was. The crackling of the pine twigs would drive them out on the other side. Very quietly they worked round and took up their stations, each standing behind a fir-tree, and then waited. They could hear the stamping of heavy hoofs and the occasional breaking of twigs. Presently there was a louder and more continuous sound of breaking bushes, and then with a sudden rush a great elk, followed by four others, burst out of the thicket. As they came along the Ostjaks stepped out from their hiding-places and let fly their deadly arrows. The leading elk came close to the tree behind which Godfrey was standing, and as it passed he fired both barrels, hitting it just behind the shoulder. The elk ran a few paces and then fell. Three out of the other four had been brought down by the Ostjak arrows; the young male escaped. The satisfaction of the Ostjaks was great; for here, in addition to the value of the skins, was food for themselves and the dogs for some time to come. A man was at once sent back for the sledges. While waiting for these the rest set out on various tracks of ermine they had passed on the way, and three of these and a marten were killed before the sledges came up. The big elk was placed on one sledge, one of the females on each of the others. The fourth was skinned, cut up, and divided among the three sledges. Lightly as the sledges ran over the snow the men were all obliged to harness themselves to ropes to assist the deer, and it was late in the evening before they arrived at the hut. The fire was lighted at once. Godfrey undertook the cooking, while the rest skinned the bears and elk, cut them up, and hung up the carcasses on boughs beyond the reach of the dogs. These had a grand feast off the offal while the men were regaling themselves with fresh elk steaks. For two months the hunting was continued with much success, then the Ostjaks said they would return home. Godfrey, however, was anxious to continue hunting; he had a small tent that had been made for him and Luka, and the Ostjak leader offered to leave one of the sledges with six dogs that had been trained to draught work. As soon as the Ostjaks had started on their return journey the tent, a store of provisions and furs, were packed in the sledge, and a fresh start made, as they had been in their present position for over a week. As they went along two of the poles were arranged so that they made a deep groove in the snow, by which they could find their way back to the starting-point. Two days' journey took them into a hilly country. They established themselves in a sheltered valley, and made that the centre from which they hunted. They were now twelve days' journey from the Yenesei and well beyond the range of ordinary hunting parties. They had soon reason to congratulate themselves on entering the more mountainous country, for here the game was much more abundant than it had been before. The dogs had by this time become attached to them, for Godfrey was fond of animals, and had petted them in a manner to which they were quite unaccustomed from their Ostjak masters. One of them especially, a young dog, had taken regularly to accompany Godfrey when hunting, and he found the animal of the greatest utility, as it was able to follow the back track with undeviating certainty. This was of importance, for there was but a short twilight each twenty-four hours, the sun being below the horizon except for an hour or two at noon, and they were obliged to carry torches while following the tracks of the smaller animals. Ermines were found in considerable numbers, and in the first week four fine sables were killed, as well as two martens and a bear; the latter was specially prized. They had brought a fortnight's provisions for themselves and the dogs, but they were anxious to eke these stores out as long as possible, as they could no longer depend upon getting fresh supplies from home. The bodies of the ermines were but a mouthful for one of the dogs, while the sables and martens gave them a mouthful all round. The bear, however, contained a large quantity of excellent food, and setting aside the hams for their own consumption they hung up the rest of the meat on a tree to serve out gradually among the dogs. They soon found, however, that they need be under no anxiety as to food, as foxes abounded, principally red, though two of the valuable black foxes fell to Godfrey's gun. They found many paths in the woods completely trodden down by animals. Here they used the Ostjak method of catching them: putting up a screen of branches across the track. Looking at these objects with suspicion, the animals invariably refused to try either to jump over or crawl through them, but went round at one end or the other. Here accordingly traps were fixed and many animals were taken. Intense as the cold was Godfrey felt it even less than he had anticipated. The wide-spreading woods broke the force of the winds, and while they could sometimes see the tops of the trees swaying beneath its force they scarcely felt a breath below. Luka knew nothing of the Esquimaux fashion of making snow-huts, and said he had never heard of it among the Ostjaks or Samoyedes. At each of the halts, however, Godfrey piled the snow high over the low tent of reindeer-skin which he had got the women to make for him according to his own plan. It resembled a tent _d'abri_, or shelter tent, seven feet long and as much wide, was permanently closed at one end, and had flaps crossing each other at the entrance. Instead of depending entirely upon the two uprights and the ridge-pole between them, Godfrey when erecting it put eight or ten poles on each side, stretching from the ridge out to the side of the tent, so as to support the skin under the snow they piled over it. The bottom was covered with a thick mat of furs, the sides were lined with them, and others were hung across the entrance, so that the cold was effectually kept out. A large fire was kept burning in front of the tent, and from this, from time to time, red embers were taken out and placed in a cooking-pot inside. At night two or three lamps, fed by oil melted down from the fat of the animals they killed, were kept alight, and in this way lying snugly in their sleeping-bags they felt perfectly warm and comfortable, although the temperature outside was from forty to fifty degrees below zero. The dogs slept outside, with the exception of the one of which Godfrey had made a special pet, it being allowed to share the tent with them. A high bank of snow was erected on each side of the entrance to the tent. This served further to break the force of the wind and to retain and reflect back the heat of the fire. The dogs therefore, being provided with a good supply of meat from the proceeds of the chase, did very well. One afternoon the sky was very thick and overcast, and Luka said he thought that they were going to have snow. "In that case, Luka," Godfrey said, "we will set to work to make things comfortable. If there is a heavy fall we might be almost buried here. Ordinarily it is sheltered, but if there is a wind, and I can see that it is blowing now, it might drift very deep in this hollow, and we might find ourselves completely snowed up. I think the tent is strong enough to stand any pressure, but it does not contain much air. We will cut down some strong poles and lay them side by side across the snow walls in front of the tent. The smoke will find its way out through them, and if a deep snow comes on it will save the dogs from being snowed up; besides, it will give us a lot of additional air, which we may want. Two or three hours will do it. The time won't be thrown away anyhow, for the branches we cut off and the poles themselves will do for firewood." The snow-flakes began to fall just as they finished the work--the result being a sort of flat-roofed shelter with snow walls ten feet long and six feet high, in front of the tent. A large quantity of firewood was piled up at the entrance to the shelter. "That is a capital idea, Luka," Godfrey said as they retired into the tent. "We can sit with the entrance of the tent open now if we like and get the benefit of the fire outside, for the air having to pass close by it on its way to us gets comparatively warm." When they went out to build up the fire for the last time before lying down, snow was falling steadily, and was already deep in front of the entrance to the shelter. The dogs had been well fed and lay thickly clustered round the fire, evidently greatly contented with the unusual luxury of a roof over them. Godfrey crawled into the tent again, closed the flaps, hung up a skin before them, and getting into his sleeping-bag lay there comfortably smoking his pipe and talking to Luka. "We are as snug here as if we were in a palace, Luka; but I should not like to be caught out in the woods to-night. Have you ever heard of any of the Ostjaks or Samoyedes being frozen to death?" "Couldn't be frozen if they had a hatchet and matches with them," he replied. "Can always chop down branches and make a hut and a fire in the middle to keep it warm. Then snow comes and covers it up and keeps out the wind. Out on the plains a man might get frozen if stupid, but he ought never to be if he knew what to do. He should look for a hollow where the snow had drifted deep, then make a hole in the side of the drift and crawl in. He ought to be quite warm there if furs are good. But they do not often get lost; they never go very far from huts when snow in the sky. Directly it comes on they would make for home. Can always get along in snow-shoes." "The Isvostchiks are often frozen in St. Petersburg in their sledges at night," Godfrey said. "They can't build huts in a town," Luka remarked; "they can't find snow deep enough to get into; town not good in winter." "Are there many wolves here, Luka? Do they often attack people?" "No, there is plenty of game in the woods. In Russia the game now, so I hear, is scarce, so the wolves must take to eating men; but here there is plenty of game, and so they do not often attack people. I have heard of hunters going out and never coming back again. Then people say wolves eat them, but not often so. May be killed by elk, or hurt by a falling tree, or climb hills and fall down. I do not think it is often the wolves. Wolves great cowards." "I am glad to hear it, Luka: I have heard them howl sometimes at night and wondered whether they would come this way." "Not come here," Luka said decidedly, "we keep plenty of big fire. All beasts afraid of fire. Then we have got dogs and guns. Much easier for wolves to attack elk; but even that they seldom do unless it is wounded or has injured itself." "Well, I think I will go off to sleep; my pipe is out and the hot tea has made me sleepy." After sleeping for some hours, Godfrey awoke with a strange feeling of oppression. Outside he could hear the dogs whimpering. "Wake up, Luka," he said, "it is very close in here. I fancy the snow must have drifted very deep and covered us up completely. Let us get up and see about it." It was quite dark outside, except that the embers of the fire threw a dull red light on the snow. The shelter seemed but half its former dimensions. The snow had drifted in at its entrance and lay in a bank piled up to the roof. "Bring your spear, Luka, and mine, and shove them up between these poles. We must make a few holes up through the snow if we can to let a little air in." The spears were pushed up and then worked a little to and fro to try to enlarge the hole. They were eight feet long, but Godfrey did not feel at all sure that they penetrated through the cover of snow. However, when they had made a dozen of these holes there was a distinct change in the air. "They have gone nearly through, if not quite, and anyhow they are near enough to the surface for the air to find its way out. Now we had better set to work at once to dig a passage out. That is one advantage of this shelter, there is a place to throw the snow back into." Going down on their hands and knees they soon scraped the snow away until they reached the entrance to the shelter. Here the snow weighted by the pressure above was much denser and harder, and they could cut out blocks with their hatchets. "Now," Godfrey said, "we must make a tunnel sloping upwards. It must be as steep as it can so that we are able to climb up, making steps to give us foothold. I will begin, for we only just want it wide enough for one. I will hand the blocks down to you as I cut them, and you pile them regularly along the sides here. As we fill the shelter up you must drive the dogs back into the tent. We shall want every inch of room for the snow before we get out." For hours they worked steadily, taking it by turns to cut and to pile. The last four feet were much more difficult than the first, the snow, being lighter and less packed, falling in upon them as they dug. Once Luka was completely buried, and Godfrey had to haul him back by the legs. The atmosphere inside, however, improved as they got upwards, being able to penetrate between the particles of the light snow. It was six hours before they both struggled out, followed by the dogs in an impetuous rush. It took them another couple of hours to clear away and beat down the snow sufficiently to make an easy entrance to the shelter. A fire was lighted outside and a meal cooked, for the lamps were quite sufficient to keep the tent sufficiently warm, and they would have been well-nigh stifled with smoke had they attempted to light the fire in the shelter. The snow was still falling and drifting, and the sky showed no signs of change. "The entrance will fill up again by to-morrow," Luka said, "and we shall have more trouble than ever to get out." "We must provide against that, Luka; we must build a sort of roof over the entrance here, and then we shall only have to start from this point again. Let us set to work and chop down some poles at once." After three hours' more work a cover was built over the entrance, and roofed with pine branches so as to prevent the snow from drifting in. "Now, Luka, there is one more job, and unfortunately a long one, but we must do that. We must get the snow that we have packed in the shelter below out of the way, for if by any chance this passage fell through, we should have nowhere to pile the snow; besides, we may have another passage as deep as the present one to dig to-morrow, for the snow is drifting down in clouds. It has deepened a couple of feet since we began to make the roof over the entrance." Luka, who was always ready to work, set to cheerfully, but the short twilight had faded into deep darkness before the work was completed. "If we had had a couple of good shovels with us, Luka, we should have made short work of this," Godfrey said as they retired below into their tent. "We could do as much work in an hour as one can in five with these tools. It is heart-breaking to shovel out snow with a hatchet. I am as tired as a dog. This is harder work than the gold-mines at Kara by a long way." "Yes," Luka said, "but there is no man with a gun." "No, that makes a difference, Luka, this is free work and the other isn't; not that one can call it exactly free when we have no choice but to do it." For another four days the snow continued to fall; but as the wind had dropped, and the snow no longer drifted, their work each morning was comparatively easy. "I wish it would stop," Godfrey said, "for we begin to want food for the dogs; our stock of dried fish has been exhausted since we were shut up. There is half a deer hanging to a branch of that tree close to the tent, but it is eight or ten feet below the snow, and as we can't calculate the exact position now it would be a big job to try to get at it." There was, however, no change in the aspect of the weather on the following morning, and Luka announced that beyond the tea and a handful or two of flour there was nothing whatever for breakfast, while the dogs had fasted on the previous day. "Well, Luka, there is nothing to do but to try and get at that venison. I have been thinking that it will be easiest to try from below; it is much quicker work chopping out the solid snow than it is trying to make a hole in that loose stuff at the surface. The tree was just about in a line with the front of the tent, wasn't it? and we hung the deer on a branch that stretched out nearly as far as the tent. I should say we hung it about half-way along that branch and not above twelve feet from the tent." Luka agreed as to the position. "Very well, then, as we know exactly the direction, and as the distance is but twelve feet, it ought not to take us very long to chop out a passage just big enough and high enough for one to crawl through. When we get near the place where we think it is, we must make the tunnel a good bit higher, for the bottom of the meat was quite five feet from the ground so that it should be well out of reach of the dogs. Now, will you go first or shall I?" "I will begin," Luka said. "We must make the passage wide enough to push the snow past us as we get it down." "Certainly we must, Luka. Make it pretty wide at the bottom, and make the top arched so as to stand the pressure from above." It was easy enough work at first, but became more difficult every foot they advanced, as the one behind had to crawl backward each time with the snow that the one at work passed back to him. At last the tunnel was driven twelve feet long, and the last four feet it had been given an upward direction, by which means less snow had to be removed than would have been the case had the bottom remained level with the ground and the height been increased. "We are a good twelve feet in now, Luka, and certainly high enough. Which way do you think we had better try?" Luka replied by calling one of the dogs and taking it with him to the end of the tunnel. The animal at once began to snuff about eagerly, and then to scratch violently to the right. "That will do," Luka said, pushing it back past him and taking its place. He had driven but a foot in the direction in which the dog was scratching when the hatchet struck something hard. It required some care to dig round the meat and make a hole large enough for Luka to stand up beside it and cut the cord by which it hung. The dogs yelped with joy when he dragged it back to the other end of the passage. The fire was made now in the passage under the roof they had made at the end of the first day's work, for outside the snow fell so fast that it damped the fire greatly, and as the smoke made its way out through the entrance it was no inconvenience to them below. A good-sized piece of raw meat was chopped off and given to each of the dogs. The ramrod was thrust through another large piece and held by Luka over the fire, and then Godfrey carried the rest of the joint outside and placed it in the fork of a tree. "It smells good, Luka," he said as he returned to the fire; "I wish it would attract a bear." Luka shook his head. "Bears are asleep, Godfrey; they are hunted in summer, and sometimes they may be found in the early part of the winter, but never when the snow is deep; they would die of hunger. There might be wolves, but we don't want them. Wolf skins fetch very little, and their flesh is only good for the dogs; we don't want wolves, but we must be on our guard. In such weather as this food is very scarce. They might come and attack us. Yesterday I heard howls once or twice. I think when we have done breakfast it will be better to take that meat down below." "Why, they wouldn't smell it as much as this cooked meat, Luka." "No, I was not thinking of that, but if they come we may want it." "You mean they might besiege us, Luka?" "Yes, shut us up here. Wolves very patient; wait a long time when they scent food." "Well, we will have the dogs sleep up here for the future. They will act as sentries, and there is none too much air down there. That reminds me, I will cut a long pole or two, fasten them together, and try and drive them down through the snow to the roof of the shelter below." Luka shook his head. "You might drive it down five or six feet, but you would never get it down to the roof, and if you did you could never pull it up again." "I don't know, Luka. I once saw them driving down some bars in tough clay when they were making a railway cutting at home. I think we might do it in the same way." Godfrey after breakfast cut a pole, chopping it off just below where two or three small branches had shot from it, leaving a bulge. This bulge he shaped and smoothed very carefully with his knife, so that it was in the form of a peg-top. "There," he said. "You see it is thicker here than it is anywhere else, so that the hole it makes will be a little larger than the pole itself, and instead of the snow holding the pole all the way down it will touch it only on this shoulder." This succeeded admirably. It was six feet long. They had cleared away the loose snow to a depth of eighteen inches, and both holding it were able to force the pole down as much more; then they hammered it with a billet of wood until only a foot showed; then they spliced another to it, and working it up and down jumped it in until they could again use the mallet, and at last struck on something solid, which could only be one of the beams forming the roof of the hut. Godfrey went below, and soon discovered the spot where the pole came down, and with his knife managed to clear away the snow round it. Then he went up and assisted Luka to withdraw the pole, which left a hole of about three inches in diameter. "That is a capital chimney," he said. "Now we will throw a few fir branches over it, to prevent the dogs treading here and shutting it up. I think the air looks rather lighter, Luka, and that the storm is nearly over. There is a howl again. I am afraid that we are going to have trouble with the wolves. Is there anything we can do?" Luka shook his head. "We might get up into trees," he said. "We should be safe there, but then we should lose the dogs." "That would never do, Luka; we should have to haul the sledge back a hundred and fifty miles. No, I'll tell you what we will do: we will cut down some young trees and block up our tunnel with beams, leaving three or four inches between each to fire through or use our spears." "That is a very good plan," Luka said. "We should be quite safe then." It took them some hours' work to carry out the idea. The middle of the tunnel was closed by a row of pointed stakes, some four inches in diameter, driven deep into the snow and reaching up to the roof of the shelter. An opening of a foot wide was left in the middle, another stake being placed beside it in readiness to fill it up if required. The operation was completed by the light of the fire, as it was pitch dark by the time it was done. Then another meal was cooked and eaten, and the brands carried below, where, at the bottom of the descent, the fire was now kindled. The dogs had for some time been growling angrily in the upper passage, and the fire was no sooner alight below than they broke into a chorus of fierce barking. "We had better bring them down here, Luka, and fill up the opening. I think the wolves must be gathering in numbers." Going up again they sent the dogs down, firmly lashed two cross-bars to the others, and to these lashed the pole they had left in readiness, thus completing the grating across the tunnel. As they worked the smoke from the fire below curled up round them. A few months before Godfrey would have found it almost insupportable, but by this time he had, like the natives, become so accustomed to it that it affected him very little. Still he said to Luka: "You had better break off the hot ends of the sticks so as to have a red fire only for the present, the smoke makes my eyes water so that I can scarcely see. Now the sooner those fellows come to get their first lesson the better." Kneeling by the grating, with his gun in his hand and his spear beside him, Godfrey gazed out, and could presently distinguish the outline of a number of moving figures. "I can see their eyes at the entrance," he said. "Shall I give them a shot, or will you send an arrow into them?" "You fire," Luka replied. "Bow makes no noise, gun will frighten them; besides, I have only twenty arrows and they would get broken. Better keep them till there is need." Godfrey levelled his gun, which was charged with buck-shot, and fired both barrels. Terrific yells and howls followed, and the opening was clear in a moment, though Godfrey could see two or three dark figures on the snow. There was a sound of whimpering and snarling, and then of a fierce fight outside. [Illustration: THE SLAUGHTERED WOLVES.] "They are killing and eating the wounded," Luka said; "when they have done that they will come again. Let them get close up next time." In a few minutes the entrance to the tunnel was darkened again, and then cleared. The dead wolves had been pulled away. Another quarter of an hour and the animals reappeared. As all was silent they gradually approached. Godfrey could hear their panting, and presently heard a noise against the bars. A moment later there was a rush and an outburst of snarling growls, then he and Luka drove their spears again and again between the bars, yells of pain following each stroke. The animals in front were unable to retreat, and the others behind crowded in upon them, maddened with the smell of blood, and all trying to get first at their prey. They quarrelled and fought among themselves, while their cries and growls were answered by the furious barking of the dogs in the shelter below. In two or three minutes Godfrey, who had reloaded his gun, fired both barrels into the mass, and at the flash and sound the wolves again fled. This time they did not venture to re-enter the passage. Occasionally one showed itself, and was instantly shot by Godfrey or Luka, who took turns on watch throughout the night. As soon as the dim light broke they removed the bar and issued out with the dogs. A dozen wolves lay dead outside the bars, seven were scattered round the entrance. Godfrey shot two more who were lurking under the trees, while Luka sent an arrow through another. "There are plenty of them about still," Godfrey said. "Let us get three or four of the dead ones upon a branch out of their reach as food for the dogs, drag the rest away from the entrance to the tunnel, and bring the others up from below. That will give them, with the three we have shot now, enough for a big meal. Then I should think they would move off." This was accordingly done, and they went below and cooked breakfast, while the dogs feasted on a dead wolf. Then they lay down for three hours' sleep. When they went up again the dead wolves had disappeared, only a few bones and the blood-marked snow showing where they had lain. Godfrey fired a couple of shots to scare away any that might be lingering in the neighbourhood, and then replacing the bars they went out hunting, and from that time heard no farther of the wolves. They continued their hunting, shifting their camp occasionally until it was time to rejoin the Ostjaks, and then travelled east. They struck the river some thirty miles below the camp, crossed at once and travelled up the other side until they arrived at the huts. They were heartily welcomed by the natives, and remained there for three days to rest the dogs. They were very glad of getting a supply of fish again. These the Ostjaks had in abundance, as they kept their frozen piles for food when the keenness of the wind rendered the cold so bitter that they were forced to remain in their huts. At other times they fished by torch-light at holes that they kept broken in the ice, spearing the fish, which were attracted by the light. The Ostjaks were surprised at the large number of skins, some of them of the most valuable kind, that Godfrey had brought back, and were impatient for a fresh start. They were this time absent for only six weeks, returning at the beginning of May. The hunt was marked by no adventure. They did fairly well, but were not fortunate in securing any skins of the black fox and but few of the sable. Upon their return the furs that had been taken during the two hunts with the Ostjaks were fairly divided, and Godfrey added his and Luka's shares to those they had themselves obtained. There were over fifty in all, including three black foxes, six sables, and ten martens, the rest being of inferior value. Then a list was made of the necessaries that Luka was to purchase at Turukhansk. These included ten pounds of brick tea, some copper nails if he could obtain them, a store of ammunition, some more fish-hooks, the largest kettle he could buy, a frying-pan, a few pounds of sugar, ten pounds of salt, some stout sheeting, thirty yards of duck canvas, three blocks, a coil or two of rope, needles and twine, a saw, a couple of chisels, and some other tools. "You must make the best bargain you can for the skins, Luka; I have no idea how much they are worth." The Ostjaks were, however, able to tell them the prices the traders pay for the skins of each animal, provided that they were fine specimens and in good condition. The black foxes were worth from fifty to a hundred roubles, the sables from thirty to fifty, the martens some ten roubles less; the other skins were worth from fifteen to thirty roubles. Luka took the sledge and a reindeer and started alone, having gone over the list of things required again and again until Godfrey was convinced that he was perfect. He took his sleeping-bag but no tent. He calculated that he should be away five days, as it would take him two to drive to Turukhansk, and a day there to make his purchases. On the fifth evening he returned, with everything he had been ordered to get, and a few other things that he thought would be useful. He had obtained in all six hundred and fifty roubles as the result of their six months' hunting, and of these had expended a hundred and seventy roubles. "We are well set up for money now, Luka," Godfrey said, as he added the notes to those he before possessed. "I have still four hundred roubles out of what I received from the Buriat, so we have now nearly nine hundred, which will be enough to pay our way to England from any point we may land at." CHAPTER XIV. THE BREAK-UP OF WINTER. Spring was rapidly approaching now. Occasionally for a day or two southerly winds set in and rain fell in torrents, then again the Arctic currents prevailed, and everything was frozen as hard as before. Flocks of geese passed over, flying north, but returned again when the cold set in afresh. Small birds, too, in great numbers made their appearance, crowding on patches of ground that the sun and rain had cleared of snow, fluttering round the tents in flocks, picking up scraps of food that had been thrown out, and keeping the dogs in a state of perpetual excitement. The Ostjaks said that the break-up of the ice might come any day, or it might be delayed for another month; it depended less upon the weather here than on that higher up. It is not the sun or the rain that breaks up the ice, but the rise of the river from the snow melting a thousand miles higher up, and all over the country drained by the rivers running into the Yenesei. The women were now making a canoe under Godfrey's instructions. He had often gone out in canoes on the Severn and on the sea when staying at watering-places there. The craft that had done them such good service before would not do for their present undertaking. They required a boat which should be fairly fast, sea-worthy, and yet light, for it might be necessary to carry it considerable distances. It was necessary that its dimensions should exceed those of an English canoe, for it must carry a considerable amount of food, although of course he meant to depend chiefly on the fishing-lines and gun. It was made five-and-twenty feet long, and three feet wide. The central compartment was thirteen feet long. This was covered in at the sides and ends, leaving an opening for them to sit and paddle, fifteen inches wide, and five feet long. Underneath the covered parts provisions, furs, cooking utensils, &c., could be stowed away on both sides, leaving room for them to lie down at full length in the centre. The two end compartments were entirely covered in, but had openings over which a cover was lashed, and could, if necessary, be used for holding stores; but Godfrey did not intend to put anything here except temporarily, as it was important that the canoe should be as buoyant and light as possible. The frame of the boat was built of the tough and elastic wood of which the Ostjaks made their bows. It was very light, the ribs being bound to the longitudinal pieces by fine gut. It was built, as nearly as Godfrey could lay them out, on the lines of an English cruising canoe. The deck strips were similarly lashed, and when the framework was completed Godfrey tested its strength by dropping it three feet to the ground, rolling it over and over, and trying it in a variety of ways. When fully satisfied with it the work of putting on the cover commenced. This was made of very soft and well-tanned reindeer hide, stretched as tightly as possible, and then rubbed with seal oil. The keel of the boat had been made very strong, as the rigidity of the whole craft depended upon this. It had been made flat, and the skins had been taken over it. When it was finished a false keel six inches in depth in the centre, tapering away to nothing at the ends, was fixed underneath. This keel was also made of tough wood, a little more than a quarter of an inch thick, but widening suddenly to over an inch where it touched the boat, in order that it might be securely fixed with screws to the keel inside. The boat was provided with a light mast, which could be stepped or unstepped at pleasure, and there were two stays of twisted leather, one fastening to each side of the boat. An iron ring with a cord travelled up and down the mast, the halliard running through a small block, as Luka had been able to obtain a sheave at Turukhansk. The sail was a lug made of sheeting, oiled, and the boat carried beside a triangular sail of very much smaller dimensions and stouter cloth for heavy weather. She also carried a small mizzen mast and sail. In rough weather the cockpit could be completely covered with a light apron with openings where the rowers sat, with a sort of collar, which could be lashed tightly round their waists. The edges of this apron could be lashed down over the gunwale round the cockpit. When completed the canoe itself, with its mast and sails, weighed but sixty pounds, and could be carried with ease by one person on his shoulder. The Ostjaks greatly admired the craft, which was entirely different from anything they had ever seen. The false keel puzzled them greatly, and Godfrey's explanations, even when aided by Luka, failed altogether in making them understand that it would have the effect of enabling the craft to sail near the wind without drifting to leeward. The additional draught of water was no inconvenience whatever in a craft designed for the sea, and it added materially to the strength of the canoe. On the 15th of May it was freezing hard. The natives going down to the water's edge in the morning reported a sudden rise of three feet in the river. It continued to rise all day, and by nightfall was fifteen feet above its former level. In the evening the north wind dropped suddenly, and an hour later it sprang up from the south, and by midnight a torrent of rain was falling. Godfrey could hear sounds like the reports of cannon above the pattering of the rain on the skins, and knew that it must be the ice breaking. In the morning when he looked out the whole mass of ice seemed to be moving. Black cracks showed everywhere across the white surface. The river had during the night risen another twenty feet. By mid-day the scene was a wild one indeed. No longer was the surface smooth. Hurrying along at the rate of fifteen miles an hour the great masses of ice were dashed against each other by the force of the current. Two miles lower down the river narrowed suddenly, and here a block was formed. Some of the pieces of ice were thrust down, others climbed over them, thrusting themselves one on the top of the other till a ridge thirty or forty feet high was formed from bank to bank. At times this gave way, and then the whole was whirled down the stream, while another ridge at once commenced to form. Godfrey walked down to the point and stood for hours looking at the scene. The great blocks of ice, six or eight feet thick, seemed almost to be endowed with vitality as they climbed one above the other, until thrust off the crest of the ridge by the pressure of those behind them. The din was prodigious, a crackling, rustling, roaring sound, with sharp explosions and deep muffled booming. The whole air seemed to quiver with sound, and the loudest shout would have been inaudible a yard or two away. Below the ridge the river, so long as the barrier stood, was comparatively clear, but from time to time great masses of ice that had been sunk by the pressure and swept along under the ridge came to the surface with a surge that lifted one end high out of the water, reminding Godfrey of the spring of some enormous fish; then the ice would come down with a mighty splash, and hasten away reeling and rocking on the rapid current. Entranced by this mighty conflict of the forces of nature, Godfrey stood there until seven or eight o'clock in the evening. It would be light for three hours yet, for the sun now only sank for a short time below the horizon. The rain was still falling heavily when he returned to his hut. The river had risen another thirty feet since the evening before, and the height of the bank had decreased from a hundred feet to about thirty. For two more days it rained incessantly. The river had now risen to its high-water mark, ten feet below the bank. Godfrey asked the Ostjaks if there was no fear of its overflowing, but they told him that there was no cause for uneasiness, for that at its present point it overflowed at many places both above and below them, and extended over a vast tract of country, and that at every additional foot it would spread so widely that it would speedily begin to fall again. The ridge had now ceased to form, although the river was still packed with floating masses. "In another two days," the Ostjaks' chief said, "the ice will be all gone except a few blocks. Much of the ice above is carried out by the floods and left to melt on the land as the water lowers, but even without that the river at its present rate would soon carry it all down." This Godfrey could well imagine, for at the rate of fifteen miles an hour over three hundred and sixty miles of the river would have been emptying daily. At the end of another three days but few blocks of ice were visible, and Godfrey now began to make preparations for his start. First the canoe was to be tried. She was taken down and placed in the water, and the sides under the half-decks were filled in with frozen geese and fish from the pile, which was still but little affected by the thaw. When she was thus brought down to nearly the weight she would have to carry, Godfrey and Luka took their places in her, dipped their paddles in the stream, shot out, and paddled about for some time in the still water behind the shelter of the point. Godfrey found to his satisfaction that she paddled easily, quite answering to his expectations. Then Luka, who had already practised the manoeuvre on shore, stepped the masts, fastened the stays, and hoisted the sails. There was a light breeze from the south, and the boat ran rapidly along before it till it was again abreast of the village, then she was put about and made short tacks in the dead-water. Godfrey found that she stood stiffly up to the canvas, and, as far as he could see, made little or no leeway. Then he returned to the village. The Ostjaks, who seldom made use of sails, and then only when dead before the wind, were perfectly astounded alike at the rapidity with which the boat glided through the water and at the ease with which she came about, and were astonished beyond measure at seeing her make a zigzag progress in the teeth of the wind. Early the next morning the rest of the preparations were completed. The tea, tobacco, cooking utensils, and other necessaries were stowed away under the deck astern of Godfrey, together with twenty pounds of fat. This had been carefully set aside for the purpose when animals were killed and cut up. It had been melted down in the chief's large pot and poured into a tin drinking-mug, in which four strands of unravelled cord had been placed to act as wicks. The tin was dipped in ice water, and in a few minutes the fat solidified, then the tin was dipped again, this time in hot water, and the short fat candle with its four wicks then came easily out, and the process was repeated. These candles weighed just about a pound each. Godfrey collected fat enough to make fifty, but being afraid of overburdening the canoe he decided that twenty must suffice, believing that he would be able to pick up drift-wood as they coasted along. A store of pine-wood torches was lashed on the deck on each side of the mast forward of Luka, the fishing spears, hatchets, and other articles for trade stowed away, the furs and their winter garments laid thickly at the bottom of the boat. They took with them Jack, Godfrey's favourite dog, and then, bestowing all the rest of their possessions on the Ostjaks, they took a hearty farewell of them, stepped on board, and started. They had at the last moment decided to take their old boat also with them. This was fastened by a tow-rope behind the canoe. It was filled with frozen provisions, having been first lined with rough furs, others were laid closely over them. In this way Godfrey calculated that they would remain frozen for a long time. The rest of the store of flour and a stock of firewood were added. As to the extra weight of towing the canoe it was immaterial, as until they reached the mouth of the river there would be no occasion for paddling, and beyond that the stock of provisions could be transferred to their own canoe to take the place of those used up on the way, and the craft could then be cast adrift. As there was a light breeze, however, the sail was hoisted, rather because it gave them steerage way than for any increase to their speed. As soon as the canoe shot out into the rougher water in the full force of the stream, Godfrey was still more delighted with the boat, the empty compartments fore and aft rendering her exceedingly buoyant. She had been built with somewhat higher sides than the canoes Godfrey had seen at home, and rose a good deal towards the ends; and she floated as lightly as a cork on the surface of the water. That afternoon they passed Turukhansk. Below this the river widened out. In the evening they lowered the sail, as they did not wish to run the risk of striking either the shore or a piece of ice that might have got delayed on its journey. All night they hurried on, lying snugly in the bottom of the boat with the apron closed overhead. In the morning they found they were not far from the left bank, and that the river now was more than four miles wide. The sail was again hoisted and breakfast made, after which they got out their lines and hooks, baited, and dropped them into the water. During the course of the day they caught several fish, and picked up a considerable quantity of floating wood, which they stowed in the large canoe. "I think, Luka," Godfrey said, "that instead of letting our old boat go we may as well keep it for a time. As long as there is wind, it makes no great difference to our speed, though, of course, it would be heavy if we were paddling. If we had bad weather we could land and turn it bottom upwards, and there would be a hut ready made for us. This canoe is all right for sleeping in when the water is smooth, but with its deep keel we could not sleep in it ashore." Luka was, as usual, quite of Godfrey's opinion. After this they made the old boat their kitchen, for there was but little room in the canoe for cooking purposes; and it was, moreover, a relief to get into the roomy craft where they could move about as they pleased. As drift-wood was abundant they made their fires entirely of this, keeping their candles for the time when they might have to leave their store-boat behind them. On the third day the river widened out greatly. They could no longer see the right bank, and Godfrey concluded that they were now in the Gulf of Yenesei. "The weather is going to change," Luka said the next morning; "the wind will soon be coming from the north; going to blow hard." "In that case, Luka, the sooner we are ashore the better. The current now is nothing like so swift as it was. I don't think we are going past the land at more than three miles an hour, but that would be quite enough if the wind comes from the north to knock up a nasty sea in no time. Let us get our paddles out; there is not a breath of wind." In half an hour they reached the shore, but had to coast along for some time before they found a place free of rocks. "This will do, Luka, we are not a minute too soon; those puffs just now were so strong that we made no way against them. Now, then, jump out and get the canoe high and dry." They had retained their long boots, and stepped out into water up to their knees. Then they lifted the canoe and carried it ashore. "It is heavier than it was when we put it in," Luka said. "I should think so. What with the furs and provisions, candles, and one thing and another, there must be a hundred and fifty pounds weight in her. There, put her down here, Luka, and let us get the other up. We must take the things out first. Quick, man, the wind is getting up fast. Isn't it cold; we shall want our fur jackets on directly." The firewood and provisions were carried up some distance above the water's edge, and then the boat was lifted and placed beside them. A thick sleet had now set in, and the wind was blowing with tremendous gusts. "Now, then, look about, Luka, and see if you can find a sheltered nook. I will pile stones into the well of the canoe so as to anchor her safely. If she were to be rolled over and over her skin would soon be cut to pieces." Before he had finished this Luka returned. "Good place here," he said. "Good shelter." "We'll finish this job first, Luka. This is much more important than our getting wet." As soon as it was done they went to the large canoe, and lifting it carried it away to the place Luka had found--a ridge of rock running back at a right angle from the shore, with a perpendicular face some twelve feet high. At one point there was a deep cleft in it, some eight feet wide at the mouth and narrowing gradually in. "Capital, Luka; we shall be as snug as possible here. Now, turn her over and take her in." The cleft was so deep that the stern of the boat was, when she was laid down bow foremost, fully fifteen feet inside the entrance. "Now it may blow as much as it likes," Godfrey said, "it won't hurt us here. Now do you go and get some of the firewood. I will fetch some skins from the canoe, and the sails." After getting out some provisions, the cooking utensils, and a couple of the candles, Godfrey returned to the boat. Then he made another journey for some more skins and the two sails. By this time the wind was blowing so fiercely that he could scarcely stagger along with his load. The sea was covered with white heads, and the waves were breaking noisily against the rocks. Luka had already brought up plenty of firewood, and had thrown a large skin over the furs containing the frozen fish, and piled stones on it to prevent its being blown away. "Now, where will you put the fire?" he asked. "If you put it inside it would burn the boat, if you put it outside it would be no good to us." "I quite see that, Luka. We must make ourselves comfortable, for this storm may last for days for anything I know. We must prop this end of the boat up so that we can sit upright under it with something to spare. We must pile up some stones a couple of feet high under each gunwale." In a quarter of an hour this was done. The sail was then laid over the boat, the ends being kept down by stones. "That is snug," Godfrey said. "Now we will put the mizzen over forward so as to keep the wind out right along." There were four feet of head room at the entrance to the boat tent, and in front of this the fire was soon lit, one of the pine torches being cut up to start it with. The skins were laid upon the ground, and taking off their wet coats they put on fur jackets. "Now we can see about breakfast, Luka." Luka had run down and filled the kettle, while Godfrey was fastening down the sail. This was placed on the fire, and as soon as it began to burn clear some of the fish they had caught the day before were laid on the glowing embers, together with two legs of a goose. "The thing we are going to have most trouble about, Luka, is fresh water," Godfrey said as they ate their breakfast. Luka looked surprised. "When we once get beyond the stream of the Yenesei," he went on, "the water will be salt." "Salt!" Luka repeated. "Yes, too salt to make tea with. We shall be all right for a time, no doubt. What with the melting snow and the rains we have had, there are sure to be lots of little streams running into the sea; but when the land dries we shall be in a bad way." Luka looked serious; this was altogether beyond his experience. "Of course if we can get plenty of fresh fish we shall get on fairly, as we sha'n't require much to drink. We will look about the rivers when I can get at the map. I know there is a small one called the Gida running in just between the mouths of the Yenesei and Obi; and there is the Kara on farther, and then the Petchora. As far as I can remember that is all that were marked, but of course there may be lots of little streams that were not put down. There is one thing, if we find that we generally get wind, and can keep the big boat with us, we could make her carry water as well as fuel. She would hold any quantity, for half a dozen barrels would not sink her above an inch. We should certainly get out of the difficulty that way. It gave me quite a fright at first. I felt so sure that I had thought of everything, and there, I never for a moment thought about the sea being salt. How it is blowing outside! It is lucky indeed you have found such a snug corner, Luka, for if we had been out in the open we could only have piled stones in the boat to prevent it blowing away, and lain at full length underneath her, which would be all well enough for one night, but would be a frightful nuisance if it had to go on for three or four days." So sheltered were they, indeed, that they scarce felt the wind that was howling above them, and were as comfortable beneath their boat as they had been in their hut by the river side. "When it is as rough as this in the gulf, Luka, it will be tremendous out at sea." Luka had never seen waves higher than those in some of the rapids of the upper river, and he was astonished at the white-headed waves and at the showers of spray they sent up as they struck the rocks. "Are the waves ever much bigger than this?" he asked. "Bigger! I should think so. Out in the open sea one of the waves would make a hundred of these." "Then they must break the vessels to pieces, Godfrey?" "No, they are built very stout and strong, and very big. They get broken to pieces if the sea drives them against rocks, and sometimes in very great storms get so beaten by the waves that the planks open and the water runs in and they sink." "I should not like to go to sea if the waves were like that," Luka said thoughtfully. "This is terrible. Why, if we had not come ashore in time the boat would have sunk." "She would have made a good fight for it, Luka. With the apron tied in round us we could stand a very heavy sea. So long as we keep her head to the waves the water might wash over us, but it could not get in; and even if it did fill the space where we sleep, the compartments at the ends are quite buoyant enough to keep her up." "What would you do if you were out in what you call a great sea, Godfrey?" "I should lash the mast and the sail and our paddles and the firewood together, fasten our mooring rope to them and throw them overboard, that would keep us head to sea--because these things would all float in the water, and the wind would not get hold of them. They call a contrivance like that a floating anchor. Then we would both lie down in the bottom, button the flaps over the holes in the cover, and lie there as snugly as possible. You see our weight would be down quite low in the boat then, and that would keep her steady. Oh, we should get on capitally if there were plenty of room for us to drift." "How far have we to go now?" "I can't exactly tell you. I wish I knew. From the long jagged cape, which is the northern point of land on the western side of the Gulf of Yenesei and forms the separation between it and the mouth of the Gulf of Obi, to Waigatz Straits, between the mainland and Waigatz Island, which lies south of the island called Nova Zembla, is about two hundred and fifty miles in a straight line, but I should think it is quite three times that if we have to follow all the ins and outs of the shore. From there to Archangel, if we go in to Archangel, is about three hundred and fifty miles more, cutting across everything. If we had a current with us, like the stream of the Yenesei, we should make very short work of it; but unfortunately there is nothing of that sort. Paddling steadily we might go three miles an hour--say a hundred miles in three days. If we had wind that would help us, of course we should go a great deal faster, because we should paddle and sail too." "But if we don't go to the place you call Archangel, where should we go?" "We should keep far north of it, Luka, and sailing in a straight line nearly due west, should strike the northern coast of Norway somewhere or other. I should say, from what I saw of it on the map, it would be five hundred miles from Waigatz. But that would be madness for us to attempt. We might get caught in terrible storms; we might get into fogs, and as we have no compass there we should lie, not knowing which way to go. No, we must stick to the land till we get to the mouth of the White Sea. With a favourable wind we should get across that in a day, and then go on coasting again till we get beyond the Russian frontier; then at the first village we come to we land, find out all about the distances, and arrange to get taken in reindeer sledges to some regular settlement." "What sort of people are they there?" Luka asked. "They are the same sort of people as the Samoyedes. I don't know that they are just the same. Anyhow, they speak the same sort of language. Well, you know the Northern Ostjaks we stayed with speak nearly the same as the Samoyedes. You could hardly get on with them at first, because their talk was so different to that of the Southern Ostjaks; but you got to speak it quite easily at last. So I have no doubt you will be able to make any natives you may meet, whether they are Samoyedes or anything else, understand you without difficulty. "What is it, Jack? What are you whining about?" he asked the dog, who, having made a hearty meal, had been lying down between them while they were talking, but who now sat up, snuffing and whining uneasily. "It may be either a fox or a bear," Luka said, making his way farther back into the hut, and returning with his bow and arrows, Godfrey's gun, and the two spears. "I hope it is a bear," Godfrey said as he removed the charges of shot, and rammed down bullets in their place. "We don't want any more skins, unless it happens to be a black fox, which would be worth having, but a supply of bear meat would come in very handy." The dog's whine presently changed into an angry growl. "Bear sure enough. I expect he knows of this place, and has come here for shelter. He had much better have left it alone. It is lucky for us that the fire has burnt low; it would have scared him if it had been blazing. Lie down, Jack." Lying perfectly still they presently heard a sharp snuffing noise, and a minute or two later a bear came round a corner of the rock. Astonished at the sight of the white object, the animal sat up on its haunches. "Now!" Luka exclaimed, and discharged his arrow at the same moment that Godfrey had pulled his trigger. The arrow struck the bear in the throat, and such was the force with which it was sent that the head showed at the back of the neck. Godfrey's bullet struck it in the chest, and the bear at once rolled over. Thinking it was killed, he crawled from under the boat and ran forward, but the animal suddenly rose to its feet; running up alongside, he placed the muzzle close to its ear and pulled the other trigger. [Illustration: LUKA FACES THE BEAR.] "It is dead now, Luka," he shouted as he bent over it. At the same moment he heard a cry of warning, and was simultaneously struck a heavy blow which stretched him on the ground beside the bear. It flashed through his mind that his assailant was the female bear. He had heard from the Ostjaks that the best plan, if attacked by an enraged bear, was to sham death, and he therefore lay without moving a muscle as he was struck down. He heard the twang of Luka's bow, and Jack's sharp barking close to his ear. Then with a deep angry growl the bear left him and rushed towards the tent. Godfrey at once sprang to his feet. He had not brought his spear with him as he crawled out, but he sprang to the fire and dragged out a brand. Luka had discharged another arrow, and Jack was harassing the bear by snapping at its hind-legs. In terror for the safety of the canoe rather than that of Luka, who could, he knew, well defend himself, Godfrey leapt forward and struck the bear across the nose with the brand. With a roar of fury it turned upon him, but as it did so it exposed its side to Luka, who discharged another arrow behind its shoulder. It rolled over and over, but again gained its feet. The pause, however, had given Luka time to emerge from under the boat with his spear in his hand, and running up he thrust it right through the body, and the bear fell over dead. Then he ran to Godfrey. "Are you hurt?" he asked. "I am hurt a bit, Luka, for I felt a sharp pain as the beast knocked me over, but I do not think it can be much. It was very lucky that we put our fur jackets on again; if it hadn't been for that, I expect he would have regularly laid open my shoulder." He took off his coat. The bear's claws had penetrated through the skin, and had scored three gashes on his shoulder. But these, Luka said, were of no great depth, and beyond making his arm stiff for paddling for a day or two would matter little. They at once set about skinning the two bears, put the four hams carefully aside, cut off most of the meat, gave Jack another hearty meal, and then retired again to their shelter. "My heart was in my mouth when I saw him rushing at the tent; if he had struck the boat, or thrown his weight upon it, it would have been a terrible business." "I was afraid too," Luka said. "I was just going to shoot again when you struck him on the nose, and so gave me a chance of hitting him in a vital spot. If it hadn't been for your blow I should hardly have stopped him; he was so close that even if I wounded him mortally he would have come down on the boat." "Well, it is fortunate it has ended so, Luka; it will be a lesson to me when I shoot a bear next to look out for its mate, and also not to leave my spear behind me, or to advance towards a bear I think dead until I have loaded my gun again." For two days longer they had to remain in their shelter; but the third morning when they awoke the wind had died away, and the sun was shining brightly. As there was still some sea on, Godfrey determined to stay another day and explore the coast a little. Leaving Luka to look after the boats and goods in case any more bears might be in the neighbourhood, he started with Jack. He was amazed at the quantity of birds that he met with--thrushes, wagtails, warblers, chifchaffs, fieldfares, and red-poles rose at every step. The air quivered with the song of innumerable larks, which mingled with those of the willow-warblers; snipe in considerable numbers sprang up and darted off with a sharp cry from almost under his feet; plovers circled round and round; ducks of various kinds passed between the shore, and, as Godfrey supposed, inland swamps or lakes; martins in great numbers darted hither and thither hawking for insects. Occasionally birds, which he supposed to be grouse, rose with a loud whirr. Short as was the time since the snow had cleared off the ground, spring had come in with marvellous rapidity. The grass was already well-nigh knee-deep, and flowers of various kinds were in full bloom. Where the ground was comparatively bare of grass, it was studded with the yellow blossoms of wild heart's-ease, and amongst some stunted alder-trees Godfrey found a dwarf rose already in bud, and wild onions and wild rhubarb in flower. Then he came upon a broad expanse of a shrub that looked to him like a rhododendron, with a flower with a strong aromatic scent. Several times he heard the call of a cuckoo. On a patch of sand there were some wild anemones in blossom. Godfrey pulled a bulb of wild onion, cut off a slice and tasted it. It was similar in flavour to the cultivated plant, but very sharp and acrid. However he set to work, and pulled up several dozen bulbs. They were small, not exceeding the size of a radish, but they would be very valuable, as one of them chopped fine would be sufficient to give a savour to a whole goose. Turning to the right and coming down upon the shore he saw that the edge of the water was fringed with seagulls of various kinds picking up tiny fish as the waves broke in sandy coves, or scuttling into the water and making sudden dips and dives into it. Farther out flocks of black ducks were feeding, while two or three pairs of swans passed overhead going north. Presently he saw three or four native huts ahead; some reindeer were grazing near them, and three boats were hauled upon the shore. These were doubtless Samoyedes. As soon as he caught sight of them he turned. He had heard that the Samoyedes, although more friendly than the Tunguses with strangers, were much less to be depended upon than the Ostjaks, and as he had no faith in being able to explain what he was doing there with his comparatively limited command of the Ostjak language, he thought it better to return at once to Luka. He found when he reached the tent that the Tartar was beginning to feel anxious, for he had been four hours absent. As they had abundance of food, and had no occasion to trade with the natives at present, they decided not to pay a visit to them. As soon as dinner had been cooked, they set to work to get everything in readiness for a start. The stores were taken out of the canoe, and she was carried down to within a few feet of the water. The tent was dismantled, and the boat also carried down. Then they devoted themselves for the rest of the afternoon to collecting more drift-wood, for the water was again falling, and the highest level it had reached was strewn with debris. As there was now no practical distinction between night and day they lay down and slept for four or five hours, then put the large canoe into the water, and placed the firewood in her, with the stock of flour, frozen meat, and the bears' flesh; then with the kettle and frying-pan they baled eight or ten buckets of water into her, for Godfrey did not know how soon the river would become brackish. They spread the bear-skin over all, then having carefully repacked the canoe, they put her also into the water, stepped the mast, took their places in her, hoisted the sail, and with the boat in tow started north again. The wind was from the south, and with the assistance of the current they went along rapidly; but, nevertheless, the paddles were got to work, as, now that they were fairly on their way again, every mile gained was of importance. They kept about a mile from shore so as to take advantage of the current. In twenty minutes the native encampment was passed. They saw no one moving about there, and supposed that they must all be asleep, for the sun was low down on the horizon. Godfrey's watch was still going, but as he had had no opportunity of comparing it with any other timepiece for just a year, he could only consider it to be an approximate guide. Once a month or so he had made a point of setting it. This he did by sticking up a pole and measuring the shadow it cast, knowing that this would be at its shortest at twelve o'clock. By this means he calculated that he was never more than half an hour wrong. The shore continued very flat, and once or twice they saw sand-banks stretching out a considerable distance. Sometimes both paddled, sometimes Godfrey steered only and Luka laid in his paddle. Three times in the course of the day the big canoe was pulled up, and Luka went on board and cooked a meal, the flat slab on which they lit their fire having been raised three or four inches above the bottom to keep it out of the water. Hitherto Godfrey had done all the steering when the boat was under sail, but he now instructed Luka. Little teaching was, indeed, needed, as the steering was done with the paddle, and Luka was accustomed to keeping the boat straight when paddling. He was, however, nervous with the sail, which was boomed straight out with a light spar Godfrey had cut for the purpose. However as the wind was dead aft there was no fear of this jibing so long as the boat's course was kept true; this was rendered all the more easy by the steady drag of the boat astern. Twelve hours after starting Godfrey told Luka to lie down and sleep, as he intended that so long as they had favourable winds they should continue their voyage without stopping. There was no occasion for going ashore. The bears' flesh would last them as long as it kept good, and they had plenty of water on board for at least a fortnight. In a few minutes Luka was sound asleep. Jack lay on the deck in front of him, sometimes sleeping, sometimes waking up, and giving a sharp bark in reply to the cry of a sea-gull passing overhead, or a flock of black ducks skimming along close to the surface of the water within fifty yards of the boat. CHAPTER XV. COASTING. The current was now losing its power, and Godfrey, dipping his hand into the water and then putting it to his lips, found that it was distinctly brackish, and congratulated himself upon having laid in a stock of water when he did. After Luka had slept for six hours, Godfrey roused him. "Now, Luka, you must take my place and steer; move very carefully else we shall capsize her. That is it. Now, if there is any change you lean forward and touch me; I shall wake in a moment. If the sail should shift over to the other side all you have got to do is to shift this sheet to its fastening on that side. With this light wind jibing does not matter at all, but if the wind freshens wake me at once." For a quarter of an hour Godfrey watched to see that Luka steered steadily, then he worked himself down in the cockpit and closed his eyes. It did not seem to him that he had been asleep long when Luka touched him. "I would not have woke you," Luka said; "but the land seems going right away from us." Godfrey sat up. "So it is, Luka! I should not be surprised if that is the extreme northern point. Of course it may be only a deep bay, but at any rate we must see." He looked at his watch, "Why, I have been asleep nearly seven hours. Now, Luka, you had better haul the boat alongside, and see about cooking. We forgot to try those onions yesterday. Cut one up small and put it in the pan with the meat. By the by, you had better tie a piece of cord to those four bears' hams, and let them tow overboard for two or three hours. The water must be quite salt now, and when you take them out we will rub a little fresh salt into them. They ought to keep well then." As soon as Luka had got into the boat--Jack jumping in with him, as he always made a point of superintending the cooking operations--Godfrey took his place in the stern, jibed the sail, which had before been on the port quarter, over to starboard, brought her head somewhat to the north of west, and hauled in the sheet. Lying over till the water nearly touched her gunwale, the light little craft would have gone speedily along had it not been for the drag of the boat astern. This, however, towed lightly, for she was loaded with but a very small proportion of the weight she would carry. Godfrey judged, by the objects on the shore, that they could not be going along less than three miles an hour. In six hours the land trended away due south, and he knew that they had now reached the first of the two deep bays they would have to pass before reaching the northern extremity of the Cape. He kept on his course, and an hour later, with the exception of the low coast nearly astern, no land was to be seen. Luka, who was paddling steadily, looked round. He had such implicit confidence in his companion that he was quite sure the boat was keeping the right course, but he had a vague sense of uneasiness at seeing nothing but sea around him. "How do you know which way to go?" he asked. "I know that by keeping on the same way we were going past the last land, we shall strike the coast again on the other side of this bay. I think it is twenty or thirty miles across. I can tell the way by the wind in the first place, and in the second place by the position of the sun. You see it is over my right shoulder at present; there is the mark of my shadow on the side. I have got to keep it about there, making some allowance for the change in the position of the sun." Luka understood this. "But suppose the wind was to change?" he said. "I should know it by the position of the sun. You see at present it comes nearly due south, and is blowing almost straight towards the sun; but if it were very cloudy, or at night when I could not see the sun, I should not be able to tell. Then after holding on till I felt sure that we were well past the mouth of this bay, I should put her about on the other tack, and should be sure to come upon the land sooner or later. Anyhow, even in the darkest night we should know if the wind had gone round to the north, as it would be so much colder. Besides, there is never a great shift of wind like that without knowing it; the one wind is sure to drop, and there would be something like a dead calm before the other set in. Anyhow, with a bright sun and a steady wind like this we cannot go wrong, and you will see land ahead in seven or eight hours." It was less than six hours when Godfrey saw the low land ahead, and they were presently coasting along it again with the wind free, for they were now running but little to the west of north. Thirty miles farther there was another break in the coast. "That was a first-rate map I made the tracing from," Godfrey said; "the coast-line is most accurately marked. Now we have another run of about the same distance as the last, then there is about fifty miles almost due north, then we shall be round this other Cape." They made the passage safely across, although it took them longer than the first, for the wind dropped lighter, and they had both to use their paddles. "We have just done it in time, Luka, and that is all. If we had been half an hour later there would be nothing for it but to anchor. Look at that white cloud on the water; that is a fog; we are only just in time. I am heading for that cove. Paddle hard, Luka, or it will be on us now before we get there." They had just entered the cove, which was forty or fifty feet wide, and ran as many yards into the land, when the fog rolled over them. "It is like a wet blanket," Godfrey said; "it is thirty or forty degrees colder than it was a minute back. Paddle very slowly and carefully now, Luka, and dip your paddle deeply in. I want to go as far up this creek as I can; but I don't want to run ashore." Very gently they paddled on until Godfrey felt the ground at a depth of about three feet. "That will do nicely," he said. "Now I will drop the anchor over." The anchor was one of Ostjak manufacture. It consisted of a long, flat, narrow stone weighing about six pounds; to each of the flat sides were lashed two pieces of fir, about an inch and a half in diameter. They projected a few inches below the stone, and were cut off just below a branch of about an inch in diameter and eight or ten inches long. These branches, when growing, bent downwards and slanted at an angle closely resembling that of the fluke of an anchor with the upright. The whole, therefore, was an excellent imitation of an anchor with four flukes, two on each side, the stone serving as a weight. This was thrown out of the bow of the canoe, and a couple of fathoms of line let out. Then Godfrey hauled up the larger boat and fastened it alongside. They could just make out the outline of the shore about fifteen feet on either side of them. "We must take to our fur jackets again, Luka; my teeth are chattering, and after working as hard as we have been doing for the last three or four hours it won't do to get a chill. I am as hungry as a hunter; we had breakfast at five o'clock by my watch, and it is three now." Luka soon lit the fire in the boat. The provisions in the canoe had been finished two days before, as they had been obliged to throw overboard what they had not eaten owing to its having become unfit for use. The food, however, wrapped up in furs in the boat was still solidly frozen. They cut a couple of fish out of the mass and placed them in the frying-pan; stuck a wooden skewer through some pieces of bear's meat and held them in the flame, and hung the bear's hams, as they did each time they cooked, in the smoke of the fire. "We must try to get some more fish next time we set sail, Luka. I am sure we passed through several shoals of fish by the swirling of the water." It was thirty-six hours before the fog cleared off, swept away by a south-westerly wind. As they had nothing to do but to eat and sleep during this time, they got up their anchor and hoisted their sail the moment the fog cleared off, and in eighteen hours reached the sharp point of the Cape. Rounding this, Godfrey said: "Now, Luka, we are at the mouth of the Gulf of Obi. It is nearly two hundred miles, according to this map, to the opposite side, and we daren't try to make that; besides, the wind has been getting more to the west and would be right in our teeth, for you see by this tracing the opposite point of land is a good bit to the south of west. There is nothing for it but for us to keep along this shore for something like a hundred and fifty miles. We can lay our course well with this wind. The gulf won't be more than eighty miles wide there, and we can strike across and coast down the opposite bank. It seems a long way round, but we shall do it as quickly as we should beating right across in the teeth of this wind. I doubt if we could do that at all with this craft behind us." Fortunately the wind was not high, or they could not have ventured out, as a heavy swell would have set in from the other side of the gulf. They kept their course within half a mile of the shore. "What are those black things on that low point?" Godfrey asked. "I can hear them barking. They must be tremendously big dogs, if they are dogs." "They are seals," Luka said; "they go right up the rivers in summer, and the Samoyedes and Yuruks kill great numbers on the coast. They eat the flesh and sell the teeth for ivory." "Well, we don't want them at present," Godfrey said; "but if we fall short of food we will see whether we can kill some. At present the great thing is to get on." Night and day the canoe kept on her way. Except when Godfrey was asleep Luka did not steer, for he did not like the management of the sail, especially now that the boat at times heeled over a great deal with the beam wind. He himself took his sleep by fits and starts two or three hours at a time, and except when cooking, paddled away assiduously. Twice Godfrey was lucky enough to bring down some ducks when a flock swept past the boat within shot. They had, too, a supply of fresh fish, for Godfrey now always had two lines out towing astern, with some white geese feathers fastened to the hooks as bait. Ordinarily they caught nothing, but they passed through several large shoals of fish, and at these times they pulled them out as fast as they could haul in and let go the lines, sometimes bringing in three or four at a time, as there were six hooks on each line. These fish were herrings, and they formed a welcome change. Luka had never seen one before, for although they penetrate for some distance up the great rivers, they never ascend to the upper waters. Jack, too, benefited greatly, for of late he had been kept on somewhat short rations, as they had now been reduced to the four half-cured bear's hams and a comparatively small stock of frozen food. On the fifth day after rounding the cape the wind, which had been gradually getting lighter, dropped altogether, and for the next two days both of them worked steadily with their paddles. "We must have made a good two hundred miles," Godfrey said; "and we could safely venture to strike across in such quiet weather as this, but there is a river marked on the chart as coming in somewhere here, and I want to find it if I can. There is water enough for another week, but it begins to taste horribly of skin, and besides that it has a considerable mixture of ashes. I am sure we must be very close to it; indeed, according to my calculation of two hundred miles, we ought to have passed it already. Anyhow, we will keep on until we get there." Godfrey was not far out, for late in the day they saw an opening of some fifty yards wide in the bank. They at once made for it, and entering it, paddled along as near the bank as they could go to avoid the current. Godfrey tasted the water from time to time, and after paddling for two hours pronounced it perfectly sweet. "We will land here, Luka. I am sure we both want to stretch our limbs a bit and have a rest. Look about for a good place to land; the banks are too steep to be able to get the big canoe up, but we can carry the other--it is light enough now." They presently found a place where a portion of the bank had fallen in and left a gap. Here they landed, moored the large canoe to the shore and carried the other up the bank. An exclamation of pleasure broke from Godfrey at the wide expanse of bright green dotted with flowers. Jack was exuberant in his delight, circling round and round like a wild thing, barking loudly and occasionally throwing himself down to roll. The two paddles were driven firmly into the ground, the sail unlaced from the yard, which was lashed to the paddles as a ridge-pole, over which the sail was thrown. The furs were taken out of the boat and spread in the tent. "We will have a cup of tea, Luka, and then turn in for twelve hours' sleep. I am sure we deserve it." After a long rest they woke thoroughly refreshed; then, while Luka was lighting a fire, Godfrey went down to the river, stripped, and had a short swim, the water being too cold to permit his stopping more than two or three minutes in it. When they had had breakfast he said: "Now, Luka, do you go down to the boat, take the firewood out, and then sluice the boat thoroughly with water and get it perfectly clean. By the time you have done that I shall be back, and we will then lift her out of the water and turn her bottom upwards to dry thoroughly. Then we will melt down some of that bear fat we saved and give her a thorough rubbing with it. But we will leave that job until to-morrow; it will take four-and-twenty hours for her to dry. I am going out with my gun to see what I can shoot. The whole place seems full of birds, though they are mostly small ones; still I might come across something better. You had better keep Jack with you." Godfrey's expedition was not a very successful one. He brought back four grouse and a dozen small birds, which he had killed with a single shot, firing into the thick of a flock that flew by overhead. The grouse were roasted for dinner, and Godfrey found to his satisfaction that Luka had baked a pile of cakes, this being the first time they had tasted bread for a fortnight, as it demanded more time and attention than they could spare to it in the boat. Luka told him that several flights of black duck had passed up the river while he had been at work at the boat, and volunteered to grease the boat next day if Godfrey would try to get a shot at them. "It will be of no use my trying to shoot them on the river," Godfrey said, "as I should have no means of picking them up; and I can tell you I found the water too cold this morning to care about stripping and swimming out for them. I will have another try on the plain. I saw four or five deer to-day, but only the first passed within shot, and as I had not a bullet in the gun he got off without my firing at him. I will try to-morrow if I can't stalk one." Accordingly the next day Godfrey set out. After an hour's walking he saw three deer. He worked round very cautiously so as to get a clump of bushes between him and them, and then crawled up to it and looked through. They were a hundred and fifty yards away, and he had no confidence in his gun at that distance. He stood for some time thinking, and then remembered he had read that on the American plains the deer were often decoyed into coming close up to the hunter by working upon their curiosity. He drew his ramrod out from his gun, put the cap he wore--which was the fur one with tails--on to the end of it, pushed this through the bushes, and began to wave it to and fro. The deer caught sight of it immediately, and stood staring at it for a minute or two, ready to bound away should the strange object seem to threaten danger. As nothing came of it, they began to move towards it slowly and with hesitation, until they gathered in a group at a distance of not more than fifty yards. Godfrey, while waving the cap with one hand, was holding his gun in readiness with the other. Feeling sure that he could not miss the mark now, he gently lowered the cap and raised his gun to his shoulder. Slight as was the movement it startled the deer; but as they turned to fly he fired both barrels at the shoulder of the one nearest to him, and had the satisfaction of seeing it fall, while its companions dashed away over the plain. He ran up to the fallen animal and found that it was already dead, both bullets having struck it in the region of the heart. He proceeded to cut off the head and the lower part of the legs, opened and cleaned it, and was then able to lift it on to his shoulder. As he neared the tent Jack came tearing along to meet him with loud barks of welcome. "Yes, I have got food for you for some time, Jack, though it does not seem to me that you do much to earn it." Luka was at work greasing the boat. Godfrey called him up on to the bank. "We must try and do something to preserve the meat, Luka." "Shall we rub it with salt, Godfrey?" "We can spare some salt, but not much. It would never do to be left without that. We can do well enough without bread, but we can't do without salt." "Smoke it well," Luka said. "We might try that, but I am afraid those hams are beginning to go." "Not smoke enough, Godfrey." "No, I suppose not." "They must have plenty, lots of smoke." "Well, there is plenty of wood to make smoke with." "We must keep it close," Luka said. "We ought to smoke it for two days." "We can keep it close enough by cutting some poles and making a circular tent with the sail. It will spoil its whiteness, but that is of no great consequence. You had better leave the boat for the present, Luka, and come with me and cut poles and boughs for the fire." Taking hatchets they started out and presently cut eight poles ten feet long. "Now which is the best wood for smoking it with?" "Pine makes the best smoke next to oak." "There are plenty of stunted pines about, and I should think some of this aromatic shrub with it would be good. I will make up two big bundles of that, and we will take them and the poles back first; then we will cut some pine boughs." As all these were obtained within a few hundred yards of the camp, they had soon materials for their fire. The poles were then stuck in a circle and lashed together at the top, the sail taken down and wrapped round it. It was not large enough, but by adding the storm-sail and the hide of the deer the covering was made complete. Then a number of sticks were tied from pole to pole across it. The deer-flesh was then cut up into strips of about a foot long, three or four inches wide, and half an inch thick; and these were hung over the sticks until the whole of the deer was so disposed of. The three remaining bear's hams were also hung up, and a fire of the pine-wood was then with some difficulty lighted and some of the sweet-smelling shrub laid on it. Godfrey, who had undertaken this part of the business while Luka went back to the boat, crawled out from the tent almost blinded. "By Jove!" he said as he closed the aperture, "if it is as bad as that now that it is only just lighted, the meat ought to be smoked as dry as a chip by to-morrow." Godfrey had nothing to do now but to watch the smoke rising from the opening at the top of the tent, opening the entrance a little whenever it slackened, drawing the sticks together with the iron ramrod, and throwing on a fresh armful of the fuel. Having finished greasing the boat, Luka did the same to the canoe. They spent the next twenty-four hours in alternately sleeping, collecting drift-wood on the river-bank, and attending to the fire, which had to be watched carefully, and some dry splinters added from time to time to get the green wood to keep alight. Every hour or two a piece of meat was taken out and examined, and in thirty hours from the time of lighting the fire Luka pronounced that it was done. The strips had shrivelled to half their former thickness and were almost black in colour. "They will give us plenty of work for our teeth, Luka," Godfrey said. "They look almost like shoe-leather, but perhaps they will be better than they look. I once tasted some smoked reindeer tongues--at least they called them reindeer tongues, but I do not suppose they were--and they were first-rate. Now there is nothing more to do; let us get ready for another start." The sail was taken off and the poles chopped into five-feet lengths. "We will lay them in the bottom of the boat, Luka, four longways and four crossways. As there are sixteen of them, that will make the top line five or six inches above the floor. Then we will lay our firewood on them. In that way it won't get wet with the water, and, what is quite as important, it won't dirty the water." This was done. The flour and deer's flesh were stowed on similar platforms fore and aft of the firewood and covered with skins. Some twelve buckets of water were then baled in. What remained of the frozen provisions was inspected; but it was agreed that as it had already melted a good deal, it would not be eatable much longer, and as they had food enough to last for some time, it was of no use keeping it. It was therefore broken up, Jack was allowed to eat as much as he wanted, and the rest was left. When everything was packed the canoe was carried down and placed in the water, and they took their places; Jack jumped on board, and a fresh start was made. As soon as they emerged from the small river, they struck out straight from the land. The wind was light and from the north, and both took their paddles. Their four days' rest had done them good, and the canoe, under the influence of sail and oar, went fast through the water. "Twenty-four hours ought to take us across," Godfrey said. "The gulf looks from eighty to ninety miles across at the point where the river runs into it. We must head rather to the south, for there is sure to be a current out in the middle, as the Obi is a big river." It was, however, thirty hours before they reached the opposite shore--Godfrey accounting for the difference on the supposition that the stream must have been a good deal stronger than they expected, and must have drifted them down a long way. They found, indeed, that even inshore they were passing the land at a rate of nearly two miles an hour. "That is all the better, Luka, for with this north wind our sail will be no good to us. We may as well get it down at once and stow it. The shores are muddy, I see; so we shall not hurt the canoe if we should drift up against it. That is a comfort, for we can both go to sleep. I am sure, after thirty hours' paddling with only two or three long easies, we deserve a rest. First of all we must have a meal. One does not know whether to call it dinner or supper when there is no night and we sleep just when we are tired." They had caught eight or ten fish as they came across, passing through a great shoal of herrings. In half an hour the kettle was boiling over the fire, the fish were hissing and crackling in the frying-pan over it, and a strip of deer's flesh, with the ramrod run through it, was frizzling. It was pronounced excellent. There was a slight aromatic bitterness that gave a zest and flavour to it, and the flesh inside was by no means so tough as Godfrey had expected to find it. When all three of the voyagers had satisfied their hunger, the brands were as usual extinguished, the embers thrown overboard; then returning to the canoe, they lay down, and were in a very few minutes fast asleep. They slept for six hours, and when they woke the land was no longer in sight. "It is lucky there is no fog," Godfrey said, "and that we have the sun to act as a compass. We can't be many miles out. We won't make straight for shore, Luka; we will head about north-west, so as to edge in gradually. There must be a good deal of current here, and it will be helping us along." In an hour the low line of coast was visible, and they then headed still more to the north. "There must be a good three-mile-an-hour current here," Godfrey observed presently. "We are going along first-rate past the shore. It took us over five days to come up. At this rate we shall go down in two." They paddled steadily for twelve hours, stopping once only to cook a meal. Then they went close inshore again, had supper, and slept. When they woke they found they were still within a mile of the shore, and the current was now taking them along no more than a mile an hour. "The gulf must be wide here, Luka. I don't think we should gain anything by going out four or five miles farther, so we will keep about as we are. We ought to be at the point by the end of to-day's work. We were two hundred miles up. I expect we drifted down five-and-twenty miles in crossing, and we must have passed the land at a good five miles an hour yesterday; so that we ought not to be more than thirty or forty miles from the point, for this peninsula does not go as far north as the other by twenty or thirty miles." After eight hours' paddling they found themselves at the mouth of a deep bay. "That is all right," Godfrey said, examining his tracing. "That land on the farther side of the bay is the northern point of the gulf. We will paddle across there and anchor by the shore for to-night. To-morrow we shall have a long paddle, for it is seventy or eighty miles nearly due west to a sheltered bay that lies just this side of Cape Golovina. Once round that, we have nearly four hundred miles to go nearly due south into Kara Bay. This long tongue of land we are working round is called the Yamal Peninsula. Once fairly down into Kara Bay, we shall leave Siberia behind us, and the land will be Russia." They struck across the bay, and landed under shelter of the cape. The land was higher here than any they had before met; and after their sleep Godfrey took his gun, accompanied by Jack, and ascended the hill. "It is rum," he said to himself, as he gazed over the wide expanse of sea to the north, "that this should be one sheet of ice in the winter. I do not like the look of those clouds away to the north. I think we are going to have either a fog or a gale. We won't make a move till we see. This coast seems rocky, and it won't do to make along it unless we have settled weather." He returned and told Luka, and then wandered away again, as he had seen that birds were very plentiful, and he returned in three hours to the boat with a dozen grouse, six ptarmigan, and a capercailzie. Godfrey was now a good shot, and the birds, never having been disturbed by the approach of man, were so tame that he had no difficulty whatever in making a bag. As he went down to the boat he congratulated himself that they had not made a start, for the sky was now overcast, and the wind was already blowing strongly. "We will have some bread to-day, Luka. These birds deserve something to eat with them, and our flour is holding out well. We have not eaten above twenty pounds since we started. I wish we had some yeast or something to make it rise. By the by I have an idea. Don't mix that till I come back, Luka." Here, as when he landed on the Yenesei, he had seen numbers of rough nests on the ground, the birds being so tame that they often did not fly off even when he passed quite close to them. He returned to a spot where he had seen these nests quite thick, and had no difficulty in collecting a large number of little eggs of a great variety of colour. "I expect about two out of every three are bad," he said. "We shall have to break them singly to find out the good ones. Fancy making a cake of sparrows' eggs!" Upon breaking them he found that not more than one in five was good. Still there were quite enough for the purpose. The frying-pan was used as a basin, and in this he made a sort of batter of eggs and flour. By the time he had done this four of the grouse were nearly roasted. He poured the batter into the empty kettle, melted some deer's fat in the pan, and then poured in the batter again. Then he washed out and filled the kettle, and placed it upon the fire. "Now, by the time the water is boiling, Luka, the batter and the grouse will be cooked. That is what we call a Yorkshire pudding at home; it will go splendidly with the birds." The pudding turned out really good, and they enjoyed the meal immensely, Jack having the bones of the four birds for his share, together with the solitary fish they had caught the day before. By the time they had finished they were glad to get up their tent, which they pitched with the entrance close to the fire, for even in the sheltered spot where they were fierce gusts of cold wind swept down upon them. The canvas of the tent was fastened down by heavy stones placed upon it, the furs brought in, and everything made snug. For three days the storm raged. "It is a nuisance losing so much time," Godfrey said. "It was somewhere about the middle of June when we started, and there are only three months of open weather here. Every day is of importance. I sha'n't so much mind when we get to the mouth of the Petchora, for I heard from one of the Russians in the prison that canoes often go as far as that from Archangel to trade, so I shall feel when I get there that we are getting into civilized regions. It is about four hundred miles from Kara Bay, so that we have a good eight hundred miles to travel before we get there. We can certainly paddle forty miles a day by sticking to it steadily; but allowing for another stoppage of four days, and we can't allow less than that, that will be a fortnight. How long have we been now, Luka? There is nothing to count time from." Luka shook his head. "Well, it is somewhere above three weeks," Godfrey went on; "so that by the time we get to the mouth of the Petchora, it will be the last week in July. That will give us a couple of months; but I fancy we can't count much on the weather in September. Still, if the canoes go from Archangel to Petchora and back, we ought to be able to do it from Petchora, for the distance from there to Archangel is a good deal less than from the mouth of the Yenesei to the Petchora. There is one thing, if the weather gets very bad on the way, or we get laid up by bad weather for a long time on the way to Petchora, we can go up the river, I hear, to a place called Ust Zlyma, and from there go overland to Archangel. It is about two hundred or two hundred and fifty miles across, and we could walk that in ten days. I am quite sure that we should not be suspected of being anything but what we look; and at Archangel there is sure to be a British consul, and he would put us up to the best plan of getting out of the country. However, there will be plenty of time to see about that as we get on." The wind fell on the morning of the fourth day, but it would be some hours before the sea would have gone down sufficiently for them to make a start. Godfrey again went out shooting, this time accompanied by Luka. Godfrey was as fortunate as he had been before, shooting three capercailzie and nineteen grouse; while Luka brought down with his arrows four capercailzie, which he found sitting on stunted trees. On their way back to the boat they collected a great quantity of eggs, and came upon a rabbit warren. "Do not shoot," Luka said, as Godfrey cocked his gun, "it will frighten them all into their holes. If you will go on with the dog, I will lie down here and will bring you as many rabbits as I can carry." Two hours later he came down to the tent with two dozen rabbits he had shot. After cooking two of them, and giving one to Jack as his share, they packed up all their belongings and again took to the canoe. They used their paddles until round the cape, and then heading westward hoisted their sail, for what wind there was was still from the north, and the help it afforded was sufficient greatly to reduce the labour of paddling. They kept steadily on, one or other taking occasional snatches of sleep. But with this exception, and that of the time spent by Luka in cooking, they continued to paddle until, forty hours after starting, they reached Cape Golovina, passing between it and Beloc Island. They did not make the halt they had intended under shelter of the cape, for the weather was fine, and Godfrey wanted to take advantage of the north wind as long as it lasted. Once round the cape they headed nearly due south, and the wind freshening a little, drove them along merrily, and they were able to cease paddling, and to take a fair proportion of sleep alternately. Luka was now getting more accustomed to the management of the sail, and no longer feared an occasional jibe, and night and day--if it could be called night when the sun never set--they continued their voyage along the coast of the Yamal Peninsula. At the end of the fourth day the wind freshened so much that the large sail was taken down and the leg-of-mutton sail substituted for it; but as the wind continued to rise, and the sea to get up fast, Godfrey began to look out for some spot into which to run for shelter. The coast was very indented and broken, and in two hours they passed the mouth of a deep bay into which the boat was at once directed, and was presently moored under the shelter of its northern bank. "She is a splendid sea-boat," Godfrey said. "If it wasn't for the boat in tow I should not mind what weather I was out in her." Their stay was of short duration, for in a few hours the wind sank again. "I don't think it is done yet," Godfrey said when they were beyond the shelter of the bay. "I fancy it will blow up again presently; still we may as well push on. I think it is rather more from the east than it was." For the next twenty-four hours, however, there was no very marked change in the force of the wind, but it had now veered round to the north-east. "We are getting well down now," Godfrey said. "We have been sailing for five days, and we have certainly been running a good three miles an hour from the time we rounded the cape. So we are three hundred and fifty miles down. I should say we must be entering Kara Bay." "Very bad weather coming," Luka said looking back. Godfrey turned round. A heavy black cloud was sweeping up with a misty line below it. "By Jove, you are right; that is a big squall and no mistake. There is no bay to run to here, Luka, and we could not get there in time if there was. We must do as I talked about. Quick, lower the sail down, there is not a moment to lose. No, wait until I bring her up head to the wind. Now, then, down with it. Now unstep the mast, lash that and the boom, the other sail, and its spar together; that is the way." And with their joint efforts the work was accomplished in a couple of minutes. "Now, then, fasten this rope to your end, Luka; I will tie the other end to mine. That is right. It is long enough to make a good big angle. Now fasten the head-rope to the middle; be sure it is put in the middle, Luka. That is right. Now, launch it overboard." The work was done as quickly as it is described, and in three minutes from the time the mast was lowered the canoe was riding to the floating anchor. "Now then, Luka, on with the apron." "Shall we sit up?" "No; we will lie down, cover up the holes, and lash them carefully when we are in. It is going to be a drencher, and it is of no use our getting wet through to begin with. We could not do anything with the paddles." They had scarcely made themselves snug when, with a roar, a deluge of rain fell on the deck and cover, and a moment later even this sound was partly deadened by the howl of the wind. Although their heads were close together, Godfrey felt that it would be utterly useless to make any remark. He felt under no uneasiness, for, with their weight well down and anchored head to sea, he felt sure that the light canoe would ride over anything like a cork bottle. The motion of the boat rapidly increased, but she herself rode lightly over the waves. As these increased the jerking of the boat behind at her rope became more and more violent, and the canoe quivered from end to end with the shocks. "This will never do," Godfrey said to himself. "The boat will pull the stern out of her. It will be an awful loss to cut her adrift, but it can't be helped." He unlashed the fastenings of the cover of the circular hole above him, reached his hand forward and got hold of Luka's paddle, and passed it with his own out through the hole. Then he sat up himself. Confident as he felt in the canoe, he was almost frightened at the wild aspect of the sea. The wind was literally howling, driving the rain before it with a force that stung Godfrey's neck as it struck it. He got out a strip of deer-skin lashing, of which there was a supply always close at hand under the deck, lashed the paddles together, and then, leaning aft, lashed them at the centre firmly to the tow-rope. Then with some difficulty he got out his knife and cut the rope close to its fastening; the paddles flew overboard, and the boat drifted rapidly astern, the drag of the paddles being, as Godfrey observed with satisfaction, sufficient to keep her head to wind. Then he wriggled himself down underneath the apron again and lashed down the cover of the hole. CHAPTER XVI A SAMOYEDE ENCAMPMENT. The action of the canoe was altogether changed as soon as it was released from the strain of the boat behind. There was no more tugging and jarring, but she rose and fell on the waves almost imperceptibly. "Well, Jack, old fellow, what do you think of it?" Godfrey said to the dog as it nestled up close to him. "Here we are now, out in a regular storm. It is lucky we have plenty of sea-room, Jack. I reckon it is seventy or eighty miles across to the other side of the gulf, and I don't suppose she can drag those spars through the water much more than a mile an hour. So we have plenty of time before us. We must both put away as much time in sleep as we can. We have lost almost all our provisions, old boy, and our water, which was of still more consequence. It is very lucky I always made a rule of having the kettle filled and put on board here after each meal and of keeping a dozen pounds of meat here. I thought we might be obliged to cast the boat adrift suddenly. Well, if we have luck, we may find it again. We shall both drift in the same line, and there is no reason why she shouldn't live through it. The stock of firewood has gone down, and she has not got above a couple of hundred pounds' weight in her altogether. I am afraid she will take enough salt water on board to spoil our supply of fresh, but I think we are drifting pretty straight for the Kara River. I calculated that it lay dead to leeward of us when the wind went to the north-west." It was a considerable time before Godfrey went off to sleep owing to the rapid changes of the angle at which he was lying. Sometimes his head was two or three feet higher than his feet, and directly afterwards the position was exactly reversed. The rolling was but slight, and this he scarcely felt, being too tightly packed in along with the furs and the dog to move much. But at last the noise of the water and the roar of the wind lulled him to sleep. He woke once, and then went off again, and his watch told him that he had been altogether asleep twelve hours. When he next woke, he felt at once that the motion was slighter than it had been and that the wind had greatly abated. "Are you asleep, Luka?" he shouted. "I am not asleep now," Luka replied drowsily. "The storm is pretty nearly over; I will get the cover off and look round, and then we will see if we can't boil some water and have some tea. We have never used any of those candles yet; this will be a good opportunity to try them." Unlashing and removing the cover, Godfrey sat up and looked round. The gale had broken. Black clouds were hurrying past overhead, but there were patches of blue sky. The sea was still very heavy, but it was rarely that the canoe dipped her nose under a wave, so lightly did she rise and fall over them. "In a few hours we shall have our sail up again, Luka," he said as the Tartar thrust his head up through his opening. It was but for a moment. He instantly dived under again and replaced the cover, appalled at the sea, which was infinitely rougher than anything he had ever before witnessed. "It looks pretty bad, doesn't it?" Godfrey said, laughing, as he, too, resumed his position of shelter. "It is terrible," Luka said. "I expect it has been worse. At any rate, as you can see we have got through it without taking a drop of water on board, thanks to the floating anchor. Now I will pass the kettle forward to you. Be very careful with it, for it is all the water we have." "All the water! Why, what has become of the boat?" Luka exclaimed. "I had to cut her adrift half an hour after the squall struck us. Did not you hear me look out when I took your paddle?" "I felt you take the paddle, but there was too much noise to hear anything, and I was too frightened to listen. I thought that surely we should go to the bottom. Why did you cut her loose?" "Because she was tugging so hard. She would have pulled us to pieces, and it was better to let her go than to risk that. She will have drifted the same way we have done, only she will have gone three times as fast, for she was a good deal higher out of water, and the paddles which I fastened on to her head-rope won't have anything like the hold on the water that our spars have. We will keep in the same direction when we get our sails up, and if she has lived through it we shall very likely find her ashore somewhere along the coast. Now be sure you lash that kettle securely to the deck-beam, Luka. Put it as near one side as you can get it, then there will be room for you to lie alongside and watch it. But stop! Before you fasten it pour out half a mugful of water for Jack. He doesn't like tea, and there will be nothing but tea for him after we have once made it." The candle was lighted and fixed under the kettle, but the four wicks gave out such an odour that Godfrey was glad to sit up again and remain outside, until a nudge from Luka told him that the tea was ready. They ate with it some slices of raw bear's ham. Luka offered to cook it, but Godfrey had had the candle put out the moment he got under the cover and would not hear of its being lighted again. "It is not at all bad raw," he said. "They eat raw ham in Germany, and that last smoking it got was almost as good as cooking it. I expect the sea will have gone down in a few hours, and then we can have a regular meal; but if you were to light that smelly thing again now it would make me ill. Now, Jack, I will light my pipe and look out again, and you shall come out too for a breath of fresh air. I will hold you tight and see that you don't go over." In twelve hours the sea had almost gone down. The floating anchor was hauled up and unlashed, the masts were stepped, the large sail hoisted, and, free from the dead weight that had hitherto checked her speed, the little craft sped along gaily before the gentle wind, Godfrey keeping her as near as possible dead before it, on the chance that they might catch sight of the boat. "If we drifted a mile an hour and she drifted three," he said, "she would have gained four-and-twenty miles while we were asleep, and perhaps since then she has been gaining a mile an hour; so she is from thirty-five to forty miles ahead of us, and must be quite half-way across the gulf. Anyhow, we need not begin to look out yet; we are going about four knots an hour, I should think, and I don't suppose she is going more than one. In about ten hours we must begin to look about for her." Before the end of that time the sea had gone quite down, and the wind had fallen so light that Godfrey thought they were scarce making three knots an hour. "I hope it won't fall altogether," he said, "for as we have no paddles it would be awkward for us." "Two of the bottom boards will do for paddles." "Yes, I know that, Luka, I am steering with one of them; but they would do very little good, for they are so thin that they would break off directly we put any strength on to them." Godfrey occasionally stood up and looked round, but could see no signs of the boat, and indeed could hardly have done so unless he had passed within a couple of miles at most of her. "The wind may have changed a little," he said, "though I don't think it has done so. Anyhow, I will head a little more to the south, so as to be sure that we shall strike the shore to the east both of the Kara River and the point she is likely to drift to." Four hours later they made out land ahead of them, some six miles away as they guessed, and holding on reached it in two hours and a half's time. They stepped out as soon as they got into shallow water, carried the canoe ashore, drank a mug of cold tea and ate some raw meat, and then lay down for a long sleep. When they woke they collected some drift-wood and lighting a fire, cooked some meat. "What are you going to do, Godfrey?" Luka asked. "Are you going to set out at once to look for the boat?" "No, we had better wait for a few hours. She may not have drifted to the shore yet, though I do not think she can be far off; still it is as well to give her plenty of time. At any rate we can shoot some birds, so the time won't be lost." Having made a fair bag and been absent from the canoe for five hours they returned, and after cutting up a capercailzie and grilling it over the fire, they got the boat into the water and started. They had sailed about eight miles to the west when Luka exclaimed, "There is something there by the shore close to that point. It may be the boat; it may be a rock." It was another quarter of an hour before Godfrey was able to assure himself that it was really the boat. "Thank God for that, Luka!" he exclaimed. "We have reason to thank Him for a great many things. I do so every hour, and I hope you do so too. But finding the boat again safe seems to me the greatest blessing we have had yet; I don't know what we should have done without it." Another quarter of an hour brought them to the point. The boat lay just afloat, bumping on the sand as each little wave lifted and left her. They sprang out of the canoe into shallow water and threw out the anchor, and then waded to the boat. She had about four inches of water in her, but was entirely uninjured. "Hurrah!" Godfrey shouted, "she is as good as ever. Now, Luka, get everything out of her as soon as you can, then we can turn her over and empty her, put the things in again, and be off at once. We have got no time to lose, for you must remember there is not much more than a quart of cold tea left in the kettle. I am sure the Kara River can't be very far off, but I can't say whether it is three miles or thirty." In half an hour they were again afloat and working their paddles to assist the sail. Two hours later Luka said, "Huts on that point ahead of us." "So there are," Godfrey said. "Six or eight of them and a lot of cattle." "Reindeer!" Luka corrected. "Samoyede village." "Why, there must be hundreds of them," Godfrey said in surprise. "Yes, the Ostjaks told me in our old camp that many of the Samoyedes had five hundred, and some of them a thousand reindeer. They keep them just as we do cattle. Their wealth is counted by their reindeer. They make their clothes of its skin; its milk and flesh are their chief food. It draws their sledges, and when they want money they can sell some of them." "Did you ask how much they can be sold for?" "Yes, the Ostjaks said that they were worth here two or three roubles each." "Then if there are many of these encampments along the shore, Luka, we need not trouble about food; and if anything happens to our boat we can make a couple of sledges, buy four reindeer, and start by land." "Then we should have to wait until winter," Luka said. "Yes, that would be a nuisance; but it would not be so very long to wait. I had no idea reindeer were so cheap. If I had I think instead of spending the winter hunting I would have bought some reindeer and started to drive. Still it would have been a terrible journey, and perhaps we have done better as it is. Well, shall we land? What do you think?" "We don't want anything," Luka said. "The Samoyedes are generally friendly. They are not like the Tunguses and Yuraks. But you see there are but two of us, and we have hatchets and knives and other things they value. If we wanted anything I should say let us land, but as we don't it would be better to go on." "You are right, Luka. I don't suppose there would be any risk of being robbed; still it is just as well not to run even the smallest chance of trouble when everything is going on so well." On passing the point on which the encampment was situated they saw a wide opening. "The Kara!" Godfrey exclaimed joyously. "We will cross to the other side, and coast up on that shore till the water becomes fresh." It required four hours' sailing and paddling before they got beyond the influence of the sea, then they landed, shot and hunted for a couple of days, took in a fresh supply of water, and started again. "We have passed the line of the Ural Mountains now," Godfrey said. "The Kara rises in that range. We may almost consider ourselves in Russia." One morning Luka woke Godfrey soon after he had lain down for his turn of sleep. "Fog coming," he said. Godfrey sat up and looked round. "That it is, Luka. We must head for shore directly." He seized his paddle, but the fog cloud had drifted rapidly down upon them, and before they were half-way to shore drifts of white cloud floated past them on the water, and five minutes later they were surrounded by a dense white wall, so thick that even the canoe towing behind was invisible. They ceased paddling. "There is nothing to do but to wait," Godfrey said. "Get your fur coat on; it is bitterly cold. There is one comfort, what wind there is is towards the shore, and we shall drift that way." "I can't feel any wind at all," Luka said. "No, it is very slight; but there must have been some to bring this fog down from the north. We were not more than half a mile from the shore when it closed in upon us. If we only drift fifty yards an hour we shall be there in time. Let us have a cup of tea and then we will rig up the cover and turn in. We have a lot of sleep to make up for. There is one comfort, there is no chance of our being run down." Godfrey saw by his watch when he woke that he had been asleep for four hours, and he sat up and looked round. The fog was as thick as before. The movement woke Luka, and he too sat up. "Listen, Luka!" Godfrey exclaimed as he was about to speak. "I heard a bird chirp." The sound was repeated. "It is over there," Godfrey said. "Hurrah! we shall soon be ashore," and they seized their paddles. After rowing for a minute or two they stopped and again listened. "There it is again," Godfrey said; "right ahead. Paddle gently, Luka; we sha'n't see the shore until we are on it, and we must not risk running head on to a rock." Presently something dark appeared just in front of the canoe. "Hold water!" Godfrey exclaimed, and as they stopped her way the boat drifted quietly against a rock. They brought her broadside to it and stepped out. "That is a comfort. The fog can last for a week now. Let us get the canoe ashore. We can moor the boat; the water is as smooth as glass, and there is no risk whatever of her damaging herself. Bring an armful of firewood ashore," he went on as they laid the canoe down gently on a flat rock. "I will look about for a place for the tent." "Do not go far or you will lose yourself." "I will take care of that. I won't go beyond speaking distance." Godfrey soon found a patch of sand large enough for the tent, and this was soon erected and a fire lit. Jack as usual indulged in a wild scamper, but returned to Godfrey's whistle. "Don't go too far, Jack, or you will be losing your way too." The fog did not clear off for another forty-eight hours, but when at the end of that time they looked out of their tent the sky was clear and the birds were singing gaily. The ground rose almost perpendicularly behind them to a height of from twenty to thirty feet. It was rocky, with some deep indentations. "We will do some shooting, Luka; but as there may be some natives near we will hide the canoe. It is no use running any risks. We will stow the tent and get everything packed before we start, and then we shall be able to set out when we return." The canoe was packed and carried some fifty yards along the shore, and then laid behind a great boulder that had fallen at the mouth of a cleft in the rock. "Shall we pull up the boat?" Luka asked. "No, I don't think that is worth while. There is nothing there worth stealing. The natives have got plenty of fish of their own, no doubt, and drift-wood too. Now let us be off." The birds were scarcer than usual, and they wandered a long distance before they had made up anything like their usual bag. "We have been eight hours out," Godfrey said, looking at his watch. "We may as well have a meal before we start back. It will take us two or three hours to get to the boat again. There will be no loss of time. It takes no longer cooking here than it would there, and we may as well carry the birds inside as out." They were engaged in eating their meal when Jack suddenly gave an angry growl, and looking up they saw a party of a dozen Samoyedes with bows and arrows at a distance of fifty yards behind them. They sprang to their feet. "Shall I shoot?" Luka asked. "No, no, Luka, their intentions may be friendly. Besides, though we might kill three or four of them they would riddle us with arrows. We had best meet them as friends." When the Samoyedes came up Luka gave them the ordinary salutation of friendship. "Where come from?" the man who seemed to be the leader of the natives asked suspiciously. "A long way from the east," Luka said, pointing in that direction. "Who are you?" "Ostjak," Luka said, knowing that the Samoyedes would have heard of that tribe, but would know nothing of his own. "Who this?" the native asked, pointing to Godfrey. "A friend of Ostjaks," Luka said, "come to hunt and shoot. I come with him." "This Samoyede country," the native said; "not want Ostjaks here." "We do no harm," Luka said. "We go west, far along, not want Samoyede country. Buy milk of Samoyedes. Good friends." The Samoyedes talked together, and then the leader said "Come!" Without any appearance of hesitation Godfrey and Luka set off with the natives. Their language, though differing from that of the northern Ostjaks, was sufficiently alike for them to be able to understand each other. "Do you think they mean to be friendly?" Godfrey asked in Russian. "I don't know," Luka replied. "Perhaps not made up their minds yet." "They are going down to the coast, that is a comfort, Luka; they are going to the west of our boats. I suppose they have an encampment there. I expect they heard my gun and have been following us at a distance until they saw us sit down." "Must have seen them," Luka said. "Only one may have been following us, and may have sent the others back to fetch up the rest from their tents. Well, it does not matter now they have got us. If they ask where we came from, as I expect they will, you had better tell them, Luka, we came in a boat. They will guess it without our telling, and will very likely look for it. It is better to make no concealment." Two hours' walking brought them to a little valley, in the middle of which ran a small stream. They followed it down for half a mile, and then at a sudden turn they saw the sea in front of them, a cluster of ten Samoyede yourts and a herd of reindeer feeding on the slope behind them. A number of women and children and five or six old men came out to look at them as they approached. "Sit down and let us talk," the leader said as they reached the village, and set the example by seating himself by a large fire. Godfrey and Luka at once did the same. "The Ostjak and his friend have come very far," he said. "A long distance," Luka replied. "We have travelled many days and are going to the Petchora." "Have you reindeer? Did you walk all the way?" "No, we have no reindeer; we came in a boat. You will find it along the shore." "How far?" "About an hour's walk I should say." The Samoyede gave an order, and two of the men at once left the circle, got into a canoe, and paddled away. "The strangers will stay here for a day or two. We have plenty of milk and fish." Luka nodded. "We are in no hurry to go on. We have plenty of time to reach the Petchora before the winter sets in." The Samoyede spoke to one of the women, and she set to work to clear out one of the tents. The chief got up and walked away, and the conference was evidently over. Three hours later they saw the canoe reappear at the mouth of the river with the boat towing behind it. The Samoyedes gathered on the shore to examine it, evidently surprised at its form and size, which differed entirely from their own, which were little craft capable of holding two at most. They tasted the water at the bottom of the boat and found it to be fresh. The stove for cooking spoke for itself, and as there was firewood, meat, flour, and some rough furs, there seemed all that was necessary for a journey. When they returned the chief asked Luka: "Is that Ostjak canoe?" "Yes; but it is built much larger than our canoes generally are, as it was for long journey." Presently the women brought a large bowl of reindeer milk and some fried fish. As they were eating, four of the men who were standing behind suddenly threw themselves upon Godfrey and Luka, while the others closed in, and in a minute they were securely bound hand and foot. Godfrey made no struggle, for he felt that it would be useless and might result in his being shot or stabbed. The hatchets and knives were taken from their belts, and they were then carried to the tent and thrown down. Jack had fought fiercely, biting several of the natives, until he was struck with a spear in the shoulder by the chief, when he limped off uttering piercing yells. "What do you think they mean to do with us, Luka?" Godfrey asked. "Will they hand us over to the Russians, do you think? Cowardly blackguards. I wish now we had fought at first." "No, won't hand us to Russians; too far off. They don't think of that; they have taken us for the sake of our hatchets and knives and of your gun. Perhaps they will keep us to work for them. Perhaps they will cut our throats." "It is not a pleasant look-out either way. Still, if they keep us, we are safe to get away before long; we must hope for the best. I wonder they haven't taken my ammunition and the other things." "Not know about pockets," Luka said. "They would have taken them if they had." Two or three hours later the Samoyedes came in and carefully examined the captives' lashings. Their hands were tied behind them with reindeer thongs, which were so tightly bound that they almost cut into the skin, and their feet were equally firmly lashed. In a few minutes the sound of talk ceased and the camp became quiet. "I suppose it is their bedtime," Godfrey said. "If the fools do not set a guard over us we shall soon be free." "How is that?" Luka asked. "We will gnaw through one of the thongs, of course, there can be no difficulty about that; we will give them an hour to get to sleep and then we will set to work. What is that? Ah, Jack, is it you?" as the dog crept in between them with low whines. "Poor old chap, you did your best. I can't pat you now. Roll yourself to the door and look out, Luka." "There are three of them sitting by a fire, but it will be darker presently and they will not see us"--for although it could scarcely be called night the sun now dipped for an hour or two below the horizon at midnight. "Well, see or not see, we will go, Luka. If we are to be killed it shall be making a fight for it, and not having our throats cut like sheep. Now, I think you are more accustomed to chewing tough food than I am, so I will roll over on my face, and do you set to work and bite through the thong." Luka's sharp teeth cut through the twisted hide in five minutes. It was a quarter of an hour more before Godfrey's hands recovered their usual feeling. As soon as they were efficient he unfastened the thongs round his companion's wrists and those round their feet. "Now then, Luka, put your head out and see if you can see my gun." "Gun sure to be in chief's tent," Luka said. He looked out. "Can't see gun. My bow and arrows are lying on ground by chief's tent." "Very well, then, you had better crawl round and fetch them first, that will be something to begin a fight with anyhow. Here, I will slit open the tent behind with my knife, then you can crawl along past the others till you get to the chief's tent without those fellows at the fires seeing you. I am more afraid of those beastly dogs giving the alarm than of the men." Godfrey cut a slit with his pocket-knife in the reindeer-skin covering, and then Luka crawled out. He lay flat on his stomach and dragged himself along, looking, as Godfrey thought, in the twilight, just like the seals he had seen crawling over the rocks. He passed three of the yourts and then turned off. In four or five minutes he reappeared with his bow and quiver of arrows and two native spears. He crawled back as carefully as he had gone. "Give me the knife, Godfrey." Godfrey handed it to him. "You are not going to kill anyone, Luka? If they attack us, of course we shall shoot them down in self-defence, but I would not have anyone killed in cold blood on any account." The Tartar shook his head. "I am not going to kill anyone. I looked into the tent; the gun is leaning by the side of the chief. Women and children are lying all round. Couldn't get in. I will cut a slit in skin and take gun." "It will be first-rate if you can manage that, Luka. We can make a good fight of it if you can manage to get the gun." Godfrey was able to watch Luka's proceedings now. He stopped behind the fourth tent, placed his ear against the skin and listened intently. Then he inserted the blade in the skin two feet above the ground and very quietly, with a sawing motion, cut downwards. Then he began at the top again and made a horizontal cut four or five inches long, and then cut again down to the ground, removing the flap of skin. He peered into the tent, then he inserted his arm, a moment later he withdrew it with the gun, and then returned to Godfrey. The latter's first step was to charge the gun, for he had fired two shots while Luka was cooking the meal before they were surprised. "Now, Luka, which do you think we had better do, make for the canoes or go off on foot?" "We want big canoe," Luka said. "Can't well do without it. We had better go to that." "I think so too," Godfrey said. "If we can once get on board we can beat them off. Of course there is more risk of being discovered that way, but I think we had better chance it." They kept along for some distance on the side of the hill, and then, when about a hundred yards from the huts, crawled down to the river, crept back along the bank until they reached the boat, which was hauled up with the native canoes on shore. "How are we to get it down, Luka?" Godfrey whispered. "If we stand up to carry it down those fellows by the fire, who are not twenty yards away, must see us. If we try to push it down we are safe to make a noise." "Wait a moment, give me knife again," Luka said; and having obtained it he went along the line of canoes, cutting and slicing the skins from end to end. Then he returned to Godfrey. "They can't follow now," he said. "Once on board we are safe." "I have been thinking, Luka, our best plan will be to lie down one on each side, and to hoist her up as well as we can, and move her forward inch by inch." Luka nodded, and they separated to carry out their plan, when Jack decided the matter by leaping on board, and sending the paddles with a rattle to the bottom of the boat. "Jump up, Luka, and in with her." As they sprang up there was a shout from the three natives by the fire, which was answered by the fierce barking of two or three score of dogs. After a moment's hesitation two of the natives rushed back to their yourts for their bows, while the third, who happened to have his close at hand, fitted an arrow and discharged it hastily. As they were running the boat down it missed its mark, and before he could shoot again the boat was in the water, and they had sprang on board. The native ran down to the edge with his bow bent, but Luka's bow twanged and the man fell back with an arrow through his body. They seized the paddles and drove the boat twenty yards into the stream, when the whole of the Samoyedes rushed down to the bank and began to discharge their arrows. [Illustration: GODFREY AND LUKA ESCAPING FROM THE SAMOYEDES.] "Lie flat down, Luka," Godfrey said, setting the example, "the stream will take us." There was a great jabber of voices on the bank. "The chief is telling them to take to their canoes," Luka said laughing. "You will hear some shouts directly. The water won't begin to come in through the slits till they put their weight in the canoes." Godfrey lifted his head for a moment and saw five or six of the natives on the bank abreast of him, standing in readiness to shoot. Quickly as he withdrew it again two arrows struck the boat within a few inches of the point where he had looked over. "Luka," he said, "we must get a little further out; I am afraid the stream might set us in towards the bank. I will put my cap upon a piece of firewood and hoist it up. They will shoot at it, and the moment they do we must both spring up and give two or three strong strokes to take her further out." Lying flat on his back at the bottom of the boat, Godfrey raised his cap; almost instantaneously there were three or four sharp taps on the side of the boat, and one arrow passed through it but an inch above his chest. In a moment he sat upright with a paddle in his hand, and a couple of sharp strokes sent the boat out into the centre of the current. At this moment they heard a series of yells and splashes. "Lucky for them," Luka laughed, "I made the slits so big. If they had got out farther they would all have been drowned: these people are not able to swim." "No, I should think not," Godfrey said. "They don't look as if water had ever touched them from the day they were born. We are safe now, in ten minutes we shall be clear of the river, and have only got to paddle back and fetch our canoe." "We may have to fight yet," Luka said. "Sure to follow us. The meat and flour is all gone. I expect they gave it to their dogs. That is what made them sleep so sound. They will know that we shall have to land somewhere to get food, and think they will have us then. They will mend canoes very quick, and some of them will come after us." "It will be worse for them if they do," Godfrey said. "With my gun and your bow we could keep a score of canoes at a distance. Still, as you say, we may have trouble in getting our canoe. However, we must have that if we have to fight the whole tribe for it." Godfrey looked up from time to time. He could do so safely now, for they were fifty yards from the bank, and there was time for him to withdraw his head before an arrow could reach him. The natives, however, had ceased to follow the boat, having doubtless run back when they heard their companions' cries. Godfrey thought it as well not to take to the paddles until they were well out of the river, lest one might have run on and hidden himself in a clump of bushes. As soon as they were out of the river they took up the paddles, and rowed straight out for a distance of a couple of miles. "How long will they be in patching up their canoes, Luka?" "They will do it in an hour," Luka said. "The women will sew the slits together, and the men melt fat and smear over." "Very well. Then we had better turn now and make for the place where the canoe is hid. They won't expect us to land so soon, and most of the men will be waiting to follow with the canoes. If only four or five follow us along the bank we can manage them easily enough. Fortunately, the canoe is light enough for one of us to carry it down to the water. While you are doing that I can keep them off. This boat paddles a lot heavier than the other, Luka." Luka grunted in assent. "Do you think you will know the place where you hid the canoe?" Godfrey asked presently. "Let us go close in to see," Luka said. "We went ashore in fog. I don't know how it looks from the sea. The coast is all alike here. We must keep very close." "How far along do you think it is, Luka?" "It can't be much more than an hour to paddle," Luka replied. "The Samoyedes were away three hours to fetch the boat, and they were in no hurry and had to tow her back with their canoe." For half an hour they kept the boat parallel with the land, and then inclined towards the shore. Presently Luka said, "There are six men walking along on bank." "Well, there won't be six left to walk back," Godfrey replied grimly, "if they interfere with us. Now, Luka, it is nearly an hour since we turned; we will go in within a hundred yards of the shore. Those bows of theirs are not like yours, they won't carry more than forty or fifty yards. Now, I will just give those gentlemen a hint that they had better keep away from the edge of the cliff;" and so saying he laid down his paddle, and took up his gun and fired. He aimed high, as he wished to frighten and not hurt. The natives instantly disappeared from the edge. "Now, Luka, do you keep on paddling; I will watch the top of the bank, and if one of them shows his head I will fire. They won't suspect we have any idea of landing, and will probably keep a bit back. All we want is time to land and climb the bank. Keep inshore now, so that next time I fire I may be able to send the bullet pretty close. This gun is not much use at more than fifty yards' distance." Only once did Godfrey see a head above the bank, and the instant he did so he fired. "That will show them we are keeping a sharp look-out; I don't think they will come near for some little time now. I daresay they are puzzling themselves, first, why we are coming this way, and secondly, why we are keeping so close." "There is the place where we had tent," Luka exclaimed suddenly. "Do you see the ashes of the fire?" "That is it, sure enough. Now, run ashore and dash up the bank." As soon as the canoe touched the shore they leapt out and ran up the bank. Not twenty yards away were the Samoyedes. Godfrey uttered a shout and raised his gun to his shoulder, and the natives with a yell ran off at full speed. "Now, Luka, do you go and get the canoe in the water. Be careful; if you find it heavy for you with the stores on board, take them out; there is no occasion for hurry. Those fellows won't venture within range of my gun again; they will keep at a distance, and send up word to the tents that we have landed. So take your time over it; if you were to make a slip and damage the canoe it would be fatal to us." The natives stopped at a distance of a quarter of a mile, and then, as Godfrey expected, one of them started at a run back towards the village. In ten minutes Godfrey heard a shout from below, and looking round saw the canoe safely by the side of the boat. He ran down and took his place in her, and they paddled out towing the boat behind them. CHAPTER XVII. A SEA FIGHT As soon as they had reached a distance of two or three hundred yards from the shore Godfrey ceased paddling. "Now we can talk matters over, Luka. There is no occasion for hurry now. If these fellows in the canoes are disposed to fight we can't prevent them. They will certainly be out of the river before we could get back there; and even if we did pass first they could easily overtake us, for those light craft of theirs would go two feet to our one unless we had wind for our sail. So we may as well take things easy, and decidedly the first thing to do is to wash and dress Jack's wound, and then to get some tea and something to eat. We have had nothing since we were caught yesterday between twelve and one o'clock. "What a lucky thing it was we hid the canoe, Luka!" he went on, as the Tartar pulled the boat up alongside the canoe and began to prepare to light a fire. "The chances are we should not have been able to get her off as well as the boat, and even if we had they would have taken out all our stores. The meat we might replace, but the loss of the tea and tobacco, and above all of the matches, would have been terrible; besides, they would have got our spare hatchets and knives, the fish-hooks and lines, and all our furs. We don't want the furs for warmth now, but it would make a deal of difference to our comfort if we had to sleep on hard boards. I do not know how to feel thankful enough that we hid the canoe away." "We could not have gone without our things," Luka said. "We would have fought them all and killed them rather than lose our tea and tobacco." Godfrey laughed at his companion's earnestness. "I think that would have been paying too dearly for them, Luka. Still we should have missed them badly." Just as they had finished their meal they saw some black spots ahead of them close inshore. "I should not be surprised if they have been picking up those fellows who followed us, Luka. No doubt the man who ran back would tell them they could do nothing against our arms. But I don't think they will dare attack us in our boat even if they have got all the men there. There were only twelve at first, not counting the old men who were in their camp when we were brought there. You shot one of them, so there are only eleven, even if they have got on board those who followed us. I have always heard that they are plucky little fellows, but I do not think they would be fools enough to attack us on the water. I feel sure they can't have any intention of doing so. I expect their original idea was to hover about us night and day, and then, when we went ashore to get food, to steal the boat and hunt us down. Now they find we have got a second boat they will see that it is a longer job than they expected, for they will guess that our real valuables are on board the boat we hid, and that we may have enough provisions here to last for some time." The canoes, as they approached them, sheered off to a distance of a quarter of a mile, and then gathered together evidently in consultation. Then they turned and paddled rapidly back again, soon leaving the canoe and boat far behind. "I wonder what they are up to now?" Godfrey said; "some mischief I have no doubt." "Perhaps more yourts on farther? They might send on a man with fast reindeer a long way ahead, so that they might attack us with forty or fifty canoes." "So they might, Luka. That would be very awkward, and we should be afraid of landing anywhere. They may pass the news on from camp to camp for any number of miles. Yes, that is a very serious business. The only thing I see for it is to make right out beyond sight of land, and then push on as fast as we can. Fortunately they don't know anything about our sail, and as they left us so fast just now they will reckon that we cannot make much more than two miles an hour; while, when we get the wind, we can go six if we help with the paddles. We may as well keep on as we are at present, as if determined to keep near the land till, at any rate, we are some distance past the mouth of the river. There is not likely to be another of their camps for some distance along, for, of course, they would always be near a river, as they must have water for themselves and their reindeer." Paddling quietly, they continued on their course until they had passed the mouth of the river. When they had gone half a mile they saw nine canoes, each containing one man, come out from the river and follow them. "They mean to stick to us," Godfrey said uneasily. "I'm afraid we are going to have a lot of trouble with them, Luka." After paddling for another two hours they turned their heads seaward. The canoes did the same. In four hours more the land had almost disappeared, but the clump of canoes still maintained their position behind them. "It is of no use going out any further, Luka. We are a long way out of sight of any one on shore now. Now let us head west again." An hour later one of the canoes left the group and paddled rapidly towards the land. "That is what their game is," Godfrey said. "They have sent off to tell their friends ashore the course we are taking, and do what we will they will keep them informed of it. We may have a fleet of canoes out at any moment after us. Do you think we could leave them behind if we were to cast off the boat?" Luka shook his head decidedly. "No; their canoes are very small; paddle quick, much quicker than we could." "She is very fast, Luka." "Yes; but too many things on board. If we threw over everything--food, and kettles, and dog, and furs--we might go as fast as they could; but even then I think they would beat us." "Well, we won't try that anyhow, Luka; I would rather risk a fight than that. I don't see anything to do but to wait for the wind. It is not often calm like this long, and we have had it three or four days already. If we do get a wind we can certainly beat them by cutting loose the boat." "Beat them anyhow," Luka said. "With wind and paddles they might keep up with us rowing very hard for a bit; but men tire, wind never tires. We sure to beat them at last. I think we shall have wind before very long." "I hope so, Luka; and not too much of it. Well, as we can't get away from them by paddling, Luka, we may as well lower our lines. We have only got two or three days' provisions on board, and we may just as well lay in a stock while we can." The hooks were baited with pieces of meat and lowered, and the paddles laid in. Scarcely were the lines out when Godfrey felt a fierce tug. "Hulloa!" he exclaimed, "I have got something bigger than usual." He hauled up, and gave a shout of satisfaction as he pulled a cod of fully ten pounds weight from the water. Five minutes later Luka caught one of equal size. "That will do, Luka. I will throw mine into the boat, and we will keep yours on board. Now we have got among cod there is no fear of our not getting plenty of food. I know they catch enormous quantities off the northern coast of Norway, and it is evident that they come as far as these waters. It is some time since we tried this deep-sea fishing, which accounts for our not having caught any before." "Are they good fish?" Luka asked. "I have never seen any like them." "First-rate, Luka, especially if we had some oyster sauce to eat with them; as we haven't we must do without. They are capital, and they are not full of bones like the herrings. Now we will paddle on again. You leave that fish alone, Jack; you shall have some of it for supper." "There is a dark line on the water over there," Luka said presently, "wind coming." "That is a comfort, Luka." Half an hour later the breeze came up to them. "Shall I get up the sail, Godfrey?" Godfrey did not reply for a minute or two. "Yes, I think we may as well, Luka. Whether we go fast or slow these fellows will be able to send word on shore, and we may as well tire them a bit." The sails were hoisted, Godfrey took the sheet and laid in his paddle. "The wind may freshen," he said, "and it would not do to fasten the sheet." Luka, who seemed tireless, continued paddling, and the boats went through the water at a considerably faster pace than before. The effect on their pursuers was at once visible. Instead of paddling in a leisurely manner in a close group, the paddles could be seen to flash faster and faster. "They have to row pretty hard to keep up with us now," Luka said, looking over his shoulder at them. "Up to now they felt comfortable, think everything right, and quite sure to catch us presently. Now they begin to see it is not so easy after all." They maintained their relative positions till the sun was near the horizon. "It is ten o'clock, Luka, the sun will set in half an hour. You lay your paddle in, and get us a cup of tea and a bit of that dry meat. You had better boil the kettle over one of the candles. Then you lie down to sleep for four hours, after that I will take a turn. We are a deal better off than those fellows behind; they must keep on paddling all night, and as they only have one man in each boat there is no relief for them." Luka did as he was ordered. After drinking his tea Godfrey lighted his pipe, and Luka lay down. Godfrey did not feel very sleepy, although he had not closed his eyes the night before; but they had had a long bout of sleep when compelled to keep their tent by the fog, and the excitement of the chase kept him up now. As it grew dusk he could see that the canoes drew closer, but he had no hope, in any case, of giving them the slip, for it was never perfectly dark. When, four hours later, he woke Luka the sky was brightening again. "More wind come presently," the Tartar said, looking at the sky. "I won't lie down just yet, Luka. It will be quite light in half an hour, and I want to have a good look towards the shore before I go to sleep." Luka at once took the paddle. The wind was perceptibly freshening and the canoe was slipping fast through the water. "Now, Luka," Godfrey said presently, "stand up and have a look round. Be careful how you do it; it would not do to capsize her now." Two minutes later Luka exclaimed, "I see them; a whole lot of canoes, twenty or thirty, over there," and he pointed towards the shore but somewhat ahead of them. "Sit down, Luka, and I will stand up and have a look. Yes, it is as much as they will do to cut us off. They did not calculate on our coming along so fast. I will luff up a little more, and we shall pass ahead of them however hard they paddle." So saying he sat down, hauled in the sheet and headed nearer to the wind. "The fellows behind won't see them for some time," he said. "The canoes must be four miles away at least, and I don't suppose they could see each other more than half that distance, being so low in the water. If we had just a little more wind we should do it nicely." Half an hour later the sheet was eased again, and the boat resumed her former course, as Godfrey saw that he should pass well ahead of the canoes coming out from the shore, and she moved faster with the wind abeam than she did close-hauled. Even while sitting down the canoes could be seen now. The natives were paddling their hardest, and the light craft danced over the surface of the water, which was now beginning to be ruffled by the breeze. Half an hour later they joined the pursuers astern, and their yells could be heard although they were half a mile away. Godfrey counted them as he passed ahead of the fleet, and there were thirty-three canoes, each with two paddlers. "The yourts must be thick along the coasts here, Luka; they must have gathered up all those canoes from at least half a dozen camps. Now I will lend you a hand." He eased the sheet still further, so that the boat should heel over less, and fastened it in a loose knot, which could be slipped in an instant. Then he betook himself to his paddle. "Those fellows behind have had a long row out against the wind, and have no doubt been working their hardest ever since they caught sight of our sail. A stern-chase is a long chase. I fancy the wind has freshened a little, but it is very little." Occasionally he looked back over his shoulder. "They are gaining slowly, Luka, but they are a good half mile behind us still, and it will take them two or three hours to pick that up. I am quite sure now that if we cut the boat adrift we can forge ahead, hand over hand, but that must be a last resource; it is almost a matter of life and death to be able to keep it with us. Still it is a satisfaction to know that if the worse comes to the worst we can get away from them." Jack fully entered into the excitement of the chase, taking his seat on the covering near the stern, and barking defiance at their pursuers. Another hour's paddling and the space between the canoe and the natives was lessened by half. "Now, Luka, I will send them a couple of bullets as a reminder that we have got weapons." Laying in his paddle he took his gun, turned round and knelt looking astern, and fired both barrels at the fleet of canoes. He had not taken any particular aim, for the gun was of little use at a distance exceeding a hundred yards, and the motion of the canoe would have prevented anything like accuracy of shooting even with a rifle. He intended to frighten rather than to hurt, and gave the gun a considerable elevation. He saw, however, the men in one of the canoes cease paddling and drop behind the rest, and could make out that one of its occupants was doing something. "I hit one of the canoes, Luka; I fancy they are trying to patch up the hole." He loaded the gun again, this time with his largest-sized shot, laid it down and resumed his paddle. "I have put in buck-shot this time, Luka; I don't want to kill any of the poor beggars, and the shot will spread. I have put in double charges so as to give them a good dose as they come up. Small shot would be of no use, it would not get through those thick leather coats of theirs. Now, then, let us send her along." The wind was certainly freshening, for it was not until another four or five miles had been traversed that the canoes had crept up to within a hundred yards' distance. At last Godfrey felt it was time to fire again, and waiting till the canoes were within about seventy yards' distance he fired both barrels, slightly shifting his aim between each shot. A series of yells arose from the canoes, four or five of them at once dropped behind. "Paddle your hardest, Luka, while I load again, the beggars are coming up fast now." The natives with yells of fury were sending their canoes through the foaming water, and were but fifty yards away when he again fired. This time five or six of the natives dropped their paddles, and two of the canoes were upset. A volley of arrows fell thickly round the boat, and one or two spears skimmed along the water close to it. Godfrey seized his paddle again. "Head towards the shore, Luka," he said; and as the boat headed round he slackened the sheet and so brought the wind nearly dead aft. The boat was on an even keel now, and they could feel by the lessened strain on the paddles that her speed was considerably increased. In two or three minutes Godfrey looked round; the canoes were a hundred yards behind. "We are gaining on them, Luka." Another ten minutes and the interval was more than doubled. "They are beginning to get tired," Godfrey said. "We are going a good deal faster, of course, now we have got the wind astern, but I do not think they are going as fast as they did, and I expect that last dose of buck-shot took the heart out of them a good deal. They had reckoned that we should be only able to fire once or twice before they came up, and that I should use bullets; but that handful of buck-shot evidently peppered a good many of them, and they know if they come up they will have four more barrels at least among them. I think the fighting is all over now." Another hour and the canoes were a mile astern, and the land was now but four or five miles away. Godfrey thought that he could safely resume his course west, especially as the wind had distinctly freshened. "I will lay in my paddle now, Luka. I must give all my attention to the sail. I expect they will give it up. They will think when they see me cease paddling that we know we can get away from them whenever we like." Godfrey's surmise turned out correct; the natives did not attempt to follow, but held on their course straight for the land, paddling slowly now. They were in two divisions, five or six of the canoes being a good deal astern of the others, those with single rowers that had followed them so long having dropped behind to pick up the occupants of the canoes that had capsized. In several of the canoes in this division Godfrey could make out that only one man was paddling, and guessed that the other was more or less disabled by the shot. "I don't think we shall be troubled any more by them," he said; "they will be a couple of hours before they reach land, by which time we shall be out of sight, and even reindeer will hardly take the news along the shore with all its deep indentations as quickly as we shall sail; besides, I fancy, they will come to the conclusion that the game is not worth the candle. Now lay in your paddle and let us have breakfast comfortably. It is just twelve o'clock." Day after day they coasted along, passed through Waigatz Straits, between the island of that name and the mainland, then touched at four islands lying across the mouth of a large and deep bay, and then held on until they reached the mouth of the Petchora. The distance to this point from the Kara River was, Godfrey calculated, about three hundred and fifty miles. It took them fifteen days to cover that distance, as they stopped and spent a day shooting several times, for they were not fortunate along here in catching many fish as they went. On passing one of the islands Godfrey shot a seal, the flesh of which they found was by no means bad. The weather continued very fine, but there was so little wind that during the whole distance they did not once put up their sail, but depended entirely upon their paddles. Upon one of their shooting expeditions Godfrey had the good luck to shoot a very fine black fox. They had had their meal and were stretched at full length by the fire. Luka had gone off to sleep. Godfrey was almost dozing when he heard a slight rustle in the grass, and opening his eyes saw a black fox standing at a distance of ten paces. It had evidently been attracted by the smell of some fish they had been frying, and stood with its nose in the air sniffing. Godfrey's gun was lying beside him, the left-hand barrel he always kept loaded with ball. His hands stole quietly to it, and as he grasped it he sat up and fired a snap shot at the fox as it turned and darted away. To his surprise as well as delight it rolled over. "There is a piece of luck, Luka," he said, as the latter sprang to his feet bow in hand at the report. "That is a pure fluke, for I fired without raising the gun or taking the least aim." Luka examined the fox. "It is one of the largest I ever saw," he said, "and the fur is in splendid condition." "Its skin will come in handy, Luka. We must put in and replenish our stores at Droinik, at the mouth of the Petchora. We are running very short of tea and tobacco, we have been very extravagant lately, and we have had no flour since those scamps robbed us. It is very lucky Jack was so sound asleep. I often scold you, Jack, for being such a sleepy little beggar, but for once it is lucky, for if you had heard the fox coming he would have been off without my getting a shot at him." Accordingly when they reached the mouth of the Petchora they landed three miles from Droinik, and Luka, taking the fox-skin and those of other smaller animals they had shot during their excursions, went into the town, and returned with four pounds of tea, as much tobacco, forty pounds of flour, two large tin kettles, each capable of holding a gallon of water, to carry an extra supply, and sixty silver roubles. "I am heartily glad you are back, Luka, for I have been nearly eaten alive; the mosquitoes are awful--worse, I think, than at any place we have landed." They had indeed entirely given up sleeping ashore since their forced stay on the Gulf of Obi, always pushing off two or three hundred yards from the shore and anchoring, for the mosquitoes were terrible; and upon their hunting expeditions they always smeared their faces, necks, and hands thickly over with bears' fat, but even with this they suffered severely. Nowhere, indeed, are mosquitoes so great a scourge as along the shores of the Arctic Sea. They had already determined that they would at any rate make for the Kanin Peninsula, and would then be guided by the weather. If it still remained calm and quiet, they would sail across the entrance to the White Sea, and coast along until they reached the frontier of Norway, which would be about four hundred miles from the point of the Kanin Peninsula; if the weather showed signs of changing they would go up the White Sea to Archangel, which would be about the same distance. Two days' paddling took them to the western mouth of the bay, the course from here lay due west to Kolgueff Island, nearly two hundred miles away. Godfrey did not hesitate to strike for it, as it was seventy or eighty miles saved, and there was no risk of missing it. Four long days' paddling took them there, and an equal time brought them to the western point of the Kanin Peninsula. The weather continued still and clear, the sea was as smooth as glass, and there were no signs of change; but September had begun, and every hour was of importance. They therefore determined now to abandon the boat, which made a considerable difference in their speed. "Our candles will do for cooking. We have still forty pounds of dried flesh, and twenty of flour, and we may expect to get a few fish anyhow. Our three kettles will hold two gallons and a half of water, enough to last us seven or eight days. In three days at most we ought to strike the coast again, and we are sure to find some streams running down to the sea in a very short time, so we will risk it. We know that the two of us can send her along a good five miles an hour." Accordingly the dried meat and flour were transferred to the canoe, the kettles were filled up with fresh water, and, after taking a long drink and letting Jack lap as much as he could take, they took their seats in the canoe again, threw off the tow-rope and started due west. Accustomed as they now were to the work, and their muscles hardened by exercise, they sent the boat rapidly through the water. "We mustn't exert ourselves too much, Luka," Godfrey said after the first quarter of an hour. "A long slow stroke is the one to send her along, and we can keep that up for any time. We must do our very best till we sight the coast again. After the way she behaved in that storm I am not afraid of wind, but I am horribly afraid of fog. If we had but a compass it would not matter to us one way or other; but if a fog came down when we are a good way off the land, there would be nothing to do but to lay in our paddles and wait, even if it lasted for a fortnight. Still, as long as there is no change of weather, there does not seem any reason why a fog should set in; but I shall not feel happy till we have got the land alongside of us." For three days the paddles were kept going, each taking alternately six hours' sleep, and working together for twelve. Jack having nothing to do was the most uneasy of the party, sometimes lying down with his nose between his paws, sometimes getting up and giving a series of short impatient barks. Early on the second day they were fortunate in passing through a large shoal of herrings. Godfrey laid in his paddles and attended to the lines, and in half an hour had forty-five fish. After that they paid no further attention to fishing, being now amply supplied with food. The herrings, too, required less water than the dried meat. They fried them over the candles, and whenever their mouths were parched they chewed a piece of raw herring and found great relief from it. Jack was allowed two raw herrings a day; with that and a very small allowance of water he did very well. On the third day a light southerly wind sprang up, and they at once hoisted their sail and found that it eased their labour materially. "I should think we ought to see the land to-night, Luka; three days at eighty miles a day is two hundred and forty miles. If we don't see it by evening, we must head a little more to the south. Of course we cannot depend very accurately on our steering, and we may have been going a trifle north of west all this time. But it is all right, for the coast we are making for keeps on trending north, and we are certain to hit it sooner or later." At six o'clock they had a meal which Luka had been cooking, and then Godfrey said, "Now I will have my six hours' sleep." He stood up to change places and let Luka come astern to steer, when he exclaimed, "Look, is that a cloud ahead of us, or is it land?" "Land!" Luka said after gazing at it attentively. "It is high land." All idea of sleep was given up. Godfrey seized his paddle again, and in four hours they were within a mile of the land. It differed widely from the low coast they had so long been passing. Steep hills rose from the very edge of the shore, clad in many places with pine forests. They were not long before they found a suitable place to land, and soon had the canoe ashore and the tent erected, for the nights were already becoming unpleasantly cold. Luka went into the woods, and soon returned with some dried branches and a quantity of pine cones. Godfrey cut three sticks and made a tripod, from which the small kettle was suspended, and fish and meat were soon grilling over the fire. As soon as the kettle boiled a handful of tea was dropped into it, and it was taken off the fire. The three companions made an excellent meal, then Luka and Godfrey lighted their pipes and sat smoking by the fire for half an hour, and then lay down in the tent for a sound sleep. When Godfrey woke he found that Luka was already up. He had stirred up the embers, put on fresh wood, filled the kettle and hung it over the fire, and had then evidently sauntered off into the wood. Godfrey, after the luxury of a rapid bathe, began to prepare breakfast, and by the time it was ready Luka came down with a dozen squirrels he had shot. "Lots of them in the wood," he said; "if stop here three or four days, get lots of skins." "I don't think they would be much good to us, Luka, though those you shot will be useful for food; but I have been obliged to stand with my head over the smoke of the fire to keep off these rascally mosquitoes, and my face was so swelled with their bites when I woke that I could hardly see out of my eyes till I bathed my face with cold water. The sooner we are off the better, if we don't want to be eaten alive." Accordingly, as soon as the meal was finished they packed up and continued their voyage. After eight hours' paddling they came upon the mouth of a river. "This must be the Seriberka," Godfrey said. "That is the only river marked in the map anywhere about here. We will paddle a mile or two up and fill our kettles. If it is that river, we shall come upon an island a few miles off the coast, in another twenty or thirty miles. See, Luka, how near we are getting to the end of the map. We are not very much more than a hundred miles from this line; that is the division between Russia and Norway. Once we land on the other side of that line we are free." In seven or eight hours after leaving the river, Godfrey said, "There is Kildina Island, Luka. We will land over there instead of upon this shore. There may be some Laplanders about, and there is a Russian place called Kola about twenty miles up a river a little way past the island, and the natives might take us there if they came upon us, for they would not understand either Ostjak or the Samoyede dialect, and I don't suppose they would talk Russian. Anyhow, we may as well be on the safe side. After coming seven or eight thousand miles we won't run any risk of a failure in the last hundred. I don't much like the look of the sky away to the north. I fancy we are going to have a storm. Thank God it did not come two days earlier." They landed on the island, hauled up the boat, then Godfrey took some time in finding a hollow where they could light a fire without risk of its being seen on the mainland, as, if there were Lapps there, they might cross in their canoes to see who had made it. They had no trouble in collecting plenty of drift-wood along the shore, and carefully choosing the driest, so as to avoid making a great smoke, they lit a fire and erected the tent to leeward of it, so that the smoke might blow through it, and so keep out their enemies the mosquitoes. Godfrey's prediction about the weather was speedily verified. The wind got up very rapidly, and in two hours was blowing a gale from the north. "No fear of canoes coming across," Luka said. "No fear at all. I don't suppose there was any real risk of it in any case, but I feel more nervous now than I have done all the time. At any rate the storm has made it perfectly safe. There will soon be a sea on that no canoe could face." For three days the storm raged, and they were glad to resume their fur jackets. Jack lay coiled up in the furs in the tent, and nothing could persuade him to move except for breakfast and dinner. They waited twelve hours after the gale ceased to allow the sea to go down and then started again, hoisting their sail as there was enough wind to help them. CHAPTER XVIII. HOME AGAIN. Godfrey felt in wild spirits as they hoisted their sail, for the end of the journey was close at hand, and, unless some altogether unforeseen misfortune were to befall them, they would have accomplished an undertaking that had been deemed almost impossible. They kept well out from land, increasing the distance as they sailed west until they were some ten miles out, for the map showed that some five-and-twenty miles from the point where they had camped a rocky peninsula jutted out. In three hours they could make out its outline, for the land was bold and high, and it took them another four hours before they were abreast of its eastern point, Cape Navalok. Then they coasted along the peninsula until they arrived at Cape Kekour, its western point. They had now been paddling nearly twelve hours, for Godfrey was too impatient to be content with the sail only. Just before they arrived at the cape, Luka, seeing a good place for landing, suggested a halt. "No, no," Godfrey said, "we will not risk another landing. We have been marvellously fortunate up to now, and it would be folly to run even the slightest risk when we are so near the end of our journey. We will keep on. There are only thirty or forty more miles to go, and then we shall enter the Voranger Fiord. Then we shall be in Norway. Think of that, Luka! We can snap our fingers at the Russians, and tell everyone we meet that we have escaped from their prisons." "Who shall we meet?" Luka asked. "Ah, that is more than I can tell you. The sooner we meet some one the better. Norway is not like this country we have been passing along; it is all covered with great mountains and forests. I don't know anything about the coast, but I fancy it is tremendously rocky, and we should have a poor chance there if caught in another storm from the north. There are Laplanders, who are people just like the Samoyedes, and who have got reindeer; if we find any of them, as I hope we shall, we ought to be all right. We have got a hundred silver roubles, and if you show a man money and make signs you want to go somewhere, and don't much care where, he is pretty safe to take you. Now you take a sleep, Luka. I will steer. There is no occasion to paddle, the wind is taking us along nearly three miles an hour, and time is no particular object to us now. You get three hours, then I will take three, and then we will set to with the paddles again." Eight hours later they could make out high land on the starboard bow, and knew that they were approaching the entrance to the fiord. They had not taken to their paddles again, for the wind had freshened, and they were going fast through the water. Luka cooked a meal, and as it was growing dark the land closed in on both sides to a distance of about eight miles. An hour later they saw lights on their right hand. "Hurrah!" Godfrey exclaimed, "there is a village there. We won't land to-night. We might find it difficult to get a place to sleep in. One night longer on board won't do us any harm. Thank God we are fairly out of Russia at last, and shall land as free men in the morning." They drew in towards the shore a mile or so above the lights, and paddled cautiously on until close to the land. There they dropped their anchor overboard, and, wearied out by their long row, were speedily sound asleep. It was broad daylight when they woke. Godfrey, when he sat up, gave a loud cheer, which set Jack off barking wildly. "Look!" Godfrey shouted, "it is a town, and there are two steamboats lying there. Thank God, our troubles are all over. You had better get breakfast, Luka. It is of no use going ashore till people are awake." Breakfast over the anchor was at once pulled up, and in a quarter of an hour they were alongside a quay. Their appearance was so similar to that of the Lapps that they themselves would have attracted but little notice, but the canoe was so different in its appearance to those used by these people that several persons stood on the little quay watching them as they came alongside. Their surprise at the boat was increased when Godfrey came up on to the quay. No Laplander or Finn of his height had ever been seen, and moreover, his face and hands were clean. They addressed him in a language that he did not understand. He replied first in English, then in Russian. Apparently they recognized the latter language, and one of them motioned to Godfrey to follow him. "You wait here till I come back, Luka. I daresay the people are honest enough, but I don't want any of our furs or things stolen now that we have got to the end of our journey." He then followed his conductor to a large house in the principal street, where he went in to a sort of office and spoke to a man sitting there. Then he went out, and in a minute returned with a gentleman. "Do you speak English, sir?" Godfrey said. "I speak it a little," the gentleman replied in surprise at hearing the language from one who looked like a Laplander. "Do you speak Russian better?" Godfrey next asked. "Yes," he replied in that language. "I know Russian well. And who are you?" "I am an Englishman. I was resident in St. Petersburg when I was seized and condemned to exile in Siberia as a Nihilist, although I was perfectly innocent of the charge. I was taken to the mines of Kara in the east of Siberia, but made my escape, descended the Yenesei, and have coasted from there in a canoe." The man looked at him incredulously. "I am not surprised that you doubt my story," Godfrey said. "If you will come down with me to the wharf you will see the canoe in which I made the journey. I built it on the Yenesei. I have with me a Tartar who escaped with me and shared my fortunes." The merchant put on his hat and walked down to the wharf. "It is a strange craft," he said, "though I have seen some at Christiania similar in form but smaller, built of wood, that Englishmen have brought over. And is it possible that you have sailed from the mouth of the Yenesei in her?" "There has been no great difficulty about it," Godfrey said. "We have kept near the coast, and have generally landed when bad weather came on. I have a gun, and with that and fishing there has been no difficulty about food. The journey has been a long one. It is seventeen months since I left Kara. I am provided with Russian money, sir, and shall be glad if you can tell me what is my best way of getting back to England." "It is fortunate indeed that you did not arrive here two days later, for the last steamer will sail for Hamburg to-morrow. She touches at many ports on her way, but I don't know that you can do better than go to Hamburg, whence there is a steamer nearly every day to England. If you had been two days later you would have lost her, for the season is just over, and you would then have had to travel by land and river down to Tornea on the Gulf of Bothnia. But come up with me to my house; I am the agent here for the steamer. What are you going to do with your canoe?" "I shall take her home with me just as she stands," Godfrey said. "And the Tartar?" "Yes, the Tartar and the dog." "Very well. Stay here for ten minutes," he said to Luka, "I will send a man down to help you up with the canoe. We may as well put it in my yard," he went on as he started back with Godfrey. "The people are as honest as the day, but they might be pulling it about and examining it, and it is just as well to stow it away safe. Well, this is a wonderful escape of yours! During the twenty years I have been here, it has never happened before." "I wonder it has not been done many times," Godfrey said. "Canoes go from Archangel to the Petchora, which is quite half-way to the mouth of the Obi, and there is no more difficulty between the Petchora and the Yenesei than there is on this side. The first thing to do now is to get some clothes." "The first thing to do, I think, is to get some breakfast," the trader said. "I have already had some breakfast on board," Godfrey said; "but I daresay I can eat another." "I will warrant you can. Your breakfast was probably of the roughest." "It was," Godfrey admitted. "I have not eaten a piece of real bread for more than a year. We haven't had much of anything made of flour since we started in the canoe in June; but one gets to do without bread very well." "I have not asked you your name yet," the trader said. "It is Godfrey Bullen. My father is head of a firm in London that does a good deal of trade with Russia. He was Living in St. Petersburg a good many years. That is how it is that I speak the language." "I was wondering how it was that you spoke it so well. Now, then, let me introduce you to my wife and family. This is an English gentleman, wife," he said in his own language to a pleasant-looking lady. "He does not look like it, but when I tell you that he has made his escape from Siberia in a canoe it will account for it." Godfrey found that his early meal had in no way abated his appetite. The breakfast was an excellent one, but he confined himself to bread and butter, and thought he had never tasted anything so good in his life. He learned that his host was an importer of goods of all kinds, and did the principal trade at Vadsö, besides supplying all the villages on the fiord. "If you had been here a few days earlier," he said, "you would have found a countryman of yours, a Mr. Clarke, who almost monopolizes the whaling trade here. He owns three steamers, and has a great melting-down establishment. I myself send great quantities of cod to Hamburg by steamer. Most of the boats here work for me." After breakfast Godfrey gave his host a sketch of his adventures. "It has been a wonderful journey," his host said when he concluded. "I have heard of one or two cases where men have made their way to Archangel, and thence by land to our frontier, but I never heard of anyone attempting it by sea before. It was a perilous journey indeed, and required a knowledge of canoeing, which no Russian prisoner would be likely to have. Then you were certainly fortunate in having a companion with you who was at home with those Ostjaks. Still, as you brought him with you for that purpose, that was forethought rather than luck." "Which is the first port at which the steamer will stop that I can send a telegram from?" The merchant laughed. "If you go down-stairs into the office, and go through the door to your left hand, you will find yourself in a telegraph office." "Really?" "Yes, really. We have had the telegraph here for some little time." Godfrey rushed down-stairs, and sent off a telegram as follows:-- "_Have just arrived here. Made my escape from prison at Kara, in Siberia. Seventeen months on the way. Am in first-rate health. Start to-morrow by steamer to Hamburg. Hope all are well. Have plenty of money._" He directed it to his father's office, so that the news might be broken gradually to his mother. In the afternoon the answer came:-- "_Thank God for His mercies. All well. I shall cross to Hamburg to meet you._" While Godfrey was being made much of by the merchant and his family, and, indeed, by many of their acquaintances, who, upon hearing the news, came in to see him and inquire into the wonderful voyage, Luka was no less a centre of attraction to the fishermen, and was so generously treated that long before it became dark he was obliged to be assisted, in a state of inebriation, to a pallet that had been prepared for him. Godfrey was annoyed when he heard it; "but," as his host said, "after being eighteen months, and, for aught I know, eighteen months before that, without touching liquor, very little would be likely to produce an effect upon him. I daresay it is his talking as much as the spirit that has turned his head; besides, you know, the lower class of Russians and Tartars are all fond of spirits." "I shall not be angry with him in the morning," Godfrey said, "because I do think that it is pardonable; but I shall talk seriously to him about it, and tell him that if he is coming home to England with me he must give up spirits. He has done without them so long that it can't be any hardship." "What are you going to do with him?" "I have not the most remote idea," Godfrey laughed. "If he likes to return to his people I daresay my father would be able, through the Russian embassy, to get a pardon for him and permission to go back; but I don't think he has any notion of that. He lost his parents when he was a child, and I never heard him express the slightest desire to go back again. He has attached himself to me heart and soul, and I think looks upon it as a settled thing that he will be always with me. I don't know in what capacity, still, I suppose, something will be found for him." The steamer was to start at nine o'clock on the following morning, and by that hour Godfrey, Luka, and Jack were on board and the canoe carefully stowed on deck. Both had obtained a complete fit-out from the merchant's stores, and although Godfrey's garments would scarcely have passed muster in London, they did very well for the voyage. Luka was greatly amused at his own appearance in European garb, though Godfrey thought he looked much better in his Ostjak costume. "We will rig him out fresh when I get him home," he said to the merchant. "I don't know what he looks like now in that greatcoat and billycock hat." The merchant stayed on board until the last moment. As soon as he got into his boat the paddles began to revolve and the steamer started on her way. She was ten days on her voyage, ascending many of the fiords, landing or taking on board cargo or passengers. Godfrey enjoyed the voyage greatly. The scenery was magnificent, and eagerly as he desired to be at home, he was almost sorry when the end approached. It had been so strange to have nothing to do but to sit and watch the shore, to eat and to sleep. Luka had been very penitent over his little excess at Vadsö, and had solemnly promised Godfrey to abstain from spirits in future; and he, too, enjoyed the voyage in his way, eating enormously, and drinking vast quantities of tea and coffee. Godfrey had sent off one or two telegrams from the ports at which he touched, so that his father might be able to judge when the ship was likely to arrive; and when one morning early the vessel steamed up to the wharf at Hamburg Godfrey saw him waiting there. It was a joyful meeting indeed, and it was not until they were alone together at an hotel, Luka being left down-stairs in charge of the canoe, that they were enabled to begin to talk. "Did you know what had become of me, father?" "Yes, my boy. Petrovytch telegraphed to me that you had been missing three days, and I at once went over to St. Petersburg. He thought that you had fallen into bad hands, and had been murdered and thrown into the Neva; but remembering that you had got into that silly scrape before with the police, I thought it possible that, coming, as your absence did, directly after the affair at the Winter Palace, suspicion had fallen on you again. I went to the head of the police; he declined to give me any information. Then I set the embassy at work, and they found out that you had been arrested with some desperate Nihilists. At last they obtained a sight of the records of the court-martial before which you had been tried, and told me that the case was so strong against you that nothing could be done; indeed, had it not been for your youth, and the fact that you were a British subject, you would certainly have been executed. I tried everything, but I found it absolutely useless. The embassy recommended me to let the matter drop for the present, and in time, perhaps, when the Nihilist scare passed off, it might be possible to interest some minister or other in your favour and obtain a reversion of your sentence. Then a few months later came the assassination of the Czar, and, of course, that rendered it more hopeless than ever, and all we could hope for was, that in the course of years we might again move in the matter. Of course it has been a terrible business for us all. But we won't talk about that now. Thank God it is over, and that you have returned to us. But what madness, Godfrey, to mix yourself up with these people!" "Indeed, father, I was perfectly innocent, though I cannot blame the court-martial for finding me guilty." And he then gave his father the details of his connection with the two Nihilists Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff, and of the circumstances of his arrest in their room. "I am very glad to hear that, Godfrey. Not that it makes any actual matter now, but because, after the warning I had given you to avoid the society of any people holding extreme opinions, it seemed to me you must have showed an incredible amount of wilfulness and folly in getting yourself mixed up with these desperate conspirators. I am heartily glad to find that I was mistaken, and that, except as regards that foolish business at the theatre, you have really not been to blame in the matter, and have been altogether a victim of circumstances. Now, tell me how you got away. And first, who is that queer-looking little fellow with your canoe?" "He is my comrade and friend, father. He escaped from prison with me, and is devoted to me; but for him I should have had no chance whatever of making my way through all the difficulties of the journey." And he then gave his father an outline of their adventures from the time of their leaving Kara. When he had finished, Mr. Bullen went down-stairs and saw Luka, and shook hands with him heartily, telling him in Russian that he had heard from Godfrey how much he owed to him, and assuring him that he need have no fear for the future. Two days later the party arrived at home. There is no occasion to say anything as to the joy of that meeting. The three years of hardship and roughing it had converted the careless school-boy into a powerful young fellow. His spirits were as high and he was as full of fun as of old; but the experience he had gone through had strengthened his character, had given him self-reliance and confidence, and had, as his father and mother soon saw, had a very beneficial effect in forming his character. Two or three days after his arrival Godfrey wrote to Mikail. It was a very guarded letter, because he knew that it would be opened by the prison authorities, but it thanked him for the kindness he had shown to him while in prison, and expressed a hope that, now that he would have obtained partial freedom, and would be united to his wife, he would succeed and prosper. He inclosed a five-hundred-rouble note from his father as a present in return for the kindness he had shown him, and he also inclosed a directed envelope, so that he could acknowledge the receipt of the letter. An answer written by the priest of the village--for Mikail was unable to write--came at the end of five months. It was expressed in the most grateful terms. He had been released four months after Godfrey left, and the governor had, as a reward for his good conduct, allowed him to work for a farmer instead of in the mines. He said that he was perfectly happy, and that, as he should now be able to purchase a small farm for himself, he should be sure to do well. "I have a boy," he said, "who was born three months ago; we have christened him Godfrey, in memory of the night when you saved my life at the risk of your own." Luka was for some time a difficulty. He absolutely refused to return to Russia, and was for a time established as doorkeeper at the office, but in the spring after Godfrey's return the latter took him down with him to a house Mr. Bullen had just purchased near Richmond. Luka was so delighted with the country that he was established there, and became a sort of general factotum, assisting in the garden, stables, or house, wherever he could make himself useful, and being in special charge of a sailing boat that Godfrey keeps on the river. He had picked up a good deal of English from Godfrey on their travels, and soon came to speak it fairly, and being regarded as a friend by all the family, he is in every way perfectly contented with his lot. Four years after Godfrey's return, a clerk one day came into the office with the news that a gentleman wished to speak to him, and Godfrey was astounded at the entry of Alexis. "I have come," the Russian said. "You told me to come, and I have done so." "I am delighted to see you, Alexis. I had thought of you as married and settled among the Buriats." "I did marry," Alexis said; "but three years afterwards I lost my wife. What was I to do? I could not remain all my life a wandering shepherd, afraid ever to enter a town or to speak with a civilized being; so I sold my flocks and herds. You know my wife owned a third of those of the Buriat. He was a rich man and bought most of them, and for the rest I found other purchasers. Then he negotiated for me with one of the tea merchants, and I managed to go as a driver with one of his caravans to Pekin." "And what do you mean to do, Alexis? I can still keep my promise, and make a berth for you here in the office." "I thank you, my friend," Alexis said; "but I shall return to my profession. I am a doctor, you know, and have my Russian diplomas. I shall learn your language, and study in your hospitals for a time; then I shall set up here. I believe you have many Russians in your poorer districts; and as, besides, I speak German, I should be able to obtain a sufficient practice. Moreover, I have brought with me orders on a bank here for five thousand pounds, which I paid into their branch at Hong-Kong. I will get you to invest that for me, and you will see that it will give me an income sufficient for all my wants." Alexis carried out his plans, and has now a large although not very remunerative practice among the Russian and German colony in the East End of London. He married the daughter of a clergyman there, and remains fast friends with Godfrey, who has now set up an establishment of his own, of which Luka is major-domo, and special guardian and playmate to Godfrey's little boys. Godfrey has not returned to Russia, but is his father's right hand in the London business; at the same time he is free to visit St. Petersburg did he wish to do so, as Mr. Bullen drew up a full statement of his case, and this having been forwarded by the Russian ambassador, with a strong recommendation on his part, a reversal of the sentence of the court-martial was obtained, and a full pardon granted to him. It is not probable, however, that he will again set foot on Russian soil, his experiences as a prisoner in Siberia having been, as he says, ample for a lifetime. THE END. * * * * * "English boys owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Henty."--_Athenæum._ Blackie & Son's Illustrated Story Books _HISTORICAL TALES BY_ G. A. HENTY -- With Kitchener in the Soudan: A Tale of Atbara and Omdurman. With 10 Illustrations by W. RAINEY, R.I., and 3 Maps. 6s. 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"It is a rattling story told with verve and spirit."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ -- The Treasure of the Incas: A Tale of Adventure in Peru. With 8 Illustrations by WAL PAGET, and a Map. 5s. The heroes of this powerful story go to Peru to look for the treasure which the Incas hid when the Spaniards invaded the country. Their task is both arduous and dangerous, but though they are often disappointed, their courage and perseverance are at last amply rewarded. "The interest never flags for one moment, and the story is told with vigour." --_World._ [Illustration: _From WITH THE BRITISH LEGION_ BY G. A. HENTY (See page 1)] * * * * * STORIES BY G. A. HENTY G. A. HENTY -- With Roberts to Pretoria: A Tale of the South African War. With 12 Illustrations by WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I., and a Map. 6s. The hero takes part in the series of battles that end in the disaster at Magersfontein, is captured and imprisoned in the race-course at Pretoria, but escapes in time to fight at Paardeberg and march with the victorious army to Bloemfontein. He rides with Colonel Mahon's column to the relief of Mafeking, and accomplishes the return journey with such despatch as to be able to join in the triumphant advance to Pretoria. "In this story of the South African war Mr. Henty proves once more his incontestable pre-eminence as a writer for boys."--_Standard._ -- Both Sides the Border: A Tale of Hotspur and Glendower. With 12 page Illustrations by RALPH PEACOCK. 6s. The hero casts in his lot with the Percys, and becomes esquire to Sir Henry, the gallant Hotspur. He is sent on several dangerous and important missions in which he acquits himself with great valour. "With boys the story should rank among Mr. Henty's best."--_Standard._ "A vivid picture of that strange past ... when England and Scotland ... were torn by faction and civil war."--_Onward._ -- Through Russian Snows: or, Napoleon's Retreat from Moscow. With 8 page Illustrations by W. H. OVEREND. 5s. Julian Wyatt becomes, quite innocently, mixed up with smugglers, who carry him to France, and hand him over as a prisoner to the French. He subsequently regains his freedom by joining Napoleon's army in the campaign against Russia. "The story of the campaign is very graphically told."--_St. James's Gazette._ "One of Mr. Henty's best books, which will be hailed with joy by his many eager readers."--_Journal of Education._ "Is full of life and action."--_Journal of Education._ -- Out with Garibaldi: A Story of the Liberation of Italy. With 8 page Illustrations by W. RAINEY, R.I., and two Maps. 5s. Mr. Henty makes the liberation of Italy by Garibaldi the groundwork of an exciting tale of adventure. The hero is an English lad who joins the expedition and takes a prominent part in the extraordinary series of operations that ended in the fall of the Neapolitan kingdom. "A first-rate story of stirring deeds."--_Daily Chronicle._ "Full of hard fighting, gallant rescues, and narrow escapes."--_Graphic._ * * * * * BLACKIE'S STORY BOOKS FOR BOYS G. A. HENTY -- At the Point of the Bayonet: A Tale of the Mahratta War. With 12 Illustrations by WAL PAGET, and 2 Maps. 6s. Harry Lindsay is carried off to the hills and brought up as a Mahratta. At the age of sixteen he becomes an officer in the service of the Mahratta prince at Poona, and afterwards receives a commission in the army of the East India Company. His courage and enterprise are rewarded by quick promotion, and at the end of the war he sails for England, where he succeeds in establishing his right to the family estates. "A brisk, dashing narrative."--_Bookman._ -- Under Wellington's Command: A Tale of the Peninsular War. With 12 page Illustrations by WAL PAGET. 6s. In this stirring romance Mr. Henty gives us the further adventures of Terence O'Connor, the hero of _With Moore at Corunna_. We are told how, in alliance with a small force of Spanish guerrillas, the gallant regiment of Portuguese levies commanded by Terence keeps the whole of the French army in check at a critical period of the war, rendering invaluable service to the Iron Duke and his handful of British troops. "An admirable exposition of Mr. Henty's masterly method of combining instruction with amusement."--_World._ -- To Herat and Cabul: A Story of the First Afghan War. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C. M. SHELDON, and Map. 5s. The hero takes a distinguished part in the defence of Herat, and subsequently obtains invaluable information for the British army during the first Afghan war. He is fortunately spared the horrors of the retreat from Cabul, and shares in the series of operations by which that most disastrous blunder was retrieved. "We can heartily commend it to boys, old and young."--_Spectator._ -- With Cochrane the Dauntless: A Tale of his Exploits. With 12 page Illustrations by W. H. MARGETSON. 6s. It would be hard to find, even in sensational fiction, a more daring leader than Lord Cochrane, or a career which supplies so many thrilling exploits. The manner in which, almost single-handed, he scattered the French fleet in the Basque Roads is one of the greatest feats in English naval history. "As rousing and interesting a book as boys could wish for."--_Saturday Review._ "This tale we specially recommend."--_St. James's Gazette._ * * * * * STORIES BY G. A. HENTY G. A. HENTY -- Redskin and Cow-Boy: A Tale of the Western Plains. With 12 page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 6s. Hugh Tunstall accompanies a frontiersman on a hunting expedition on the Plains, and then seeks employment as a cow-boy on a cattle ranch. His experiences during a "round up" present in picturesque form the toilsome, exciting, adventurous life of a cow-boy; while the perils of a frontier settlement are vividly set forth. Subsequently, the hero joins a wagon-team, and the interest is sustained in a fight with, and capture of, brigands. "A strong interest of open-air life and movement pervades the whole book."--_Scotsman._ -- With Buller in Natal: or, A Born Leader. With 10 page Illustrations by W. RAINEY, R.I., and a Map. 6s. The heroic story of the relief of Ladysmith forms the theme of one of the most powerful romances that have come from Mr. Henty's pen. When the war breaks out, the hero, Chris King, and his friends band themselves together under the title of the Maritzburg Scouts. From first to last the boy scouts are constantly engaged in perilous and exciting enterprises, from which they always emerge triumphant, thanks to their own skill and courage, and the dash and ingenuity of their leader. "Just the sort of book to inspire an enterprising boy."--_Army and Navy Gazette._ -- By England's Aid: or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604). With 10 page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and 4 Maps. 6s. Two English lads go to Holland in the service of one of "the fighting Veres". After many adventures one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the defeat of the Armada, and escapes from Spain only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful, however, in getting back to Spain, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. "Boys know and love Mr. Henty's books of adventure, and will welcome his tale of the freeing of the Netherlands."--_Athenæum._ -- Condemned as a Nihilist: A Story of Escape from Siberia. With 8 page Illustrations by WAL PAGET. 5s. Godfrey Bullen, a young Englishman resident in St. Petersburg, becomes involved in various political plots, resulting in his seizure and exile to Siberia. After an unsuccessful attempt to escape, he gives himself up to the Russian authorities. Eventually he escapes, and reaches home, having safely accomplished a perilous journey which lasts nearly two years. "The escape from Siberia is well told and the description of prison life is very graphic."--_Academy._ [Illustration: _From THE TREASURE OF THE INCAS_ BY G. A. HENTY (See page 1)] * * * * * G. A. HENTY -- Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War with 8 page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 5s. The Renshaws lose their property and emigrate to New Zealand. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant lad, is the mainstay of the household. The odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasantest of the New Zealand valleys. "A book which all young people, but especially boys, will read with avidity."--_Athenæum._ -- Beric the Briton: A Story of the Roman Invasion of Britain. With 12 page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. 6s. Beric is a boy-chief of a British tribe which takes a prominent part in the insurrection under Boadicea: and after the defeat of that heroic queen he continues the struggle in the fen-country. Ultimately Beric is defeated and carried captive to Rome, where he succeeds in saving a Christian maid by slaying a lion in the arena, and is rewarded by being made the personal protector of Nero. Finally, he escapes and returns to Britain, where he becomes a wise ruler of his own people. "He is a hero of the most attractive kind.... One of the most spirited and well-imagined stories Mr. Henty has written."--_Saturday Review._ "His conflict with a lion in the arena is a thrilling chapter."--_School Board Chronicle._ "Full of every form of heroism and pluck."--_Christian World._ -- The Dash for Khartoum: A Tale of the Nile Expedition. With 10 page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG and J. NASH. 6s. In the record of recent British history there is no more captivating page for boys than the story of the Nile campaign, and the attempt to rescue General Gordon. For, in the difficulties which the expedition encountered, and in the perils which it overpassed, are found all the excitement of romance, as well as the fascination which belongs to real events. "_The Dash for Khartoum_ is your ideal boys' book."--_Tablet._ "It is literally true that the narrative never flags a moment."--_Academy._ "_The Dash for Khartoum_ will be appreciated even by those who don't ordinarily care a dash for anything."--_Punch._ -- With Wolfe in Canada: or, The Winning of a Continent. With 12 page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 6s. Mr. Henty tells the story of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy on the North American continent. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations. "A moving tale of military exploit and thrilling adventure."--_Daily News._ * * * * * G. A. HENTY -- Held Fast for England: A Tale of the Siege of Gibraltar. With 8 page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 5s. The story deals with one of the most memorable sieges in history. The hero, a young Englishman resident in Gibraltar, takes a brave and worthy part in the long defence, and we learn with what bravery, resourcefulness, and tenacity the Rock was held for England. "There is no cessation of exciting incident throughout the story."--_Athenæum._ -- In the Irish Brigade: A Tale of War in Flanders and Spain. With 12 page Illustrations by CHARLES M. SHELDON. 6s. The hero is a young officer in the Irish Brigade, which for many years after the siege of Limerick formed the backbone of the French army. He goes through many stirring adventures, successfully carries out dangerous missions in Spain, saves a large portion of the French army at Oudenarde, and even has the audacity to kidnap the Prime Minister of England. "A stirring book of military adventure."--_Scotsman._ -- At Agincourt: A Tale of the White Hoods of Paris. With 12 page Illustrations by WAL PAGET. 6s. Sir Eustace de Villeroy, in journeying from Hampshire to his castle in France, made young Guy Aylmer one of his escort. Soon thereafter the castle was attacked, and the English youth displayed such valour that his liege-lord made him commander of a special mission to Paris. This he accomplished, returning in time to take part in the campaign against the French which ended in the glorious victory for England at Agincourt. "Cannot fail to commend itself to boys of all ages."--_Manchester Courier._ -- A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. With 8 page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 5s. The hero, a young Englishman, emigrates to Australia, where he gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work gain him promotion to a captaincy. In that post he greatly distinguishes himself, and finally leaves the service and settles down as a squatter. "A stirring story capitally told."--_Guardian_. * * * * * "Young readers have no better friends than Blackie & Son."--_Westminster Gazette._ Blackie & Son's Story Books for Boys G. MANVILLE FENN Dick o' the Fens: A Romance of the Great East Swamp. With 12 page Illustrations by FRANK DADD. 6s. Dick o' the Fens and Tom o'Grimsey are the sons of a squire and a farmer living in Lincolnshire. Many sketches of their shooting and fishing experiences are related, while the record of the fenmen's stealthy resistance to the great draining scheme is full of keen interest. The ambushes and shots in the mist and dark, and the long-baffled attempts to trace the lurking foe, are described with Mr. Fenn's wonted skill. "Mr. Fenn has here very nearly attained perfection. Life in the Fens in the old ante-drainage days is admirably reproduced. We have not of late come across a historical fiction, whether intended for boys or for men, which deserves to be so heartily praised as regards plot, incidents, and spirit. It is its author's masterpiece as yet."--_Spectator._ -- Nat the Naturalist: A Boy's Adventures in the Eastern Seas. With 8 page Pictures by GORDON BROWNE. 5s. The boy Nat and his uncle go on a voyage to the islands of the Eastern seas to seek specimens in natural history, and their adventures there are full of interest and excitement. The descriptions of Mr. Ebony, their black comrade, and of the scenes of savage life sparkle with genuine humour. "This book encourages independence of character, develops resource, and teaches a boy to keep his eyes open."--_Saturday Review._ -- The Golden Magnet: A Tale of the Land of the Incas. With 12 page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 3s. The tale is of a romantic youth, who leaves home to seek his fortune in South America. He is accompanied by a faithful companion, who, in the capacity both of comrade and henchman, does true service, and shows the dogged courage of an English lad during their strange adventures. "There could be no more welcome present for a boy. There is not a dull page, and many will be read with breathless interest."--_Journal of Education._ * * * * * [Illustration: _From THE DIAMOND SEEKERS_ BY ERNEST GLANVILLE (See page 11)] Dr. GORDON STABLES, R.N. In the Great White Land: A Tale of the Antarctic Ocean. With 6 Illustrations by J. A. WALTON. 3s. 6d. This is a most fascinating story from beginning to end. It is a true picture of what daring healthful British men and boys can do, written by an author whose name is a household word wherever the English language is spoken. All is described with a master's hand, and the plot is just such as boys love. "The narrative goes with a swing and a dash from start to finish."--_Public Opinion._ ERNEST GLANVILLE The Diamond Seekers: A Story of Adventure in South Africa. With 8 Illustrations by WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I. 6s. The discovery of the plan of the diamond mine, the dangers incurred in reaching the wild, remote spot in an armoured wagon, and the many incidents of farm and veldt life, are vividly described by an author who knows the country well. "We have seldom seen a better story for boys."--_Guardian._ Capt. F. S. BRERETON, R.A.M.C. One of the Fighting Scouts: A Tale of Guerrilla Warfare in South Africa. With 8 Illustrations by STANLEY L. WOOD, and a Map. 5s. This story deals with the guerrilla aspect of the Boer War, and shows how George Ransome is compelled to leave his father's farm and take service with the British. He is given the command of a band of scouts as a reward for gallantry, and with these he punishes certain rebels for a piece of rascality, and successfully attacks Botha's commando. Thanks to his knowledge of the veldt he is of signal service to his country, and even outwits the redoubtable De Wet. "Altogether an unusually good story."--_Yorkshire Post._ -- Under the Spangled Banner: A Tale of the Spanish-American War. With 8 Illustrations by PAUL HARDY. 5s. Hal Marchant is in Cuba before the commencement of hostilities. A Spaniard who has been frustrated in an attempt to rob Hal's employer attacks the hacienda and is defeated, but turns the tables by denouncing Hal as a spy. The hero makes good his escape from Santiago, and afterwards fights for America both on land and at sea. The story gives a vivid and at the same time accurate account of this memorable struggle. "Just the kind of book that a boy would delight in."--_Schoolmaster._ FREDERICK HARRISON The Boys of Wynport College. With 6 Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING. 3s. _New Edition._ The hero and his chums differ as widely in character as in personal appearance. We have Patrick O'Fflahertie, the good-natured Irish boy; Jack Brookes, the irrepressible humorist; Davie Jackson, the true-hearted little lad, on whose haps and mishaps the plot to a great extent turns; and the hero himself, who finds in his experiences at Wynport College a wholesome corrective of a somewhat lax home training. "A book which no well-regulated school-boy should be without."--_Whitehall Review._ LÉON GOLSCHMANN Boy Crusoes: A Story of the Siberian Forest. Adapted from the Russian by LÉON GOLSCHMANN. With 6 page Illustrations by J. FINNEMORE, R.I. 3s. 6d. Two Russian lads are so deeply impressed by reading _Robinson Crusoe_ that they run away from home. They lose their way in a huge trackless forest, and for two years are kept busy hunting for food, fighting against wolves and other enemies, and labouring to increase their comforts, before they are rescued. "This is a story after a boy's own heart."--_Nottingham Guardian._ MEREDITH FLETCHER Every Inch a Briton: A School Story. With 6 page Illustrations by SYDNEY COWELL. 3s. 6d. This story is written from the point of view of an ordinary boy, who gives an animated account of a young public-schoolboy's life. No moral is drawn; yet the story indicates a kind of training that goes to promote veracity, endurance, and enterprise; and of each of several of the characters it might be truly said, he is worthy to be called, "Every Inch a Briton". "In _Every Inch a Briton_ Mr. Meredith Fletcher has scored a success."--_Manchester Guardian._ EDGAR PICKERING In Press-Gang Days. With 4 illustrations by W. S. STACEY. 2s. 6d. _New Edition._ In this story Harry Waring is caught by the Press-gang and carried on board His Majesty's ship _Sandwich_. He takes part in the mutiny of the Nore, and shares in some hard fighting on board the _Phoenix_. He is with Nelson, also, at the storming of Santa Cruz, and the battle of the Nile. "It is of Marryat, that friend of our boyhood, we think as we read this delightful story; for it is not only a story of adventure, with incidents well-conceived and arranged, but the characters are interesting and well-distinguished."--_Academy._ FRED SMITH The Boyhood of a Naturalist. With 6 page Illustrations. 3s. 6d. _New Edition._ Few lovers of Nature have given to the world a series of recollections so entertaining, so vigorous, and so instinct with life as these delightful reminiscences. The author takes the reader with him in the rambles in which he spent the happiest hours of his boyhood, a humble observer of the myriad forms of life in field and copse, by stream and hedgerow. "We cannot too highly recommend the book to all readers."--_Guardian._ The World of Animal Life. Edited by FRED SMITH. Profusely Illustrated with Engravings after F. SPECHT and other eminent artists. 5s. The aim of _The World of Animal Life_ is to give in non-scientific language an account of those inhabitants of the land, sea, and sky with whose names we are all familiar, but concerning whose manner of life the majority of us have only the haziest conceptions. "An admirable volume for the young mind enquiring after Nature."--_Birmingham Gazette._ EDGAR PICKERING An Old-Time Yarn: Adventures in the West Indies and Mexico with Hawkins and Drake. With 6 page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 3s. 6d. The hero sails from Plymouth in the flagship of Master John Hawkins. Divers are the perils through which he passes. Chief of these are the destruction of the English ships by the treacherous Spaniards, the fight round the burning vessels, the journey of the prisoners to the city of Mexico, the horrors of the Inquisition, and the final escape to England. "An excellent story of adventure.... The book is thoroughly to be recommended."--_Guardian._ CLIVE PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY Gold, Gold in Cariboo: A Story of Adventure in British Columbia. With 4 Illustrations by G. C. HINDLEY. 2s. 6d. _New Edition._ Ned Corbett, a young Englishman, and his companion set out with a pack-train in order to obtain gold on the upper reaches of the Fraser River. After innumerable adventures, and a life-and-death struggle with the Arctic weather of that wild region, they find the secret gold-mines for which they have toilsomely searched. "It would be difficult to say too much in favour of _Gold, Gold in Cariboo_. We have seldom read a more exciting tale of wild mining adventure in a singularly inaccessible country. There is a capital plot, and the interest is sustained to the last page."--_The Times._ ROBERT LEIGHTON The Golden Galleon. With 6 Illustrations by W. RAINEY, R.I. 3s. _New Edition._ Gilbert Oglander, and his friend, Timothy Trollope, join in Lord Thomas Howard's expedition to intercept the Spanish treasure-fleet from the West Indies, and are on board _The Revenge_ in the memorable fight between that one little man-of-war and fifty-three great galleons of Spain. After the battle come storm and shipwreck, and the lads, having drifted for days, find refuge on board a derelict galleon, whence they are rescued and brought home to England. "A well-constructed and lively historical romance."--_Spectator._ S. BARING-GOULD Grettir the Outlaw: A Story of Iceland in the days of the Vikings. With 6 page Illustrations by M. ZENO DIEMER. 3s. A narrative of adventure of the most romantic kind. No boy will be able to withstand the magic of such scenes as the fight of Grettir with the twelve bearserks, the wrestle with Karr the Old in the chamber of the dead, the combat with the spirit of Glam the thrall, and the defence of the dying Grettir by his younger brother. "Has a freshness, a freedom, a sense of sun and wind and the open air, which make it irresistible."--_National Observer._ C. J. CUTCLIFFE HYNE The Captured Cruiser: or, Two Years from Land. With 6 page Illustrations by F. BRANGWYN. 3s. 6d. The central incidents deal with the capture, during the war between Chili and Peru, of an armed cruiser. The heroes and their companions break from prison in Valparaiso, board this warship in the night, overpower the watch, escape to sea under the fire of the forts, and finally, after marvellous adventures, lose the cruiser among the icebergs near Cape Horn. "The two lads and the two skippers are admirably drawn. Mr. Hyne has now secured a position in the first rank of writers of fiction for boys."--_Spectator._ -- Stimson's Reef: With 4 page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY. 2s. 6d. This is the extended log of a cutter which sailed from the Clyde to the Amazon in search of a gold reef. It relates how they discovered the buccaneer's treasure in the Spanish Main, fought the Indians, turned aside the river Jamary by blasting, and so laid bare the gold of _Stimson's Reef_. "Few stories come within hailing distance of Stimson's Reef in startling incidents and hairbreadth 'scapes. It may almost vie with Mr. R. L. Stevenson's _Treasure Island_."--_Guardian._ * * * * * [Illustration: _From ONE OF THE FIGHTING SCOUTS_ BY CAPT. F. S. BRERETON (See page 11)] * * * * * R. STEAD Grit will Tell: The Adventures of a Barge-boy. With 4 Illustrations by D. CARLETON SMYTH. Cloth, 2s. 6d. A lad whose name has been lost amidst early buffetings by hard fortune suffers many hardships at the hands of a bargeman, his master, and runs away. The various adventures and experiences with which he meets on the road to success, the bear-hunt in which he takes part, and the battle at which he acts as war correspondent, form a story of absorbing interest and after a boy's own heart. "A thoroughly wholesome and attractive book."--_Graphic._ HARRY COLLINGWOOD The Pirate Island. With 6 page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND and J. R. WELLS. 3s. _New Edition._ By a deed of true gallantry the hero's whole destiny is changed, and, going to sea, he forms one of a party who, after being burned out of their ship in the South Pacific, are picked up by a pirate brig and taken to the "Pirate Island". After many thrilling adventures, they ultimately succeed in effecting their escape. "A capital story of the sea; indeed in our opinion the author is superior in some respects as a marine novelist to the better-known Mr. Clark Russell."--_Times._ FLORENCE COOMBE Boys of the Priory School. With 4 page Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING. 2s. 6d. The interest centres in the relations of Raymond and Hal Wentworth, and the process by which Raymond, the hero of the school, learns that in the person of his ridiculed cousin there beats a heart more heroic than his own. "It is an excellent work of its class, cleverly illustrated with 'real boys' by Mr. Harold Copping."--_Literature._ JOHN C. HUTCHESON Afloat at Last: A Sailor Boy's Log. With 6 page Illustrations by W. H. OVEREND. 3s. 6d. From the stowing of the vessel in the Thames to her recovery from the Pratas Reef on which she is stranded, everything is described with the accuracy of perfect practical knowledge of ships and sailors; and the incidents of the story range from the broad humours of the fo'c's'le to the perils of flight from, and fight with, the pirates of the China Seas. "As healthy and breezy a book as one could wish."--_Academy._ * * * * * Blackie & Son's Story Books for Girls ETHEL F. HEDDLE A Mystery of St. Rule's. With 8 Illustrations by G. DEMAIN HAMMOND, R.I. 6s. _Illustrated Edition._ "The author has been amazingly successful in keeping her secret almost to the end. Yet the mystery attending a stolen diamond of great value is so skilfully handled that several perfectly innocent persons seem all but hopelessly identified with the disappearance of the gem. Cleverly, however, as this aspect of the story has been managed, it has other sources of strength."--_Scotsman._ "The chief interest ... lies in the fascinating young adventuress, who finds a temporary nest in the old professor's family, and wins all hearts in St. Rule's by her beauty and her sweetness."--_Morning Leader._ "Into the dignified atmosphere of a northerly academic town Miss Ethel Heddle introduces a coil of events worthy of Wilkie Collins."--_Manchester Guardian._ KATHARINE TYNAN A Girl of Galway. With 8 full-page Illustrations by JOHN H. BACON. 6s. When Bertha Grace is on the threshold of young womanhood, she goes to stay with her grandfather in Ireland, with the trust from her mother of reconciling him and his son, Bertha's father. Bertha finds her grandfather a recluse and a miser, and in the hands of an underling, who is his evil genius. How she keeps faith with her mother and finds her own fate, through many strange adventures, is the subject of the story. "Full of the poetic charm we are accustomed to find in the works of that gifted writer."--_World._ CAROLINE AUSTIN Cousin Geoffrey and I. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. 3s. The only daughter of a country gentleman finds herself unprovided for at her father's death, and for some time lives as a dependant upon her kinsman. Life is saved from being unbearable to her by her young cousin Geoffrey, who at length meets with a serious accident for which she is held responsible. She makes a brave attempt to earn her own livelihood, until a startling event brings her cousin Geoffrey and herself together again. "Miss Austin's story is bright, clever, and well developed."--_Saturday Review._ ELLINOR DAVENPORT ADAMS A Queen among Girls. With 6 Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING. Cloth, 3s. 6d. Augusta Pembroke is the head of her school, the favourite of her teachers and fellow-pupils, who are attracted by her fearless and independent nature and her queenly bearing. She dreams of a distinguished professional career; but the course of her life is changed suddenly by pity for her timid little brother Adrian, the victim of his guardian-uncle's harshness. The story describes the daring means adopted by Augusta for Adrian's relief. "An interesting and well-written narrative, in which humour and a keen eye for character unite to produce a book happily adapted for modern maidens."--_Globe._ -- A Girl of To-Day. With 6 page Illustrations by G. D. HAMMOND, R.I. 3s. 6d. "What are Altruists?" humbly asks a small boy. "They are only people who try to help others," replies the Girl of To-Day. To help their poorer neighbours, the boys and girls of Woodend band themselves together into the _Society of Altruists_. That they have plenty of fun is seen in the shopping expedition and in the successful Christmas entertainment. "It is a spirited story. The characters are true to nature and carefully developed. Such a book as this is exactly what is needed to give a school-girl an interest in the development of character."--_Educational Times._ FRANCES ARMSTRONG A Girl's Loyalty. With 6 Illustrations by JOHN H. BACON. Cloth, 3s. 6d. New Edition. When she was still but a child, Helen Grant received from her grandfather, on his death-bed, a secret message. The brief words remained fast in her memory, and dominated her whole career. She was loyal to her trust, however, and to her friends in the hour of their need. For the girl was possessed of that quick courage which leaps up in a shy nature when evil-doers have to be unmasked, and wrongs made right. "The one book for girls that stands out this year is Miss Frances Armstrong's _A Girl's Loyalty_."--_Review of Reviews._ G. NORWAY A True Cornish Maid. With 6 page Illustrations by J. FINNEMORE. 3s. 6d. The heroine of the tale is sister to a young fellow who gets into trouble in landing a contraband cargo on the Cornish coast. In his extremity the girl stands by her brother bravely, and by means of her daring scheme he manages to escape. "The success of the year has fallen, we think, to Mrs. Norway, whose _True Cornish Maid_ is really an admirable piece of work."--_Review of Reviews._ * * * * * [Illustration: _From A MYSTERY OF ST. RULE'S_ BY ETHEL F. HEDDLE (See page 17)] * * * * * ROSA MULHOLLAND (LADY GILBERT) The Girls of Banshee Castle. With 6 Illustrations by JOHN H. BACON. Cloth, 3s. 6d. _New Edition._ Three girls, with an old governess, migrate from Kensington to the West of Ireland. Belonging as they do to "the ould family", the girls are made heartily welcome in the cabins of the peasantry, where they learn many weird and curious tales from the folk-lore of the district. An interesting plot runs through the narrative, but the charm of the story lies in its happy mingling of Irish humour and pathos. "Is told with grace, and brightened by a knowledge of Irish folk-lore, making it a perfect present for a girl in her teens."--_Truth._ -- Gianetta: A Girl's Story of Herself. With 6 full-page Illustrations by LOCKHART BOGLE. 3s. The story of a changeling who is suddenly transferred to the position of a rich English heiress. She develops into a good and accomplished woman, and has gained too much love and devotion to be a sufferer by the surrender of her estates. ANNIE E. ARMSTRONG Violet Vereker's Vanity. With 6 full-page Illustrations by G. DEMAIN HAMMOND, R.I. 3s. 6d. The heroine was an excellent girl in most respects. But she had one small weakness, which expressed itself in a snobbish dislike of her neighbours, the Sugdens, whose social position she deemed beneath her own. In the end, however, the girl acknowledged her folly, with results which are sure to delight the reader. "A book for girls that we can heartily recommend, for it is bright, sensible, and with a right tone of thought and feeling."--_Sheffield Independent._ ALICE CORKRAN Margery Merton's Girlhood. With 6 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 3s. 6d. The experiences of an orphan girl who in infancy is left by her father an officer in India--to the care of an elderly aunt residing near Paris. The accounts of the various persons who have an after influence on the story are singularly vivid. "_Margery Merton's Girlhood_ is a piece of true literature, as dainty as it is delicate, and as sweet as it is simple."--_Woman's World._ ELIZA F. POLLARD For the Red Rose. With 4 Illustrations by JAMES DURDEN. 2s. 6d. A gipsy finds a little girl in the forest of Wimbourne, after the sacking of the castle by the Yorkists. He carries her to the camp and she is adopted by the tribe. The story tells how, when some years later Margaret of Anjou and her son are wrecked on the coast of England, the gipsy girl follows the fortunes of the exiled queen, and by what curious chain of events her own origin is discovered. "This is a good story, and of special interest to lovers of historical romance."--_Court Circular._ MRS. E. J. LYSAGHT Brother and Sister: With 6 page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 3s. 6d. A story showing, by the narrative of the vicissitudes and struggles of a family which has "come down in the world", and of the brave endeavours of its two younger members, how the pressure of adversity is mitigated by domestic affection, mutual confidence, and hopeful honest effort. "A pretty story, and well told. The plot is cleverly constructed, and the moral is excellent."--_Athenæum._ ANNE BEALE The Heiress of Courtleroy. With 8 full-page Illustrations by T. C. H. CASTLE. 5s. Mimica, the heroine, comes to England as an orphan, and is coldly received by her uncle. The girl has a brave nature, however, and succeeds in saving the estate from ruin and in reclaiming her uncle from the misanthropical disregard of his duties as a landlord. "One of the very best of girl's books we have seen."--_Sheffield Telegraph._ SARAH TYTLER A Loyal Little Maid. With 4 page Illustrations by PAUL HARDY. 2s. 6d. This pretty story is founded on a romantic episode of Mar's rebellion. A little girl has information which concerns the safety of her father in hiding, and this she firmly refuses to divulge to a king's officer. She is lodged in the Tolbooth, where she finds a boy champion, whom in future years she rescues in Paris from the _lettre de cachet_ which would bury him in the Bastille. "Has evidently been a pleasure to write, and makes very enjoyable reading."--_Literature._ * * * * * [Illustration: _From THE FAIRCLOUGH FAMILY_ BY MRS. HENRY CLARKE (See page 24)] * * * * * GERALDINE MOCKLER The Four Miss Whittingtons: A Story for Girls. With 8 full-page Illustrations by CHARLES M. SHELDON. 5s. This story tells how four sisters, left alone in the world, went to London to seek their fortunes. They had between them £400, and this they resolved to spend on training themselves for the different careers for which they were severally most fitted. On their limited means this was hard work, but their courageous experiment was on the whole very successful. "A story of endeavour, industry, and independence of spirit."--_World._ ALICE STRONACH A Newnham Friendship. With 6 full-page Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING. 3s. 6d. A sympathetic description of life at Newnham College. After the tripos excitements, some of the students leave their dream-world of study and talk of "cocoas" and debates and athletics to begin their work in the real world. Men students play their part in the story, and in the closing chapters it is suggested that marriage has its place in a girl graduate's life. "Foremost among all the gift-books suitable for school-girls this season stands Miss Alice Stronach's _A Newnham Friendship_."--_Daily Graphic._ BESSIE MARCHANT The Secret of the Everglades. With 4 Illustrations by A. A. DIXON. 2s. 6d. The father of the Osneys is supposed to have been killed whilst trapping in the Everglades of Florida. The family organize a series of expeditions to search for their father; but the secret of the swamp is hard to solve, and the end of the book is reached before the mystery is made clear. "A fresh and original story of incident and adventure in the mysterious Florida swamps. An excellent and engrossing story."--_St. James's Gazette._ -- Three Girls on a Ranch: A Story of New Mexico. With 4 page Illustrations by W. E. WEBSTER. 2s. 6d. The Lovell family emigrate from England to New Mexico, where they settle on a ranch. Mr. Lovell is delicate and unfit for farming, but the three eldest girls take upon themselves the burden of working the ranch. They have adventures of a perilous kind, and the story of their mishaps and how they overcame them is throughout both exciting and stimulating. "A story with a fresh, bright theme, well handled."--_Nottingham Guardian._ "A rousing book for young people."--_Queen._ MRS. HENRY CLARKE The Fairclough Family. With 6 Illustrations by G. D. HAMMOND, R.I. Cloth, 3s. 6d. It was matter for amazement when Ronald Hammersley fell in love with Kathy Fairclough, who was considered a blue-stocking, instead of with her younger sister Nell, whom Mrs. Hammersley had chosen for him. Why Mrs. Hammersley desired her wealthy stepson to marry one of Dr. Fairclough's penniless daughters was a secret. How the secret became known, and nearly wrecked the happiness of Kathy and Ronald, is told in the story. But all ends well, and to the sound of marriage bells. "One of those stories which all girls enjoy."--_World._ J. M. CALLWELL A Little Irish Girl. Illustrated by H. COPPING. 2s. 6d. An orphaned family inherit a small property on the coast of Clare. The two youngest members of the party have some thrilling adventures in their western home. They encounter seals, smugglers, and a ghost, and lastly, by most startling means, they succeed in restoring their eldest brother to his rightful place as heir to the ancestral estates. "Sure to prove of thrilling interest to both boys and girls."--_Literary World._ E. EVERETT-GREEN Miriam's Ambition. With illustrations. 2s. 6d. Miriam's ambition is to make someone happy, and her endeavour carries with it a train of incident, solving a mystery which had thrown a shadow over several lives. A charming foil to her grave elder sister is to be found in Miss Babs, a small coquette of five, whose humorous child-talk is so attractive. "Miss Everett-Green's children are real British boys and girls, not small men and women. Babs is a charming little one."--_Liverpool Mercury._ EMMA LESLIE Gytha's Message: A Tale of Saxon England. With Illustrations. 2s. 6d. We get a glimpse of the stirring events taking place at that period; and both boys and girls will delight to read of the home life of Hilda and Gytha, and of the brave deeds of the impulsive Gurth and the faithful Leofric. "This is a charmingly told story. It is the sort of book that all girls and some boys like, and can only get good from."--_Journal of Education._ * * * * * Blackie & Son's Finely Illustrated Books for Children STEWART ORR--JOHN BRYMER Two Merry Mariners. Pictures by STEWART ORR; Verses by JOHN BRYMER. Cover design and 24 pages in full colour. Picture boards, cloth back, 6s. This delightful volume tells in picture and verse how Dick and his friend the Hare sailed to the Downy Isle, the adventures they met with in that strange country, their encounter with the Dragon, and their remarkable voyage home. Mr. Orr exhibits in these designs a rare combination of humorous invention with brilliant draughtsmanship and command of colour, and the author supports him with a series of racy verses. "The illustrations are masterpieces of drollery."--_Manchester Courier._ "The verses are very funny and original."--_World._ JOHN HASSALL--CLIFTON BINGHAM Six and Twenty Boys and Girls. Pictures by JOHN HASSALL; Verses by CLIFTON BINGHAM. 25 pages in full colour, and 24 pages of letterpress. Picture boards, 9 inches by 11-1/4 inches, cloth back, 3s. 6d.; also cloth elegant, 5s. Most of us know some at least of the little girls and boys portrayed by Mr. Hassall in this amusing picture-book. As depicted with Mr. Hassall's inimitable skill, and described in humorous verse by Mr. Bingham, they may challenge comparison with the classic Struwwelpeter. Each picture is not only attractive and amusing in itself, but furnishes a hint of virtues to be imitated or faults to be avoided. "Exactly hits the mark."--_Scotsman._ "A most original picture-book."--_World._ MRS. PERCY DEARMER Roundabout Rhymes. With 20 full-page Illustrations in colour by Mrs. PERCY DEARMER. Imperial 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d. A charming volume of verses and colour pictures for little folk--rhymes and pictures about most of the everyday events of nursery life. "The best verses written for children since Stevenson's _Child's Garden_."--_The Guardian._ STEWART ORR--JOHN BRYMER Gammon and Spinach: Pictures by STEWART ORR. Verses by JOHN BRYMER. Cover design and 24 pages in Full Colour. Picture boards, cloth back, 6s. In _Gammon and Spinach_ Mr. Stewart Orr has produced a picture-book unique of its kind. Nothing could be more droll than the situations in which he represents the frog, the pig, the mouse, the elephant, and the other well-known characters who appear in his pages. Little folk will find in these pictures a source of endless delight, and the artistic skill which they display will have a special appeal to children of an older growth. "Merry and handsome enough to make thousands of friends among little folk, what with its original verses and its amusing pictures."--_Literary World._ "The book should attain a wide popularity in the nursery."--_Morning Post._ H. B. NEILSON--JOHN BRYMER Games and Gambols. Illustrated by HARRY B. NEILSON; with Verses by JOHN BRYMER. 26 pages in colour, and 24 pages of letterpress. Picture boards, 9 inches by 11-1/4 inches, cloth back, 2s. 6d.; also cloth elegant, 3s. 6d. Mr. Neilson surpasses himself in these irresistible colour pictures representing the animal world at play. The great test match between the Lions and the Kangaroos, Mrs. Mouse's Ping-Pong Party, Mr. Bruin playing Golf, Towser's Bicycle Tour, and the Kittens _v._ Bunnies Football Match, are a few among the many droll subjects illustrated in this amusing and original series. "Mr. Neilson has a positive genius for making animals comic."--_Academy._ "Children will revel in his work."--_Daily Graphic._ FRED SMITH The Animal Book. A Natural History for Little Folk. With a Coloured Frontispiece and 34 full-page Illustrations by F. SPECHT. Crown quarto, 11-1/4 inches by 9-1/2 inches, picture boards, cloth back, 2s. 6d. This book consists of a series of bright and instructive sketches of the better-known wild beasts, describing their appearance, character and habits, and the position they hold in the animal kingdom. The text is printed in a large, clear type, and is admirably illustrated with powerful, realistic pictures of the various creatures in their native state by that eminent animal artist F. Specht. "A work of the greatest value to the young."--_Eastern Morning News._ * * * * * [Illustration: _From SIX AND TWENTY BOYS AND GIRLS_ BY JOHN HASSALL--CLIFTON BINGHAM (See page 25)] * * * * * OUR DARLING'S FIRST BOOK Bright Pictures and Easy Lessons for Little Folk. Quarto, 10-1/8 inches by 7-3/4 inches, picture boards, 1s.; cloth, gilt edges, 2s. An interesting and instructive picture lesson-book for very little folk. Beginning with an illustrated alphabet of large letters, the little reader goes forward by easy stages to word-making, reading, counting, writing, and finally to the most popular nursery rhymes and tales. "The very perfection of a child's alphabet and spelling-book."--_St. James's Budget._ ELLINOR DAVENPORT ADAMS Those Twins! With a Frontispiece and 28 Illustrations by S. B. PEARSE. Cloth elegant, 2s. 6d. Two little rogues are the twins, Horatio and Tommy; but loyal-hearted and generous to boot, and determined to resist the stern decree of their aunt that they shall forsake the company of their scapegrace grown-up cousin Algy. So they deliberately set to work to "reform" the scapegrace; and succeed so well that he wins back the love of his aunt, and delights the twins by earning a V. C. in South Africa. "A merry story for young and old."--_World._ A. B. ROMNEY Little Village Folk. With 37 Illustrations by ROBERT HOPE. 2s. 6d. A series of delightful stories of Irish village children. Miss Romney opens up a new field in these beautiful little tales, which have the twofold charm of humour and poetic feeling. "A story-book that will be welcomed wherever it makes its way."--_Literary World._ MY NEW STORY-BOOK Stories, Verses, and Pictures for the Little Ones. 290 pages, of which 48 are in colour. Cloth, 2s. 6d. A treasury of entertainment for the nursery. The contents are extremely varied both as regards the text and the illustrations, and carefully designed to meet the tastes of the little ones. The many bright colour pictures will be in themselves a never-failing source of delight. "A fascinating little volume, well filled with stories and quaint and pretty illustrations."--_Guardian._ * * * * * STORIES BY GEORGE MAC DONALD (NEW AND UNIFORM EDITION) A Rough Shaking. With 12 page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 3s. 6d. Clare, the hero of the story, is a boy whose mother is killed at his side by the fall of a church during an earthquake. The kindly clergyman and his wife, who adopt him, die while he is still very young, and he is thrown upon the world a second time. The narrative of his wanderings is full of interest and novelty, the boy's unswerving honesty and his passion for children and animals leading him into all sorts of adventures. He works on a farm, supports a baby in an old deserted house, finds employment in a menagerie, becomes a bank clerk, is kidnapped, and ultimately discovers his father on board the ship to which he has been conveyed. At the Back of the North Wind. With 75 Illustrations by ARTHUR HUGHES, and a Frontispiece by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 3s. 6d. "In _At the Back of the North Wind_ we stand with one foot in fairyland and one on common earth. The story is thoroughly original, full of fancy and pathos."--_The Times._ Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood. With 36 Illustrations by ARTHUR HUGHES. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 3s. 6d. "Dr. Mac Donald has a real understanding of boy nature, and he has in consequence written a capital story, judged from their stand-point, with a true ring all through which ensures its success."--_The Spectator._ The Princess and the Goblin. With 30 Illustrations by ARTHUR HUGHES, and a Frontispiece by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 3s. 6d. In the sphere of fantasy George Mac Donald has very few equals, and his rare touch of many aspects of life invariably gives to his stories a deeper meaning of the highest value. His _Princess and Goblin_ exemplifies both gifts. A fine thread of allegory runs through the narrative of the adventures of the young miner, who, amongst other marvellous experiences, finds his way into the caverns of the gnomes, and achieves a final victory over them. The Princess and Curdie. With Frontispiece and 30 Illustrations by HELEN STRATTON. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 3s. 6d. A sequel to _The Princess and the Goblin_, tracing the history of the young miner and the princess after the return of the latter to her father's court, where more terrible foes have to be encountered than the grotesque earth-dwellers. * * * * * [Illustration: Some Children's Picture-Books (See page 32)] * * * * * NEW "GRADUATED" SERIES _With coloured frontispiece and black-and-white illustrations_ No child of six or seven should have any difficulty in reading and understanding _unaided_ the pretty stories in the 6d. series. In the 9d. series the language used is slightly more advanced, but is well within the capacity of children of seven and upwards, while the 1s. series is designed for little folk of somewhat greater attainments. If the stories are read _to_ and not _by_ children, it will be found that the 6d. 9d. and 1s. series are equally suitable for little folk of all ages. "GRADUATED" STORIES AT A SHILLING Holidays at Sunnycroft. By Annie S. Swan. _New Edition._ At Lathom's Siege. By Sarah Tytler. Fleckie. By Bessie Marchant. Elsie Wins. By Ellinor Davenport Adams Bears and Dacoits. By G. A. Henty. Crusoes of the Frozen North. By Dr. Gordon Stables. A Saxon Maid. By Eliza F. Pollard. Uncle Bob. By Meredith Fletcher. Jack of Both Sides. By Florence Coombe. Do Your Duty! By G. A. Henty. Terry. By Rosa Mulholland (Lady Gilbert). "GRADUATED" STORIES AT NINEPENCE Gipsy Dick. By Mrs. Henry Clarke. Two to One. By Florence Coombe. Cherrythorpe Fair. By Mabel Mackness. Little Greycoat. By Ellinor Davenport Adams. Tommy's Trek. By Bessie Marchant. That Boy Jim. By Mrs. Henry Clarke. The Adventures of Carlo. By Katharine Tynan. The Shoeblack's Cat. By W. L. Rooper. Three Troublesome Monkeys. By A. B. Romney. The Little Red Purse. By Jennie Chappell. "GRADUATED" STORIES AT SIXPENCE Hi-Tum, Ti-Tum, and Scrub. By Jennie Chappell. Edie's Adventures. By Geraldine Mockler. Two Little Crusoes. By A. B. Romney. The Lost Doll. By Jennie Chappell. Bunny and Furry. By Geraldine Mockler. Bravest of All. By Mabel Mackness. Winnie's White Frock. By Jennie Chappell. Lost Toby. By M. S. Haycraft. A Boy Cousin. By Geraldine Mockler. Travels of Fuzz and Buzz. By Geraldine Mockler. Teddy's Adventures. By Mrs. Henry Clarke. NEW CHILDREN'S PICTURE-BOOKS Each of these books contains many full-page and other illustrations, a number of which are in colour. The text is printed in bold type, and comprises bright and humorous stories and rhymes, specially written for the purpose. IN DOORS AND OUT | STORY-BOOK TIME Each contains 38 colour pages, over 40 full-page black-and-white Illustrations, and a large number of Vignettes. Quarto, 10-1/8 inches by 7-3/4 inches, picture boards, 2s. 6d. each; cloth, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. each. TWO SHILLING SERIES _Quarto, 10-1/8 inches by 7-3/4 inches_ Faithful Friends. My Book of Nursery Stories. My Very Best Book Arm-chair Stories. My Very Own Picture-Book. Cosy Corner Stories. Our Darling's First Book Twenty pages in colour. Cloth, gilt edges, 2s.; picture boards, 1s. EIGHTEENPENNY SERIES _Cloth, 5-1/2 inches by 6-7/8 inches_ My Pretty Picture-Book. Sunbeams. SIXPENNY SERIES _Quarto, 10-1/8 inches by 7-3/4 inches_ Bow-Wow Picture-Book. Cats and Kits. Friends at the Farm. Once upon a Time. Long, Long Ago. Fairy Tales for Little Folk. Smiles and Dimples. Little Bright-Eyes. For Kittie and Me. As Nice as Nice Can Be. Round the Mulberry Bush. Little Rosebud. For My Little Darling. For Dolly and Me. My Own Story-Book. Play-time Pictures. Bed-time Stories. For Little Chicks. The cover and seven pages in colour. Picture boards. ONE SHILLING SCRIPTURE SERIES _Picture boards. Quarto, 10-1/8 inches by 7-3/4 inches_ Stories from the Life of Christ Twenty pages in colour. Picture boards, 1s.; cloth, gilt edges, 2s. SIXPENNY SCRIPTURE SERIES Glad Tidings The Good Shepherd Gentle Jesus * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings. Obvious typographical errors in punctuation (misplaced quotes and the like) have been fixed. Corrections [in brackets] in the text are noted below: Inconsistent spelling?: Irkutsk (throughout) and Irkoutsk (pages 92, 94) Yuruks (page 287) and Yuraks (pages 220, 309) Mesentzeff (page 62) and Mezentsoff (page 66) Moskow (page 62), although Moscow elsewhere page 32: added quote "He is released from his suffering," Katia said solemnly. "Anything else, Akim?["] page 35: added quote as he entered. ["]It is a foolish business altogether, but if page 41: typo corrected "That is more cheerful by a long way," Godfrey said to himself as the man, who had mantained[maintained] absolute silence on page 46: added quote of being mixed up in the most remote way with politics, your best friends will shun you like the plague.["] page 61: extra quote removed grave. Nothing was said until the servant, having handed round the dishes, left the room.["] page 69: typo corrected Ireland. There are the Guards in London, but the populalation[population] is so large that you might go a week without seeing page 117: added quote political prisoners now. We might be honest peasants if it were not for these confounded heads of hair.["] page 122: typo corrected "we should have been down on the Selinga[Selenga] to-morrow, and we had calculated page 132: extra quote removed lifting the eyelid. "He is coming round now," he said at last.["] A few more passes and the child drowsily opened page 198: added hyphen On the fourth day they saw a small farm[-]house lying not far from the edge of the wood. page 240: added hyphen fishing, keeping holes broken in the ice and catching fish by torch[-]light. The men walked with the sledges, which only page 250: typo corrected "The isvostchiks[Isvostchiks] are often frozen in St. Petersburg in page 276: added comma "It may be either a fox or a bear," Luka said[,] making his way farther back into the hut, and returning with his 
958	----	RINKITINK IN OZ by L. Frank Baum Wherein is recorded the Perilous Quest of Prince Inga of Pingaree and King Rinkitink in the Magical Isles that lie beyond the Borderland of Oz By L. Frank Baum "Royal Historian of Oz" Introducing this Story Here is a story with a boy hero, and a boy of whom you have never before heard. There are girls in the story, too, including our old friend Dorothy, and some of the characters wander a good way from the Land of Oz before they all assemble in the Emerald City to take part in Ozma's banquet. Indeed, I think you will find this story quite different from the other histories of Oz, but I hope you will not like it the less on that account. If I am permitted to write another Oz book it will tell of some thrilling adventures encountered by Dorothy, Betsy Bobbin, Trot and the Patchwork Girl right in the Land of Oz, and how they discovered some amazing creatures that never could have existed outside a fairy-land. I have an idea that about the time you are reading this story of Rinkitink I shall be writing that story of Adventures in Oz. Don't fail to write me often and give me your advice and suggestions, which I always appreciate. I get a good many letters from my readers, but every one is a joy to me and I answer them as soon as I can find time to do so. "OZCOT" at HOLLYWOOD in CALIFORNIA, 1916. L. FRANK BAUM Royal Historian of Oz LIST OF CHAPTERS 1 The Prince of Pingaree 2 The Coming of King Rinkitink 3 The Warriors from the North 4 The Deserted Island 5 The Three Pearls 6 The Magic Boat 7 The Twin Islands 8 Rinkitink Makes a Great Mistake 9 A Present for Zella 10 The Cunning of Queen Cor 11 Zella Goes to Coregos 12 The Excitement of Bilbil the Goat 13 Zella Saves the Prince 14 The Escape 15 The Flight of the Rulers 16 Nikobob Refuses a Crown 17 The Nome King 18 Inga Parts With His Pink Pearl 19 Rinkitink Chuckles 20 Dorothy to the Rescue 21 The Wizard Finds an Enchantment 22 Ozma's Banquet 23 The Pearl Kingdom 24 The Captive King Chapter One The Prince of Pingaree If you have a map of the Land of Oz handy, you will find that the great Nonestic Ocean washes the shores of the Kingdom of Rinkitink, between which and the Land of Oz lies a strip of the country of the Nome King and a Sandy Desert. The Kingdom of Rinkitink isn't very big and lies close to the ocean, all the houses and the King's palace being built near the shore. The people live much upon the water, boating and fishing, and the wealth of Rinkitink is gained from trading along the coast and with the islands nearest it. Four days' journey by boat to the north of Rinkitink is the Island of Pingaree, and as our story begins here I must tell you something about this island. At the north end of Pingaree, where it is widest, the land is a mile from shore to shore, but at the south end it is scarcely half a mile broad; thus, although Pingaree is four miles long, from north to south, it cannot be called a very big island. It is exceedingly pretty, however, and to the gulls who approach it from the sea it must resemble a huge green wedge lying upon the waters, for its grass and trees give it the color of an emerald. The grass came to the edge of the sloping shores; the beautiful trees occupied all the central portion of Pingaree, forming a continuous grove where the branches met high overhead and there was just space beneath them for the cosy houses of the inhabitants. These houses were scattered everywhere throughout the island, so that there was no town or city, unless the whole island might be called a city. The canopy of leaves, high overhead, formed a shelter from sun and rain, and the dwellers in the grove could all look past the straight tree-trunks and across the grassy slopes to the purple waters of the Nonestic Ocean. At the big end of the island, at the north, stood the royal palace of King Kitticut, the lord and ruler of Pingaree. It was a beautiful palace, built entirely of snow-white marble and capped by domes of burnished gold, for the King was exceedingly wealthy. All along the coast of Pingaree were found the largest and finest pearls in the whole world. These pearls grew within the shells of big oysters, and the people raked the oysters from their watery beds, sought out the milky pearls and carried them dutifully to their King. Therefore, once every year His Majesty was able to send six of his boats, with sixty rowers and many sacks of the valuable pearls, to the Kingdom of Rinkitink, where there was a city called Gilgad, in which King Rinkitink's palace stood on a rocky headland and served, with its high towers, as a lighthouse to guide sailors to the harbor. In Gilgad the pearls from Pingaree were purchased by the King's treasurer, and the boats went back to the island laden with stores of rich merchandise and such supplies of food as the people and the royal family of Pingaree needed. The Pingaree people never visited any other land but that of Rinkitink, and so there were few other lands that knew there was such an island. To the southwest was an island called the Isle of Phreex, where the inhabitants had no use for pearls. And far north of Pingaree--six days' journey by boat, it was said--were twin islands named Regos and Coregos, inhabited by a fierce and warlike people. Many years before this story really begins, ten big boatloads of those fierce warriors of Regos and Coregos visited Pingaree, landing suddenly upon the north end of the island. There they began to plunder and conquer, as was their custom, but the people of Pingaree, although neither so big nor so strong as their foes, were able to defeat them and drive them all back to the sea, where a great storm overtook the raiders from Regos and Coregos and destroyed them and their boats, not a single warrior returning to his own country. This defeat of the enemy seemed the more wonderful because the pearl-fishers of Pingaree were mild and peaceful in disposition and seldom quarreled even among themselves. Their only weapons were their oyster rakes; yet the fact remains that they drove their fierce enemies from Regos and Coregos from their shores. King Kitticut was only a boy when this remarkable battle was fought, and now his hair was gray; but he remembered the day well and, during the years that followed, his one constant fear was of another invasion of his enemies. He feared they might send a more numerous army to his island, both for conquest and revenge, in which case there could be little hope of successfully opposing them. This anxiety on the part of King Kitticut led him to keep a sharp lookout for strange boats, one of his men patrolling the beach constantly, but he was too wise to allow any fear to make him or his subjects unhappy. He was a good King and lived very contentedly in his fine palace, with his fair Queen Garee and their one child, Prince Inga. The wealth of Pingaree increased year by year; and the happiness of the people increased, too. Perhaps there was no place, outside the Land of Oz, where contentment and peace were more manifest than on this pretty island, hidden in the besom of the Nonestic Ocean. Had these conditions remained undisturbed, there would have been no need to speak of Pingaree in this story. Prince Inga, the heir to all the riches and the kingship of Pingaree, grew up surrounded by every luxury; but he was a manly little fellow, although somewhat too grave and thoughtful, and he could never bear to be idle a single minute. He knew where the finest oysters lay hidden along the coast and was as successful in finding pearls as any of the men of the island, although he was so slight and small. He had a little boat of his own and a rake for dragging up the oysters and he was very proud indeed when he could carry a big white pearl to his father. There was no school upon the island, as the people of Pingaree were far removed from the state of civilization that gives our modern children such advantages as schools and learned professors, but the King owned several manuscript books, the pages being made of sheepskin. Being a man of intelligence, he was able to teach his son something of reading, writing and arithmetic. When studying his lessons Prince Inga used to go into the grove near his father's palace and climb into the branches of a tall tree, where he had built a platform with a comfortable seat to rest upon, all hidden by the canopy of leaves. There, with no one to disturb him, he would pore over the sheepskin on which were written the queer characters of the Pingarese language. King Kitticut was very proud of his little son, as well he might be, and he soon felt a high respect for Inga's judgment and thought that he was worthy to be taken into the confidence of his father in many matters of state. He taught the boy the needs of the people and how to rule them justly, for some day he knew that Inga would be King in his place. One day he called his son to his side and said to him: "Our island now seems peaceful enough, Inga, and we are happy and prosperous, but I cannot forget those terrible people of Regos and Coregos. My constant fear is that they will send a fleet of boats to search for those of their race whom we defeated many years ago, and whom the sea afterwards destroyed. If the warriors come in great numbers we may be unable to oppose them, for my people are little trained to fighting at best; they surely would cause us much injury and suffering." "Are we, then, less powerful than in my grandfather's day?" asked Prince Inga. The King shook his head thoughtfully. "It is not that," said he. "That you may fully understand that marvelous battle, I must confide to, you a great secret. I have in my possession three Magic Talismans, which I have ever guarded with utmost care, keeping the knowledge of their existence from anyone else. But, lest I should die, and the secret be lost, I have decided to tell you what these talismans are and where they are hidden. Come with me, my son." He led the way through the rooms of the palace until they came to the great banquet hall. There, stopping in the center of the room, he stooped down and touched a hidden spring in the tiled floor. At once one of the tiles sank downward and the King reached within the cavity and drew out a silken bag. This bag he proceeded to open, showing Inga that it contained three great pearls, each one as big around as a marble. One had a blue tint and one was of a delicate rose color, but the third was pure white. "These three pearls," said the King, speaking in a solemn, impressive voice, "are the most wonderful the world has ever known. They were gifts to one of my ancestors from the Mermaid Queen, a powerful fairy whom he once had the good fortune to rescue from her enemies. In gratitude for this favor she presented him with these pearls. Each of the three possesses an astonishing power, and whoever is their owner may count himself a fortunate man. This one having the blue tint will give to the person who carries it a strength so great that no power can resist him. The one with the pink glow will protect its owner from all dangers that may threaten him, no matter from what source they may come. The third pearl--this one of pure white--can speak, and its words are always wise and helpful." "What is this, my father!" exclaimed the Prince, amazed; "do you tell me that a pearl can speak? It sounds impossible." "Your doubt is due to your ignorance of fairy powers," returned the King, gravely. "Listen, my son, and you will know that I speak the truth." He held the white pearl to Inga's ear and the Prince heard a small voice say distinctly: "Your father is right. Never question the truth of what you fail to understand, for the world is filled with wonders." "I crave your pardon, dear father," said the Prince, "for clearly I heard the pearl speak, and its words were full of wisdom." "The powers of the other pearls are even greater," resumed the King. "Were I poor in all else, these gems would make me richer than any other monarch the world holds." "I believe that," replied Inga, looking at the beautiful pearls with much awe. "But tell me, my father, why do you fear the warriors of Regos and Coregos when these marvelous powers are yours?" "The powers are mine only while I have the pearls upon my person," answered King Kitticut, "and I dare not carry them constantly for fear they might be lost. Therefore, I keep them safely hidden in this recess. My only danger lies in the chance that my watchmen might fail to discover the approach of our enemies and allow the warrior invaders to seize me before I could secure the pearls. I should, in that case, be quite powerless to resist. My father owned the magic pearls at the time of the Great Fight, of which you have so often heard, and the pink pearl protected him from harm, while the blue pearl enabled him and his people to drive away the enemy. Often have I suspected that the destroying storm was caused by the fairy mermaids, but that is a matter of which I have no proof." "I have often wondered how we managed to win that battle," remarked Inga thoughtfully. "But the pearls will assist us in case the warriors come again, will they not?" "They are as powerful as ever," declared the King. "Really, my son, I have little to fear from any foe. But lest I die and the secret be lost to the next King, I have now given it into your keeping. Remember that these pearls are the rightful heritage of all Kings of Pingaree. If at any time I should be taken from you, Inga, guard this treasure well and do not forget where it is hidden." "I shall not forget," said Inga. Then the King returned the pearls to their hiding place and the boy went to his own room to ponder upon the wonderful secret his father had that day confided to his care. Chapter Two The Coming of King Rinkitink A few days after this, on a bright and sunny morning when the breeze blew soft and sweet from the ocean and the trees waved their leaf-laden branches, the Royal Watchman, whose duty it was to patrol the shore, came running to the King with news that a strange boat was approaching the island. At first the King was sore afraid and made a step toward the hidden pearls, but the next moment he reflected that one boat, even if filled with enemies, would be powerless to injure him, so he curbed his fear and went down to the beach to discover who the strangers might be. Many of the men of Pingaree assembled there also, and Prince Inga followed his father. Arriving at the water's edge, they all stood gazing eagerly at the oncoming boat. It was quite a big boat, they observed, and covered with a canopy of purple silk, embroidered with gold. It was rowed by twenty men, ten on each side. As it came nearer, Inga could see that in the stern, seated upon a high, cushioned chair of state, was a little man who was so very fat that he was nearly as broad as he was high This man was dressed in a loose silken robe of purple that fell in folds to his feet, while upon his head was a cap of white velvet curiously worked with golden threads and having a circle of diamonds sewn around the band. At the opposite end of the boat stood an oddly shaped cage, and several large boxes of sandalwood were piled near the center of the craft. As the boat approached the shore the fat little man got upon his feet and bowed several times in the direction of those who had assembled to greet him, and as he bowed he flourished his white cap in an energetic manner. His face was round as an apple and nearly as rosy. When he stopped bowing he smiled in such a sweet and happy way that Inga thought he must be a very jolly fellow. The prow of the boat grounded on the beach, stopping its speed so suddenly that the little man was caught unawares and nearly toppled headlong into the sea. But he managed to catch hold of the chair with one hand and the hair of one of his rowers with the other, and so steadied himself. Then, again waving his jeweled cap around his head, he cried in a merry voice: "Well, here I am at last!" "So I perceive," responded King Kitticut, bowing with much dignity. The fat man glanced at all the sober faces before him and burst into a rollicking laugh. Perhaps I should say it was half laughter and half a chuckle of merriment, for the sounds he emitted were quaint and droll and tempted every hearer to laugh with him. "Heh, heh--ho, ho, ho!" he roared. "Didn't expect me, I see. Keek-eek-eek-eek! This is funny--it's really funny. Didn't know I was coming, did you? Hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo! This is certainly amusing. But I'm here, just the same." "Hush up!" said a deep, growling voice. "You're making yourself ridiculous." Everyone looked to see where this voice came from; but none could guess who had uttered the words of rebuke. The rowers of the boat were all solemn and silent and certainly no one on the shore had spoken. But the little man did not seem astonished in the least, or even annoyed. King Kitticut now addressed the stranger, saying courteously: "You are welcome to the Kingdom of Pingaree. Perhaps you will deign to come ashore and at your convenience inform us whom we have the honor of receiving as a guest." "Thanks; I will," returned the little fat man, waddling from his place in the boat and stepping, with some difficulty, upon the sandy beach. "I am King Rinkitink, of the City of Gilgad in the Kingdom of Rinkitink, and I have come to Pingaree to see for myself the monarch who sends to my city so many beautiful pearls. I have long wished to visit this island; and so, as I said before, here I am!" "I am pleased to welcome you," said King Kitticut. "But why has Your Majesty so few attendants? Is it not dangerous for the King of a great country to make distant journeys in one frail boat, and with but twenty men?" "Oh, I suppose so," answered King Rinkitink, with a laugh. "But what else could I do? My subjects would not allow me to go anywhere at all, if they knew it. So I just ran away." "Ran away!" exclaimed King Kitticut in surprise. "Funny, isn't it? Heh, heh, heh--woo, hoo!" laughed Rinkitink, and this is as near as I can spell with letters the jolly sounds of his laughter. "Fancy a King running away from his own ple--hoo, hoo--keek, eek, eek, eek! But I had to, don't you see!" "Why?" asked the other King. "They're afraid I'll get into mischief. They don't trust me. Keek-eek-eek--Oh, dear me! Don't trust their own King. Funny, isn't it?" "No harm can come to you on this island," said Kitticut, pretending not to notice the odd ways of his guest. "And, whenever it pleases you to return to your own country, I will send with you a fitting escort of my own people. In the meantime, pray accompany me to my palace, where everything shall be done to make you comfortable and happy." "Much obliged," answered Rinkitink, tipping his white cap over his left ear and heartily shaking the hand of his brother monarch. "I'm sure you can make me comfortable if you've plenty to eat. And as for being happy--ha, ha, ha, ha!--why, that's my trouble. I'm too happy. But stop! I've brought you some presents in those boxes. Please order your men to carry them up to the palace." "Certainly," answered King Kitticut, well pleased, and at once he gave his men the proper orders. "And, by the way," continued the fat little King, "let them also take my goat from his cage." "A goat!" exclaimed the King of Pingaree. "Exactly; my goat Bilbil. I always ride him wherever I go, for I'm not at all fond of walking, being a trifle stout--eh, Kitticut?--a trifle stout! Hoo, hoo, hoo-keek, eek!" The Pingaree people started to lift the big cage out of the boat, but just then a gruff voice cried: "Be careful, you villains!" and as the words seemed to come from the goat's mouth the men were so astonished that they dropped the cage upon the sand with a sudden jar. "There! I told you so!" cried the voice angrily. "You've rubbed the skin off my left knee. Why on earth didn't you handle me gently?" "There, there, Bilbil," said King Rinkitink soothingly; "don't scold, my boy. Remember that these are strangers, and we their guests." Then he turned to Kitticut and remarked: "You have no talking goats on your island, I suppose." "We have no goats at all," replied the King; "nor have we any animals, of any sort, who are able to talk." "I wish my animal couldn't talk, either," said Rinkitink, winking comically at Inga and then looking toward the cage. "He is very cross at times, and indulges in language that is not respectful. I thought, at first, it would be fine to have a talking goat, with whom I could converse as I rode about my city on his back; but--keek-eek-eek-eek!--the rascal treats me as if I were a chimney sweep instead of a King. Heh, heh, heh, keek, eek! A chimney sweep-hoo, hoo, hoo!--and me a King! Funny, isn't it?" This last was addressed to Prince Inga, whom he chucked familiarly under the chin, to the boy's great embarrassment. "Why do you not ride a horse?" asked King Kitticut. "I can't climb upon his back, being rather stout; that's why. Kee, kee, keek, eek!--rather stout--hoo, hoo, hoo!" He paused to wipe the tears of merriment from his eyes and then added: "But I can get on and off Bilbil's back with ease." He now opened the cage and the goat deliberately walked out and looked about him in a sulky manner. One of the rowers brought from the boat a saddle made of red velvet and beautifully embroidered with silver thistles, which he fastened upon the goat's back. The fat King put his leg over the saddle and seated himself comfortably, saying: "Lead on, my noble host, and we will follow." "What! Up that steep hill?" cried the goat. "Get off my back at once, Rinkitink, or I won't budge a step. "But-consider, Bilbil," remonstrated the King. "How am I to get up that hill unless I ride?" "Walk!" growled Bilbil. "But I'm too fat. Really, Bilbil, I'm surprised at you. Haven't I brought you all this distance so you may see something of the world and enjoy life? And now you are so ungrateful as to refuse to carry me! Turn about is fair play, my boy. The boat carried you to this shore, because you can't swim, and now you must carry me up the hill, because I can't climb. Eh, Bilbil, isn't that reasonable?" "Well, well, well," said the goat, surlily, "keep quiet and I'll carry you. But you make me very tired, Rinkitink, with your ceaseless chatter." After making this protest Bilbil began walking up the hill, carrying the fat King upon his back with no difficulty whatever. Prince Inga and his father and all the men of Pingaree were much astonished to overhear this dispute between King Rinkitink and his goat; but they were too polite to make critical remarks in the presence of their guests. King Kitticut walked beside the goat and the Prince followed after, the men coming last with the boxes of sandalwood. When they neared the palace, the Queen and her maidens came out to meet them and the royal guest was escorted in state to the splendid throne room of the palace. Here the boxes were opened and King Rinkitink displayed all the beautiful silks and laces and jewelry with which they were filled. Every one of the courtiers and ladies received a handsome present, and the King and Queen had many rich gifts and Inga not a few. Thus the time passed pleasantly until the Chamberlain announced that dinner was served. Bilbil the goat declared that he preferred eating of the sweet, rich grass that grew abundantly in the palace grounds, and Rinkitink said that the beast could never bear being shut up in a stable; so they removed the saddle from his back and allowed him to wander wherever he pleased. During the dinner Inga divided his attention between admiring the pretty gifts he had received and listening to the jolly sayings of the fat King, who laughed when he was not eating and ate when he was not laughing and seemed to enjoy himself immensely. "For four days I have lived in that narrow boat," said he, "with no other amusement than to watch the rowers and quarrel with Bilbil; so I am very glad to be on land again with such friendly and agreeable people." "You do us great honor," said King Kitticut, with a polite bow. "Not at all--not at all, my brother. This Pingaree must be a wonderful island, for its pearls are the admiration of all the world; nor will I deny the fact that my kingdom would be a poor one without the riches and glory it derives from the trade in your pearls. So I have wished for many years to come here to see you, but my people said: 'No! Stay at home and behave yourself, or we'll know the reason why.'" "Will they not miss Your Majesty from your palace at Gilgad?" inquired Kitticut. "I think not," answered Rinkitink. "You see, one of my clever subjects has written a parchment entitled 'How to be Good,' and I believed it would benefit me to study it, as I consider the accomplishment of being good one of the fine arts. I had just scolded severely my Lord High Chancellor for coming to breakfast without combing his eyebrows, and was so sad and regretful at having hurt the poor man's feelings that I decided to shut myself up in my own room and study the scroll until I knew how to be good--hee, heek, keek, eek, eek!--to be good! Clever idea, that, wasn't it? Mighty clever! And I issued a decree that no one should enter my room, under pain of my royal displeasure, until I was ready to come out. They're awfully afraid of my royal displeasure, although not a bit afraid of me. Then I put the parchment in my pocket and escaped through the back door to my boat--and here I am. Oo, hoo-hoo, keek-eek! Imagine the fuss there would be in Gilgad if my subjects knew where I am this very minute!" "I would like to see that parchment," said the solemn-eyed Prince Inga, "for if it indeed teaches one to be good it must be worth its weight in pearls." "Oh, it's a fine essay," said Rinkitink, "and beautifully written with a goosequill. Listen to this: You'll enjoy it--tee, hee, hee!--enjoy it." He took from his pocket a scroll of parchment tied with a black ribbon, and having carefully unrolled it, he proceeded to read as follows: "'A Good Man is One who is Never Bad.' How's that, eh? Fine thought, what? 'Therefore, in order to be Good, you must avoid those Things which are Evil.' Oh, hoo-hoo-hoo!--how clever! When I get back I shall make the man who wrote that a royal hippolorum, for, beyond question, he is the wisest man in my kingdom--as he has often told me himself." With this, Rinkitink lay back in his chair and chuckled his queer chuckle until he coughed, and coughed until he choked and choked until he sneezed. And he wrinkled his face in such a jolly, droll way that few could keep from laughing with him, and even the good Queen was forced to titter behind her fan. When Rinkitink had recovered from his fit of laughter and had wiped his eyes upon a fine lace handkerchief, Prince Inga said to him: "The parchment speaks truly." "Yes, it is true beyond doubt," answered Rinkitink, "and if I could persuade Bilbil to read it he would be a much better goat than he is now. Here is another selection: 'To avoid saying Unpleasant Things, always Speak Agreeably.' That would hit Bilbil, to a dot. And here is one that applies to you, my Prince: 'Good Children are seldom punished, for the reason that they deserve no punishment.' Now, I think that is neatly put, and shows the author to be a deep thinker. But the advice that has impressed me the most is in the following paragraph: 'You may not find it as Pleasant to be Good as it is to be Bad, but Other People will find it more Pleasant.' Haw-hoo-ho! keek-eek! 'Other people will find it more pleasant!'--hee, hee, heek, keek!--'more pleasant.' Dear me--dear me! Therein lies a noble incentive to be good, and whenever I get time I'm surely going to try it." Then he wiped his eyes again with the lace handkerchief and, suddenly remembering his dinner, seized his knife and fork and began eating. Chapter Three The Warriors from the North King Rinkitink was so much pleased with the Island of Pingaree that he continued his stay day after day and week after week, eating good dinners, talking with King Kitticut and sleeping. Once in a while he would read from his scroll. "For," said he, "whenever I return home, my subjects will be anxious to know if I have learned 'How to be Good,' and I must not disappoint them." The twenty rowers lived on the small end of the island, with the pearl fishers, and seemed not to care whether they ever returned to the Kingdom of Rinkitink or not. Bilbil the goat wandered over the grassy slopes, or among the trees, and passed his days exactly as he pleased. His master seldom cared to ride him. Bilbil was a rare curiosity to the islanders, but since there was little pleasure in talking with the goat they kept away from him. This pleased the creature, who seemed well satisfied to be left to his own devices. Once Prince Inga, wishing to be courteous, walked up to the goat and said: "Good morning, Bilbil." "It isn't a good morning," answered Bilbil grumpily. "It is cloudy and damp, and looks like rain." "I hope you are contented in our kingdom," continued the boy, politely ignoring the other's harsh words. "I'm not," said Bilbil. "I'm never contented; so it doesn't matter to me whether I'm in your kingdom or in some other kingdom. Go away--will you?" "Certainly," answered the Prince, and after this rebuff he did not again try to make friends with Bilbil. Now that the King, his father, was so much occupied with his royal guest, Inga was often left to amuse himself, for a boy could not be allowed to take part in the conversation of two great monarchs. He devoted himself to his studies, therefore, and day after day he climbed into the branches of his favorite tree and sat for hours in his "tree-top rest," reading his father's precious manuscripts and thinking upon what he read. You must not think that Inga was a molly-coddle or a prig, because he was so solemn and studious. Being a King's son and heir to a throne, he could not play with the other boys of Pingaree, and he lived so much in the society of the King and Queen, and was so surrounded by the pomp and dignity of a court, that he missed all the jolly times that boys usually have. I have no doubt that had he been able to live as other boys do, he would have been much like other boys; as it was, he was subdued by his surroundings, and more grave and thoughtful than one of his years should be. Inga was in his tree one morning when, without warning, a great fog enveloped the Island of Pingaree. The boy could scarcely see the tree next to that in which he sat, but the leaves above him prevented the dampness from wetting him, so he curled himself up in his seat and fell fast asleep. All that forenoon the fog continued. King Kitticut, who sat in his palace talking with his merry visitor, ordered the candles lighted, that they might be able to see one another. The good Queen, Inga's mother, found it was too dark to work at her embroidery, so she called her maidens together and told them wonderful stories of bygone days, in order to pass away the dreary hours. But soon after noon the weather changed. The dense fog rolled away like a heavy cloud and suddenly the sun shot his bright rays over the island. "Very good!" exclaimed King Kitticut. "We shall have a pleasant afternoon, I am sure," and he blew out the candles. Then he stood a moment motionless, as if turned to stone, for a terrible cry from without the palace reached his ears--a cry so full of fear and horror that the King's heart almost stopped beating. Immediately there was a scurrying of feet as every one in the palace, filled with dismay, rushed outside to see what had happened. Even fat little Rinkitink sprang from his chair and followed his host and the others through the arched vestibule. After many years the worst fears of King Kitticut were realized. Landing upon the beach, which was but a few steps from the palace itself, were hundreds of boats, every one filled with a throng of fierce warriors. They sprang upon the land with wild shouts of defiance and rushed to the King's palace, waving aloft their swords and spears and battleaxes. King Kitticut, so completely surprised that he was bewildered, gazed at the approaching host with terror and grief. "They are the men of Regos and Coregos!" he groaned. "We are, indeed, lost!" Then he bethought himself, for the first time, of his wonderful pearls. Turning quickly, he ran back into the palace and hastened to the hall where the treasures were hidden. But the leader of the warriors had seen the King enter the palace and bounded after him, thinking he meant to escape. Just as the King had stooped to press the secret spring in the tiles, the warrior seized him from the rear and threw him backward upon the floor, at the same time shouting to his men to fetch ropes and bind the prisoner. This they did very quickly and King Kitticut soon found himself helplessly bound and in the power of his enemies. In this sad condition he was lifted by the warriors and carried outside, when the good King looked upon a sorry sight. The Queen and her maidens, the officers and servants of the royal household and all who had inhabited this end of the Island of Pingaree had been seized by the invaders and bound with ropes. At once they began carrying their victims to the boats, tossing them in as unceremoniously as if they had been bales of merchandise. The King looked around for his son Inga, but failed to find the boy among the prisoners. Nor was the fat King, Rinkitink, to be seen anywhere about. The warriors were swarming over the palace like bees in a hive, seeking anyone who might be in hiding, and after the search had been prolonged for some time the leader asked impatiently: "Do you find anyone else?" "No," his men told him. "We have captured them all." "Then," commanded the leader, "remove everything of value from the palace and tear down its walls and towers, so that not one stone remains upon another!" While the warriors were busy with this task we will return to the boy Prince, who, when the fog lifted and the sun came out, wakened from his sleep and began to climb down from his perch in the tree. But the terrifying cries of the people, mingled with the shouts of the rude warriors, caused him to pause and listen eagerly. Then he climbed rapidly up the tree, far above his platform, to the topmost swaying branches. This tree, which Inga called his own, was somewhat taller than the other trees that surrounded it, and when he had reached the top he pressed aside the leaves and saw a great fleet of boats upon the shore--strange boats, with banners that he had never seen before. Turning to look upon his father's palace, he found it surrounded by a horde of enemies. Then Inga knew the truth: that the island had been invaded by the barbaric warriors from the north. He grew so faint from the terror of it all that he might have fallen had he not wound his arms around a limb and clung fast until the dizzy feeling passed away. Then with his sash he bound himself to the limb and again ventured to look out through the leaves. The warriors were now engaged in carrying King Kitticut and Queen Garee and all their other captives down to the boats, where they were thrown in and chained one to another. It was a dreadful sight for the Prince to witness, but he sat very still, concealed from the sight of anyone below by the bower of leafy branches around him. Inga knew very well that he could do nothing to help his beloved parents, and that if he came down he would only be forced to share their cruel fate. Now a procession of the Northmen passed between the boats and the palace, bearing the rich furniture, splendid draperies and rare ornaments of which the royal palace had been robbed, together with such food and other plunder as they could lay their hands upon. After this, the men of Regos and Coregos threw ropes around the marble domes and towers and hundreds of warriors tugged at these ropes until the domes and towers toppled and fell in ruins upon the ground. Then the walls themselves were torn down, till little remained of the beautiful palace but a vast heap of white marble blocks tumbled and scattered upon the ground. Prince Inga wept bitter tears of grief as he watched the ruin of his home; yet he was powerless to avert the destruction. When the palace had been demolished, some of the warriors entered their boats and rowed along the coast of the island, while the others marched in a great body down the length of the island itself. They were so numerous that they formed a line stretching from shore to shore and they destroyed every house they came to and took every inhabitant prisoner. The pearl fishers who lived at the lower end of the island tried to escape in their boats, but they were soon overtaken and made prisoners, like the others. Nor was there any attempt to resist the foe, for the sharp spears and pikes and swords of the invaders terrified the hearts of the defenseless people of Pingaree, whose sole weapons were their oyster rakes. When night fell the whole of the Island of Pingaree had been conquered by the men of the North, and all its people were slaves of the conquerors. Next morning the men of Regos and Coregos, being capable of no further mischief, departed from the scene of their triumph, carrying their prisoners with them and taking also every boat to be found upon the island. Many of the boats they had filled with rich plunder, with pearls and silks and velvets, with silver and gold ornaments and all the treasure that had made Pingaree famed as one of the richest kingdoms in the world. And the hundreds of slaves they had captured would be set to work in the mines of Regos and the grain fields of Coregos. So complete was the victory of the Northmen that it is no wonder the warriors sang songs of triumph as they hastened back to their homes. Great rewards were awaiting them when they showed the haughty King of Regos and the terrible Queen of Coregos the results of their ocean raid and conquest. Chapter Four The Deserted Island All through that terrible night Prince Inga remained hidden in his tree. In the morning he watched the great fleet of boats depart for their own country, carrying his parents and his countrymen with them, as well as everything of value the Island of Pingaree had contained. Sad, indeed, were the boy's thoughts when the last of the boats had become a mere speck in the distance, but Inga did not dare leave his perch of safety until all of the craft of the invaders had disappeared beyond the horizon. Then he came down, very slowly and carefully, for he was weak from hunger and the long and weary watch, as he had been in the tree for twenty-four hours without food. The sun shone upon the beautiful green isle as brilliantly as if no ruthless invader had passed and laid it in ruins. The birds still chirped among the trees and the butterflies darted from flower to flower as happily as when the land was filled with a prosperous and contented people. Inga feared that only he was left of all his nation. Perhaps he might be obliged to pass his life there alone. He would not starve, for the sea would give him oysters and fish, and the trees fruit; yet the life that confronted him was far from enticing. The boy's first act was to walk over to where the palace had stood and search the ruins until he found some scraps of food that had been overlooked by the enemy. He sat upon a block of marble and ate of this, and tears filled his eyes as he gazed upon the desolation around him. But Inga tried to bear up bravely, and having satisfied his hunger he walked over to the well, intending to draw a bucket of drinking water. Fortunately, this well had been overlooked by the invaders and the bucket was still fastened to the chain that wound around a stout wooden windlass. Inga took hold of the crank and began letting the bucket down into the well, when suddenly he was startled by a muffled voice crying out: "Be careful, up there!" The sound and the words seemed to indicate that the voice came from the bottom of the well, so Inga looked down. Nothing could be seen, on account of the darkness. "Who are you?" he shouted. "It's I--Rinkitink," came the answer, and the depths of the well echoed: "Tink-i-tink-i-tink!" in a ghostly manner. "Are you in the well?" asked the boy, greatly surprised. "Yes, and nearly drowned. I fell in while running from those terrible warriors, and I've been standing in this damp hole ever since, with my head just above the water. It's lucky the well was no deeper, for had my head been under water, instead of above it--hoo, hoo, hoo, keek, eek!--under instead of over, you know--why, then I wouldn't be talking to you now! Ha, hoo, hee!" And the well dismally echoed: "Ha, hoo, hee!" which you must imagine was a laugh half merry and half sad. "I'm awfully sorry," cried the boy, in answer. "I wonder you have the heart to laugh at all. But how am I to get you out?" "I've been considering that all night," said Rinkitink, "and I believe the best plan will be for you to let down the bucket to me, and I'll hold fast to it while you wind up the chain and so draw me to the top." "I will try to do that," replied Inga, and he let the bucket down very carefully until he heard the King call out: "I've got it! Now pull me up--slowly, my boy, slowly--so I won't rub against the rough sides." Inga began winding up the chain, but King Rinkitink was so fat that he was very heavy and by the time the boy had managed to pull him halfway up the well his strength was gone. He clung to the crank as long as possible, but suddenly it slipped from his grasp and the next minute he heard Rinkitink fall "plump!" into the water again. "That's too bad!" called Inga, in real distress; "but you were so heavy I couldn't help it." "Dear me!" gasped the King, from the darkness below, as he spluttered and coughed to get the water out of his mouth. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to let go?" "I hadn't time," said Inga, sorrowfully. "Well, I'm not suffering from thirst," declared the King, "for there's enough water inside me to float all the boats of Regos and Coregos or at least it feels that way. But never mind! So long as I'm not actually drowned, what does it matter?" "What shall we do next?" asked the boy anxiously. "Call someone to help you," was the reply. "There is no one on the island but myself," said the boy; "--excepting you," he added, as an afterthought. "I'm not on it--more's the pity!--but in it," responded Rinkitink. "Are the warriors all gone?" "Yes," said Inga, "and they have taken my father and mother, and all our people, to be their slaves," he added, trying in vain to repress a sob. "So--so!" said Rinkitink softly; and then he paused a moment, as if in thought. Finally he said: "There are worse things than slavery, but I never imagined a well could be one of them. Tell me, Inga, could you let down some food to me? I'm nearly starved, and if you could manage to send me down some food I'd be well fed--hoo, hoo, heek, keek, eek!--well fed. Do you see the joke, Inga?" "Do not ask me to enjoy a joke just now, Your Majesty," begged Inga in a sad voice; "but if you will be patient I will try to find something for you to eat." He ran back to the ruins of the palace and began searching for bits of food with which to satisfy the hunger of the King, when to his surprise he observed the goat, Bilbil, wandering among the marble blocks. "What!" cried Inga. "Didn't the warriors get you, either?" "If they had," calmly replied Bilbil, "I shouldn't be here." "But how did you escape?" asked the boy. "Easily enough. I kept my mouth shut and stayed away from the rascals," said the goat. "I knew that the soldiers would not care for a skinny old beast like me, for to the eye of a stranger I seem good for nothing. Had they known I could talk, and that my head contained more wisdom than a hundred of their own noddles, I might not have escaped so easily." "Perhaps you are right," said the boy. "I suppose they got the old man?" carelessly remarked Bilbil. "What old man?" "Rinkitink." "Oh, no! His Majesty is at the bottom of the well," said Inga, "and I don't know how to get him out again." "Then let him stay there," suggested the goat. "That would be cruel. I am sure, Bilbil, that you are fond of the good King, your master, and do not mean what you say. Together, let us find some way to save poor King Rinkitink. He is a very jolly companion, and has a heart exceedingly kind and gentle." "Oh, well; the old boy isn't so bad, taken altogether," admitted Bilbil, speaking in a more friendly tone. "But his bad jokes and fat laughter tire me dreadfully, at times." Prince Inga now ran back to the well, the goat following more leisurely. "Here's Bilbil!" shouted the boy to the King. "The enemy didn't get him, it seems." "That's lucky for the enemy," said Rinkitink. "But it's lucky for me, too, for perhaps the beast can assist me out of this hole. If you can let a rope down the well, I am sure that you and Bilbil, pulling together, will be able to drag me to the earth's surface." "Be patient and we will make the attempt," replied Inga encouragingly, and he ran to search the ruins for a rope. Presently he found one that had been used by the warriors in toppling over the towers, which in their haste they had neglected to remove, and with some difficulty he untied the knots and carried the rope to the mouth of the well. Bilbil had lain down to sleep and the refrain of a merry song came in muffled tones from the well, proving that Rinkitink was making a patient endeavor to amuse himself. "I've found a rope!" Inga called down to him; and then the boy proceeded to make a loop in one end of the rope, for the King to put his arms through, and the other end he placed over the drum of the windlass. He now aroused Bilbil and fastened the rope firmly around the goat's shoulders. "Are you ready?" asked the boy, leaning over the well. "I am," replied the King. "And I am not," growled the goat, "for I have not yet had my nap out. Old Rinki will be safe enough in the well until I've slept an hour or two longer." "But it is damp in the well," protested the boy, "and King Rinkitink may catch the rheumatism, so that he will have to ride upon your back wherever he goes." Hearing this, Bilbil jumped up at once. "Let's get him out," he said earnestly. "Hold fast!" shouted Inga to the King. Then he seized the rope and helped Bilbil to pull. They soon found the task more difficult than they had supposed. Once or twice the King's weight threatened to drag both the boy and the goat into the well, to keep Rinkitink company. But they pulled sturdily, being aware of this danger, and at last the King popped out of the hole and fell sprawling full length upon the ground. For a time he lay panting and breathing hard to get his breath back, while Inga and Bilbil were likewise worn out from their long strain at the rope; so the three rested quietly upon the grass and looked at one another in silence. Finally Bilbil said to the King: "I'm surprised at you. Why were you so foolish as to fall down that well? Don't you know it's a dangerous thing to do? You might have broken your neck in the fall, or been drowned in the water." "Bilbil," replied the King solemnly, "you're a goat. Do you imagine I fell down the well on purpose?" "I imagine nothing," retorted Bilbil. "I only know you were there." "There? Heh-heh-heek-keek-eek! To be sure I was there," laughed Rinkitink. "There in a dark hole, where there was no light; there in a watery well, where the wetness soaked me through and through--keek-eek-eek-eek!--through and through!" "How did it happen?" inquired Inga. "I was running away from the enemy," explained the King, "and I was carelessly looking over my shoulder at the same time, to see if they were chasing me. So I did not see the well, but stepped into it and found myself tumbling down to the bottom. I struck the water very neatly and began struggling to keep myself from drowning, but presently I found that when I stood upon my feet on the bottom of the well, that my chin was just above the water. So I stood still and yelled for help; but no one heard me." "If the warriors had heard you," said Bilbil, "they would have pulled you out and carried you away to be a slave. Then you would have been obliged to work for a living, and that would be a new experience." "Work!" exclaimed Rinkitink. "Me work? Hoo, hoo, heek-keek-eek! How absurd! I'm so stout--not to say chubby--not to say fat--that I can hardly walk, and I couldn't earn my salt at hard work. So I'm glad the enemy did not find me, Bilbil. How many others escaped?" "That I do not know," replied the boy, "for I have not yet had time to visit the other parts of the island. When you have rested and satisfied your royal hunger, it might be well for us to look around and see what the thieving warriors of Regos and Coregos have left us." "An excellent idea," declared Rinkitink. "I am somewhat feeble from my long confinement in the well, but I can ride upon Bilbil's back and we may as well start at once." Hearing this, Bilbil cast a surly glance at his master but said nothing, since it was really the goat's business to carry King Rinkitink wherever he desired to go. They first searched the ruins of the palace, and where the kitchen had once been they found a small quantity of food that had been half hidden by a block of marble. This they carefully placed in a sack to preserve it for future use, the little fat King having first eaten as much as he cared for. This consumed some time, for Rinkitink had been exceedingly hungry and liked to eat in a leisurely manner. When he had finished the meal he straddled Bilbil's back and set out to explore the island, Prince Inga walking by his side. They found on every hand ruin and desolation. The houses of the people had been pilfered of all valuables and then torn down or burned. Not a boat had been left upon the shore, nor was there a single person, man or woman or child, remaining upon the island, save themselves. The only inhabitants of Pingaree now consisted of a fat little King, a boy and a goat. Even Rinkitink, merry hearted as he was, found it hard to laugh in the face of this mighty disaster. Even the goat, contrary to its usual habit, refrained from saying anything disagreeable. As for the poor boy whose home was now a wilderness, the tears came often to his eyes as he marked the ruin of his dearly loved island. When, at nightfall, they reached the lower end of Pingaree and found it swept as bare as the rest, Inga's grief was almost more than he could bear. Everything had been swept from him--parents, home and country--in so brief a time that his bewilderment was equal to his sorrow. Since no house remained standing, in which they might sleep, the three wanderers crept beneath the overhanging branches of a cassa tree and curled themselves up as comfortably as possible. So tired and exhausted were they by the day's anxieties and griefs that their troubles soon faded into the mists of dreamland. Beast and King and boy slumbered peacefully together until wakened by the singing of the birds which greeted the dawn of a new day. Chapter Five The Three Pearls When King Rinkitink and Prince Inga had bathed themselves in the sea and eaten a simple breakfast, they began wondering what they could do to improve their condition. "The poor people of Gilgad," said Rinkitink cheerfully, "are little likely ever again to behold their King in the flesh, for my boat and my rowers are gone with everything else. Let us face the fact that we are imprisoned for life upon this island, and that our lives will be short unless we can secure more to eat than is in this small sack." "I'll not starve, for I can eat grass," remarked the goat in a pleasant tone--or a tone as pleasant as Bilbil could assume. "True, quite true," said the King. Then he seemed thoughtful for a moment and turning to Inga he asked: "Do you think, Prince, that if the worst comes, we could eat Bilbil?" The goat gave a groan and cast a reproachful look at his master as he said: "Monster! Would you, indeed, eat your old friend and servant?" "Not if I can help it, Bilbil," answered the King pleasantly. "You would make a remarkably tough morsel, and my teeth are not as good as they once were." While this talk was in progress Inga suddenly remembered the three pearls which his father had hidden under the tiled floor of the banquet hall. Without doubt King Kitticut had been so suddenly surprised by the invaders that he had found no opportunity to get the pearls, for otherwise the fierce warriors would have been defeated and driven out of Pingaree. So they must still be in their hiding place, and Inga believed they would prove of great assistance to him and his comrades in this hour of need. But the palace was a mass of ruins; perhaps he would be unable now to find the place where the pearls were hidden. He said nothing of this to Rinkitink, remembering that his father had charged him to preserve the secret of the pearls and of their magic powers. Nevertheless, the thought of securing the wonderful treasures of his ancestors gave the boy new hope. He stood up and said to the King: "Let us return to the other end of Pingaree. It is more pleasant than here in spite of the desolation of my father's palace. And there, if anywhere, we shall discover a way out of our difficulties." This suggestion met with Rinkitink's approval and the little party at once started upon the return journey. As there was no occasion to delay upon the way, they reached the big end of the island about the middle of the day and at once began searching the ruins of the palace. They found, to their satisfaction, that one room at the bottom of a tower was still habitable, although the roof was broken in and the place was somewhat littered with stones. The King was, as he said, too fat to do any hard work, so he sat down on a block of marble and watched Inga clear the room of its rubbish. This done, the boy hunted through the ruins until he discovered a stool and an armchair that had not been broken beyond use. Some bedding and a mattress were also found, so that by nightfall the little room had been made quite comfortable. The following morning, while Rinkitink was still sound asleep and Bilbil was busily cropping the dewy grass that edged the shore, Prince Inga began to search the tumbled heaps of marble for the place where the royal banquet hall had been. After climbing over the ruins for a time he reached a flat place which he recognized, by means of the tiled flooring and the broken furniture scattered about, to be the great hall he was seeking. But in the center of the floor, directly over the spot where the pearls were hidden, lay several large and heavy blocks of marble, which had been torn from the dismantled walls. This unfortunate discovery for a time discouraged the boy, who realized how helpless he was to remove such vast obstacles; but it was so important to secure the pearls that he dared not give way to despair until every human effort had been made, so he sat him down to think over the matter with great care. Meantime Rinkitink had risen from his bed and walked out upon the lawn, where he found Bilbil reclining at ease upon the greensward. "Where is Inga?" asked Rinkitink, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles because their vision was blurred with too much sleep. "Don't ask me," said the goat, chewing with much satisfaction a cud of sweet grasses. "Bilbil," said the King, squatting down beside the goat and resting his fat chin upon his hands and his elbows on his knees, "allow me to confide to you the fact that I am bored, and need amusement. My good friend Kitticut has been kidnapped by the barbarians and taken from me, so there is no one to converse with me intelligently. I am the King and you are the goat. Suppose you tell me a story. "Suppose I don't," said Bilbil, with a scowl, for a goat's face is very expressive. "If you refuse, I shall be more unhappy than ever, and I know your disposition is too sweet to permit that. Tell me a story, Bilbil." The goat looked at him with an expression of scorn. Said he: "One would think you are but four years old, Rinkitink! But there--I will do as you command. Listen carefully, and the story may do you some good--although I doubt if you understand the moral." "I am sure the story will do me good," declared the King, whose eyes were twinkling. "Once on a time," began the goat. "When was that, Bilbil?" asked the King gently. "Don't interrupt; it is impolite. Once on a time there was a King with a hollow inside his head, where most people have their brains, and--" "Is this a true story, Bilbil?" "And the King with a hollow head could chatter words, which had no sense, and laugh in a brainless manner at senseless things. That part of the story is true enough, Rinkitink." "Then proceed with the tale, sweet Bilbil. Yet it is hard to believe that any King could be brainless--unless, indeed, he proved it by owning a talking goat." Bilbil glared at him a full minute in silence. Then he resumed his story: "This empty-headed man was a King by accident, having been born to that high station. Also the King was empty-headed by the same chance, being born without brains." "Poor fellow!" quoth the King. "Did he own a talking goat?" "He did," answered Bilbil. "Then he was wrong to have been born at all. Cheek-eek-eek-eek, oo, hoo!" chuckled Rinkitink, his fat body shaking with merriment. "But it's hard to prevent oneself from being born; there's no chance for protest, eh, Bilbil?" "Who is telling this story, I'd like to know," demanded the goat, with anger. "Ask someone with brains, my boy; I'm sure I can't tell," replied the King, bursting into one of his merry fits of laughter. Bilbil rose to his hoofs and walked away in a dignified manner, leaving Rinkitink chuckling anew at the sour expression of the animal's face. "Oh, Bilbil, you'll be the death of me, some day--I'm sure you will!" gasped the King, taking out his lace handkerchief to wipe his eyes; for, as he often did, he had laughed till the tears came. Bilbil was deeply vexed and would not even turn his head to look at his master. To escape from Rinkitink he wandered among the ruins of the palace, where he came upon Prince Inga. "Good morning, Bilbil," said the boy. "I was just going to find you, that I might consult you upon an important matter. If you will kindly turn back with me I am sure your good judgment will be of great assistance." The angry goat was quite mollified by the respectful tone in which he was addressed, but he immediately asked: "Are you also going to consult that empty-headed King over yonder?" "I am sorry to hear you speak of your kind master in such a way," said the boy gravely. "All men are deserving of respect, being the highest of living creatures, and Kings deserve respect more than others, for they are set to rule over many people." "Nevertheless," said Bilbil with conviction, "Rinkitink's head is certainly empty of brains." "That I am unwilling to believe," insisted Inga. "But anyway his heart is kind and gentle and that is better than being wise. He is merry in spite of misfortunes that would cause others to weep and he never speaks harsh words that wound the feelings of his friends." "Still," growled Bilbil, "he is--" "Let us forget everything but his good nature, which puts new heart into us when we are sad," advised the boy. "But he is--" "Come with me, please," interrupted Inga, "for the matter of which I wish to speak is very important." Bilbil followed him, although the boy still heard the goat muttering that the King had no brains. Rinkitink, seeing them turn into the ruins, also followed, and upon joining them asked for his breakfast. Inga opened the sack of food and while he and the King ate of it the boy said: "If I could find a way to remove some of the blocks of marble which have fallen in the banquet hall, I think I could find means for us to escape from this barren island." "Then," mumbled Rinkitink, with his mouth full, "let us move the blocks of marble." "But how?" inquired Prince Inga. "They are very heavy." "Ah, how, indeed?" returned the King, smacking his lips contentedly. "That is a serious question. But--I have it! Let us see what my famous parchment says about it." He wiped his fingers upon a napkin and then, taking the scroll from a pocket inside his embroidered blouse, he unrolled it and read the following words: 'Never step on another man's toes.' The goat gave a snort of contempt; Inga was silent; the King looked from one to the other inquiringly. "That's the idea, exactly!" declared Rinkitink. "To be sure," said Bilbil scornfully, "it tells us exactly how to move the blocks of marble." "Oh, does it?" responded the King, and then for a moment he rubbed the top of his bald head in a perplexed manner. The next moment he burst into a peal of joyous laughter. The goat looked at Inga and sighed. "What did I tell you?" asked the creature. "Was I right, or was I wrong?" "This scroll," said Rinkitink, "is indeed a masterpiece. Its advice is of tremendous value. 'Never step on another man's toes.' Let us think this over. The inference is that we should step upon our own toes, which were given us for that purpose. Therefore, if I stepped upon another man's toes, I would be the other man. Hoo, hoo, hoo!--the other man--hee, hee, heek-keek-eek! Funny, isn't it?" "Didn't I say--" began Bilbil. "No matter what you said, my boy," roared the King. "No fool could have figured that out as nicely as I did." "We have still to decide how to remove the blocks of marble," suggested Inga anxiously. "Fasten a rope to them, and pull," said Bilbil. "Don't pay any more attention to Rinkitink, for he is no wiser than the man who wrote that brainless scroll. Just get the rope, and we'll fasten Rinkitink to one end of it for a weight and I'll help you pull." "Thank you, Bilbil," replied the boy. "I'll get the rope at once." Bilbil found it difficult to climb over the ruins to the floor of the banquet hall, but there are few places a goat cannot get to when it makes the attempt, so Bilbil succeeded at last, and even fat little Rinkitink finally joined them, though much out of breath. Inga fastened one end of the rope around a block of marble and then made a loop at the other end to go over Bilbil's head. When all was ready the boy seized the rope and helped the goat to pull; yet, strain as they might, the huge block would not stir from its place. Seeing this, King Rinkitink came forward and lent his assistance, the weight of his body forcing the heavy marble to slide several feet from where it had lain. But it was hard work and all were obliged to take a long rest before undertaking the removal of the next block. "Admit, Bilbil," said the King, "that I am of some use in the world." "Your weight was of considerable help," acknowledged the goat, "but if your head were as well filled as your stomach the task would be still easier." When Inga went to fasten the rope a second time he was rejoiced to discover that by moving one more block of marble he could uncover the tile with the secret spring. So the three pulled with renewed energy and to their joy the block moved and rolled upon its side, leaving Inga free to remove the treasure when he pleased. But the boy had no intention of allowing Bilbil and the King to share the secret of the royal treasures of Pingaree; so, although both the goat and its master demanded to know why the marble blocks had been moved, and how it would benefit them, Inga begged them to wait until the next morning, when he hoped to be able to satisfy them that their hard work had not been in vain. Having little confidence in this promise of a mere boy, the goat grumbled and the King laughed; but Inga paid no heed to their ridicule and set himself to work rigging up a fishing rod, with line and hook. During the afternoon he waded out to some rocks near the shore and fished patiently until he had captured enough yellow perch for their supper and breakfast. "Ah," said Rinkitink, looking at the fine catch when Inga returned to the shore; "these will taste delicious when they are cooked; but do you know how to cook them?" "No," was the reply. "I have often caught fish, but never cooked them. Perhaps Your Majesty understands cooking." "Cooking and majesty are two different things," laughed the little King. "I could not cook a fish to save me from starvation." "For my part," said Bilbil, "I never eat fish, but I can tell you how to cook them, for I have often watched the palace cooks at their work." And so, with the goat's assistance, the boy and the King managed to prepare the fish and cook them, after which they were eaten with good appetite. That night, after Rinkitink and Bilbil were both fast asleep, Inga stole quietly through the moonlight to the desolate banquet hall. There, kneeling down, he touched the secret spring as his father had instructed him to do and to his joy the tile sank downward and disclosed the opening. You may imagine how the boy's heart throbbed with excitement as he slowly thrust his hand into the cavity and felt around to see if the precious pearls were still there. In a moment his fingers touched the silken bag and, without pausing to close the recess, he pressed the treasure against his breast and ran out into the moonlight to examine it. When he reached a bright place he started to open the bag, but he observed Bilbil lying asleep upon the grass near by. So, trembling with the fear of discovery, he ran to another place, and when he paused he heard Rinkitink snoring lustily. Again he fled and made his way to the seashore, where he squatted under a bank and began to untie the cords that fastened the mouth of the bag. But now another fear assailed him. "If the pearls should slip from my hand," he thought, "and roll into the water, they might be lost to me forever. I must find some safer place." Here and there he wandered, still clasping the silken bag in both hands, and finally he went to the grove and climbed into the tall tree where he had made his platform and seat. But here it was pitch dark, so he found he must wait patiently until morning before he dared touch the pearls. During those hours of waiting he had time for reflection and reproached himself for being so frightened by the possession of his father's treasures. "These pearls have belonged to our family for generations," he mused, "yet no one has ever lost them. If I use ordinary care I am sure I need have no fears for their safety." When the dawn came and he could see plainly, Inga opened the bag and took out the Blue Pearl. There was no possibility of his being observed by others, so he took time to examine it wonderingly, saying to himself: "This will give me strength." Taking off his right shoe he placed the Blue Pearl within it, far up in the pointed toe. Then he tore a piece from his handkerchief and stuffed it into the shoe to hold the pearl in place. Inga's shoes were long and pointed, as were all the shoes worn in Pingaree, and the points curled upward, so that there was quite a vacant space beyond the place where the boy's toes reached when the shoe was upon his foot. After he had put on the Shoe and laced it up he opened the bag and took out the Pink Pearl. "This will protect me from danger," said Inga, and removing the shoe from his left foot he carefully placed the pearl in the hollow toe. This, also, he secured in place by means of a strip torn from his handkerchief. Having put on the second shoe and laced it up, the boy drew from the silken bag the third pearl--that which was pure white--and holding it to his ear he asked. "Will you advise me what to do, in this my hour of misfortune?" Clearly the small voice of the pearl made answer: "I advise you to go to the Islands of Regos and Coregos, where you may liberate your parents from slavery." "How could I do that?" exclaimed Prince Inga, amazed at receiving such advice. "To-night," spoke the voice of the pearl, "there will be a storm, and in the morning a boat will strand upon the shore. Take this boat and row to Regos and Coregos." "How can I, a weak boy, pull the boat so far?" he inquired, doubting the possibility. "The Blue Pearl will give you strength," was the reply. "But I may be shipwrecked and drowned, before ever I reach Regos and Coregos," protested the boy. "The Pink Pearl will protect you from harm," murmured the voice, soft and low but very distinct. "Then I shall act as you advise me," declared Inga, speaking firmly because this promise gave him courage, and as he removed the pearl from his ear it whispered: "The wise and fearless are sure to win success." Restoring the White Pearl to the depths of the silken bag, Inga fastened it securely around his neck and buttoned his waist above it to hide the treasure from all prying eyes. Then he slowly climbed down from the tree and returned to the room where King Rinkitink still slept. The goat was browsing upon the grass but looked cross and surly. When the boy said good morning as he passed, Bilbil made no response whatever. As Inga entered the room the King awoke and asked: "What is that mysterious secret of yours? I've been dreaming about it, and I haven't got my breath yet from tugging at those heavy blocks. Tell me the secret." "A secret told is no longer a secret," replied Inga, with a laugh. "Besides, this is a family secret, which it is proper I should keep to myself. But I may tell you one thing, at least: We are going to leave this island to-morrow morning." The King seemed puzzled' by this statement. "I'm not much of a swimmer," said he, "and, though I'm fat enough to float upon the surface of the water, I'd only bob around and get nowhere at all." "We shall not swim, but ride comfortably in a boat," promised Inga. "There isn't a boat on this island!" declared Rinkitink, looking upon the boy with wonder. "True," said Inga. "But one will come to us in the morning." He spoke positively, for he had perfect faith in the promise of the White Pearl; but Rinkitink, knowing nothing of the three marvelous jewels, began to fear that the little Prince had lost his mind through grief and misfortune. For this reason the King did not question the boy further but tried to cheer him by telling him witty stories. He laughed at all the stories himself, in his merry, rollicking way, and Inga joined freely in the laughter because his heart had been lightened by the prospect of rescuing his dear parents. Not since the fierce warriors had descended upon Pingaree had the boy been so hopeful and happy. With Rinkitink riding upon Bilbil's back, the three made a tour of the island and found in the central part some bushes and trees bearing ripe fruit. They gathered this freely, for--aside from the fish which Inga caught--it was the only food they now had, and the less they had, the bigger Rinkitink's appetite seemed to grow. "I am never more happy," said he with a sigh, "than when I am eating." Toward evening the sky became overcast and soon a great storm began to rage. Prince Inga and King Rinkitink took refuge within the shelter of the room they had fitted up and there Bilbil joined them. The goat and the King were somewhat disturbed by the violence of the storm, but Inga did not mind it, being pleased at this evidence that the White Pearl might be relied upon. All night the wind shrieked around the island; thunder rolled, lightning flashed and rain came down in torrents. But with morning the storm abated and when the sun arose no sign of the tempest remained save a few fallen trees. Chapter Six The Magic Boat Prince Inga was up with the sun and, accompanied by Bilbil, began walking along the shore in search of the boat which the White Pearl had promised him. Never for an instant did he doubt that he would find it and before he had walked any great distance a dark object at the water's edge caught his eye. "It is the boat, Bilbil!" he cried joyfully, and running down to it he found it was, indeed, a large and roomy boat. Although stranded upon the beach, it was in perfect order and had suffered in no way from the storm. Inga stood for some moments gazing upon the handsome craft and wondering where it could have come from. Certainly it was unlike any boat he had ever seen. On the outside it was painted a lustrous black, without any other color to relieve it; but all the inside of the boat was lined with pure silver, polished so highly that the surface resembled a mirror and glinted brilliantly in the rays of the sun. The seats had white velvet cushions upon them and the cushions were splendidly embroidered with threads of gold. At one end, beneath the broad seat, was a small barrel with silver hoops, which the boy found was filled with fresh, sweet water. A great chest of sandalwood, bound and ornamented with silver, stood in the other end of the boat. Inga raised the lid and discovered the chest filled with sea-biscuits, cakes, tinned meats and ripe, juicy melons; enough good and wholesome food to last the party a long time. Lying upon the bottom of the boat were two shining oars, and overhead, but rolled back now, was a canopy of silver cloth to ward off the heat of the sun. It is no wonder the boy was delighted with the appearance of this beautiful boat; but on reflection he feared it was too large for him to row any great distance. Unless, indeed, the Blue Pearl gave him unusual strength. While he was considering this matter, King Rinkitink came waddling up to him and said: "Well, well, well, my Prince, your words have come true! Here is the boat, for a certainty, yet how it came here--and how you knew it would come to us--are puzzles that mystify me. I do not question our good fortune, however, and my heart is bubbling with joy, for in this boat I will return at once to my City of Gilgad, from which I have remained absent altogether too long a time." "I do not wish to go to Gilgad," said Inga. "That is too bad, my friend, for you would be very welcome. But you may remain upon this island, if you wish," continued Rinkitink, "and when I get home I will send some of my people to rescue you." "It is my boat, Your Majesty," said Inga quietly. "May be, may be," was the careless answer, "but I am King of a great country, while you are a boy Prince without any kingdom to speak of. Therefore, being of greater importance than you, it is just and right that I take, your boat and return to my own country in it." "I am sorry to differ from Your Majesty's views," said Inga, "but instead of going to Gilgad I consider it of greater importance that we go to the islands of Regos and Coregos." "Hey? What!" cried the astounded King. "To Regos and Coregos! To become slaves of the barbarians, like the King, your father? No, no, my boy! Your Uncle Rinki may have an empty noddle, as Bilbil claims, but he is far too wise to put his head in the lion's mouth. It's no fun to be a slave." "The people of Regos and Coregos will not enslave us," declared Inga. "On the contrary, it is my intention to set free my dear parents, as well as all my people, and to bring them back again to Pingaree." "Cheek-eek-eek-eek-eek! How funny!" chuckled Rinkitink, winking at the goat, which scowled in return. "Your audacity takes my breath away, Inga, but the adventure has its charm, I must, confess. Were I not so fat, I'd agree to your plan at once, and could probably conquer that horde of fierce warriors without any assistance at all--any at all--eh, Bilbil? But I grieve to say that I am fat, and not in good fighting trim. As for your determination to do what I admit I can't do, Inga, I fear you forget that you are only a boy, and rather small at that." "No, I do not forget that," was Inga's reply. "Then please consider that you and I and Bilbil are not strong enough, as an army, to conquer a powerful nation of skilled warriors. We could attempt it, of course, but you are too young to die, while I am too old. Come with me to my City of Gilgad, where you will be greatly honored. I'll have my professors teach you how to be good. Eh? What do you say?" Inga was a little embarrassed how to reply to these arguments, which he knew King Rinkitink considered were wise; so, after a period of thought, he said: "I will make a bargain with Your Majesty, for I do not wish to fail in respect to so worthy a man and so great a King as yourself. This boat is mine, as I have said, and in my father's absence you have become my guest; therefore I claim that I am entitled to some consideration, as well as you." "No doubt of it," agreed Rinkitink. "What is the bargain you propose, Inga?" "Let us both get into the boat, and you shall first try to row us to Gilgad. If you succeed, I will accompany you right willingly; but should you fail, I will then row the boat to Regos, and you must come with me without further protest." "A fair and just bargain!" cried the King, highly pleased. "Yet, although I am a man of mighty deeds, I do not relish the prospect of rowing so big a boat all the way to Gilgad. But I will do my best and abide by the result." The matter being thus peaceably settled, they prepared to embark. A further supply of fruits was placed in the boat and Inga also raked up a quantity of the delicious oysters that abounded on the coast of Pingaree but which he had before been unable to reach for lack of a boat. This was done at the suggestion of the ever-hungry Rinkitink, and when the oysters had been stowed in their shells behind the water barrel and a plentiful supply of grass brought aboard for Bilbil, they decided they were ready to start on their voyage. It proved no easy task to get Bilbil into the boat, for he was a remarkably clumsy goat and once, when Rinkitink gave him a push, he tumbled into the water and nearly drowned before they could get him out again. But there was no thought of leaving the quaint animal behind. His power of speech made him seem almost human in the eyes of the boy, and the fat King was so accustomed to his surly companion that nothing could have induced him to part with him. Finally Bilbil fell sprawling into the bottom of the boat, and Inga helped him to get to the front end, where there was enough space for him to lie down. Rinkitink now took his seat in the silver-lined craft and the boy came last, pushing off the boat as he sprang aboard, so that it floated freely upon the water. "Well, here we go for Gilgad!" exclaimed the King, picking up the oars and placing them in the row-locks. Then he began to row as hard as he could, singing at the same time an odd sort of a song that ran like this: "The way to Gilgad isn't bad For a stout old King and a brave young lad, For a cross old goat with a dripping coat, And a silver boat in which to float. So our hearts are merry, light and glad As we speed away to fair Gilgad!" "Don't, Rinkitink; please don't! It makes me seasick," growled Bilbil. Rinkitink stopped rowing, for by this time he was all out of breath and his round face was covered with big drops of perspiration. And when he looked over his shoulder he found to his dismay that the boat had scarcely moved a foot from its former position. Inga said nothing and appeared not to notice the King's failure. So now Rinkitink, with a serious look on his fat, red face, took off his purple robe and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and tried again. However, he succeeded no better than before and when he heard Bilbil give a gruff laugh and saw a smile upon the boy Prince's face, Rinkitink suddenly dropped the oars and began shouting with laughter at his own defeat. As he wiped his brow with a yellow silk handkerchief he sang in a merry voice: "A sailor bold am I, I hold, But boldness will not row a boat. So I confess I'm in distress And just as useless as the goat." "Please leave me out of your verses," said Bilbil with a snort of anger. "When I make a fool of myself, Bilbil, I'm a goat," replied Rinkitink. "Not so," insisted Bilbil. "Nothing could make you a member of my superior race." "Superior? Why, Bilbil, a goat is but a beast, while I am a King!" "I claim that superiority lies in intelligence," said the goat. Rinkitink paid no attention to this remark, but turning to Inga he said: "We may as well get back to the shore, for the boat is too heavy to row to Gilgad or anywhere else. Indeed, it will be hard for us to reach land again." "Let me take the oars," suggested Inga. "You must not forget our bargain." "No, indeed," answered Rinkitink. "If you can row us to Regos, or to any other place, I will go with you without protest." So the King took Inga's place at the stern of the boat and the boy grasped the oars and commenced to row. And now, to the great wonder of Rinkitink--and even to Inga's surprise--the oars became light as feathers as soon as the Prince took hold of them. In an instant the boat began to glide rapidly through the water and, seeing this, the boy turned its prow toward the north. He did not know exactly where Regos and Coregos were located, but he did know that the islands lay to the north of Pingaree, so he decided to trust to luck and the guidance of the pearls to carry him to them. Gradually the Island of Pingaree became smaller to their view as the boat sped onward, until at the end of an hour they had lost sight of it altogether and were wholly surrounded by the purple waters of the Nonestic Ocean. Prince Inga did not tire from the labor of rowing; indeed, it seemed to him no labor at all. Once he stopped long enough to place the poles of the canopy in the holes that had been made for them, in the edges of the boat, and to spread the canopy of silver over the poles, for Rinkitink had complained of the sun's heat. But the canopy shut out the hot rays and rendered the interior of the boat cool and pleasant. "This is a glorious ride!" cried Rinkitink, as he lay back in the shade. "I find it a decided relief to be away from that dismal island of Pingaree. "It may be a relief for a short time," said Bilbil, "but you are going to the land of your enemies, who will probably stick your fat body full of spears and arrows." "Oh, I hope not!" exclaimed Inga, distressed at the thought. "Never mind," said the King calmly, "a man can die but once, you know, and when the enemy kills me I shall beg him to kill Bilbil, also, that we may remain together in death as in life." "They may be cannibals, in which case they will roast and eat us," suggested Bilbil, who wished to terrify his master. "Who knows?" answered Rinkitink, with a shudder. "But cheer up, Bilbil; they may not kill us after all, or even capture us; so let us not borrow trouble. Do not look so cross, my sprightly quadruped, and I will sing to amuse you." "Your song would make me more cross than ever," grumbled the goat. "Quite impossible, dear Bilbil. You couldn't be more surly if you tried. So here is a famous song for you." While the boy rowed steadily on and the boat rushed fast over the water, the jolly King, who never could be sad or serious for many minutes at a time, lay back on his embroidered cushions and sang as follows: "A merry maiden went to sea-- Sing too-ral-oo-ral-i-do! She sat upon the Captain's knee And looked around the sea to see What she could see, but she couldn't see me-- Sing too-ral-oo-ral-i-do! "How do you like that, Bilbil?" "I don't like it," complained the goat. "It reminds me of the alligator that tried to whistle." "Did he succeed, Bilbil?" asked the King. "He whistled as well as you sing." "Ha, ha, ha, ha, heek, keek, eek!" chuckled the King. "He must have whistled most exquisitely, eh, my friend?" "I am not your friend," returned the goat, wagging his ears in a surly manner. "I am yours, however," was the King's cheery reply; "and to prove it I'll sing you another verse." "Don't, I beg of you!" But the King sang as follows: "The wind blew off the maiden's shoe-- Sing too-ral-oo-ral-i-do! And the shoe flew high to the sky so blue And the maiden knew 'twas a new shoe, too; But she couldn't pursue the shoe, 'tis true-- Sing too-ral-oo-ral-i-do! "Isn't that sweet, my pretty goat?" "Sweet, do you ask?" retorted Bilbil. "I consider it as sweet as candy made from mustard and vinegar." "But not as sweet as your disposition, I admit. Ah, Bilbil, your temper would put honey itself to shame." "Do not quarrel, I beg of you," pleaded Inga. "Are we not sad enough already?" "But this is a jolly quarrel," said the King, "and it is the way Bilbil and I often amuse ourselves. Listen, now, to the last verse of all: "The maid who shied her shoe now cried-- Sing too-ral-oo-ral-i-do! Her tears were fried for the Captain's bride Who ate with pride her sobs, beside, And gently sighed 'I'm satisfied'-- Sing to-ral-oo-ral-i-do!" "Worse and worse!" grumbled Bilbil, with much scorn. "I am glad that is the last verse, for another of the same kind might cause me to faint." "I fear you have no ear for music," said the King. "I have heard no music, as yet," declared the goat. "You must have a strong imagination, King Rinkitink, if you consider your songs music. Do you remember the story of the bear that hired out for a nursemaid?" "I do not recall it just now," said Rinkitink, with a wink at Inga. "Well, the bear tried to sing a lullaby to put the baby to sleep." "And then?" said the King. "The bear was highly pleased with its own voice, but the baby was nearly frightened to death." "Heh, heb, heh, heh, whoo, hoo, hoo! You are a merry rogue, Bilbil," laughed the King; "a merry rogue in spite of your gloomy features. However, if I have not amused you, I have at least pleased myself, for I am exceedingly fond of a good song. So let us say no more about it." All this time the boy Prince was rowing the boat. He was not in the least tired, for the oars he held seemed to move of their own accord. He paid little heed to the conversation of Rinkitink and the goat, but busied his thoughts with plans of what he should do when he reached the islands of Regos and Coregos and confronted his enemies. When the others finally became silent, Inga inquired. "Can you fight, King Rinkitink?" "I have never tried," was the answer. "In time of danger I have found it much easier to run away than to face the foe." "But could you fight?" asked the boy. "I might try, if there was no chance to escape by running. Have you a proper weapon for me to fight with?" "I have no weapon at all," confessed Inga. "Then let us use argument and persuasion instead of fighting. For instance, if we could persuade the warriors of Regos to lie down, and let me step on them, they would be crushed with ease." Prince Inga had expected little support from the King, so he was not discouraged by this answer. After all, he reflected, a conquest by battle would be out of the question, yet the White Pearl would not have advised him to go to Regos and Coregos had the mission been a hopeless one. It seemed to him, on further reflection, that he must rely upon circumstances to determine his actions when he reached the islands of the barbarians. By this time Inga felt perfect confidence in the Magic Pearls. It was the White Pearl that had given him the boat, and the Blue Pearl that had given him strength to row it. He believed that the Pink Pearl would protect him from any danger that might arise; so his anxiety was not for himself, but for his companions. King Rinkitink and the goat had no magic to protect them, so Inga resolved to do all in his power to keep them from harm. For three days and three nights the boat with the silver lining sped swiftly over the ocean. On the morning of the fourth day, so quickly had they traveled, Inga saw before him the shores of the two great islands of Regos and Coregos. "The pearls have guided me aright!" he whispered to himself. "Now, if I am wise, and cautious, and brave, I believe I shall be able to rescue my father and mother and my people." Chapter Seven The Twin Islands The Island of Regos was ten miles wide and forty miles long and it was ruled by a big and powerful King named Gos. Near to the shores were green and fertile fields, but farther back from the sea were rugged hills and mountains, so rocky that nothing would grow there. But in these mountains were mines of gold and silver, which the slaves of the King were forced to work, being confined in dark underground passages for that purpose. In the course of time huge caverns had been hollowed out by the slaves, in which they lived and slept, never seeing the light of day. Cruel overseers with whips stood over these poor people, who had been captured in many countries by the raiding parties of King Cos, and the overseers were quite willing to lash the slaves with their whips if they faltered a moment in their work. Between the green shores and the mountains were forests of thick, tangled trees, between which narrow paths had been cut to lead up to the caves of the mines. It was on the level green meadows, not far from the ocean, that the great City of Regos had been built, wherein was located the palace of the King. This city was inhabited by thousands of the fierce warriors of Gos, who frequently took to their boats and spread over the sea to the neighboring islands to conquer and pillage, as they had done at Pingaree. When they were not absent on one of these expeditions, the City of Regos swarmed with them and so became a dangerous place for any peaceful person to live in, for the warriors were as lawless as their King. The Island of Coregos lay close beside the Island of Regos; so close, indeed, that one might have thrown a stone from one shore to another. But Coregos was only half the size of Regos and instead of being mountainous it was a rich and pleasant country, covered with fields of grain. The fields of Coregos furnished food for the warriors and citizens of both countries, while the mines of Regos made them all rich. Coregos was ruled by Queen Cor, who was wedded to King Gos; but so stern and cruel was the nature of this Queen that the people could not decide which of their sovereigns they dreaded most. Queen Cor lived in her own City of Coregos, which lay on that side of her island facing Regos, and her slaves, who were mostly women, were made to plow the land and to plant and harvest the grain. From Regos to Coregos stretched a bridge of boats, set close together, with planks laid across their edges for people to walk upon. In this way it was easy to pass from one island to the other and in times of danger the bridge could be quickly removed. The native inhabitants of Regos and Coregos consisted of the warriors, who did nothing but fight and ravage, and the trembling servants who waited on them. King Gos and Queen Cor were at war with all the rest of the world. Other islanders hated and feared them, for their slaves were badly treated and absolutely no mercy was shown to the weak or ill. When the boats that had gone to Pingaree returned loaded with rich plunder and a host of captives, there was much rejoicing in Regos and Coregos and the King and Queen gave a fine feast to the warriors who had accomplished so great a conquest. This feast was set for the warriors in the grounds of King Gos's palace, while with them in the great throne room all the captains and leaders of the fighting men were assembled with King Gos and Queen Cor, who had come from her island to attend the ceremony. Then all the goods that had been stolen from the King of Pingaree were divided according to rank, the King and Queen taking half, the captains a quarter, and the rest being divided amongst the warriors. The day following the feast King Gos sent King Kitticut and all the men of Pingaree to work in his mines under the mountains, having first chained them together so they could not escape. The gentle Queen of Pingaree and all her women, together with the captured children, were given to Queen Cor, who set them to work in her grain fields. Then the rulers and warriors of these dreadful islands thought they had done forever with Pingaree. Despoiled of all its wealth, its houses torn down, its boats captured and all its people enslaved, what likelihood was there that they might ever again hear of the desolated island? So the people of Regos and Coregos were surprised and puzzled when one morning they observed approaching their shores from the direction of the south a black boat containing a boy, a fat man and a goat. The warriors asked one another who these could be, and where they had come from? No one ever came to those islands of their own accord, that was certain. Prince Inga guided his boat to the south end of the Island of Regos, which was the landing place nearest to the city, and when the warriors saw this action they went down to the shore to meet him, being led by a big captain named Buzzub. "Those people surely mean us no good," said Rinkitink uneasily to the boy. "Without doubt they intend to capture us and make us their slaves." "Do not fear, sir," answered Inga, in a calm voice. "Stay quietly in the boat with Bilbil until I have spoken with these men." He stopped the boat a dozen feet from the shore, and standing up in his place made a grave bow to the multitude confronting him. Said the big Captain Buzzub in a gruff voice: "Well, little one, who may you be? And how dare you come, uninvited and all alone, to the Island of Regos?" "I am Inga, Prince of Pingaree," returned the boy, "and I have come here to free my parents and my people, whom you have wrongfully enslaved." When they heard this bold speech a mighty laugh arose from the band of warriors, and when it had subsided the captain said: "You love to jest, my baby Prince, and the joke is fairly good. But why did you willingly thrust your head into the lion's mouth? When you were free, why did you not stay free? We did not know we had left a single person in Pingaree! But since you managed to escape us then, it is really kind of you to come here of your own free will, to be our slave. Who is the funny fat person with you?" "It is His Majesty, King Rinkitink, of the great City of Gilgad. He has accompanied me to see that you render full restitution for all you have stolen from Pingaree." "Better yet!" laughed Buzzub. "He will make a fine slave for Queen Cor, who loves to tickle fat men, and see them jump." King Rinkitink was filled with horror when he heard this, but the Prince answered as boldly as before, saying: "We are not to be frightened by bluster, believe me; nor are we so weak as you imagine. We have magic powers so great and terrible that no host of warriors can possibly withstand us, and therefore I call upon you to surrender your city and your island to us, before we crush you with our mighty powers." The boy spoke very gravely and earnestly, but his words only aroused another shout of laughter. So while the men of Regos were laughing Inga drove the boat we'll up onto the sandy beach and leaped out. He also helped Rinkitink out, and when the goat had unaided sprung to the sands, the King got upon Bilbil's back, trembling a little internally, but striving to look as brave as possible. There was a bunch of coarse hair between the goat's ears, and this Inga clutched firmly in his left hand. The boy knew the Pink Pearl would protect not only himself, but all whom he touched, from any harm, and as Rinkitink was astride the goat and Inga had his hand upon the animal, the three could not be injured by anything the warriors could do. But Captain Buzzub did not know this, and the little group of three seemed so weak and ridiculous that he believed their capture would be easy. So he turned to his men and with a wave of his hand said: "Seize the intruders!" Instantly two or three of the warriors stepped forward to obey, but to their amazement they could not reach any of the three; their hands were arrested as if by an invisible wall of iron. Without paying any attention to these attempts at capture, Inga advanced slowly and the goat kept pace with him. And when Rinkitink saw that he was safe from harm he gave one of his big, merry laughs, and it startled the warriors and made them nervous. Captain Buzzub's eyes grew big with surprise as the three steadily advanced and forced his men backward; nor was he free from terror himself at the magic that protected these strange visitors. As for the warriors, they presently became terror-stricken and fled in a panic up the slope toward the city, and Buzzub was obliged to chase after them and shout threats of punishment before he could halt them and form them into a line of battle. All the men of Regos bore spears and bows-and-arrows, and some of the officers had swords and battle-axes; so Buzzub ordered them to stand their ground and shoot and slay the strangers as they approached. This they tried to do. Inga being in advance, the warriors sent a flight of sharp arrows straight at the boy's breast, while others cast their long spears at him. It seemed to Rinkitink that the little Prince must surely perish as he stood facing this hail of murderous missiles; but the power of the Pink Pearl did not desert him, and when the arrows and spears had reached to within an inch of his body they bounded back again and fell harmlessly at his feet. Nor were Rinkitink or Bilbil injured in the least, although they stood close beside Inga. Buzzub stood for a moment looking upon the boy in silent wonder. Then, recovering himself, he shouted in a loud voice: "Once again! All together, my men. No one shall ever defy our might and live!" Again a flight of arrows and spears sped toward the three, and since many more of the warriors of Regos had by this time joined their fellows, the air was for a moment darkened by the deadly shafts. But again all fell harmless before the power of the Pink Pearl, and Bilbil, who had been growing very angry at the attempts to injure him and his party, suddenly made a bolt forward, casting off Inga's hold, and butted into the line of warriors, who were standing amazed at their failure to conquer. Taken by surprise at the goat's attack, a dozen big warriors tumbled in a heap, yelling with fear, and their comrades, not knowing what had happened but imagining that their foes were attacking them, turned about and ran to the city as hard as they could go. Bilbil, still angry, had just time to catch the big captain as he turned to follow his men, and Buzzub first sprawled headlong upon the ground, then rolled over two or three times, and finally jumped up and ran yelling after his defeated warriors. This butting on the part of the goat was very hard upon King Rinkitink, who nearly fell off Bilbil's back at the shock of encounter; but the little fat King wound his arms around the goat's neck and shut his eyes and clung on with all his might. It was not until he heard Inga say triumphantly, "We have won the fight without striking a blow!" that Rinkitink dared open his eyes again. Then he saw the warriors rushing into the City of Regos and barring the heavy gates, and he was very much relieved at the sight. "Without striking a blow!" said Bilbil indignantly. "That is not quite true, Prince Inga. You did not fight, I admit, but I struck a couple of times to good purpose, and I claim to have conquered the cowardly warriors unaided." "You and I together, Bilbil," said Rinkitink mildly. "But the next time you make a charge, please warn me in time, so that I may dismount and give you all the credit for the attack." There being no one now to oppose their advance, the three walked to the gates of the city, which had been closed against them. The gates were of iron and heavily barred, and upon the top of the high walls of the city a host of the warriors now appeared armed with arrows and spears and other weapons. For Buzzub had gone straight to the palace of King Cos and reported his defeat, relating the powerful magic of the boy, the fat King and the goat, and had asked what to do next. The big captain still trembled with fear, but King Gos did not believe in magic, and called Buzzub a coward and a weakling. At once the King took command of his men personally, and he ordered the walls manned with warriors and instructed them to shoot to kill if any of the three strangers approached the gates. Of course, neither Rinkitink nor Bilbil knew how they had been protected from harm and so at first they were inclined to resent the boy's command that the three must always keep together and touch one another at all times. But when Inga explained that his magic would not otherwise save them from injury, they agreed to obey, for they had now seen enough to convince them that the Prince was really protected by some invisible power. As they came before the gates another shower of arrows and spears descended upon them, and as before not a single missile touched their bodies. King Gos, who was upon the wall, was greatly amazed and somewhat worried, but he depended upon the strength of his gates and commanded his men to continue shooting until all their weapons were gone. Inga let them shoot as much as they wished, while he stood before the great gates and examined them carefully. "Perhaps Bilbil can batter down the gates, suggested Rinkitink. "No," replied the goat; "my head is hard, but not harder than iron." "Then," returned the King, "let us stay outside; especially as we can't get in." But Inga was not at all sure they could not get in. The gates opened inward, and three heavy bars were held in place by means of stout staples riveted to the sheets of steel. The boy had been told that the power of the Blue Pearl would enable him to accomplish any feat of strength, and he believed that this was true. The warriors, under the direction of King Gos, continued to hurl arrows and darts and spears and axes and huge stones upon the invaders, all without avail. The ground below was thickly covered with weapons, yet not one of the three before the gates had been injured in the slightest manner. When everything had been cast that was available and not a single weapon of any sort remained at hand, the amazed warriors saw the boy put his shoulder against the gates and burst asunder the huge staples that held the bars in place. A thousand of their men could not have accomplished this feat, yet the small, slight boy did it with seeming ease. The gates burst open, and Inga advanced into the city street and called upon King Gos to surrender. But Gos was now as badly frightened as were his warriors. He and his men were accustomed to war and pillage and they had carried terror into many countries, but here was a small boy, a fat man and a goat who could not be injured by all his skill in warfare, his numerous army and thousands of death-dealing weapons. Moreover, they not only defied King Gos's entire army but they had broken in the huge gates of the city--as easily as if they had been made of paper--and such an exhibition of enormous strength made the wicked King fear for his life. Like all bullies and marauders, Gos was a coward at heart, and now a panic seized him and he turned and fled before the calm advance of Prince Inga of Pingaree. The warriors were like their master, and having thrown all their weapons over the wall and being helpless to oppose the strangers, they all swarmed after Gos, who abandoned his city and crossed the bridge of boats to the Island of Coregos. There was a desperate struggle among these cowardly warriors to get over the bridge, and many were pushed into the water and obliged to swim; but finally every fighting man of Regos had gained the shore of Coregos and then they tore away the bridge of boats and drew them up on their own side, hoping the stretch of open water would prevent the magic invaders from following them. The humble citizens and serving people of Regos, who had been terrified and abused by the rough warriors all their lives, were not only greatly astonished by this sudden conquest of their masters but greatly delighted. As the King and his army fled to Coregos, the people embraced one another and danced for very joy, and then they turned to see what the conquerors of Regos were like. Chapter Eight Rinkitink Makes a Great Mistake The fat King rode his goat through the streets of the conquered city and the boy Prince walked proudly beside him, while all the people bent their heads humbly to their new masters, whom they were prepared to serve in the same manner they had King Gos. Not a warrior remained in all Regos to oppose the triumphant three; the bridge of boats had been destroyed; Inga and his companions were free from danger--for a time, at least. The jolly little King appreciated this fact and rejoiced that he had escaped all injury during the battle. How it had all happened he could not tell, nor even guess, but he was content in being safe and free to take possession of the enemy's city. So, as they passed through the lines of respectful civilians on their way to the palace, the King tipped his crown back on his bald head and folded his arms and sang in his best voice the following lines: "Oh, here comes the army of King Rinkitink! It isn't a big one, perhaps you may think, But it scattered the warriors quicker than wink-- Rink-i-tink, tink-i-tink, tink! Our Bilbil's a hero and so is his King; Our foemen have vanished like birds on the wing; I guess that as fighters we're quite the real thing-- Rink-i-tink, tink-i-tink, tink!" "Why don't you give a little credit to Inga?" inquired the goat. "If I remember aright, he did a little of the conquering himself." "So he did," responded the King, "and that's the reason I'm sounding our own praise, Bilbil. Those who do the least, often shout the loudest and so get the most glory. Inga did so much that there is danger of his becoming more important than we are, and so we'd best say nothing about him." When they reached the palace, which was an immense building, furnished throughout in regal splendor, Inga took formal possession and ordered the majordomo to show them the finest rooms the building contained. There were many pleasant apartments, but Rinkitink proposed to Inga that they share one of the largest bedrooms together. "For," said he, "we are not sure that old Gos will not return and try to recapture his city, and you must remember that I have no magic to protect me. In any danger, were I alone, I might be easily killed or captured, while if you are by my side you can save me from injury." The boy realized the wisdom of this plan, and selected a fine big bedroom on the second floor of the palace, in which he ordered two golden beds placed and prepared for King Rinkitink and himself. Bilbil was given a suite of rooms on the other side of the palace, where servants brought the goat fresh-cut grass to eat and made him a soft bed to lie upon. That evening the boy Prince and the fat King dined in great state in the lofty-domed dining hall of the palace, where forty servants waited upon them. The royal chef, anxious to win the favor of the conquerors of Regos, prepared his finest and most savory dishes for them, which Rinkitink ate with much appetite and found so delicious that he ordered the royal chef brought into the banquet hall and presented him with a gilt button which the King cut from his own jacket. "You are welcome to it," said he to the chef, "because I have eaten so much that I cannot use that lower button at all." Rinkitink was mightily pleased to live in a comfortable palace again and to dine at a well spread table. His joy grew every moment, so that he came in time to be as merry and cheery as before Pingaree was despoiled. And, although he had been much frightened during Inga's defiance of the army of King Gos, he now began to turn the matter into a joke. "Why, my boy," said he, "you whipped the big black-bearded King exactly as if he were a schoolboy, even though you used no warlike weapon at all upon him. He was cowed through fear of your magic, and that reminds me to demand from you an explanation. How did you do it, Inga? And where did the wonderful magic come from?" Perhaps it would have been wise for the Prince to have explained about the magic pearls, but at that moment he was not inclined to do so. Instead, he replied: "Be patient, Your Majesty. The secret is not my own, so please do not ask me to divulge it. Is it not enough, for the present, that the magic saved you from death to-day?" "Do not think me ungrateful," answered the King earnestly. "A million spears fell on me from the wall, and several stones as big as mountains, yet none of them hurt me!" "The stones were not as big as mountains, sire," said the Prince with a smile. "They were, indeed, no larger than your head." "Are you sure about that?" asked Rinkitink. "Quite sure, Your Majesty." "How deceptive those things are!" sighed the King. "This argument reminds me of the story of Tom Tick, which my father used to tell." "I have never heard that story," Inga answered. "Well, as he told it, it ran like this: "When Tom walked out, the sky to spy, A naughty gnat flew in his eye; But Tom knew not it was a gnat-- He thought, at first, it was a cat. "And then, it felt so very big, He thought it surely was a pig Till, standing still to hear it grunt, He cried: 'Why, it's an elephunt!' "But--when the gnat flew out again And Tom was free from all his pain, He said: 'There flew into my eye A leetle, teenty-tiny fly.'" "Indeed," said Inga, laughing, "the gnat was much like your stones that seemed as big as mountains." After their dinner they inspected the palace, which was filled with valuable goods stolen by King Gos from many nations. But the day's events had tired them and they retired early to their big sleeping apartment. "In the morning," said the boy to Rinkitink, as he was undressing for bed, "I shall begin the search for my father and mother and the people of Pingaree. And, when they are found and rescued, we will all go home again, and be as happy as we were before." They carefully bolted the door of their room, that no one might enter, and then got into their beds, where Rinkitink fell asleep in an instant. The boy lay awake for a while thinking over the day's adventures, but presently he fell sound asleep also, and so weary was he that nothing disturbed his slumber until he awakened next morning with a ray of sunshine in his eyes, which had crept into the room through the open window by King Rinkitink's bed. Resolving to begin the search for his parents without any unnecessary delay, Inga at once got out of bed and began to dress himself, while Rinkitink, in the other bed, was still sleeping peacefully. But when the boy had put on both his stockings and began looking for his shoes, he could find but one of them. The left shoe, that containing the Pink Pearl, was missing. Filled with anxiety at this discovery, Inga searched through the entire room, looking underneath the beds and divans and chairs and behind the draperies and in the corners and every other possible place a shoe might be. He tried the door, and found it still bolted; so, with growing uneasiness, the boy was forced to admit that the precious shoe was not in the room. With a throbbing heart he aroused his companion. "King Rinkitink," said he, "do you know what has become of my left shoe?" "Your shoe!" exclaimed the King, giving a wide yawn and rubbing his eyes to get the sleep out of them. "Have you lost a shoe?" "Yes," said Inga. "I have searched everywhere in the room, and cannot find it." "But why bother me about such a small thing?" inquired Rinkitink. "A shoe is only a shoe, and you can easily get another one. But, stay! Perhaps it was your shoe which I threw at the cat last night." "The cat!" cried Inga. "What do you mean?" "Why, in the night," explained Rinkitink, sitting up and beginning to dress himself, "I was wakened by the mewing of a cat that sat upon a wall of the palace, just outside my window. As the noise disturbed me, I reached out in the dark and caught up something and threw it at the cat, to frighten the creature away. I did not know what it was that I threw, and I was too sleepy to care; but probably it was your shoe, since it is now missing." "Then," said the boy, in a despairing tone of voice, "your carelessness has ruined me, as well as yourself, King Rinkitink, for in that shoe was concealed the magic power which protected us from danger." The King's face became very serious when he heard this and he uttered a low whistle of surprise and regret. "Why on earth did you not warn me of this?" he demanded. "And why did you keep such a precious power in an old shoe? And why didn't you put the shoe under a pillow? You were very wrong, my lad, in not confiding to me, your faithful friend, the secret, for in that case the shoe would not now be lost." To all this Inga had no answer. He sat on the side of his bed, with hanging head, utterly disconsolate, and seeing this, Rinkitink had pity for his sorrow. "Come!" cried the King; "let us go out at once and look for the shoe which I threw at the cat. It must even now be lying in the yard of the palace." This suggestion roused the boy to action. He at once threw open the door and in his stocking feet rushed down the staircase, closely followed by Rinkitink. But although they looked on both sides of the palace wall and in every possible crack and corner where a shoe might lodge, they failed to find it. After a half hour's careful search the boy said sorrowfully: "Someone must have passed by, as we slept, and taken the precious shoe, not knowing its value. To us, King Rinkitink, this will be a dreadful misfortune, for we are surrounded by dangers from which we have now no protection. Luckily I have the other shoe left, within which is the magic power that gives me strength; so all is not lost." Then he told Rinkitink, in a few words, the secret of the wonderful pearls, and how he had recovered them from the ruins and hidden them in his shoes, and how they had enabled him to drive King Gos and his men from Regos and to capture the city. The King was much astonished, and when the story was concluded he said to Inga: "What did you do with the other shoe?" "Why, I left it in our bedroom," replied the boy. "Then I advise you to get it at once," continued Rinkitink, "for we can ill afford to lose the second shoe, as well as the one I threw at the cat." "You are right!" cried Inga, and they hastened back to their bedchamber. On entering the room they found an old woman sweeping and raising a great deal of dust. "Where is my shoe?" asked the Prince, anxiously. The old woman stopped sweeping and looked at him in a stupid way, for she was not very intelligent. "Do you mean the one odd shoe that was lying on the floor when I came in?" she finally asked. "Yes--yes!" answered the boy. "Where is it? Tell me where it is!" "Why, I threw it on the dust-heap, outside the back gate," said she, "for, it being but a single shoe, with no mate, it can be of no use to anyone." "Show us the way to the dust-heap--at once!" commanded the boy, sternly, for he was greatly frightened by this new misfortune which threatened him. The old woman hobbled away and they followed her, constantly urging her to hasten; but when they reached the dust-heap no shoe was to be seen. "This is terrible!" wailed the young Prince, ready to weep at his loss. "We are now absolutely ruined, and at the mercy of our enemies. Nor shall I be able to liberate my dear father and mother." "Well," replied Rinkitink, leaning against an old barrel and looking quite solemn, "the thing is certainly unlucky, any way we look at it. I suppose someone has passed along here and, seeing the shoe upon the dust-heap, has carried it away. But no one could know the magic power the shoe contains and so will not use it against us. I believe, Inga, we must now depend upon our wits to get us out of the scrape we are in." With saddened hearts they returned to the palace, and entering a small room where no one could observe them or overhear them, the boy took the White Pearl from its silken bag and held it to his ear, asking: "What shall I do now?" "Tell no one of your loss," answered the Voice of the Pearl. "If your enemies do not know that you are powerless, they will fear you as much as ever. Keep your secret, be patient, and fear not!" Inga heeded this advice and also warned Rinkitink to say nothing to anyone of the loss of the shoes and the powers they contained. He sent for the shoemaker of King Gos, who soon brought him a new pair of red leather shoes that fitted him quite well. When these had been put upon his feet, the Prince, accompanied by the King, started to walk through the city. Wherever they went the people bowed low to the conqueror, although a few, remembering Inga's terrible strength, ran away in fear and trembling. They had been used to severe masters and did not yet know how they would be treated by King Gos's successor. There being no occasion for the boy to exercise the powers he had displayed the previous day, his present helplessness was not suspected by any of the citizens of Regos, who still considered him a wonderful magician. Inga did not dare to fight his way to the mines, at present, nor could he try to conquer the Island of Coregos, where his mother was enslaved; so he set about the regulation of the City of Regos, and having established himself with great state in the royal palace he began to govern the people by kindness, having consideration for the most humble. The King of Regos and his followers sent spies across to the island they had abandoned in their flight, and these spies returned with the news that the terrible boy conqueror was still occupying the city. Therefore none of them ventured to go back to Regos but continued to live upon the neighboring island of Coregos, where they passed the days in fear and trembling and sought to plot and plan ways how they might overcome the Prince of Pingaree and the fat King of Gilgad. Chapter Nine A Present for Zella Now it so happened that on the morning of that same day when the Prince of Pingaree suffered the loss of his priceless shoes, there chanced to pass along the road that wound beside the royal palace a poor charcoal-burner named Nikobob, who was about to return to his home in the forest. Nikobob carried an ax and a bundle of torches over his shoulder and he walked with his eyes to the ground, being deep in thought as to the strange manner in which the powerful King Gos and his city had been conquered by a boy Prince who had come from Pingaree. Suddenly the charcoal-burner espied a shoe lying upon the ground, just beyond the high wall of the palace and directly in his path. He picked it up and, seeing it was a pretty shoe, although much too small for his own foot, he put it in his pocket. Soon after, on turning a corner of the wall, Nikobob came to a dust-heap where, lying amidst a mass of rubbish, was another shoe--the mate to the one he had before found. This also he placed in his pocket, saying to himself: "I have now a fine pair of shoes for my daughter Zella, who will be much pleased to find I have brought her a present from the city." And while the charcoal-burner turned into the forest and trudged along the path toward his home, Inga and Rinkitink were still searching for the missing shoes. Of course, they could not know that Nikobob had found them, nor did the honest man think he had taken anything more than a pair of cast-off shoes which nobody wanted. Nikobob had several miles to travel through the forest before he could reach the little log cabin where his wife, as well as his little daughter Zella, awaited his return, but he was used to long walks and tramped along the path whistling cheerfully to beguile the time. Few people, as I said before, ever passed through the dark and tangled forests of Regos, except to go to the mines in the mountain beyond, for many dangerous creatures lurked in the wild jungles, and King Gos never knew, when he sent a messenger to the mines, whether he would reach there safely or not. The charcoal-burner, however, knew the wild forest well, and especially this part of it lying between the city and his home. It was the favorite haunt of the ferocious beast Choggenmugger, dreaded by every dweller in the Island of Regos. Choggenmugger was so old that everyone thought it must have been there since the world was made, and each year of its life the huge scales that covered its body grew thicker and harder and its jaws grew wider and its teeth grew sharper and its appetite grew more keen than ever. In former ages there had been many dragons in Regos, but Choggenmugger was so fond of dragons that he had eaten all of them long ago. There had also been great serpents and crocodiles in the forest marshes, but all had gone to feed the hunger of Choggenmugger. The people of Regos knew well there was no use opposing the Great Beast, so when one unfortunately met with it he gave himself up for lost. All this Nikobob knew well, but fortune had always favored him in his journey through the forest, and although he had at times met many savage beasts and fought them with his sharp ax, he had never to this day encountered the terrible Choggenmugger. Indeed, he was not thinking of the Great Beast at all as he walked along, but suddenly he heard a crashing of broken trees and felt a trembling of the earth and saw the immense jaws of Choggenmugger opening before him. Then Nikobob gave himself up for lost and his heart almost ceased to beat. He believed there was no way of escape. No one ever dared oppose Choggenmugger. But Nikobob hated to die without showing the monster, in some way, that he was eaten only under protest. So he raised his ax and brought it down upon the red, protruding tongue of the monster--and cut it clean off! For a moment the charcoal-burner scarcely believed what his eyes saw, for he knew nothing of the pearls he carried in his pocket or the magic power they lent his arm. His success, however, encouraged him to strike again, and this time the huge scaly jaw of Choggenmugger was severed in twain and the beast howled in terrified rage. Nikobob took off his coat, to give himself more freedom of action, and then he earnestly renewed the attack. But now the ax seemed blunted by the hard scales and made no impression upon them whatever. The creature advanced with glaring, wicked eyes, and Nikobob seized his coat under his arm and turned to flee. That was foolish, for Choggenmugger could run like the wind. In a moment it overtook the charcoal-burner and snapped its four rows of sharp teeth together. But they did not touch Nikobob, because he still held the coat in his grasp, close to his body, and in the coat pocket were Inga's shoes, and in the points of the shoes were the magic pearls. Finding himself uninjured, Nikobob put on his coat, again seized his ax, and in a short time had chopped Choggenmugger into many small pieces--a task that proved not only easy but very agreeable. "I must be the strongest man in all the world!" thought the charcoal-burner, as he proudly resumed his way, "for Choggenmugger has been the terror of Regos since the world began, and I alone have been able to destroy the beast. Yet it is singular' that never before did I discover how powerful a man I am." He met no further adventure and at midday reached a little clearing in the forest where stood his humble cabin. "Great news! I have great news for you," he shouted, as his wife and little daughter came to greet him. "King Gos has been conquered by a boy Prince from the far island of Pingaree, and I have this day--unaided--destroyed Choggenmugger by the might of my strong arm." This was, indeed, great news. They brought Nikobob into the house and set him in an easy chair and made him tell everything he knew about the Prince of Pingaree and the fat King of Gilgad, as well as the details of his wonderful fight with mighty Choggenmugger. "And now, my daughter," said the charcoalburner, when all his news had been related for at least the third time, "here is a pretty present I have brought you from the city." With this he drew the shoes from the pocket of his coat and handed them to Zella, who gave him a dozen kisses in payment and was much pleased with her gift. The little girl had never worn shoes before, for her parents were too poor to buy her such luxuries, so now the possession of these, which were not much worn, filled the child's heart with joy. She admired the red leather and the graceful curl of the pointed toes. When she tried them on her feet, they fitted as well as if made for her. All the afternoon, as she helped her mother with the housework, Zella thought of her pretty shoes. They seemed more important to her than the coming to Regos of the conquering Prince of Pingaree, or even the death of Choggenmugger. When Zella and her mother were not working in the cabin, cooking or sewing, they often searched the neighboring forest for honey which the wild bees cleverly hid in hollow trees. The day after Nikobob's return, as they were starting out after honey, Zella decided to put on her new shoes, as they would keep the twigs that covered the ground from hurting her feet. She was used to the twigs, of course, but what is the use of having nice, comfortable shoes, if you do not wear them? So she danced along, very happily, followed by her mother, and presently they came to a tree in which was a deep hollow. Zella thrust her hand and arm into the space and found that the tree was full of honey, so she began to dig it out with a wooden paddle. Her mother, who held the pail, suddenly cried in warning: "Look out, Zella; the bees are coming!" and then the good woman ran fast toward the house to escape. Zella, however, had no more than time to turn her head when a thick swarm of bees surrounded her, angry because they had caught her stealing their honey and intent on stinging the girl as a punishment. She knew her danger and expected to be badly injured by the multitude of stinging bees, but to her surprise the little creatures were unable to fly close enough to her to stick their dart-like stingers into her flesh. They swarmed about her in a dark cloud, and their angry buzzing was terrible to hear, yet the little girl remained unharmed. When she realized this, Zella was no longer afraid but continued to ladle out the honey until she had secured all that was in the tree. Then she returned to the cabin, where her mother was weeping and bemoaning the fate of her darling child, and the good woman was greatly astonished to find Zella had escaped injury. Again they went to the woods to search for honey, and although the mother always ran away whenever the bees came near them, Zella paid no attention to the creatures but kept at her work, so that before supper time came the pails were again filled to overflowing with delicious honey. "With such good fortune as we have had this day," said her mother, "we shall soon gather enough honey for you to carry to Queen Cor." For it seems the wicked Queen was very fond of honey and it had been Zella's custom to go, once every year, to the City of Coregos, to carry the Queen a supply of sweet honey for her table. Usually she had but one pail. "But now," said Zella, "I shall be able to carry two pailsful to the Queen, who will, I am sure, give me a good price for it." "True," answered her mother, "and, as the boy Prince may take it into his head to conquer Coregos, as well as Regos, I think it best for you to start on your journey to Queen Cor tomorrow morning. Do you not agree with me, Nikobob?" she added, turning to her husband, the charcoal-burner, who was eating his supper. "I agree with you," he replied. "If Zella must go to the City of Coregos, she may as well start to-morrow morning." Chapter Ten The Cunning of Queen Cor You may be sure the Queen of Coregos was not well pleased to have King Gos and all his warriors living in her city after they had fled from their own. They were savage natured and quarrelsome men at all times, and their tempers had not improved since their conquest by the Prince of Pingaree. Moreover, they were eating up Queen Cor's provisions and crowding the houses of her own people, who grumbled and complained until their Queen was heartily tired. "Shame on you!" she said to her husband, King Gos, "to be driven out of your city by a boy, a roly-poly King and a billy goat! Why do you not go back and fight them?" "No human can fight against the powers of magic," returned the King in a surly voice. "That boy is either a fairy or under the protection of fairies. We escaped with our lives only because we were quick to run away; but, should we return to Regos, the same terrible power that burst open the city gates would crush us all to atoms." "Bah! you are a coward," cried the Queen, tauntingly. "I am not a coward," said the big King. "I have killed in battle scores of my enemies; by the might of my sword and my good right arm I have conquered many nations; all my life people have feared me. But no one would dare face the tremendous power of the Prince of Pingaree, boy though he is. It would not be courage, it would be folly, to attempt it." "Then meet his power with cunning," suggested the Queen. "Take my advice, and steal over to Regos at night, when it is dark, and capture or destroy the boy while he sleeps." "No weapon can touch his body," was the answer. "He bears a charmed life and cannot be injured." "Does the fat King possess magic powers, or the goat?" inquired Cor. "I think not," said Gos. "We could not injure them, indeed, any more than we could the boy, but they did not seem to have any unusual strength, although the goat's head is harder than a battering-ram." "Well," mused the Queen, "there is surely some way to conquer that slight boy. If you are afraid to undertake the job, I shall go myself. By some stratagem I shall manage to make him my prisoner. He will not dare to defy a Queen, and no magic can stand against a woman's cunning." "Go ahead, if you like," replied the King, with an evil grin, "and if you are hung up by the thumbs or cast into a dungeon, it will serve you right for thinking you can succeed where a skilled warrior dares not make the attempt." "I'm not afraid," answered the Queen. "It is only soldiers and bullies who are cowards." In spite of this assertion, Queen Cor was not so brave as she was cunning. For several days she thought over this plan and that, and tried to decide which was most likely to succeed. She had never seen the boy Prince but had heard so many tales of him from the defeated warriors, and especially from Captain Buzzub, that she had learned to respect his power. Spurred on by the knowledge that she would never get rid of her unwelcome guests until Prince Inga was overcome and Regos regained for King Gos, the Queen of Coregos finally decided to trust to luck and her native wit to defeat a simple-minded boy, however powerful he might be. Inga could not suspect what she was going to do, because she did not know herself. She intended to act boldly and trust to chance to win. It is evident that had the cunning Queen known that Inga had lost all his magic, she would not have devoted so much time to the simple matter of capturing him, but like all others she was impressed by the marvelous exhibition of power he had shown in capturing Regos, and had no reason to believe the boy was less powerful now. One morning Queen Cor boldly entered a boat, and, taking four men with her as an escort and bodyguard, was rowed across the narrow channel to Regos. Prince Inga was sitting in the palace playing checkers with King Rinkitink when a servant came to him, saying that Queen Cor had arrived and desired an audience with him. With many misgivings lest the wicked Queen discover that he had now lost his magic powers, the boy ordered her to be admitted, and she soon entered the room and bowed low before him, in mock respect. Cor was a big woman, almost as tall as King Gos. She had flashing black eyes and the dark complexion you see on gypsies. Her temper, when irritated, was something dreadful, and her face wore an evil expression which she tried to cover by smiling sweetly--often when she meant the most mischief. "I have come," said she in a low voice, "to render homage to the noble Prince of Pingaree. I am told that Your Highness is the strongest person in the world, and invincible in battle, and therefore I wish you to become my friend, rather than my enemy." Now Inga did not know how to reply to this speech. He disliked the appearance of the woman and was afraid of her and he was unused to deception and did not know how to mask his real feelings. So he took time to think over his answer, which he finally made in these words: "I have no quarrel with Your Majesty, and my only reason for coming here is to liberate my father and mother, and my people, whom you and your husband have made your slaves, and to recover the goods King Gos has plundered from the Island of Pingaree. This I hope soon to accomplish, and if you really wish to be my friend, you can assist me greatly." While he was speaking Queen Cor had been studying the boy's face stealthily, from the corners of her eyes, and she said to herself: "He is so small and innocent that I believe I can capture him alone, and with ease. He does not seem very terrible and I suspect that King Gos and his warriors were frightened at nothing." Then, aloud, she said to Inga: "I wish to invite you, mighty Prince, and your friend, the great King of Gilgad, to visit my poor palace at Coregos, where all my people shall do you honor. Will you come?" "At present," replied Inga, uneasily, "I must refuse your kind invitation." "There will be feasting, and dancing girls, and games and fireworks," said the Queen, speaking as if eager to entice him and at each word coming a step nearer to where he stood. "I could not enjoy them while my poor parents are slaves," said the boy, sadly. "Are you sure of that?" asked Queen Cor, and by that time she was close beside Inga. Suddenly she leaned forward and threw both of her long arms around Inga's body, holding him in a grasp that was like a vise. Now Rinkitink sprang forward to rescue his friend, but Cor kicked out viciously with her foot and struck the King squarely on his stomach--a very tender place to be kicked, especially if one is fat. Then, still hugging Inga tightly, the Queen called aloud: "I've got him! Bring in the ropes." Instantly the four men she had brought with her sprang into the room and bound the boy hand and foot. Next they seized Rinkitink, who was still rubbing his stomach, and bound him likewise. With a laugh of wicked triumph, Queen Cor now led her captives down to the boat and returned with them to Coregos. Great was the astonishment of King Gos and his warriors when they saw that the mighty Prince of Pingaree, who had put them all to flight, had been captured by a woman. Cowards as they were, they now crowded around the boy and jeered at him, and some of them would have struck him had not the Queen cried out: "Hands off! He is my prisoner, remember not yours." "Well, Cor, what are you going to do with him?" inquired King Gos. "I shall make him my slave, that he may amuse my idle hours. For he is a pretty boy, and gentle, although he did frighten all of you big warriors so terribly." The King scowled at this speech, not liking to be ridiculed, but he said nothing more. He and his men returned that same day to Regos, after restoring the bridge of boats. And they held a wild carnival of rejoicing, both in the King's palace and in the city, although the poor people of Regos who were not warriors were all sorry that the kind young Prince had been captured by his enemies and could rule them no longer. When her unwelcome guests had all gone back to Regos and the Queen was alone in her palace, she ordered Inga and Rinkitink brought before her and their bonds removed. They came sadly enough, knowing they were in serious straits and at the mercy of a cruel mistress. Inga had taken counsel of the White Pearl, which had advised him to bear up bravely under his misfortune, promising a change for the better very soon. With this promise to comfort him, Inga faced the Queen with a dignified bearing that indicated both pride and courage. "Well, youngster," said she, in a cheerful tone because she was pleased with her success, "you played a clever trick on my poor husband and frightened him badly, but for that prank I am inclined to forgive you. Hereafter I intend you to be my page, which means that you must fetch and carry for me at my will. And let me advise you to obey my every whim without question or delay, for when I am angry I become ugly, and when I am ugly someone is sure to feel the lash. Do you understand me?" Inga bowed, but made no answer. Then she turned to Rinkitink and said: "As for you, I cannot decide how to make you useful to me, as you are altogether too fat and awkward to work in the fields. It may be, however, that I can use you as a pincushion. "What!" cried Rinkitink in horror, "would you stick pins into the King of Gilgad?" "Why not?" returned Queen Cor. "You are as fat as a pincushion, as you must yourself admit, and whenever I needed a pin I could call you to me." Then she laughed at his frightened look and asked: "By the way, are you ticklish?" This was the question Rinkitink had been dreading. He gave a moan of despair and shook his head. "I should love to tickle the bottom of your feet with a feather," continued the cruel woman. "Please take off your shoes." "Oh, your Majesty!" pleaded poor Rinkitink, "I beg you to allow me to amuse you in some other way. I can dance, or I can sing you a song." "Well," she answered, shaking with laughter, "you may sing a song--if it be a merry one. But you do not seem in a merry mood." "I feel merry--indeed, Your Majesty, I do!" protested Rinkitink, anxious to escape the tickling. But even as he professed to "feel merry" his round, red face wore an expression of horror and anxiety that was really comical. "Sing, then!" commanded Queen Cor, who was greatly amused. Rinkitink gave a sigh of relief and after clearing his throat and trying to repress his sobs he began to sing this song-gently, at first, but finally roaring it out at the top of his voice: "Oh! There was a Baby Tiger lived in a men-ag-er-ie-- Fizzy-fezzy-fuzzy--they wouldn't set him free; And ev'rybody thought that he was gentle as could be-- Fizzy-fezzy-fuzzy--Ba-by Ti-ger! "Oh! They patted him upon his head and shook him by the paw-- Fizzy-fezzy-fuzzy--he had a bone to gnaw; But soon he grew the biggest Tiger that you ever saw-- Fizzy-fezzy-fuzzy--what a Ti-ger! "Oh! One day they came to pet the brute and he began to fight-- Fizzy-fezzy-fuzzy-how he did scratch and bite! He broke the cage and in a rage he darted out of sight-- Fizzy-fezzy-fuzzy was a Ti-ger!" "And is there a moral to the song?" asked Queen Cor, when King Rinkitink had finished his song with great spirit. "If there is," replied Rinkitink, "it is a warning not to fool with tigers." The little Prince could not help smiling at this shrewd answer, but Queen Cor frowned and gave the King a sharp look. "Oh," said she; "I think I know the difference between a tiger and a lapdog. But I'll bear the warning in mind, just the same." For, after all her success in capturing them, she was a little afraid of these people who had once displayed such extraordinary powers. Chapter Eleven Zella Goes to Coregos The forest in which Nikobob lived with his wife and daughter stood between the mountains and the City of Regos, and a well-beaten path wound among the trees, leading from the city to the mines. This path was used by the King's messengers, and captured prisoners were also sent by this way from Regos to work in the underground caverns. Nikobob had built his cabin more than a mile away from this path, that he might not be molested by the wild and lawless soldiers of King Gos, but the family of the charcoal-burner was surrounded by many creatures scarcely less dangerous to encounter, and often in the night they could hear savage animals growling and prowling about the cabin. Because Nikobob minded his own business and never hunted the wild creatures to injure them, the beasts had come to regard him as one of the natural dwellers in the forest and did not molest him or his family. Still Zella and her mother seldom wandered far from home, except on such errands as carrying honey to Coregos, and at these times Nikobob cautioned them to be very careful. So when Zella set out on her journey to Queen Cor, with the two pails of honey in her hands, she was undertaking a dangerous adventure and there was no certainty that she would return safely to her loving parents. But they were poor, and Queen Cor's money, which they expected to receive for the honey, would enable them to purchase many things that were needed; so it was deemed best that Zella should go. She was a brave little girl and poor people are often obliged to take chances that rich ones are spared. A passing woodchopper had brought news to Nikobob's cabin that Queen Cor had made a prisoner of the conquering Prince of Pingaree and that Gos and his warriors were again back in their city of Regos; but these struggles and conquests were matters which, however interesting, did not concern the poor charcoal-burner or his family. They were more anxious over the report that the warriors had become more reckless than ever before, and delighted in annoying all the common people; so Zella was told to keep away from the beaten path as much as possible, that she might not encounter any of the King's soldiers. "When it is necessary to choose between the warriors and the wild beasts," said Nikobob, "the beasts will be found the more merciful." The little girl had put on her best attire for the journey and her mother threw a blue silk shawl over her head and shoulders. Upon her feet were the pretty red shoes her father had brought her from Regos. Thus prepared, she kissed her parents good-bye and started out with a light heart, carrying the pails of honey in either hand. It was necessary for Zella to cross the path that led from the mines to the city, but once on the other side she was not likely to meet with anyone, for she had resolved to cut through the forest and so reach the bridge of boats without entering the City of Regos, where she might be interrupted. For an hour or two she found the walking easy enough, but then the forest, which in this part was unknown to her, became badly tangled. The trees were thicker and creeping vines intertwined between them. She had to turn this way and that to get through at all, and finally she came to a place where a network of vines and branches effectually barred her farther progress. Zella was dismayed, at first, when she encountered this obstacle, but setting down her pails she made an endeavor to push the branches aside. At her touch they parted as if by magic, breaking asunder like dried twigs, and she found she could pass freely. At another place a great log had fallen across her way, but the little girl lifted it easily and cast it aside, although six ordinary men could scarcely have moved it. The child was somewhat worried at this evidence of a strength she had heretofore been ignorant that she possessed. In order to satisfy herself that it was no delusion, she tested her new-found power in many ways, finding that nothing was too big nor too heavy for her to lift. And, naturally enough, the girl gained courage from these experiments and became confident that she could protect herself in any emergency. When, presently, a wild boar ran toward her, grunting horribly and threatening her with its great tusks, she did not climb a tree to escape, as she had always done before on meeting such creatures, but stood still and faced the boar. When it had come quite close and Zella saw that it could not injure her--a fact that astonished both the beast and the girl--she suddenly reached down and seizing it by one ear threw the great beast far off amongst the trees, where it fell headlong to the earth, grunting louder than ever with surprise and fear. The girl laughed merrily at this incident and, picking up her pails, resumed her journey through the forest. It is not recorded whether the wild boar told his adventure to the other beasts or they had happened to witness his defeat, but certain it is that Zella was not again molested. A brown bear watched her pass without making any movement in her direction and a great puma--a beast much dreaded by all men--crept out of her path as she approached, and disappeared among the trees. Thus everything favored the girl's journey and she made such good speed that by noon she emerged from the forest's edge and found she was quite near to the bridge of boats that led to Coregos. This she crossed safely and without meeting any of the rude warriors she so greatly feared, and five minutes later the daughter of the charcoal-burner was seeking admittance at the back door of Queen Cor's palace. Chapter Twelve The Excitement of Bilbil the Goat Our story must now return to one of our characters whom we have been forced to neglect. The temper of Bilbil the goat was not sweet under any circumstances, and whenever he had a grievance he was inclined to be quite grumpy. So, when his master settled down in the palace of King Gos for a quiet life with the boy Prince, and passed his time in playing checkers and eating and otherwise enjoying himself, he had no use whatever for Bilbil, and shut the goat in an upstairs room to prevent his wandering through the city and quarreling with the citizens. But this Bilbil did not like at all. He became very cross and disagreeable at being left alone and he did not speak nicely to the servants who came to bring him food; therefore those people decided not to wait upon him any more, resenting his conversation and not liking to be scolded by a lean, scraggly goat, even though it belonged to a conqueror. The servants kept away from the room and Bilbil grew more hungry and more angry every hour. He tried to eat the rugs and ornaments, but found them not at all nourishing. There was no grass to be had unless he escaped from the palace. When Queen Cor came to capture Inga and Rinkitink, both the prisoners were so filled with despair at their own misfortune that they gave no thought whatever to the goat, who was left in his room. Nor did Bilbil know anything of the changed fortunes of his comrades until he heard shouts and boisterous laughter in the courtyard below. Looking out of a window, with the intention of rebuking those who dared thus to disturb him, Bilbil saw the courtyard quite filled with warriors and knew from this that the palace had in some way again fallen into the hands of the enemy. Now, although Bilbil was often exceedingly disagreeable to King Rinkitink, as well as to the Prince, and sometimes used harsh words in addressing them, he was intelligent enough to know them to be his friends, and to know that King Gos and his people were his foes. In sudden anger, provoked by the sight of the warriors and the knowledge that he was in the power of the dangerous men of Regos, Bilbil butted his head against the door of his room and burst it open. Then he ran to the head of the staircase and saw King Gos coming up the stairs followed by a long line of his chief captains and warriors. The goat lowered his head, trembling with rage and excitement, and just as the King reached the top stair the animal dashed forward and butted His Majesty so fiercely that the big and powerful King, who did not expect an attack, doubled up and tumbled backward. His great weight knocked over the man just behind him and he in turn struck the next warrior and upset him, so that in an instant the whole line of Bilbil's foes was tumbling heels over head to the bottom of the stairs, where they piled up in a heap, struggling and shouting and in the mixup hitting one another with their fists, until every man of them was bruised and sore. Finally King Gos scrambled out of the heap and rushed up the stairs again, very angry indeed. Bilbil was ready for him and a second time butted the King down the stairs; but now the goat also lost his balance and followed the King, landing full upon the confused heap of soldiers. Then he kicked out so viciously with his heels that he soon freed himself and dashed out of the doorway of the palace. "Stop him!" cried King Gos, running after. But the goat was now so wild and excited that it was not safe for anyone to stand in his way. None of the men were armed and when one or two tried to head off the goat, Bilbil sent them sprawling upon the ground. Most of the warriors, however, were wise enough not to attempt to interfere with his flight. Coursing down the street, Bilbil found himself approaching the bridge of boats and without pausing to think where it might lead him he crossed over and proceeded on his way. A few moments later a great stone building blocked his path. It was the palace of Queen Cor, and seeing the gates of the courtyard standing wide open, Bilbil rushed through them without slackening his speed. Chapter Thirteen Zella Saves the Prince The wicked Queen of Coregos was in a very bad humor this morning, for one of her slave drivers had come from the fields to say that a number of slaves had rebelled and would not work. "Bring them here to me!" she cried savagely. "A good whipping may make them change their minds." So the slave driver went to fetch the rebellious ones and Queen Cor sat down to eat her breakfast, an ugly look on her face. Prince Inga had been ordered to stand behind his new mistress with a big fan of peacock's feathers, but he was so unused to such service that he awkwardly brushed her ear with the fan. At once she flew into a terrible rage and slapped the Prince twice with her hand-blows that tingled, too, for her hand was big and hard and she was not inclined to be gentle. Inga took the blows without shrinking or uttering a cry, although they stung his pride far more than his body. But King Rinkitink, who was acting as the queen's butler and had just brought in her coffee, was so startled at seeing the young Prince punished that he tipped over the urn and the hot coffee streamed across the lap of the Queen's best morning gown. Cor sprang from her seat with a scream of anger and poor Rinkitink would doubtless have been given a terrible beating had not the slave driver returned at this moment and attracted the woman's attention. The overseer had brought with him all of the women slaves from Pingaree, who had been loaded down with chains and were so weak and ill they could scarcely walk, much less work in the fields. Prince Inga's eyes were dimmed with sorrowful tears when he discovered how his poor people had been abused, but his own plight was so helpless that he was unable to aid them. Fortunately the boy's mother, Queen Garee, was not among these slaves, for Queen Cor had placed her in the royal dairy to make butter. "Why do you refuse to work?" demanded Cor in a harsh voice, as the slaves from Pingaree stood before her, trembling and with downcast eyes. "Because we lack strength to perform the tasks your overseers demand," answered one of the women. "Then you shall be whipped until your strength returns!" exclaimed the Queen, and turning to Inga, she commanded: "Get me the whip with the seven lashes." As the boy left the room, wondering how he might manage to save the unhappy women from their undeserved punishment, he met a girl entering by the back way, who asked: "Can you tell me where to find Her Majesty, Queen Cor?" "She is in the chamber with the red dome, where green dragons are painted upon the walls," replied Inga; "but she is in an angry and ungracious mood to-day. Why do you wish to see her?" "I have honey to sell," answered the girl, who was Zella, just come from the forest. "The Queen is very fond of my honey." "You may go to her, if you so desire," said the boy, "but take care not to anger the cruel Queen, or she may do you a mischief." "Why should she harm me, who brings her the honey she so dearly loves?" inquired the child innocently. "But I thank you for your warning; and I will try not to anger the Queen." As Zella started to go, Inga's eyes suddenly fell upon her shoes and instantly he recognized them as his own. For only in Pingaree were shoes shaped in this manner: high at the heel and pointed at the toes. "Stop!" he cried in an excited voice, and the girl obeyed, wonderingly. "Tell me," he continued, more gently, "where did you get those shoes?" "My father brought them to me from Regos," she answered. "From Regos!" "Yes. Are they not pretty?" asked Zella, looking down at her feet to admire them. "One of them my father found by the palace wall, and the other on an ash-heap. So he brought them to me and they fit me perfectly." By this time Inga was trembling with eager joy, which of course the girl could not understand. "What is your name, little maid?" he asked. "I am called Zella, and my father is Nikobob, the charcoal-burner." "Zella is a pretty name. I am Inga, Prince of Pingaree," said he, "and the shoes you are now wearing, Zella, belong to me. They were not cast away, as your father supposed, but were lost. Will you let me have them again?" Zella's eyes filled with tears. "Must I give up my pretty shoes, then?" she asked. "They are the only ones I have ever owned." Inga was sorry for the poor child, but he knew how important it was that he regain possession of the Magic Pearls. So he said, pleadingly: "Please let me have them, Zella. See! I will exchange for them the shoes I now have on, which are newer and prettier than the others." The girl hesitated. She wanted to please the boy Prince, yet she hated to exchange the shoes which her father had brought her as a present. "If you will give me the shoes," continued the boy, anxiously, "I will promise to make you and your father and mother rich and prosperous. Indeed, I will promise to grant any favors you may ask of me," and he sat down upon the floor and drew off the shoes he was wearing and held them toward the girl. "I'll see if they will fit me," said Zella, taking off her left shoe--the one that contained the Pink Pearl--and beginning to put on one of Inga's. Just then Queen Cor, angry at being made to wait for her whip with the seven lashes, rushed into the room to find Inga. Seeing the boy sitting upon the floor beside Zella, the woman sprang toward him to beat him with her clenched fists; but Inga had now slipped on the shoe and the Queen's blows could not reach his body. Then Cor espied the whip lying beside Inga and snatching it up she tried to lash him with it--all to no avail. While Zella sat horrified by this scene, the Prince, who realized he had no time to waste, reached out and pulled the right shoe from the girl's foot, quickly placing it upon his own. Then he stood up and, facing the furious but astonished Queen, said to her in a quiet voice: "Madam, please give me that whip." "I won't!" answered Cor. "I'm going to lash those Pingaree women with it." The boy seized hold of the whip and with irresistible strength drew it from the Queen's hand. But she drew from her bosom a sharp dagger and with the swiftness of lightning aimed a blow at Inga's heart. He merely stood still and smiled, for the blade rebounded and fell clattering to the floor. Then, at last, Queen Cor understood the magic power that had terrified her husband but which she had ridiculed in her ignorance, not believing in it. She did not know that Inga's power had been lost, and found again, but she realized the boy was no common foe and that unless she could still manage to outwit him her reign in the Island of Coregos was ended. To gain time, she went back to the red-domed chamber and seated herself in her throne, before which were grouped the weeping slaves from Pingaree. Inga had taken Zella's hand and assisted her to put on the shoes he had given her in exchange for his own. She found them quite comfortable and did not know she had lost anything by the transfer. "Come with me," then said the boy Prince, and led her into the presence of Queen Cor, who was giving Rinkitink a scolding. To the overseer Inga said. "Give me the keys which unlock these chains, that I may set these poor women at liberty." "Don't you do it!" screamed Queen Cor. "If you interfere, madam," said the boy, "I will put you into a dungeon." By this Rinkitink knew that Inga had recovered his Magic Pearls and the little fat King was so overjoyed that he danced and capered all around the room. But the Queen was alarmed at the threat and the slave driver, fearing the conqueror of Regos, tremblingly gave up the keys. Inga quickly removed all the shackles from the women of his country and comforted them, telling them they should work no more but would soon be restored to their homes in Pingaree. Then he commanded the slave driver to go and get all the children who had been made slaves, and to bring them to their mothers. The man obeyed and left at once to perform his errand, while Queen Cor, growing more and more uneasy, suddenly sprang from her throne and before Inga could stop her had rushed through the room and out into the courtyard of the palace, meaning to make her escape. Rinkitink followed her, running as fast as he could go. It was at this moment that Bilbil, in his mad dash from Regos, turned in at the gates of the courtyard, and as he was coming one way and Queen Cor was going the other they bumped into each other with great force. The woman sailed through the air, over Bilbil's head, and landed on the ground outside the gates, where her crown rolled into a ditch and she picked herself up, half dazed, and continued her flight. Bilbil was also somewhat dazed by the unexpected encounter, but he continued his rush rather blindly and so struck poor Rinkitink, who was chasing after Queen Cor. They rolled over one another a few times and then Rinkitink sat up and Bilbil sat up and they looked at each other in amazement. "Bilbil," said the King, "I'm astonished at you!" "Your Majesty," said Bilbil, "I expected kinder treatment at your hands." "You interrupted me," said Rinkitink. "There was plenty of room without your taking my path," declared the goat. And then Inga came running out and said. "Where is the Queen?" "Gone," replied Rinkitink, "but she cannot go far, as this is an island. However, I have found Bilbil, and our party is again reunited. You have recovered your magic powers, and again we are masters of the situation. So let us be thankful." Saying this, the good little King got upon his feet and limped back into the throne room to help comfort the women. Presently the children of Pingaree, who had been gathered together by the overseer, were brought in and restored to their mothers, and there was great rejoicing among them, you may be sure. "But where is Queen Garee, my dear mother?" questioned Inga; but the women did not know and it was some time before the overseer remembered that one of the slaves from Pingaree had been placed in the royal dairy. Perhaps this was the woman the boy was seeking. Inga at once commanded him to lead the way to the butter house, but when they arrived there Queen Garee was nowhere in the place, although the boy found a silk scarf which he recognized as one that his mother used to wear. Then they began a search throughout the island of Coregos, but could not find Inga's mother anywhere. When they returned to the palace of Queen Cor, Rinkitink discovered that the bridge of boats had again been removed, separating them from Regos, and from this they suspected that Queen Cor had fled to her husband's island and had taken Queen Garee with her. Inga was much perplexed what to do and returned with his friends to the palace to talk the matter over. Zella was now crying because she had not sold her honey and was unable to return to her parents on the island of Regos, but the boy prince comforted her and promised she should be protected until she could be restored to her home. Rinkitink found Queen Cor's purse, which she had had no time to take with her, and gave Zella several gold pieces for the honey. Then Inga ordered the palace servants to prepare a feast for all the women and children of Pingaree and to prepare for them beds in the great palace, which was large enough to accommodate them all. Then the boy and the goat and Rinkitink and Zella went into a private room to consider what should be done next. Chapter Fourteen The Escape "Our fault," said Rinkitink, "is that we conquer only one of these twin islands at a time. When we conquered Regos, our foes all came to Coregos, and now that we have conquered Coregos, the Queen has fled to Regos. And each time they removed the bridge of boats, so that we could not follow them." "What has become of our own boat, in which we came from Pingaree?" asked Bilbil. "We left it on the shore of Regos," replied the Prince, "but I wonder if we could not get it again." "Why don't you ask the White Pearl?" suggested Rinkitink. "That is a good idea," returned the boy, and at once he drew the White Pearl from its silken bag and held it to his ear. Then he asked: "How may I regain our boat?" The Voice of the Pearl replied: "Go to the south end of the Island of Coregos, and clap your hands three times and the boat will come to you. "Very good!" cried Inga, and then he turned to his companions and said: "We shall be able to get our boat whenever we please; but what then shall we do?" "Take me home in it!" pleaded Zella. "Come with me to my City of Gilgad," said the King, "where you will be very welcome to remain forever." "No," answered Inga, "I must rescue my father and mother, as well as my people. Already I have the women and children of Pingaree, but the men are with my father in the mines of Regos, and my dear mother has been taken away by Queen Cor. Not until all are rescued will I consent to leave these islands." "Quite right!" exclaimed Bilbil. "On second thought," said Rinkitink, "I agree with you. If you are careful to sleep in your shoes, and never take them off again, I believe you will be able to perform the task you have undertaken." They counseled together for a long time as to their mode of action and it was finally considered best to make the attempt to liberate King Kitticut first of all, and with him the men from Pingaree. This would give them an army to assist them and afterward they could march to Regos and compel Queen Cor to give up the Queen of Pingaree. Zella told them that they could go in their boat along the shore of Regos to a point opposite the mines, thus avoiding any conflict with the warriors of King Gos. This being considered the best course to pursue, they resolved to start on the following morning, as night was even now approaching. The servants being all busy in caring for the women and children, Zella undertook to get a dinner for Inga and Rinkitink and herself and soon prepared a fine meal in the palace kitchen, for she was a good little cook and had often helped her mother. The dinner was served in a small room overlooking the gardens and Rinkitink thought the best part of it was the sweet honey, which he spread upon the biscuits that Zella had made. As for Bilbil, he wandered through the palace grounds and found some grass that made him a good dinner. During the evening Inga talked with the women and cheered them, promising soon to reunite them with their husbands who were working in the mines and to send them back to their own island of Pingaree. Next morning the boy rose bright and early and found that Zella had already prepared a nice breakfast. And after the meal they went to the most southern point of the island, which was not very far away, Rinkitink riding upon Bilbil's back and Inga and Zella following behind them, hand in hand. When they reached the water's edge the boy advanced and clapped his hands together three times, as the White Pearl had told him to do. And in a few moments they saw in the distance the black boat with the silver lining, coming swiftly toward them from the sea. Presently it grounded on the beach and they all got into it. Zella was delighted with the boat, which was the most beautiful she had ever seen, and the marvel of its coming to them through the water without anyone to row it, made her a little afraid of the fairy craft. But Inga picked up the oars and began to row and at once the boat shot swiftly in the direction of Regos. They rounded the point of that island where the city was built and noticed that the shore was lined with warriors who had discovered their boat but seemed undecided whether to pursue it or not. This was probably because they had received no commands what to do, or perhaps they had learned to fear the magic powers of these adventurers from Pingaree and were unwilling to attack them unless their King ordered them to. The coast on the western side of the Island of Regos was very uneven and Zella, who knew fairly well the location of the mines from the inland forest path, was puzzled to decide which mountain they now viewed from the sea was the one where the entrance to the underground caverns was located. First she thought it was this peak, and then she guessed it was that; so considerable time was lost through her uncertainty. They finally decided to land and explore the country, to see where they were, so Inga ran the boat into a little rocky cove where they all disembarked. For an hour they searched for the path without finding any trace of it and now Zella believed they had gone too far to the north and must return to another mountain that was nearer to the city. Once again they entered the boat and followed the winding coast south until they thought they had reached the right place. By this time, however, it was growing dark, for the entire day had been spent in the search for the entrance to the mines, and Zella warned them that it would be safer to spend the night in the boat than on the land, where wild beasts were sure to disturb them. None of them realized at this time how fatal this day of search had been to their plans and perhaps if Inga had realized what was going on he would have landed and fought all the wild beasts in the forest rather than quietly remain in the boat until morning. However, knowing nothing of the cunning plans of Queen Cor and King Gos, they anchored their boat in a little bay and cheerfully ate their dinner, finding plenty of food and drink in the boat's lockers. In the evening the stars came out in the sky and tipped the waves around their boat with silver. All around them was delightfully still save for the occasional snarl of a beast on the neighboring shore. They talked together quietly of their adventures and their future plans and Zella told them her simple history and how hard her poor father was obliged to work, burning charcoal to sell for enough money to support his wife and child. Nikobob might be the humblest man in all Regos, but Zella declared he was a good man, and honest, and it was not his fault that his country was ruled by so wicked a King. Then Rinkitink, to amuse them, offered to sing a song, and although Bilbil protested in his gruff way, claiming that his master's voice was cracked and disagreeable, the little King was encouraged by the others to sing his song, which he did. "A red-headed man named Ned was dead; Sing fiddle-cum-faddle-cum-fi-do! In battle he had lost his head; Sing fiddle-cum-faddl-cum-fi-do! 'Alas, poor Ned,' to him I said, 'How did you lose your head so red?' Sing fiddle-cum-faddle-cum-fi-do! "Said Ned: 'I for my country bled,' Sing fiddle-cum-faddle-cum-fi-do! 'Instead of dying safe in bed', Sing fiddle-cum-faddle-cum-fi-do! 'If I had only fled, instead, I then had been a head ahead.' Sing fiddle-cum-faddle-cum-fi-do! "I said to Ned--" "Do stop, Your Majesty!" pleaded Bilbil. "You're making my head ache." "But the song isn't finished," replied Rinkitink, "and as for your head aching, think of poor Ned, who hadn't any head at all!" "I can think of nothing but your dismal singing," retorted Bilbil. "Why didn't you choose a cheerful subject, instead of telling how a man who was dead lost his red head? Really, Rinkitink, I'm surprised at you. "I know a splendid song about a live man, said the King. "Then don't sing it," begged Bilbil. Zella was both astonished and grieved by the disrespectful words of the goat, for she had quite enjoyed Rinkitink's singing and had been taught a proper respect for Kings and those high in authority. But as it was now getting late they decided to go to sleep, that they might rise early the following morning, so they all reclined upon the bottom of the big boat and covered themselves with blankets which they found stored underneath the seats for just such occasions. They were not long in falling asleep and did not waken until daybreak. After a hurried breakfast, for Inga was eager to liberate his father, the boy rowed the boat ashore and they all landed and began searching for the path. Zella found it within the next half hour and declared they must be very close to the entrance to the mines; so they followed the path toward the north, Inga going first, and then Zella following him, while Rinkitink brought up the rear riding upon Bilbil's back. Before long they saw a great wall of rock towering before them, in which was a low arched entrance, and on either side of this entrance stood a guard, armed with a sword and a spear. The guards of the mines were not so fierce as the warriors of King Gos, their duty being to make the slaves work at their tasks and guard them from escaping; but they were as cruel as their cruel master wished them to be, and as cowardly as they were cruel. Inga walked up to the two men at the entrance and said: "Does this opening lead to the mines of King Gos?" "It does," replied one of the guards, "but no one is allowed to pass out who once goes in." "Nevertheless," said the boy, "we intend to go in and we shall come out whenever it pleases us to do so. I am the Prince of Pingaree, and I have come to liberate my people, whom King Gos has enslaved." Now when the two guards heard this speech they looked at one another and laughed, and one of them said: "The King was right, for he said the boy was likely to come here and that he would try to set his people free. Also the King commanded that we must keep the little Prince in the mines, and set him to work, together with his companions." "Then let us obey the King," replied the other man. Inga was surprised at hearing this, and asked: "When did King Gos give you this order?" "His Majesty was here in person last night," replied the man, "and went away again but an hour ago. He suspected you were coming here and told us to capture you if we could." This report made the boy very anxious, not for himself but for his father, for he feared the King was up to some mischief. So he hastened to enter the mines and the guards did nothing to oppose him or his companions, their orders being to allow him to go in but not to come out. The little group of adventurers passed through a long rocky corridor and reached a low, wide cavern where they found a dozen guards and a hundred slaves, the latter being hard at work with picks and shovels digging for gold, while the guards stood over them with long whips. Inga found many of the men from Pingaree among these slaves, but King Kitticut was not in this cavern; so they passed through it and entered another corridor that led to a second cavern. Here also hundreds of men were working, but the boy did not find his father amongst them, and so went on to a third cavern. The corridors all slanted downward, so that the farther they went the lower into the earth they descended, and now they found the air hot and close and difficult to breathe. Flaming torches were stuck into the walls to give light to the workers, and these added to the oppressive heat. The third and lowest cavern was the last in the mines, and here were many scores of slaves and many guards to keep them at work. So far, none of the guards had paid any attention to Inga's party, but allowed them to proceed as they would, and while the slaves cast curious glances at the boy and girl and man and goat, they dared say nothing. But now the boy walked up to some of the men of Pingaree and asked news of his father, telling them not to fear the guards as he would protect them from the whips. Then he Teamed that King Kitticut had indeed been working in this very cavern until the evening before, when King Gos had come and taken him away--still loaded with chains. "Seems to me," said King Rinkitink, when he heard this report, "that Gos has carried your father away to Regos, to prevent us from rescuing him. He may hide poor Kitticut in a dungeon, where we cannot find him." "Perhaps you are right," answered the boy, "but I am determined to find him, wherever he may be." Inga spoke firmly and with courage, but he was greatly disappointed to find that King Gos had been before him at the mines and had taken his father away. However, he tried not to feel disheartened, believing he would succeed in the end, in spite of all opposition. Turning to the guards, he said: "Remove the chains from these slaves and set them free." The guards laughed at this order, and one of them brought forward a handful of chains, saying: "His Majesty has commanded us to make you, also, a slave, for you are never to leave these caverns again." Then he attempted to place the chains on Inga, but the boy indignantly seized them and broke them apart as easily as if they had been cotton cords. When a dozen or more of the guards made a dash to capture him, the Prince swung the end of the chain like a whip and drove them into a corner, where they cowered and begged for mercy. Stories of the marvelous strength of the boy Prince had already spread to the mines of Regos, and although King Gos had told them that Inga had been deprived of all his magic power, the guards now saw this was not true, so they deemed it wise not to attempt to oppose him. The chains of the slaves had all been riveted fast to their ankles and wrists, but Inga broke the bonds of steel with his hands and set the poor men free--not only those from Pingaree but all who had been captured in the many wars and raids of King Gos. They were very grateful, as you may suppose, and agreed to support Prince Inga in whatever action he commanded. He led them to the middle cavern, where all the guards and overseers fled in terror at his approach, and soon he had broken apart the chains of the slaves who had been working in that part of the mines. Then they approached the first cavern and liberated all there. The slaves had been treated so cruelly by the servants of King Gos that they were eager to pursue and slay them, in revenge; but Inga held them back and formed them into companies, each company having its own leader. Then he called the leaders together and instructed them to march in good order along the path to the City of Regos, where he would meet them and tell them what to do next. They readily agreed to obey him, and, arming themselves with iron bars and pick-axes which they brought from the mines, the slaves began their march to the city. Zella at first wished to be left behind, that she might make her way to her home, but neither Rinkitink nor Inga thought it was safe for her to wander alone through the forest, so they induced her to return with them to the city. The boy beached his boat this time at the same place as when he first landed at Regos, and while many of the warriors stood on the shore and before the walls of the city, not one of them attempted to interfere with the boy in any way. Indeed, they seemed uneasy and anxious, and when Inga met Captain Buzzub the boy asked if anything had happened in his absence. "A great deal has happened," replied Buzzub. "Our King and Queen have run away and left us, and we don't know what to do." "Run away!" exclaimed Inga. "Where did they go to?" "Who knows?" said the man, shaking his head despondently. "They departed together a few hours ago, in a boat with forty rowers, and they took with them the King and Queen of Pingaree!" Chapter Fifteen The Flight of the Rulers Now it seems that when Queen Cor fled from her island to Regos, she had wit enough, although greatly frightened, to make a stop at the royal dairy, which was near to the bridge, and to drag poor Queen Garee from the butter-house and across to Regos with her. The warriors of King Gos had never before seen the terrible Queen Cor frightened, and therefore when she came running across the bridge of boats, dragging the Queen of Pingaree after her by one arm, the woman's great fright had the effect of terrifying the waiting warriors. "Quick!" cried Cor. "Destroy the bridge, or we are lost." While the men were tearing away the bridge of boats the Queen ran up to the palace of Gos, where she met her husband. "That boy is a wizard!" she gasped. "There is no standing against him." "Oh, have you discovered his magic at last?" replied Gos, laughing in her face. "Who, now, is the coward?" "Don't laugh!" cried Queen Cor. "It is no laughing matter. Both our islands are as good as conquered, this very minute. What shall we do, Gos?" "Come in," he said, growing serious, "and let us talk it over." So they went into a room of the palace and talked long and earnestly. "The boy intends to liberate his father and mother, and all the people of Pingaree, and to take them back to their island," said Cor. "He may also destroy our palaces and make us his slaves. I can see but one way, Gos, to prevent him from doing all this, and whatever else he pleases to do." "What way is that?" asked King Gos. "We must take the boy's parents away from here as quickly as possible. I have with me the Queen of Pingaree, and you can run up to the mines and get the King. Then we will carry them away in a boat and hide them where the boy cannot find them, with all his magic. We will use the King and Queen of Pingaree as hostages, and send word to the boy wizard that if he does not go away from our islands and allow us to rule them undisturbed, in our own way, we will put his father and mother to death. Also we will say that as long as we are let alone his parents will be safe, although still safely hidden. I believe, Gos, that in this way we can compel Prince Ingato obey us, for he seems very fond of his parents." "It isn't a bad idea," said Gos, reflectively; "but where can we hide the King and Queen, so that the boy cannot find them?" "In the country of the Nome King, on the mainland away at the south," she replied. "The nomes are our friends, and they possess magic powers that will enable them to protect the prisoners from discovery. If we can manage to get the King and Queen of Pingaree to the Nome Kingdom before the boy knows what we are doing, I am sure our plot will succeed." Gos gave the plan considerable thought in the next five minutes, and the more he thought about it the more clever and reasonable it seemed. So he agreed to do as Queen Cor suggested and at once hurried away to the mines, where he arrived before Prince Inga did. The next morning he carried King Kitticut back to Regos. While Gos was gone, Queen Cor busied herself in preparing a large and swift boat for the journey. She placed in it several bags of gold and jewels with which to bribe the nomes, and selected forty of the strongest oarsmen in Regos to row the boat. The instant King Gos returned with his royal prisoner all was ready for departure. They quickly entered the boat with their two important captives and without a word of explanation to any of their people they commanded the oarsmen to start, and were soon out of sight upon the broad expanse of the Nonestic Ocean. Inga arrived at the city some hours later and was much distressed when he learned that his father and mother had been spirited away from the islands. "I shall follow them, of course," said the boy to Rinkitink, "and if I cannot overtake them on the ocean I will search the world over until I find them. But before I leave here I must arrange to send our people back to Pingaree." Chapter Sixteen Nikobob Refuses a Crown Almost the first persons that Zella saw when she landed from the silver-lined boat at Regos were her father and mother. Nikobob and his wife had been greatly worried when their little daughter failed to return from Coregos, so they had set out to discover what had become of her. When they reached the City of Regos, that very morning, they were astonished to hear news of all the strange events that had taken place; still, they found comfort when told that Zella had been seen in the boat of Prince Inga, which had gone to the north. Then, while they wondered what this could mean, the silver-lined boat appeared again, with their daughter in it, and they ran down to the shore to give her a welcome and many joyful kisses. Inga invited the good people to the palace of King Gos, where he conferred with them, as well as with Rinkitink and Bilbil. "Now that the King and Queen of Regos and Coregos have run away," he said, "there is no one to rule these islands. So it is my duty to appoint a new ruler, and as Nikobob, Zella's father, is an honest and worthy man, I shall make him the King of the Twin Islands." "Me?" cried Nikobob, astounded by this speech. "I beg Your Highness, on my bended knees, not to do so cruel a thing as to make me King!" "Why not?" inquired Rinkitink. "I'm a King, and I know how it feels. I assure you, good Nikobob, that I quite enjoy my high rank, although a jeweled crown is rather heavy to wear in hot weather." "With you, noble sir, it is different," said Nikobob, "for you are far from your kingdom and its trials and worries and may do as you please. But to remain in Regos, as King over these fierce and unruly warriors, would be to live in constant anxiety and peril, and the chances are that they would murder me within a month. As I have done no harm to anyone and have tried to be a good and upright man, I do not think that I should be condemned to such a dreadful fate." "Very well," replied Inga, "we will say no more about your being King. I merely wanted to make you rich and prosperous, as I had promised Zella." "Please forget that promise," pleaded the charcoal-burner, earnestly; "I have been safe from molestation for many years, because I was poor and possessed nothing that anyone else could envy. But if you make me rich and prosperous I shall at once become the prey of thieves and marauders and probably will lose my life in the attempt to protect my fortune." Inga looked at the man in surprise. "What, then, can I do to please you?" he inquired. "Nothing more than to allow me to go home to my poor cabin," said Nikobob. "Perhaps," remarked King Rinkitink, "the charcoal-burner has more wisdom concealed in that hard head of his than we gave him credit for. But let us use that wisdom, for the present, to counsel us what to do in this emergency." "What you call my wisdom," said Nikobob, "is merely common sense. I have noticed that some men become rich, and are scorned by some and robbed by others. Other men become famous, and are mocked at and derided by their fellows. But the poor and humble man who lives unnoticed and unknown escapes all these troubles and is the only one who can appreciate the joy of living." "If I had a hand, instead of a cloven hoof, I'd like to shake hands with you, Nikobob," said Bilbil the goat. "But the poor man must not have a cruel master, or he is undone." During the council they found, indeed, that the advice of the charcoal-burner was both shrewd and sensible, and they profited much by his words. Inga gave Captain Buzzub the command of the warriors and made him promise to keep his men quiet and orderly--if he could. Then the boy allowed all of King Gos's former slaves, except those who came from Pingaree, to choose what boats they required and to stock them with provisions and row away to their own countries. When these had departed, with grateful thanks and many blessings showered upon the boy Prince who had set them free, Inga made preparations to send his own people home, where they were told to rebuild their houses and then erect a new royal palace. They were then to await patiently the coming of King Kitticut or Prince Inga. "My greatest worry," said the boy to his friends, "is to know whom to appoint to take charge of this work of restoring Pingaree to its former condition. My men are all pearl fishers, and although willing and honest, have no talent for directing others how to work." While the preparations for departure were being made, Nikobob offered to direct the men of Pingaree, and did so in a very capable manner. As the island had been despoiled of all its valuable furniture and draperies and rich cloths and paintings and statuary and the like, as well as gold and silver and ornaments, Inga thought it no more than just that they be replaced by the spoilers. So he directed his people to search through the storehouses of King Gos and to regain all their goods and chattels that could be found. Also he instructed them to take as much else as they required to make their new homes comfortable, so that many boats were loaded full of goods that would enable the people to restore Pingaree to its former state of comfort. For his father's new palace the boy plundered the palaces of both Queen Cor and King Gos, sending enough wares away with his people to make King Kitticut's new residence as handsomely fitted and furnished as had been the one which the ruthless invaders from Regos had destroyed. It was a great fleet of boats that set out one bright, sunny morning on the voyage to Pingaree, carrying all the men, women and children and all the goods for refitting their homes. As he saw the fleet depart, Prince Inga felt that he had already successfully accomplished a part of his mission, but he vowed he would never return to Pingaree in person until he could take his father and mother there with him; unless, indeed, King Gos wickedly destroyed his beloved parents, in which case Inga would become the King of Pingaree and it would be his duty to go to his people and rule over them. It was while the last of the boats were preparing to sail for Pingaree that Nikobob, who had been of great service in getting them ready, came to Inga in a thoughtful mood and said: "Your Highness, my wife and my daughter Zella have been urging me to leave Regos and settle down in your island, in a new home. From what your people have told me, Pingaree is a better place to live than Regos, and there are no cruel warriors or savage beasts there to keep one in constant fear for the safety of those he loves. Therefore, I have come to ask to go with my family in one of the boats." Inga was much pleased with this proposal and not only granted Nikobob permission to go to Pingaree to live, but instructed him to take with him sufficient goods to furnish his new home in a comfortable manner. In addition to this, he appointed Nikobob general manager of the buildings and of the pearl fisheries, until his father or he himself arrived, and the people approved this order because they liked Nikobob and knew him to be just and honest. Soon as the last boat of the great flotilla had disappeared from the view of those left at Regos, Inga and Rinkitink prepared to leave the island themselves. The boy was anxious to overtake the boat of King Gos, if possible, and Rinkitink had no desire to remain in Regos. Buzzub and the warriors stood silently on the shore and watched the black boat with its silver lining depart, and I am sure they were as glad to be rid of their unwelcome visitors as Inga and Rinkitink and Bilbil were to leave. The boy asked the White Pearl what direction the boat of King Gos had taken and then he followed after it, rowing hard and steadily for eight days without becoming at all weary. But, although the black boat moved very swiftly, it failed to overtake the barge which was rowed by Queen Cor's forty picked oarsmen. Chapter Seventeen The Nome King The Kingdom of the Nomes does not border on the Nonestic Ocean, from which it is separated by the Kingdom of Rinkitink and the Country of the Wheelers, which is a part of the Land of Ev. Rinkitink's country is separated from the country of the Nomes by a row of high and steep mountains, from which it extends to the sea. The Country of the Wheelers is a sandy waste that is open on one side to the Nonestic Ocean and on the other side has no barrier to separate it from the Nome Country, therefore it was on the coast of the Wheelers that King Cos landed--in a spot quite deserted by any of the curious inhabitants of that country. The Nome Country is very large in extent, and is only separated from the Land of Oz, on its eastern borders, by a Deadly Desert that can not be crossed by mortals, unless they are aided by the fairies or by magic. The nomes are a numerous and mischievous people, living in underground caverns of wide extent, connected one with another by arches and passages. The word "nome" means "one who knows," and these people are so called because they know where all the gold and silver and precious stones are hidden in the earth--a knowledge that no other living creatures share with them. The nomes are busy people, constantly digging up gold in one place and taking it to another place, where they secretly bury it, and perhaps this is the reason they alone know where to find it. The nomes were ruled, at the time of which I write, by a King named Kaliko. King Gos had expected to be pursued by Inga in his magic boat, so he made all the haste possible, urging his forty rowers to their best efforts night and day. To his joy he was not overtaken but landed on the sandy beach of the Wheelers on the morning of the eighth day. The forty rowers were left with the boat, while Queen Cor and King Cos, with their royal prisoners, who were still chained, began the journey to the Nome King. It was not long before they passed the sands and reached the rocky country belonging to the nomes, but they were still a long way from the entrance to the underground caverns in which lived the Nome King. There was a dim path, winding between stones and boulders, over which the walking was quite difficult, especially as the path led up hills that were small mountains, and then down steep and abrupt slopes where any misstep might mean a broken leg. Therefore it was the second day of their journey before they climbed halfway up a rugged mountain and found themselves at the entrance of the Nome King's caverns. On their arrival, the entrance seemed free and unguarded, but Gos and Cor had been there before, and they were too wise to attempt to enter without announcing themselves, for the passage to the caves was full of traps and pitfalls. So King Gos stood still and shouted, and in an instant they were surrounded by a group of crooked nomes, who seemed to have sprung from the ground. One of these had very long ears and was called The Long-Eared Hearer. He said: "I heard you coming early this morning." Another had eyes that looked in different directions at the same time and were curiously bright and penetrating. He could look over a hill or around a corner and was called The Lookout. Said he: "I saw you coming yesterday." "Then," said King Gos, "perhaps King Kaliko is expecting us." "It is true," replied another nome, who wore a gold collar around his neck and carried a bunch of golden keys. "The mighty Nome King expects you, and bids you follow me to his presence." With this he led the way into the caverns and Gos and Cor followed, dragging their weary prisoners with them, for poor King Kitticut and his gentle Queen had been obliged to carry, all through the tedious journey, the bags of gold and jewels which were to bribe the Nome King to accept them as slaves. Through several long passages the guide led them and at last they entered a small cavern which was beautifully decorated and set with rare jewels that flashed from every part of the wall, floor and ceiling. This was a waiting-room for visitors, and there their guide left them while he went to inform King Kaliko of their arrival. Before long they were ushered into a great domed chamber, cut from the solid rock and so magnificent that all of them--the King and Queen of Pingaree and the King and Queen of Regos and Coregos--drew long breaths of astonishment and opened their eyes as wide as they could. In an ivory throne sat a little round man who had a pointed beard and hair that rose to a tall curl on top of his head. He was dressed in silken robes, richly embroidered, which had large buttons of cut rubies. On his head was a diamond crown and in his hand he held a golden sceptre with a big jeweled ball at one end of it. This was Kaliko, the King and ruler of all the nomes. He nodded pleasantly enough to his visitors and said in a cheery voice: "Well, Your Majesties, what can I do for you?" "It is my desire," answered King Gos, respectfully, "to place in your care two prisoners, whom you now see before you. They must be carefully guarded, to prevent them from escaping, for they have the cunning of foxes and are not to be trusted. In return for the favor I am asking you to grant, I have brought Your Majesty valuable presents of gold and precious gems." He then commanded Kitticut and Garee to lay before the Nome King the bags of gold and jewels, and they obeyed, being helpless. "Very good," said King Kaliko, nodding approval, for like all the nomes he loved treasures of gold and jewels. "But who are the prisoners you have brought here, and why do you place them in my charge instead of guarding them, yourself? They seem gentle enough, I'm sure." "The prisoners," returned King Gos, "are the King and Queen of Pingaree, a small island north of here. They are very evil people and came to our islands of Regos and Coregos to conquer them and slay our poor people. Also they intended to plunder us of all our riches, but by good fortune we were able to defeat and capture them. However, they have a son who is a terrible wizard and who by magic art is trying to find this awful King and Queen of Pingaree, and to set them free, that they may continue their wicked deeds. Therefore, as we have no magic to defend ourselves with, we have brought the prisoners to you for safe keeping." "Your Majesty," spoke up King Kitticut, addressing the Nome King with great indignation, "do not believe this tale, I implore you. It is all a lie!" "I know it," said Kaliko. "I consider it a clever lie, though, because it is woven without a thread of truth. However, that is none of my business. The fact remains that my good friend King Gos wishes to put you in my underground caverns, so that you will be unable to escape. And why should I not please him in this little matter? Gos is a mighty King and a great warrior, while your island of Pingaree is desolated and your people scattered. In my heart, King Kitticut, I sympathize with you, but as a matter of business policy we powerful Kings must stand together and trample the weaker ones under our feet." King Kitticut was surprised to find the King of the nomes so candid and so well informed, and he tried to argue that he and his gentle wife did not deserve their cruel fate and that it would be wiser for Kaliko to side with them than with the evil King of Regos. But Kaliko only shook his head and smiled, saying: "The fact that you are a prisoner, my poor Kitticut, is evidence that you are weaker than King Cos, and I prefer to deal with the strong. By the way," he added, turning to the King of Regos, "have these prisoners any connection with the Land of Oz?" "Why do you ask?" said Gos. "Because I dare not offend the Oz people," was the reply. "I am very powerful, as you know, but Ozma of Oz is far more powerful than I; therefore, if this King and Queen of Pingaree happened to be under Ozma's protection, I would have nothing to do with them." "I assure Your Majesty that the prisoners have nothing to do with the Oz people," Gos hastened to say. And Kitticut, being questioned, admitted that this was true. "But how about that wizard you mentioned?" asked the Nome King. "Oh, he is merely a boy; but he is very ferocious and obstinate and he is assisted by a little fat sorcerer called Rinkitink and a talking goat." "Oho! A talking goat, do you say? That certainly sounds like magic; and it also sounds like the Land of Oz, where all the animals talk," said Kaliko, with a doubtful expression. But King Gos assured him the talking goat had never been to Oz. "As for Rinkitink, whom you call a sorcerer," continued the Nome King, "he is a neighbor of mine, you must know, but as we are cut off from each other by high mountains beneath which a powerful river runs, I have never yet met King Rinkitink. But I have heard of him, and from all reports he is a jolly rogue, and perfectly harmless. However, in spite of your false statements and misrepresentations, I will earn the treasure you have brought me, by keeping your prisoners safe in my caverns. "Make them work," advised Queen Cor. "They are rather delicate, and to make them work will make them suffer delightfully." "I'll do as I please about that," said the Nome King sternly. "Be content that I agree to keep them safe." The bargain being thus made and concluded, Kaliko first examined the gold and jewels and then sent it away to his royal storehouse, which was well filled with like treasure. Next the captives were sent away in charge of the nome with the golden collar and keys, whose name was Klik, and he escorted them to a small cavern and gave them a good supper. "I shall lock your door," said Klik, "so there is no need of your wearing those heavy chains any longer." He therefore removed the chains and left King Kitticut and his Queen alone. This was the first time since the Northmen had carried them away from Pingaree that the good King and Queen had been alone together and free of all bonds, and as they embraced lovingly and mingled their tears over their sad fate they were also grateful that they had passed from the control of the heartless King Gos into the more considerate care of King Kaliko. They were still captives but they believed they would be happier in the underground caverns of the nomes than in Regos and Coregos. Meantime, in the King's royal cavern a great feast had been spread. King Gos and Queen Cor, having triumphed in their plot, were so well pleased that they held high revelry with the jolly Nome King until a late hour that night. And the next morning, having cautioned Kaliko not to release the prisoners under any consideration without their orders, the King and Queen of Regos and Coregos left the caverns of the nomes to return to the shore of the ocean where they had left their boat. Chapter Eighteen Inga Parts with his Pink Pearl The White Pearl guided Inga truly in his pursuit of the boat of King Gos, but the boy had been so delayed in sending his people home to Pingaree that it was a full day after Gos and Cor landed on the shore of the Wheeler Country that Inga's boat arrived at the same place. There he found the forty rowers guarding the barge of Queen Cor, and although they would not or could not tell the boy where the King and Queen had taken his father and mother, the White Pearl advised him to follow the path to the country and the caverns of the nomes. Rinkitink didn't like to undertake the rocky and mountainous journey, even with Bilbil to carry him, but he would not desert Inga, even though his own kingdom lay just beyond a range of mountains which could be seen towering southwest of them. So the King bravely mounted the goat, who always grumbled but always obeyed his master, and the three set off at once for the caverns of the nomes. They traveled just as slowly as Queen Cor and King Gos had done, so when they were about halfway they discovered the King and Queen coming back to their boat. The fact that Gos and Cor were now alone proved that they had left Inga's father and mother behind them; so, at the suggestion of Rinkitink, the three hid behind a high rock until the King of Regos and the Queen of Coregos, who had not observed them, had passed them by. Then they continued their journey, glad that they had not again been forced to fight or quarrel with their wicked enemies. "We might have asked them, however, what they had done with your poor parents," said Rinkitink. "Never mind," answered Inga. "I am sure the White Pearl will guide us aright." For a time they proceeded in silence and then Rinkitink began to chuckle with laughter in the pleasant way he was wont to do before his misfortunes came upon him. "What amuses Your Majesty?" inquired the boy. "The thought of how surprised my dear subjects would be if they realized how near to them I am, and yet how far away. I have always wanted to visit the Nome Country, which is full of mystery and magic and all sorts of adventures, but my devoted subjects forbade me to think of such a thing, fearing I would get hurt or enchanted." "Are you afraid, now that you are here?" asked Inga. "A little, but not much, for they say the new Nome King is not as wicked as the old King used to be. Still, we are undertaking a dangerous journey and I think you ought to protect me by lending me one of your pearls." Inga thought this over and it seemed a reasonable request. "Which pearl would you like to have?" asked the boy. "Well, let us see," returned Rinkitink; "you may need strength to liberate your captive parents, so you must keep the Blue Pearl. And you will need the advice of the White Pearl, so you had best keep that also. But in case we should be separated I would have nothing to protect me from harm, so you ought to lend me the Pink Pearl." "Very well," agreed Inga, and sitting down upon a rock he removed his right shoe and after withdrawing the cloth from the pointed toe took out the Pink Pearl--the one which protected from any harm the person who carried it. "Where can you put it, to keep it safely?" he asked. "In my vest pocket," replied the King. "The pocket has a flap to it and I can pin it down in such a way that the pearl cannot get out and become lost. As for robbery, no one with evil intent can touch my person while I have the pearl." So Inga gave Rinkitink the Pink Pearl and the little King placed it in the pocket of his red-and-green brocaded velvet vest, pinning the flap of the pocket down tightly. They now resumed their journey and finally reached the entrance to the Nome King's caverns. Placing the White Pearl to his ear, Inga asked: "What shall I do now?" and the Voice of the Pearl replied: "Clap your hands together four times and call aloud the word 'Klik.' Then allow yourselves to be conducted to the Nome King, who is now holding your father and mother captive." Inga followed these instructions and when Klik appeared in answer to his summons the boy requested an audience of the Nome King. So Klik led them into the presence of King Kaliko, who was suffering from a severe headache, due to his revelry the night before, and therefore was unusually cross and grumpy. "I know what you've come for," said he, before Inga could speak. "You want to get the captives from Regos away from me; but you can't do it, so you'd best go away again." "The captives are my father and mother, and I intend to liberate them," said the boy firmly. The King stared hard at Inga, wondering at his audacity. Then he turned to look at King Rinkitink and said: "I suppose you are the King of Gilgad, which is in the Kingdom of Rinkitink." "You've guessed it the first time," replied Rinkitink. "How round and fat you are!" exclaimed Kaliko. "I was just thinking how fat and round you are," said Rinkitink. "Really, King Kaliko, we ought to be friends, we're so much alike in everything but disposition and intelligence." Then he began to chuckle, while Kaliko stared hard at him, not knowing whether to accept his speech as a compliment or not. And now the nome's eyes wandered to Bilbil, and he asked: "Is that your talking goat?" Bilbil met the Nome King's glowering look with a gaze equally surly and defiant, while Rinkitink answered: "It is, Your Majesty." "Can he really talk?" asked Kaliko, curiously. "He can. But the best thing he does is to scold. Talk to His Majesty, Bilbil." But Bilbil remained silent and would not speak. "Do you always ride upon his back?" continued Kaliko, questioning Rinkitink. "Yes," was the answer, "because it is difficult for a fat man to walk far, as perhaps you know from experience. "That is true," said Kaliko. "Get off the goat's back and let me ride him a while, to see how I like it. Perhaps I'll take him away from you, to ride through my caverns." Rinkitink chuckled softly as he heard this, but at once got off Bilbil's back and let Kaliko get on. The Nome King was a little awkward, but when he was firmly astride the saddle he called in a loud voice: "Giddap!" When Bilbil paid no attention to the command and refused to stir, Kaliko kicked his heels viciously against the goat's body, and then Bilbil made a sudden start. He ran swiftly across the great cavern, until he had almost reached the opposite wall, when he stopped so abruptly that King Kaliko sailed over his head and bumped against the jeweled wall. He bumped so hard that the points of his crown were all mashed out of shape and his head was driven far into the diamond-studded band of the crown, so that it covered one eye and a part of his nose. Perhaps this saved Kaliko's head from being cracked against the rock wall, but it was hard on the crown. Bilbil was highly pleased at the success of his feat and Rinkitink laughed merrily at the Nome King's comical appearance; but Kaliko was muttering and growling as he picked himself up and struggled to pull the battered crown from his head, and it was evident that he was not in the least amused. Indeed, Inga could see that the King was very angry, and the boy knew that the incident was likely to turn Kaliko against the entire party. The Nome King sent Klik for another crown and ordered his workmen to repair the one that was damaged. While he waited for the new crown he sat regarding his visitors with a scowling face, and this made Inga more uneasy than ever. Finally, when the new crown was placed upon his head, King Kaliko said: "Follow me, strangers!" and led the way to a small door at one end of the cavern. Inga and Rinkitink followed him through the doorway and found themselves standing on a balcony that overlooked an enormous domed cave--so extensive that it seemed miles to the other side of it. All around this circular cave, which was brilliantly lighted from an unknown source, were arches connected with other caverns. Kaliko took a gold whistle from his pocket and blew a shrill note that echoed through every part of the cave. Instantly nomes began to pour in through the side arches in great numbers, until the immense space was packed with them as far as the eye could reach. All were armed with glittering weapons of polished silver and gold, and Inga was amazed that any King could command so great an army. They began marching and countermarching in very orderly array until another blast of the gold whistle sent them scurrying away as quickly as they had appeared. And as soon as the great cave was again empty Kaliko returned with his visitors to his own royal chamber, where he once more seated himself upon his ivory throne. "I have shown you," said he to Inga, "a part of my bodyguard. The royal armies, of which this is only a part, are as numerous as the sands of the ocean, and live in many thousands of my underground caverns. You have come here thinking to force me to give up the captives of King Gos and Queen Cor, and I wanted to convince you that my power is too mighty for anyone to oppose. I am told that you are a wizard, and depend upon magic to aid you; but you must know that the nomes are not mortals, and understand magic pretty well themselves, so if we are obliged to fight magic with magic the chances are that we are a hundred times more powerful than you can be. Think this over carefully, my boy, and try to realize that you are in my power. I do not believe you can force me to liberate King Kitticut and Queen Garee, and I know that you cannot coax me to do so, for I have given my promise to King Gos. Therefore, as I do not wish to hurt you, I ask you to go away peaceably and let me alone." "Forgive me if I do not agree with you, King Kaliko," answered the boy. "However difficult and dangerous my task may be, I cannot leave your dominions until every effort to release my parents has failed and left me completely discouraged." "Very well," said the King, evidently displeased. "I have warned you, and now if evil overtakes you it is your own fault. I've a headache to-day, so I cannot entertain you properly, according to your rank; but Klik will attend you to my guest chambers and to-morrow I will talk with you again." This seemed a fair and courteous way to treat one's declared enemies, so they politely expressed the wish that Kaliko's headache would be better, and followed their guide, Klik, down a well-lighted passage and through several archways until they finally reached three nicely furnished bedchambers which were cut from solid gray rock and well lighted and aired by some mysterious method known to the nomes. The first of these rooms was given King Rinkitink, the second was Inga's and the third was assigned to Bilbil the goat. There was a swinging rock door between the third and second rooms and another between the second and first, which also had a door that opened upon the passage. Rinkitink's room was the largest, so it was here that an excellent dinner was spread by some of the nome servants, who, in spite of their crooked shapes, proved to be well trained and competent. "You are not prisoners, you know," said Klik; "neither are you welcome guests, having declared your purpose to oppose our mighty King and all his hosts. But we bear you no ill will, and you are to be well fed and cared for as long as you remain in our caverns. Eat hearty, sleep tight, and pleasant dreams to you." Saying this, he left them alone and at once Rinkitink and Inga began to counsel together as to the best means to liberate King Kitticut and Queen Garee. The White Pearl's advice was rather unsatisfactory to the boy, just now, for all that the Voice said in answer to his questions was: "Be patient, brave and determined." Rinkitink suggested that they try to discover in what part of the series of underground caverns Inga's parents had been confined, as that knowledge was necessary before they could take any action; so together they started out, leaving Bilbil asleep in his room, and made their way unopposed through many corridors and caverns. In some places were great furnaces, where gold dust was being melted into bricks. In other rooms workmen were fashioning the gold into various articles and ornaments. In one cavern immense wheels revolved which polished precious gems, and they found many caverns used as storerooms, where treasure of every sort was piled high. Also they came to the barracks of the army and the great kitchens. There were nomes everywhere--countless thousands of them--but none paid the slightest heed to the visitors from the earth's surface. Yet, although Inga and Rinkitink walked until they were weary, they were unable to locate the place where the boy's father and mother had been confined, and when they tried to return to their own rooms they found that they had hopelessly lost themselves amid the labyrinth of passages. However, Klik presently came to them, laughing at their discomfiture, and led them back to their bedchambers. Before they went to sleep they carefully barred the door from Rinkitink's room to the corridor, but the doors that connected the three rooms one with another were left wide open. In the night Inga was awakened by a soft grating sound that filled him with anxiety because he could not account for it. It was dark in his room, the light having disappeared as soon as he got into bed, but he managed to feel his way to the door that led to Rinkitink's room and found it tightly closed and immovable. Then he made his way to the opposite door, leading to Bilbil's room, to discover that also had been closed and fastened. The boy had a curious sensation that all of his room--the walls, floor and ceiling--was slowly whirling as if on a pivot, and it was such an uncomfortable feeling that he got into bed again, not knowing what else to do. And as the grating noise had ceased and the room now seemed stationary, he soon fell asleep again. When the boy wakened, after many hours, he found the room again light. So he dressed himself and discovered that a small table, containing a breakfast that was smoking hot, had suddenly appeared in the center of his room. He tried the two doors, but finding that he could not open them he ate some breakfast, thoughtfully wondering who had locked him in and why he had been made a prisoner. Then he again went to the door which he thought led to Rinkitink's chamber and to his surprise the latch lifted easily and the door swung open. Before him was a rude corridor hewn in the rock and dimly lighted. It did not look inviting, so Inga closed the door, puzzled to know what had become of Rinkitink's room and the King, and went to the opposite door. Opening this, he found a solid wall of rock confronting him, which effectually prevented his escape in that direction. The boy now realized that King Kaliko had tricked him, and while professing to receive him as a guest had plotted to separate him from his comrades. One way had been left, however, by which he might escape and he decided to see where it led to. So, going to the first door, he opened it and ventured slowly into the dimly lighted corridor. When he had advanced a few steps he heard the door of his room slam shut behind him. He ran back at once, but the door of rock fitted so closely into the wall that he found it impossible to open it again. That did not matter so much, however, for the room was a prison and the only way of escape seemed ahead of him. Along the corridor he crept until, turning a corner, he found himself in a large domed cavern that was empty and deserted. Here also was a dim light that permitted him to see another corridor at the opposite side; so he crossed the rocky floor of the cavern and entered a second corridor. This one twisted and turned in every direction but was not very long, so soon the boy reached a second cavern, not so large as the first. This he found vacant also, but it had another corridor leading out of it, so Inga entered that. It was straight and short and beyond was a third cavern, which differed little from the others except that it had a strong iron grating at one side of it. All three of these caverns had been roughly hewn from the rock and it seemed they had never been put to use, as had all the other caverns of the nomes he had visited. Standing in the third cavern, Inga saw what he thought was still another corridor at its farther side, so he walked toward it. This opening was dark, and that fact, and the solemn silence all around him, made him hesitate for a while to enter it. Upon reflection, however, he realized that unless he explored the place to the very end he could not hope to escape from it, so he boldly entered the dark corridor and felt his way cautiously as he moved forward. Scarcely had he taken two paces when a crash resounded back of him and a heavy sheet of steel closed the opening into the cavern from which he had just come. He paused a moment, but it still seemed best to proceed, and as Inga advanced in the dark, holding his hands outstretched before him to feel his way, handcuffs fell upon his wrists and locked themselves with a sharp click, and an instant later he found he was chained to a stout iron post set firmly in the rock floor. The chains were long enough to permit him to move a yard or so in any direction and by feeling the walls he found he was in a small circular room that had no outlet except the passage by which he had entered, and that was now closed by the door of steel. This was the end of the series of caverns and corridors. It was now that the horror of his situation occurred to the boy with full force. But he resolved not to submit to his fate without a struggle, and realizing that he possessed the Blue Pearl, which gave him marvelous strength, he quickly broke the chains and set himself free of the handcuffs. Next he twisted the steel door from its hinges, and creeping along the short passage, found himself in the third cave. But now the dim light, which had before guided him, had vanished; yet on peering into the gloom of the cave he saw what appeared to be two round disks of flame, which cast a subdued glow over the floor and walls. By this dull glow he made out the form of an enormous man, seated in the center of the cave, and he saw that the iron grating had been removed, permitting the man to enter. The giant was unclothed and its limbs were thickly covered with coarse red hair. The round disks of flame were its two eyes and when it opened its mouth to yawn Inga saw that its jaws were wide enough to crush a dozen men between the great rows of teeth. Presently the giant looked up and perceived the boy crouching at the other side of the cavern, so he called out in a hoarse, rude voice: "Come hither, my pretty one. We will wrestle together, you and I, and if you succeed in throwing me I will let you pass through my cave." The boy made no reply to the challenge. He realized he was in dire peril and regretted that he had lent the Pink Pearl to King Rinkitink. But it was now too late for vain regrets, although he feared that even his great strength would avail him little against this hairy monster. For his arms were not long enough to span a fourth of the giant's huge body, while the monster's powerful limbs would be likely to crush out Inga's life before he could gain the mastery. Therefore the Prince resolved to employ other means to combat this foe, who had doubtless been placed there to bar his return. Retreating through the passage he reached the room where he had been chained and wrenched the iron post from its socket. It was a foot thick and four feet long, and being of solid iron was so heavy that three ordinary men would have found it hard to lift. Returning to the cavern, the boy swung the great bar above his head and dashed it with mighty force full at the giant. The end of the bar struck the monster upon its forehead, and with a single groan it fell full length upon the floor and lay still. When the giant fell, the glow from its eyes faded away, and all was dark. Cautiously, for Inga was not sure the giant was dead, the boy felt his way toward the opening that led to the middle cavern. The entrance was narrow and the darkness was intense, but, feeling braver now, the boy stepped boldly forward. Instantly the floor began to sink beneath him and in great alarm he turned and made a leap that enabled him to grasp the rocky sides of the wall and regain a footing in the passage through which he had just come. Scarcely had he obtained this place of refuge when a mighty crash resounded throughout the cavern and the sound of a rushing torrent came from far below. Inga felt in his pocket and found several matches, one of which he lighted and held before him. While it flickered he saw that the entire floor of the cavern had fallen away, and knew that had he not instantly regained his footing in the passage he would have plunged into the abyss that lay beneath him. By the light of another match he saw the opening at the other side of the cave and the thought came to him that possibly he might leap across the gulf. Of course, this could never be accomplished without the marvelous strength lent him by the Blue Pearl, but Inga had the feeling that one powerful spring might carry him over the chasm into safety. He could not stay where he was, that was certain, so he resolved to make the attempt. He took a long run through the first cave and the short corridor; then, exerting all his strength, he launched himself over the black gulf of the second cave. Swiftly he flew and, although his heart stood still with fear, only a few seconds elapsed before his feet touched the ledge of the opposite passageway and he knew he had safely accomplished the wonderful feat. Only pausing to draw one long breath of relief, Inga quickly traversed the crooked corridor that led to the last cavern of the three. But when he came in sight of it he paused abruptly, his eyes nearly blinded by a glare of strong light which burst upon them. Covering his face with his hands, Inga retreated behind a projecting corner of rock and by gradually getting his eyes used to the light he was finally able to gaze without blinking upon the strange glare that had so quickly changed the condition of the cavern. When he had passed through this vault it had been entirely empty. Now the flat floor of rock was covered everywhere with a bed of glowing coals, which shot up little tongues of red and white flames. Indeed, the entire cave was one monster furnace and the heat that came from it was fearful. Inga's heart sank within him as he realized the terrible obstacle placed by the cunning Nome King between him and the safety of the other caverns. There was no turning back, for it would be impossible for him again to leap over the gulf of the second cave, the corridor at this side being so crooked that he could get no run before he jumped. Neither could he leap over the glowing coals of the cavern that faced him, for it was much larger than the middle cavern. In this dilemma he feared his great strength would avail him nothing and he bitterly reproached himself for parting with the Pink Pearl, which would have preserved him from injury. However, it was not in the nature of Prince Inga to despair for long, his past adventures having taught him confidence and courage, sharpened his wits and given him the genius of invention. He sat down and thought earnestly on the means of escape from his danger and at last a clever idea came to his mind. This is the way to get ideas: never to let adverse circumstances discourage you, but to believe there is a way out of every difficulty, which may be found by earnest thought. There were many points and projections of rock in the walls of the crooked corridor in which Inga stood and some of these rocks had become cracked and loosened, although still clinging to their places. The boy picked out one large piece, and, exerting all his strength, tore it away from the wall. He then carried it to the cavern and tossed it upon the burning coals, about ten feet away from the end of the passage. Then he returned for another fragment of rock, and wrenching it free from its place, he threw it ten feet beyond the first one, toward the opposite side of the cave. The boy continued this work until he had made a series of stepping-stones reaching straight across the cavern to the dark passageway beyond, which he hoped would lead him back to safety if not to liberty. When his work had been completed, Inga did not long hesitate to take advantage of his stepping-stones, for he knew his best chance of escape lay in his crossing the bed of coals before the rocks became so heated that they would burn his feet. So he leaped to the first rock and from there began jumping from one to the other in quick succession. A withering wave of heat at once enveloped him, and for a time he feared he would suffocate before he could cross the cavern; but he held his breath, to keep the hot air from his lungs, and maintained his leaps with desperate resolve. Then, before he realized it, his feet were pressing the cooler rocks of the passage beyond and he rolled helpless upon the floor, gasping for breath. His skin was so red that it resembled the shell of a boiled lobster, but his swift motion had prevented his being burned, and his shoes had thick soles, which saved his feet. After resting a few minutes, the boy felt strong enough to go on. He went to the end of the passage and found that the rock door by which he had left his room was still closed, so he returned to about the middle of the corridor and was thinking what he should do next, when suddenly the solid rock before him began to move and an opening appeared through which shone a brilliant light. Shielding his eyes, which were somewhat dazzled, Inga sprang through the opening and found himself in one of the Nome King's inhabited caverns, where before him stood King Kaliko, with a broad grin upon his features, and Klik, the King's chamberlain, who looked surprised, and King Rinkitink seated astride Bilbil the goat, both of whom seemed pleased that Inga had rejoined them. Chapter Nineteen Rinkitink Chuckles We will now relate what happened to Rinkitink and Bilbil that morning, while Inga was undergoing his trying experience in escaping the fearful dangers of the three caverns. The King of Gilgad wakened to find the door of Inga's room fast shut and locked, but he had no trouble in opening his own door into the corridor, for it seems that the boy's room, which was the middle one, whirled around on a pivot, while the adjoining rooms occupied by Bilbil and Rinkitink remained stationary. The little King also found a breakfast magically served in his room, and while he was eating it, Klik came to him and stated that His Majesty, King Kaliko, desired his presence in the royal cavern. So Rinkitink, having first made sure that the Pink Pearl was still in his vest pocket, willingly followed Klik, who ran on some distance ahead. But no sooner had Rinkitink set foot in the passage than a great rock, weighing at least a ton, became dislodged and dropped from the roof directly over his head. Of course, it could not harm him, protected as he was by the Pink Pearl, and it bounded aside and crashed upon the floor, where it was shattered by its own weight. "How careless!" exclaimed the little King, and waddled after Klik, who seemed amazed at his escape. Presently another rock above Rinkitink plunged downward, and then another, but none touched his body. Klik seemed much perplexed at these continued escapes and certainly Kaliko was surprised when Rinkitink, safe and sound, entered the royal cavern. "Good morning," said the King of Gilgad. "Your rocks are getting loose, Kaliko, and you'd better have them glued in place before they hurt someone." Then he began to chuckle: "Hoo, hoo, hoo-hee, hee-heek, keek, eek!" and Kaliko sat and frowned because he realized that the little fat King was poking fun at him. "I asked Your Majesty to come here," said the Nome King, "to show you a curious skein of golden thread which my workmen have made. If it pleases you, I will make you a present of it." With this he held out a small skein of glittering gold twine, which was really pretty and curious. Rinkitink took it in his hand and at once the golden thread began to unwind--so swiftly that the eye could not follow its motion. And, as it unwound, it coiled itself around Rinkitink's body, at the same time weaving itself into a net, until it had enveloped the little King from head to foot and placed him in a prison of gold. "Aha!" cried Kaliko; "this magic worked all right, it seems. "Oh, did it?" replied Rinkitink, and stepping forward he walked right through the golden net, which fell to the floor in a tangled mass. Kaliko rubbed his chin thoughtfully and stared hard at Rinkitink. "I understand a good bit of magic," said he, "but Your Majesty has a sort of magic that greatly puzzles me, because it is unlike anything of the sort that I ever met with before." "Now, see here, Kaliko," said Rinkitink; "if you are trying to harm me or my companions, give it up, for you will never succeed. We're harm-proof, so to speak, and you are merely wasting your time trying to injure us. "You may be right, and I hope I am not so impolite as to argue with a guest," returned the Nome King. "But you will pardon me if I am not yet satisfied that you are stronger than my famous magic. However, I beg you to believe that I bear you no ill will, King Rinkitink; but it is my duty to destroy you, if possible, because you and that insignificant boy Prince have openly threatened to take away my captives and have positively refused to go back to the earth's surface and let me alone. I'm very tender-hearted, as a matter of fact, and I like you immensely, and would enjoy having you as a friend, but--" Here he pressed a button on the arm of his throne chair and the section of the floor where Rinkitink stood suddenly opened and disclosed a black pit beneath, which was a part of 'the terrible Bottomless Gulf. But Rinkitink did not fall into the pit; his body remained suspended in the air until he put out his foot and stepped to the solid floor, when the opening suddenly closed again. "I appreciate Your Majesty's friendship," remarked Rinkitink, as calmly as if nothing had happened, "but I am getting tired with standing. Will you kindly send for my goat, Bilbil, that I may sit upon his back to rest?" "Indeed I will!" promised Kaliko. "I have not yet completed my test of your magic, and as I owe that goat a slight grudge for bumping my head and smashing my second-best crown, I will be glad to discover if the beast can also escape my delightful little sorceries." So Klik was sent to fetch Bilbil and presently returned with the goat, which was very cross this morning because it had not slept well in the underground caverns. Rinkitink lost no time in getting upon the red velvet saddle which the goat constantly wore, for he feared the Nome King would try to destroy Bilbil and knew that as long as his body touched that of the goat the Pink Pearl would protect them both; whereas, if Bilbil stood alone, there was no magic to save him. Bilbil glared wickedly at King Kaliko, who moved uneasily in his ivory throne. Then the Nome King whispered a moment in the ear of Klik, who nodded and left the room. "Please make yourselves at home here for a few minutes, while I attend to an errand," said the Nome King, getting up from the throne. "I shall return pretty soon, when I hope to find you pieceful--ha, ha, ha!--that's a joke you can't appreciate now but will later. Be pieceful--that's the idea. Ho, ho, ho! How funny." Then he waddled from the cavern, closing the door behind him. "Well, why didn't you laugh when Kaliko laughed?" demanded the goat, when they were left alone in the cavern. "Because he means mischief of some sort," replied Rinkitink, "and we'll laugh after the danger is over, Bilbil. There's an old adage that says: 'He laughs best who laughs last,' and the only way to laugh last is to give the other fellow a chance. Where did that knife come from, I wonder." For a long, sharp knife suddenly appeared in the air near them, twisting and turning from side to side and darting here and there in a dangerous manner, without any support whatever. Then another knife became visible--and another and another--until all the space in the royal cavern seemed filled with them. Their sharp points and edges darted toward Rinkitink and Bilbil perpetually and nothing could have saved them from being cut to pieces except the protecting power of the Pink Pearl. As it was, not a knife touched them and even Bilbil gave a gruff laugh at the failure of Kaliko's clever magic. The goat wandered here and there in the cavern, carrying Rinkitink upon his back, and neither of them paid the slightest heed to the knives, although the glitter of the hundreds of polished blades was rather trying to their eyes. Perhaps for ten minutes the knives darted about them in bewildering fury; then they disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. Kaliko cautiously stuck his head through the doorway and found the goat chewing the embroidery of his royal cloak, which he had left lying over the throne, while Rinkitink was reading his manuscript on "How to be Good" and chuckling over its advice. The Nome King seemed greatly disappointed as he came in and resumed his seat on the throne. Said Rinkitink with a chuckle: "We've really had a peaceful time, Kaliko, although not the pieceful time you expected. Forgive me if I indulge in a laugh--hoo, hoo, hoo-hee, heek-keek-eek! And now, tell me; aren't you getting tired of trying to injure us?" "Eh--heh," said the Nome King. "I see now that your magic can protect you from all my arts. But is the boy Inga as, well protected as Your Majesty and the goat?' "Why do you ask?" inquired Rinkitink, uneasy at the question because he remembered he had not seen the little Prince of Pingaree that morning. "Because," said Kaliko, "the boy has been undergoing trials far greater and more dangerous than any you have encountered, and it has been hundreds of years since anyone has been able to escape alive from the perils of my Three Trick Caverns." King Rinkitink was much alarmed at hearing this, for although he knew that Inga possessed the Blue Pearl, that would only give to him marvelous strength, and perhaps strength alone would not enable him to escape from danger. But he would not let Kaliko see the fear he felt for Inga's safety, so he said in a careless way: "You're a mighty poor magician, Kaliko, and I'll give you my crown if Inga hasn't escaped any danger you have threatened him with." "Your whole crown is not worth one of the valuable diamonds in my crown," answered the Nome King, "but I'll take it. Let us go at once, therefore, and see what has become of the boy Prince, for if he is not destroyed by this time I will admit he cannot be injured by any of the magic arts which I have at my command." He left the room, accompanied by Klik, who had now rejoined his master, and by Rinkitink riding upon Bilbil. After traversing several of the huge caverns they entered one that was somewhat more bright and cheerful than the others, where the Nome King paused before a wall of rock. Then Klik pressed a secret spring and a section of the wall opened and disclosed the corridor where Prince Inga stood facing them. "Tarts and tadpoles!" cried Kaliko in surprise. "The boy is still alive!" Chapter Twenty Dorothy to the Rescue One day when Princess Dorothy of Oz was visiting Glinda the Good, who is Ozma's Royal Sorceress, she was looking through Glinda's Great Book of Records--wherein is inscribed all important events that happen in every part of the world--when she came upon the record of the destruction of Pingaree, the capture of King Kitticut and Queen Garee and all their people, and the curious escape of Inga, the boy Prince, and of King Rinkitink and the talking goat. Turning over some of the following pages, Dorothy read how Inga had found the Magic Pearls and was rowing the silver-lined boat to Regos to try to rescue his parents. The little girl was much interested to know how well Inga succeeded, but she returned to the palace of Ozma at the Emerald City of Oz the next day and other events made her forget the boy Prince of Pingaree for a time. However, she was one day idly looking at Ozma's Magic Picture, which shows any scene you may wish to see, when the girl thought of Inga and commanded the Magic Picture to show what the boy was doing at that moment. It was the time when Inga and Rinkitink had followed the King of Regos and Queen of Coregos to the Nome King's country and she saw them hiding behind the rock as Cor and Gos passed them by after having placed the King and Queen of Pingaree in the keeping of the Nome King. From that time Dorothy followed, by means of the Magic Picture, the adventures of Inga and his friend in the Nome King's caverns, and the danger and helplessness of the poor boy aroused the little girl's pity and indignation. So she went to Ozma and told the lovely girl Ruler of Oz all about Inga and Rinkitink. "I think Kaliko is treating them dreadfully mean," declared Dorothy, "and I wish you'd let me go to the Nome Country and help them out of their troubles." "Go, my dear, if you wish to," replied Ozma, "but I think it would be best for you to take the Wizard with you." "Oh, I'm not afraid of the nomes," said Dorothy, "but I'll be glad to take the Wizard, for company. And may we use your Magic Carpet, Ozma?" "Of course. Put the Magic Carpet in the Red Wagon and have the Sawhorse take you and the Wizard to the edge of the desert. While you are gone, Dorothy, I'll watch you in the Magic Picture, and if any danger threatens you I'll see you are not harmed." Dorothy thanked the Ruler of Oz and kissed her good-bye, for she was determined to start at once. She found the Wizard of Oz, who was planting shoetrees in the garden, and when she told him Inga's story he willingly agreed to accompany the little girl to the Nome King's caverns. They had both been there before and had conquered the nomes with ease, so they were not at all afraid. The Wizard, who was a cheery little man with a bald head and a winning smile, harnessed the Wooden Sawhorse to the Red Wagon and loaded on Ozma's Magic Carpet. Then he and Dorothy climbed to the seat and the Sawhorse started off and carried them swiftly through the beautiful Land of Oz to the edge of the Deadly Desert that separated their fairyland from the Nome Country. Even Dorothy and the clever Wizard would not have dared to cross this desert without the aid of the Magic Carpet, for it would have quickly destroyed them; but when the roll of carpet had been placed upon the edge of the sands, leaving just enough lying flat for them to stand upon, the carpet straightway began to unroll before them and as they walked on it continued to unroll, until they had safely passed over the stretch of Deadly Desert and were on the border of the Nome King's dominions. This journey had been accomplished in a few minutes, although such a distance would have required several days travel had they not been walking on the Magic Carpet. On arriving they at once walked toward the entrance to the caverns of the nomes. The Wizard carried a little black bag containing his tools of wizardry, while Dorothy carried over her arm a covered basket in which she had placed a dozen eggs, with which to conquer the nomes if she had any trouble with them. Eggs may seem to you to be a queer weapon with which to fight, but the little girl well knew their value. The nomes are immortal; that is, they do not perish, as mortals do, unless they happen to come in contact with an egg. If an egg touches them--either the outer shell or the inside of the egg--the nomes lose their charm of perpetual life and thereafter are liable to die through accident or old age, just as all humans are. For this reason the sight of an egg fills a nome with terror and he will do anything to prevent an egg from touching him, even for an instant. So, when Dorothy took her basket of eggs with her, she knew that she was more powerfully armed than if she had a regiment of soldiers at her back. Chapter Twenty-One The Wizard Finds an Enchantment After Kaliko had failed in his attempts to destroy his guests, as has been related, the Nome King did nothing more to injure them but treated them in a friendly manner. He refused, however, to permit Inga to see or to speak with his father and mother, or even to know in what part of the underground caverns they were confined. "You are able to protect your lives and persons, I freely admit," said Kaliko; "but I firmly believe you have no power, either of magic or otherwise, to take from me the captives I have agreed to keep for King Gos." Inga would not agree to this. He determined not to leave the caverns until he had liberated his father and mother, although he did not then know how that could be accomplished. As for Rinkitink, the jolly King was well fed and had a good bed to sleep upon, so he was not worrying about anything and seemed in no hurry to go away. Kaliko and Rinkitink were engaged in pitching a game with solid gold quoits, on the floor of the royal chamber, and Inga and Bilbil were watching them, when Klik came running in, his hair standing on end with excitement, and cried out that the Wizard of Oz and Dorothy were approaching. Kaliko turned pale on hearing this unwelcome news and, abandoning his game, went to sit in his ivory throne and try to think what had brought these fearful visitors to his domain. "Who is Dorothy?" asked Inga. "She is a little girl who once lived in Kansas," replied Klik, with a shudder, "but she now lives in Ozma's palace at the Emerald City and is a Princess of Oz--which means that she is a terrible foe to deal with." "Doesn't she like the nomes?" inquired the boy. "It isn't that," said King Kaliko, with a groan, "but she insists on the nomes being goody-goody, which is contrary to their natures. Dorothy gets angry if I do the least thing that is wicked, and tries to make me stop it, and that naturally makes me downhearted. I can't imagine why she has come here just now, for I've been behaving very well lately. As for that Wizard of Oz, he's chock-full of magic that I can't overcome, for he learned it from Glinda, who is the most powerful sorceress in the world. Woe is me! Why didn't Dorothy and the Wizard stay in Oz, where they belong?" Inga and Rinkitink listened to this with much joy, for at once the idea came to them both to plead with Dorothy to help them. Even Bilbil pricked up his ears when he heard the Wizard of Oz mentioned, and the goat seemed much less surly, and more thoughtful than usual. A few minutes later a nome came to say that Dorothy and the Wizard had arrived and demanded admittance, so Klik was sent to usher them into the royal presence of the Nome King. As soon as she came in the little girl ran up to the boy Prince and seized both his hands. "Oh, Inga!" she exclaimed, "I'm so glad to find you alive and well." Inga was astonished at so warm a greeting. Making a low bow he said: "I don't think we have met before, Princess." "No, indeed," replied Dorothy, "but I know all about you and I've come to help you and King Rinkitink out of your troubles." Then she turned to the Nome King and continued: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, King Kaliko, to treat an honest Prince and an honest King so badly." "I haven't done anything to them," whined Kaliko, trembling as her eyes flashed upon him. "No; but you tried to, an' that's just as bad, if not worse," said Dorothy, who was very indignant. "And now I want you to send for the King and Queen of Pingaree and have them brought here immejitly!" "I won't," said Kaliko. "Yes, you will!" cried Dorothy, stamping her foot at him. "I won't have those poor people made unhappy any longer, or separated from their little boy. Why, it's dreadful, Kaliko, an' I'm su'prised at you. You must be more wicked than I thought you were." "I can't do it, Dorothy," said the Nome King, almost weeping with despair. "I promised King Gos I'd keep them captives. You wouldn't ask me to break my promise, would you?" "King Gos was a robber and an outlaw," she said, "and p'r'aps you don't know that a storm at sea wrecked his boat, while he was going back to Regos, and that he and Queen Cor were both drowned." "Dear me!" exclaimed Kaliko. "Is that so?" "I saw it in Glinda's Record Book," said Dorothy. "So now you trot out the King and Queen of Pingaree as quick as you can." "No," persisted the contrary Nome King, shaking his head. "I won't do it. Ask me anything else and I'll try to please you, but I can't allow these friendly enemies to triumph over me. "In that case," said Dorothy, beginning to remove the cover from her basket, "I'll show you some eggs." "Eggs!" screamed the Nome King in horror. "Have you eggs in that basket?" "A dozen of 'em," replied Dorothy. "Then keep them there--I beg--I implore you!--and I'll do anything you say," pleaded Kaliko, his teeth chattering so that he could hardly speak. "Send for the King and Queen of Pingaree," said Dorothy. "Go, Klik," commanded the Nome King, and Klik ran away in great haste, for he was almost as much frightened as his master. It was an affecting scene when the unfortunate King and Queen of Pingaree entered the chamber and with sobs and tears of joy embraced their brave and adventurous son. All the others stood silent until greetings and kisses had been exchanged and Inga had told his parents in a few words of his vain struggles to rescue them and how Princess Dorothy had finally come to his assistance. Then King Kitticut shook the hands of his friend King Rinkitink and thanked him for so loyally supporting his son Inga, and Queen Garee kissed little Dorothy's forehead and blessed her for restoring her husband and herself to freedom. The Wizard had been standing near Bilbil the goat and now he was surprised to hear the animal say: "Joyful reunion, isn't it? But it makes me tired to see grown people cry like children." "Oho!" exclaimed the Wizard. "How does it happen, Mr. Goat, that you, who have never been to the Land of Oz, are able to talk?" "That's my business," returned Bilbil in a surly tone. The Wizard stooped down and gazed fixedly into the animal's eyes. Then he said, with a pitying sigh: "I see; you are under an enchantment. Indeed, I believe you to be Prince Bobo of Boboland." Bilbil made no reply but dropped his head as if ashamed. "This is a great discovery," said the Wizard, addressing Dorothy and the others of the party. "A good many years ago a cruel magician transformed the gallant Prince of Boboland into a talking goat, and this goat, being ashamed of his condition, ran away and was never after seen in Boboland, which is a country far to the south of here but bordering on the Deadly Desert, opposite the Land of Oz. I heard of this story long ago and know that a diligent search has been made for the enchanted Prince, without result. But I am well assured that, in the animal you call Bilbil, I have discovered the unhappy Prince of Boboland." "Dear me, Bilbil," said Rinkitink, "why have you never told me this?" "What would be the use?" asked Bilbil in a low voice and still refusing to look up. "The use?" repeated Rinkitink, puzzled. "Yes, that's the trouble," said the Wizard. "It is one of the most powerful enchantments ever accomplished, and the magician is now dead and the secret of the anti-charm lost. Even I, with all my skill, cannot restore Prince Bobo to his proper form. But I think Glinda might be able to do so and if you will all return with Dorothy and me to the Land of Oz, where Ozma will make you welcome, I will ask Glinda to try to break this enchantment." This was willingly agreed to, for they all welcomed the chance to visit the famous Land of Oz. So they bade good-bye to King Kaliko, whom Dorothy warned not to be wicked any more if he could help it, and the entire party returned over the Magic Carpet to the Land of Oz. They filled the Red Wagon, which was still waiting for them, pretty full; but the Sawhorse didn't mind that and with wonderful speed carried them safely to the Emerald City. Chapter Twenty Two Ozma's Banquet Ozma had seen in her Magic Picture the liberation of Inga's parents and the departure of the entire party for the Emerald City, so with her usual hospitality she ordered a splendid banquet prepared and invited all her quaint friends who were then in the Emerald City to be present that evening to meet the strangers who were to become her guests. Glinda, also, in her wonderful Record Book had learned of the events that had taken place in the caverns of the Nome King and she became especially interested in the enchantment of the Prince of Boboland. So she hastily prepared several of her most powerful charms and then summoned her flock of sixteen white storks, which swiftly bore her to Ozma's palace. She arrived there before the Red Wagon did and was warmly greeted by the girl Ruler. Realizing that the costume of Queen Garee of Pingaree must have become sadly worn and frayed, owing to her hardships and adventures, Ozma ordered a royal outfit prepared for the good Queen and had it laid in her chamber ready for her to put on as soon as she arrived, so she would not be shamed at the banquet. New costumes were also provided for King Kitticut and King Rinkitink and Prince Inga, all cut and made and embellished in the elaborate and becoming style then prevalent in the Land of Oz, and as soon as the party arrived at the palace Ozma's guests were escorted by her servants to their rooms, that they might bathe and dress themselves. Glinda the Sorceress and the Wizard of Oz took charge of Bilbil the goat and went to a private room where they were not likely to be interrupted. Glinda first questioned Bilbil long and earnestly about the manner of his enchantment and the ceremony that had been used by the magician who enchanted him. At first Bilbil protested that he did not want to be restored to his natural shape, saying that he had been forever disgraced in the eyes of his people and of the entire world by being obliged to exist as a scrawny, scraggly goat. But Glinda pointed out that any person who incurred the enmity of a wicked magician was liable to suffer a similar fate, and assured him that his misfortune would make him better beloved by his subjects when he returned to them freed from his dire enchantment. Bilbil was finally convinced of the truth of this assertion and agreed to submit to the experiments of Glinda and the Wizard, who knew they had a hard task before them and were not at all sure they could succeed. We know that Glinda is the most complete mistress of magic who has ever existed, and she was wise enough to guess that the clever but evil magician who had enchanted Prince Bobo had used a spell that would puzzle any ordinary wizard or sorcerer to break; therefore she had given the matter much shrewd thought and hoped she had conceived a plan that would succeed. But because she was not positive of success she would have no one present at the incantation except her assistant, the Wizard of Oz. First she transformed Bilbil the goat into a lamb, and this was done quite easily. Next she transformed the lamb into an ostrich, giving it two legs and feet instead of four. Then she tried to transform the ostrich into the original Prince Bobo, but this incantation was an utter failure. Glinda was not discouraged, however, but by a powerful spell transformed the ostrich into a tottenhot--which is a lower form of a man. Then the tottenhot was transformed into a mifket, which was a great step in advance and, finally, Glinda transformed the mifket into a handsome young man, tall and shapely, who fell on his knees before the great Sorceress and gratefully kissed her hand, admitting that he had now recovered his proper shape and was indeed Prince Bobo of Boboland. This process of magic, successful though it was in the end, had required so much time that the banquet was now awaiting their presence. Bobo was already dressed in princely raiment and although he seemed very much humbled by his recent lowly condition, they finally persuaded him to join the festivities. When Rinkitink saw that his goat had now become a Prince, he did not know whether to be sorry or glad, for he felt that he would miss the companionship of the quarrelsome animal he had so long been accustomed to ride upon, while at the same time he rejoiced that poor Bilbil had come to his own again. Prince Bobo humbly begged Rinkitink's forgiveness for having been so disagreeable to him, at times, saying that the nature of a goat had influenced him and the surly disposition he had shown was a part of his enchantment. But the jolly King assured the Prince that he had really enjoyed Bilbil's grumpy speeches and forgave him readily. Indeed, they all discovered the young Prince Bobo to be an exceedingly courteous and pleasant person, although he was somewhat reserved and dignified. Ah, but it was a great feast that Ozma served in her gorgeous banquet hall that night and everyone was as happy as could be. The Shaggy Man was there, and so was Jack Pumpkinhead and the Tin Woodman and Cap'n Bill. Beside Princess Dorothy sat Tiny Trot and Betsy Bobbin, and the three little girls were almost as sweet to look upon as was Ozma, who sat at the head of her table and outshone all her guests in loveliness. King Rinkitink was delighted with the quaint people of Oz and laughed and joked with the tin man and the pumpkin-headed man and found Cap'n Bill a very agreeable companion. But what amused the jolly King most were the animal guests, which Ozma always invited to her banquets and seated at a table by themselves, where they talked and chatted together as people do but were served the sort of food their natures required. The Hungry Tiger and Cowardly Lion and the Glass Cat were much admired by Rinkitink, but when he met a mule named Hank, which Betsy Bobbin had brought to Oz, the King found the creature so comical that he laughed and chuckled until his friends thought he would choke. Then while the banquet was still in progress, Rinkitink composed and sang a song to the mule and they all joined in the chorus, which was something like this: "It's very queer how big an ear Is worn by Mr. Donkey; And yet I fear he could not hear If it were on a monkey. 'Tis thick and strong and broad and long And also very hairy; It's quite becoming to our Hank But might disgrace a fairy!" This song was received with so much enthusiasm that Rinkitink was prevailed upon to sing another. They gave him a little time to compose the rhyme, which he declared would be better if he could devote a month or two to its composition, but the sentiment he expressed was so admirable that no one criticized the song or the manner in which the jolly little King sang it. Dorothy wrote down the words on a piece of paper, and here they are: "We're merry comrades all, to-night, Because we've won a gallant fight And conquered all our foes. We're not afraid of anything, So let us gayly laugh and sing Until we seek repose. "We've all our grateful hearts can wish; King Gos has gone to feed the fish, Queen Cor has gone, as well; King Kitticut has found his own, Prince Bobo soon will have a throne Relieved of magic spell. "So let's forget the horrid strife That fell upon our peaceful life And caused distress and pain; For very soon across the sea We'll all be sailing merrily To Pingaree again." Chapter Twenty Three The Pearl Kingdom It was unfortunate that the famous Scarecrow--the most popular person in all Oz, next to Ozma--was absent at the time of the banquet, for he happened just then to be making one of his trips through the country; but the Scarecrow had a chance later to meet Rinkitink and Inga and the King and Queen of Pingaree and Prince Bobo, for the party remained several weeks at the Emerald City, where they were royally entertained, and where both the gentle Queen Garee and the noble King Kitticut recovered much of their good spirits and composure and tried to forget their dreadful experiences. At last, however, the King and Queen desired to return to their own Pingaree, as they longed to be with their people again and see how well they had rebuilt their homes. Inga also was anxious to return, although he had been very happy in Oz, and King Rinkitink, who was happy anywhere except at Gilgad, decided to go with his former friends to Pingaree. As for prince Bobo, he had become so greatly attached to King Rinkitink that he was loth to leave him. On a certain day they all bade good-bye to Ozma and Dorothy and Glinda and the Wizard and all their good friends in Oz, and were driven in the Red Wagon to the edge of the Deadly Desert, which they crossed safely on the Magic Carpet. They then made their way across the Nome Kingdom and the Wheeler Country, where no one molested them, to the shores of the Nonestic Ocean. There they found the boat with the silver lining still lying undisturbed on the beach. There were no important adventures during the trip and on their arrival at the pearl kingdom they were amazed at the beautiful appearance of the island they had left in ruins. All the houses of the people had been rebuilt and were prettier than before, with green lawns before them and flower gardens in the back yards. The marble towers of King Kitticut's new palace were very striking and impressive, while the palace itself proved far more magnificent than it had been before the warriors from Regos destroyed it. Nikobob had been very active and skillful in directing all this work, and he had also built a pretty cottage for himself, not far from the King's palace, and there Inga found Zella, who was living very happy and contented in her new home. Not only had Nikobob accomplished all this in a comparatively brief space of time, but he had started the pearl fisheries again and when King Kitticut returned to Pingaree he found a quantity of fine pearls already in the royal treasury. So pleased was Kitticut with the good judgment, industry and honesty of the former charcoal-burner of Regos, that he made Nikobob his Lord High Chamberlain and put him in charge of the pearl fisheries and all the business matters of the island kingdom. They all settled down very comfortably in the new palace and the Queen gathered her maids about her once more and set them to work embroidering new draperies for the royal throne. Inga placed the three Magic Pearls in their silken bag and again deposited them in the secret cavity under the tiled flooring of the banquet hall, where they could be quickly secured if danger ever threatened the now prosperous island. King Rinkitink occupied a royal guest chamber built especially for his use and seemed in no hurry to leave his friends in Pingaree. The fat little King had to walk wherever he went and so missed Bilbil more and more; but he seldom walked far and he was so fond of Prince BoBo that he never regretted Bilbil's disenchantment. Indeed, the jolly monarch was welcome to remain forever in Pingaree, if he wished to, for his merry disposition set smiles on the faces of all his friends and made everyone near him as jolly as he was himself. When King Kitticut was not too busy with affairs of state he loved to join his guest and listen to his brother monarch's songs and stories. For he found Rinkitink to be, with all his careless disposition, a shrewd philosopher, and in talking over their adventures one day the King of Gilgad said: "The beauty of life is its sudden changes. No one knows what is going to happen next, and so we are constantly being surprised and entertained. The many ups and downs should not discourage us, for if we are down, we know that a change is coming and we will go up again; while those who are up are almost certain to go down. My grandfather had a song which well expresses this and if you will listen I will sing it." "Of course I will listen to your song," returned Kitticut, "for it would be impolite not to." So Rinkitink sang his grandfather's song: "A mighty King once ruled the land-- But now he's baking pies. A pauper, on the other hand, Is ruling, strong and wise. A tiger once in jungles raged-- But now he's in a zoo; A lion, captive-born and caged, Now roams the forest through. A man once slapped a poor boy's pate And made him weep and wail. The boy became a magistrate And put the man in jail. A sunny day succeeds the night; It's summer--then it snows! Right oft goes wrong and wrong comes right, As ev'ry wise man knows." Chapter Twenty-Four The Captive King One morning, just as the royal party was finishing breakfast, a servant came running to say that a great fleet of boats was approaching the island from the south. King Kitticut sprang up at once, in great alarm, for he had much cause to fear strange boats. The others quickly followed him to the shore to see what invasion might be coming upon them. Inga was there with the first, and Nikobob and Zella soon joined the watchers. And presently, while all were gazing eagerly at the approaching fleet, King Rinkitink suddenly cried out: "Get your pearls, Prince Inga--get them quick!" "Are these our enemies, then?" asked the boy, looking with surprise upon the fat little King, who had begun to tremble violently. "They are my people of Gilgad!" answered Rinkitink, wiping a tear from his eye. "I recognize my royal standards flying from the boats. So, please, dear Inga, get out your pearls to protect me!" "What can you fear at the hands of your own subjects?" asked Kitticut, astonished. But before his frightened guest could answer the question Prince Bobo, who was standing beside his friend, gave an amused laugh and said: "You are caught at last, dear Rinkitink. Your people will take you home again and oblige you to reign as King." Rinkitink groaned aloud and clasped his hands together with a gesture of despair, an attitude so comical that the others could scarcely forbear laughing. But now the boats were landing upon the beach. They were fifty in number, beautifully decorated and upholstered and rowed by men clad in the gay uniforms of the King of Gilgad. One splendid boat had a throne of gold in the center, over which was draped the King's royal robe of purple velvet, embroidered with gold buttercups. Rinkitink shuddered when he saw this throne; but now a tall man, handsomely dressed, approached and knelt upon the grass before his King, while all the other occupants of the boats shouted joyfully and waved their plumed hats in the air. "Thanks to our good fortune," said the man who kneeled, "we have found Your Majesty at last!" "Pinkerbloo," answered Rinkitink sternly, "I must have you hanged, for thus finding me against my will." "You think so now, Your Majesty, but you will never do it," returned Pinkerbloo, rising and kissing the King's hand. "Why won't I?" asked Rinkitink. "Because you are much too tender-hearted, Your Majesty." "It may be--it may be," agreed Rinkitink, sadly. "It is one of my greatest failings. But what chance brought you here, my Lord Pinkerbloo?" "We have searched for you everywhere, sire, and all the people of Gilgad have been in despair since you so mysteriously disappeared. We could not appoint a new King, because we did not know but that you still lived; so we set out to find you, dead or alive. After visiting many islands of the Nonestic Ocean we at last thought of Pingaree, from where come the precious pearls; and now our faithful quest has been rewarded." "And what now?" asked Rinkitink. "Now, Your Majesty, you must come home with us, like a good and dutiful King, and rule over your people," declared the man in a firm voice. "I will not." "But you must--begging Your Majesty's pardon for the contradiction." "Kitticut," cried poor Rinkitink, "you must save me from being captured by these, my subjects. What! must I return to Gilgad and be forced to reign in splendid state when I much prefer to eat and sleep and sing in my own quiet way? They will make me sit in a throne three hours a day and listen to dry and tedious affairs of state; and I must stand up for hours at the court receptions, till I get corns on my heels; and forever must I listen to tiresome speeches and endless petitions and complaints!" "But someone must do this, Your Majesty," said Pinkerbloo respectfully, "and since you were born to be our King you cannot escape your duty." "'Tis a horrid fate!" moaned Rinkitink. "I would die willingly, rather than be a King--if it did not hurt so terribly to die." "You will find it much more comfortable to reign than to die, although I fully appreciate Your Majesty's difficult position and am truly sorry for you," said Pinkerbloo. King Kitticut had listened to this conversation thoughtfully, so now he said to his friend: "The man is right, dear Rinkitink. It is your duty to reign, since fate has made you a King, and I see no honorable escape for you. I shall grieve to lose your companionship, but I feel the separation cannot be avoided." Rinkitink sighed. "Then," said he, turning to Lord Pinkerbloo, "in three days I will depart with you for Gilgad; but during those three days I propose to feast and make merry with my good friend King Kitticut." Then all the people of Gilgad shouted with delight and eagerly scrambled ashore to take their part in the festival. Those three days were long remembered in Pingaree, for never--before nor since--has such feasting and jollity been known upon that island. Rinkitink made the most of his time and everyone laughed and sang with him by day and by night. Then, at last, the hour of parting arrived and the King of Gilgad and Ruler of the Dominion of Rinkitink was escorted by a grand procession to his boat and seated upon his golden throne. The rowers of the fifty boats paused, with their glittering oars pointed into the air like gigantic uplifted sabres, while the people of Pingaree--men, women and children--stood upon the shore shouting a royal farewell to the jolly King. Then came a sudden hush, while Rinkitink stood up and, with a bow to those assembled to witness his departure, sang the following song, which he had just composed for the occasion. "Farewell, dear Isle of Pingaree-- The fairest land in all the sea! No living mortals, kings or churls, Would scorn to wear thy precious pearls. "King Kitticut, 'tis with regret I'm forced to say farewell; and yet Abroad no longer can I roam When fifty boats would drag me home. "Good-bye, my Prince of Pingaree; A noble King some time you'll be And long and wisely may you reign And never face a foe again!" They cheered him from the shore; they cheered him from the boats; and then all the oars of the fifty boats swept downward with a single motion and dipped their blades into the purple-hued waters of the Nonestic Ocean. As the boats shot swiftly over the ripples of the sea Rinkitink turned to Prince Bobo, who had decided not to desert his former master and his present friend, and asked anxiously: "How did you like that song, Bilbil--I mean Bobo? Is it a masterpiece, do you think?" And Bobo replied with a smile: "Like all your songs, dear Rinkitink, the sentiment far excels the poetry." The Wonderful Oz Books by L. Frank Baum 1 The Wizard of Oz 2 The Land of Oz 3 Ozma of Oz 4 Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz 5 The Road to Oz 6 The Emerald City of Oz 7 The Patchwork Girl of Oz 8 Tik-Tok of Oz 9 The Scarecrow of Oz 10 Rinkitink in Oz 11 The Lost Princess of Oz 12 The Tin Woodman of Oz 13 The Magic of Oz 14 Glinda of Oz 
21316	----	The Adventures of Don Lavington, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ Lindon, known as Don, is a boy in his late teens who has left school, and who lives with his mother and uncle Josiah, his father being dead, and works as a clerk in the office, the business being sugar and tobacco importation, in Bristol, England, which he does not much like. One day some money is missing from the office. It's pretty obvious who the thief is, but Uncle Josiah continues to accuse Don. Another worker has a row with his new young wife, and Don and he (Jem) decide to go away for a bit, both feeling rather ill-used. Unfortunately they are taken that night by the press-gang, and after some attempts to get away, they sail away to New Zealand. Here they manage to escape from the ship, though the search for them is keen. They fall in with some Maoris, among whom lives an Englishman, who is actually an escaped convict, but a good chap nonetheless. They assist the Maoris in their own battles against other tribes. The scene turns to some English settlers. They become friendly with our heroes. A Maori tribe attacks then, having been set up to do so by three villains, who have also escaped from the convict settlement at Norfolk Island. They hold their own, but there is a timely intervention by the police. One of the three villains turn out to have been the man who actually stole the money from Uncle Josiah's office. From this point things begin to turn out for the better, and the two heroes return to England, and all is forgiven. NH ________________________________________________________________________ THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared." "Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said Lindon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office. "Get out, Mike," said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you when he comes back. Seems to me as life's getting to be one jolly row. What with my Sally at home, and your uncle here, and you always down in the mouth, and Mike not sticking to his work, things is as miserable as mizzar." "He's hen-pecked, that's what he is," chuckled Mike, going to the handle of the crane. "Poor old Jemmy! Hen-pecked, that's what's the matter with him." "Let him alone, Mike," said Don quietly. "Right, Mas' Don," said the man; "but if I was you," he murmured hoarsely, as Jem went into the warehouse, "I'd strike for liberty. I knows all about it. When your mother come to live with your uncle she give him all your father's money, and he put it into the business. I know. I used to work here when you first come, only a little un, and a nice little un you was, just after your poor father died." Don's brow wrinkled as he looked searchingly at the man. "You've a right to half there is here, Mas' Don; but the old man's grabbing of it all for his gal, Miss Kitty, and has made your mother and you reg'lar servants." "It is not true, Mike. My uncle has behaved very kindly to my mother and me. He has invested my money, and given me a home when I was left an orphan." "_Kick_!" That is the nearest approach to the sound of Mike's derisive laugh, one which made the lad frown and dart at him an angry look. "Why, who told you that, my lad?" "My mother, over and over again." "Ah, poor thing, for the sake o' peace and quietness. Don't you believe it, my lad. You've been werry kind to me, and begged me on again here when I've been 'most starving, and many's the shillin' you've give me, Mas' Don, to buy comforts, or I wouldn't say to you what I does now, and werry welcome a shilling would be to-day, Mas' Don." "I haven't any money, Mike." "Got no money, my lad? What a shame, when half of all this here ought to be yourn. Oh dear, what a cruel thing it seems! I'm very sorry for you, Mas' Don, that I am, 'specially when I think of what a fine dashing young fellow like--" "Don't humbug, Mike." "Nay, not I, my lad; 'tarn't likely. You know it's true enough. You're one of the young fellows as is kep' out of his rights. I know what I'd do if I was you." "What?" "Not be always rubbing my nose again a desk. Go off to one o' them bu'ful foreign countries as I've told you of, where there's gold and silver and dymons, and birds jus' like 'em; and wild beasts to kill, and snakes as long as the main mast. Ah! I've seen some sights in furren abroad, as what I've told you about's like nothing to 'em. Look here, Mas' Don, shall I stop on for an hour and tell you what I've seen in South America?" "No, no, Mike; my uncle doesn't like you to be with me." "Ah, and well I knows it. 'Cause I tells you the truth and he feels guilty, Mas' Don." "And--and it only unsettles me," cried the boy with a despairing look in his eyes. "Get on with your work, and I must get on with mine." "Ah, to be sure," said the scoundrel with a sneer. "Work, work, work. You and me, Mas' Don, is treated worse than the black niggers as cuts the sugar-canes down, and hoes the 'bacco in the plantations. I'm sorry for you." Lindon Lavington thrust his little account book in his breast, and walked hurriedly in the direction taken by the man Jem, entering directly after a low warehouse door, where rows of sugar-hogsheads lay, and there was a murmur and buzz made by the attracted flies. Mike Bannock stood with his hands clasping the handle of the crane winch against which he leaned without moving, but his eyes were hard at work. He followed Don with them till he had disappeared through the low dark doorway, then glanced at the closed gate leading into the busy street, and then at the open office door, a few yards away. All was still, save the buzzing of the flies about the casks on that hot midsummer's day, and without the trace of a limp, the man stepped rapidly into the office, but only to dart back again in alarm, for, all at once, there was a loud rattling noise of straps, chains, and heavy harness. There was no cause for alarm. It was only the fat, sleepy horse in the trolly shafts, who, at the same time that he gave his nosebag a toss, shook himself violently to get rid of the flies which preferred his juices to the sugar oozing from many a hogshead's seams. Mike darted into the office again; the flies buzzed; the horse munched oats; the faint sound of Don's voice in converse with Jem Wimble could he heard; then there was a faint click as if a desk had been shut down softly, and Mike stepped out again, gave a hasty glance round, and the next moment was standing dreamily with his eyes half-closed, grasping the handle of the crane winch as Don returned, closely followed by Jem Wimble. "Now, Mas' Don, I'll just mark another," said Jem, "and we'll have him out." He took a lump of chalk from a ledge close by, and ascended a step ladder to a door about six feet above the spot where Mike stood, and Don stood with his book under his arm, his brow rugged, and a thoughtful look in his eyes. Just then the small door in the yard gate was opened, and a sturdy-looking grey-haired man in snuff-coloured coat and cocked hat, drab breeches and gaiters, entered unseen by the pair, who had their backs to him. "I 'member, Mas' Don, when I were out in the _Mary Anne_ five year ago. We'd got to Pannymah, when the skipper stood with his glass to his eye, looking at a strange kind o' hobjick ashore, and he says to me, `Mike, my lad--'" "You idle scoundrel! How many more times am I to tell you that I will not have my time wasted over those lying stories of yours? Lindon, am I ever to be able to trust you when business takes me away?" The words came in short sharp tones, and the speaker's dark eyes seemed to flash. The effect was marvellous. Mike began to turn the handle at a rapid rate, winding up the rope till the pair of hooks used for grasping the great hogsheads rattled with their chains against the pulley wheels of the crane, and a shout came from the warehouse,-- "Whatcher doing of? Hold hard!" "Stop, sir!" cried the stern-looking man to Mike, just as Jem appeared at the upper doorway and looked down. "Oh!" he ejaculated. "Didn't know as you was there, sir." "It is disgraceful, Lindon. The moment my back is turned you leave your desk to come and waste the men's time. I am ashamed of you." Lindon's forehead grew more wrinkled as Josiah Christmas, merchant of Bristol city, and his maternal uncle, walked into the office, whither the lad followed slowly, looking stubborn and ill-used, for Mike Bannock's poison was at work, and in his youthful ignorance and folly, he felt too angry to attempt a frank explanation. In fact, just then one idea pervaded his mind--two ideas--that his uncle was a tyrant, and that he ought to strike against his tyranny and be free. CHAPTER TWO. BLIND AS BATS. That same evening Don Lavington did not walk home with his uncle, but hung back to see Jem Wimble lock-up, and then sauntered slowly with him toward the little low house by the entrance gates, where the yard-man, as he was called, lived in charge. Jem had been in the West India merchant's service from a boy, and no one was more surprised than he when on the death of old Topley, Josiah Christmas said to him one morning,-- "Wimble, you had better take poor old Topley's place." "And--and take charge of the yard, sir?" "Yes. I can trust you, can't I?" "Oh, yes, sir; but--" "Ah! Yes. You have no wife to put in the cottage." Jem began to look foolish, and examine the lining of his hat. "Well, sir, if it comes to that," he faltered; and there was a weak comical aspect in his countenance which made Don burst out laughing. "I know, uncle," he cried, "he has got a sweetheart." "Well, Master Don," said the young man, colouring up; "and nothing to be ashamed on neither." "Certainly not," said the merchant quietly. "You had better get married, Wimble, and you can have the cottage. I will buy and lend you old Topley's furniture." Wimble begged pardon afterwards, for on hearing all this astounding news, he rushed out of the office, pulled off his leather apron, put on his coat as he ran, and disappeared for an hour, at the end of which time he returned, went mysteriously up to Don and whispered,-- "It's all right, sir; she says she will." The result was that Jem Wimble looked twice as important, and cocked his cocked hat on one side, for he had ten shillings a week more, and the furnished cottage, kept the keys, kept the men's time, and married a wife who bore a most extraordinary likeness to a pretty little bantam hen. This was three months before the scene just described, but though Jem spoke in authoritative tones to the men, it was with bated breath to his little wife, who was standing in the doorway looking as fierce as a kitten, when Jem walked up in company with his young master. "Which I will not find fault before Master Lindon, Jem," she said; "but you know I do like you to be home punctual to tea." "Yes, my dear, of course, of course," said Jem, apologetically. "Not much past time, and had to shut up first." "That's what you always say when you're late. You don't know, Master Don, what a life he leads me." "'Tain't true, Master Don," cried Jem. "She's always a-wherritting me." "Now I appeal to Master Don: was it me, sir, as was late? There's the tea ready, and the bread and butter cut, and the watercresses turning limp, and the flies getting at the s'rimps. It arn't your fault, sir, I know, and I'm not grumbling, but there never was such a place as this for flies." "It's the sugar, Sally," said Don, who had sauntered aimlessly in with Jem, and as he stared round the neat little kitchen with the pleasant meal all ready, he felt as if he should like to stay to tea instead of going home. "Yes, it's the sugar, sir, I know; and you'd think it would sweeten some people's temper, but it don't." "Which if it's me you mean, and you're thinking of this morning--" "Which I am, Jem, and you ought to be ashamed. You grumbled over your breakfast, and you reg'larly worried your dinner, and all on account of a button." "Well, then, you should sew one on. When a man's married he does expect to find buttons on his clean shirts." "Yes, and badly enough you want 'em, making 'em that sticky as you do." "I can't help that; it's only sugar." "Only sugar indeed! And if it was my last words I'd say it--there _was_ a button on the neck." "Well, I know that," cried Jem; "and what's the good of a button being on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas' Don?" "Oh, don't ask me," cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and wishing they'd ask him to tea. "He dragged it off, Master Don." "I didn't." "You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me." "Wasn't half sewn on." "It was. I can't sew your buttons on with copper wire." "You two are just like a girl and boy," cried Don. "Here you have everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and you're always quarrelling." "Well, it's his fault, sir." "No, sir, it's her'n." "It's both your faults, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves." "I'm not," said Sally; "and I wish I'd never seen him." "And I'm sure I wish the same," said Jem despondently. "I never see such a temper." "There, Master Don," cried the droll-looking little Dutch doll of a woman. "That's how he is always going on." "There, Jem, now you've made your poor little wife cry. You are the most discontented fellow I ever saw." "Come, I like that, Master Don; you've a deal to brag about, you have. Why, you're all at sixes and sevens at home." This was such a home thrust that Don turned angrily and walked out of the place. "There!" cried Sally. "I always knew how it would be. Master Don was the best friend we had, and now you've offended him, and driven him away." "Shouldn't ha' said nasty things then," grumbled Jem, sitting down and attacking his tea. "Now he'll go straight to his uncle and tell him what a man you are." "Let him," said Jem, with his mouth full of bread and butter. "And of course you'll lose your place, and we shall be turned out into the street to starve." "Will you be quiet, Sally? How's a man to eat his tea with you going on like that?" "Turned out into the world without a chance of getting another place. Oh! It's too bad. Why did I ever marry such a man as you?" "'Cause you were glad of the chance," grumbled Jem, raising his hand to pour out some tea, but it was pushed aside indignantly, and the little woman busily, but with a great show of indignation, filled and sweetened her husband's cup, which she dabbed down before him, talking all the while, and finishing with,-- "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jem." "I am," he grumbled. "Ashamed that I was ever such a stupid as to marry a girl who's always dissatisfied. Nice home you make me." "And a nice home you make me, sir; and don't eat your victuals so fast. It's like being at the wild beast show." "That's right; go on," grumbled Jem, doubling his rate of consumption. "Grudge me my meals now. Good job if we could undo it all, and be as we was." "I wish we could," cried the little woman, whose eyes seemed to say that her lips were not telling the truth. "So do I," cried Jem, tossing off his third cup of tea; and then to his little wife's astonishment he took a thick slice of bread and butter in each hand, clapped them together as if they were cymbals, rose from the table and put on his hat. "Where are you going, Jem?" "Out." "What for?" "To eat my bread and butter down on the quay." "But why, Jem?" "'Cause there's peace and quietness there." _Bang_! Went the door, and little Mrs Wimble stood gazing at it angrily for a few moments before sitting down and having what she called "a good cry," after which she rose, wiped her eyes, and put away the tea things without partaking of any herself. "Poor Jem!" she said softly; "I'm afraid I'm very unkind to him sometimes." Just at that moment Jem was sitting on an empty cask, eating his bread and butter, and watching a boat manned by blue-jackets going off to the sloop of war lying out toward the channel, and flying her colours in the evening breeze. "Poor little Sally!" he said to himself. "We don't seem to get on somehow, and I'm afraid I'm a bit rough to her; but knives and scissors! What a temper she have got." Meanwhile, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, Don had gone home to find that the tea was ready, and that he was being treated as a laggard. "Come, Lindon," said his uncle quietly, "you have kept us waiting some time." The lad glanced quickly round the well-furnished room, bright with curiosities brought in many a voyage from the west, and with the poison of Mike's words still at work, he wondered how much of what he saw rightfully belonged to him. The next moment his eyes lit on the soft sweet troubled face of his mother, full of appeal and reproach, and it seemed to Don that his uncle had been upsetting her by an account of his delinquencies. "It's top bad, and I don't deserve it," he said to himself. "Everything seems to go wrong now. Well, what are you looking at?" he added, to himself, as he took his seat and stared across at his cousin, the playmate of many years, whose quiet little womanly face seemed to repeat her father's grave, reproachful look, but who, as it were, snatched her eyes away as soon as she met his gaze. "They all hate me," thought Don, who was in that unhappy stage of a boy's life when help is so much needed to keep him from turning down one of the dark side lanes of the great main route. "Been for a walk, Don?" said his mother with a tender look. "No, mother, I only stopped back in the yard a little while." His uncle set down his cup sharply. "You have not been keeping that scoundrel Bannock?" he cried. "No, sir; I've been talking to Jem." "Ho!" ejaculated the old merchant. "That's better. But you might have come straight home." Don's eyes encountered his Cousin Kitty's just then, as she gave her head a shake to throw back the brown curls which clustered about her white forehead. She turned her gaze upon her plate, and he could see that she was frowning. "Yes," thought Don, "they all dislike me, and I'm only a worry and trouble to my mother. I wish I was far away--anywhere." He went on with his tea moodily and in silence, paying no heed to the reproachful glances of his mother's eyes, which seemed to him to say, and with some reason, "Don't be sulky, Don, my boy; try and behave as I could wish." "It's of no use to try," he said to himself; and the meal passed off very silently, and with a cold chill on every one present. "I'm very sorry, Laura," said her brother, as soon as Don had left the room; "and I don't know what to do for the best. I hate finding fault and scolding, but if the boy is in the wrong I must chide." "Try and be patient with him, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington pleadingly. "He is very young yet." "Patient? I'm afraid I have been too patient. That scoundrel at the yard has unsettled him with his wild tales of the sea; and if I allowed it, Don would make him quite a companion." "But, Josiah--" "There, don't look like that, my dear. I promised you I would play a father's part to the boy, and I will; but you must not expect me to be a weak indulgent father, and spoil him with foolish lenity. There, enough for one day. I daresay we shall get all right in time." "Oh, yes," cried Mrs Lavington, earnestly. "He's a true-hearted, brave boy; don't try to crush him down." "Crush him, nonsense!" cried the merchant, angrily. "You really are too bad, Laura, and--" He stopped, for just then Don re-entered the room to flush up angrily as he saw his mother in tears; and he had heard enough of his uncle's remark and its angry tone to make him writhe. "Ill using her now," he said to himself, as he set his teeth and walked to the window. The closing of the door made him start round quickly, to find that his mother was close behind him, and his uncle gone. "What has Uncle Jos been saying to you, mother?" he cried angrily. "Nothing--nothing particular, my boy," she faltered. "He has," cried Don fiercely; "and I won't have it. He may scold and abuse me as much as he likes, but I will not have him ill use you." "Ill use me, Don?" cried Mrs Lavington. "Nonsense, my dear boy. Your uncle is all that is kind and good; and he loves you very dearly, Don, if you could only try--try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he likes, and please him." "I do try, mother, but it's no good." "Don't say that, Don. Try a little harder--for my sake, dear, as well as your own." "I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it." "Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over you?" said Mrs Lavington tenderly. "I'm not obstinate," he said sullenly; "only unhappy." "Is it not your own fault, my darling?" she whispered; "believe me, your uncle is one of the kindest and best of men." Don shook his head. "Are you going to prefer the opinion of the men of the yard to mine, dear?" "No, mother, but uncle is your brother, and you believe in him and defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me." "Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do, for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy once more." "It's of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down to a desk. It's like being uncle's slave." "What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?" said Mrs Lavington. "Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it. You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle's treatment. There, I shall say no more now." "You always treat me as if I were a child," said Don, bitterly. "I'm seventeen now, mother, and I ought to know something." "Yes, my boy," said Mrs Lavington gently; "at seventeen we think we know a good deal; and at forty we smile as we look back and see what a very little that `good deal' was." Don shook his head. "There, we will have no more sad looks. Uncle is eager to do all he can to make us happy." "I wish I could think so," cried Don, bitterly. "You may, my dear. And now, come, try and throw aside all those fanciful notions about going abroad and meeting with adventures. There is no place like home, Don, and you will find out some day that is true." "But I have no home till I make one," said the lad gloomily. "You have an excellent home here, Don, the gift of one who has kindly taken the place toward you of your father. There, I will listen to no more from you, for this is all foolish fighting of your worse against your better self." There was a quiet dignity in his mother's words which awed Don for the moment, but the gentle embrace given the next minute seemed to undo that which the firmness had achieved, and that night the cloud over the lad's life seemed darker than ever. "She takes uncle's side and thinks he is everything," he said gloomily, as he went to bed. "She means right, but she is wrong. Oh, how I wish I could go right away somewhere and begin life all over again." Then he lay down to sleep, but slumber did not come, so he went on thinking of many things, to fall into a state of unconsciousness at last, from which he awoke to the fact that it was day--a very eventful day for him, but he did not awaken to the fact that he was very blind. CHAPTER THREE. AN AWKWARD GUINEA. It was a busy day at the yard, for a part of the lading of a sugar ship was being stored away in Uncle Josiah's warehouses; but from the very commencement matters seemed to go wrong, and the state of affairs about ten o'clock was pretty ably expressed by Jem Wimble, who came up to Don as he was busy with pencil and book, keeping account of the deliveries, and said in a loud voice,-- "What did your uncle have for breakfast, Mas' Don?" "Coffee--ham--I hardly know, Jem." "Ho! Thought p'r'aps it had been cayenne pepper." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say that, but see how he is going it. 'Tarn't my fault that the dock men work so badly, and 'tarn't my fault that Mike isn't here, and--" "Don't stand talking to Wimble, Lindon," said a voice sharply, and Uncle Josiah came up to the pair. "No, don't go away, Wimble. Did Bannock say he should stay away to-day?" "Not to me, uncle." "Nor to me, sir." "It's very strange, just as we are so busy too. He has not drawn any money." "P'r'aps press-gang's got him, sir," suggested Jem. "Humph! Hardly likely!" said Uncle Josiah; and he went on and entered the office, to come out at the end of a few minutes and beckon to Don. "Lindon," he said, as the lad joined him, "I left nine guineas and a half in the little mahogany bowl in my desk yesterday. Whom have you paid?" "Paid? No one, sir." "But eight guineas are gone--missing." "Eight guineas? Missing, sir?" "Yes, do you know anything about them?" "No, sir. I--that is--yes, I remember now: I picked up a guinea on the floor, and meant to give it to you. Here it is: I forgot all about it." Don took a piece of gold from his flap waistcoat pocket, and handed it to his uncle, who looked at him so curiously that the boy grew confused. "Picked this up on the floor, Lindon?" said Uncle Josiah. "Yes, sir. It had rolled down by my desk." "It is very strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully. "Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them." Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly knew why; but it seemed to him that his uncle looked at him doubtingly, and this brought a feeling of hot indignation into the boy's brain. He turned quickly, however, entered the office, and with his uncle looking on, searched all over the floor. "Well?" "There's nothing here, sir. Of course not," cried Don eagerly; "Mrs Wimble sweeps up every morning, and if there had been she would have found it." Uncle Josiah lifted off his cocked hat, and put it on again wrong way first. "This is a very unpleasant affair, Lindon," he said. "I can afford to lose seven guineas, or seven hundred if it came to that, but I can't afford to lose confidence in those whom I employ." Don felt hot and cold as his uncle walked to the door and called Jem; and as he waited he looked at the map of an estate in the West Indies, all fly-specked and yellow, then at the portraits of three merchant vessels in full sail, all as yellow and fly-specked as the map, and showing the peculiarity emphasised by the ingenious artist, of their sails blown out one way and their house flags another. "Surely uncle can't suspect me," he said to himself; and then the thought came again--"surely uncle can't suspect me." "Come in here, Wimble," said Uncle Josiah, very sternly. Jem took off his hat, and followed him into the office. "Some money is missing from my desk, Wimble. Have you seen it?" "Me, sir?" said Jem, stooping down and peering in all directions under the desks. "No, sir, I harn't seen it. Let's see, I don't think I've been here only when I locked up." "By some mischance I left my desk unlocked when I went out in a hurry yesterday. Lindon here has found one piece on the floor." "P'r'aps tothers is there, too," said Jem eagerly. "No; we have looked. Call your wife. Perhaps she may have found them when sweeping." "Not she, sir," said Jem. "If she had she'd ha' told me. 'Sides, how could they ha' got on the floor?" "That remains to be proved, Wimble," said Uncle Josiah, drily. "Call your wife." Jem went to the door, rubbing his ear, and as it happened, seeing his wife outside the cottage, telegraphed to her to come by working one arm about furiously. Little Mrs Wimble came up in a hurry, looking scared. "Take off that there dirty apron," whispered Jem, making a dash at the offending garment, and snatching back his hand bleeding from the scratch of the pin by which it was fastened. "Look at that," he began. "Then you shouldn't--" "Silence!" said Uncle Josiah. "Mrs Wimble, did you sweep up this room to-day?" "That I did, sir, and dusted too, and if there's any dust, it must be an--" "Hush! Don't talk so. Listen to me. Did you find any money on the floor?" "Sakes alive, sir, no." "You are quite sure?" "Oh yes, sir, quite sure. Have you dropped anything?" "Yes! No! That will do." Mrs Wimble stared. "Don't you hear?" whispered Jem. "Be off!" The little woman gave him an angry look, and then hurried from the office, looking put out and hurt. "This money must be found," said Uncle Josiah sternly, as soon as they were alone. "You are sure that you have seen no more, Lindon?" "Quite, uncle. I'm sorry I forgot about the guinea I found." "Yes!" said Uncle Josiah, giving him a quick searching look. "You are quite certain, Wimble?" "Me, sir? Oh, yes; I'm moral sartain." "I should be sorry to suspect any one, and behave unjustly, but I must have this matter cleared up. Michael Bannock is away, and I cannot conceive his being absent without money, unless he is ill. Wimble, go and see." "Yes, sir," said the yard-man, with alacrity; and he went off shaking his head, as if all this was a puzzle beyond his capacity to comprehend. "You had better go to your desk, Lindon," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. Don started, and mounted his stool, but he could not write. His brain was confused; and from time to time he glanced at the stern-looking old merchant, and tried to grasp his thoughts. "Surely uncle can't suspect me--surely he can't suspect me!" he found himself saying again, and the trouble seemed to increase till he felt as if he must speak out and say how sorry he was that he had picked up the money and forgotten all about it, when Jem returned. "He arn't ill, sir," said the man eagerly, "I found him close by, at the Little Half Moon, in the back street." "Drinking?" "Yes, sir, and treating a lot of his mates. He wanted me to have some, and when I wouldn't, he said I should, and emptied half a glass over me. See here." He held up one of his broad skirts which was liberally splashed. Uncle Josiah frowned, and took a turn or two up and down the office. Then he stopped before Jem. "Go round to Smithers the constable. You know: the man who came when the rum was broached." "Yes, sir, I know." "Ask Smithers to bring Michael Bannock round here. I must clear this matter up." "Yes, sir," said Jem; and he hurried out, while Don drew a long breath. "Uncle does not suspect me," he said to himself. "The scoundrel! He must have taken advantage of your back being turned to come in here. You did not notice anything, Lindon?" "No, uncle, and I hardly think he could have been left alone." "But the money is missing; some of it was dropped; this man is always penniless; he has not drawn his wages, and yet he is half tipsy and treating his companions. I hope I am not suspecting him wrongfully, but it looks bad, Lindon, it looks bad." The old merchant sat down and began to write. So did Don, who felt better now, and the time glided on till there were the sounds of feet heard in the yard, and directly after Mike, looking very red-eyed and flushed, entered the office, half pushed in by Jem Wimble and a hard-faced ugly man, who had a peculiar chip out of, or dent in, his nose. "Morn', master," said Mike, boisterously. "Couldn't yer get on without yer best man i' th' yard?" "Silence, sir!" cried Uncle Josiah, turning round, and glaring magisterially at the culprit. "Take yer hat off, can't yer?" cried Jem, knocking it off for him, and then picking it up and handing it. "Give man time, Jem Wimble," said Mike, with a grimace. "Want to pay me what you owes me, master?" "Hold your tongue, sir! And listen. Constable, a sum of money has been abstracted from my desk, and this man, who I believe was penniless two days ago, is now staying away from his work treating his friends." "Steady, master; on'y having a glass." "He was paying for ale with a guinea when I fetched him out, sir," said the constable. "Now, Mike, you're wanted for another ugly job, so you may as well clear yourself of this if you can." "What yer mean with your ugly job?" said the man, laughing. "You'll know soon enough; you and four more are in trouble. Now then, what money have you got on you?" "None 'tall." "Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?" continued the constable. "Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk,"--Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew,"--"I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable. "Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly." "Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "Come in," said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door. "Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you." "Laura, be calm," said the old merchant, quietly; "and you had better take Kitty back home and wait." "You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy," continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. "I was foolish ever to come and trust to you. How dare you charge him with such a crime?" "I did not charge him with any crime, my dear Laura," said the old merchant, gravely. "Then it is not true?" "It is true that I have been robbed, and that the man whom Lindon has persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing the master who trusted him." "But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew--your sister's boy." "I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home," said the old man, quietly. "When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk, and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from dishonest people." Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, "Indeed, uncle, I always have done so," when the old man's next words seemed to chill and harden him. "But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to silence." "But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a crime." "He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the magistrates," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. "Magistrates!--my boy?" exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, no, no, no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy before the magistrates. Impossible!" "The matter is out of my hands, now," said the old merchant, gravely. "I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the crime." "But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you not speak, and beg your uncle's forgiveness?" Don remained silent, with his brow wrinkled, his chin upon his breast, and a stubborn look of anger in his eyes, as he stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning back against his desk. "Do you hear me, Don? Tell your uncle it is not true, and beg him to help you clear yourself from this disgrace." The lad made no reply, merely crossing his legs, and made his shoe-buckles rasp together as he slowly moved his feet. "Don!" He looked up strangely, met his mother's earnest appealing gaze, and for the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his uncle, and saw the old man's grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, "No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!" It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail. "Do you not hear me, Don?" cried his mother. "Why do you not speak?" Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation. "Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?" "Yes, mother." "Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong." "And she believes me guilty, too," thought Don, as he scowled at his feet. "But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you." Don's better self began to force down that side of his mental scale. "You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse." The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant boy's heart sank low. "Come, Don." "I've nothing more to say, mother." "Nothing more to say!" cried Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, yes, yes, you have much to say, my boy. Come, throw away this wilful pride and obstinacy." "I wish I could," thought Don one moment. "It is as cruel as it is unjust," he thought the next; and he felt more obstinately full of pride than ever. "Don, I command you to speak," said Mrs Lavington, whose manner now began to change; but unfortunately the stern tone she adopted had the wrong effect, and the wrinkles in the boy's face grew deeper, and the position more strained. If Uncle Josiah, who had never had boys of his own, had come down from the lofty perch he had assumed, taken the boy's hand, and said in kindly and frank tones, "Come, Don, my boy, there are troubles enough in life, clouds sufficient to obscure too much sunshine; speak out, let's have all this over, and clear the storm away,"--if he had said something like that, Don would have melted, and all would have been well; but accustomed to manage men with an iron rule, Uncle Josiah had somehow, in spite of his straightforward, manly, and just character, seemed to repel the boy whose charge he had taken, and instead now of making the slightest advance, he said to himself, "It is not my duty to eat humble pie before the obstinate young cub. It will be a severe lesson for him, and will do him good." So the breach widened. Don seemed to grow sulky and sullen, when he was longing to cast himself upon his mother's neck. The poor woman felt indignant at her son's conduct, and the last straw which broke the camel's back was laid on the top of the load by Kitty, who, moved by a desire to do good, made matters far worse by running across to Don, and in an impetuous way catching his hands and kissing him. "Don, dear!" she cried. The boy's face lit up. Here was some one who would believe him after all, and he responded to her advances by grasping her hands tightly in his. "Do, do speak, Don dear, and beg father to forgive you," she cried. "Tell him it was a mistake, and that you will never do so again." Don let fall her hands, the deep scowl came over his brow again, and he half turned away. "No, no, Don, dear," she whispered; "pray don't be obstinate. Confess that you did it, and promise father to do better in the future. He will forgive you; I know he will." Don turned his back with an impatient gesture, and Kitty burst into tears, and went slowly to her aunt, to whose hands she clung. "Laura, dear," said Uncle Josiah, gravely, "I think we had better bring this painful interview to an end. You may rest assured that I shall do what is just and right by Don. He shall have every opportunity for clearing himself." "I am not guilty," cried Don, fiercely throwing back his head. "I thought so this morning, my boy," said the old merchant, gravely. "Your conduct now is making me think very differently. Laura, I will walk home with you, if you please." "Josiah! Don, my boy, pray, pray speak," cried Mrs Lavington, piteously. Don heard her appeal, and it thrilled him, but his uncle's words had raised up an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to throw himself in his mother's arms--passionately longing so to do--his indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while. Don did not look up to meet his mother's yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride. "He thinks me guilty!" he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his cheek rapidly kissed. "Kitty!" "Coming, father." Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate. Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange. What should he do? Go right away, and--and-- "Mas' Don." He looked up, and Jem stood at the door. CHAPTER SIX. JEM WIMBLE TALKS SENSE. "May I come in?" Don nodded. "The master's gone, and took the ladies 'long with him. Why, don't look like that, my lad. Your uncle don't think you took the money?" Don nodded. "But your mother don't, sir?" "Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too." "I never did!" cried Jem, excitedly. "But sure-_lie_ Miss Kitty don't?" "Yes, Jem, they all think I'm a thief. Everybody does," cried Don, passionately. "No, everybody don't," said Jem, fiercely; "so don't talk like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "I don't, and as for them, they've all got dust in their eyes, that's what's the matter with them, and they can't see clear. But didn't you tell 'em as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first." "Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it." "You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Look here, Mas' Don, I can't punch your head because, as aforesaid, you're young master, and I'm only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my 'art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts." "Yes, Jem, it was." "When you might ha' got all he told you out o' books, and the stories wouldn't ha' been quite so black." "Ah, well, it's all over now." "What's all over?" "My life here, Jem. I shall go right away." "Go? What?" "Right away. Abroad, I think." "And what'll your mother do?" "Forget me, I hope. I always was an unlucky fellow Jem." "What d'yer mean? Run away?" "Yes, I shall go away." "Well, that's clever, that is. Why, that's just the way to make 'em think you did it. Tshah! You stop like a man and face it out." "When everybody believes me guilty?" "Don't be so precious aggrawatin', my lad," cried Jem, plaintively. "Don't I keep on a-telling you that I don't believe you guilty. Why, I'd just as soon believe that I stole our sugar and sold bundles of tobacco-leaves to the marine store shops." Don shook his head. "Well, of all the aggrawatin' chaps I ever did see, you're 'bout the worst, Mas' Don. Don't I tell you it'll be all right?" "No, Jem, it will not be all right. I shall have to go before the magistrates." "Well, what of that?" "What of that?" cried Don, passionately. "Why, that scoundrel Mike will keep to his story." "Let him!" cried Jem, contemptuously. "Why, who'd ever believe him i' preference to you?" "My uncle--my mother--my cousin." "Not they, my boy. They don't believe it. They only think they do. They're sore just now, while it's all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o' themselves round about your neck, and a-askin' of your pardon, and kissin' of you." "No, Jem, no." "Well, I don't mean as your uncle will be kissin' of you, of course; but he'll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand." Don shook his head. "There, don't get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man." "It seems that the only thing for me to do, Jem, is to tie up a bundle and take a stick, and go and try my luck somewhere else." "And you free and independent! Why, what would you say if you was me, tied up and married, and allus getting into trouble at home." "Not such trouble as this, Jem." "Not such trouble as this, my lad? Worser ever so much, for you don't deserve it, and I do, leastwise, my Sally says I do, and I suppose I do for being such a fool as to marry her." "You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem." "So ought you, Mas' Don. I've often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don't do it." "You have felt like that, Jem?" cried Don, eagerly. "Yes, often, my lad." "Then let's go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let's go right away to one of the beautiful foreign countries Mike told me about, and begin a new life." "Shall us, Mas' Don?" "Yes; why not? Get a passage in some ship, and stop where we like. He has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious." "Then we won't go," said Jem, decidedly. "If Mike Bannock says they're fine spots, don't you believe him; they're bad 'uns." "Then let's go and select a place for ourselves," cried Don. "Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, wantin' to leave such a mother as you've got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?" "I don't know," said Don, sadly. "They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad." "Yes, Jem, I think I shall." "Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought that you'd be glad to come with me, Jem." "So I should, my lad; but there's a some'at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out." "But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief." "Ah, well, that won't be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait." "Then you wouldn't go with me, Jem?" "Don't tempt a man, Mas' Don, because I should like to go with you, and course I shouldn't like to go with you, because I shouldn't like you to go. There, I must get on with my work." At that very moment came the call of a shrill voice-- "Jem!" "There I told you so. She see me come in here, and she's after me because I haven't got on with my casks. Oh, how sharp she is!" Jem gave Don an intelligent nod of the head, and moved out, while the lad stood gazing at the opposite window and listened to the sharp voice addressing the foreman of the yard. "Poor Jem! He isn't happy either!" said Don, sadly, as the voices died away. "We might go right off abroad, and they'd be sorry then and think better of us. I wish I was ten thousand miles away." He seated himself slowly on his stool, and rested his arms upon the desk, folding them across his chest; and then, looking straight before him at the door, his mental gaze went right through the panels, and he saw silver rivers flowing over golden sands, while trees of the most glorious foliage drooped their branches, and dipped the ends in the glancing water. The bright sun shone overhead; the tendrils and waving grass were gay with blossoms; birds of lovely plumage sang sweetly; and in the distance, on the one hand, fading away into nothingness, were the glorious blue mountains, and away to his right a shimmering sea. Don Lavington had a fertile brain, and on the canvas of his imagination he painted panorama after panorama, all bright and beautiful. There were no clouds, no storms, no noxious creatures, no trials and dangers. All was as he thought it ought to be, and about as different from the reality as could be supposed. But Don did not know that in his youthful ignorance, and as he sat and gazed before him, he asked himself whether he had not better make up his mind to go right away. "Yes, I will go!" he said, excitedly, as he started up in his seat. "No," he said directly after, as in imagination now he seemed to be gazing into his mother's reproachful eyes, "it would be too cowardly; I could not go." CHAPTER SEVEN. DON AND JEM GO HOME TO TEA. It required no little effort on Don's part to go home that afternoon to the customary meat tea which was the main meal of the day at his uncle's home. He felt how it would be--that his uncle would not speak to him beyond saying a few distant words, such as were absolutely necessary. Kitty would avert her eyes, and his mother keep giving him reproachful looks, every one of which was a silent prayer to him to speak. The afternoon had worn away, and he had done little work for thinking. His uncle had not been back, and at last Jem's footstep was heard outside, and he passed the window to tap lightly on the door and then open it. "Come, Mas' Don," he said, cheerily, "going to work all night?" "No, Jem, no. I was just thinking of going." "That's right, my lad, because it's past shutting-up time. Feel better now, don't you?" "No, Jem, I feel worse." "Are you going to keep the yard open all the evening, Jem?" cried a shrill voice. "Why don't you lock-up and come in to tea?" "There! Hear that!" said Jem, anxiously. "Do go, Mas' Don, or I sha'n't get to the end on it. 'Nuff to make a man talk as you do." "Jem!" "Here, I'm a-coming, arn't I?" he cried, giving the door a thump with his fist. "Don't shout the ware'us down!" "Jem!" "Now did you ever hear such a aggrawatin' woman?" cried Jem. "She's such a little un that I could pick her up, same as you do a kitten, Mas' Don--nothing on her as you may say; but the works as is inside her is that strong that I'm 'fraid of her." "Jem!" He opened the door with a rush. "Ya-a-a-as!" he roared; "don't you know as Mas' Don arn't gone?" Little Mrs Wimble, who was coming fiercely up, flounced round, and the wind of her skirts whirled up a dust of scraps of matting and cooper's chips as she went back to the cottage. "See that, Mas' Don? Now you think you've all the trouble in the world on your shoulders, but look at me. Talk about a woman's temper turning the milk sour in a house. Why, just now there's about three hundred hogsheads o' sugar in our ware'us--two hundred and ninety-three, and four damages not quite full, which is as good as saying three hundred-- see the books whether I arn't right. Well, Mas' Don, I tell you for the truth that I quite frights it--I do, indeed--as she'll turn all that there sweetness into sour varjus 'fore she's done. Going, sir?" "Yes, Jem, I'm going--home," said Don; and then to himself, "Ah, I wish I had a home." "Poor Mas' Don!" said Jem, as he watched the lad go out through the gate; "he's down in the dumps now, and no mistake; and dumps is the lot o' all on us, more or less." Then Jem went in to his tea, and Don went slowly home to his, and matters were exactly as he had foreseen. His uncle was scarcely polite; Kitty gave him sharp, indignant glances when their eyes met, and then averted hers; and from time to time his mother looked at him in so pitiful and imploring a manner that one moment he felt as if he were an utter scoundrel, and the next that he would do anything to take her in his arms and try and convince her that he was not so bad as she thought. It was a curious mental encounter between pride, obstinacy, and the better feelings of his nature; and unfortunately the former won, for soon after the meal was over he hurried out of the room. "I can't bear it," he cried to himself, as he went up to his own little chamber,--"I can't bear it, and I will not. Every one's against me. If I stop I shall be punished, and I can't face all that to-morrow. Good-bye, mother. Some day you'll think differently, and be sorry for all this injustice, and then--" A tear moistened Don's eye as he thought of his mother and her tender, loving ways, and of what a pity it was that they ever came there to his uncle's, and it was not the tear that made Don see so blindly. "I can't stand it, and I will not," he cried, passionately. "Uncle hates me, and Mike Bannock's right, scoundrel as he is. Uncle has robbed me, and I'll go and fight for myself in the world, and when I get well off I'll come back and seize him by the throat and make him give up all he has taken." Don talked to himself a good deal more of this nonsense, and then, with his mind fully made up, he went to the chest of drawers, took out a handkerchief, spread it open upon the bed, and placed in it a couple of clean shirts and three or four pairs of stockings. "There," he said, as he tied them up tightly as small as he could, "I won't have any more. I'll go and start fair, so that I can be independent and be beholden to nobody." Tucking the bundle under his arm, he could not help feeling that it was a very prominent-looking package--the great checked blue and white handkerchief seeming to say, "This boy's going to seek his fortune!" and he wished that he was not obliged to take it. But, setting his teeth, he left the room with the drawers open, and his best suit, which he had felt disposed to take, tossed on a chair, and then began to descend. It was a glorious summer evening, and though he was in dirty, smoky Bristol, everything seemed to look bright and attractive, and to produce a sensation of low-spiritedness such as he had never felt before. He descended and passed his mother's room, and then went down more slowly, for he could hear the murmur of voices in the dining-room, which he had to pass to reach the front door, outside which he did not care what happened; but now he had to pass that dining-room, and go along the passage and by the stand upon which his cocked hat hung. It was nervous work, but he went on down the first flight, running his hand slowly along the hand-balustrade, all down which he had so often slid while Kitty looked on laughing, and yet alarmed lest he should fall. And what a long time ago that seemed! He had just reached the bottom flight, and was wondering what to say if the door should open and his uncle meet him with the blue bundle under his arm, when the dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother's room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs. "Kitty!" he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack. There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly. "Don! Don, my boy!" came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper's tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea. Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt. "As if I could help it," he said, half aloud. "A man has his work to do, and he must do it." "Five o'clock's tea-time, and you ought to have been here." "And if I wasn't here, it was your dooty to wait for me, marm." "Was it?" cried Sally; "then I wasn't going to. I'm not going to be ordered about and ill-treated, Jem; you always said you liked your tea ready at five o'clock. I had it ready at five o'clock, and I waited till half-past, and it's now five-and-twenty to six." "I don't care if it's five-and-twenty to nineteen!" cried Jem angrily. "It's your dooty to wait, same as it's mine to shut up." "You might have shut up after tea." "Then I wasn't going to, marm." "Then you may have your tea by yourself, for I've done, and I'm not going to be trampled upon by you." Sally had risen in the loudness of her voice, in her temper, and in her person, for she had got up from her chair; but neither elevation was great; in fact, the personal height was very small, and there was something very kittenish and comic in her appearance, as she crossed the bright little kitchen to the door at the flight of stairs, and passing through, banged it behind her, and went up to her room. "Very well," said Jem, as he sat staring at the door; "very well, marm. So this is being married. My father used to say that if two people as is married can't agree, they ought to divide the house between 'em, but one ought to take the outside and t'other the in. That's what I'm a-going to do, only, seeing what a bit of a doll of a thing you are, and being above it, I'm going to take the outside myself. There's coffee bags enough to make a man a good bed up in the ware'us, and it won't be the first time I've shifted for myself, so I shall stop away till you fetches me back. Do you hear?" "Oh, yes, I can hear," replied Sally from the top of the stairs, Jem having shouted his last speech. "All right, then," said Jem: "so now we understands each other and can go ahead." Tightening up his lips, Jem rinsed out the slop-basin, shovelled in a good heap of sugar, and then proceeded to empty the teapot, holding the lid in its place with one fat finger the while. This done, he emptied the little milk jug also, stirred all well up together, and left it for a few minutes to cool, what time he took the cottage loaf from the white, well-scrubbed trencher, pulled it in two, took a handful of bread out of one half, and raising the lump of fresh Somersetshire butter on the point of a knife, he dabbed it into the hole he had made in the centre, shut it up by replacing the other half of the bread, and then taking out his handkerchief spread it upon his knee and tied the loaf tightly therein. Then for a moment or two he hesitated about taking the knife, but finally concluding that the clasp knife in his pocket would do, he laid the blade on the table, gave his tea a final stir, gulped down the basinful, tucked the loaf in the handkerchief under his left arm, his hat very much on one side, and then walked out and through the gate, which he closed with a loud bang. "Oh!" ejaculated Sally, who had run to the bedroom window, "he has gone!" Sally was quite right, Jem, her husband, was gone away to his favourite place for smoking a pipe, down on the West Main wharf, where he seated himself on a stone mooring post, placed the bundle containing the loaf beside him, and then began to eat heartily? Nothing of the kind. Jem was thinking very hard about home and his little petulant, girlish wife. Then he started and stared. "Hullo, Jem, you here?" "Why, Mas' Don, I thought you was at home having your tea." "I thought you were having yours, Jem." "No, Mas' Don," said Jem sadly; "there's my tea"--and he pointed to the bundle handkerchief; "there's my tea; leastwise I will tell the truth, o' course--there's part on it; t'other part's inside, for I couldn't tie that up, or I'd ha' brought it same ways to have down here and look at the ships." "Then why don't you eat it, man?" "'Cause I can't, sir. I've had so much o' my Sally that I don't want no wittals." Don said nothing, but sat down by Jem Wimble to look at the ships. CHAPTER EIGHT. KITTY CHRISTMAS SITS UP. "My dear Laura," said Uncle Josiah that same evening, "you misjudge me; Lindon's welfare is as dear to me as that of my little Kitty." "But you seemed to be so hard and stern with him." "That is your weak womanly way of looking at it, my dear I may have been stern, but no more so than the matter warranted. No, my dear sister, can you not see that I mean all this as a lesson for Lindon? You know how discontented he has been with his lot, like many more boys at his time of life, when they do not judge very well as to whether they are well off." "Yes, he has been unsettled lately." "Exactly, and this is due to his connection with that ne'er-do-weel scoundrel, for whom the boy has displayed an unconquerable liking. Lindon has begged the man on again four times after he had been discharged from the yard for drunkenness and neglect." "I did not know this," said Mrs Lavington. "No, I do not bring all my business troubles home. I consented because I wished Lindon to realise for himself the kind of man whose cause he advocated; but I never expected that it would be brought home to him so severely as this." "Then indeed, Josiah, you do not think Lindon guilty?" "Bah! Of course not, you foolish little woman. The boy is too frank and manly, too much of a gentleman to degrade himself in such a way. Guilty? Nonsense! Guilty of being proud and obstinate and stubborn. Guilty of neglecting his work to listen to that idle scoundrel's romancing about places he has never seen." "He is so young." "Young? Old enough to know better." "But if you could bring it home to him more gently." "I think the present way is an admirable one for showing the boy his folly. The bird who kept company with the jackdaws had his neck wrung, innocent as he was. I want Lindon to see how very near he has been to having his neck wrung through keeping company with a jackdaw. Now, my dear Laura, leave it to me. The magistrates will grasp the case at once, and Master Lindon will receive a severe admonition from some one else, which will bring him to his senses, and then we shall go on quite smoothly again." "You cannot tell how happy you have made me feel," said Mrs Lavington, as she wept silently. "Well," said Uncle Josiah, "I want to make you happy, you poor timid little bird. Now, then, try to believe that I am acting for the best." "And you will not be so stern with him?" "As far as my lights will illumine me, I will do what is right by my sister's boy, Laura--the lad I want to see grow up into a straightforward Englishman, proud of his name. There, can I say more fairly than that?" "No. I only beg that you will think of Lindon as a high-spirited boy, who, though he does not always do as you wish, is still extremely sensitive." "Proud and stubborn, eh, Laura?" "I will say no more, my own brother, only leave myself in your hands." "Yes, you may well look at the clock," said Uncle Josiah, laughing, as he put his arm round his sister, and kissed her very tenderly; "the young dog is unconscionably late." "You do not think--after what I said?" "Think? Nonsense. No, no. Lindon is too manly for that. Here, I am sure that you have a terrible headache, and you are worn out. Go to bed, and I'll sit up for the young rascal, and have a talk to him when he comes in." "No, no!" exclaimed Mrs Lavington excitedly; "I do not like you to sit up for him. I will." "Not you. Too tired out as it is. No, my dear, you shall go to bed, and I will sit up for him." "Then let neither of us sit up." "Afraid I shall scold him, eh?" "I cannot help being afraid of something of the kind, dear." "Very well, then we will both go, and let Jessie sit up." The maid was rung for, and entered. "We are going to bed, Jessie. Master Lindon has not returned yet. You will sit up until he comes in." "Yes, sir." The maid left the room, and brother and sister sat looking at each other. "Did you speak, Josiah?" said Mrs Lavington. "No; I was only thinking that I do not trust you and you don't trust me." "What do you mean?" faltered the poor woman, who looked more agitated now. "You were not going to bed, but to listen for Lindon's return, and were then going to watch whether I left my room to talk to him." Mrs Lavington was silent. "Guilty," said Uncle Josiah, smiling. "Come now, fair play. Will you go to your room and promise to stay there till breakfast time to-morrow morning, if I give you my word to do the same?" "Yes," said the shrinking woman eagerly. "That's agreed to, then. Good-night, Laura, my dear." "Good-night, Josiah." Ten minutes after all was still in the house, but matters did not turn out quite as Uncle Josiah intended. For before he was undressed, a bedroom door was opened very gently, and the creak it gave produced a low ejaculation of dismay. Then there was five minutes' interval before a slight little figure stole gently downstairs and glided into the kitchen, where round red-faced Jessie was seated in a window, her chair being opposite to what looked like a lady's back, making the most careful bows from time to time, to which the lady made no response, for it was only Jessie's cloak hanging on a peg with her old bonnet just above. The slight little figure stood in the kitchen doorway listening, and then Jessie seemed to be bowing her head to the fresh comer, who did take some notice of the courtesy, for, crossing the kitchen rapidly, there was a quick sharp whisper. "Jessie, Jessie!" No reply. "Jessie, Jessie!" "Two new and one stale," said the maid. "Oh, how tiresome! Jessie, Jessie!" "Slack baked." "Jessie!" and this time there was a shake of the maid's shoulder, and she jumped up, looking startled. "Lor, Miss Kitty, how you frightened me!" "You were asleep." "Sleep? Me, miss? That I'm sure I wasn't." "You were, Jessie, and I heard father tell you to sit up till Cousin Lindon came home." "Well, that's what I'm a-doin' of, miss, as plain as I can," said Jessie. She spoke in an ill-used tone, for it had been a busy day consequent upon a certain amount of extra cleaning, but Kitty did not notice it. "I shall stay till I hear my cousin's knock," she said; "and then run upstairs. I hope he will not be long." "So do I, Miss Kitty," said the woman with a yawn. "What's made him so late? Is it because of the trouble at the yard?" "Yes, Jessie; but you must not talk about it." "But I heerd as Master Don took some money." "He did not, Jessie!" cried Kitty indignantly. "There isn't a word of truth in it. My Cousin Lindon couldn't have done such a thing. It's all a mistake, and I want to see him come in, poor boy, and tell him that I don't believe it I'll whisper it to him just as he's going up to bed, and it will make him happy, for I know he thinks I have gone against him, and I only made believe that I did." _Snurrrg_! The sound was very gentle, and Kitty did not hear it, for she was looking intently toward the door in the belief that she had heard Don's footstep. But it was only that of some passer on his way home, and Kitty went on,-- "You mustn't talk about it, Jessie, for it is a great trouble, and aunt is nearly heart-broken, and--" _Snurg-urg_! This time there was so loud and gurgling a sound that Kitty turned sharply upon the maid, who, after emitting a painful snore, made her young mistress the most polite of bows. "Jessie! You're asleep." _Snurrg_! And a bow. "Oh, Jessie, you're asleep again. How can you be so tiresome?" _Snurrg_! Gurgled Jessie again, and Kitty gave an impatient stamp of her little foot. "How can any one sleep at a time like this?" she half sobbed. "It's too bad, that it is." Jessie bowed to her politely, and her head went up and down as if it were fixed at the end of a very easy moving spring, but when Kitty reproached her the words had not the slightest effect, and a dull stupid stare was given, of so irritating a nature that some people would have felt disposed to awaken the sleeper by administering a sound slap upon the hard round cheek. One hour, two hours, three hours passed away, and still no Don; and at last, unable to bear the company of the snoring woman longer, Kitty left her and went into the drawing-room, where, kneeling down at the end of the couch under the window, she remained watching the dark street, waiting for him who did not come. Kitty watched till the street began to look less dark and gloomy, and by degrees the other side became so plain that she could make out the bricks on the opposite walls. Then they grew plainer and plainer, and there was a bright light in the sky, for the sun was near to its rising. Then they grew less plain, then quite indistinct, for Kitty was crying bitterly, and she found herself wondering whether Don could have come in and gone to bed. A little thought told her that this was impossible, and the tears fell faster still. Where could he be? What could he be doing? Ought she to awaken her aunt? Kitty could not answer these self-imposed questions, and as her misery and despair grew greater it seemed as if the morning was growing very cold and the bricks of the houses opposite more and more obscure, and then soon after they were quite invisible, for she saw them not. CHAPTER NINE. A SOCIAL THUNDERBOLT. "Morning!" said Uncle Josiah, as, after a turn up and down the dining-room, he saw the door open and his sister enter, looking very pale and red-eyed. "Why, Laura, you have not been to bed." "Yes," she said sadly. "I kept my word, and now I feel sorry that I did, for I fell into a heavy sleep from which I did not wake till half an hour ago." "Glad of it," said her brother bluffly. "That's right, my dear, make the tea; I want my breakfast, for I have plenty of work to-day." Mrs Lavington hastily made the tea, for the urn was hissing on the table when she came down, Uncle Josiah's orders being that it was always to be ready at eight o'clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there. "Have--have you seen Don this morning?" "No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate's office, and there will be a few admonitions. That's all. Isn't Kitty late?" "Yes. Shall I send up for her?" "No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too." The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers. "Shall I send up, Josiah?" "No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and,"--here tut-tut-tut--"that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister. "Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband. "Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son." "No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It can't be true." CHAPTER TEN. GONE! "Speak, woman!" cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she shook little Sally by the arm. "What do you mean?" "I don't know, ma'am. I'm in such trouble," sobbed Sally. "I've been a very, very wicked girl--I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him." "Why?" asked Uncle Josiah sternly. "I don't know, sir." "But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband." "Yes, he's the best of husbands," sobbed Sally. "Then why did you scold him?" "Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn't help it, sir." "But you think he has run away?" "Yes, sir; I'm sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and--and--he has gone." "It is impossible!" said Uncle Josiah. "He must have met with some accident." "No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go--out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and--and--what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Took a bundle?" said Uncle Josiah, starting. "Yes, sir, and--and I wish I was dead." "Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?" "No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring. "Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily, "I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false." "Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally." "And no Uncle Josiah, Jem." "Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn't it?" "Glorious, Jem." "Mean to go, Master Don?" "What, and be a miserable coward? No." "But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir." "Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I've thought better of it." "And you won't go, sir?" "Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true." "So it would, sir. Now that's just how I felt. I says to myself, `Jem,' I says, `don't you stand it. What you've got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she'd find out your vally,' I says, `and be sorry for what she's said and done,' but I knew if I did she'd begin to crow and think she'd beat me, and besides, it would be such a miserable cowardly trick. No, Mas' Don, I'm going to grin and bear it, and some day she'll come round and be as nice as she's nasty now." "Yes, that's the way to look at it, Jem; but it's a miserable world, isn't it?" "Well, I arn't seen much on it, Mas' Don. I once went for a holiday as far as Bath, and that part on it was miserable enough. My word, how it did rain! In half an hour I hadn't got a dry thread on me. Deal worse than Bristol, which isn't the most cheersome o' places when you're dull." "No, Jem, it isn't. Of course you'll be at the court to-morrow?" "I suppose so, Mas' Don. And I say they'd better ask me if I think you took that money. My! But I would give it to some on 'em straight. Can you fight, Mas' Don?" "I don't know, Jem. I never tried." "I can. You don't know what a crack I could give a man. It's my arms is so strong with moving sugar-hogsheads, I suppose. I shouldn't wish to be the man I hit if I did my best." "You mean your worst, Jem." "Course I do, Mas' Don. Well, as I was going to say, I should just like to settle that there matter with Mr Mike without the magistrates. You give him to me on a clear field for about ten minutes, and I'd make Master Mike down hisself on his knees, and say just whatever I pleased." "And what good would that do, Jem?" "Not much to him, Mas' Don, because he'd be so precious sore afterwards, but it would do me good, and I would feel afterwards what I don't feel now, and that's cheerful. Never mind, sir, it'll all come right in the end. Nothing like coming out and sitting all alone when you're crabby. Wind seems to blow it away. When you've been sitting here a bit you'll feel like a new man. Mind me smoking a pipe?" "No, Jem; smoke away." "Won't have one too, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem; you know I can't smoke." "Then here goes for mine," said Jem, taking a little dumpy clay pipe from one pocket and a canvas bag from another, in which were some rough pieces of tobacco leaf. These he crumbled up and thrust into the bowl, after which he took advantage of the shelter afforded by an empty cask to get in, strike a light, and start a pipe. Once lit up, Jem returned to his old seat, and the pair remained in the same place till it was getting dusk, and lights were twinkling among the shipping, when Jem rose and stretched himself. "That's your sort, Mas' Don," he said. "Now I feels better, and I can smile at my little woman when I get home. You aren't no worse?" "No, Jem, I am no worse." "Nothing like coming out when you're red hot, and cooling down. I'm cooled down, and so are you. Come along." Don felt a sensation of reluctance to return home, but it was getting late, and telling himself that he had nothing to do now but act a straightforward manly part, and glad that he had cast aside his foolish notions about going away, he trudged slowly back with his companion, till turning into one of the dark and narrow lanes leading from the water side, they suddenly became aware that they were not alone, for a stoutly-built sailor stepped in front of them. "Got a light, mate?" he said. "Light? Yes," said Jem readily; and he prepared to get out his flint and steel, when Don whispered something in his ear. "Ay, to be sure," he said; "why don't you take a light from him?" "Eh? Ah, to be sure," said the sailor. "I forgot. Here, Joe, mate, open the lanthorn and give us a light." Another sailor, a couple of yards away, opened a horn lanthorn, and the first man bent down to light his pipe, the dull rays of the coarse candle showing something which startled Don. "Come on, Jem," he whispered; "make haste." "Ay? To be sure, my lad. There's nothing to mind though. Only sailors." As he spoke there were other steps behind, and more from the front, and Don realised that they were hemmed in that narrow lane between two little parties of armed men. Just then the door of the lanthorn was closed, and the man who bore it held it close to Jem's face. "Well?" said that worthy, good-temperedly, "what d'yer think of me, eh? Lost some one? 'Cause I arn't him." "I don't know so much about that," said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors. Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker's jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn. "Come away, Jem, quick!" whispered Don. "Here, what's your hurry, my lads?" said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog." "No, thank ye," said Jem; "I've got to be home." "So have we, mate," said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; "and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn't say no." "I knew it, Jem," whispered Don excitedly. "Officer! Do you hear?" "What are you whispering about, youngster?" said the man in the pea jacket. "You let him be." "Good-night," said Jem shortly. "Come on, Mas' Don." He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest. "Where are you shovin' to, mate?" growled the man. "Arn't the road wide enough for you?" "Quiet, my lad," said the officer sharply. "Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog." "I don't want no grog," said Jem; "and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass." "Yes, by-and-by," said the officer. "Now then, my lads, sharp." A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up against the wall of one of the houses. "Here, what are you doing of?" cried Jem sharply. "Being civil," said one of the men with a laugh. "There, no nonsense. Come quiet." He might just as well have said that to an angry bull, for as he and his companion seized Jem by the arms, they found for themselves how strong those arms were, one being sent staggering against Don, and the other being lifted off his legs and dropped upon his back. "Now, Mas' Don, run!" shouted Jem. But before the words were well out of his lips, the party closed in upon him, paying no heed to Don, who in accordance with Jem's command had rushed off in retreat. A few moments later he stopped, for Jem was not with him, but struggling with all his might in the midst of the knot of men who were trying to hold him. "Mas' Don! Help, help!" roared Jem; and Don dashed at the gang, his fists clenched, teeth set, and a curious singing noise in his ears. But as he reached the spot where his companion was making a desperate struggle for his liberty, Jem shouted again,-- "No, no! Mas' Don; run for it, my lad, and get help if you can." Like a flash it occurred to Don that long before he could get help Jem would be overpowered and carried off, and with the natural fighting instinct fully raised, he struck out with all his might as he strove to get to the poor fellow, who was writhing and heaving, and giving his captors a tremendous task to hold him. "Here, give him something to keep him quiet," growled a voice. "No, no; get hold of his hands; that's right. Serve this cockerel the same. Down with him, quick!" cried the officer sharply; and in obedience to his words the men hung on to poor Jem so tenaciously that he was dragged down on the rough pavement, and a couple of men sat panting upon him while his wrists were secured, and his voice silenced by a great bandage right over his mouth. "You cowards!" Jem tried to roar, as, breathless with exertion, bleeding from a sharp back-handed blow across the mouth, and giddy with excitement and the effects of a rough encounter between his head and the wall, Don made one more attempt to drag himself free, and then stood panting and mastered by two strong men. "Show the light," said the officer, and the lanthorn was held close to Don's face. "Well, if the boy can fight like that," said the officer, "he shall." "Let us go," cried Don. "Help! He--" A jacket was thrown over his head, as the officer said mockingly,-- "He shall fight for his Majesty the king. Now, my lads, quick. Some one coming, and the wrong sort." Don felt himself lifted off his feet, and half smothered by the hot jacket which seemed to keep him from breathing, he was hurried along two or three of the lanes, growing more faint and dizzy every moment, till in the midst of a curious nightmare-like sensation, lights began suddenly to dance before his eyes; then all was darkness, and he knew no more till he seemed to wake up from a curious sensation of sickness, and to be listening to Jem Wimble, who would keep on saying in a stupid, aggravating manner,--"Mas' Don, are you there?" The question must have been repeated many times before Don could get rid of the dizzy feeling of confusion and reply,--"Yes; what do you want?" "Oh, my poor lad!" groaned Jem. "Here, can you come to me and untie this?" "Jem!" "Yes." "What does it mean? Why is it so dark? Where are we?" "Don't ask everything at once, my lad, and I'll try to tell you." "Has the candle gone out, Jem? Are we in the big cellar?" "Yes, my lad," groaned Jem, "we're in a big cellar." "Can't you find the candle?" said Don, with his head humming and the mental confusion on the increase. "There's a flint and steel on the ledge over the door." "Is there, my lad? I didn't know it," muttered Jem. "Jem, are you there?" "Yes, yes, my lad, I'm here." "Get a light, quick. I must have fallen and hurt myself; my face bleeds." "Oh, my poor dear lad!" "Eh? What do you mean? You're playing tricks, Jem, and it's too bad. Get a light." "My hands is tied fast behind me, Mas' Don," groaned Jem, "and we're pitched down here in a cellar." "What?" "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I don't mind for myself," groaned Jem, in his despair, "but what will she do?" "Jem!" "I often said I wished I could be took away, but I didn't mean it, Mas' Don; I didn't mean it. What will my Sally do?" "Jem, are you mad?" shouted Don. "This darkness--this cellar. It's all black, and I can't think; my head aches, and it's all strange. Don't play tricks. Try and open the door and let's go." "What, don't you know what it all means, Mas' Don?" groaned Jem. "No, I don't seem as if I could think. What does it mean?" "Mean, my lad? Why, the press-gang's got us, and unless we can let 'em know at home, we shall be took aboard ship and sent off to sea." "What?" The light had come--the mental light which drove away the cloud of darkness which had obscured Don Lavington's brain. He could think now, and he saw once more the dark lane, the swinging lanthorn, and felt, as it were, the struggle going on; and then, sitting up with his hands to his throbbing head, he listened to a low moaning sound close at hand. "Jem," he said. "Jem! Why don't you speak?" There was no answer, for it was poor Jem's turn now; the injuries he had received in his desperate struggle for liberty had had their effect, and he lay there insensible to the great trouble which had come upon him, while it grew more terrible to Don, in the darkness of that cellar, with every breath he drew. CHAPTER TWELVE. PRISONERS. "What's the matter?" cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness. Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep. As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage." "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly--"oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!" "Jem, we must escape." "Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight." "Can't you stand, Jem?" "Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the fair." "You'll be better soon." "Better, sir? Well, I can't be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I'd got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I'd give him such a roll up and down the ware'us floor as 'ud make him as giddy as me." "Now try and think, Jem," said Don excitedly. "They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away." "No, sir; my Sally mustn't think that." "Then what shall we do?" "Try to get out, sir, of course." "Can you walk?" "Well, sir, if I can't, I'll crawl. What yer going to do?" "Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked." "Not likely," said Jem. "Wish I'd got a candle. It's like being a rat in a box trap. It _is_ dark." "This way, Jem. Your hand." "All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don't grow out o' my back." "That's it. Now together. Let's get to the wall." There was a rustling noise and then a rattle. "Phew! Shins!" cried Jem. "Oh, dear me. That's barrel staves, I know the feel on 'em. Such sharp edges, Mas' Don. Mind you don't tread on the edge of a hoop, or it'll fly up and hit you right in the middle." _Flip_! "There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?" "Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let's go all round the place, perhaps there's another way out." "All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn't be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a barrel in the middle o' the night." "Now I am touching the wall, Jem," said Don. "I'm going to feel all round. Can you hear anything?" "Only you speaking, my lad." "Come along then." "All right, Mas' Don. My head aches as if it was a tub with the cooper at work hammering of it." Don went slowly along the side of the great cellar, guiding himself in the intense darkness by running: his hands over the damp bricks; but there was nothing but bare wall till he had passed down two sides, and was half-way along the third, when he uttered a hasty ejaculation. "It's all right, Jem. Here is a way into another cellar." "Mind how you go, sir. Steady." "Yes, but make haste." "There's a door," whispered Don. "Loose my hand." He hastily felt all over the door, but it was perfectly blank, not so much as a keyhole to be found, and though he pressed and strained at it, he could make no impression. "It's no use, Jem. Let's try the other door." "I don't believe there are no other door," said Jem. "That's the way out." "No, no; the way out is on the other side." "This here is t'other side," said Jem, "only we arn't over there now." "I'm sure it can't be." "And I'm sure it can be, my lad. Nothing arn't more puzzling than being shut up in the dark. You loses yourself directly, and then you can't find yourself again." "But the door where the men went out is over there." "Yah! That it arn't," cried Jem. "Don't throw your fisties about that how. That's my nose." "I'm very sorry, Jem. I did not mean--" "Course you didn't, but that's what I said. When you're in the dark you don't know where you are, nor where any one else is." "Let's try down that other side, and I'll show you that you are wrong." "Can't show me, my lad. You may make me feel, but you did that just now when you hit me on the nose. Well? Fun' it?" "No, not yet," said Don, as he crept slowly along from the doorway; and then carefully on and on, till he must have come to the place from which they started. "No, not yet," grumbled Jem. "Nor more you won't if you go on for ever." "I'm afraid you're right, Jem." "I'm right, and I arn't afraid," said Jem; "leastwise, save that my head's going on aching for ever." Don felt all round the cellar again, and then heaved a sigh. "Yes; there's only one door, Jem. Could we break it down?" "I could if I'd some of the cooper's tools," said Jem, quietly; "but you can't break strong doors with your fisties, and you can't get out of brick cellars with your teeth." "Of course, we're underground." "Ay! No doubt about that, Mas' Don." "Let's knock and ask for a pencil and paper to send a message." Jem uttered a loud chuckle as he seated himself on the floor. "I like that, Mas' Don. 'Pon my word I do. Might just as well hit your head again the wall." "Better use yours for a battering ram, Jem," said Don, angrily. "It's thicker than mine." There was silence after this. "He's sulky because of what I've said," thought Don. "Oh, my poor head!" thought Jem. "How it do ache!" Then he began to think about Sally, and what she would say or do when she found that he did not come back. Just at the same time Don was reflecting upon his life of late, and how discontented he had been, and how he had longed to go away, while now he felt as if he would give anything to be back on his old stool in the office, writing hard, and trying his best to be satisfied with what seemed to be a peaceful, happy life. A terrible sensation of despair came over him, and the idea of being dragged off to a ship, and carried right away, was unbearable. What were glorious foreign lands with their wonders to one who would be thought of as a cowardly thief? As he leaned against a wall there in the darkness his busy brain pictured his stern-looking uncle telling his weeping mother that it was a disgrace to her to mourn over the loss of a son who could be guilty of such a crime, and then run away to avoid his punishment. "Oh! If I had only been a little wiser," thought Don, "how much happier I might have been." Then he forced himself to think out a way of escape, a little further conversation with Jem making him feel that he must depend upon himself, for poor Jem's injury seemed to make him at times confused; in fact, he quite startled his fellow-prisoner by exclaiming suddenly,-- "Now where did I put them keys?" "Jem!" "Eh? All right, Sally. 'Tarn't daylight yet." "Jem, my lad, don't you know where you are?" "Don't I tell you? Phew! My head. You there, Mas' Don?" "Yes, Jem. How are you?" "Oh, lively, sir, lively; been asleep, I think. Keep a good heart, Mas' Don, and--" "Hist! Here they come," cried Don, as he saw the gleam of a light through the cracks of the door. "Jem, do you think you could make a dash of it as soon as they open the door?" "No, Mas' Don, not now. My head's all of a boom-whooz, and I seem to have no use in my legs." "Oh!" ejaculated Don despairingly. "But never you mind me, my lad. You make a run for it, dive down low as soon as the door's open. That's how to get away." _Cling_! _clang_! Two bolts were shot back and a flood--or after the intense darkness what seemed to be a flood--of light flashed into the cellar, as the bluff man entered with another bearing the lanthorn. Then there was a great deal of shuffling of feet as if heavy loads were being borne down some stone steps; and as Don looked eagerly at the party, it was to see four sailors, apparently wounded, perhaps dead, carried in and laid upon the floor. A thrill of horror ran through Don. He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,-- "That's the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they'll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty's Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober." Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man's words had swept all that away. Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm. "You are not going to keep us, sir?" he said quietly. "My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem--our man, has a young wife." "No, no; can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man; "it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed," he added with a laugh. "But my mother?" "Yes, I'm sorry for your mother, but you're too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap's young wife will have to wait till he comes back." "But you will let me send a message to them at home?" "To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don't give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long." He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused. "Not very nice for a lad like you," he said, not unkindly. "Here, bring these two out, my lads; we'll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along." A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor. "Where shall we put 'em, sir?" said a sailor. "Top floor and make fast," said the bluff man. "But you will let me send word home?" began Don. "I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons," said the man sternly. "Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!--" There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear. The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next. "There's a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads," said the bluff man. "There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp's the word." They had ascended from floor to floor through trap-doors, and as Don looked anxiously at his captors, the man who carried the lanthorn stooped and raised a heavy door from the floor and held it and the light as his companions descended, following last and drawing down the heavy trap over his head. The door closed with a loud clap, a rusty bolt was shot, and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away. "This is a happy sort o' life, Mas' Don," said Jem, breaking the silence. "What's to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!" "I don't know, Jem," said Don despondently. "It's enough to make one wish one was dead." "Dead! Wish one was dead, sir? Oh, come. It's bad enough to be knocked down and have the headache. Dead! No, no. Where did he say them bags was?" "I don't know, Jem." "Well, let's look. I want to lie down and have a sleep." "Sleep? At a time like this!" "Why not, sir? I'm half asleep now. Can't do anything better as I see." "Jem," said Don passionately, "we're being punished for all our discontent and folly, and it seems more than I can bear." "But we must bear it, sir. That's what you've got to do when you're punished. Don't take on, sir. P'r'aps, it won't seem so bad when it gets light. Here, help me find them bags he talked about." Don was too deep in thought, for the face of his mother was before him, and he seemed to see the agony she suffered on his account. "Justly punished," he kept muttering; "justly punished, and now it is too late--too late." "Here y'are, Mas' Don," cried Jem; "lots of 'em, and I can't help it, I must lie down, for my head feels as if it was going to tumble off." Don heard him make a scuffling noise, as if he were very busy moving some sacks. "There!" Jem cried at last; "that's about it. Now, Mas' Don, I've made you up a tidy bed; come and lie down." "No, Jem, no; I'm not sleepy." "Then I must," muttered Jem; and after a little more scuffling noise all was still for a few minutes, after which there was a regular heavy breathing, which told that the great trouble he was in had not been sufficient to keep Jem Wimble awake. Don stood for some time in the darkness, but by degrees a wretched feeling of weariness came over him, and he sat down painfully upon the floor, drawing his knees up to his chin, embracing them, and laying his head upon them. He wanted to think of his position, of his folly, and of the trouble which it had brought upon him. Jem's heavy breathing came regularly from somewhere to his left, and he found himself, as he crouched together there in the darkness, envying the poor fellow, much as he was injured. "But then he has not so much on his mind as I have," thought Don. "Once let me get clear away from here, how different I will be." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. HOW TO ESCAPE? _Rumble_! _Bump_! Don started and stared, for something had shaken him as if a sudden blow had been given against the floor. What did it all mean? Where was he? What window was that through which the sun shone brightly, and why was he in that rough loft, in company with a man lying asleep on some sacks? Memory filled up the vacuum directly, and he knew that his head was aching, and that he had been fast asleep. _Crash_! That was a bolt shot back, and the noise which awakened him must have been the big step ladder placed against the beam beneath the trap-door. As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair. "Ship ahoy!" shouted the owner of the face. "What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?" Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loud _flap_, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange. "What's the matter?" he said sharply. "Who are you? I--where--was--to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we're pressed!" "Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons." He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter. "There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to." "Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?" "Do I know? Why, didn't I help?" "Oh!" ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. "Look here," he said; "if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea." "Well, that's handsome, anyhow," said the man, laughing. "What am I to say to the old lady?" "That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away." "That all?" "Yes, that's all. Will you go?" "Hadn't you better have your breakfuss?" "Breakfast? No," said Don. "I can't eat." "Better. Keep you going, my lad." "Will you take my message?" "No, I won't." "You shall have two guineas." "Where are they?" "My mother will gladly give them to you." "Dessay she will." "And you will go?" "Do you know what a bosun's mate is, my lad?" "I? No. I know nothing about the sea." "You will afore long. Well, I'll tell you; bosun's mate's a gentleman kep' aboard ship to scratch the crew's backs." "You are laughing at me," cried Don angrily. "Not a bit of it, my lad. If I was to do what you want, I should be tied up to-morrow, and have my back scratched." "Flogged?" "That's it." "For doing a kind act? For saving my poor mother from trouble and anxiety?" "For not doing my dooty, my lad. There, a voyage or two won't hurt you. Why, I was a pressed man, and look at me." "Main-top ahoy! Are you coming down?" came from below. "Ay, ay, sir!" shouted the sailor. "Wasn't that the man who had us shut up here?" cried Don. "To be sure: Bosun Jones," said the man, running to the trap and beginning to descend. "You'll take my message?" "Nay, not I," said the man, shaking his head. "There, eat your breakfuss, and keep your head to the wind, my lads." _Bang_! The door was shut heavily and the rusty bolt shot. Then the two prisoners listened to the descending footsteps and to the murmur of voices from below, after which Don looked across the steaming jug at Jem, and Jem returned the stare. "Mornin', Mas' Don," he said. "Rum game, arn't it?" "Do you think he'll take my message, Jem?" "Not a bit on it, sir. You may take your oath o' that." "Will they take us aboard ship?" "Yes, sir, and make sailors on us, and your uncle's yard 'll go to rack and ruin; and there was two screws out o' one o' the shutter hinges as I were going to put in to-day." "Jem, we must escape them." "All right, Mas' Don, sir. 'Arter breakfast." "Breakfast? Who is to eat breakfast?" "I am, sir. Feels as if it would do me good." "But we must escape, Jem--escape." "Yes, sir; that's right," said Jem, taking off the cup, and sniffing at the jug. "Coffee, sir. Got pretty well knocked about last night, and I'm as sore this morning as if they'd been rolling casks all over me. But a man must eat." "Eat then, and drink then, for goodness' sake," cried Don impatiently. "Thankye, sir," said Jem; and he poured out a cup of steaming coffee, sipped it, sipped again, took three or four mouthfuls of bread and butter, and then drained the cup. "Mas' Don!" he cried, "it's lovely. Do have a cup. Make you see clear." As he spoke he refilled the mug and handed it to Don, who took it mechanically, and placed it to his lips, one drop suggesting another till he had finished the cup. "Now a bit o' bread and butter, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head, but took the top piece, and began mechanically to eat, while Jem partook of another cup, there being a liberal allowance of some three pints. "That's the way, sir. Wonderful what a difference breakfuss makes in a man. Eat away, sir; and if they don't look out we'll give them press-gang." "Yes, but how, Jem? How?" "Lots o' ways, sir. We'll get away, for one thing, or fasten that there trap-door down; and then they'll be the prisoners, not us. 'Nother cup, sir? Go on with the bread and butter. I say, sir, do I look lively?" "Lively?" "I mean much knocked about? My face feels as if the skin was too tight, and as if I couldn't get on my hat." "It does not matter, Jem," said Don, quietly. "You have no hat." "More I haven't. I remember feeling it come off, and it wasn't half wore out. Have some more coffee, Mas' Don. 'Tarnt so good as my Sally makes. I'd forgot all about her just then. Wonder whether she's eating her breakfast?" Don sighed and went on eating. He was horribly low-spirited, but his youthful appetite once started, he felt the need of food, and kept on in silence, passing and receiving the cup till all was gone. "That job's done," said Jem, placing the jug on the plate, and the cup in the mouth of the jug. "Now then, I'm ready, Mas' Don. You said escape, didn't you, sir?" "Yes. What shall we do?" "Well, we can't go down that way, sir, because the trap-door's bolted." "There is the window, Jem." "Skylights, you mean, sir," said Jem, looking up at the sloping panes in the roof. "Well, let's have a look. Will you get a-top o' my shoulders, or shall I get a-top o' yourn?" "I couldn't bear you, Jem." "Then up you gets, my lad, like the tumblers do at the fair." It seemed easy enough to get up and stand on the sturdy fellow's shoulders, but upon putting it to the test, Don found it very hard, and after a couple of failures he gave up, and they stood together looking up at the sloping window, which was far beyond their reach. "Dessay it's fastened, so that we couldn't open it," said Jem. "The fox said the grapes were sour when he could not get at them, Jem." "That's true, Mas' Don. Well, how are we to get up?" They looked round the loft, but, with the exception of the old sacking lying at one end, the place was bare. "Here, come to the end, Jem, and let me have another try," said Don. "Right, sir; come on," cried Jem; and going right to the end of the loft, he bent his body a little and leaned his hands against the wall. This simplified matters. "Stand fast, Jem," cried Don, and taking a spring, he landed upon his companion's broad back, leap-frog fashion, but only to jump off again. "What's the matter, Mas' Don?" "Only going to take off my shoes." "Ah, 'twill be better. I didn't grumble before, but you did hurt, sir." Don slipped off his shoes, uttered a word or two of warning, and once more mounted on Jem's back. It was easy then to get into a kneeling, and then to a standing, position, the wall being at hand to steady him. "That's your sort, Mas' Don. Now hold fast, and step up on to my shoulders as I rise myself up; that's the way," he continued, slowly straightening himself, and placing his hands behind Don's legs, as he stood up, steadily, facing the wall. "What next, Jem?" "Next, sir? Why, I'm going to walk slowly back under the window, for you to try and open it, and look out and see where we are. Ready?" "Yes." "Hold tight, sir." "But there's nothing to hold by, Jem, when you move away." "Then you must stand fast, sir, and I'll balance you like. I can do it." Don drew a long breath, and felt no faith, for as soon as Jem moved steadily from the wall, his ability in balancing was not great. "Stand firm, sir. I've got you," he said. "Am I too heavy, Jem?" "Heavy? No, sir; I could carry two on you. Stand fast; 'tarn't far. Stand fast. That's your sort. Stand--oh!" Everything depended upon him, and poor Jem did his best; but after three or four steps Don felt that he was going, and to save himself from a fall he tried to jump lightly down. This would have been easy enough had not Jem been so earnest. He, too, felt that it was all wrong, and to save his companion, he tightened his hold of the calves of Don's legs as the lad stood erect on his shoulders. The consequence was that he gave Don sufficient check as he leaped to throw him off his balance; and in his effort to save him, Jem lost his own, and both came down with a crash and sat up and rubbed and looked at each other. "Arn't hurt, are you, Mas' Don?" "Not hurt?" grumbled Don. "I am hurt horribly." "I'm very sorry, sir; so am I. But I arn't broke nowhere! Are you?" "Broken? No!" said Don rising. "There, let's try again." "To be sure, sir. Come, I like that." "Look here, Jem. When you straighten up, let me steady myself with my hands on the sloping ceiling there; now try." The former process was gone through, after listening to find all silent below; and Don stood erect once more, supporting himself by the wall. "Now edge round gently, Jem. That's right." Jem obeyed, and by progressing very slowly, they got to within about ten feet of the window, which Don saw that he could reach easily, when the balance was lost once more. "Don't hold, Jem!" cried Don; and he leaped backwards, to come down all right this time. By no means discouraged, they went back to the end; and this time, by progressing more slowly, the window was reached, and, to their great delight, Don found that it was fastened inside, opening outwards by means of a couple of hinges at the highest end, and provided with a ratchet, to keep it open to any distance required. "Can you bear me if I try to open it, Jem?" "Can I? Ah!" Jem was a true bearer, standing as fast as a small elephant as Don opened the window, and then supporting himself by a beam which ran across the opening, thrust out his head and surveyed the exterior. He was not long in making out their position--in the top floor of a warehouse, the roof sloping, so that escape along it was impossible, while facing him was the blank wall of a higher building, evidently on the other side of a narrow alley. Don looked to right, but there was no means of making their position known so as to ask for help. To the left he was no better off, and seeing that the place had been well chosen as a temporary lock-up for the impressed men, Don prepared to descend. "Better shut the window fust, Mas' Don." The suggestion was taken, and then Don leaped down and faced his fellow-prisoner, repeating the information he had roughly communicated before. "Faces a alley, eh?" said Jem. "Can't we go along the roof." "I don't believe a cat could go in safety, Jem." "Well, we aren't cats, Mas' Don, are we? Faces a alley, eh? Wasn't there no windows opposit'?" "Nothing but a blank wall." "Well, it's all right, Mas' Don. We'd better set to work. Only wants a rope with one end fastened in here, and then we could slide down." "Yes," said Don gloomily; "the window is unfastened, and the way clear, but where's the rope?" "There," said Jem, and he pointed to the end of the loft. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. WORKING UNDER DIFFICULTIES. "There. Those sacks?" "That's it, Mas' Don. I've got my knife. You got yourn?" "Yes." "Then here goes, then, to unravel them sacks till we've got enough to make a rope. This loft's a capital place to twist him. It's all right, sir, only help me work away, and to-night we'll be safe home." "To-night, Jem? Not before?" "Why, we sha'n't have the rope ready; and if we had, it would be no use to try by daylight. No, sir; we must wait till it's dark, and work away. If we hear any one coming we can hide the rope under the other sacks; so come on." They seated themselves at the end of the loft, and worked away rapidly unravelling the sacking and rolling the yarn up into balls, each of which was hidden as soon as it became of any size. As the hours went on, and they were not interrupted, the dread increased that they might be summoned to descend as prisoners before they had completed their work; but Jem's rough common sense soon suggested that this was not likely to be the case. "Not afore night, Mas' Don," he said. "They won't take us aboard in the day. We're smuggled goods, we are; and if they don't mind, we shall be too many for them. 'Nother hour, and I shall begin to twist up our rope." About midday the same sailor came up and brought them some bread and meat. "That's right, my lads," he said. "You're taking it sensible, and that's the best way. If we've any luck to-night, you'll go aboard afore morning. There, I mustn't stop." He hurried down, closing and fastening the trap, and Jem pointed to the food. "Eat away, Mas' Don, and work same time. Strikes me we sha'n't go aboard afore close upon daylight, for they've got us all shut up here snug, so as no one shall know, and they don't dare take us away while people can see. Strikes me they won't get all the men aboard this time, eh, Mas' Don?" "Not if we can prevent it," said Don, with his hand upon the rough piece of sacking which covered his share of the work. "Think it's safe to begin again?" "Ay! Go on. Little at a time, my lad, and be ready to hide it as soon as you hears a step." In spite of their trouble, they ate with a fair appetite, sharpened perhaps by the hope of escape, and the knowledge that they must not be faint and weak at the last moment. The meal was finished, and all remaining silent, they worked on unravelling the sacking, and rolling up the yarn, Don thinking of home, and Jem whistling softly a doleful air. "If we don't get away, Mas' Don," he said, after a pause, "and they take us aboard ship and make sailors of us--" "Don't talk like that, Jem! We must--we will get away." "Oh, yes, it's all very well to talk, Mas' Don, but it's as well to be prepared for the worst. Like as not we sha'n't get away, and then we shall go aboard, be made sailors, and have to fight the French." "I shall not believe that, Jem, till it takes place." "I shall, my lad, and I hope when I'm far away as your mother, as is a reg'lar angel, will do what's right by my Sally, as is a married woman, but only a silly girl after all, as says and does things without thinking what they mean. I was horrid stupid to take so much notice of all she said, and all through that I'm here." "Haven't we got enough ready, Jem?" said Don, impatiently, for his companion's words troubled him. They seemed to fit his own case. "Yes, I should think that will do now, sir, so let's begin and twist up a rope. We sha'n't want it very thick." "But we shall want it very strong, Jem." "Here goes, then, to make it," said Jem, taking the balls of yarn, knotting the ends together, and then taking a large piece of sack and placing it beside him. "To cover up the stuff if we hear any one coming, my lad. Now then, you pay out, and I'll twist. Mustn't get the yarn tangled." Don set to work earnestly, and watched his companion, who cleverly twisted away at the gathered-up yarn, and then rolled his work up into a ball. The work was clumsy, but effective, and in a short time he had laid up a few yards of a very respectable line, which seemed quite capable of bearing them singly. Foot by foot the line lengthened, and the balls of yarn grew less, when just in the middle of their task Don made a dash at Jem, and threw down the yarn. "Here, what yer doing? You'll get everything in a tangle, sir." "Hush! Some one coming." "I can't hear him." "There is, I tell you. Listen!" Jem held his head on one side like a magpie, and then shook it. "Nobody," he said; but hardly had he said the words than he dabbed the rope under him, and seized upon the yarn, threw some of the old sacks upon it, and then laid his hand on Don's shoulder, just as the trap-door was raised softly a few inches, and a pair of eyes appeared at the broad crack. Then the trap made a creaking noise, and a strange sailor came up, to find Jem seated on the floor tailor-fashion, and Don lying upon his face, with his arms crossed beneath his forehead, and some of the old sacking beneath him. The man came up slowly, and laid the trap back in a careful way, as if to avoid making a noise, and then, after a furtive look at Jem, who gave him a sturdy stare in return, he stood leaning over the opening and listening. Footsteps were heard directly after, and a familiar voice gave some order. Directly after the bluff-looking man with whom they had had so much dealing stepped up into the loft. "Well, my lads," he said, "how are the sore places?" Jem did not answer. "Sulky, eh? Ah, you'll soon get over that. Now, my boy, let's have a look at you." He gave Don a clap on the shoulder, and the lad started up as if from sleep, and stared at the fresh comer. "Won't do," said the bluff man, laughing. "Men don't wake up from sleep like that. Ah! Of course: now you are turning red in the face. Didn't want to speak to me, eh? Well, you are all right, I see." Don did not attempt to rise from where he half sat, half lay, and the man gave a sharp look round, letting his eyes rest; for a few moments upon the window, and then turning them curiously upon the old sacking. To Don's horror he approached and picked up a piece close to that which served for a couch. "How came all this here?" he said sharply. "Old stuff, sir. Been used for the bales o' 'bacco, I s'pose," said the furtive-looking man. "Humph. And so you have made a bed of it, eh? Let's have a look." The perspiration stood on Don's forehead. "Well," said the bluff man, "why don't you get up? Quick!" He took a step nearer Don, and was in the act of stooping to take him by the arm, when there was a hail from below. "Ahoy!" shouted the sailor, bending over the trap-door. "Wants Mr Jones," came up. "Luff wants you, sir," said the man. "Right. There, cheer up, my lads; you might be worse off than you are," said the bluff visitor pleasantly. Then, clapping Don on the shoulder, "Don't sulk, my lad. Make the best of things. You're in the king's service now, so take your fate like a man." He nodded and crossed to the trap. "Ahoy, there! Below there! I'm coming.--Can't expect a bosun to break his neck." He said these last words as his head and shoulders were above the floor, and gave the prisoners a friendly nod just as his eyes were disappearing. "Come along, my lad," he said, when he was out of sight. "Ay! Ay!" growled the furtive-looking man, slowly following, and giving those he left behind a very peculiar smile, which he lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a _flap_, and shut him, as it were, in a box. "Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine." "Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?" Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it. "One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod. Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing-- it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain. In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark. "Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?" "Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late, and us not done." "But the rope must be long enough now." "Think so, sir?" "Yes; and if it is not, we can easily drop the rest of the way." "What! And break our legs, or sprain our ankles, and be caught? No let's make it another yard or two." "Hist! Quick!" They were only just in time, for almost before they had thrown the old sacking over the rope, the bolt of the trap-door was thrust back, and the sinister-looking sailor entered with four more, to give a sharp look round the place, and then roughly seize the prisoners. "Now, then!" cried Jem sharply, "what yer about? Arn't going to tie us up, are you?" "Yes, if you cut up rough again," said the leader of the little party. "Come on." "Here, what yer going to do?" cried Jem. "Do? You'll see. Not going to spoil your beauty, mate." Don's heart sank low. All that hopeful labour over the rope thrown away! And he cast a despairing look at Jem. "Never mind, my lad," whispered the latter. "More chances than one." "Now then! No whispering. Come along!" shouted the sinister-looking man, fiercely. "Come on down. Bring 'em along." Don cast another despairing look at Jem, and then marched slowly toward the opening in the floor. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A DESPERATE ATTEMPT. Just as the prisoners reached the trap-door a voice came from below. "Hold hard there, my lads. Bosun Jones has been down to the others, and he says these here may stop where they are." "What for?" "Oh, one o' the four chaps we brought in last night's half wild, and been running amuck. Come on down." "Yah!" growled the sinister sailor, scowling at Jem, as if there were some old enmity between them. "I say, don't," said Jem mockingly. "You'll spoil your good looks. Say, does he always look as handsome as that?" The man doubled his fist, and made a sharp blow at Jem, and seemed surprised at the result; for Jem dodged, and retorted, planting his fist in the fellow's chest, and sending him staggering back. The man's eyes blazed as he recovered himself, and rushed at Jem like a bull-dog. Obeying his first impulse, Don, who had never struck a blow in anger since he left school, forgot fair play for the moment, and doubled his fists to help Jem. "No, no, Mas' Don; I can tackle him," cried Jem; "and I feel as if I should like to now." But there was to be no encounter, for a couple of the other sailors seized their messmate, and forced him to the trap-door, growling and threatening all manner of evil to the sturdy little prisoner, who was standing on his defence. "No, no, mate," said the biggest and strongest of the party; "it's like hitting a man as is down. Come on." There was another struggle, but the brute was half thrust to the ladder, and directly after the trap was closed again, and the bolt shot. "Well, I never felt so much like fighting before--leastwise not since I thrashed old Mike behind the barrel stack in the yard," said Jem, resuming his coat, which he had thrown off. "Did you fight Mike in the yard one day?" said Don wonderingly. "Why, Jem, I remember; that's when you had such a dreadful black eye." "That's right, my lad." "And pretended you fell down the ladder out of floor number six." "That's right again, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning. "Then that was a lie?" "Well, I don't know 'bout it's being a lie, my lad. P'r'aps you might call it a kind of a sort of a fib." "Fib? It was an untruth." "Well, but don't you see, it would have looked so bad to say, `I got that eye a-fighting?' and it was only a little while 'fore I was married. What would my Sally ha' said if she know'd I fought our Mike?" "Why, of course; I remember now, Mike was ill in bed for a week at the same time." "That's so, Mas' Don," said Jem, chuckling; "and he was werry ill. You see, he come to the yard to work, after you'd begged him on, and he was drunk as a fiddler--not as ever I see a fiddler that way. And then, i'stead o' doing his work, he was nasty, and began cussing. He cussed everything, from the barrow and truck right up to your uncle, whose money he took, and then he began cussing o' you, Mas' Don; and I told him he ought to be ashamed of hisself for cussing the young gent as got him work; and no sooner had I said that than I found myself sitting in a puddle, with my nose bleeding." "Well?" said Don, who was deeply interested. "Well, Mas' Don, that's all." "No, it isn't, Jem; you say you fought Mike." "Well, I s'pose I did, Mas' Don." "`Suppose you did'?" "Yes; I only recklect feeling wild because my clean shirt and necktie was all in a mess. I don't recklect any more--only washing my sore knuckles at the pump, and holding a half hun'erd weight up again my eye." "But Mike stopped away from work for a week." "Yes, Mas' Don. He got hisself a good deal hurt somehow." "You mean you hurt him?" "Dunno, Mas' Don. S'pose I did, but I don't 'member nothing about it. And now look here, sir; seems to me that in half-hour's time it'll be quite dark enough to start; and if I'd got five guineas, I'd give 'em for five big screws, and the use of a gimlet and driver." "What for?" "To fasten down that there trap." "It would be no good, Jem; because if they found the trap fast, they'd be on the watch for us outside." "Dessay you're right, sir. Well, what do you say? Shall we begin now, or wait?" Don looked up at the fast darkening skylight, and then, after a moment's hesitation,-- "Let's begin now, Jem. It will take some time." "That's right, Mas' Don; so here goes, and good luck to us. It means home, and your mother, and my Sally; or going to fight the French." "And we don't want to be obliged to fight without we like, Jem." "That's true," said Jem; and going quickly to the trap, he laid his ear to the crack and listened. "All right, my lad. Have it out," he said; and the sacks were cast aside, and the rope withdrawn. "Will it bear us, Jem?" "I'm going to try first, and if it'll bear me it'll bear you." "But you can't get up there." "No, but you can, my lad; and when you're there you can fasten the rope to that cross-bar, and then I can soon be with you. Ready?" "Wait till I've got off my shoes." "That's right; stick 'em in your pockets, my lad. Now then, ready?" Don signified his readiness. Jem laid him a back up at the end wall. Don mounted, and then jumped down again. "What's the matter?" "I haven't got the rope." "My: what a head I have!" cried Jem, as Don tightly knotted the rope about his waist; and then, mounting on his companion's back once more, was borne very slowly, steadying himself by the sloping roof, till the window was reached. "Hold fast, Jem." "Right it is, my lad." There was a clicking of the iron fastening, the window was thrust up higher and higher, till it was to the full extent of the ratchet support, and then by passing one arm over the light cross-beam, which divided the opening in two, Don was able to raise himself, and throw his leg over the front of the opening, so that the next minute he was sitting on the edge with one leg down the sloping roof, and the other hanging inside, but in a very awkward position, on account of the broad skylight. "Can't you open it more?" said Jem. "No; that's as far as the fastening will hold it up." "Push it right over, Mas' Don, so as it may lie back against the roof. Mind what you're doing, so as you don't slip. But you'll be all right. I've got the rope, and won't let it go." Don did as he was told, taking tightly hold of the long cross central bar, and placing his knees, and then his feet, against the front of the opening, so that he was in the position of a four-footed animal. Then his back raised up the hinged skylight higher and higher, till, holding on to the cross-bar with one hand, and the ratchet fastening with the other, he thrust up and up, till the skylight was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion. "All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!" _Bang_! _crash_! _jingle_! "Oh, Mas' Don!" "I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten." For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below. There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?" "No," said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles. They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter. "All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that wouldn't be nice. Hist! What's that?" "Can't hear anything, Jem." "More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble." "Don't, don't risk it, Jem," whispered Don, clinging to his hand. "What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas' Don, where's your pluck? Now then, I'm off; and when I'm down safe, I'll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes--once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be--off!" Don's heart felt in his mouth as his companion grasped the rope tightly, and let himself glide down the steep tiled slope, till he reached the edge over the gutter; and then, as he disappeared, dissolving--so it seemed--into the gloom, Don's breath was held, and he felt a singular pain at the chest. He grasped the rope, though, as he sat astride at the lower edge of the opening; and the loosely twisted hemp seemed to palpitate and quiver as if it were one of Jem's muscles reaching to his hands. Then all at once the rope became slack, as if the tension had been removed, and Don turned faint with horror. "It's broken!" he panted; and he strained over as far as he could without falling to hear the dull thud of his companion's fall. Thoughts fly fast, and in a moment of time Don had seen poor Jem lying crushed below, picked up, and had borne the news to his little wife. But before he had gone any further, the rope was drawn tight once more, and as he held it, there came to thrill his nerves three distinct jerks. "It's all right!" he panted; and grasped the rope with both hands. "Now then," he thought, "it only wants a little courage, and I can slide down and join him, and then we're free." Yes; but it required a good deal of resolution to make the venture. "Suppose Jem's weight had unwound the rope; suppose it should break; suppose--" "Oh, what a coward I am!" he muttered; and swinging his leg free, he lay upon his face for a moment, right upon the sloping tiles and then let the rope glide through his hands. It was very easy work down that slope, only that elbows and hands suffered, and sundry sounds suggested that waistcoat buttons were being torn off. But that was no moment for studying trifles; and what were waistcoat buttons to liberty? Another moment, and his legs were over the edge, and he was about to attempt the most difficult part of the descent, grasping beforehand, that as soon as he hung clear of the eaves, he should begin to turn slowly round. "Now for it," he said; and he was about to descend perpendicularly, when the rope was suddenly jerked violently. There was a loud ejaculation, and Jem's voice rose to where he hung. "No, no, Mas' Don. Back! Back! Don't come down." Then, as he hung, there came the panting and noise of a terrible struggle far below. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. PRISONERS AGAIN. Don's grasp tightened on the rope, and as he lay there, half on, half off the slope, listening, with the beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead, he heard from below shouts, the trampling of feet and struggling. "They've attacked Jem," he thought. "What shall I do? Go to his help?" Before he could come to a decision the noise ceased and all was perfectly still. Don hung there thinking. What should he do--slide down and try to escape, or climb back? Jem was evidently retaken, and to escape would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the skylight opening, up to which he dragged himself, and sat listening, astride, as he had been before the attempt was made. All was so still that he was tempted to slide down and escape for no sound suggested that any one was on the watch. But Jem! Poor Jem! It was like leaving him in the lurch. Still, he thought, if he did get away, he might give the alarm, and find help to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad," he said. "I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,--"Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk." Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him. "It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and discontent, while, at the end of every scene he evoked, came the thought that no matter how he repented, it was too late--too late! "How are you now, Jem?" he asked once or twice, as he tried to pierce the utter darkness; but there was no answer, and at last he relieved the weariness of his position by moving close up to the wall, so as to lean his back against it, and in this position, despite all his trouble, his head drooped forward till his chin rested upon his chest, and he fell fast asleep for what seemed to him only a few minutes, when he started into wakefulness on feeling himself roughly shaken. "Rouse up, my lad, sharp!" And looking wonderingly about him, he clapped one hand over his eyes to keep off the glare of an open lanthorn. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ON BOARD. It was a strange experience, and half asleep and confused, Don could hardly make out whether he was one of the captives of the press-gang, or a prisoner being conveyed to gaol in consequence of Mike Bannock's charge. All seemed to be darkness, and the busy gang of armed men about him worked in a silent, furtive way, hurrying their prisoners, of whom, as they all stood together in a kind of yard behind some great gates, there seemed to be about a dozen, some injured, some angry and scowling, and full of complaints and threats now that they were about to be conveyed away; but every angry remonstrance was met by one more severe, and sometimes accompanied by a tap from the butt of a pistol, or a blow given with the hilt or flat of a cutlass. "This here's lively, Mas' Don," said Jem, as he stood beside his companion in misfortune. "I want to speak to the principal officer," said Don, excitedly. "We must not let them drive us off as if we were sheep." "Will you take a bit of good advice, my lad?" said a familiar voice at his ear. "If it is good advice," said Don, sharply. "Then hold your tongue, and go quietly. I'll speak to the lieutenant when we get aboard." Don glanced sharply at the bluff-looking boatswain who had spoken, and he seemed to mean well; but in Don's excitement he could not be sure, and one moment he felt disposed to make a bold dash for liberty, as soon as the gates were opened, and then to shout for help; the next to appeal to his fellow-prisoners to make a bold fight for liberty; and while these thoughts were running one over another in his mind, a sharp order was given, the gates were thrown open, and they were all marched down a narrow lane, dimly lit by one miserable oil lamp at the end. Almost as they reached the end the familiar odour, damp and seaweedy, of the tide reached Don's nostrils; and directly after he found himself being hurried down a flight of wet and slippery stone steps to where a lanthorn showed a large boat, into which he was hurried along with the rest. Then there was the sensation of movement, as the boat rose and fell. Fresh orders. The splash of oars. A faint creaking sound where they rubbed on the tholes, and then the regular measured dip, dip, and splash, splash. "Tide runs sharp," said a deep voice. "Give way, my lads, or we shall be swept by her; that's it." Don listened to all this as if it were part of a dream, while he gazed wildly about at the dimly-seen moving lights and the black, shadowy-looking shapes of the various vessels which kept on looming up, till after gradually nearing a light away to his left, the boat was suddenly run up close to a great black mass, which seemed to stand up out of the water that was lapping her sides. Ten minutes later the boat in which he had come off was hanging to the davits, and he, in company with his fellows, was being hurried down into a long low portion of the 'tween decks, with a couple of lanthorns swinging their yellow light to and fro, and trying to make haloes, while an armed marine stood sentry at the foot of the steps leading up on deck. Every one appeared too desolate and despondent to say much; in fact, as Don sat upon the deck and looked at those who surrounded him, they all looked like so many wounded men in hospital, or prisoners of war, in place of being Englishmen--whose duty henceforth was to be the defence of their country. "Seems rum, don't it?" said Jem in a whisper. "Makes a man feel wild to be laid hold on like this." "It's cruel! It's outrageous!" cried Don, angrily. "But here we are, and--what's that there noise?" said Jem, as a good deal of shouting and trampling was heard on deck. Then there was a series of thumps and more trampling and loud orders. "Are they bringing some more poor wretches on board, Jem?" "Dunno. Don't think so. Say, Mas' Don, I often heared tell of the press-gang, and men being took; but I didn't know it was so bad as this." "Wait till morning, Jem, and I hope we shall get justice done to us." "Then they'll have to do it sharp, for it's morning now, though it's so dark down here, and I thought we were moving; can't you feel?" Jem was quite right; the sloop was under weigh. Morning had broken some time; and at noon that day, the hope of being set at liberty was growing extremely small, for the ship was in full sail, and going due west. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. JEM IS HUNGRY. The first time the pressed men were mustered Don was well prepared. "You leave it to me, Jem," he whispered. "I'll wait till our turn comes, and then I shall speak out to the officer and tell him how we've been treated." "You'd better make haste, then, Mas' Don, for if the thing keeps on moving like this, I sha'n't be able to stand and hear what you have to say." For a good breeze was blowing from the south coast, sufficient to make the waves curl over, and the sloop behave in rather a lively way; the more so that she had a good deal of canvas spread, and heeled over and dipped her nose sufficiently to admit a great wave from time to time to well splash the forward part of the deck. Don made no reply, for he felt white, but he attributed it to the mental excitement from which he suffered. There were thirty pressed men on deck, for the most part old sailors from the mercantile marine, and these men were drafted off into various watches, the trouble to the officers being that of arranging the fate of the landsmen, who looked wretched in the extreme. "'Pon my word, Jones," said a smart-looking, middle-aged man in uniform, whom Don took to be the first lieutenant, "about as sorry a lot of Bristol sweepings as ever I saw." "Not bad men, sir," said the petty officer addressed. "Wait till they've shaken down into their places." "Now's your time, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Now or never." Don was on the alert, but just as the officer neared them the vessel gave a sudden pitch, and of the men standing in a row the minute before, not one remained upon his feet. For it seemed as if the deck had suddenly dropped down; and as Don and Jem rolled over into the lee scuppers, they were pretty well doused by the water that came splashing over the bows, and when, amidst a shout of laughter from the sailors, the order was given for them to get up and form in line again, Jem clung tightly to Don, and said, dolefully,-- "It's of no use, Mas' Don; I can't. It's like trying to stand on running barrels; and--oh, dear me!--I do feel so precious bad." Don made no reply, but caught at the side of the vessel, for everything around seemed to be swimming, and a peculiarly faint sensation had attacked him, such as he had never experienced before. "There, send 'em all below," said the officer, who seemed half angry, half-amused. "Pretty way this is, of manning His Majesty's ships. There, down with you. Get 'em all below." Don did not know how he got below. He had some recollection of knocking the skin off his elbows, and being half dragged into a corner of the lower deck, where, for three days, he lay in the most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay." "Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers. "What's it got to do with you?" said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the _rendez-vous_ where they were taken after being seized. "What's it got to do with me? Everything. So you're goin' to desert, both of you, are you? Do you know what that means?" "No; nor don't want," growled Jem. "Then I'll tell you. Flogging, for sartain, and p'r'aps stringing up at the yard-arm, as an example to others." "Ho!" said Jem; "do it? Well, you look the sort o' man as is best suited for that; and just you look here. Nex' time I ketches you spying and listening to what I say, I shall give you a worse dressing down than I give you last time, so be off." "Mutinous, threatening, and talking about deserting," said the sinister-looking sailor, with a harsh laugh, which sounded as if he had a young watchman's rattle somewhere in his chest. "Nice thing to report. I think this will do." He went off rubbing his hands softly, and mounted the ladder, Jem watching him till his legs had disappeared, when he turned sharply to Don. "Him and me's going to have a regular set-to some day, Mas' Don. He makes me feel warm, and somehow that bit of a row has done me no end o' good. Here, come on deck, and let's see if he's telling tales. Come on, lad. P'r'aps I've got a word or two to say as well." Don had not realised it before, but as he followed Jem, he suddenly woke to the fact that he did not feel so weak and giddy, while, by the time he was on deck, it as suddenly occurred to him that he could eat some breakfast. "I thought as much," said Jem. "Lookye there, Mas' Don. Did you ever see such a miserable sneak?" For there, not half-a-dozen yards away, was the sinister-looking sailor talking to the bluff boatswain. "Oh, yes, of course," said the latter, as he caught sight of the recruits. "So does every man who is pressed, and if he does not say it, he thinks it. There, be off." The ill-looking sailor gave Jem an ugly look and went aft, while the boatswain turned to Don. "That's right," he said. "Make a bit of an effort, and you're all the better for it. You'll get your sea legs directly." "I wish he'd tell us where to get a sea leg o' mutton, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I _am_ hungry." "What's that?" said the boatswain. "Only said I was hungry," growled Jem. "Better and better. And, now, look here, you two may as well set to work without grumbling. And take my advice; don't let such men as that hear either of you talk about desertion again. It doesn't matter this time, but, by-and-by, it may mean punishment." CHAPTER NINETEEN. A CONVERSATION. The gale was left behind, and the weather proved glorious as they sped on towards the tropics, both going through all the drudgery to be learned by Government men, in company with the naval drill. There was so much to see and learn that Don found it impossible to be moody; and, for the most part, his homesickness and regrets were felt merely when he went to his hammock at nights; while the time spent unhappily there was very short, for fatigue soon sent him to sleep. The boatswain was always bluff, manly, and kind, and following out his advice, both Jem and Don picked up the routine of their life so rapidly as to gain many an encouraging word from their officers--words which, in spite of the hidden determination to escape at the first opportunity, set them striving harder and harder to master that which they had to do. "Yes," Jem used to say, "they may be civil, but soft words butters no parsnips, Mas' Don; and being told you'll some day be rated AB don't bring a man back to his wife, nor a boy--I mean another man--back to his mother." "You might have said boy, Jem; I'm only a boy." "So'm I, Mas' Don--sailor boy. You seem getting your head pretty well now, Mas' Don, when we're up aloft." "That's what I was thinking of you, Jem." "Well, yes, sir, tidy--tidy like, and I s'pose it arn't much worse than coming down that there rope when we tried to get away; but I often feel when I'm lying out on the yard, with my feet in the stirrup, that there's a precious little bit between being up there and lying down on the deck, never to get up again." "You shouldn't think of it, Jem. I try not to." "So do I, but you can't help it sometimes. How long have we been at sea now?" "Six months, Jem." "Is it now? Don't seem so long. I used to think I should get away before we'd been aboard a week, and it's six months, and we arn't gone. You do mean to go if you get a chance?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, frowning. "I said I would, and I will." "Arn't it being a bit obstinate like, Mas' Don?" "Obstinate? What, to do what I said I'd do?" "Well, p'r'aps not, sir; but it do sound obstinate all the same." "You like being a sailor then, Jem?" "Like it? Being ordered about, and drilled, and sent aloft in rough weather, and all the time my Sally thousands o' miles away? Well, I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, talking like that." "It was your own fault, Jem. I can't help feeling as I did. It was such a cruel, cowardly way of kidnapping us, and dragging us away, and never a letter yet to tell us what they think at home, after those I sent. No, Jem, as I've said before, I'd have served the king as a volunteer, but I will not serve a day longer than I can help after being pressed." "T'others seem to have settled down." "So do we seem to, Jem; but perhaps they're like us, and only waiting for a chance to go." "Don't talk out loud, Mas' Don. I want to go home: but somehow I sha'n't quite like going when the time does come." "Why not?" "Well, some of the lads make very good messmates, and the officers arn't bad when they're in a good temper; and I've took to that there hammock, Mas' Don. You can't think of how I shall miss that there hammock." "You'll soon get over that, Jem." "Yes, sir, dessay I shall; and it will be a treat to sit down at a decent table with a white cloth on, and eat bread and butter like a Christian." "Instead of tough salt junk, Jem, and bad, hard biscuits." "And what a waste o' time it do seem learning all this sailoring work, to be no use after all. Holy-stoning might come in. I could holy-stone our floor at home, and save my Sally the trouble, and--" Jem gave a gulp, then sniffed very loudly. "Wish you wouldn't talk about home." Don smiled sadly, and they were separated directly after. The time went swiftly on in their busy life, and though his absence from home could only be counted in months, Don had shot up and altered wonderfully. They had touched at the Cape, at Ceylon, and then made a short stay at Singapore before going on to their station farther east, and cruising to and fro. During that period Don's experience had been varied, but the opportunity he was always looking for did not seem to come. Then a year had passed away, and they were back at Singapore, where letters reached both, and made them go about the deck looking depressed for the rest of the week. Then came one morning when there was no little excitement on board, the news having oozed out that the sloop was bound for New Zealand, a place in those days little known, save as a wonderful country of tree-fern, pine, and volcano, where the natives were a fierce fighting race, and did not scruple to eat those whom they took captive in war. "Noo Zealand, eh?" said Jem. "Port Jackson and Botany Bay, I hear, Jem, and then on to New Zealand. We shall see something of the world." "Ay, so we shall, Mas' Don. Bot'ny Bay! That's where they sends the chaps they transports, arn't it?" "Yes, I believe so." "Then we shall be like transported ones when we get there. You're right, after all, Mas' Don. First chance there is, let me and you give up sailoring, and go ashore." "I mean to, Jem; and somehow, come what may, we will." CHAPTER TWENTY. A NATURALISED NEW ZEALANDER. Three months had passed since the conversation in the last chapter, when after an adverse voyage from Port Jackson, His Majesty's sloop-of-war under shortened sail made her way slowly towards what was in those days a land of mystery. A stiff breeze was blowing, and the watch were on deck, ready for reducing sail or any emergency. More were ready in the tops, and all on board watching the glorious scene unfolding before them. "I say, Mas' Don, look ye there," whispered Jem, as they sat together in the foretop. "If this don't beat Bristol, I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!" said Don contemptuously; "why, it's as different as can be." "Well, I dunno so much about that," said Jem. "There's that mountain yonder smoking puts one in mind of a factory chimney. And look yonder too!--there's another one smoking ever so far off. I say, are those burning mountains?" "I suppose so, unless it's steam. But what a lovely place!" There were orders for shortening sail given just then, and they had no more opportunity for talking during the next quarter of an hour, when, much closer in, they lay in the top once more, gazing eagerly at the glorious prospect of sea and sky, and verdant land and mountain. The vessel slowly rounded what appeared to be a headland, and in a short time the wind seemed to have dropped, and the sea to have grown calm. It was like entering a lovely lake; and as they went slowly on and on, it was to find that they were forging ahead in a perfect archipelago, with fresh beauties opening up each minute. The land was deliciously green, and cut up into valley, hill, and mountain. One island they were passing sent forth into the clear sunny air a cloud of silvery steam, which floated slowly away, like a white ensign spread to welcome the newcomers from a civilised land. At their distance from the shore it was impossible to make out the individual trees, but there seemed to be clumps of noble pines some distance in, and the valleys were made ornamental with some kind of feathery growth. "Well, all I've got to say, Mas' Don, is this here--Singpore arn't to be grumbled at, and China's all very well, only hot; but if you and me's going to say good-bye to sailoring, let's do it here." "That's exactly what I was thinking, Jem," replied Don. "Say, Mas' Don, p'r'aps it arn't for me, being a servant and you a young master, to make remarks." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; we are both common sailors." "Well then, sir, as one sailor to another sailor, I says I wish you wouldn't get into bad habits." "I wish so too, Jem." "There you are again!" said Jem testily. "What do you mean?" "Why, so sure as I thinks something sensible and good, you always ketches me up and says you had thought it before." "Nonsense, Jem! Well, have it your way. I quite agree with you." "No, I won't, sir; you're master. Have it your way. I quite agree with you. Let's go ashore here." "If you can get the chance, Jem.--How lovely it looks!" "Lovely's nothing to it, sir. Mike used to brag about what he'd seen in foreign countries, but he never see anything to come up to this." "I don't think any one could see a more beautiful place, Jem." "But I don't like the look o' that, sir." "Of what?" "That there yonder. That smoke." "What, on that little island? No, Jem; it's steam." "Well, don't you know what that means?" "No." "Then I've got something at last as you arn't got first!" cried Jem excitedly, as he sheltered his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Yes; that's it's, sure. Cooking!" "Cooking? What's cooking?" "That place where the steam is, Mas' Don. I say, you know what they do here? That's the place where they do it." "Do what?" "Cook people. That's the spot, safe." "Nonsense!" said Don laughing. "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don; but if them sort o' things is done here, I think we'd better stop on board." Just at that moment the captain, who was busy with his spyglass examining the place and looking for a snug anchorage, suddenly gave an order, which was passed on, and with the rapidity customary on board a man-of-war, the stout boarding nettings, ready for use on an emergency, were triced up to the lower rigging, so that before long the vessel, from its bulwarks high up toward the lower yards, presented the appearance of a cage. While this was going on, others of the men stood to their arms, guns were cast loose and loaded, and every precaution taken against a surprise. The reason for all this was that quite a fleet of long canoes, propelled by paddles, suddenly began to glide out from behind one of the islands, each canoe seeming to contain from eighty to a hundred men. The effect was beautiful, for the long, dark vessels, with their grotesque, quaintly carved prows and sterns, seemed to be like some strange living creatures working along paths of silver, so regularly went the paddles, turning the sea into lines of dazzling light. The men were armed with spears and tomahawks, and as they came nearer, some could be seen wearing black feathers tipped with white stuck in their hair, while their dark, nearly naked bodies glistened in the sun like bronze. "Are they coming to attack us, Jem?" said Don, who began to feel a strange thrill of excitement. "Dessay they'd like to, Mas' Don; but it strikes me they'd think twice about it. Why, we could sail right over those long thin boats of theirs, and send 'em all to the bottom." Just then there was an order from the deck, and more sail was taken in, till the ship hardly moved, as the canoes came dashing up, the men of the foremost singing a mournful kind of chorus as they paddled on. "Ship ahoy!" suddenly came from the first canoe. "What ship's that?" "His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Golden Danae_," shouted back the first lieutenant from the chains. "Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire." "No, no, no: don't do that, sir! They don't mean fighting," came back from the boat; and a big savage, whose face was blue with tattooing, stood up in the canoe, and then turned and spoke to one of his companions, who rose and shouted to the occupants of the other canoes to cease paddling. "Speaks good English, sir," said the lieutenant to the captain. "Yes. Ask them what they want, and if it's peace." The lieutenant shouted this communication to the savage in the canoe. "Want, sir?" came back; "to trade with you for guns and powder, and to come aboard." "How is it you speak good English?" "Why, what should an Englishman speak?" "Then you are not a savage?" "Now do I look like one?" cried the man indignantly. "Of course; I forgot--I'm an Englishman on a visit to the country, and I've adopted their customs, sir--that's all." "Oh, I see," said the lieutenant, laughing; "ornaments and all." "May they come aboard, sir?" "Oh, yes; if they leave their arms." The man communicated this to the occupants of the boat, and there was a good deal of excited conversation for a time. "That fellow's a runaway convict for certain, sir," said the lieutenant. "Shall we get him aboard, and keep him?" "No. Let him be. Perhaps he will prove very useful." "The chiefs say it isn't fair to ask them to come without their arms," said the tattooed Englishman. "How are they to know that you will not be treacherous?" "Tell them this is a king's ship, and if they behave themselves they have nothing to fear," said the captain. "Stop! Six of them can come aboard armed if they like. You can lead them and interpret." "I'll tell them, sir; but I won't come aboard, thank you. I'm a bit of a savage now, and the crew might make remarks, and we should quarrel." He turned to the savages, and the captain and lieutenant exchanged glances, while directly after the canoe was run alongside, and half-a-dozen of the people sprang up the side, and were admitted through the boarding netting to begin striding about the deck in the most fearless way. They were fine, herculean-looking fellows, broad-shouldered and handsome, and every man had his face tattooed in a curious scroll-like pattern, which ended on the sides of his nose. Their arms were spears and tomahawks, and two carried by a stout thong to the wrist a curiously carved object, which looked like a model of a paddle in pale green stone, carefully polished, but which on closer inspection seemed to be a weapon for using at close quarters. As they paraded the deck, with their quick eyes grasping everything, they made no scruple about placing their faces close to those of the sailors, and then drawing themselves up with a conscious look of satisfaction and self-esteem, as they compared their physique with that of their visitors. One of them, a great fellow of about six feet three, and stout and muscular in proportion, stopped suddenly in front of Jem, at whom he seemed to frown, and turned to Don, upon whose chest he laid the back of his hand. "Pakeha," he said in a deep voice; "Ngati pakeha." "Tell him he's another, Mas' Don," said Jem. The savage turned fiercely upon Jem, gripping Don's arm the while. "Pakeha," he said; "Ngati pakeha. Maori pakeha. My pakeha!" Then to Don--"You my pakeha. Give me powder--gun." "Don't you wish you may get it, old chap?" said Jem. "Wants you to give him powder and gun." The savage nodded approval. "Yes," he said; "powder-gun--you give." A call from one of his companions summoned the savage away, and he joined them to partake of some rum and water, which the captain had had prepared on their behalf. "Won't you come up and have some rum?" said the lieutenant to the tattooed Englishman in the boat. "No, thank you; but you may send me down the bottle if you like, sir. Look here! Shall I show you where you can anchor?" The lieutenant glanced at his superior officer, and in answer to his nod turned to the man again. "Can you show us a safe anchorage?" "I can show you half-a-dozen, all safe," said the man. "When you like, I'll lead the way." "A boat shall follow you, and take soundings." The first cutter was manned with a well-armed crew, and the lieutenant stepped in--Don and Jem being two of the number. The tattooed Englishman shouted something to the men busy on the ship, and they unwillingly left the deck, slipped down into their canoe, and this led off, followed by the first cutter. "Give way, my lads!" said the lieutenant; "and mind this: there must be no straying off in any shape whatever--that is, if we land. These fellows seem friendly, but we are only a few among hundreds, and I suppose you know what your fate would be if they got the upper hand." "Make tattooed chiefs of us seemingly, sir," said Jem. "Or hot joints," said the officer laconically. "Ready there with that lead." The men rowed steadily on after the first canoe, and the man with the lead kept on making casts, but getting no bottom except at an excessive depth, as they went on, the scene growing more beautiful as each point was passed. The other canoes followed, and a curious thrill ran through Don, as he felt how helpless they would be if the savages proved treacherous, for the boat and her crew could have been overpowered at once; and the lieutenant was evidently uneasy, as he saw that they were taken right round to the back of a small island, gradually losing sight of the ship. But he had his duty to do, and keeping a strict watch, after passing the word to his men to have their arms ready, he made them row on, with the lead going all the time. It was a curious experience, and Don's heart beat as he thought of the possibility of escaping from the boat, and taking to the shore, wondering the while what would be the consequences. The man in the leading canoe was evidently well treated, and quite one in authority; and if they landed and joined these people, why should not he and Jem become so too? These were a few of the passing thoughts suggested by the novelty and beauty of the place, which seemed ten times more attractive to those who had been for months cooped up on shipboard; but the toil in which he was engaged kept Don from taking more than a casual glance ashore. Bosun Jones sat at the tiller side by side with the lieutenant, and scraps of their conversation reached Don's ears. "Well, sir," said the former, "as you say, we're out of the reach of the sloop's guns; but if anything happens to us, we may be sure that the captain will take pretty good revenge." "And a deal of good that will do us, Jones," said the lieutenant. "I believe that scoundrel is leading us into a trap." "If he is, sir, I hope for one chance at him," said the boatswain; "I don't think I should miss my man." The leading canoe went on for quite a quarter of a mile after they had passed out of sight of the ship, the cutter following and taking soundings all the way, till they seemed to be quite shut in by high land, and the water was as smooth as a lake. There, about five hundred yards from the shore, the canoe stopped, and almost at the same moment the water shallowed, so that the man in the bows got soundings in ten fathoms; directly after, nine; then eight; and eight again, at which depth the water seemed to remain. "Come, that's honest leading!" said the lieutenant, brightening; "as snug a berth as a ship could be in. Why, Jones, what a position for a port!" "This do, sir?" shouted the tattooed Englishman. "You'll be quite in shelter here, and the water keeps the same right up to the shore." A few more soundings were taken, and then the boat returned to the ship, which made her way in and anchored before night, with the canoes hanging about, and some of the chiefs eagerly besieging the gangway to be allowed on deck. But special precautions were taken; sentries were doubled; and, as if feeling that the fate of all on board depended upon his stringent regulations, the captain only allowed about half-a-dozen of the savage-looking people to come on board at a time. By a little management Don had contrived that Jem should have the hammock next to his; and that night, with the soft air playing in through the open port-hole, they listened to the faint sounds on shore, where the savages were evidently feasting, and discussed in a whisper the possibility of getting away. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. AN INVITATION. It seemed to Don that the object of the captain in coming to New Zealand was to select and survey portions of the coast for a new settlement; and for the next few days well-armed boat parties were out in all directions sounding, and in two cases making short journeys inland. "I say," said Jem one morning, as he and Don stood gazing over the side of the ship at the verdant shores. "Well, Jem, what do you say?" "Has that ugly-looking chap Ramsden been telling tales about us?" "I don't know; why?" "Because here's a fortnight we've been at anchor, and since the first day neither of us has been out in a boat." "Hasn't been our turn, Jem." "Well, p'r'aps not, sir; but it do seem strange. Just as if they thought we should slip away." "And I suppose we've given up all such thoughts as that now." "Oh, have we?" said Jem sarcastically; and then there was silence for a time, till Jem, who had been watching the steam rise from the little island about a quarter of a mile away, exclaimed, "Wonder what's being cooked over yonder, Mas' Don. I know; no, I don't. Thought it was washing day, but it can't be, for they don't hardly wear any clothes." "It's volcanic steam, Jem. Comes out of the earth." "Get along with you, Mas' Don. Don't get spinning yarns." "I'm telling you the truth, Jem." "Are you, sir? Well, p'r'aps it's what you think is the truth, I say, arn't it lovely out here? How I should like to have a cottage just on that there point, and my Sally to keep it tidy. Hullo! What's up?" The boatswain's shrill pipe was heard just then, and a boat's crew was summoned to take an exploring party ashore. To Don's great delight, he and Jem formed part of the boat's crew; and at last he felt that he was to see something of the beautiful place, which grew more attractive every time he scanned the coast. This time the captain was going to land; and, as the men were provided with axes, it seemed that they were about to make their way into the woods. The natives had been most friendly, bringing off and receiving presents; but, all the same, no precautions were omitted to provide for the safety of the ship and crew. It was a glorious morning, with hardly a breath of wind stirring, and the savages were lolling about on the shore. Their canoes were run up on the sands, and there was an aspect of calm and repose everywhere that seemed delightful. But the boat's crew had little time given them for thinking. The captain and a midshipman of about Don's age took their places in the stern sheets, Bosun Jones seized the tiller, the word was given, the oars splashed the water simultaneously, and the boat sped over the calm surface of the transparent sea, sending the shoals of fish darting away. The boat's head was set in quite a fresh direction, and she was run ashore a little way from the mouth of a rushing river, whose waters came foaming down through blocks of pumice and black masses of volcanic stone. As the boat's head touched the shore, the men leaped over right and left, and dragged her a short distance up the black glistening heavy sand, so that the captain could land dry-shod. Then preparations were made, arms charged, and Bosun Jones gave Don a friendly nod before turning to the captain. "Will you have this lad, sir, to carry a spare gun for you?" "Yes," said the captain; "a good plan;" and Don's eyes sparkled. "No," said the captain the next moment; "he is only a boy, and the walking will be too hard for him. Let him and another stay with the boat." Don's brow clouded over with disappointment, but it cleared a little directly after as he found that Jem was to be his companion; and as the party marched off toward where the forest came down nearly to the sea, they, in obedience to their orders, thrust the boat off again, climbed in, and cast out her grapnel a few fathoms from the shore. "I am disappointed," said Don, after they had sat in the boat some time, watching their companions till they had disappeared. "Oh, I dunno, Mas' Don; we've got some beef and biscuit, and somewhere to sit down, and nothing to do. They, poor fellows, will come back hot and tired out." "Yes; but's it's so dull here." "Well, I dunno 'bout that," said Jem, looking lazily round at the glorious prospect of glistening sea, island and shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely." "Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore." "Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard gates at Bristol, I'm with you, Mas' Don; but after all there's no place like home." There was a dead silence, during which Don sat gazing at a group of the savages half-a-mile away, as they landed from a long canoe, and ran it up the beach in front of one of the native _whares_ or dwellings. "Why, Jem!" Don exclaimed suddenly, "why not now?" "Eh?" said Jem, starting from watching a large bird dive down with a splash in the silvery water, and then rise again with a fish in its beak; "see that, Mas' Don?" "Yes, yes," exclaimed Don impatiently; "why not now?" "Why not now, Mas' Don?" said Jem, scratching his head; "is that what you call a connundydrum?" "Don't be stupid, man. I say, why not now?" "Yes, I heared you say so twice; but what does it mean?" "We're quite alone; we have a boat and arms, with food and water. Why not escape now?" "Escape, Mas' Don? What, run away now at once--desert?" "It is not running away, Jem; it is not deserting. They have robbed us of our liberty, and we should only be taking it back." "Ah, they'd preach quite a different sarmon to that," said Jem, shaking his head. "Why, you are never going to turn tail?" "Not I, Mas' Don, when the time comes; but it don't seem to have come yet." "Why, the opportunity is splendid, man." "No, Mas' Don, I don't think so. If we take the boat, 'fore we've gone far they'll ketch sight of us aboard, and send another one to fetch us back, or else make a cock-shy of us with the long gun." "Then let's leave the boat." "And go ashore, and meet our messmates and the captain." "Go in another direction." "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," said Jem, grinning. "Say, Mas' Don, how do they cook their food?" "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; that's only a traveller's tale. I believe the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem, "you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back." "Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I," said Jem; "it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am." "No offence meant, old chap," said Jem; and then from behind his hand he whispered to Don,-- "Look out, my lad; they mean the boat." "No, we don't," said the Englishman, contemptuously; "if we did we could have it. Why, I've only to give the word, and a hundred fellows would be out in a canoe before you knew where you were. No, my lad, it's peace; and I'm glad of a chance, though I'm happy enough here, to have a talk to some one from the old home. Never was in the west country, I suppose? I'm an Exeter man." "I've been in Exeter often," said Don eagerly; "we're from Bristol." The Englishman waded rapidly into the sea, his Maori companion dashing in on the other side of the boat, and Jem and Don seized their pistols. "Didn't I tell you it was peace?" said the Englishman, angrily. "I only wanted to shake hands." "Ho!" said Jem, suspiciously, as their visitor coolly seated himself on the gunwale of the boat, his follower taking the opposite side, so as to preserve the balance. "Enough to make you think we meant wrong," said the Englishman; "but we don't. Got any tobacco, mate?" "Yes," said Jem, producing his bag. "'Tarn't very good. Say, Mas' Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o' real old Charlestown, spun or leaf." "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?" said Jem. "That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow and eating him. How dull you are!" "Dull? You be here a few years among these people, talking their lingo, and not seeing an Englishman above once in two years, and see if you wouldn't be dull." "But is that true?" "About being cannibals? Yes it's true enough," said the man seriously; "and very horrid it is; but it's only when there's war." He had succeeded in striking a light now, and was smoking placidly enough on the boat's edge, but dreamily thoughtful, as if he were recalling matters that were past. "Has he ever--been at war?" said Don, altering the fashion of his inquiry when it was half uttered. "Often." "And--? You know," said Jem, who felt no delicacy about the matter. The Englishman nodded his head slowly, and sent forth a tremendous puff of smoke, while his companion moved toward Don, and smiled at him, tapping him on the shoulder with his hand, and seeming to nod approval. "Pakeha!" he said, excitedly; "my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What does he mean by that?" said Don, after he had suffered these attentions patiently for a few minutes. "Means he wants you to be his pakeha." "Yes: my pakeha; Maori pakeha!" cried the chief eagerly. "But what is a pakeha?" "Why, you're a pakeha, I'm a pakeha. They call foreigners pakehas; and he wants to claim you as his." "What, his slave?" cried Don. "No, no; he means his foreign brother. If you become his pakeha, he will be bound to fight for you. Eh, Ngati?" The savage gave vent to a fierce shout, and went through his former performance, but with more flourish, as if he were slaying numbers of enemies, and his facial distortion was hideous. "Well, when I was a little un, and went to school," said Jem, "I used to get spanks if I put out my tongue. Seems as if it's a fine thing to do out here." "Yes; it's a way they have when they're going to fight," said the Englishman thoughtfully. "S'pose it would mean trouble if I were to set you on to do it; but it wouldn't be at all bad for me if you were both of you to leave the ship and come ashore." "To be cooked?" said Jem. "Bah! Stuff! They'd treat you well. Youngster here's all right; Ngati would make him his pakeha." "My pakeha," cried the chief, patting Don again. "Much powder; much gun." "Pupil of mine," said the Englishman, smiling; "I taught him our lingo." "What does he mean?" said Don; "that he'd give me a big gun and plenty of powder?" The Englishman laughed. "No, no; he wants you to bring plenty of guns and powder ashore with you when you come." "When I come!" said Don, thoughtfully. "I sha'n't persuade you, my lad; but you might do worse. You'd be all right with us; and there are Englishmen here and there beginning to settle." "And how often is there a post goes out for England?" "Post? For England? Letters?" "Yes." "I don't know; I've been here a long time now, and I never had a letter and I never sent one away." "Then how should I be able to send to my Sally." "Dunno," said the man. "There, you think it over. Ngati here will be ready to take care of you, youngster; and matey here shall soon have a chief to take care of him." "I don't know so much about that," said Jem. "I should be ready enough to come ashore, but you've got some precious unpleasant ways out here as wouldn't suit me." "You'd soon get used to them," said the Englishman, drily; "and after leading a rough life, and being bullied by everybody, it isn't half bad to be a chief, and have a big canoe of your own, and make people do as you like." "But then you're a great powerful man," said Don. "They'd obey you, but they wouldn't obey me." "Oh, yes, they would, if you went the right way to work. It isn't only being big. They're big, much bigger all round than Englishmen, and stronger and more active. They're not afraid of your body, but of your mind; that's what they can't understand. If I was to write down something on a bit of wood or a leaf--we don't often see paper here--and give it to you to read, and you did the same to me, that gets over them: it's a wonder they can't understand. And lots of other things we know are puzzles to them, and so they think us big. You consider it over a bit, my lad; and if you decide to run for it, I'll see as you don't come to no harm." "And him too?" "Oh, yes; he shall be all right too; I'll see to that." "Shouldn't be too tempting for 'em, eh? Should I?" said Jem. "Not for our tribes here," said the Englishman, laughing; "but I may as well be plain with you. If we went to war with some of the others, and they got hold of you--" "Say, Mas' Don," said Jem interrupting the speaker, "I don't like being a sort of white nigger aboard ship, and being kept a prisoner, and told it's to serve the king; but a man can go into the galley to speak to the cook without feeling that he's wondering which jynte of you he shall use first. No thankye; it's a werry lovely country, but I want to get home to my Sally some day; and if we cut and run here, I'm afraid I never should." "You turn it over in your own minds, both of you, my lads. There, my pipe's out, and I think we'll go. Stop here long?" "Do you mean the ship, or here with the boat?" "Here with the boat," said the Englishman, holding out his hand. "Till our party comes back," said Jem. "I may see you again," said the Englishman; and shaking hands, he said a few words to his companion, and then began to wade ashore. The savage smiled and shook hands in turn, after which he patted Don on the shoulder again. "My pakeha," he said, sharply; "Maori pakeha--my." He followed his leader; and Don and Jem watched them till they disappeared amongst the abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. DON'S DECISION. "It's tempting, Jem," said Don. "Yes, Mas' Don; and it's untempting, too. I had a book once about manners and customs of foreign parts, but it didn't say things so plain as you've found 'em here." "Yes, I'm afraid it won't do, Jem. Even if we got away from the ship, it might be to a life that would be worse." "That's it, sir, as I said afore, `out of the frying-pan into the fire.' Wonder how long they'll be 'fore they come back." "Not till sundown. I say, shall we try it or sha'n't we?" Jem scratched his head, and seemed to be hesitating. "I don't know what to say, Jem. If they treated us well on board, I should be disposed to say let's put up with our life till we get back home." "But then they don't treat us well, Mas' Don. I don't grumble to you, but it's a reg'lar dog's life I lead; bully and cuss and swear at you, and then not even well fed." "But we are to be paid for it, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Paid, Mas' Don!" replied Jem, contemptuously. "What paying will make up for what we go through?" "And I suppose we should have prize-money if we fought and took a French ship." "But then we're sent right out here, Mas' Don, where there's no French ships to fight; and if there were, the prize-money is shared among them as aren't killed." "Of course." "Well, how do we know as we shouldn't be killed? No, Mas' Don, they don't behave well to us, and I want to get home again, and so do you." "Yes, Jem." "P'r'aps it's cowardly, and they'll call it desertion." "Yes, Jem." "But we sha'n't be there to hear 'em call it so." "No, Jem." "Therefore it don't matter, Mas' Don; I've thought this all over hundreds o' times when you've been asleep." "And I've thought it over, Jem, hundreds of times when you've been asleep." "There you go again, sir, taking the ideas out of a man's brain. You shouldn't, Mas' Don. I always play fair with you." "Yes, of course you do." "Well, then, you ought to play fair with me. Now look here, Mas' Don," continued Jem, seating himself on the gunwale of the boat, so as to let his bare feet hang in the water. "'Ware sharks, Jem," said Don quickly. Jem was balanced on the edge, and at those words he threw himself backward with his heels in the air, and after he had struggled up with some difficulty, he stood rubbing his head. "Where 'bouts--where 'bouts, sir?" "I did not see a shark, Jem, but the place swarms with them, and I thought it was a risk." "Well, I do call that a trick," grumbled Jem. "Hit my nut such a whack, I did, and just in the worst place." "Better than having a leg torn off, Jem. Well, what were you going to say?" "Bottom of the boat's nearly knocked it all out of my head," said Jem, rubbing the tender spot. "What I meant to say was that I was stolen." "Well, I suppose we may call it so." "Stolen from my wife, as I belongs to." "Yes, Jem." "And you belongs to your mother and your Uncle Josiah, so you was stolen, too." "Yes, Jem, if you put it in that way, I suppose we were." "Well, then," said Jem triumphantly, "they may call it cowardly, or desertion, or what they like; but what I say is this, a man can't be doing wrong in taking stolen goods back to them as they belong to." "No, Jem, I s'pose not." "Very well then, Mas' Don; the question is this--Will you or won't you?" "I will, Jem." "First chance?" "Yes, I am decided." "That's a bargain then, my lad. So shake hands on it. Why! How rough and hard and tarry your hands have grown!" "Look out, Jem!" Don caught hold of the grapnel rope ready to haul up and get away from the shore, but Jem seized his hand. "It's all right, Mas' Don. Only them two running back with a basket, and I'm in that sort o' way of thinking that they've only got to coax me a bit, and swear as there shall be no tattooing and meat-pie nonsense, and I'd go ashore with them now." "No, Jem, that would not do till we know a little more of them, and I can't help hesitating now it comes to the point." "That's just what I felt, Mas' Don," said Jem, with a perplexed look on his face. "Come, Jem, who's stealing some one else's ideas now?" "Like fruit?" said the tattooed Englishman, coming down to the water's edge. "That depends," said Jem, dubiously. "What is it?" "Karaka," said their new friend, offering a basket of an olive-like fruit. "Good to eat?" "Yes; try it." "S'pose you eat some first," said Jem suspiciously. The Englishman laughed, and took some of the fruit, and began to chew it. "Afraid these would drug you so that I could steal the boat?" "I didn't know," said Jem sulkily. "Wouldn't be the first who has stolen a boat, I suppose." Don took some of the berries, and began to eat, and this emboldened Jem, who tasted one in a very suspicious and doubting way. "Hullo!" he said, with his countenance brightening; "know what these here taste like, Mas' Don?" "Very mellow apple?" "No; like the medlars that grew in my grandmother's garden." "That's right!" said the Englishman; and his New Zealand companion began to select the best and ripest of the fruit from the basket and handed them to Don, watching him eat with what was meant for a pleasant smile; but as his face resembled one that had been carved in a piece of mahogany, and afterwards ornamented with streaks and scrolls, the effect was more repellent than attractive. "My pakeha," said the great fellow with a childlike show of satisfaction; and he looked from one to the other and laughed. "Here, he's took to you regular, youngster; only look out, for he'll want _utu_ for it some time. Eh, Ngati? Utu?" "_Utu_, _utu_" said the chief, smiling. "What's utu?" said Jem, in a surly tone. "Payment." "Oh, then we'll give him a bit of 'bacco." He offered the New Zealander his tobacco-bag, which was quietly annexed with a smile. "There, we'll leave you the fruit. They're good eating, my lads, and if at any time before you go, you feel disposed to settle down with us, there's plenty of room, and it won't be very long before you'll grow into chiefs." He nodded, and then said a few words to his companion, who smiled at the two strangers in turn, after which they went off together into the forest, and were gone. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem. "Don't know whether it arn't safer aboard ship after all." "Why do you say that?" cried Don. "Because whenever that black chap looks at me, he gives me the shivers." "Why?" "Seems to me that he's too fond of you, Mas' Don, and as if he was thinking how good you'd be." "Nonsense!" cried Don, who was enjoying the fruit. "Have some more of these. I wonder whether there are any more good kinds of fruit grow ashore." "Sure to be." "Do you think if we left the ship, Jem, and found our way right along the coast to some place where we could live till the ship had gone, and then wait till another ship came, we could get enough to eat?" "Dessay we could." "Because if we did, we should be quite independent, and could do as we liked." "To be sure, that's the way it seems to me; but just now, Mas' Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care. It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck. Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then one brilliantly decked in gold and silver and blue came floating by, and Don watched it eagerly, wishing the while that he had a line. He was leaning over the side in this way, gazing down at the water, now about four feet deep where the boat had swung, when he became aware of something pale and shadowy some little distance off. Looking at it in a sloping direction made the ocean water seem so dense that he could not make out what it was for some little time. At first it seemed to be a dimly-seen patch of seaweed; then it appeared to be too regular and rounded, and it struck him that it must be a large transparent jelly-fish floating in with the tide, till he made out that it was continued backward from him, and that it was larger than he had imagined; and as he looked the object gradually grew plainer and more distinct. It was still shadowy and grey, and had a peculiar, strange attraction, which made him lean more over the side till a curious nightmare-like sensation came over him, and as he realised that the object was alive, and that he was looking down at two strange dull eyes, he felt that he could not shrink back, although the creeping chilly feeling which came over him seemed like a warning of danger. Then it all appeared more like a dream, in which he was striving hard to get away, and all the time obliged to crouch there gazing at that creature whose eyes were fixed upon him, and which imperceptibly grew plainer to his sight. The intensity of the position grew more and more painful during what appeared to be a long time. He tried to call to Jem, who was asleep not six feet away, but his mouth felt dry. He endeavoured to reach out and kick him, but he could not stir, and still the creature advanced till, all at once, there was a tremendous disturbance in the water; something seemed to rise and strike him a violent blow in the chest, and the next moment he was seated in the bottom of the boat, which was rocking violently, and staring stupidly at Jem, who sat up staring back. "What yer do that for?" cried Jem angrily. "I'd only just closed my eyes." "I did not do anything," faltered Don, shivering. "Yes, you did!" cried Jem. "Asked me to sit up and watch, and I'd ha' done it. Needn't ha' played tricks." "I--I--" "There, don't say you didn't, Mas' Don. Boat's rocking now, and you'd better swab up that water. Nice row there'd be if the skipper come back and found the boat all wet." Jem picked up the swab and began to remove the water himself, and in doing so he noticed Don's face. "Why, hullo, Mas' Don! What's the matter? You look as white as--Why, what now?" Jem was about to lean over the side and wring the swab, when Don sprang astern and dragged him back. "Look! Look!" he cried, pointing. Jem followed the direction of the pointing finger, and shrank away with a shudder. "What? A shark!" he exclaimed. "Yes; it rose at me out of the water, and struck me in the chest, and I fell back, and so did he." "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem, as he seized the boathook, and rested it on the gunwale. "Don't touch, it," whispered Don; "it may spring out of the water at you." "It had better not," said Jem. "Hah!" He drove the boathook down with all his might, striking the great fish just as it was slowly rising toward the surface, close to the boat; and so well aimed was the stroke, that there was a tremendous swirl in the water, the side near Jem resounded with a heavy blow from the fish's tail, and the boathook seemed to be snatched out of the striker's hand to go slowly sailing away oceanward. "Look at that!" cried Jem. "Why, I must have driven it right into him. How are we to get it back?" "Watch it," said Don, excitedly. "It will come out and float directly." Don's prophecy did not come to pass, for as they watched, they saw about a foot of the boathook shaft stand sloping out of the water, and go here and there in a curious manner. "Let's row after it," suggested Don. "Wouldn't be no good, Mas' Don; and we've got nothing to fight him with but pistols. Let him be, and the thing will soon wriggle out." Jem proved as far wrong as his companion, for, after a time, as they watched and saw the end of the shaft bob here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away. "Why, Mas' Don," said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever so long, the float's gone right under water. Now's your time. Strike!" "And we've no line," said Don, who was beginning to get rid of his nervous sensation. "No, we haven't a line," said Jem. "Keep your eye on the place where he went down; we mustn't lose that hitcher. Say, it won't do to try and swim ashore. That's a shark, that is, and a big one, too. Did he hurt you?" "Not much. It was like a tremendous blow with somebody's fist. Look!" "Told you so!" cried Jem. "Here he comes with a rush to give us back the boathook." "Or to attack the boat," said Don, as the end of the shaft suddenly appeared away to their right; and then came rapidly nearer in a direct line for where they were. "Not he," said Jem sturdily. "Too stupid." All the same, there was soon a peculiar rising in the water coming direct for them, as the boathook seemed to plough through the sea, which rapidly grew shallower. Onward it came, nearer and nearer, till Jem gave a warning shout, and placed one foot on the side ready to plunge overboard. "Don't do that, Jem; it's certain death!" cried Don. "Don't you stop, Mas' Don; that's certain death, too. Let's swim ashore. Now, my lad, now, now. Don't stop a fellow; don't!" Jem shouted these words excitedly, as Don clung to him and held him back, gazing wildly all the time at the disturbed water, as the great fish swiftly approached, till, just as it was within a few yards, the shallowness of the water seemed to startle it, making it give quite a bound showing half its length, and then diving down with a kind of wallow, after which the occupants of the boat saw the wooden pole go trailing along the surface, till once more it was snatched, as it were, out of sight. "Don't seem as if he's going to shake it out," said Jem. "You must have driven the spike in right over the hook, and it acts like a barb. What a blow you must have given!" "Well, I hit as hard as I could," said Jem. "He was coming at me. Can you see it now?" "No." "Keep a sharp look-out; it's sure to come up sometime." The sharp look-out was kept; but they did not see the boathook again, though they watched patiently till nearly sundown, when a hail came from the woods; and as the boat-keepers got up the grapnel and ran the light vessel in shore, the captain and his men appeared slowly to their left, and came down as if utterly wearied out. "Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight." Jaded, their clothes torn in all directions, coated with mud, and with their faces smeared and scored, the blood stains on their cheeks and hands gave the returning party all the appearance of those who had been engaged in a fight for life. But it had only been an encounter with the terrible thorns and spines of the wild land they had explored, and the wounds, much as they had bled, were but skin deep. The boat-keepers leaped out, and ran the stern in as close as they could, and the captain was in the act of stepping in, placing a hand on Don's shoulder to steady himself, worn out as he was with his long tramp, when it seemed to Don that he felt the cold, slimy touch of a shark gliding up against his bare legs, and with a start of horror he sprang sidewise, with the result that the captain, who was bearing down upon the lad's shoulder, fell sidewise into the sea. "You clumsy idiot!" cried the captain; and forgetting himself in his annoyance, worn out as he was, and irritable from his great exertions, he caught at Don's extended hand, and then as he rose struck the boy a heavy blow with his doubled fist right in the chest. Don staggered heavily, fell into the water, and then struggled up drenched as the captain was before him. Then, forgetting in his hot rage everything about their relative positions and the difference in age, the boy made for the tall, frowning officer before him, and would have struck him in his blind wrath but for Bosun Jones, who had seen everything, and now hastily interposed. "No, no, my boy," he said. "Keep back, you are too wet to do any good. Allow me, sir." Don shrank back, realising the heinousness of the social sin he was about to commit, and a dead silence fell on the group, the men staring wonderingly as the captain accepted Bosun Jones' help, stepped into the boat, and stood wringing himself. "Why, the young dog was going to strike me!" cried the captain. "Surely not, sir," said the boatswain hastily. "Only going to help you, sir." "Help me! I believe he was going to hit out. Here, sir, what made you start away like that?" "He thought it was a shark, sir," cried Jem. "One's been about the boat all the aft'noon." "Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the captain sternly. "Here, you boy, what made you flinch!" "Thought I felt the shark touch me, sir," said Don, sullenly. "Oh, then I am to be thrown into the water because you are a cowardly young idiot," cried the captain. "I'll talk to you to-morrow. In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop. "Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook," said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem. "Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?" "Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it that way. They arn't so werry heavy, and they don't hurt much." "Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves." "What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard." "It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence." "Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales." "But he had no right to do this, I say." "P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once." "He would not dare," said Don. "Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of all the mean, dirty, sneaking chaps I ever set eyes on, he's about the worst." "A mean, cowardly spy!" cried Don. "Ah, that's it; so he is, Mas' Don; a mean, cowardly spy. I couldn't think o' them words, but they're just what he is.--Say, Mas' Don." "Don't, don't, don't, Jem." "Don't what, Mas' Don?" "Don't do that. _Master Don_. It sounds so foolish, and it's ridiculous, seeing what we are." "All right, my lad, I'll be careful; but what I wanted to say was, would there be any harm in taking Master Ramsden by his waistband, and dropping him some night over into the sea?" "Do you want to commit murder, Jem?" "Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking." "Amongst the sharks?" "Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?" "They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem." "So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?" "Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves." "What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl." "I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way." "That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?" "Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?" "Yes." "Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut, but I thought that out after I'd measured it, and I found that it would just go in at the top warehouse doors if we hauled it up with the crane." "You used to call it winding anything up, Jem." "Ay, but I hadn't been to sea then, Mas' Don. Well, didn't I have that there case up to the top floor, and then lower it down through all the traps, and get it into the ground floor without the door being cut; and when your uncle come in, he stared, and asked me how I'd managed it?" "Yes, I remember it all," said Don sadly. "Look here, you two. I don't want to be hard," said the marine; "but you'll get me into a row. Now, are you going to clap on the hatchways, or am I to report you?" "All right, Jolly; we won't talk any more," said Jem; and he kept his word that night. There was no release next day, and very drearily it passed till towards evening, when Jem waited till the sentry's back was turned, and put his lips to Don's ear. "I've got it, Mas' Don," he said. "What, can you see your way to escape?" "I've hit it out, my lad. Look here. Do you know them's men's irons you've got on?" "Yes. They don't make irons for boys." "Then look here, my lad; it may mean a bit of skin off; but all you've got to do is to squeeze your feet through those rings, and then I'll be bound to say a thin slip of a fellow like you can creep out of the iron round your waist." "I don't think so, Jem. I'm stouter than you fancy." "Oh no, you're not, and I dessay it'll be a tight fit; but you do it." "And suppose I do get out of them, what about you?" "About me, Mas' Don? Ah, I don't know about me; but you could get right away, slide down the rope, get the gig up alongside--" "When it's swinging from the davits, Jem?" "There you go again," grumbled Jem. "I never did see such a fellow for chucking stumbling-blocks all over the place for a man to hit his shins against." "Then propose something possible. And besides, you don't suppose I'm going away without you." "But I can't get my irons off, and you can get yours." "I don't know that," said Don, trying; and, to his great surprise, finding that he could drag the ring over his ankle without much difficulty. "There, I told you so. Slip it on again 'fore the sentry sees." The marine was not likely to see, for the place was very dark where they sat, and for a long time they discussed the matter in a whisper, but only to be obliged to come to the conclusion that it was impossible to escape, unless Don would go alone. "Well, if you won't go alone, you won't, Mas' Don," said Jem, in an ill-used tone; "but I do say as it's shabby of you, after I've thought about it so much." The second night of their imprisonment passed slowly, and they were cudgelling their brains next day, when they were summoned on deck, received a severe reprimand, and, after their irons had been taken off, were told to go to their duty. Then a week passed of land surveying and chart making, during which time the intercourse with the natives had been kept on a very friendly footing; and then a rumour ran round the ship that they were to sail after a certain channel had been sounded and the chart made. "It's all over, Mas' Don," said Jem gloomily. "We shall go sailing away all over the world, and be took by the French, and never see home again!" Don made no reply, but went about his duty gloomily enough till toward afternoon, when a canoe came off from the shore, manned by about fifty of the New Zealanders, and with Tomati and Ngati in the stern. These two were soon on board, and were entertained by the captain, who made them several useful presents. How he managed it Don hardly knew himself, but he contrived to get close behind the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,-- "Could you come after dark to-night in your canoe, and take us ashore?" "Hist! Mind what you're saying," replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance. "I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst of the applause. "I daren't do it, my lad. They'd come down after me if I did; but I'll send Ngati. He'll come in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile. The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in the appointments of the ship than they had displayed before, and the officers were civil enough to them, exchanging presents, and getting from the dusky warriors greenstone ornaments and weapons in exchange for powder and tobacco. Don's heart had ceased to beat, and he was thinking despondently that he might as well give up all idea of evasion, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, it was to encounter the hideous face of the big chief, who said, with a peculiar laugh,-- "My pakeha. Bring gunpowder plenty. Wait by big ship. Dark." It was not a very clear promise, but Don realised that it meant a chance of escape, and his eyes flashed with excitement, as the chief went on. "Plenty gunpowder. Bring, bring. My pakeha." He went off directly to where some of his fellows were standing about the deck, and hardly realising whether the chief was to be depended on, Don was about to go in search of Jem, when he felt a chill of despair, for, as he turned, he encountered the sinister countenance of Ramsden, his eye fixed upon him in a watchful way, and a satisfied smile playing about his lips. Did he hear? Did he know? If he did, Don felt certain that the scoundrel would go and report all to one of the officers, and so get it to the captain's ears. Still there was hope. He might not have heard, and as to the New Zealand men speaking to him, they were doing that to nearly every sailor they encountered on the deck. Still he felt that it would be better not to be seen speaking to Jem, and he crossed to another part of the ship, and stood watching the leave-taking of the visitors, who descended into their canoe laden with presents and the objects they had obtained by barter. Tomati was the last to descend, and he was standing in the gangway with a bottle of rum and a canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,-- "I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here." The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face. "What island did you say, sir?" he said at last. "Norfolk Island. Am I right?" "I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now." He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain. "That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking. Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him. It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone. "We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down. "What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone. Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it. "No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?" "Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night." "Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance." "Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you." "Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes." "And what then?" "Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard." "And the sharks, my lad?" "Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them." "That's what I used to do, but you always remembered." "Jem," said Don, after a pause, "we must chance the sharks. They will not see us in the dark." "But if--No; I won't show the white feather, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and we'll get a rope over to starboard and larboard too." "No need, Jem," said Don. "The canoe is sure to come from the land side." "All right, sir. Come on, and don't say another word." Jem crept away, keeping in the shadow, and moving very slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and Don followed, while, as soon as he had gone a few yards, what looked like a dog slowly crept by on all fours close beneath the bulwark, after getting up from a crouching position just by where the pair had been discussing their chances of escape. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE ALARM. There were so many opportunities for lying _perdu_ on the deck of a man-of-war on a dark night that the shadowy figure had no difficulty in keeping pretty close to Don Lavington and his companion as, decided now upon their course of action, they laid hold upon a stout line where it was coiled up, and after running a sufficiency over the side to touch water, made it fast close to the main chains. This done, they went cautiously forward so as to avoid the watch, and after being nearly seen, more than once, succeeded in getting a second line over the side close to the fore chains, in happy unconsciousness of the fact that the shadowy-looking figure was watching every movement. As is the fashion aboard a man-of-war, the actors in this scene were barefooted, and thus able to pass quietly along the well-scrubbed deck; but unfortunately for them, the sailor playing the spy had the same advantage, and kept them in view unnoticed and unheard. Now he was lying under the bulwarks, and so close that Jem's foot almost touched his shoulder. Another time he was lying in one of the boats slung from the davits--then behind a coil of rope--behind the cook's galley--in the lee of a cask--once in a water barrel which was to be filled with the icy fluid of the river which came down from one of the mountains; always, with the activity of a monkey, contriving to be somewhere close at hand, till they stood at last, silent and watchful, about mid-way between the fore and main chains, peering out into the darkness shoreward and listening for the faintest sound from off the sea. It was a wonderfully still night, and though out to the east the restless waves beat heavily on reef and shore, their action here was a slow heaving and curling over on the black metallic sand with a sound that to those on shipboard was like a whisper, but whose movement could be seen by a faint line of lambent light just in the blackest part to leeward of the ship, where sea touched shore. Sometimes this was so faint as to be hardly visible to the best-trained sight; at others it was as if some phosphorescent serpent was gliding swiftly along the sands, and it was in this direction that Don strained his eyes in the hope of catching sight of Ngati's canoe, whose paddles would churn up the water and shed on either side a faint golden light. On board there were the customary anchor lanterns, and the faint glow thrown up from the skylights; but these seemed to have scarcely any effect upon the darkness, which hung down like a pall over the vessel, and Don's spirits rose as he felt how well they were concealed. Then they sank once more, for Jem placed his lips close to his ear and whispered,-- "It's too dark, my lad; we shall never be able to see the canoe if she comes." Just then Don pressed his arm, and they listened together to what sounded like a faint sawing noise, which stopped and was renewed several times, and was followed by a slight splash. The sounds came from forward, apparently somewhere in the direction of the foreshrouds; but though they listened intently it was heard no more. "Fish," said Jem in a whisper, "trying to climb up into the ship, and then tumbled back into the sea." "Nonsense!" said Don, shortly. "Now you look to the left, and I'll look to the right." "Right, my lad. I'll look, but she won't come." The searching scrutiny went on, and to Don, as he strained his eyes, it seemed as if all kinds of uncouth-looking monsters kept looming up out of the sea and disappearing; and though from time to time he told himself that it was all fancy, the various objects that his excited vision formed were so real that it was hard to believe that they were only the coinage of his fancy. He turned and looked on board at the various lights, faintly-seen, with the result that his eyes were rested, while he listened to the monotonous talking of the watch and an occasional burst of laughter from the gunroom, or the regular murmur from the forecastle. Then he watched shoreward again for the faint golden flash made by the paddles of Ngati's canoe. No lambent glow, no sound of paddling, not even a murmur from the shore, where the native huts were gathered together, and the great _whare_ stood with its singularly carved posts representing human form over human form in strange combinations, with grotesque heads, pearly shell eyes, and tongues protruding from distorted mouths. Then Jem caught Don's arm in turn, for there was a splash far away to the left, below where, faintly-seen, a great sugar-loaf mountain rose high into the heavens. The splash was not repeated, but, just as they had given up listening for it, once more the dull sawing sound came out of the darkness, but this time, instead of being forward it was away aft--how far they could not tell, for in the darkness sounds, like lights, may be close at hand or a couple of hundred yards away--it is hard to tell which. The faint sawing went on for some time, ceased, and was renewed, to finish as before with a curious rustling and a splash. "What can that be, Jem?" whispered Don. "Not going to wenture an observation again," replied Jem, sourly. Then all was still save the murmurs of voices inboard, and Don stood pressed against the bulwark listening intently, and thinking that before they went below to their hammocks they must haul up the lines again and coil them down, or their appearance would betray that something had been going on. How long they had been waiting since the last sound was heard, Don could not tell; but all was so wonderfully still that the silence was oppressive; and after arriving at the conclusion that the canoe would not come, as from the utter absence of light or movement ashore it was evident that none of the natives were stirring, he turned to Jem. "Asleep?" he whispered. "I arn't a horse, am I?" was the surly reply. "Nice place to go to sleep standing up, Mas' Don.--Think he'll come?" "I in afraid not, now." "What shall us do?" Don was silent. "Say, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, after a thoughtful pause, "seems a pity to waste them ropes after--" "Hist!" Don's hand was on his lips, for voices were heard from aft, and directly after they heard the captain say,-- "Yes; extremely dark. Think we shall have a storm?" "No," said the first lieutenant, "the glass is too high. Very dark indeed." Then two faint sparks of light could be seen, indicating that the speakers were smoking, and the low murmuring of their voices suggested that they were chatting carelessly together. "Keep your hand down, Mas' Don," said Jem in a whisper, after removing it. "They can't hear us, and if they did they'd think it was the watch. Say, look here, seems a pity to waste them ropes after we've got 'em down ready." "Yes, Jem, it does." "Such a short way to slide down, and no fear o' their breaking, same as there was in that cock-loft. What d'yer say?" "What to?" "Let's slide down and swim for it. 'Tarn't quarter of a mile. You could do that easy." "Yes, Jem; I think so." "And I'd help you if you got tired. Let's go." "But the sharks." "There I goes again. I always forgets them sharks; but look here, my lad, it's dark as pitch." "Quite, Jem." "We can't see twenty yards afore us, not clear." "Not ten, Jem." "Well, that's through the air. We couldn't see an inch through water." "What of that?" "More couldn't the sharks." "Think not, Jem?" "I feel 'bout sure on it. Look here, Mas' Don, I arn't got any money, but if I had, I'd wager half-a-guinea that all the sharks are at home and fast asleep; and if there's any of 'em shut out and roaming about in the streets--I mean in the sea--it's so dark that they couldn't see more than an inch before their noses; so let's open our knives ready, in case one should come, so that we could dive down and stab him, same as the natives do, and then swim on ashore. I'll risk it: will you?" Don was silent for a few moments. "Don't say _yes_, my lad, if you'd rayther not," said Jem, kindly. "I don't want to persuade you." "I'm ready, Jem. I was thinking whether it was right to let you go." "Oh, never you mind about me, my lad. Now, look here, shall us one go down each rope, or both down one?" "Both down this one close here, and whoever goes down first can wait for the other. Yes, Jem; I'll go first." "When?" "Now, at once." "Hoo--ray!" whispered Jem in Don's ear, so sharply that it produced a strange tickling sensation. "Open your knife, Jem." "Right, my lad; I'm ready." "This way, then. Hist!" Don caught Jem's arm in a firm grip as he was moving along the deck, each feeling somewhat agitated at the daring venture of exchanging firm planks for the treacherous sea, infested as they knew it was by horrible creatures which could tear them limb from limb. Jem had heard a sound at the same moment, and he needed no telling that he should listen. For from some distance off along the shore there was a faint splash, and, as they strained their eyes in the direction from whence it had come, they could see flashes of pale light, which they knew were caused by paddles. "It's them, Jem," whispered Don, excitedly. "We must not start yet till the canoe is close up. I wish I had told him that I would make some signal." "It'll be all right, my lad," said Jem huskily. "Give 'em time. Think the watch 'll see 'em?" "I hope not," panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously. "Think it is them, Jem?" "Who could it be?" "Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?" "Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his." "Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first." They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!" At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,-- "Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side. "Header?" he whispered. "Yes.--Off!" Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea. _Splash_! A moment's pause and then-- _Splash_! Jem had followed suit, and there was a faint display--if the expression is allowable--of water fireworks, as innumerable pinhead-like beads of light flashed away in every direction. "Lanthorns here!" cried the captain. "Sentries, quick! This way." He reached the spot from which Don and Jem had taken their daring leap, and in less than a minute the light of a couple of lanthorns was thrown upon the sea. "Come back!" roared the captain, "or I fire. Marines, make ready." The lanthorns' light gleamed further on the sea as those who held them clambered up the shrouds and held them at arms' length, and then dimly-seen were the backs of the heads of the two swimmers, who made the water swirl as they struck out with all their might. "Do you hear, you scoundrels?" roared the captain again. "Come back, or I fire." There was no reply and the heads began to grow more faint in the gloom, while now the news had spread through the ship, and officers and men came tumbling up the companion ladder and out of their cabins. "Marines, present--fire!" cried the captain. There were two sharp clicks and as many tiny showers of sparks. That was all. "Why, you were not loaded!" cried the captain, fiercely, "Where is the lieutenant? Where is the sergeant? Load, you scoundrels, load!" The men grounded arms, and began to load quickly, the thudding of their iron ramrods sounding strangely in the still night air. "Pipe away the first cutter!" cried the captain. "Mr Rogerson, bring those scoundrels back." The shrill pipe of the boatswain was heard, and there was a rush of feet as the captain shouted again,-- "Present--fire!" There was a sharp flash, a loud report, and the captain stamped with rage. "Fire, you scoundrel, fire!" he roared at the second man, who was about to lower his clumsy musket, after tugging in vain at the trigger, when the piece went off, and the bullet fled skyward, sending the nearest lanthorn held up in the shrouds out of its holder's hand, to fall with a splash in the sea, and float for a few moments before it filled and sank, the candle burning till the water touched the wick. "'Pon my word!" cried the captain. "Nice state of discipline. Now you--fire again. And you, sir, load. Can you see the men, marines?" "No, sir. Right out of sight." "Then fire where they were when you saw them last." "But they won't be there now, sir." "Silence, you scoundrel! How dare you? Fire!" _Bang_. "Now you: are you ready?" "Yes, sir." "Fire!" _Bang_. "Load again!" cried the captain. "Now, you scoundrels, come back or you shall have a volley." A strange noise came off the sea. "Hark! What's that?" cried the captain. "A cry for help!" "No, sir." "What was it, then?" "Beg pardon, sir; but I think it was one on 'em a-larfin'." The captain gave the speaker--one of the warrant officers--a furious look. "Now, then, is that boat going to be all night?" he shouted. "All ready, sir. Lower away." The boat kissed the sea with a faint splash; she was thrust off; and as the oars dropped and the men gave way the cutter went rapidly through the water, at a rate which would have soon made the fugitives prisoners but for the fact that boat and swimmers were taking different directions, and the distance between them increased at every stroke. "They've taken no lanthorn!" cried the captain. "Surely no one's orders were ever worse obeyed." "Shall I call them back, sir?" said the second lieutenant. "No, no; let them find it out for themselves. Here, marines, ten of you load. Quick, my lads, clear the way from up here." "Make ready, take good aim at the scoundrels--present--fire!" This time the whole of the pieces went off with a loud rattle, which brought lights out in the New Zealand village, and a buzz of excitement came from the men. "More lanthorns there!" cried the captain. "See them?" he cried, to the officer in the boat. "Not yet, sir." "Take a sweep round to the southward. They're more there." "Ay, ay, sir!" came faintly out of the darkness; and the dull rattle of the oars reached those on deck. "I'll have those two back, dead or alive!" cried the captain, stamping about in his rage. "Pipe down the second cutter." His orders were obeyed, and in a short time, with a lanthorn in bow and stern, the second boat touched the water, and rowed off, the officer in command receiving instructions to bear off more still to the southward, and finally sweep round so as to meet the first boat. Directly this was started a happy thought seemed to strike the captain, who had a third boat lowered, with instructions to row right ashore, land the men, and divide them in two parties, which would strike off to right and left, stationing a man at every fifty yards; and these were to patrol the beach to and fro, keeping watch and a sharp look out for the fugitives. "That will checkmate them, Mr Jones," he said. "I wish I had thought of this before. Now go." Mr Bosun Jones was in command of this boat, and he gave orders to his men, the oars splashed, and away they went into the darkness, their lights growing fainter and fainter, till they seemed to be mere specks in the distance; but they did not die out, and as those left on deck watched the progress, they saw the lanthorns of the last boat become stationary, and knew that the men had reached the shore, while the lanthorns of the second cutter were faintly visible, moving slowly far away to the south. The captain rubbed his hands with satisfaction, and kept walking to the gangway and using his night-glass without any greater result than that of seeing a couple of faint specks of light, when he got the boats' lanthorns into the field. Then he listened in the hope of hearing shouts, which would suggest the capture of the fugitives; but half an hour--an hour--glided by, and all was still. The buzz and cries which had arisen from the collection of huts had ceased, and the lights shown there had been extinguished, while the darkness which hung over the sea appeared to grow more dense. At last there was a hail about a hundred yards away, and the officer in the first boat answered the captain's eager inquiry. "No, sir; no luck. Not a sign of any one. I'm afraid--" "They have got ashore and escaped?" "No, sir," said the lieutenant, gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded to Jem's appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes. "That's it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas' Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke--that's it. Don't give up. You can do it; and when you're tired, I'll help you. Well done--well done. Hah!" Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion. "Boat! Boat!" he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him. But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other. Four or five steady strokes, and then his arm seemed to lose its power, and his strokes were feeble. "Mas' Don," he groaned; "I did try hard; but it's all over. I'm dead beat, too." CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. FRIENDLY ATTENTIONS. A peculiar pale light played and flashed from the surface of the black water which was being churned up by the desperate struggles of the drowning pair. It was as if myriads of tiny stars started into being where all was dark before, and went hurrying here and there, some to the surface, others deep down into the transparent purity of the sea. A minute before Jem Wimble had kept command of himself, and swam as a carefully tutored man keeps himself afloat; that minute passed, all teaching was forgotten in a weak, frantic struggle with the strangling water which closed over their heads. A few moments, during which the phosphorescent tiny creatures played here and there, and then once more the two helpless and nearly exhausted fugitives were beating the surface, which flashed and sent forth lambent rays of light. But it was not there alone that the phosphorescence of the sea was visible. About a hundred yards away there was what seemed to be a double line of pale gold liquid fire changing into bluish green, and between the lines of light something whose blackness was greater than the darkness of the sea or night. There was a dull low splashing, and at every splash the liquid fire seemed to fly. The double line of fire lengthened and sparkled, till it was as so much greenish golden foam reaching more and more toward where the drowning pair were struggling. Then came a low, growling, grinding sound, as if the long lines of light were made by the beating fins of the dark object, which was some habitant of the deep roused from slumbers by the light of the golden foam formed by those who drowned. And it rushed on and on to seize its prey, invisible before, but now plainly seen by the struggles and the resulting phosphorescent light. Long, low, and with its head raised high out of the water, horrent, grotesque and strange, the great sea monster glided along over the smooth sea. Full five-and-twenty fins aside made the water flash as it came on, and there was, as it were, a thin new-moon-like curve of light at its breast, while from its tail the sparkling phosphorescence spread widely as it was left behind. The low grumbling sound came again, but it was not heard by those drowning, nor was the light seen as it glided on nearer and nearer, till it reached the spot. One dart from the long raised neck, one snap of the fierce jaws--another dart and another snap, and the sea monster had its prey, and glided rapidly on, probably in search of more in its nightly hunt. Nothing of the kind! The long creature endued with life darted on, but the long neck and horned head were not darted down, but guided past those who where drowning. Everything was stiff and rigid but the playing fins. But there was another dull, low grunt, the fins seemed to cease by magic; and, instead of being snapped up by the monster's mouth, the two sufferers were drawn in over its side. Then the water flashed golden again, the monster made a curve and rushed through the water, and sped away for miles till, in obedience to another grunting sound, it turned and dashed straight for a sandy beach, resolving itself into a long New Zealand war canoe, into which Don and Jem had been drawn, to lie half insensible till the beach was neared when Jem slowly and wonderingly sat up. "Where's Mas' Don?" he said in a sharp ill-used tone. "Here he is," said a gruff voice, and Jem looked wonderingly in a savage's indistinctly seen face, and then down in the bottom of the long canoe, into which they had been dragged. "Mas' Don--don't say you're drowned, Mas' Don," he said pitifully, with a Somersetshire man's bold attempt at the making of an Irish bull. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said a deep voice; and Jem became aware of the fact that the big chief he had so often seen on board the ship, and who had come to them with the present of fruit when they were guarding the boat, was kneeling down and gently rubbing Don. "Is he dead?" said Jem in a whisper. "No, not this time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?" "Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him." "My pakeha!" cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty," said the tattooed Englishman. "Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.--Here, what are they going to do?" "Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a buzz of excitement among the New Zealanders, many of whom stepped over into the shallow water, and seized the sides of the boat, which was rapidly run up the dark shore, where, amidst a low gobbling noise, the two wet passengers were landed to stand shivering with cold. "There you are," said the Englishman, "safe and sound." "Well, who said we weren't?" grumbled Jem. "Not you, squire," continued the Englishman. "There; I don't know anything about you, and you'd better lie close till the ship's gone, for they may come after you." "Where shall we hide?" said Don eagerly. "Oh, you leave it to Ngati; he'll find you a place where you can lie snug." "Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives. "Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things." "He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem. "No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand. Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?" said Jem harshly. "My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and they hurried him off at a sharp run, Jem being seized in the same way and borne forward, followed by the rest of the men who were in the boat. "Here, I say. Look here," Jem kept protesting, "I arn't a cask o' sugar or a bar'l o' 'bacco. Let a man walk, can't yer? Hi! Mas' Don, they're carrying on strange games here. How are you getting on?" Don heard the question, but he was too breathless to speak, and had hard work to keep his feet, leaving everything to the guidance of his companions, who kept on for above a quarter of a mile before stopping in a shadowy gully, where the spreading ferns made the place seem black as night, and a peculiar steaming sulphurous odour arose. But a short time before Don's teeth were chattering with the cold, but the exercise circulated his blood; and now, as his eyes grew more used to the obscurity, he managed to see that they were in a rough hut-like place open at the front. The sulphurous odour was quite strong, the steam felt hot and oppressive, and yet pleasant after the long chilling effect of the water, and he listened to a peculiar gurgling, bubbling noise, which was accompanied now and then by a faint pop. He had hardly realised this when he felt that his clothes were being stripped from him, and for a moment he felt disposed to resist; but he was breathless and wearied out, and rough as was the attention, it struck him that it was only preparatory to giving him a dry blanket to wear till his drenched garments were dry, and hence he suffered patiently. But that was not all, for, as the last garment was stripped off, Ngati said some words to his people, and before he could realise what was going to be done, Don felt himself seized by four men, each taking a wrist or ankle, and holding him suspended before Ngati, who went behind him and supported his head. "Hah!" ejaculated Ngati, with a peculiar grunt. His men all acted with military precision, and, to Don's astonishment, he found himself plunged into a rocky basin of hot water. His first idea was to struggle, but there was no need. He had been lowered in rapidly but gently, and he felt Ngati place the back of his head softly against a smooth pleasantly-warm hollowed-out stone, while the sensation, after all he had gone through, was so delicious that he uttered a sigh of satisfaction. For now he realised the hospitality of the people who had brought him there, and the fact that to recover him from the chill of being half drowned, they had brought him to one of their hot springs, used by them as baths. Don uttered another sigh of satisfaction, and as he lay back covered to his chin in the hot volcanic water, he began to laugh so heartily that the tears came into his eyes. For the same process was going on in the darkness with Jem, who was a less tractable patient, especially as he had taken it into his thick head that it was not for his benefit that he was to be plunged into a hot water pool, but to make soup for the New Zealanders around. "Mas' Don!" he cried out of the darkness, "where are you? I want to get out of this. Here, be quiet, will yer? What yer doing of? I say. Don't. Here, what are you going to do?" Don wanted to say a word to calm Jem's alarms, but after the agony he had gone through, it seemed to him as if his nerves were relaxed beyond control, and his companion's perplexity presented itself to him in so comical a light, that he could do nothing but lie back there in his delicious bath, and laugh hysterically; and all the while he could hear the New Zealanders gobbling angrily in reply to Jem's objections, as a fierce struggle went on. "That's your game, is it? I wouldn't ha' thought it of a set who calls theirselves men. Shove me into that hot pot, and boil me, would you? Not if I knows it, you don't. Hi! Mas' Don! Look out! Run, my lad. They're trying to cook me alive, the brutes. Oh, if I only had a cutlash, or an iron bar." Don tried to speak again, but the words were suffocated by the gurgle of laughter. "Poor old Jem!" he thought. "I tell you, you sha'n't. Six to one, eh? Leave off. Mas' Don, they're going to scald me like a pig in a tub. Hi! Help!" There was the sound of a struggle, a loud splash, and then silence, followed by Jem's voice. "Oh!" he ejaculated. "Then why didn't you say so? How was I to know you meant a hot bath? Well, it arn't bad.--Mas' Don!" "Yes." "What! Ha' you been there all the time?" "Yes." "What yer been doing of?" "Laughing." "Larfin'? Are they giving you a hot bath?" "Yes." "Arn't it good?" "Glorious!" "I thought they was going to scald me like a pig, so as to eat me afterwards. Did you hear me holler?" "Hear you? Yes.--How delicious and restful it feels." "Ah, it do, my lad; but don't you let any on it get into your mouth. I did, and arn't good. But I say; what's it mean? Seems so rum to me coming to meet us in a canoe and bringing us ashore, and giving us hot baths. I don't seem to understand it. Nobody does such things over at home." As they lay in the roughly-made stone slab baths, into which the volcanic water effervesced and gurgled, the followers of Ngati came and went busily, and a curious transformation came over the scene--the darkness seemed to undergo a change and become grey. Then as Don watched, he saw that above his head quite a cloud of steam was floating, through which a pale, sad light began to penetrate; and as he watched this, so pleasant and restful was the sensation that he felt as if he could sleep, till he took into consideration the fact that if he did, his body would become relaxed, and he would slip down with his head beneath the surface. As it grew lighter rapidly now, he could make out that the roughly thatched roof was merely stretched over a rough rocky nook in which the hot spring bubbled out of the mountain slope, and here a few rough slabs had been laid together, box-fashion, to retain the water and form the bath. Before he had more than realised the fact that Jem was in a shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure." "Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer. "They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this." "What are you going to do, Jem?" "Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun." "Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back. But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out. "Fah!" ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. "Here, I've had 'most enough o' this place. Nice sort o' spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning." Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places. "I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run." He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward. They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns. "Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come. "Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?" The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side. He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated. "I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don," he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and long enough," grumbled Jem. "Hark!" Don listened, and heard a faint hail. "They're coming along searching for us, I suppose." "I didn't mean that sound; I meant this. There, listen again." Don took a step into the cave, but went no farther, for Jem gripped his arm. "Take care, my lad. 'Tarn't safe. Hear that noise?" "Yes; it is like some animal breathing hard." "And we've got no pistols nor cutlashes. It's a lion, I know." "There are no lions here, Jem." "Arn't there? Then it's a tiger. I know un. I've seen 'em. Hark!" "But there are no tigers, nor any other fierce beasts here, Jem." "Now, how can you be so obstinate, Mas' Don, when you can hear 'em whistling, and sighing and breathing hard right in yonder. No, no, not a step farther do you go." "Don't be so foolish, Jem." "'Tarn't foolish, Mas' Don; and look here: I'm going to take advantage of them being asleep to put on my proper costoom, and if you'll take my advice, you'll do just the same." Don hesitated, but Jem took advantage of a handy seat-like piece of rock, and altered his dress rapidly, an example that, after a moment or two of hesitation, Don followed. "Dry as a bone," said Jem. "Come, that's better. I feels like a human being now. Just before I felt like a chap outside one of the shows at our fair." He doubled up the blanket he had been wearing, and threw it over his arm; while Don folded his, and laid it down, so that he could peer over the edge of the shelf, and command the entrance to the ravine. But all was perfectly silent and deserted, and, after waiting some time, he rose, and went a little way inside the cavern. "Don't! Don't be so precious rash, Mas' Don," cried Jem pettishly, as, urged on by his curiosity, Don went slowly, step by step, toward what seemed to be a dark blue veil of mist, which shut off farther view into the cave. "I don't think there's anything to mind, or they wouldn't have told us to hide here." "But you don't know, my lad. There may be dangerous wild critters in there as you never heard tell on. Graffems, and dragons, and beasts with stings in their tails--cockatoos." "Nonsense! Cockatrices," said Don laughing. "Well, it's all the same. Now, do be advised, Mas' Don, and stop here." "But I want to know what it's like farther in." Don went slowly forward into the dim mist, and Jem followed, murmuring bitterly at his being so rash. "Mind!" he cried suddenly, as a louder whistle than ordinary came from the depths of the cave, and the sound was so weird and strange that Don stopped short. The noise was not repeated, but the peculiar hissing went on, and, as if from a great distance, there came gurglings and rushing sounds, as if from water. "I know we shall get in somewhere, and not get out again, Mas' Don. There now, hark at that!" "It's only hot water, the same as we heard gurgling in our bath," said Don, still progressing. "Well, suppose it is. The more reason for your not going. P'r'aps this is where it comes from first, and nice place it must be where all that water's made hot. Let's go back, and wait close at the front." "No; let's go a little farther, Jem." "Why, I'm so hot now, my lad, I feel as if I was being steamed like a tater. Here, let's get back, and--" "Hist!" Don caught his arm, for there was another whistle, and not from the depths of the dark steamy cave, but from outside, evidently below the mouth of the cave, as if some one was climbing up. The whistle was answered, and the two fugitives crept back a little more into the darkness. "Ahoy! Come up here, sir!" shouted a familiar voice, and a hail came back. "Here's a hole in the rocks up here," came plainly now. "Ramsden," whispered Don in Jem's ear. They stole back a little more into the gloom, Jem offering no opposition now, for it seemed to them, so plainly could they see the bright greenish-hued daylight, and the configuration of the cavern's mouth, that so sure as any one climbed up to the shelf and looked in they would be seen. Impressed by this, Don whispered to Jem to come farther in, and they were about to back farther, when there was a rustling sound, and the figure of a man appeared standing up perfectly black against the light; but though his features were not visible, they knew him by his configuration, and that their guess at the voice was right. "He sees us," thought Don, and he stood as if turned to stone, one hand touching the warm rocky side of the cave, and the other resting upon Jem's shoulder. The man was motionless as they, and his appearance exercised an effect upon them like fascination, as he stood peering forward, and seeming to fix them with his eyes, which had the stronger fancied effect upon them for not being seen. "Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below," said Jem to himself. "I should like to do it." Then he shrank back as if he had been struck, for the sinister scoundrel shouted loudly,-- "Ahoy there! Now, then out you come. I can see you hiding." CHAPTER THIRTY. A DETERMINED ENEMY. Don drew a long breath and took a step forward to march out and give himself up, but Jem's hands clasped him round, a pair of lips were placed to his ear, and the yard-man's voice whispered,-- "Stand fast. All sham. He can't see." Don paused, wondering, and watched the dark figure in the entrance to the cave, without dismay now, till, to his surprise, the man began to whistle softly. "Likely place too," he muttered. "Are you coming up here, sir?" "What is it?" "Likely looking cave, sir; runs right in; looks as if they might be hiding in here." There was a rattling and rustling of stones and growth, and then the man at the entrance stooped down and held out his hands to assist some one to ascend, the result being that the broad heavy figure of Bosun Jones came into view. "Not likely to be here, my lad, even if they were in hiding; but this is a wild goose chase. They're dead as dead." "P'r'aps so, sir; but I think they're in hiding somewhere. Praps here." "Humph! No. Poor fellows, they were drowned." "No, sir, I don't think it," said Ramsden. "Those niggers looked as if they knew something, and that tattooed fellow who has run away from Norfolk Island has encouraged them to desert. As like as not they may be in here listening to all I say." "Well then, go in and fetch them out," said the boatswain. "You can go in while I have a rest." Don's heart beat fast at those words, for he heard a loud hissing sound beside him, caused by Jem drawing in his breath; and the next moment, as he held his arm, he felt a thrill, for it seemed as if Jem's muscles had tightened up suddenly. Then there was a hot breath upon his cheek, and a tickling sensation in his ear beyond; Jem's lips seemed to settle themselves against it, and the tickling sensation was renewed, as Jem whispered,-- "I've cleared my decks for action, Mas' Don. It was that beggar as told on us. You stand aside when he comes on." Don twisted his head round, caught Jem by the shoulder, and favoured him with the same buzzing sensation as he whispered,-- "What are you going to do?" Jem re-applied his lips to Don's ear. "I'm going to make him very sorry he ever come to sea. Once I gets hold of him I'll make him feel like a walnut in a door." "Don't look a very cheerful place, Mr Jones," came from the mouth of the cavern. "Afraid to go in?" "Afraid, sir? You never knew me afraid." "Well, in you go and fetch them out," said the boatswain with a laugh. "If you don't come back I shall know that the Maoris have got you, and are saving you for the pot." From where Don and Jem stood in the darkness they could see their spying sinister friend give quite a start; but he laughed off the impression the boatswain's words had made, and began to come cautiously on, feeling his way as a man does who has just left the bright sunshine to enter a dark place. Jem uttered a loud hiss as he drew his breath, and Ramsden heard it and stopped. "Mr Jones," he said sharply. "Well?" "Think there's any big snakes here? I heard a hiss." "Only steam from a hot spring. No snakes in this country." "Oh!" ejaculated Ramsden: and he came cautiously on. Don felt Jem's arm begin to twitch, and discovery seemed imminent. For a few moments he was irresolute, but, knowing that if they were to escape they must remain unseen, he let his hand slide down to Jem's wrist, caught it firmly, and began to back farther into the cave. For a few moments he had to drag hard at his companion but, as if yielding to silently communicated superior orders Jem followed him slowly, step by step, with the greatest of caution, and in utter silence. The floor of the cave was wonderfully smooth, the rock feeling as if it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there. "Found 'em?" shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking," said the boatswain, ill-humouredly. "So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch the edge of what seemed a great crack crossing the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next thing he felt was Jem's lips to his ear, and feeling his whisper,-- "Hold on, lad. What's the matter?" He panted and drew his breath in a catching way for a few minutes before whispering back,-- "Nothing. Only a sudden giddiness." Jem made no comment, but gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?" "Dunno," said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over," thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike. All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. "I couldn't help it, Mas' Don," he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept to the mouth of the cave, and peered cautiously over the edge of the shelf, but all was quiet; and beyond a distant hail or two, heard after listening for some minutes, there was nothing to indicate that the search party had been there. "We must be well on the look-out, Jem. Your stupid trick may bring them back." "Stoopid? Well, I do like that, Mas' Don, after saving us both as I did." "I'd say let's go on at once, only we might meet some of them." "And old `My pakeha' wouldn't know where to find us. I say, Mas' Don, what are we going to do? Stop here with these people, and old Tomati, or go on at once and shift for ourselves?" "We cannot shift for ourselves in a country like this without some way of getting food." "Hush!" exclaimed Jem sharply. "What's the matter?" cried Don, making for the inner part of their hiding-place. "No, no; don't do that. It's all right, Mas' Don, only don't say anything more about food. I feel just now as if I could eat you. It's horrid how hungry I am." "You see then," said Don, "how helpless we are." "Yes; if it was only a biscuit I wouldn't mind just now, for there don't seem to be nothing to eat here, nor nothing to drink." They stood leaning against the rocky wall, not caring to risk sitting down on account of the foul air, and not daring to go to the mouth of the cave for fear of being seen, till Don suggested that they should steal there cautiously, and lie down with their faces beyond the cavern floor. This they did, glad of the restful change; but hours passed and no sounds met their ears, save the hissing and gurgling from the interior of the cave, and the harsh screech of some parrot or cockatoo. Every time a louder hiss than usual came from the interior, Jem became convulsed, and threatened another explosion of laughter, in spite of Don's severely reproachful looks; but in every case Jem's mirthful looks and his comic ways of trying to suppress his hilarity proved to be too much for Don, who was fain to join in, and they both laughed heartily and well. It is a curious fact, one perhaps which doctors can explain, and it seems paradoxical. For it might be supposed that when any one was hungry he would feel low-spirited, but all the same there is a stage in hunger when everything around the sufferer seems to wear a comic aspect, and the least thing sets him off laughing. This was the stage now with Jem and Don, for, the danger being past, they lay there at the mouth of the hole, now laughing at the recollection of the sailor's fright, now at the cries of some parrot or the antics of a cockatoo which kept sailing round a large tree, whose hold on the steep rocky side of the ravine was precarious in the extreme. The presence of white people seemed to cause the bird the greatest of wonder, and to pique his curiosity, and after a flit here and a flit there, he invariably came near and sat upon a bare branch, from which he could study the aspect of the two intruders. He was a lovely-looking bird as far as the tints of the plumage went; but his short hooked beak, with a tuft of feathers each side, and forward curved crest, gave him a droll aspect which delighted Jem, as the bird came and sat upon a twig, shrieking and chattering at them in a state of the greatest excitement. "Look at his starshers, Mas' Don," said Jem, as the bird's side tufts half covered the beak and then left it bare. "Look at his hair, too. Hasn't he brushed it up in a point? There, he heared what I said, and has laid it down again. Look at him! Look at him! Did you ever see such a rum one in your life?" For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_! This lasted for some minutes, and then the bird squatted upon the bough in a normal position, set up its feathers all over, and began to chatter. "Hark at him, Mas' Don. He's calling names. There, hit me if he didn't. Did you hear him?" "I heard him chatter." "Yes; but I mean calling us that `My pakeha--my pakeha!' that he did." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say nonsense, but parrots and cockatoos is werry strange birds. Wonderful what they knows and what they says." "I don't believe they know what they say, Jem." "Ah! That's because you're so young, Mas' Don. You'll know better some day. Parrots is as cunning as cunning. Well, now, did you ever see the likes of that? He's laughing and jeering at us." For at that moment the bird began to bob its head up and down rapidly, gradually growing more excited, and chattering all the while, as it ended by dancing first on one leg and then on the other, in the most eccentric fashion. "I should like to have that bird, Jem," said Don at last. "Should you? Then you wouldn't have me along with you." "I don't like him. I like a bird as can behave itself and whistle and sing and perch; but I don't like one as goes through all them monkey tricks. Wish I'd got a stone, I'd try and knock him off his perch." _Chur-r-r-r_! Shrieked the bird, and it let itself fall over backwards, dropping down head over heels like a tumbler pigeon, or an unfortunate which had been shot, and disappearing among the leaves far below. "There!" cried Jem, triumphantly; "now, what do you say to that? Heard what I said, he did, and thought I was going to throw." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don, because you don't know better, but you didn't see him fall." "Yes, I saw him fall, and--hist! Creep back; there's some one coming!" The secret of the bird's sudden disappearance was explained for there was a rustling among the ferns far behind, as if some large body was forcing its way along the ravine; and as Jem backed slowly into the cavern, Don cautiously peered from behind a mass of stone into the hollow, to see that some one or something was approaching rapidly, as if with the intention of scaling the rock, and climbing to where they lay. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN. "It's all over with us, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as soon as they were some little distance in the retreat. "That blackguard Ramsden's sure, after all, that we're in here, and that Tom Hoppers has come to his senses, and felt it was me as hissed at him, and they're coming to hunt us out." "Let's hope not, Jem." "Yah! What's the good o' hoping." _Churr-urrt_ shrieked the cockatoo from far below. "There now," said Jem. "Hark at that! He's telling 'em we're in here, and coming on before to show 'em the way." "What nonsense, Jem!" _Churr-ur_! Shrieked the cockatoo, ever so much nearer. "Well, do you call that nonsense?" whispered Jem. "The bird's being cheered on; some one coming." _Churr_--_churr_--_churr-ur-ur_! Shrieked the cockatoo nearer, nearer, and then right in front of the cave, as it flew by. "All right, Mas' Don; I arn't going to hargue. You think your way, and I'll think mine; but if that wasn't saying in New Zealandee as those two misfortunate chaps is hiding in this here hole, I never lived in Bristol city, and I don't know sugar from tobacker." "Hist!" whispered Don. _Hiss-s-s-s_ came from far in the depths of the cave. _Gurgle-urgle-gugg-pap_! Went something of a liquid kind. "Here, I can't stand this here, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "let's make a rush of it; and get right away in the woods." "Hush! There's some one coming," whispered Don, drawing his companion farther back into the darkness. "All right, Mas' Don! Take me in again where the bad air is; poison us both. Good-bye, Sally, my gal. It's all over now; but I forgives you. Shake hands, Mas' Don. I don't bear you no ill-will, nor nobody else. Here they come." There was a rustling and panting noise, and they were on the tip-toe of expectation, when there was a heavy concussion, a deep-toned roar, and then an echoing rumble as the sound reverberated among the mountains. Then utter silence. Jem gripped Don's arm with force, and stared at him wildly. "Well!" whispered Don. "It was only a gun from the ship to recall the boats." Jem stooped down and gave his leg a slap. "You are a clever one, Mas' Don, and no mistake. Why, o' course it is. I never thought it was that." "What did you think it was, then?" "Some o' them hot water-works gone off, _bang_! And blown up the mountain.--There!" He pointed to a hideous-looking head appearing above the edge of the shelf, and seen by the evening light as it fell athwart it, the countenance with its blue lines and scrolls ending in curls on either side of the nose was startling enough to make any one fear danger. The owner of the face climbed up to the shelf, followed by another bronzed figure, when Don recognised the second as the tattooed Englishman, while there was no mistake about the first, for he made Jem give an angry grunt as a human voice shouted,-- "My pakeha." "Somebody calling you, Mas' Don?" "My pakeha!" shouted the New Zealander again. "Jemmeree Wimbee." "Eh! Here, I say, call a fellow by his right name!" cried Jem, stepping forward. The chief met him with advancing step, and caught him by the shoulders, and before Jem could realise what he was going to do, placed his blue nose against that which was coppery white, and gave it a peculiar rub. "Here, I say, don't!" cried Jem, struggling to free himself, when the chief seized Don in turn, and bent down and served him the same. "Don't you stand it, Mas' Don. Hit out." "Don't you, youngster," said the Englishman. "It's only his friendly way." "Yes, that's what they say at home when a big dog goes at you, and nearly rolls you over," grumbled Jem. "I say, have you got anything to eat?" "Not here, but plenty at Ngati's place. I'm glad to see you both safe, my lads. It gave me quite a turn when he told me he'd hidden you in here." "Why?" said Don sharply. "Well, I'll tell you, my lad. There's a kind o' bad steam lies along the bottom farther in, and if a man was to lie down on the floor and go to sleep, I don't s'pose he'd ever wake again. Come along!" "Where are the men from the ship?" "Gone off with their mates. Didn't you hear the gun?" Don nodded. "They've been searching all over for you. Can't make out whether you two got to shore, or were chopped up by the sharks out yonder. They won't come again till to-morrow, and you'll be safe till then. You must be hungry." "Hungry?" said Jem, with a mocking laugh. "Hungry? Lookye here: you'd better take me where there's something, or it won't be safe. I heard tell as people ate one another out here, and I didn't believe it, but I do now. I'm ready for anything or anybody; so come along." Ngati took possession of Don, and led the way, evidently very proud of his young companion; whilst Jem followed with the Englishman down the gully slope, and then in and out among the trees, ferns, and bushes, till the dangerous hot and mud springs were passed, and the _whare_ was reached. Then the weary fugitives were seated before what seemed to them a banquet of well-cooked fish, fruits, and roots, with a kind of hasty pudding preparation, which was far from bad. "Feel better, now?" said the Englishman, after he had sat and smoked till they had done. "Better? Yes, I'm better," said Jem; "but I should like to know one thing." "Well, what is it?" "Will they go on feeding us like this?" "Yes; and if they don't, I will." "But--it don't--it don't mean any games, does it?" said Jem, in a doubting tone. "You mean making game of you?" said the Englishman with a broad grin. "Yes, hare or fezzun," said Jem. The Englishman laughed, and turned to Don. "I'll see if you can't have a better hiding-place to-night. That was very dangerous, and I may as well tell you to mind where you go about here, for more than one poor fellow has been smothered in the hot mud holes, and scalded to death." "Is the water so hot as that?" said Don. "Hot? Why, those vegetables and things you ate were cooked in one of the boiling springs." "Phew!" whistled Jem. They sat talking in the moonlight afterwards, listening to the tattooed Englishman, who spoke about what he had heard from the ship's crew. Among other things the news that they might sail at any time. Don started, and the tattooed Englishman noticed it. "Yes," he said; "that means going away and leaving you two behind. You don't seemed pleased." Don looked up at him earnestly. "No," he said; "I didn't at first. Don't think me ungrateful after what you've done." "I don't, my lad," said the man, kindly; "I know what you feel. It's like being shut away from every one you know; and you feel as if you were going to be a savage, and never see England again. I felt something like that once; but I didn't come out like you did. Ah, well, that's neither here nor there. You're only a boy yet, with plenty o' time before you. Make yourself as happy as you can; these chaps are not so very bad when they don't want to get fighting, and I daresay you and me will be good enough friends. Eh? Hullo! What's the matter?" He leaped to his feet, and Don, Jem, and the New Zealand savages about them did the same, for half-a-dozen of Ngati's followers came running up with news, which they communicated with plenty of gesticulations. "What are they a-saying on, Mas' Don? I wish I could speak New Zealandee." "Two boats' crews are coming ashore from the ship. I wish you two was brown and tattooed." Jem glanced wildly at Don. "Come on," said the Englishman. "I must see if I can't hide you before they come. What?" This last was to a fresh man, who ran up and said something. "Quick, my lads," said the Englishman. "Your people are close at hand." CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. LEFT BEHIND. Tomati hurried out, followed by Don, but the latter was thrust back into the hut directly, Tomati stretching out his arms so as to spread his blanket wide to act as a screen, under cover of which Don and Jem were half pushed, half backed into the large gathering hut of the tribe, Ngati giving some orders quickly, the result of which was that Don and Jem were hustled down into a sitting position and then thrown upon their faces. "Here, I'm not going to--" "Hush, Jem. You'll be heard," whispered Don. "Yes, but--lookye here." There was no time to say more. The first lieutenant of the ship, with a middy, Bosun Jones, and about twenty men came marching up, to find a group of Ngati's men seated in a close circle, their blankets spread about them and their heads bent forward, grunting together, and not so much as looking round. The men were halted, and the lieutenant addressed the tattooed Englishman. "Well!" he said; "where are our two men?" "Ask the sharks," said the renegade, shortly. "Humph! Yes. I suppose we shall have to. Poor wretches! The captain thought we'd have a last look round. But mind this, if they turn up here, you and your men will detain them till we come back. I shall hold you responsible." The Englishman grunted after the fashion of one of the savages. "I suppose you don't want to come home, eh?" "No; I'm comfortable enough here as an emigrant." "An emigrant, eh? Look here, Master Tomati, if I did my duty, I suppose I should take you aboard, and hand you over to the authorities." "What for?" said the Englishman, surlily. "Escaping from Norfolk Island. That's right, isn't it?" "Look here!" said the Englishman; "do you know, sir, that this is one of the worst parts of the coast, and that the people here think nothing of attacking boats' crews and plundering them, and making them prisoners, and often enough killing and eating 'em?" "Threatening, eh?" said the lieutenant. "Not I. But I'm a chief, and the people here would do everything I told them, and fight for me to a man." "Then you are threatening." "No, sir; I only wanted to remind you that your boats' crews have come and gone in peace; that you have been allowed to go about ashore, and been supplied with fruit and vegetables, and never a thing missed." "That's true enough," said the lieutenant. "Well, what of that? A king's ship well-armed would keep a larger tribe than yours quiet!" "Oh! Oh!" came from the group of natives. "Yes, I repeat it," said the lieutenant sharply. "They can understand English, then?" "Of course they do," said the tattooed man calmly, though he looked uneasily at the group; "and as to your ship, sir, what's the good of that if we were to fight you ashore?" "Do you want to fight, then?" said the lieutenant sharply. "It doesn't seem like it, when I've kept my tribe peaceful toward all your crew, and made them trade honestly." "Out of respect to our guns." "Can you bring your guns along the valleys and up into the mountains?" "No; but we can bring plenty of well-drilled fighting men." "Oh! Oh!" came in quite a long-drawn groan. "Yes," said the lieutenant looking toward the group, "well-drilled, well-armed righting men, who would drive your people like leaves before the wind. But I don't want to quarrel. I am right, though; you are an escaped convict from Norfolk Island?" "Yes, I am," said the man boldly; "but I've given up civilisation, and I'm a Maori now, and the English Government had better leave me alone." "Well, I've no orders to take you." "Oh! Oh!" came again from the group: and Tomati turned sharply round, and said a few words indignantly in the Maori tongue, whose result was a huddling closer together of the men in the group and utter silence. "They'll be quiet now," said Tomati. "They understand an English word now and then." "Well, I've no more to say, only this--If those two men do come ashore, or you find that they have come ashore, you've got to seize them and make them prisoners. Make slaves of them if you like till we come again, and then you can give them up and receive a good reward." "I shall never get any reward," said Tomati, grimly. "Poor lads! No," said the boatswain; "I'm afraid not." Just then there was a sharp movement among the Maoris, who set up a loud grunting noise, which drew the attention of the lieutenant, and made the men laugh. "It's only their way," said the Englishman gruffly. "Ah, a queer lot. Better come back to civilisation, my man," said the lieutenant. "At Norfolk Island, sir?" "Humph!" muttered the lieutenant; and facing his men round, he marched them back to the boats, after which they spent about four hours making soundings, and then returned to the ship. Almost before the sailors were out of hearing, there was a scuffle and agitation in the group, and Jem struggled from among the Maoris, his face hot and nearly purple, Don's not being very much better. "I won't stand it. Nearly smothered. I won't have it," cried Jem furiously. "Don't be so foolish, Jem. It was to save us," said Don, trying to pacify him. "Save us! Well they might ha' saved us gently. Look at me. I'm nearly flat." "Nonsense! I found it unpleasant; but they hid us, and we're all right." "But I arn't all right, Mas' Don; I feel like a pancake," cried Jem, rubbing and patting himself as if he were so much paste or clay which he wanted to get back into shape. "Don't be so stupid, Jem!" "Stoopid? 'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will," laughed Don. "Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to," said Jem laconically. "We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm. "Just look at him, Jem." "Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don was watching the eccentric-looking little creature, which ran forward rapidly, and then paused. "Why, 'tarn't a wild bird at all!" cried Jem. "It's one of the `my pakeha' chap's cocks an' hens. Well, I ham blessed!" For rapid almost as thought, and before Jem could recover from his surprise, the bird had darted forward, seized the fruit, and was off a dozen yards before he had darted out his hand after it. "Too late, Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don, too late that time; but I mean to ketch that chap, just to show him he arn't so clever as he thinks. You sit still, and go on eating, and don't take no notice, and look out--look out." "Oh!" ejaculated Don. For at that moment one of the birds had come up behind him, and almost before he had heard Jem's warning cry, he was made aware of the bird's presence by a sharp dig of its beak in the hand holding a portion of his dinner, which was carried rapidly away. "Magpies is nothing to 'em," cried Jem. "But wait a bit, my fine fellows, and you shall see what you shall see. Pass that there basket, Mas' Don. Ah! That's a good bait for my gentleman. Look at 'em. I can see three peeping out of the bushes. They're a-watching to see what I'm going to do." "Three! I can see four, Jem." "More for me to ketch, Mas' Don. Wonder whether they're good to eat? I say, do you think they can understand English?" Don laughed, and went on with his dinner, as Jem began to play fox, by putting a tempting-looking berry in his hand, stretching it out to the full extent of his arm, and then lying back among the ferns. "Now then, don't take no notice, Mas' Don. Let you an' me keep on feeding, and that'll 'tract 'em out." Don was already quietly "feeding," and he rested his back against a piece of stone, watching intently all the while. Two of the birds began to approach directly, while the others looked on as if deeply interested. The approach of the advance force was particularly curious, for they came on picking here and picking there, as if they had not the slightest intention of going near the fruit in Jem's hand; but in spite of several feints of going right away, always getting nearer, while Jem munched away, using his left hand, and keeping his eyes half shut. They had not long to wait, for one of the birds manoeuvred until it was a few feet away, then made a rush, caught the berry from Jem's hand, which closed with a snap, the second bird made a dart and caught the berry from the first bird's beak, and Jem sat up holding a few feathers, staring after the birds, one of which cried out in a shrill piping tone. "Yes, I'll give you pepper next time, my fine fellow!" cried Jem. "Nearly had you. My word, Mas' Don, they are quick. Give's another berry." Jem baited his natural trap again, and went on with his meal; but he had scared away the birds for the time being, and they came no more. "The worst of eating, Jem, is that it makes you lazy." "And not want to move, Mas' Don. Yes, it do. But it's my 'pinion as this was meant for a lazy country, else the water wouldn't be always on the bile, ready for use." "Think that's fire?" said Don, after a dreamy pause, during which he had lain back gazing at the brilliant silver-tipped mountain, above which floated a cloud. "No," said Jem. "I should say as there's a big hot water place up yonder, and that there's steam. Yes, one do feel lazy here; but it don't matter, Mas' Don; there's no bosun, and no master and lufftenant and captain to order you about. I rather likes it, only I seem to want my Sally here. Wonder what she'd say to it?" "We must get away from it, Jem." "But we arn't got no boat, and it takes pretty nigh a hunderd men to row one of them canoes." "We must make a long journey through the country, Jem, right beyond those mountains, and sooner or later we shall come to a place where there are Englishmen, who will help us to get a passage in a ship." Jem shook his head. "I don't believe there's any Englishmen here, Mas' Don." "I do. I think I've read that there are; and if we do not find any, we shall have seen the place, and can come back here." "He talks just like as if he was going for a ride to Exeter by the Bristol waggon! Ah, well, just as you like, Mas' Don, only don't let's go this afternoon, it's all too nice and comfortable. I don't want to move. Say, wonder whether there's any fish in that lake?" "Sure to be, Jem, and hundreds of wonders to see if we journey on." "Dessay, my lad, dessay; but it's werry wonderful here. Look along that hollow place where the big fir trees is growing." "Lovely, Jem. What a beautiful home it would make." "Say, Mas' Don, let's make our fortunes." "How?" "Let's set up in trade, and deal in wood. Lookye yonder, there's fir trees there, that if we cut 'em down and trimmed 'em, they'd be worth no end o' money in Bristol, for ships' masts." "Yes, Jem," said Don drily; "and how are you going to get them there?" "Ah!" said Jem, scratching his head. "Never thought of that." There was half an hour's drowsy silence. The sun shone down with glorious power, and the lizards rustled among the large stones. From the forest behind there came the buzz of insects, and the occasional cry of some parrot. Save for these sounds all was wonderfully still. And they sat there gazing before them at the hundreds of acres of uncultivated land, rich in its wild beauty, unwilling to move, till Don said suddenly,-- "Yes, Jem; this is a lazy land. Let's be up and doing." "Yes, Mas' Don. What?" "I don't know, Jem; something useful." "But there arn't nothing useful to do. I couldn't make a boat, but I think I could make a hogshead after a fashion; but if I did, there arn't no sugar to put in it, and--" "Look, Jem!" "What at, Mas' Don? Eh?" he continued as he followed his companion's pointing hand. "Why, I thought you said there was no beasts here." "And there are none." "Well, if that arn't a drove o' cattle coming down that mountain side, I'm a Dutchman." "It does look like it, Jem," said Don. "It seems strange." "Look like it, Mas' Don? Why, it is. Brown cattle, and you can see if you look at the sun shining on their horns." "Horns! Jem!" cried Don, excitedly; "they're spears!" "What?" "And those are savages." "So they are!" cried Jem. "Why, Mas' Don, that there don't mean a fight, do it?" "I don't know, Jem. But they can't see us, can they?" "No. These here bushes shades us. Let's creep back through the wood, and go and tell 'em down below. They don't know, p'r'aps, and we may get there first." "We must," said Don quickly. "Jem, I'm sure of it. You can see the spears quite plainly, and perhaps it's a war-party out from some other tribe. Quick, lad, quick! We can get there first." "And if it's a false alarm, they'll laugh at us, Mas' Don." "Let them. They won't laugh if there's danger in the way." Don caught up the basket and backed into the shelter of the trees, keeping in a stooping position, while Jem followed, and now, with all the sensation of indolence gone, they hurried along the rugged and dangerous path, to spread the alarm in the village far below, where they had left the inmates dreaming away their existence in happy ignorance of the danger so close at hand. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. A PERILOUS DESCENT. The heat was terrible, and it seemed to Don as if the difficulties met with in their outward journey had been intensified on their return. Thorns caught in their garments, and, failing these, in their flesh. Twice over Jem stepped a little too much off the faint track, and had narrow escapes of plunging into pools of hot mud, whose presence was marked by films of strange green vegetation. Then they mistook their way, and after struggling along some distance they came out suddenly on a portion of the mountain side, where to continue their course meant that they must clamber up, descend a sheer precipice of at least a hundred feet by hanging on to the vine-like growths and ferns, or return. They stopped and stared at each other in dismay. "Know where we went wrong, Mas' Don?" said Jem. "No; do you?" "Not I, my lad. Think it must ha' been where I had that last slip into the black hasty pudding." "What shall we do, Jem? If we go back we shall lose an hour." "Yes! Quite that; and 'tarn't no good to climb up here. I could do it; but it's waste o' time." "Could we get down here?" "Oh, yes," said Jem drily; "we could get down easy enough; only the thing is, how should we be when we did get down?" "You mean we should fall to the bottom?" "Well, you see, Mas' Don," said Jem, rubbing one ear as he peered down; "it wouldn't be a clean fall, 'cause we should scrittle and scruttle from bush to bush, and ketch here and snatch there. We should go right down to the bottom, sure enough, but we might be broke by the time we got there." "Jem, Jem, don't talk like that!" cried Don angrily. "Do you think it possible to go down?" "Well, Mas' Don, I think the best way down would be with our old crane and the windlass tackle." "Do you dare climb down?" "Ye-es, I think so, Mas' Don; only arn't there no other way?" "Not if we want to save them down at the village." "Well, but do we want to save 'em, Mas' Don? They're all werry well, but--" "And have been very kind to us, Jem. We must warn them of danger." "But, lookye here, Mas' Don, s'pose it arn't danger. Pretty pair o' Bristol noodles we shall look, lying down at the bottom here, with all our legs and arms broke for nothing at all." Don stood gazing at his companion, full of perplexity. "Think it is real danger, Mas' Don?" "I'm afraid so. You heard Tomati say that there were desperate fights sometimes." "Don't call him Tomati; I 'ates it," growled Jem. "Well, I s'pose it is danger, then." "And we must look the matter in the face, Jem. If we go back those people will be at the village before us. Perhaps we shall meet them, and be made prisoners; but if we go on here, we shall save an hour, perhaps two. Yes, I shall climb down." "No, no; let me go first, Mas' Don." "Why?" "Because I shall do to tumble on if you do let go, or any bush breaks." "Here seems to be about the best place, Jem," said Don, without heeding his companion's last remark; and, setting his teeth, he lowered himself down, holding on by the bushes and aerial roots of the various tough, stunted pieces of vegetation, which clung to the decomposing volcanic rock. Jem's face puckered up as he set his teeth, and watched Don descend a few feet. Then, stooping over, he said cheerily,-- "That's the way, Mas' Don; take it cool, stick tight, and never think about the bottom. Are you getting on all right?" "Yes." "That's your sort. I'm coming now." Jem began to whistle as he lowered himself over the edge of the precipice, a few feet to Don's right; and directly after he began to sing merrily,-- "`There was a man in Bristol city, Fol de rol de riddle-lol-de-ri. And that's the first o' this here ditty, Fol de rol de-riddle-lol-de-ri.' "Say, Mas' Don, 'tarn't so bad, after all." "It's terrible, Jem!" panted Don, "Can we do it?" "Can we do it? Ha, ha, ha!" cried Jem. "Can we do it? Hark at him! We're just the boys as can do it. Why, it arn't half so bad as being up on the main-top gallant yard. "`Fol de rol de-riddle-lol-de-ri.'" "Don't make that noise, Jem, pray." "Why not, my lad? That's your sort; try all the roots before you trust 'em. I'm getting on splen--" _Rush_! "Jem!" "All right, Mas' Don! Only slipped ten foot of an easy bit to save tumbles." "It isn't true. I was looking at you, and I saw that root you were holding come out of the rock." "Did you, Mas' Don? Oh, I thought I did that o' purpose," came from below. "Where are you?" "Sitting straddling on a big bit o' bush." "Where? I can't see you." "Here, all right. 'Tarn't ten foot, it's about five and twenty-- "`De-riddle-lol-de-ri.'" "Jem, we must climb back. It is too risky." "No, we mustn't, Mas' Don; and it arn't a bit too risky. Come along, and I'll wait for you." Don hesitated for a minute, and then continued his descent, which seemed to grow more perilous each moment. "Say, Mas' Don," cried Jem cheerily, "what a chance for them birds. Couldn't they dig their bills into us now!" "Don't talk so, Jem. I can't answer you." "Must talk, my lad. Them fern things is as rotten as mud. Don't you hold on by them. Steady! Steady!" "Yes. Slipped a little." "Well, then, don't slip a little. What's your hands for? "`There was a man in Bristol city, Fol de rol de--'" "Say, Mas' Don, think there's any monkeys here?" "No, no." "'Cause how one o' they would scramble down this precipit. Rather pricky, arn't it?" "Yes; don't talk so." "All right! "`De-riddle-liddle-lol.' "I'm getting on first rate now, Mas' Don--I say." "Yes!" "No press-gang waiting for us down at the bottom here, Mas' Don?" "Can you manage it, Jem?" "Can I manage it? Why, in course I can. How are you getting on?" Don did not reply, but drew a long breath, as he slowly descended the perilous natural ladder, which seemed interminable. They were now going down pretty close together, and nearly on a level, presence and example giving to each nerve and endurance to perform the task. "Steady, dear lad, steady!" cried Jem suddenly, as there was a sharp crack and a slip. "Piece I was resting on gave way," said Don hoarsely, as he hung at the full length of his arms, vainly trying to get a resting-place for his feet. Jem grasped the position in an instant, but remained perfectly cool. "Don't kick, Mas' Don." "But I can't hang here long, Jem." "Nobody wants you to, my lad. Wait a minute, and I'll be under you, and set you right. "`There was a man in Bristol city,'" he sang cheerily, as he struggled sidewise. "`Fol de--' I say, Mas' Don, he was a clever one, but I believe this here would ha' bothered him. It's hold on by your eyelids one minute, and wish you was a fly next." "Jem." "Hullo, lad?" "If I let go and dropped, how far should I fall?" "'Bout two foot ten," said Jem, after a glance below them at the sheer precipice. "Then I had better drop." "If you do you will knock me to the bottom, so just you hold on till I tells you." Jem kept up his jocular way of speaking; but if any one could have looked on, he would have seen that his face was curiously mottled with sallow, while his hands were trembling when at liberty, and that there was a curiously wild, set look in his eyes. "There, Mas' Don," he said cheerily, as he finished climbing sidewise till he was exactly beneath. "Now, one moment. That's it." As he spoke he drew himself up a little, taking fast hold of the stem of a bush, and of a projecting stone, while he found foot-hold in a wide crevice. "Now then, rest your foot on my shoulders. There you are. That's the way. Two heads is better than one." "Can you bear my weight, Jem?" "Can I bear your weight? Why? You may stand there for a week. Now just you rest your wristies a bit, and then go on climbing down, just as if I warn't here." The minute before Don had felt that he could bear the strain no longer. Now the despairing sensation which came over him had gone, his heart felt lighter as he stood on Jem's shoulders, and sought another hold for his hands lower down. The wild, fluttering pulsation ceased, and he grew composed. "I'm rested now, Jem," said Don. "Of course you are, my lad. Well, then, now you can climb down aside me. 'Tarn't so much farther to the bottom." "Can you reach out far enough for me to come between you and the rock?" "Just you try, Mas' Don." By this time Don had found a fresh hold for his feet; and nerving himself, he descended slowly, Jem forcing himself out, so that there was enough room for any one to pass; but as Don cleared him, and got right below, the bush to which Jem clung with one hand came slowly out of the interstices of the stones, and but for the exercise of a large amount of muscular power and rigidity of will, he would have swung round and fallen headlong. "I'm all right now, Jem!" cried Don from below. "Glad of it, my lad," muttered Jem, "because I arn't." "Come along down now." "How, Mas' Don?" said Jem grimly. "The same way as I did." "Oh! All right; but the bush I held on by is gone." "Well take hold of another." "Just you get from under me, Mas' Don." "Why? What do you mean?" "I'm too heavy to ketch like a cricket ball. That's all, my lad." "Oh, Jem, don't say you are in danger." "Not I, my lad, if you don't want me to; but it is awk'ard. Stand clear," he shouted. "I'm coming down. No, I arn't," he said directly after, as he made a tremendous effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don," said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief. "I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is black, Mas' Don." "But you will not break your neck if you are careful." "Oh, yes! I'll be careful, Mas' Don; don't you be 'fraid of that." "Well, come along. You're not nervous, are you, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, reg'lar scared; but, below, once more. Here goes! Don't tell my Sally I was afraid if I do get broke." Possibly Jem would have hesitated longer, but the stump of the bush upon which he stood gave such plain intimation of coming out by the roots, that he thought it better to leap than fall, and gathering himself up, he plunged right into the second kauri pine, and went headlong down with a tremendous crash. For he had been right in his doubts. The pine was not so able to bear his weight as its fellow had been to carry Don. He caught it tightly, and the tree bent right down, carrying him nearly to the earth, where he would have done well to have let go; but he clung to it fast, and the tree sprang up again, bent once more, and broke short off, Jem falling at least twenty feet into the bushes below. "Hurt, Jem?" cried Don, forcing his way to his side. "Hurt? Now is it likely, Mas' Don? Hurt? No. I feel just like a babby that's been lifted gently down and laid on a feather cushion. That's 'bout how I feel. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Here, give's a hand. Gently, dear lad; I'm like a skin full o' broken bones. Help me out o' this tangle, and let's see how much of me's good, and how much 'll have to be throwed away. Eggs and bacon! What a state I'm in!" Don helped him as tenderly as he could out into an open space, and softly assisted him to lie down, which Jem did, groaning, and was perfectly still for a few moments flat there on his back. "Are you in much pain, Jem?" said Don, anxiously. "Horrid, lad, horrid. I think you'd better go on and warn 'em, and come and fetch me arterwards; only don't forget where I am, and not find me. Look! There's two o' them birds coming to see what's the matter." "I can't leave you, Jem. You're of more consequence to me than all the New Zealanders in the place." "Am I, Mas' Don? Come, that's kindly spoke of you. But bother that tree! Might ha' behaved as well to me as t'other did to you." "Where do you feel in pain, Jem?" "Where? It's one big solid slapping pain all over me, but it's worst where there's a big thorn stuck in my arm." "Let me see." "No; wait a bit. I don't mean to be left alone out here if I can help it. Now, Mas' Don, you lift that there left leg, and see if it's broke." Don raised it tenderly, and replaced it gently. "I don't think it's broken, Jem." "Arn't it? Well, it feels like it. P'r'aps it's t'other one. Try." Don raised and replaced Jem's right leg. "That isn't broken either, Jem." "P'r'aps they're only crushed. Try my arms, my lad." These were tried in turn, and laid down. "No, Jem." "Seems stoopid," said Jem. "I thought I was broke all over. It must be my back, and when a man's back's broke, he feels it all over. Here, lend us a hand, my lad; and I'll try and walk. Soon see whether a man's back's broke." Don offered his arm, and Jem, after a good deal of grunting and groaning, rose to his feet, gave himself a wrench, and then stamped with first one leg and then with the other. "Why, I seems all right, Mas' Don," he said, eagerly. "Yes, Jem." "Think it's my ribs? I've heared say that a man don't always know when his ribs is broke." "Do you feel as if they were, Jem?" "Oh, yes; just exactly. All down one side, and up the other." "Could you manage to walk as far as the village? I don't like to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don. "I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me." "Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly after, to Don's great delight, they came upon Tomati. "I was coming to look for you two," he said. "You had better not go far from the _whare_. Two of the tribes have turned savage, and are talking about war." Don interrupted him, and told him what they had seen. "So soon!" he said hurriedly. "Is it bad news, then?" asked Don, anxiously. "Bad, my lads! Bad as it can be." "Then that was a war-party we saw?" "Yes; come on." He then put his hands to his mouth and uttered a wildly savage yell, whose effect was instantaneous. It was answered in all directions, and followed by a shrieking and wailing chorus from the women and children, who came trooping out of their huts, laden with household treasures, and hurrying up one particular path at the back of the village, one which neither Don nor Jem had intruded upon, from the belief that it led to some temple or place connected with the Maoris' religion. A few minutes before the men were idling about, lying on the black sand, sleeping, or eating and drinking in the most careless, indolent way. Now all were in a state of the wildest excitement, and as Don saw the great stalwart fellows come running here and there, armed with spear and stone axe, he felt that he had misjudged them, and thought that they looked like so many grand bronze figures, suddenly come to life. Their faces and nearly naked bodies were made hideous with tattooing marks; but their skins shone and the muscles stood out, and as they all grouped together under the orders of Tomati and Ngati, both Don and Jem thought that if the party they had seen were coming on to the attack, the fighting might be desperate after all. In less time than it takes to tell, men had been sent out as scouts; and pending their return, Tomati led the way up the path, after the women and children, to where, to Don's astonishment, there was a strong blockaded enclosure, or _pah_, made by binding great stakes together at the tops, after they had been driven into the ground. There was but one entrance to the enclosure, which was on the summit of a rock with exceedingly steep sides, save where the path zigzagged to the top; and here every one was soon busy trying to strengthen the place, the spears of the men being laid against the stockade. "May as well help," said Jem, sturdily. "I'm not going to fight, but I don't mind helping them to take care of themselves." They set to and aided in every way they could, Ngati smiling approval, patting Don on the back, and then hurrying away to return with two spears, which he handed to the two young men. "My pakeha!" he said; and Jem gave an angry stamp, and was about to refuse to take the weapon, when there was a yell of excitement from all in the _pah_, for one of the scouts came running in, and as he came nearer, it could be seen that he was bleeding from a wound in the shoulder, and that he had lost his spear. As if nerved by this sight, Don and Jem seized the spears offered for their defence. "Yes, Mas' Don," said Jem; "we shall have to try and fight; seems to me as if the war's begun!" A wild shriek followed his words, and Don saw that they were but too true. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. WAR. Tomati soon showed the reason for his elevation to the position of chief among the Maoris, for, in addition to being a man of commanding presence and great strength, his adventurous life had given him quickness and decision in his actions, which told with a savage race none too ready to discriminate. He rushed out of the _pah_, and caught the man by the shoulder, questioned him, turned him over to a couple of his friends to be doctored, and then in a loud voice informed the excited crowd that the danger was not imminent, following up this announcement with orders to go on strengthening the stockade. He was instantly obeyed, his cool manner giving his followers confidence; and they went on working hard at securing certain spots and strengthening the entrance, but always with their spears close at hand. There was another shout from a sentry, and again the whole tribe was electrified, women and children huddling under shelter, and the warriors seizing their weapons. This time a scout came running in uninjured and with his spear to announce the nearer approach of the enemy. Tomati received his news coolly enough, and then, after a word or two with Ngati, signed to the man to join the defenders, while two fresh scouts were sent out to spy the neighbourhood, and keep the chiefs well informed of the coming danger. Ngati's eyes seemed to flash, and there was a savage rigidity in his countenance that suggested hard times for the man who attacked him; but he seemed to place the most implicit confidence in Tomati, obeying his slightest suggestion, and evidently settling himself into the place of lieutenant to the white captain. After the first wailing and tears, the women and children settled down in their shelter quite as a matter of course, and as if such an event as this were no novelty in their social history. Once within the _pah_, and surrounded by stout fighting men on whom they could depend, they seemed quite satisfied, and full of confidence in the result of an attack, and this took Jem's notice. "Can't be much danger," he said, half contemptuously, "or these here wouldn't take it so coolly." "But it looks as if there was going to be a desperate fight." "Tchah! Not that, Mas' Don." "But look at that scout who ran in. He was hurt." "So is a boy who has had his head punched, and whose nose bleeds. There won't be no real fighting, my lad. I mean men being killed, and that sort o' thing." "Think not, Jem?" "Sure of it, my lad. T'other side 'll come up and dance a war-dance, and shake their spears at our lot. Then our lot 'll dance up and down like jack-jumpers, and make faces, and put out their tongues at 'em, and call 'em names. I know their ways; and then they'll all yell out, and shout; and then the others 'll dance another war-dance, and shout in Noo Zealandee that they'll kill and eat us all, and our lot'll say they'd like to see 'em do it, and that'll be all." Don shook his head. The preparations looked too genuine. "Ah, you'll see," continued Jem. "Then one lot 'll laugh, and say you're obliged to go, and t'other lot 'll come back again, and they'll call one another more names, and finish off with killing pigs, and eating till they can't eat no more." "You seem to know all about it, Jem." "Well, anybody could know as much as that," said Jem, going to the side and taking up a bundle formed with one of the native blankets, which he began to undo. "What have you got there?" "You just wait a minute," said Jem, with a dry look. "There! Didn't know that was the arm chest, did you?" He unrolled and took out a cutlass and two pistols, with the ammunition, and looked up smilingly at Don. "There!" he said, "what do you think o' them?" "I'd forgotten all about them, Jem." "I hadn't, my lad. There you are. Buckle on that cutlash." "No; you had better have that, Jem. I should never use it." "Oh, yes, you would, my lad, if it was wanted. On with it." Don reluctantly buckled on the weapon, and Jem solemnly charged the pistols, giving Don one, and taking the other to stick in his own waistbelt. "There," he said, retaking the spear given to him. "Don't you feel like fighting now?" "No, Jem; not a bit." "You don't?" "No. Do you?" "Well, if you put it in that way," said Jem, rubbing his ear, "I can't say as I do. You can't feel to want to do much in that way till some one hurts you. Then it's different." "It's horrible, Jem!" "Well, I suppose it is; but don't you get looking like that. There'll be no fighting here. I say, Mas' Don, it would be a bit of a game, though, to stick the pynte of this here spear a little way into one of the savages. Wonder what he'd say." "Ah! My pakeha!" cried a voice just behind them; and they turned sharply, to find themselves face to face with Ngati, who patted Don on the shoulder, and then pointed to his cutlass and pistol. "Hah!" he ejaculated, with a deep breath; and then, without warning, snatched Don's spear from his hand, threw himself into a series of wild attitudes, and went through the action of one engaged in an encounter with an enemy, stabbing, parrying, dodging, and darting here and there in a way that suggested instant immolation for the unfortunate he encountered. "Look at him, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Look at him pretending. That's the way they fight. By-an'-by, you'll see lots o' that, but you mark my words, none on 'em won't go nigh enough to hurt one another." Ngati ceased as suddenly as he had begun, returned the spear to Don, and seemed to intimate that he should go through the same performance. "You wait a bit, old chap!" cried Jem. "We don't fight that way." "Hah!" ejaculated Ngati, and he ran across to a portion of the _pah_ where several of his warriors were busily binding some of the posts more securely. "It do make me laugh," said Jem; "but I s'pose all that bouncing helps 'em. Poor things. Mas' Don, you and I ought to be werry thankful as we was born in Bristol, and that Bristol's in old England. Say, shall you give any one a chop if it does come to a fight?" Don shook his head. Jem laughed. "If it warn't for wasting the powder, I tell you what we'd do. Get up a-top yonder where we could lean over the palings, wait till the other chaps comes up, and then shoot over their heads with the pistols. That'd make some of 'em run." There was another shout here, for two of the scouts came running in, and every man seized his spear, and darted to the spot he was expected to defend. "Why, Mas' Don, how they can run! Look at 'em. An Englishman wouldn't run like that from a dozen men. Here, let's chuck these spears away. We sha'n't want 'em. An Englishman as has got fists don't want no spears. Look! Look!" The two scouts had come running in very swiftly till they were about a hundred yards from the gateway of the _pah_, when they stopped short and faced about as two of the enemy, who were in chase, dashed at them, spear in hand. Then, to Jem's astonishment, a sharp passage of arms occurred; the spears clashed together, there was a wonderful display of thrusting and parrying, and the two enemies fell back, and the scouts continued their retreat to the shelter of the fort. "What do you think of that, Jem?" said Don excitedly. "That was real fighting." "Real?" cried Jem; "it was wonderful!" and he spoke huskily. "Why, both those chaps was wounded, and these here's got it, too." The two scouts were both gashed about the arms by their enemies' spears, but they came bravely in, without making any display, and were received by cheers, Tomati going up to each in turn, and gripping his hand. Just then the Englishman caught sight of his compatriots, and came across to them quickly. "Hullo!" he said, with a grim smile, "cleared for action, and guns run out?" "Yes, we're ready," said Jem. "Going to fight on our side?" "Well, I don't know," said Jem, in a dubious kind of way. "Fighting arn't much in my line." "Not in yours neither, youngster. There, I daresay we shall soon beat them off. You two keep under shelter, and if things go against us, you both get away, and make for the mountain. Go right into that cave, and wait till I join you." "But there will not be much fighting, will there--I mean real fighting?" said Jem. "I don't know what you mean by real fighting, squire; but I suppose we shall keep on till half of us on both sides are killed and wounded." "So bad as that?" "P'r'aps worse," said the man grimly. "Here, shake hands young un, in case we don't have another chance. If you have to run for it, keep along the east coast for about a hundred miles; there's white men settled down yonder. Good-bye." Tomati shook hands heartily, and went off to his righting men, who were excitedly watching the level below the _pah_, to which part it was expected the enemy would first come. Don joined them, eager to see how matters were going, and hopeful still, in spite of Tomati's words, that matters would not assume so serious an aspect; but just then a hand was laid upon his arm. "I was out of it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "They do bounce a deal. But there's going to be real fighting on. One of those poor fellows who came running in, and stood up as if nothing was wrong, is dead." "Dead?" "Yes, my lad. Spear went right through his chest. Hark at 'em!" There was a low wailing noise from the corner of the _pah_, where the two men were sheltered, and Don felt a chill of horror run through him. "Then it is going to be quite a savage battle, Jem?" "'Fraid so, my lad--no, I don't mean 'fraid--think so. Now, look here, Mas' Don, it won't be long first, so you'd better go and lie down behind them high palings, where you'll be safe." "And what are you going to do?" "Stop here and see what there is to see." "But you may be hurt." "Well, Mas' Don," said Jem bitterly; "it don't much matter if I am. Run along, my lad." "I'm going to stop with you, Jem." "And suppose you're hurt; what am I to say to your mother? Why, she'd never forgive me." "Nor me either, Jem, if I were to go and hide, while you stood out here." "But it's going to be real dangerous, Mas' Don." "It will be just as dangerous for you, Jem. What should I say to your wife if you were hurt?" "Don't know, Mas' Don," said Jem sadly. "I don't think she'd mind a deal." "You don't mean it, Jem!" cried Don sharply. "Now, are you coming into shelter?" "No," said Jem, with a peculiarly hard, stern look in his face. "I'm going to fight." "Then I shall stay too, Jem." "Won't you feel frightened, Mas' Don?" "Yes, I suppose so. It seems very horrible." "Yes, so it is, but it's them others as makes it horrible. I'm going to give one on 'em something for spearing that poor chap. Look out, Mas' Don; here they come!" There was a fierce shout of defiance as the scouts came running in now as hard as they could, followed by a body of about two hundred naked warriors, whose bronzed bodies glistened in the sunshine. They came on in a regular body, running swiftly, and not keeping step, but with wonderful regularity, till they were about fifty yards from the _pah_, when, after opening out into a solid oblong mass to show a broader front, they stopped suddenly as one man, dropped into a half-kneeling position, and remained perfectly motionless, every savage with his head bent round, as if he were looking over his left shoulder, and then turning his eyes to the ground, and holding his weapon diagonally across his body. The whole business was as correctly gone through as if it was a manoeuvre of some well-drilled European regiment, and then there was an utter silence for a few minutes. Not a sound arose from either side; enemies and friends resembled statues, and it was as if the earth had some great attraction for them, for every eye looked down instead of at a foe. Don's heart beat heavily. As the band of heavy warriors came on, the air seemed to throb, and the earth resound. It was exciting enough then; but this was, in its utter stillness, horribly intense, and with breathless interest the two adventurers scanned the fierce-looking band. All at once Jem placed his lips close to Don's ear, and whispered,-- "Dunno what to say to it all, Mas' Don. P'r'aps it's flam after all." "No, Jem; they look too fierce," whispered back Don. "Ay, my lad, that's it; they look so fierce. If they didn't look so precious ugly, I should believe in 'em a bit more. Looks to me as if they were going to pretend to bite, and then run off." A sudden yell rose from the attacking party just then, and three of the enemy rushed forward to the front, armed with short-handled stone tomahawks. They seemed to be chiefs, and were men of great height and bulk, but none the less active; and as they advanced, a low murmur of dismay was started by such of the women as could command a view of what was going on outside. This seemed to be communicated to all the rest, women and children taking up the murmur, which rose to a piteous wail. This started the pigs and dogs which had been driven into the protection of the _pah_, and the discord was terrible. But meanwhile, partly to encourage their followers, partly to dismay those they had come to attack, the three leaders rushed wildly to and fro before the opening to the fort, brandishing their stone axes, grimacing horribly, putting out their tongues, and turning up their eyes, till only the whites were visible. "It's that 'ere which makes me think they won't fight," said Jem, as he and Don watched the scene intently. "Don't talk, Jem. See what they are going to do. Are we to shoot if they do attack?" "If you don't they'll give it to us," replied Jem. "Oh, what a row!" For at that moment there was a terrible and peculiar cry given from somewhere behind the little army, and the three men gave place to one who rushed from behind. The cry was given out three times as the man indulged in a similar set of wild evolutions to those which had been displayed by the three leaders, and with his eyes showing only the whites, he too thrust out his tongue derisively. "If I was only near enough to give you a chop under the chin!" grumbled Jem. Then he grasped and cocked the pistol he held, for the chief in front suddenly began to stamp on the ground, and shouted forth the beginning of his war-song. Up leaped the whole of the enemy, to shake their spears as they yelled out the chorus, leaping and stamping with regular movement, till the earth seemed to quiver. The acts of the chief were imitated, every man seeming to strive to outdo his fellows in the contortions of their countenances, the protrusion of their tongues, and the way in which they rolled and displayed the whites of their eyes. There was quite a military precision in the stamping and bounding, while the rhythm of the wild war-song was kept with wonderful accuracy. "Feel scared, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem. "I did at first, Jem," replied Don; "but they seem such a set of ridiculous idiots, that I am more disposed to laugh at them." "That's just how I feel, my lad, only aggrawated like, too. I should like to go among 'em with a big stick. I never see such faces as they make. It is all flam; they won't fight." The war-song went on as if the enemy were exciting themselves for the affray, and all the time the men of Tomati and Ngati stood firm, and as watchful as could be of their foes, who leaped, and stamped, and sang till Jem turned to Don, and said in a low voice,-- "Look here, Mas' Don, it's my opinion that these here chaps never grew inside their heads after they was six or seven. They've got bodies big enough, but no more brains than a little child. Look at that six-foot-four chap making faces at us; why, it's like a little boy. They won't fight." It seemed so to Don, and that it was all going to be an attempt to frighten the tribe he was with. But all the same, the enemy came by degrees nearer and nearer, as they yelled and leaped; and a suspicion suddenly crossed Don's mind that there might be a motive in all this. "Jem, they mean to make a rush." "Think so, Mas' Don?" "Yes, and our people know it. Look out!" The followers of Tomati had thoroughly grasped the meaning of the indirect approach, just as a man who has practised a certain manoeuvre is prepared for the same on the part of his enemy, and they had gradually edged towards the entrance to the _pah_, which was closed, but which naturally presented the most accessible way to the interior. The howling chorus and the dancing continued, till, at a signal, the rush was made, and the fight began. Jem Wimble's doubts disappeared in an instant; for, childish as the actions of the enemy had been previously, they were now those of desperate savage men, who made no account of their lives in carrying out the attack upon the weaker tribe. With a daring that would have done credit to the best disciplined forces, they darted up to the stout fence, some of them attacking the defenders, by thrusting through their spears, while others strove to climb up and cut the lashings of the _toro-toro_, the stout fibrous creeper with which the palings were bound together. One minute the enemy were dancing and singing, the next wildly engaged in the fight; while hard above the din, in a mournful booming bleat, rang out the notes of a long wooden horn. The tumult increased, and was made more terrible by the screaming of the women and the crying of the children, which were increased as some unfortunate defender of the _pah_ went down before the spear-thrusts of the enemy. The attack was as daring and brave as could be; but the defence was no less gallant, and was supplemented by a desperate valour, which seemed to be roused to the pitch of madness as the women's cries arose over some fallen warrior. A spear was thrust through at the defenders; answering thrusts were given, but with the disadvantage that the enemy were about two to one. Tomati fought with the solid energy of his race, always on the look-out to lead half-a-dozen men to points which were most fiercely assailed; and his efforts in this way were so successful that over and over again the enemy were driven back in spots where they had made the most energetic efforts to break through. As Don and Jem looked on they saw Tomati's spear darted through the great fence at some savage who had climbed up, and was hacking the lashings; and so sure as that thrust was made, the stone tomahawk ceased to hack, and its user fell back with a yell of pain or despair. Ngati, too, made no grotesque contortions of his face; there was no lolling out of the tongue, or turning up of the eyes, for his countenance was set in one fixed stare, and his white teeth clenched as he fought with the valour of some knight of old. "I would not ha' thought it, Mas' Don," said Jem excitedly. "Look at him; and I say--oh, poor chap!" This last was as Jem saw a fine-looking young Maori, who was defending a rather open portion of the stockade, deliver a thrust, and then draw back, drop his spear, throw up his arms, and then reel and stagger forward, to fall upon his face--dead. "They'll be through there directly, Mas' Don!" cried Jem, hoarsely, as Don stooped upon one knee to raise the poor fellow's head, and lay it gently down again, for there was a look upon it that even he could understand. "Through there, Jem?" said Don, rising slowly, and looking half stunned with horror. "Yes, my lad; and Tomati's busy over the other side, and can't come. Arn't it time us two did something?" "Yes," said Don, with his face flushing, as he gave a final look at the dead Maori. "Ah!" Both he and Jem stopped short then, for there was a yell of dismay as Ngati was seen now to stagger away from the fence, and fall headlong, bleeding from half-a-dozen wounds. An answering yell came from outside, and the clatter of spear and tomahawk seemed to increase, while the posts were beginning to yield in the weak spot near where the two companions stood. "Come on, Jem!" cried Don, who seemed to be moved by a spirit of excitement, which made him forget to feel afraid; and together they ran to where two men, supported by their companions outside, were hacking at the _toro-toro_, while others were fiercely thrusting their spears through whenever the defenders tried to force the axe-men down. "Pistols, Jem, and together, before those two fellows cut the lashings." "That's your sort!" cried Jem; and there was a sharp _click, click_, as they cocked their pistols. "Now, Jem, we mustn't miss," said Don. "Do as I do." He walked to within three or four yards of the great fence, and rested the butt of the spear he carried on the ground. Then, holding the pistol-barrel against the spear-shaft with his left hand, thus turning the spear into a support, he took a long and careful aim at a great bulky savage, holding on the top of the fence. Jem followed his example, and covered the other; while the enemy yelled, and thrust at them with their spears, yelling the more excitedly as it was found impossible to reach them. "Let me give the word, Mas' Don!" cried Jem, whose voice shook with excitement. "Mind and don't miss, dear lad, or they'll be down upon us. Ready?" "Yes," said Don. "Here goes, then," cried Jem. "Fire! Stop your vents." The two pistols went off simultaneously, and for a few moments the smoke concealed the results. Then there was a tremendous yelling outside, one that was answered from within by the defenders, who seemed to have become inspirited by the shots; for either from fright, or from the effects of the bullets, the two great Maoris who were cutting the lashings were down, and the defenders were once more at the fence, keeping the enemy back. "Load quickly, Jem," said Don. "That's just what I was a-going to say to you, Mas' Don." "Well done, my lads! That's good!" cried a hoarse voice; and Tomati was close to them. "Keep that up; but hold your fire till you see them trying to get over, and wherever you see that, run there and give 'em a couple of shots. Ha, ha! Ha, ha!" he roared, as he rushed away to encourage his followers, just as Jem had rammed home his charge, and examined the priming in the pistol pan. "That's just what we will do," said Jem; "only I should like to keep at it while my blood's warm. If I cool down I can't fight. Say, Mas' Don, I hope we didn't kill those two chaps." "I hope they're wounded, Jem, so that they can't fight," replied Don, as he finished his priming. "Quick! They're getting up yonder." They ran across to the other side of the _pah_, and repeated their previous act of defence with equally good result; while the defenders, who had seemed to be flagging, yelled with delight at the two young Englishmen, and began fighting with renewed vigour. "Load away, Mas' Don!" cried Jem; "make your ramrod hop. Never mind the pistol kicking; it kicks much harder with the other end. Four men down. What would my Sally say?" "Hi! Quick, my lads!" shouted Tomati; and as Don looked up he saw the tattooed Englishman, who looked a very savage now, pointing with his spear at one corner of the place. Don nodded, and ran with Jem in the required direction, finishing the loading as they went. It was none too soon, for three of the enemy were on the top of the fence, and, spear in hand, were about to drop down among the defenders. _Bang_! Went Jem's pistol, and one of the savages fell back. _Bang_! Don's shot followed, and the man at whom he aimed fell too, but right among the spears of the defenders; while the third leaped into the _pah_, and the next moment lay transfixed by half-a-dozen weapons. "I don't like this, Jem," muttered Don, as he loaded again. "More don't I, my lad; but it's shoot them or spear us; so load away." Jem words were so much to the point, that they swept away Don's compunction, and they hastily reloaded. All around were the yelling and clashing of spears; and how many of the attacking party fell could not be seen, but there was constantly the depressing sight of some brave defender of the women and children staggering away from the fence, to fall dead, or to creep away out of the struggle to where the weeping women eagerly sought to staunch his wounds and give him water. "That's splendid, my lads! That's splendid! Ten times better than using a spear," cried Tomati, coming up to them again. "Plenty of powder and ball?" "Not a very great deal," said Don. "Be careful, then, and don't waste a shot. They can't stand that." "Shall we beat them off?" said Don, after seeing that his pistol was charged. "Beat them off? Why, of course. There you are again. Look sharp!" Once more the two pistols cleared the attacking Maoris from the top of the fence, where they were vainly trying to cut through the lashings; and, cheered on by these successes, the defenders yelled with delight, and used their spears with terrible effect. But the attacking party, after a recoil, came on again as stubbornly as ever, and it was plain enough to those who handled the firearms that it was only a question of time before the besieged would be beaten by numbers; and Don shuddered as he thought of the massacre that must ensue. He had been looking round, and then found that Jem was eyeing him fixedly. "Just what I was a-thinking, Mas' Don. We've fought like men; but we can't do impossibles, as I says to your uncle, when he wanted me to move a molasses barrel. Sooner we cuts and runs, the better." "I was not thinking of running, Jem." "Then you ought to have been, my lad; for there's them at home as wouldn't like us two to be killed." "Don't! Don't! Jem!" cried Don. "Come on. There's a man over! Two-- three--four! Look!" He ran toward the side, where a desperate attack was being made, and, as he said, four men were over, and others following, when once more the pistols sent down a couple who had mounted the fence, one of them being shot through the chest, the other dropping on seeing his companion fall, but with no further hurt than the fright caused by a bullet whistling by his ear. The four who were over made a desperate stand, but Tomati joined in the attack, and the daring fellows soon lay weltering in their blood; while, as Don rapidly loaded once more, he saw that Tomati was leaning on his spear, and rocking himself slowly to and fro. "Are you hurt?" said Don, running up, and loading as he went. "Hurt, my lad? Yes: got it horrid. Look here, if you and him see a chance make for the mountain, and then go south'ard." "But shall we be beaten?" "We are beaten, my lad, only we can't show it. I'm about done." "Oh!" "Hush! Don't show the white feather, boy. Keep on firing, and the beggars outside may get tired first. If not--There, fire away!" He made a brave effort to seem unhurt, and went to assist his men; while once more Don and Jem ran to the side, and fired just in time to save the lashings of the fence; but Jem's pistol went off with quite a roar, and he flung the stock away, and stood shaking his bleeding fingers. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt! He says, `Am I hurt?' Why, the precious thing bursted all to shivers; and, oh, crumpets, don't it sting!" "Let me bind it up." "You go on and load; never mind me. Pretty sort o' soldier you'd make. D'yer hear? Load, I say; load!" "Can't, Jem," said Don sadly; "that was my last charge." "So it was mine, and I rammed in half-a-dozen stones as well to give 'em an extra dose. Think that's what made her burst?" "Of course it was, Jem." "Bad job; but it's done, and we've got the cutlash and spears. Which are you going to use?" "The spear. No; the cutlass, Jem." "Bravo, my lad! Phew! How my hand bleeds." "I'm afraid we shall be beaten, Jem." "I'm sure of it, my lad. My right hand, too; I can't hit with it. Wish we was all going to run away now." "Do you, Jem?" "Ay, that I do; only we couldn't run away and leave the women and children, even if they are beaten." A terrible yelling and shrieking arose at that moment from behind where they stood, and as they turned, it was to see the whole of the defenders, headed by Tomati, making a rush for one portion of the fence where some of the stout poles had given way. A breach had been made, and yelling like furies, the enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED. Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death. Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the _pah_, the slaughter was frightful. Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows drop, both Don and Jem had made unskilful use of their weapons, for they were unwillingly mingled with the crowd of defenders, and driven with them into the corner of the great enclosure. One minute they were surrounded by panting, desperate men, using their spears valorously, as the Greeks might have used theirs in days of old; then there came a rush, a horrible crowding together, a sensation to Don as if some mountain had suddenly fallen on his head to crush out the hideous din of yelling and despairing shrieks, and then all was darkness. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was still darkness, but the stars were shining brightly overhead, when Don opened his eyes again to begin wondering why his head should ache so terribly, and he should feel so cold. Those thoughts were only momentary, for a colder chill ran through him as on both sides of where he lay a low moaning sound arose, as of some one in pain. "Where am I?" he thought. "What is the matter?" Then he realised what had happened, for a familiar voice said almost in a whisper,-- "Poor little Sally! I wish she was here with a bit of rag." "Jem!" "Mas' Don! Oh! Thank the Lord! Amen! I thought--I thought--Oh! Oh!" A choking sensation rose in Don's throat, for he could hear close beside him the brave, true fellow sobbing like a woman. "Jem! Jem, old chap!" whispered Don. "Don't, pray don't do that." "I'm a-trying not to as hard as ever I can," whispered the poor fellow hoarsely; "but I've been bleeding like a pig, Mas' Don, and it's made me as weak as a great gal. You see I thought as you was dead." "No, no, Jem; I'm here safe, only--only my head aches, and I can't get my hands free." "No, my lad, more can't I. We're both tied up, hands and legs." "But the others? Where is Tomati?" "Don't ask me, my lad." "Oh, Jem!" There was a few minutes' awful silence, during which the low moaning sound went on from different places close at hand. "Where is Ngati?" whispered Don at last. "Half killed, or dead, Mas' Don," said Jem, sadly. "We're reg'lar beat. But, my word, Mas' Don, I am sorry." "Sorry? Of course." "Ah! But I mean for all I said about the poor fellows. I thought they couldn't fight." "The women and children, Jem?" "All prisoners, 'cept some as would fight, and they--" "Yes--go on." "They served them same as they did those poor chaps as wouldn't give in." "How horrible!" "Ah, 'tis horrid, my lad; and I've been wishing we hadn't cut and run. We was better off on board ship." "It's of no use to talk like that, Jem. Are you much hurt?" "Hand's all cut about with that pistol busting, and there's a hole through my left shoulder, as feels as if it had been bored with a red hot poker. But there, never mind. Worse disasters at sea, Mas' Don. Not much hurt, are you?" "I don't know, Jem. I can remember nothing." "Good job for you, my lad. One of 'em hit you over the head with the back of a stone-chopper; and I thought he'd killed you, so I--" Jem ceased speaking. "Well, go on," whispered Don. "That's all," said Jem, sullenly. "But you were going to say what you did when the man struck me." "Was I? Ah, well, I forget now." Don was silent, for Jem had given him something terrible to dwell upon as he tried to think. At last he spoke again. "Where are the enemy, Jem?" "Enemy, indeed!" growled Jem. "Savages like them don't deserve such a fine name. Brutes!" "But where are they? Did you see what they did?" "See? Yes. Don't ask me." "But where are they?" "Sleep. Drunk, I think. After they'd tied us prisoners all up and shut up all the women and children in the big _whare_, what do you think they did?" "Kill them?" "Killed 'em? No. Lit fires, and set to and had a reg'lar feast, and danced about--them as could!" added Jem with a chuckle. "Some on 'em had got too many holes in 'em to enjoy dancing much. But, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem." "Don't ask me to tell you no more, my lad. I'm too badly, just now. Think you could go to sleep?" "I don't know, Jem. I don't think so." "I'd say, let's try and get ourselves loose, and set to and get away, for I don't think anybody's watching us; but I couldn't go two steps, I know. Could you run away by yourself?" "I don't know," said Don. "I'm not going to try." "Well, but that's stupid, Mas' Don, when you might go somewhere, p'r'aps, and get help." "Where, Jem?" "Ah!" said the poor fellow, after a pause, "I never thought about that." They lay still under the blinking stars, with the wind blowing chill from the icy mountains; and the feeling of bitter despondency which hung over Don's spirit seemed to grow darker. His head throbbed violently, and a dull numbing pain was in his wrists and ankles. Then, too, as he opened his lips, he felt a cruel, parching, feverish thirst, which seemed by degrees to pass away as he listened to the low moaning, and then for a few minutes he lost consciousness. But it was only to start into wakefulness again, and stare wildly at the faintly-seen fence of the great _pah_, right over his head, and through which he could see the twinkling of a star. As he realised where he was once more, he whispered Jem's name again and again, but a heavy breathing was the only response, and he lay thinking of home and of his bedroom all those thousand miles away. And as he thought of Bristol, a curious feeling of thankfulness came over him that his mother was in ignorance of the fate that had befallen her son. "What would she say--what would she think, if she knew that I was lying here on the ground, a prisoner, and wounded--here at the mercy of a set of savages--what would she say?" A short time before Don had been thinking that fate had done its worst for him, and that his position could not possibly have been more grave. But he thought now that it might have been far worse, for his mother was spared his horror. And then as he lay helpless there, and in pain, with his companion badly hurt, and the low moan of some wounded savage now and then making him shudder, the scene of the desperate fight seemed to come back, and he felt feverish and wild. But after a time that passed off, and the pain and chill troubled him, but only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside." "It is very, very horrible, Jem." "Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver. There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water. "That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took the man's attention, and he and his fellows mounted on a stage at one corner of the _pah_ to stand leaning upon their spears, gazing down at the festivities being carried on at the edge of the sands below. For some time past it had seemed to Don that the plundering party had fired the village, for a tall column of smoke had risen up, and this had died down and risen again as combustible matter had caught. The fire was too far below to be seen, but the smoke rose in clouds as the work of destruction seemed to be going on. The singing and shouting increased, and once or twice the other prisoners appeared to take an excited interest in the sounds that came up to them; but they only sank directly after into a state of moody apathy, letting their chins go down upon their chests, and many of them dropping off to sleep. The noise and shouting had been going on for some time, and then ceased, to be succeeded by a low, busy murmur, as of a vast swarm of bees; and now, after sitting very silent and thoughtful, watching the faint smoke which came up from the fire, and eagerly drinking in the various sounds, Don turned his eyes in a curiously furtive manner to steal a look at Jem. He did not move his head, but proceeded with the greatest caution, so as to try and read his companion's countenance, when, to his surprise, he found that Jem was stealing a look at him, and both, as it were, snatched their eyes away, and began looking at the prisoners. But at that time it was as if the eyes of both were filled with some strange attractive force, which made them turn and gaze in a peculiarly hard, wild way. Don seemed to be reading Jem's thoughts as his sight plunged deeply into the eyes of his companion, and as he gazed, he shuddered, and tried to look elsewhere. But he could not look elsewhere, only hard at Jem, who also shuddered, and looked shame-faced and horrified. For they were reading each other's thoughts only too correctly, and the effect of that perusal was to make big drops of perspiration roll down Jem's face, and to turn Don deadly pale. At last each snatched his eyes away, Jem to watch the prisoners, Don to close his, and sit trembling and listening to the bursts of merriment which came up. At such times, in spite of their efforts, they could not imitate the apathy of the New Zealanders, but gazed wildly at each other, trying to make themselves believe that what they imagined was false, or else the prisoners would have shown some sign of excitement. At last Jem ceased to make any pretence about the matter. He stared speechlessly and full of misery at Don, who let his eyes rest wildly on Jem's for a time before dropping his head upon his chest, and sitting motionless. All through the rest of that hour, and hour after hour, till towards evening, did the wretched prisoners sit in despair and misery without food or water; and the sounds of merriment and feasting came loudly to where they were. The sun was descending rapidly when about half-a-dozen of the conquering tribe came up to the _pah_, with the result that those who were on guard suddenly grew wildly excited, and giving up their duties to the new comers, uttered eager shouts and rushed off in a way that was frantic in the extreme. Don and Jem again exchanged looks full of misery and despair, and then gazed with wonder and loathing at the new comers, who walked slowly about for a few minutes, and then went and leaned their backs against the palisading of the _pah_, and partially supported themselves upon their spears. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem with a shudder as he turned away. "You wretches! Mas' Don, I felt as I lay here last night, all dull and miserable and sick, and hardly able to bear myself--I felt so miserable because I knew I must have shot some of those chaps." "So did I, Jem," sighed Don; "so did I." "Well, just now, Mas' Don, I'm just 'tother way; ay, for I wish with all my heart I'd shot the lot. Hark, there!" They listened, and could hear a burst of shouting and laughing. "That's them sentries gone down now to the feast. I say, Mas' Don, look at these here fellows." "Yes, Jem, I've been looking at them. It's horrible, and we must escape." They sat gazing at their guards again, to see that they were flushed, their eyes full, heavy, and starting, and that they were absolutely stupefied and torpid as some huge serpent which has finished a meal. "They must be all drunk, Jem," whispered Don, with a fresh shudder of horror and loathing. "No, Mas' Don, 'tarn't that," said Jem, with a look of disgust. "Old Mike used to tell us stories, and most of 'em was yarns as I didn't believe; but he told us one thing as I do believe now. He said as some of the blacks in Africa would go with the hunters who killed the hippipperpothy-mouses, and when they'd killed one, they'd light a fire, and then cut off long strips of the big beast, hold 'em in the flame for a bit, and then eat 'em, and cut off more strips and eat them, and go on eating all day till they could hardly see or move." "Yes, I remember, Jem; and he said the men ate till they were drunk; and you said it was all nonsense, for a man couldn't get drunk without drink." "Yes, Mas' Don; but I was all wrong, and Mike was right. Those wretches there are as much like Mike Bannock was when he bored a hole in the rum puncheon as can be. Eating too much makes people as stupid as drinking; and knowing what I do, I wishes I was in Africa and not here." "Knowing what you do, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, knowing what I do. It's what you know too. I can see you do." Don shuddered. "Don't, Jem, don't; it's too horrid even to think about." "Yes, dear lad, but we must think about it. These here people's used to it, and done it theirselves, I daresay; and they don't seem to mind; but we do. Ah, Mas' Don, I'd rather ha' been a sailor all my life, or been had by the sharks when we was swimming ashore; for I feel as if I can't stand this. There, listen!" There was a sound of shouting and singing from the beach below, and one of the guards tossed up his spear in a sleepy way, and shouted too, but only to subside again into a sluggish state of torpidity. "Why, Mas' Don, by-and-by they'll all be asleep, and if we tried, you and me might get our arms and legs undone, and take a spear apiece, and kill the lot. What do you say?" "The same as you will, if you think, Jem," replied Don. "No." "No, it is, Mas' Don, of course. Englishmen couldn't do such a thing as that." "But only let us have a fair chance at them again, Jem, and I don't think we shall feel very sorry if we slay a few." "Sorry?" said Jem, between his teeth. "I mean a hundred of 'em at least, as soon as we can get away; and get away we will." They sat listening till the horrible feast below was at an end, and everything became so silent that they concluded that the enemy must be asleep, and began to wonder that the prisoners should all crouch together in so apathetic a state. But all at once, when everything seemed most still, and half the prisoners were dozing, there came the heavy trampling of feet; the guards roused up, and in the dim light of the late evening, the bonds which secured the captives' feet were loosened, and, like a herd of cattle, they were driven down from the platform upon which the _pah_ was constructed, and along the slope to the sands, where the canoes rode lightly on the swell. Into these they were forced to climb, some getting in with alacrity, others slowly and painfully; two or three falling helplessly in the water, and then, half drowned, being dragged in over the side. "Not a bit sorry I killed some of 'em," muttered Jem. "They arn't men, Mas' Don, but savage beasts." It did not take long, for there was plenty of room in the little fleet of canoes. The prisoners were divided, some being placed in the canoes with the plunder, and treated as if they were spoil. Others were divided among the long canoes, manned by the enemy, whose own wounded men, even to the worst, did not hesitate to take to a paddle, and fill their places. Some of the children whimpered, but an apathetic state of misery and dejection seemed to have affected even them, while in one or two cases, a blow from a paddle was sufficient to awe the poor little unfortunates into silence. As soon as the last man was in his place, a herculean chief waved his hands; one of his followers raised a great wooden trumpet, and blew a long, bellowing note; the paddles dipped almost as one into the water, and the men burst into a triumphal chorus, as, for a few hundred yards, the great war canoes which they had captured swept with their freight of spoil at a rapid rate southward along the shore. Then the sudden burst of energy ceased, the song broke off, the speed diminished; and the men slowly dipped their paddles in a heavy, drowsy way. Every now and then one of the warriors ceased paddling, or contented himself with going through the motion; but still the great serpent-like vessels glided on, though slowly, while the darkness came on rapidly, and the water flashed as its phosphorescent inhabitants were disturbed. The darkness grew intense, but not for long. Soon a gradual lightening became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don." "I wish the wretches could be punished," said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of the canoe in the broad moonlight, and Don watched the soft silver sea, the black velvet-looking shore, and the brilliant stars; and then, just as in his faintness, hunger, and misery, he had determined in his own mind that he would be obliged to sit there and suffer the long night through, and began wondering how long it would be before morning, he became aware of the fact that Nature is bounteously good to those who suffer, for he saw that Jem kept on nodding his head, as if in acquiescence with that which he had said; and then he seemed to subside slowly with his brow against the side. "He's asleep!" said Don to himself. "Poor Jem! He always could go to sleep directly." This turned Don's thoughts to the times when, after a hard morning's work, and a hasty dinner, he had seen Jem sit down in a corner with his back against a tub, and drop off apparently in an instant. "I wish I could go to sleep and forget all this," Don said to himself with a sigh--"all this horror and weariness and misery." He shook his head: it was impossible; and he looked again at the dark shore that they were passing, at the shimmering sea, and then at the bronzed backs of the warriors as they paddled on in their drowsy, mechanical way. The movement looked more and more strange as he gazed. The men's bodies swayed very little, and their arms all along the line looked misty, and seemed to stretch right away into infinity, so far away was the last rower from the prow. The water flashed with the moonlight on one side, and gleamed pallidly on the other as the blades stirred it; and then they grew more misty and more misty, but kept on _plash_--_plash_--_plash_, and the paddles of the line of canoes behind echoed the sound, or seemed to, as they beat the water, and Jem whispered softly in his ear,-- "Don't move, Mas' Don, my lad, I'm not tired!" But he did move, for he started up from where his head had been lying on Jem's knees, and the poor fellow smiled at him in the broad morning sunshine. Sunshine, and not moonshine; and Don stared. "Why, Jem," he said, "have I been asleep?" "S'pose so, Mas' Don. I know I have, and when I woke a bit ago, you'd got your head in my lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don," said Jem, "why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you," said Tomati, shivering painfully. "Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from here?" "No, Jem; it would be impossible." "So it would, lad, so it would; but as he said, poor chap, we must take to the woods. Think any of these would come with us?" Don shook his head despairingly, as he longed to look in Tomati's face again, but he dared not stir. A few minutes later they were once more in the leading canoe, which was being urged rapidly over the smooth sea, and it was a long time before Don could frame the words he wished to say. For whenever he tried to speak there was a strange choking sensation in his throat, and he ended by asking the question mutely as he gazed wildly in his companion's face. "Tomati, Mas' Don?" said Jem sadly. Don nodded. "Ah, I thought that was what you meant, my lad. Didn't you understand him when he spoke?" "No--yes--I'm afraid I did," whispered back Don. "Yes, you did, my lad. He meant it, and he knew it. He has got away." Don gazed wildly in Jem's eyes, and then bent his head low down to hide the emotion he felt, for it was nothing to him then that the English chief was an escaped convict from Norfolk Island. He had been a true friend and defender to them both; and Don in his misery, pain, and starvation could only ask himself whether that was the way that he must escape--the only open road. It was quite an hour before he spoke again, and then hardly above his breath. "Jem," he said, "shall we ever see our dear old home again?" Jem looked at him wistfully, and tried to answer cheerily, but the paddles were flashing in the sun, and the canoe was bearing them farther and farther away to a life of slavery, perhaps to a death of such horror that he dared not even think of it, much less speak. CHAPTER FORTY THREE. A SEARCH IN THE DARK. Two days' more water journey within easy reach of the verdant shore, past inlet, gulf, bay, and island, round jagged points, about which the waves beat and foamed; and then, amidst shouting, singing, and endless barbaric triumphal clamour, the captured canoes with their loads of prisoners and spoil were run up to a black beach, where a crowd of warriors with their women and children and those of the little conquering army eagerly awaited their coming. Utterly worn out, the two English prisoners hardly had the spirit to scan the beautiful nook, through which a foaming stream of water dashed, at whose mouth lay several large war canoes, and close by which was the large open _whare_ with its carven posts and grotesque heads, quite a village of huts being scattered around. Similarly placed to that which he had helped to defend, Don could see upon a shoulder of the hill which ran up behind the _whare_, a great strongly made _pah_, ready for the tribe to enter should they be besieged by some enemy. But the whole scene with its natural beauty, seemed accursed to Don, as he was half dragged out of the canoe, to stagger and fall upon the sands--the fate of many of the wounded prisoners, who made no resistance, but resigned themselves to their fate. A scene of rejoicing ensued, in the midst of which fires which had been lighted as soon as the canoes came in sight, were well used by the women who cooked, and before long a banquet was prepared, in which three pigs and a vast number of potatoes formed the principal dishes. But there was an abundance of fruit, and bowls of a peculiar gruel-like food, quantities of which were served out to the wretched prisoners, where they squatted together, as dismal a group as could be imagined, and compared their own state with that of the victors, whose reception was almost frantic, and whose spoil was passed from hand to hand, to be marvelled at, or laughed at with contempt. At another time Don would have turned with disgust from the unattractive mess offered to him, but hunger and thirst made him swallow it eagerly, and the effect was wonderful. A short time before he had felt ready to lay down and die; but, after partaking of the food, he was ready to accept Jem's suggestion that they should bathe their hands and faces in the rushing water that foamed by close at hand, the conquerors being too much occupied with their singing and feasting to pay much heed to them. So they crept to the rocky edge of the clear, sparkling water, and to their surprise found that it was quite warm. But it was none the less refreshing, and as they half lay afterwards on the sun-warmed rock at the side, watching suspiciously every act of their new masters, in dread of that horror which sent a chill through both, they felt the refreshing glow send new life and strength through them, and as if their vigour were returning with every breath they drew. "Feel better, Mas' Don?" "Yes, much." "So 'm I. If it wasn't for the hole in my shoulder, and it being so stiff, I shouldn't be long before I was all right." "Does it pain you very much?" "Come, that's better, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Better?" "Yes; you're looking up again, and taking a bit o' interest in things. You quite frightened me, you seemed so down. My shoulder? Well, it do give it me pretty tidy. I thought I should have had to squeal when I was washing just now. But my legs are all right, Mas' Don. How's yourn?" "My legs?" "Yes. How soon shall we be ready to cut away?" "Hush!" "Oh! There's no one here understands English. When shall it be-- to-night?" "First time there is an opportunity, Jem," said Don, softly. "That's so, my lad; so every time you get a chance, you eat; and when you don't eat you drink, and lie down all you can." "Do you think any of the men here would try to escape with us?" Jem shook his head. "I don't understand 'em, Mas' Don. Seems to me that these chaps are all fight till they're beaten; but as soon as they're beaten, they're like some horses over a job: they won't try again. No, they're no good to help us, and I suppose they mean to take it as it comes." The two lay in silence now, watching the proceedings of their captors, who were being feasted, till there was a sudden movement, and about a dozen men approached them, spear in hand. At a shouted order the prisoners, wounded and sound, rose up with the women and children; and as patiently and apathetically as possible, allowed themselves to be driven up the hill-side to the strongly-built _pah_, through whose gateway they entered, and then threw themselves wearily down in the shadow of the great fence, while their captors secured the entrance, and a couple of them remained on guard. "Do I look like a sheep, Mas' Don?" said Jem, as he threw himself on the earth. "Sheep? No, Jem. Why?" "Because I feels like one, my lad. Driven in here like one of a flock, and this place just like a great pen; and here we are to be kept till we're wanted for--Oh, don't look like that, Mas' Don. It was only my fun. I say, you look as white as a wax image." "Then don't talk that way," said Don, hoarsely. "It is too horrible." "So it is, dear lad; but it seems to me that they only want to keep us now for slaves or servants. They're not going to, eh?" "No, Jem," said Don looking at the great fence. "Yes, that's just what I think, my lad. Posts like this may keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance. "Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking." "I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there on his back as if asleep, when three stalwart Maoris came round soon after dusk, and took out the bowls which had held the food. They were laughing and talking together, as if in high glee, and it was apparently about the success of the festival, for they looked at their prisoners, whom they then seemed to count over, each in turn touching the poor creatures with the butt ends of their long spears. Don felt the hot blood surge through his veins as one of the three guards gave him a harsh thrust with his spear, but he did not wince, only lay back patiently and waited till the men had gone. They secured the way into the _pah_, after which they squatted down, and began talking together in a low voice. Don listened to them for a time, and then turned over to where Jem lay as if asleep. "Is it dark enough?" he whispered. "Plenty. I'm ready." "Can you manage to get over?" "I will get over," said Jem, almost fiercely. "Wait a little while, Mas' Don." "I can't wait, Jem," he whispered. "I feel now as if I must act. But one minute: I don't like leaving these poor creatures in their helplessness." "More do I; but what can we do? They won't stir to help themselves. Only thing seems to me is to get away, and try and find some one who will come and punish the brutes as brought us here." Don's heart sank, but he knew that his companion's words were those of truth, and after a little hesitation he touched Jem with his hand, and then began to crawl slowly across the open space toward the fence. He looked back to make sure that Jem was following, but the darkness was so thick now, that even at that short distance he could not see him. Just then a touch on his foot set him at rest, and he crept softly on, listening to the low muttering of the men at the gate, and wondering whether he could find the rough part of the fence to which Jem had directed his attention. As he crept on he began to wonder next whether the prisoners would miss them, and do or say anything to call the attention of the guard; but all remained still, save that the Maoris laughed aloud at something one of them had said. This gave him confidence, and ceasing his crawling movement, he rose to his hands and feet, and crept on all fours to the fence, where he rose now to an erect position, and began to feel about for the rough post. Jem was up and by him directly after. Don placed his lips to his ear. "Whereabouts was it?" "Somewhere 'bout here. You try one way, and I'll try the other," whispered Jem; and then Don gripped his arm, and they stood listening, for a faint rustling sound seemed to come from outside. The noise was not repeated; but for quite half an hour they remained listening, till, gaining courage from the silence--the Maori guard only speaking from time to time, and then in a low, drowsy voice--Don began to follow Jem's suggestion, feeling post after post, and sometimes passing his arm through. But every one of the stout pales he touched was smooth and unclimbable without some help; and thinking that perhaps he had missed the place, he began to move back in the darkness, straining his ears the while to catch any sound made by his companion. But all was perfectly still, and every pale he touched was smooth and regular, set, too, so close to the next that there was not the slightest chance of even a child creeping through. All at once there was a rustling sound on his left. "Jem has found it," he thought; and he pressed forward toward where he had parted from Jem, passing one hand along the pales, the other extended so as to touch his companion as soon as they were near. The rustling sound again close at hand; but he dare not speak, only creep on in the dense blackness, straining his eyes to see; and his ears to catch his companion's breath. "Ah!" Don uttered a sigh of satisfaction, for it was painful to be alone at such a time, and he had at last touched the strong sturdy arm which was slightly withdrawn, and then the hand gripped him firmly. Don remained motionless, listening for the danger which must be threatening, or else Jem would have spoken; but at last the silence became so irksome that the prisoner raised his left hand to grasp Jem's wrist. But it was not Jem's wrist. It was bigger and stouter; and quick as thought Don ran his hand along the arm to force back the holder of his arm, when to his horror, he found that the limb had been thrust through one of the openings of the fence, and he was a prisoner to some fierce chief who had suspected the design to escape, held in so strong a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face. "I've found the post, Mas' Don!" he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come," whispered Don. "Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!" "Here!" whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and thus linked together they would not be separated. All this took time, and during the brief moments that elapsed it was evident that the whole tribe was alarmed, and coming up to the _pah_. "All right, Mas' Don! I understand. It's follow my leader, and old `my pakeha' to lead." Ngati did not hesitate a moment, but went rapidly down the steep descent, straight for the river, apparently right for where some of the yelling tribe were advancing. All at once the New Zealand chief stopped short, turned quickly, and pressed his hands firmly on Don's shoulder; for voices were heard just in front, and so near, that the lad feared that they must be seen. But he grasped the chief's idea, and lay flat down, Jem following his example; and almost as they crouched to the ground, a group of the enemy ran up so close, that one of them caught his foot against Jem, and fell headlong. Fortunately Jem was too much startled to move, and, muttering angrily, the man sprang up, not--as Don expected--to let drive with a spear at his companion, but attributing his fall to some stone, or the trunk of a tree, he ran on after his companions. Then Ngati rose, uttered a few words, whose import they grasped, and once more they hurried on straight for the river. It was their only chance of escape, unless they made for the sea, and chanced finding a small canoe on the sands. But that was evidently not Ngati's intention. Over the river seemed to be the only way not likely to be watched; and, going straight for it, he only paused again close to its brink, listening to the shouting going on but a very short distance from where they stood. While Don listened, it sounded to him as if the Maoris were literally hunting them down, the men spreading out like a pack of dogs, and covering every inch of ground so closely that, unless they escaped from where they were, capture was absolutely certain. As they stood panting there, Ngati caught Don's hand, and tightened it round the spear, following this up by the same action with Jem. "He means we are to hold tight, Jem." "Is he going to take us across this tumbling river, Mas' Don?" "It seems so." "Then I shall hold tight." Before them they could faintly make out the foaming water, and though the distance was not above twenty or thirty yards, the water ran roaring over great stones in so fierce a torrent, that Don felt his heart sink, and shrank from the venture. But on the other side of the torrent was freedom from a death so horrible that the boy shuddered at the thought, and without hesitation he tightened his hold on the spear, and followed the great Maori as he stepped boldly into the rushing stream. It was a new sensation to Don as he moved on with the water over his waist, and pressing so hard against him, that but for the support of the spear-shaft, he must have been swept away. Sturdy even as Jem was, he, too, had a terribly hard task to keep his footing; for his short, broad figure offered a great deal of surface to the swift current, while the rugged stony bed of the river varied in depth at every step. They had a tower of strength, though, in Ngati, who, in spite of the wounds he had received, seemed as vigorous as ever; and though Don twice lost his footing, he clung tightly to the spear, and soon fought his way back to a perpendicular position. But even towers of strength are sometimes undermined and give way. It was so here. They were about half-way across the river, whose white foam gave them sufficient light to enable them to see their way, when, just as Ngati came opposite to a huge block of lava, over which the water poured in tremendous volume, he stepped down into a hole of great depth, and, in spite of his vast strength and efforts to recover himself, he was whirled here and there for a few moments by the power of the fall. Both Don and Jem stood firm, though having hard work to keep their footing, and drew upon the spear-shaft, to which Ngati still held. But all at once there was a sharp jerk, quite sufficient to disturb Don's balance, and the next moment Ngati shot along a swift current of water, that ran through a narrow trough-like channel, and Don and Jem followed. Rushing water, a sensation of hot lead in the nostrils, a curious strangling and choking, with the thundering of strange noises in the ears. Next a confused feeling of being knocked about, turned over and beaten down, and then Don felt that he was in swift shallow water amongst stones. He rose to his feet to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea. A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken." "You had better not speak much, Jem," said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don." "Yes." "But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the foots was werry treacley when he had a hogshead turned up to look at the bottom first, he allus used to say as all the rest was poor quality." "We're not dealing with sugar now." "No, Mas' Don; this here arn't half so sweet. I wish it was." "Hssh!" came from Ngati again. And for the rest of the night they followed him in silence along ravines, over rugged patches of mountain side, with the great fronds of the tree-ferns brushing their faces, and nocturnal birds rushing away from them as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged in their hunt for food. When they encountered a stream, which came foaming and plunging down from the mountain, after carefully trying its depth, Ngati still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you," said Jem, quietly. "We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked at him inquiringly. "More, more," said Jem, holding up one of the eggs, and pointing to the ferny thicket. "No, no," said Ngati, shaking his head. "Moa, moa." He stooped down and held his hands apart in different directions, as if he were describing the shape of a moderate-sized oval pumpkin. Then, rising erect, he raised one hand to the full extent of his arm, bending the fingers so as to imitate the shape of a bird's head, pressed his head against his arm, placed the left arm close to his body and a little forward, and then began to stalk about slowly. "Moa, moa," he said, dropping his arm again, and pointing to the eggs, "Kiwi, kiwi." "Kiwi, kiwi," said Jem. "Can't make out what he means, Mas' Don; but it don't matter. Shall we suck the eggs raw?" He made a gesture as if to break one, but Ngati snatched it away. "No, no!" he cried sharply, and snatched the other away. "Pig!" ejaculated Jem. "Well, I do call that greedy." But if the chief was greedy over the eggs, which he secured in a roughly-made bag, of palm strips, ingeniously woven, he was generous enough over the fruit and palm, upon which they made a fair breakfast; after which Ngati examined Jem's wounds, and then signed to him to come down to the side of the stream, seizing him by the wrist, and half dragging him in his energetic way. "Is he going to drown me, Mas' Don?" "No, no, Jem. I know: he wants to bathe your wound." So it proved, for Ngati made him lie down by a pool, and tenderly washed the injuries, ending by applying some cool bruised leaves to the places, and binding them up with wild flax. This done, he examined Don's head, smiling with satisfaction because it was no worse. "Say, Mas' Don, it do feel comf'table. Why, he's quite a doctor, eh?" "What?" continued Jem, staring, as Ngati made signs. "He wants you to bathe his wounds. Your arm's painful, Jem; I'll do it." Ngati lay down by the pool, and, pulling up some moss, Don bathed a couple of ugly gashes and a stab, that was roughly plugged with fibre. The wounds were so bad that it was a wonder to both that the great fellow could keep about; but he appeared to bear them patiently enough, smiling with satisfaction as his attendant carefully washed them, and in imitation of what he had seen, applied bruised leaves and moss, and finally bound them up with native flax. Don shuddered more than once as he performed his task, and was glad when it was over, Jem looking on calmly the while. "Why, Mas' Don, a chap at home would want to go into hospital for less than that." "Yes, Jem; but these men seem so healthy and well, they heal up quickly, and bear their hurts as if nothing was wrong." "Sleep," said Ngati, suddenly; and he signed to Don to lie down and to Jem to keep watch, while he lay down at once in the mossy nook close to the river, and hidden by overhanging canopies of ferns. "Oh, all right, Mas' Don, I don't mind," said Jem; "only I was just as tired as him." "Let me take the first watch, Jem." "No, no; it's all right, Mas' Don. I meant you to lie down and rest, only he might ha' offered to toss for first go." "Call me then, at the end of an hour." "All right, Mas' Don," said Jem, going through the business of taking out an imaginary watch, winding it up, and then looking at its face. "Five and twenty past seven, Mas' Don, but I'm afraid I'm a little slow. These here baths don't do one's watch any good." "You'll keep a good look out, Jem." "Just so, Mas' Don. Moment I hear or see anything I calls you up. What time would you like your shaving water, sir? Boots or shoes this morning?" "Ah, Jem," said Don, smiling, "I'm too tired to laugh." And he lay back and dropped off to sleep directly, Ngati's eyes having already closed. "Too tired to laugh," said Jem to himself. "Poor dear lad, and him as brave as a young lion. Think of our coming to this. Shall we ever see old England again, and if we do, shall I be a cripple in this arm? Well, if I am, I won't grumble, but bear it all like a man; and," he added reverently, "please God save us and bring us back, if it's only for my poor Sally's sake, for I said I'd love her and cherish her, and keep her; and here am I one side o' the world, and she's t'other; and such is life." CHAPTER FORTY SIX. AN UNTIRING ENEMY. Jem kept careful watch and ward as he stood leaning on his spear. He was very weary, and could not help feeling envious of those who were sleeping so well. But he heard no sound of pursuit, and after a time the wondrous beauty of the glen in which they had halted, with its rushing waters and green lacing ferns, had so composing an effect upon his spirits, that he began to take an interest in the flowers that hung here and there, while the song of a finch sounded pleasant and homelike. Then the delicious melody of the bell-bird fell upon his ear; and while he was listening to this, he became interested in a beautiful blackbird, which came and hopped about him. Jem laughed, for his visitor had some white feathers just below the beak, and they suggested an idea to him as the bird bobbed and bowed and chattered. "Well," he said, "if I was naming birds, I should call you the parson, for you look like one, with that white thing about your neck." The bird looked at him knowingly, and flitted away. Directly after, as he turned his eyes in the direction where the uneaten fruit was lying, he saw that they had a visitor in the shape of one of the curious rails. The bird was already investigating the fruit, and after satisfying itself that the berries were of the kind that it could find for itself in the bush, it came running towards Jem, staring up at him, and as he extended the spear handle, instead of being frightened away, it pecked at the butt and then came nearer. "Well, you are a rum little beggar," said Jem, stroking the bird's back with the end of the spear. "I should just like to have you at home to run in and out among the sugar-barrels. I'd--Hah!" He turned round sharply, and levelled his spear at a great Maori, whose shadow had been cast across him, and who seemed to have sprung out of the bush. "Why, I thought it was one o' they cannibals," said Jem, lowering the spear. "Good job it wasn't dark, old chap, or I should have given you a dig. What d'yer want?" "Sleep," said Ngati laconically, and, taking Jem's spear, he pointed to where Don was lying. "Me? What, already? Lie down?" "Sleep," said Ngati again; and he patted Jem on the shoulder. "All right, I'll go. Didn't think I'd been watching so long." He nodded and walked away. "Wish he wouldn't pat me on the back that way. It makes me feel suspicious. It's just as if he wanted to feel if I was getting fat enough." Don was sleeping peacefully as Jem lay down and uttered a faint groan, for his left shoulder was very painful and stiff. "Wonder how long wounds take to heal," he said softly. "Cuts arn't much more than a week. Heigh-ho-hum! I'm very tired, but I sha'n't be able to go to--" He was asleep almost as soon as he lay down, and directly after, as it seemed to him, he started into wakefulness, to find Ngati standing a few yards away, shading his eyes and gazing down the gully, and Don poking him with his spear. "All right, Sally, I'll get up. I--Oh, it's you, Mas' Don." "Quick, Jem! The Maoris are coming." Jem sprang to his feet and seized the spear offered to him, as Ngati came forward, brushed the ferns about so as to destroy the traces of their bivouac, and then, holding up his hand for silence, he stood listening. A faint shout was heard, followed by another, nearer; and signing them to follow, the Maori went along up the gully, with the stream on their right. It was arduous work, for the ground was rapidly rising; but they were forced to hurry along, for every time they halted, they could hear the shouts of their pursuers, who seemed to be coming on with a pertinacity that there was no shaking off. It was hot in the extreme, but a crisp, cool air was blowing to refresh them, and, of its kind, there was plenty of food, Ngati cautiously picking and breaking in places where the disarrangement was not likely to be seen. Every now and then, too, they saw him make quite an eager dash on one side and return with eggs, which he carefully placed in the woven bag he had made. This went on till he had nearly a couple of dozen, at which, as he trudged along, Jem kept casting longing eyes. In spite of the danger and weariness, Don could not help admiring the beauty of the scene, as, from time to time, the gully opened out sufficiently for him to see that they were steadily rising toward a fine cone, which stood up high above a cluster of mountains, the silvery cloud that floated from its summit telling plainly of its volcanic nature. "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" Ngati said, every time he saw Don gazing at the mountain; but it was not till long after that he comprehended the meaning of the chiefs words, that the place was "tapu," or sacred, and that it would act as a refuge for them, could they reach it, as the ordinary Maoris would not dare to follow them there. Higher up the valley, where the waters were dashing furiously down in many a cascade, Don began to realise that they were following the bed of a river, whose source was somewhere high up the mountain he kept on seeing from time to time, while, after several hours' climbing, often over the most arduous, rocky ground, he saw that they were once more entering upon a volcanic district. Pillars of steam rose here and there, and all at once he started aside as a gurgling noise arose from beyond a patch of vivid green which covered the edges of a mud-pool, so hot that it was painful to the hand. From time to time Ngati had stopped to listen, the shouts growing fainter each time, while, as they progressed, a heavy thunderous roar grew louder, died away, and grew louder again. Don looked inquiringly at Jem. "It's the big chimney of that mountain drawing, Mas' Don." "Nonsense!" "Nay, that's what it is; and what I say is this. It's all wery well getting away from them cannibals, but don't let's let old Ngati--" The chief looked sharply round. "Yes, I'm a-talking about you, old chap. I say, you're not to take us right up that mountain, and into a place where we shall tumble in." "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" said Ngati, nodding his head, and pointing toward the steaming cloud above the mountain. "Oh, you aggrawating savage!" cried Jem. Ngati took it as a compliment, and smiled. Then, pointing to a cluster of rocks where a jet of steam was being forced out violently, he led the way there, when they had to pass over a tiny stream of hot water, and a few yards farther on, they came to its source, a beautiful bright fount of the loveliest sapphire blue, with an edge that looked like a marble bath of a roseate tint, fringed every here and there with crystals of sulphur. "Let's have a bathe!" cried Jem eagerly. "Is there time?" He stepped forward, and was about to plunge in his hand, when Ngati seized his shoulders and dragged him back. "What yer doing that for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing. "And the water's boiling hot," added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the sheer precipice down to the awful torrent; before them the sound of a mighty cataract; and behind the enemy, coming quickly and stealthily on. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A DANGEROUS PHASE. Ngati took all in at a glance, and signing to his companions to follow, he again lay down, creeping on for a short distance, trailing his spear, till they were well behind a pile of rocks. Here he gave a sharp look round at the _cul de sac_ into which they had been driven, and without hesitation crept to their left to where the rocky wall descended to the raging torrent. To him the place seemed to have no danger, as he passed over the edge and disappeared, but to Don it was like seeking death. "We can never do it, Jem," he said. "Must, Mas' Don. Go on." Don looked at him wildly, and then in a fit of desperation he lowered himself over the edge, felt a pair of great hands grasp him by the loins, and, as he loosened his hold, he was dropped upon a rough ledge of rock, where he stood giddy and confused, with the torrent rushing furiously along beneath his feet, and in front, dimly-seen through a mist which rose from below, he caught a glimpse of a huge fall of water which came from high up, behind some projecting rocks, and disappeared below. The noise of falling water now increased, reverberating from the walls of rock; the mist came cool and wet against his face, and, hurried and startled, Don stood upon the wet, rocky shelf, holding on tightly, till Ngati laid his hand upon his shoulder, passed round him, and then, signing to him to follow, went on. Don's first thought was of Jem, and looking behind him, there was his companion close to where he stood. Jem nodded to him to go on, just as a faint shout arose from somewhere above; and this seemed to nerve him to proceed over the slippery stones to where Ngati was passing round a corner, holding tightly by the rock, which he seemed to embrace. The way was dangerous in the extreme--a narrow ledge of the most rugged kind with a perpendicular moss-covered wall on the right, and on the left, space, with far below the foaming torrent, a glance at which seemed to produce vertigo. To stand still seemed to be worse than going on, and taking it to his comfort that what one man could do another might, Don reached the corner, but hesitated again, for there seemed to be no foot-hold whatever. But as he hesitated a great brown hand came round, ready to grasp his firmly; and with this help he made the venture, pressing himself close against the rock and creeping on. He was just in the most perilous part, well out over the torrent, when his left foot slipped, and a horrible chill ran through him, as he felt that he was falling into the chasm below to instant death. He held on with his right hand, and strove to press his breast against the rock, but the effort was vain; his right hand slipped from the crevice in which it was thrust, his right foot glided over the wet moss, and he slipped down, hung for a moment or two over the foaming waters, and then felt himself swung up and on to a broad ledge, upon which Ngati was standing. The Maori took it as a matter of course, signed to him to get up, and passed his hand round the rock once more to assist Jem. A curious sensation ran through Don as he watched for Jem's coming, and trembling and unnerved, it seemed to him that watching another's peril was more painful than suffering oneself. But in spite of his wounded shoulder Jem came round the point slowly and carefully, but with his brow rugged from the pain he suffered as Ngati held him firmly by his injured arm. As soon as he was in safety Jem passed his hand across his wet forehead and bit his lip, whilst once more signing to them to follow, Ngati led on. The way now was downward from rock to rock, and, terrible though it looked, the danger was less, for there was ample foot-hold and an abundance of bushy stems and fern fronds ready to their hands. The falls were again invisible, and they pressed on toward where another shoulder of the rocks jutted out, hiding the falling waters, whose noise was now so deafening that, had they wished to speak, a shout close to the ear would hardly have been heard. Big as the Maori was, he seemed to be as active as a goat, and picking the easiest ways over the mist-moistened stones, he led his companions lower and lower down the rock wall till, when they reached the next projection, and on passing round, it was to find themselves in what was little more than a huge rock pit, facing a mass of water which fell from quite two hundred feet above them into a vast cauldron of white foam, which chafed and roared and cast up clouds of spray as it whirled round and then rushed out of the narrow opening along the jagged gash by whose side they had come. The appearance of the vast body of water falling in one clear bound was bewildering, while the noise, as it reverberated from the rocky sides, produced a feeling of awe which made Don stand motionless till Ngati passed him, and sheltering his face behind a tuft of fern, peered round the corner they had just passed. He withdrew his head, looking fierce and determined, signed once more to Don to follow, and went on climbing carefully along the sides of the huge pit. "Where can he be going now?" thought Don, as he caught sight of a refulgent rainbow spanning the falls, and his eyes rested upon the brilliant, sun-illumined greens of fern, bush, and grass, with pendent mosses, all luxuriating in the heat and moisture of the wind-sheltered place. These were but momentary glances, for his whole thoughts seemed to be taken up by the struggle for life imperilled in a hundred ways. For still Ngati climbed on, turning every now and then to extend his hand or spear-shaft to Don when the place was unusually difficult; and by this means they went on and on till first they were on a level with the side of the fall, then partially shielded by it, and at last, when the Maori paused, unable to proceed farther either up or down, they were standing upon a projecting mass of rock with the great veil of water between them and the daylight, one vast curve of hundreds of tons of greenish water falling, ever falling, into the chasm below. It was dim with a greenish light where they stood, and the mist wetted them as they glanced sidewise along the way by which they had come, to see whether their enemies were in pursuit; but after watching for some time Ngati smiled and shook his head. "No," he said, or seemed to say, for they could only judge by the movement of his lips. "No," and he shook his head, and seating himself, gazed calmly and placidly at the water, as if there were no such thing as danger. In fact, to the great savage there was no such thing as peril in any of the objects of nature. Full of strength and calm matter-of-fact courage, climbing rocks or making his way into such a place as this was a very commonplace affair. His idea of danger was in the sight of enemies thirsting for his blood. Now that they were out of reach, and he believed that he had thrown them off the scent, he was perfectly content, and ready to smile at the perfection of the hiding-place he had sought. "Can you hear me, Jem?" said Don at last, after they had sat on the wet stones for some time, watching the falling water and listening to the thunderous roar. "Yes, if you shout quite close?" "Isn't it an awful place?" "Ay, 'tis." "Do you think we shall escape?" "I was thinking what a good job it was that we had managed a good feed." "How are we to get away again?" "Dunno. P'r'aps there's another way out." "I hope so. It will be horrible to have to go back as we came." Jem nodded, and began to nibble the dry skin at the side of his finger nails, looking up thoughtfully at the translucent arch. Then he nodded to Don as if he wished to speak, and Don put his ear close to Jem's lips. "Think there's much more on it to come down?" "More, Jem?" "Yes. 'Cause when it's all run out, they'll be able to see us." "I should think it is always falling like this, Jem." "Oh!" No more was said, and they sat patiently waiting for danger or freedom, whichever might be in store for them. Ngati held out his great fist from time to time to shake hands in a congratulatory way, and the hours glided on till it began to grow dark, and another horror assailed Don. It was evident that they must pass the night there in the cold and damp, for to attempt to escape in the dark would be madness, and how would it be if they dropped off to sleep and slipped? He shuddered at the thought, and sat in silence gazing at Ngati, who waited calmly till the shadows of evening had quite filled the chasm, when he rose, and it was evident that he did not consider escape in the darkness impossible, for, grasping Don's arm, he uttered the one word "Come!" and led the way out from beneath the watery arch, to stand, as soon as they were quite clear, shading his eyes and gazing through the transparent gloom in search of their enemies. Apparently satisfied, he tapped both on the shoulder, and with a shudder of dread Don followed him along the side of the gulf. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. NGATI'S DISGUISE. The return journey proved to be less perilous than the descent. The awful chaos of water was beneath them, but invisible, the darkness being so intense that everything was hidden but the mass of rock over and by which they climbed. In addition, the exertion and busy action after the long waiting seemed to keep them from thinking of anything but the task on which they were engaged. So that, to Don's surprise, he found himself on the outer side of the dangerous corner, with the gulf left behind, and then clambering on and on by the side of the torrent chasm, past the other perilous parts, and before he could realise the fact, they were all together on the shelf, crouching down. Here Ngati slowly raised his head, to stand gazing over the edge at the level above, watching for a long time before stooping again, and uttering a low grunt. He mounted directly, bent down and extended a hand to each in turn, and then taking the lead, went cautiously onward to get out of the deep rift, and find a place that would enable them to reach the higher ground. It was still dark, but not so dense but that they could pick their way, and they passed on till they reached the hot spring, a little beyond which Ngati believed that they could strike up to the left, and cross the mountain to reach the plains beyond. Another half-hour was devoted to retracing their steps, when Don stopped short, his ear being the first to detect danger. They were passing the mud spring, whose gurgling had startled them in coming, and for a moment Don thought that a sound which he had heard came from the thin greyish-black mud; but it was repeated, and was evidently the laugh of some one not far away. Ngati pressed their arms; and signing to them to lie down and wait, he crept onward, to be absent about a quarter of an hour, when he returned to say a few words in his native tongue, and then squat down and bury his face in his hands, as if in thought. "They're just in front, Mas' Don. I keep hearing of 'em," whispered Jem. "Sometimes I hear 'em one way, sometimes the other." "That is through the echoes, Jem. How are we to manage now?" Ngati answered the question in silence, for, rising quickly, after being deep in thought, he silently picked some grass and moss, rolled it into a pear shape, and bound it on the end of his spear. Then holding the weapon up high, he bent his body in a peculiar way, and stalked off slowly, turning and gazing here and there, and from time to time lowering his spear, till, as he moved about in the shadowy light, he had all the appearance of some huge ostrich slowly feeding its way along the mountain slope. "Moa! Moa!" he whispered, as he returned. "Jemmeree moa; my pakeha moa." "He wants us to imitate great birds, too, Jem," said Don, eagerly. "Can you do that?" "Can I do it?" said Jem. "O' course; you shall see." Ngati seemed delighted that his plan was understood, and he rapidly fashioned rough balls to resemble birds' heads for his companions' spears, and made them turn up their trousers above the knee, when, but for their white appearance, they both looked bird-like. But this difficulty was got over by Ngati, who took it as a matter of course that they would not object, and rapidly smeared their hands, legs, and faces with the slimy mud from the volcanic pool. "Well, of all the nasty smells!" whispered Jem. "Oh, Mas' Don, are you going to stand this? He has filled my eyes with mud." "Hush, Jem!" whispered Don. "But shall we come across any hot baths by-and-by?" "Silence, Jem!" "All right, Mas' Don, you're master, but this is--oh, bad eggs!" Ngati held up his hand for silence, and then whispering the word "Moa" again, he imitated the movements of a gigantic bird, signing to them to do likewise. Don obeyed, and in spite of the peril they were in, could hardly help laughing, especially when Jem kept up an incessant growling, like that of some angry animal. Ngati was evidently satisfied, for he paused, and then pointing forward, strode slowly through the low bushes, with Don and Jem following and imitating his movements as nearly as they could. As they walked on they could hear the murmur of voices, and this sound increased as Ngati went slowly forward, bearing off to the left. It seemed to Don that they were going straight into danger, and his heart beat with excitement as the talking suddenly stopped, and there was a rustling sound, as if several men had sprung to their feet. But Ngati did not swerve from his course, going slowly on, and raising the spear from time to time, while a low excited whispering went on. "What will they do?" thought Don; "try to spear us, or surround and seize us?" The Maoris did neither. Ngati knew the dread his fellow-countrymen possessed for anything approaching the supernatural, and in the belief that they would be startled at the sight of the huge birds known only to them by tradition, he had boldly adopted the disguise--one possible only in the darkness; and so far his plan was successful. To have attempted to pass in their ordinary shape meant either capture or death; but there was the chance that they might succeed like this. They went on in the most deliberate way, both Don and Jem following in Ngati's steps, but at every whisper on their right Don felt as if he must start off in a run; and over and over again he heard Jem utter a peculiar sigh. A harder test of their endurance it would have been difficult to find, as in momentary expectation of a rush, they stalked slowly on, till the whispering grew more distant, and finally died away. All at once Ngati paused to let them come up, and then pointed in the direction he intended to go, keeping up the imitation of the bird hour after hour, but not letting it interfere with their speed, till, feeling toward morning that they were safe, he once more halted, and was in the act of signing to his companions to cease their clumsy imitation, when a faint sound behind put him on his guard once more. The task had been in vain. They had passed the Maoris, and were making for the farther side of the mountains, but their enemies had been tracking them all the night, and the moment day broke, they would see through the cunning disguise, and dash upon them at once. They all knew this, and hastened on, as much to gain time as from any hope of escape, till just at daybreak, when, panting and exhausted, they were crossing a patch of brush, they became aware that the Maoris had overcome their alarm at the sight of the gigantic birds, and were coming on. CHAPTER FORTY NINE. UNWELCOME ACQUAINTANCES. "We shall have to turn and fight, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they were labouring through the bushes. "They're close on to us. Here, why don't Ngati stop?" There was a faint grey light beginning to steal in among the ferns as they struggled on, keeping up the imitation still, when a shout rose behind, and the Maoris made a rush to overtake them. At that moment from a dark patch of the bush in front three shots were fired in rapid succession. Don stopped short in the faint grey light, half stunned by the echoing reverberations of the reports which rolled away like thunder, while there was a rushing noise as of people forcing their way in rapid flight through the bush. But he hardly heeded this, his attention being taken up by the way in which Ngati dropped heavily to the ground, and just behind him Jem fell as if struck by some large stone. A terrible feeling of despair came over Don as, feeling himself between two parties of enemies, he obeyed the natural instinct which prompted him to concealment, and sank down among the ferns. What should he do? Run for his life, or stay to help his wounded companions, and share their fate? He stopped and listened to a peculiar sound which he knew was the forcing down of a wad in a gun-barrel. Then the strange hissing noise was continued, and he could tell by the sounds that three guns were being loaded. The natives, as far as he knew, had no guns, therefore these must be a party of sailors sent to shoot them down; and in the horror of being seen and made the mark for a bullet, Don was about to creep cautiously into a denser part of the bush, when he stopped short, asking himself whether he was in a dream. "All primed?" cried a hoarse voice, which made Don wonder whether he was back in his uncle's yard at Bristol. "Ay, ay." "Come on, then. I know I brought one of 'em down. Sha'n't want no more meat for a month." "Say, mate, what are they?" "I d'know. Noo Zealand turkeys, I s'pose." "Who ever heard of turkey eight or nine foot high!" growled one of the approaching party. "Never mind who heard of 'em; we've seen 'em and shot 'em. Hallo! Where are they? Mine ought to be about here." "More to the left, warn't it, mate?" "Nay, it was just about here." There was a loud rustling and heavy breathing as if men were searching here and there, and then some one spoke again--the man whose voice had startled Don. "I say, lads, you saw me bring that big one down?" "I saw you shoot at it, Mikey; but it don't seem as if you had brought it down. They must ha' ducked their heads, and gone off under the bushes." "But they was too big for that." "Nay, not they. Looked big in the mist, same as things allus do in a fog." "I don't care; I see that great bird quite plain, and I'm sure I hit him, and he fell somewhere--hah!" There was the sharp _click_, _click_ of a gun being cocked, and a voice roared out,-- "Here, you, Mike Bannock, don't shoot me." There was a loud rustling among the ferns, and then Jem shouted again. "Mas' Don--Ngati! Why--hoi--oh! It's all right!" The familiar voice--the name Mike Bannock, and Jem's cheery, boyish call, made Don rise, wondering more than ever whether this was not a dream. The day was rapidly growing lighter, and after answering Jem's hail, Don caught sight of him standing under a tree in company with three wild, gaunt-looking men. "Mas' Don! Ahoy! Mas' Don!" "I'm here, Jem, but mind the Maoris." "I forgot them!" cried Jem. "Look out! There was a lot of savages arter us." The three men darted behind trees, and stood with their guns presented in the direction of the supposed danger, Don and Jem also seeking cover and listening intently. "Were you hit, Jem?" "No, my lad; were you?" "No. Where's Ngati?" "I'm afraid he has got it, my lad. He went down like a stone." "But Mike! How came he here?" "I d'know, my lad. Hi! Stop! Don't shoot. Friends." Ngati, who came stalking up through the bush, spear in hand, had a narrow escape, for two guns were presented at him, and but for the energetic action of Don and Jem in striking them up, he must have been hit. "Oh, this is a friend, is it?" said Mike Bannock, as he gave a tug at his rough beard, and turned from one to the other. "Arn't come arter me, then?" "No, not likely," said Jem. "Had enough of you at home." "Don't you be sarcy," growled Mike Bannock; "and lookye here, these gentlemen--friends of mine!"--he nodded sidewise at the two fierce-looking desperadoes at his side--"is very nice in their way, but they won't stand no fooling. Lookye here. How was it you come?" "In a ship of war," said Don. "Ho! Then where's that ship o' war now?" "I don't know." "No lies now," said the fellow fiercely; "one o' these here gentlemen knocked a man on the head once for telling lies." "Ah," growled one of the party, a short, evil-looking scoundrel, with a scar under his right eye. "Hear that?" cried Mike Bannock. "Now, then, where's that there ship?" "I tell you I don't know," said Don sharply. "Whorrt!" shouted Mike, seizing Don by the throat; but the next moment a sharp blow from a spear handle made him loosen his hold, and Ngati stood between them, tall and threatening. "Here, come on, mates, if you don't want to be took!" cried Mike, and his two companions raised the rusty old muskets they bore. "Put them down, will yer?" cried Jem. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock: Mas' Don told you he didn't know where the ship was, and he don't. We've left her." "Ah!" growled Mike, looking at him suspiciously. "Now, look here: don't you try none of your games on me." "Look here!" cried Jem fiercely; "if you give me any of your impudence, Mike Bannock, I'll kick you out of the yard." "Haw-haw!" laughed Mike. "This here arn't Bristol, little Jemmy Wimble, and I'm a free gen'leman now." "Yes, you look it," said Don, contemptuously. "You scoundrel! How did you come here?" "Don't call names, Mr Don Lavington, sir," whined the ruffian. "How did I come here? Why, me and these here friends o' mine are gentlemen on our travels. Arn't us, mates." "Ay: gen'lemen on our travels," said the more evil-looking of the pair; "and look here, youngster, if you meets any one who asks after us, and whether you've seen us, mind you arn't. Understand?" Don looked at him contemptuously, and half turned away. "Who was there after you?" said Mike Bannock, suspiciously. "Some of a tribe of Maoris," replied Jem. "No one else?" "No." "Ah, well, we arn't afeared of them." He patted the stock of his gun meaningly. "Soon make a tribe of them run home to their mothers. See them big birds as we shot at? And I say, young Lavington, what have you been doing to your face? Smudging it to keep off the flies?" Don coloured through the grey mud, and involuntarily clapped his hand to his face, for he had forgotten the rough disguise. "Never you mind about his face," said Jem grinning. "What birds?" "Them great birds as we shot at," said Mike. "I brought one of 'em down." "You! You couldn't hit a haystack," said Jem. "You hit no bird." "Ask my mates!" cried Mike eagerly. "Here you, Don Lavington, you usen't to believe me when I told you 'bout big wild beasts and furrin lands. We see three birds just here, fourteen foot high." "You always were a liar, Mike," said Don contemptuously. "You did not see any bird fourteen feet high, because there are no such things. You didn't see any birds at all." "Well, of all--" began Mike, but he stopped short as he heard Don's next words,-- "Come, Jem! Come, Ngati! Let's get on." He stepped forward, but after a quick exchange of glances with his companions, Mike stood in his way. "No you don't, young un; you stops along of us." "What!" cried Don. "We're three English gen'lemen travelling in a foreign country among strangers, and we've met you two. So we says, says we, folks here's a bit too handy with their spears, so it's as well for Englishmen when they meet to keep together, and that's what we're going to do." "Indeed, we are not!" cried Don. "You go your way, and we'll go ours." "That's our way," said Mike quickly. "Eh, mates?" "Ay. That's a true word." "Then we'll go the way you came," cried Don. "Nay, you don't; that's our way, too." "The country's open, and we shall go which way we like," cried Don. "Hear, hear, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "You hold your tongue, old barrel cooper!" cried Mike. "You're going along of us; that's what you're going to do." "That we are not!" cried Don. "Oh, yes, you are, so no nonsense. We've got powder and shot, and you've only got spears, and one gun's equal to fifty spears." "Look here, sir!" cried Don sternly, "I don't want any words with such a man as you. Show me the way you want to take, and we'll go another." "This here's the way," said Mike menacingly. "This is the way we're going, and you've got to come with us." "Jem; Ngati; come on," said Don. "Oh, then you mean to fight, do you?" growled Mike. "Come on then, mates. I think we can give 'em a lesson there." "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "it's no good to fight again guns, and my shoulder's a reg'lar dummy. Let's give in civil, and go with them. We'll get away first chance, and it do make us six again' any savages who may come." "Savages!" said Don angrily; "why, where would you get such savages as these? The Maoris are gentlemen compared to them." "That's my 'pinion again, Mas' Don; but we'd better get on." "But why do they want us with them?" "Strikes me they're 'fraid we shall tell on them." "Tell on them?" "Yes; it's my belief as Master Mike's been transported, and that he's contrived to get away with these two." "And we are to stop with three such men as these?" "Well, they arn't the sort of chaps I should choose, Mas' Don; but they say they're gen'lemen, so we must make the best of it. All right, Mike, we're coming." "That's your sort. Now, then, let's find my big bird, and then I'm with you." "Yah! There's no big bird," said Jem. "We was the birds, shamming so as to get away from the savages." "Then you may think yourself precious lucky you weren't shot. Come on." Mike led the way, and Don and his companions followed, the two rough followers of Mike Bannock coming behind with their guns cocked. "Pleasant that, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Like being prisoners again. But they can't shoot." "Why did you say that, Jem?" said Don anxiously. "Because we're going to make a run for it before long, eh, my pakeha?" "My pakeha," said Ngati, laying his hand on Don's shoulder, and he smiled and looked relieved, for the proceedings during the last half-hour had puzzled him. Don took the great fellow's arm, feeling that in the Maori chief he had a true friend, and in this way they followed Mike Bannock round one of the shoulders of the mountain, towards where a jet of steam rose with a shrieking noise high up into the air. CHAPTER FIFTY. HOW TO ESCAPE? It was in quite a little natural fortress that Mike stopped, the way being in and out through a narrow rift that must have been the result of some earthquake, and when this was passed they were in a sheltered nook, at one side of which the face of a precipice hung right over, affording ample protection from the wind and rain. Through quite a cranny a stream of perfectly clear water trickled, and on the other side was a small deep pool, slowly welling over at one side, the steam rising therefrom telling that it was in some way connected with the noisy jet which rose outside. "There, young Don Lavington, that's where we lives, my lad, and you've got to stay with us. If you behave well, you shall have plenty to eat and drink. If you don't, mind one o' my mates don't bring you down as he would a bird." Don glanced round wonderingly, and tried to grasp why it was that Mike Bannock was there, the only surmise upon which he could take hold being the right one--Jem's: that Mike was a transported man who had taken to the bush. He had just come to this conclusion when Jem turned to him. "Shall I ask him that, Mas' Don?" "Ask him what?" "What I think. Depend upon it he was sent out to Botany Bay, and run off to this country." "No, no, Jem; don't ask." "He can't have come out here honest, Mas' Don. Look at him, there arn't a honest hair in his head." "But we don't want to offend him, Jem." "Don't we? Tell you what we do want, Mas' Don; we want to get hold o' them old rusty muskets and the powder and shot, and then we could make them sing small. Eh? What say?" This was in answer to something said in a low voice by Ngati, who looked from one to the other inquiringly. Ngati spoke again, and then struck his fist into his hand with a look of rage and despair. "Yes, I feel the same," said Don, laying his hand upon the great fellow's arm. "I'd give anything to be able to understand what you say, Ngati." The chief smiled, as if he quite comprehended; and grasped Don's hand with a friendly grip, offering the other to Jem. "It's all right, old boy," said the latter. "We can't understand each other's lingo, but we know each other's hearts. We've got to wait a bit and see." A week passed rapidly away, during which, in his rougher moods, Mike treated his prisoners as if they were slaves, calling upon Ngati to perform the most menial offices for the little camp, all of which were patiently performed after an appealing look at Don, who for the sake of gaining time gave up in every way. Jem grumbled, but he did what he was told, for the slightest appearance of resistance was met by a threatening movement with the muskets, which never left the men's hands. They were fairly supplied with food; fish from the streams and from a good-sized lake, Ngati proving himself to be an adept at capturing the large eels, and at discovering fresh supplies of fruit and roots. But in a quiet way, as he watched his English companions like a dog, he always seemed to comprehend their wishes, and to be waiting the time when they should call upon him to fly at their tyrants and then help them to escape. "Didn't know I was coming out to look after you, did you, young Don?" said Mike one evening. "King sent me out o' purpose. Told one of the judges to send me out here, and here I am; and I've found you, and I ought to take you home, but I won't. You always liked furrin countries, and I'm going to keep you here." "What for?" said Don. "To make you do for me what I used to do for you. I was your sarvant; now you're mine. Ups and downs in life we see. Now you're down and I'm up; and what d'yer think o' that, Jem Wimble?" "Think as you was transported, and that you've took to the bush." "Oh, do you?" said Mike, grinning. "Well, never mind; I'm here, and you're there, and you've got to make the best of it." To make the best of it was not easy. The three convicts, after compelling their prisoners to make the resting-place they occupied more weather-proof and warm, set them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons. "You won't want them," he said, with an ugly grin; "we'll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work." Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head. "Oh, all right," growled Jem, with a menacing look. "Yes, it's all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don't you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward." "I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; "but never mind, I can wait." They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin. "But he don't seem to mind it so very much." "What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?" "Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance." Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,-- "My pakeha." "Ngati!" Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result. "Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me," grumbled Jem, sitting up. "What's the matter?" "I don't know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and--Oh! Ngati!" His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun. "But there arn't no powder and--Yes, there is." Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he slipped the belt over his shoulder. "What do you mean, Ngati?" whispered Don hastily. "Go!" was the laconic reply; and in an instant the lad realised that the Maori had partly comprehended his words that evening, had thought out the full meaning, and then crept silently to the convicts' den, and secured the arms. Don rose excitedly to his feet. "The time has come, Jem," he whispered. "Yes, and I dursen't shout hooroar!" Ngati was already outside, waiting in the starlight; and as Don stepped out quickly with his heart beating and a sense of suffocation at the throat, he could just make out that the Maori held the third musket, and had also three spears under his arm. He handed one of the latter to each, and then stood listening for a few moments with his head bent in the direction of the convicts' resting-place. The steam jet hissed, and the vapour rose like a dim spectral form; the water gurgled and splashed faintly, but there was no other sound, and, going softly in the direction of the opening, Ngati led the way. "We must leave it to him, Jem, and go where he takes us," whispered Don. "Can't do better," whispered back Jem. "Wait just a moment till I get this strap o' the gun over my shoulder. It's awkward to carry both gun and spear." "Wait till we get farther away, Jem." _Crash_! A flash of fire, and a report which echoed like thunder from the face of the rocks. Jem, in passing the sling of the musket over his head, had let it fall upon the stones with disastrous effect. "Run, Mas' Don; never mind me." "Are you hurt?" "Dunno." Jem was in a stooping posture as he spoke, but he rose directly, as there was a rush heard in the direction of the convicts' lair, and catching Don's hand they ran off stealthily after Ngati, who had returned, and then led the way once more. Not a word was spoken, and after the first rush and the scramble and panting of men making for the rocks, all was very still. Ngati led on, passing in and out among tree and bush, and mass of rock, as if his eyes were quite accustomed to the darkness, while, big as he was, his bare feet made no more sound than the paws of a cat. Both Don and Jem followed as silently as they could, but they could not help catching against the various obstacles, and making noises which produced a warning "Hssh!" from their leader. As they passed on they listened intently for sounds of pursuit, but for awhile there were none; the fact being that at the sound of the shot the convicts believed that they were attacked, and rushing out, they made for the mountain. But as no further shots were heard, they grew more bold, and, after waiting listening for awhile, they stole back to the shed that should have been occupied by Don and his friends; where, finding them gone, they hurried into their own place, found that the arms were taken, and, setting up a shout, dashed off in pursuit. The shout sent a shiver through Don and Jem, for it sounded terribly near, and they hurried on close to the heels of Ngati, forgetful for the moment of the fact that they were armed, and their pursuers were weaponless. After a time the sounds from the camp, which had been heard plainly on the night wind, ceased, and for the first time Don questioned Jem as to his injury. "Where are you hurt, Jem?" "Shoulder," said that worthy, laconically. "Again?" "No; not again." "But I mean when the gun went off." "In my head, Mas' Don." "Ah! We might stop now. Let me bind it up for you." "No, no; it don't bleed," replied Jem, gruffly. "I mean hurt inside my head, 'cause I could be such a stoopid as to let this here gun fall." "Then you are not wounded?" "Not a bit, my lad; and if you'll stop now, I think I'll try and load again." But Ngati insisted on pushing on, and kept up a steady walk right south in the direction of the star which had shone in through the doorway. It was weary work, for the night was very black beneath the trees, but every step was taking them farther from their enemies, and though they stopped to listen again and again, they heard no sound of pursuit. Morning dawned at last, bringing light to their spirits as well as to their eyes; and for three days they travelled on due south by mountain and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the sea, now losing it again. Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain; and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and trudged on. They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful, fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant. "There's only one thing I'm afraid of, Mas' Don," said Jem; "and that is that those convicts will smell us out." But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE. "Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?" said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's arm. "What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief. Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain. If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him. Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns. Don had some consciousness of hearing voices, and of feeling hands touching him; but it was all during a time of confusion, and when he looked round again with the power to think, he was facing a tiny unglazed window, the shutter which was used to close it standing below. He was lying on a rough bed formed of sacking spread over dried fern leaves, and the shed he was in had for furniture a rough table formed by nailing a couple of pieces of board across a tub, another tub with part of the side sawn out formed an armchair; and the walls were ornamented with bunches of seeds tied up and hung there for preservation, a saddle and bridle, and some garden tools neatly arranged in a corner. Don lay wondering what it all meant, his eyes resting longest upon the open window, through which he could see the glorious sunshine, and the leaves moving in the gentle breeze. He felt very happy and comfortable, but when he tried to raise his head the effort was in vain, and this set him wondering again, till he closed his eyes and lay thinking. Suddenly he unclosed them again to lie listening, feeling the while that he had been asleep, for close beside him there was some one whistling in a very low tone--quite a whisper of a whistle--a familiar old Somersetshire melody, which seemed to carry him back to the sugar yard at Bristol, where he had heard Jem whistle that tune a score of times. This set him thinking of home, his mother, and Cousin Kitty. Then of stern-looking Uncle Josiah, who, after all, did not seem to have been unkind. "Poor Mas' Don! Will he ever get well again?" a voice whispered close to his ear. "Jem!" "Oh, Mas' Don! Oh! Oh! Oh! Thank the great Lord o' mussy. Amen! Amen! Amen!" There was the sound of some one going down heavily upon his knees, a pair of clasped hands rested on Don's breast; and, as he turned his eyes sidewise, he could see the top of Jem's head as the bed shook, and there was the sound of some one sobbing violently, but in a choking, smothered way. "Jem! Is that you? What's the matter?" whispered Don feebly. "And he says, `What's the matter?'" cried Jem, raising his head, and bending over Don. "Dear lad, dear lad; how are you now?" "Quite well, thank you, Jem, only I can't lift up my head." "And don't you try, Mas' Don. Oh, the Lord be thanked! The Lord be thanked!" he muttered. "What should I ha' done?" "Have--have I been ill, Jem?" "I'll, Mas' Don? Why, I thought you was going to die, and no doctor, not even a drop of salts and senny to save your life." "Oh, nonsense, Jem! I never thought of doing such a thing! Ah, I remember now. I felt poorly. My head was bad." "Your head bad? I should think it was bad. Dear lad, what stuff you have been saying." "Have I, Jem? What, since I lay down among the ferns this morning?" "This morning, Mas' Don! Why, it's close upon a month ago." "What?" "That's so, my lad. We come back from cutting wood to find you lying under a tree, and when we got here it was to find poor old `my pakeha' with a shot-hole in him, and his head all beaten about with big clubs." "Oh, Jem!" "That's so, Mas' Don." "Is he better?" "Oh, yes; he's getting better. I don't think you could kill him. Sort o' chap that if you cut him to pieces some bit or another would be sure to grow again." "Why, it was Mike Bannock and those wretches, Jem." "That's what we thought, my lad, but we couldn't find out. It was some one, and whoever it was took away three guns." "I saw them, Jem." "You see 'em?" "Yes, as I lay back with my head so bad that I couldn't be sure." "Ah, well, they found us out, and they've got their guns again; but they give it to poor Ngati awful." Just then the window was darkened by a hideous-looking face, which disappeared directly. Then steps were heard, and the great chief came in, bending low to avoid striking his head against the roof till he reached the rough bedside, where he bent over Don, and patted him gently, saying softly, "My pakeha." CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. DON SPEAKS OUT. A healthy young constitution helped Don Lavington through his perilous illness, and in another fortnight he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could. "I'm very sorry, Mr Gordon," said Don one evening to the young settler. "Sorry? What for, my lad?" he said. "For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble." "Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in." "Ungrateful!" "Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die." "Oh!" said Don smiling. "Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel." Don smiled sadly. "I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go." "What, and leave me in the lurch just as I'm so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I've been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he's the handiest fellow I ever saw." "I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be." "You're right enough, boy. Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen. "One of the sheep got loose," said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive." "Look here!" shouted back Gordon; "I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught." "No help for a hundred miles, matey," said the savage-looking convict; "so give in. We want all you've got there, and what's more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?" For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush. "Have we scared them off?" said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign. "I don't know," said the other. "I can't help thinking--" "Look out, Mas' Don!" _Bang_! _bang_! Two reports from muskets at the back of the house, where the attacking party had suddenly shown themselves, thinking it the weakest part; and after the two shots about a dozen Maoris dashed at the little window, and tried to get in, forcing their spears through to keep the defenders at a distance; and had not Ngati's spear played its part, darting swiftly about like the sting of some monster, the lithe, active fellows would, soon have forced their way in. Directly after, the fight began at the front, the firing growing hot, and not without effect, for one of the settlers went down with a musket bullet in his shoulder, and soon after Gordon stood back, holding his arm for Don to bind it up with a strip off a towel. "Only a spear prick," he said coolly, as he took aim with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don; "I shall go with you men." "Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless," said the officer. Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang us." "I don't believe it, Jem." "Well, you'll see, Mas' Don; so if they hang you, don't you blame me." "Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off," said the officer. "Thank you once more for all your hospitality." "God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives," said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives. "Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!" said the officer heartily. "And now about our prisoners. I don't know what to do about the Maoris. I don't want to shoot them, and I certainly don't want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?" "I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go." "What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we're gone!" "They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on," said Don sharply. "How do you know?" said the officer good-humouredly. "Because," said Don, colouring, "I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner." "And they did not eat you?" said the officer laughing. "There, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "hear that?" "I think you are right, youngster," continued the officer, "and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners." This was to a master's mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst--a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see. They were led to the front, scowling at every one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master's mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes. The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman's knife. "No, no. No, pakeha. No kill," said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies. But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori's bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly. The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master's mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives. "Now," said the officer, addressing them, "I don't understand you, and I don't suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king's name, you are free; and if you ever take any English prisoners, I hope you will behave as well to them as we have behaved to you. There, go." He finished by pointing away to the north; but instead of going they stood staring till Ngati came forward, and said a few words in their own tongue. The effect was electric; they all shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him. He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe. "Here, hi, Jack!" cried a hoarse brutal voice. "Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where's your knife?" "Wait a little while, my friends," said the officer sarcastically; "as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons." "Whorrt!" cried Mike. "We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed--"them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer--"Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly--"as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. 
37647	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 37647-h.htm or 37647-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37647/37647-h/37647-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37647/37647-h.zip) [Illustration: In an instant Sam was off at full speed, crying, "Stop thief!" at the full strength of his lungs.] THE ADVENTURES OF A COUNTRY BOY AT A COUNTRY FAIR by James Otis Author of Toby Tyler Etc. Illustrated Boston Charles E. Brown & Co. Copyright, 1893, By Charles E. Brown & Co. S. J. Parkhill & Co., Printers Boston CONTENTS. CHAPTER. I.--A Young Fakir II.--An Old Fakir III.--A Friend IV.--Uncle Nathan V.--The Fair VI.--A Clue VII.--The Clerk VIII.--The Jewelry Fakir IX.--A Brave Rescue X.--An Encounter XI.--Long Jim XII.--A Discovery XIII.--Amateur Detectives XIV.--The Rendezvous XV.--Sam's Adventures XVI.--Missing XVII.--A Terrible Night XVIII.--A Narrow Escape XIX.--The Arrest XX.--A Proposition XXI.--With the Burglars XXII.--A Disaster XXIII.--A Second Arrest XXIV.--A Third Arrest XXV.--On Bail XXVI.--The Fakirs' Party XXVII.--In Hiding XXVIII.--A Failure XXIX.--The Testimonial XXX.--The Trial XXXI.--An Arrival XXXII.--In Conclusion _THE ADVENTURES OF A COUNTRY BOY AT A COUNTRY FAIR._ CHAPTER I. _A YOUNG FAKIR._ "I'm going to try it. Deacon Jones says I can have the right to run both things for ten dollars, and Uncle Nathan is going to lend me money enough to get the stock." "What scheme have you got in your head now, Teddy Hargreaves?" and Mrs. Fernald looked over her spectacles at the son of her widowed sister, who was literally breathless in his excitement. "I'm going to run a cane an' knife board at the Peach Bottom fair, and try to make money enough to pay the debt mother owes on the place." "You're crazy--mad as a March hare! The idea of a child like you setting yourself up to earn three or four hundred dollars, when your father worked all his life and couldn't get so much together." Mrs. Fernald really appeared to be angry, and she really believed there was good cause why she should lose her temper. The thought that little Teddy--a "whiflet" she called him--should set up his opinion in such matters against his elders, and attempt to earn in one season an amount which Seth Hargreaves had never been able to repay during his thirty-six years of life, was so preposterous that the good lady looked upon the boy's assertion as positive proof that he was not only ready but willing to "fly in the face of Providence." "I shall try it all the same," Teddy replied in a most provokingly matter-of-fact tone, "an' I'm going down to see Uncle Nathan this very minute." "Very well, and I consider it my bounden duty to advise your mother to keep you in the house until the fair is ended," Aunt Sarah said, as she took from its peg the well-worn gingham sun-bonnet. Teddy had no desire to prolong the conversation, which had been begun simply because his aunt insisted on knowing where he had been, but hurried away from the gate on which he had been swinging while Mrs. Fernald questioned him, as if fearful lest she might try to detain him until the matter could be settled according to her own ideas of propriety. "I can have the right to run what I want to, every day the fair lasts, for ten dollars, an' now, if you lend me fifteen, I'll be all right," the boy cried as he burst into Nathan Hargreaves' store, just as the old gentleman was adding a trifle more sand to the sugar, in order to compensate for what might possibly have been spilled by the careless clerk. "Oh, it's fixed, eh? And you're really goin' to turn fakir?" Uncle Nathan asked, wrinkling his face into the semblance of a laugh, but remaining silent, as if fearing to waste even such a cheap thing as mirth. "What's a fakir?" "A man, or a boy, for that matter, who goes out to sell things as you count on doin', if I'm fool enough to let you throw away fifteen good dollars of mine." "But you promised to lend me the money." "An' I'm going to do it; but that don't make me any less a fool jest because I'm holdin' to my word. Tell me what you count on doin', an' then we'll come down to the business end of the scheme." "I'll pay the ten dollars I've got to Deacon Jones for the right to run the games, an' with what you lend me I'm goin' to Waterville an' buy a whole lot of knives an' canes. There's a storekeeper over there who promises to sell that kind of goods for less than they cost him." "An' he's lyin' when he says it. People don't do business for the fun of it; but that's neither here nor there so far as our trade is concerned. I'm goin' to give you the fifteen dollars now--it's a power of money for a boy of your size, Teddy--, an' if you make anything, as I allow you will, I'm to have eighteen dollars back; don't forget that part of the trade." "I'll stand to what I agreed, Uncle Nathan, and you shall be paid the very day the fair closes." "Here it is," and with a sigh which was almost a groan Uncle Nathan took from a fat calfskin wallet three five-dollar bills, adding, as he handed them to Teddy: "Be careful of it, my boy, for I'm puttin' almost too much confidence in a child of your size, an' nobody knows how distressed I'd be if anything happened to prevent your paying it back." Teddy placed the money carefully in the inside pocket of his vest, and, after promising for at least the hundredth time that it should be repaid by the close of the following week, hurried home confident in the belief that he was on an extremely short road to wealth. Mrs. Hargreaves was by no means as sanguine as her son concerning the success of the scheme, and actually appeared frightened when Teddy showed her the money he had received from his Uncle Nathan, who was reputed to be the "closest-fisted" merchant to be found within a day's ride of Peach Bottom Run. "If you should lose it, Teddy, and be unable to pay him back at the exact time you promised, it would be the undoing of us, for we could never expect to get another dollar. I know he is not generous, but have always believed that if we should be in yet more straitened circumstances he would give us some assistance. He has neither charity nor mercy for any one who does not pay a little more than his just debts--" "But I shall give back every cent of this, mother, so don't look as if you were in such distress. I want to go to Waterville to buy my stock in the morning, an' am counting on walking. It's only seven miles, an' I'll save fifty cents by traveling on shanks' mare." "I will have breakfast ready by four o'clock; but you must come back on the stage, Teddy." "Yes, if I feel very tired; but I don't know of any easier way to earn a dollar than by walking both ways." The young "fakir" believed he knew exactly what kind and amount of stock he wished to purchase on the following day, therefore he had no preparations to make for the journey save to get his limbs in the best possible condition for the tramp by retiring very early, in order to "scoop in" plenty of sleep. The thought of the success which should attend him in his new venture kept his eyes open a long while after getting into bed, and when he finally succeeded in crossing over to the land of Nod, dreams of the fortune to be made during the coming week visited his brain, and remained there until his mother's voice summoned him to breakfast. The sun had not yet come up from behind the hills when he was trudging sturdily along over the dusty road, carrying a generous luncheon tied in a snowy-white napkin, and with his money secured by many pins in the lining of his cap. "Be careful not to lose it, for your Uncle Nathan would never forgive you," his mother had said, and he cried cheerily, as he walked swiftly down the lane to the highway: "There's no fear of anything like that happening; the bills can't get away without my knowing it so long as they stay here," and Teddy pulled his cap yet more closely down on his head. In a trifle more than two hours he was at Waterville, wondering why the stores were not open, no matter how early it was, when such an important customer as himself came to town. Since the merchants were evidently ignorant of his arrival, as was evidenced by the fact that their places of business yet remained closed, there was no more profitable occupation for him than to eat a second breakfast, which he proceeded to do, using a hand-truck on the depot-platform as a seat. The train which left New York on the evening before had arrived some time previous, and the station was temporarily deserted by all save a boy of about Teddy's age, who was walking to and fro in an aimless manner. By the time the young "fakir" had finished his second biscuit he noticed that the stranger was watching him narrowly, and, holding forth the napkin with its generous store, he asked: "Have one?" "I don't care if I do," said the boy, carelessly, and he continued: "I reckon you live 'round here?" "No, I jest come up from Peach Bottom Run, an' am waiting for the stores to be opened." "Why, you're from the same place where the fair is goin' to be held." "No; I live at the Run, an' the fair is over to Peach Bottom, most five miles from my house. Are you goin' there?" "I should reckon I was. Why, I'm goin' to help run it." "You are?" and Teddy's mouth opened wide in astonishment. "Yes, sir-ree, an' you fellers will be jest about crazy when I tell you what I've come to do." "Don't flash it upon us too quick, for we wanter kind of keep our wits about us till the fun is over." The tone of sarcasm in Teddy's voice appeared to nettle the stranger. "I've come down here to give away a steamboat what's worth five hundred dollars." "Then there ain't any need for you to go any farther, 'cause I'm willin' to take it now." "If you won't be so smart I'll tell you about it," was the dignified reply. "There's a firm out in Detroit what's goin' to do that very thing to the feller that can guess how much she weighs, an' I've been hired to help the man who is comin' down to Peach Bottom to show off a lot of boats." "What are you goin' to do?" and now Teddy was interested. "Row around in the creek while he looks out for the stuff in the fair. It won't be any more'n fun, an' if you'll come over I'll take you out." "I don't s'pose you could help me guess how much the steamer weighs, could you?" "There ain't anybody as can do that, 'cause you see she ain't built yet; but you can find out all about it by lookin' on the fair grounds for the circulars what the Davis Boat and Oar Company of Detroit will throw around, an' if there's somethin' else you wanter know jest ask for Sam Balderston; all the folks will know me before I've been there very long." "I'm going to work at the fair myself," Teddy replied, and then, in response to his new friend's questions, he gave him all the particulars of his proposed venture. "I reckon you'll get along all right, an' come out way ahead, if some of these smart fakirs don't try to get the best of you. Say, why can't I go to your house, an' stay till it's time to go over to the fair? I'll pay my way." "If mother's willin', I'd like to have you, an' I don't believe she'll care. Now, I've got to buy my stuff. Where'll I meet you afterward?" "I'm goin' with you," Sam said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I know a good deal about such things, an' won't see you cheated." Teddy hardly thought he was in need of any assistance; but since he did not want to offend this fellow who was concerned in giving away a steamboat, he could not well refuse, therefore the two started up the street together. CHAPTER II. _AN OLD FAKIR._ Sam had very much advice to give during the short walk, and while the greater portion of it was worthless, there were bits which might be of value to the young "fakir." "Don't buy anything till you have seen all there is in town, an' then you'll know which is the cheapest," Sam repeated several times, with an air of wisdom, and Teddy believed this to be a good idea. With this object in view the two boys walked from store to store, examining that particular quality of canes and knives which Teddy thought would be best suited to his purpose, and Sam had no hesitation in criticising the goods boldly, until more than one of the clerks lost his temper entirely and refused to show the full stock. "If you go on this way, Sam, we won't get the business done to day, an' I want to send the stuff down in the stage, which leaves here at three o'clock." "There'll be plenty of time for that; I know what I'm about. Now, if you had sent your money to me, I'd got you a dandy lot in New York for almost nothing." "Seein's how I didn't even know your name till a couple of hours ago, there wasn't much chance for me to do that, an' I guess I'll make out well enough here if you don't keep on raisin' a fuss with the clerks." "I won't so much as yip ag'in, if that's the way you look at it. The question is, which store you're goin' to buy from?" "There's a place near the depot that wasn't open when we came past. Let's go there, an' then I'll make up my mind." Sam, feeling a trifle injured because his advice had not been fully appreciated, said nothing more until they were near the station, and then, seeing a train approaching, he proposed that they stop for a few minutes. "Jest as likely as not there'll be people on it whom I know goin' to the fair, an' you want to get acquainted with all the fakirs, so's they'll help you along now an' then." "The stage goes at three." "An' it ain't more'n ten now. Come on!" Sam cried, triumphantly, as he motioned for Teddy to come nearer. Sam had already quickened his pace, and Teddy was forced to follow, or injure the feelings of one whom he believed held a responsible position in the Peach Bottom exhibition. Among the passengers alighting from the train as the boys arrived was a man who carried a large package enveloped in green cloth, and Sam whispered, excitedly: "I'll bet that's an old fakir, and if he is we want to let him know who we are." Teddy failed to understand exactly why this was necessary; but his companion seemed so positive on the point that he remained silent. This particular passenger appeared to have plenty of time at his disposal. He placed his package at one end of the platform, lighted a pipe, and then walked to and fro as the remainder of the travelers dispersed. "You foller me, an' we'll find out who he is," Sam whispered, when he thought a fitting opportunity had come, and then advanced boldly toward the stranger. "Goin' to the fair?" he asked. "Yes; what of it?" "Nothin', only I s'pose you know you've got to take another train here." "If I didn't why would I be loafin' around this dead place?" "I jest spoke of it 'cause this feller an' I are goin' there, too," and Sam waved his hand in the direction where Teddy was standing. "I s'pose there'll be other boys besides you at the fair, eh?" "But we belong to it. I'm to give a steamboat away, an' he's goin' to run a cane an' knife board. We're waiting here to buy the stock." [Illustration: THE THREE NOTES WERE HANDED TO THE GENEROUS STRANGER.] "Oh, you are, eh?" and now the man appeared to be interested. "I reckon you're goin' to spend as much as a dollar?" "One? Why, he's got fifteen, an' the whole of it will be spent before the stage leaves. We know something about the business an' don't count on gettin' an outfit for nothing." "I thought you was a fakir," the man said, in a more friendly tone, as, unobserved by the worldly-wise Sam, he made a peculiar gesture to a stranger immediately in the rear. "That's what I am," was the proud reply, "an' I'll make things hum over at Peach Bottom before I leave the town. You see I thought I'd speak to you, 'cause all of us fellers should know each other." "You're right, an' it's mighty lucky you did strike up an acquaintance, for I can give you a big lift. I've helped many a boy into the business when they had money enough to help themselves." The last dozen words were spoken in a loud tone, as if for the benefit of the stranger in the rear; but instead of waiting to hear more the latter turned abruptly and walked toward the package with a green covering at the end of the platform. "I knew we oughter talk with you." "Did you count on buying your stuff in this one-horse town?" the man asked as Teddy approached, and the latter replied: "There wasn't any other place I could go to, 'cause it costs too much for a ticket to New York." "How big a stock do you want?" "All I can get for fifteen dollars. Don't you think that will be enough?" "It depends," the stranger replied, reflectively. "If you buy the goods here you'll have to pay such a big price that it won't be much of a pile. Now, if--I've got the very thing in mind! You'll remember the day you saw me if my plan works. I know a fakir here who has a fine layout that he wants to sell. You can get fifty dollars' worth of stuff for--well, he asks twenty; but I'll say you are friends of mine, an' the chances are you can make a trade." "That would be a regular snap!" Sam cried, and Teddy's eyes glistened at the thought of thus procuring a full outfit so cheaply. "I'll do what I can for you," the man said, in a patronizing tone. "At any rate, I'll make him come down in his price, and if there's any balance it can be paid after the fair has been opened long enough for you to take in some money." "If business is good, I'm willing to do what is right," Teddy replied; "but I must pay Uncle Nathan first." "How much do you owe him?" "Fifteen dollars." "Why, bless my soul, it'll be a pretty poor fair if you can't make five times that amount in the first two days." "Where can we see the man?" Sam asked, eager that his wonderfully good trade should be consummated at the earliest possible opportunity. "I don't know; but he's somewhere in the town. Give me your cash, an' I'll hunt him up inside of half an hour. The stuff is right here in the baggage-room, and you can ship it on the stage without any trouble." Just for an instant Teddy hesitated to part with what seemed to him like an enormous amount of money; but then came the thought that an old fakir would not wrong a young one--and he considered himself such. After some little difficulty he succeeded in extracting all the pins, and the three notes were handed to the generous stranger almost at the same moment that the green-covered package disappeared from the edge of the platform simultaneously with the departure of the second stranger. "Wait right here for me," the man said, as he put the money in his pocket. "I've got too much work to do to spend any very great amount of time hunting you fellows up in case you don't stay in one place." After thus cautioning them, the old fakir walked slowly away, and Sam said: "It was lucky you fell in with me, Teddy, for I know how these things are worked, an' can give you a good many pointers before the fair is over. Why, you'll have a first-class outfit for about half what it's worth." "Yes, it's a good chance; but I can't see why he didn't take us with him if he was in a hurry, an' then he wouldn't have had to come back." "He's got to do that anyway, for his stuff is here," Sam replied, pointing toward where he had last seen the man's package; but it was no longer there. "I guess the baggage-master has taken it in," he added; "but you needn't be afraid of losin' your money while I'm with you." Then Sam occupied his companion's attention by telling of his many alleged wonderful exploits, and an hour passed before his story was concluded. In the meantime one train had arrived and departed; another was on the point of leaving the depot, bound for Peach Bottom, when Teddy cried as he leaped to his feet: "See! I'm certain that's the man who has got my money!" "Where?" "On the platform of the front car!" Before he could say anything more the train steamed out, leaving the would-be young fakir staring at it in distress and consternation. "Of course it wasn't him," Sam said, confidently, when the last car had disappeared from view. "The stuff he was goin'to buy for you is here in the baggage-room, 'cause he said so, an' we'll see him before long." [Illustration: "See! I'm certain that's the man who has got my money."] Teddy's suspicions had been aroused, and he was not easily quieted. The thought that it was possible he might have lost the money loaned him by Uncle Nathan was sufficient to cause the liveliest fear, and he said, decidedly: "I'm going to know where that man's baggage went to." "How'll you find out?" "Ask the baggage-master." "Don't make a fool of yourself. It would be nice for an old fakir like that man to know you thought he'd steal your money." "I don't care what he knows, so long as I get my fifteen dollars back." Teddy, trembling with apprehension and excitement, went into the baggage-room and asked there if a green-covered package had been taken in by any of the attendants. No one had seen such an article, and all were positive there was nothing of the kind remaining in their charge. Then he asked if a bundle of canes had been left there, and to this question there was a most decided negative. "The hangers-on at the fairs haven't begun to come yet," the baggage-master said, "and when they do come, we sha'n't have any of their stuff to handle, for it will all be transferred across the platform without being brought in here. What is the matter? Anything gone wrong?" The lump which had been rising in Teddy's throat was now so large that it was with difficulty he could say: "A man has run off with fifteen dollars of mine, an' Uncle Nathan will jest about kill me!" CHAPTER III. _A FRIEND._ The baggage-master immediately displayed the utmost sympathy for the victim of the old fakir's seductive scheme, and Sam was loud in his denunciations of a brother in the craft who would serve them in such a shabby manner. "You leave him to me, an' I'll show you what can be done," that young gentleman said, and Teddy replied, reproachfully: "I've left too much to you already. If you hadn't thought it was necessary to make the acquaintance of every fellow who was going to the fair I'd have my fifteen dollars in my cap now." "I'll get them back for you." "How?" "I can't say jest now; but you wait an' see what I can do." Inasmuch as Teddy must account first to his mother and afterward to Uncle Nathan for that amount, the confident assertion of his friend failed to give him any mental relief, and he said, quite sharply: "You thought it was all right to give the money to him, an' if you didn't know any more than a country boy who'd never even heard of such fellows, I can't see how you can do much toward helping." At this point the baggage-master, who had been listening to the conversation, broke in with the sage remark: "It's no use for you fellows to fight over what has been done. The money is gone; there's no doubt about that; but it may be you can get it back." "How?" Teddy asked, eagerly. "By notifying the police, and it is possible that they may find your man long before the fair is ended." "But even if they should, how can I pay Uncle Nathan the eighteen dollars he wants, after givin' Deacon Jones the ten which I promised?" "That, of course, is a question I cannot answer," the officer of the company replied, not unkindly; "but it will certainly be better to get some of the money back than to lose the whole." "Of course it will," Sam said, promptly, after waiting a few seconds without hearing any reply from Teddy. "Tell us what to do, an' I'll see to the whole thing." "Hello! What kind of a meeting are you holding here?" a cheery voice cried, and, looking up, the disconsolate Teddy saw a merchant whose stock he had been examining a short time previous. In a few words the baggage-master explained the condition of affairs. "Can nothing be done?" the merchant asked. "It is barely possible. The fact of the matter is that the two swindlers left on the last train, and this boy's money has gone with them beyond a doubt." Then the merchant turned to the would-be fakir and asked for further particulars, which were readily given, the latter saying, as he finished the sad story: "Uncle Nathan is bound to raise a big row, an' I won't be able to help mother, as I counted on doing; but I s'pose it serves me right." "I'm not so sure of that, lad, for all of us are liable to be taken in at some time or another. It is possible you may make money at the fair, and I will give you credit to the amount you lost. Go to the store, show this slip, and get what you think may be needed." While speaking the merchant had been writing on a piece of paper torn from his memorandum book, and when he handed it to Teddy the almost heartbroken boy read the following words: The bearer, Edward Hargreaves, is entitled to credit, thirty days' time, on all he may need, to the extent of thirty dollars. JOHN REAVES. "But I only lost fifteen dollars," Teddy said, as he read the order. "I so understood; but you may need more, therefore I have made the amount sufficiently large. Don't hesitate to buy what is wanted, and whether you ever find the swindler or not, I feel very positive my bill will be paid." Teddy tried to thank the merchant, but that lump in his throat was still too near his mouth to admit of many words, and Sam whispered: "Don't say anything more about it. You've struck the biggest kind of luck, and the safest way is to hold your tongue." Even had it been possible to speak, Teddy could not have said all that was in his heart, and before Sam had time to give any further advice the merchant boarded a train which was just starting for New York, leaving the young fakir and his newly-made friend to settle matters among themselves. "You're in big luck," the latter said, consolingly. "What's the difference if you have lost fifteen dollars so long as you know how to get thirty dollars' worth of goods to start in business?" "But this bill will have to be paid, and Uncle Nathan must have his money; that leaves me forty-five dollars in debt." "S'pose'n it does? You're bound to make a good deal more'n that, an' I'm here to help you through." Teddy came very near saying that if Sam had not been there the fifteen dollars would still be reposing beneath the lining of his cap; but he succeeded in checking himself, and the reproachful words remained unspoken. At this point in the conversation the baggage-master insisted that information of the swindler should be given to the police, and, whether they desired to do so or not, the boys were forced to accompany him to headquarters. Here it is possible their story might have been told without exciting more than ordinary interest if the name of the kindly-disposed merchant had not been used; but that was sufficient to awaken a decided interest, and every detail was written down carefully. "We will try to get the money for you," the chief said. "Several of my men will be at the fair, and if you see this fellow again, information must be given to them immediately." Teddy had but little hope that any good would result by this means, but he promised faithfully to do as requested, and then the boys were at liberty to finish the business which had been interrupted so disastrously. So much time had been wasted that it was necessary to move around very lively in order to have the goods ready before the stage should leave, and Teddy did a great deal toward expediting matters by explaining to the clerk at the store on which he had the order for credit exactly what he proposed to do. The young man understood at once the kind of goods which would be needed, and without listening to the many suggestions made by Sam selected a good assortment of both knives and canes. "Ain't you getting more than thirty dollars' worth?" Teddy asked, as the clerk continued to add to the pile. "I think not. These are all cheap goods, you know, and make a big show without amounting to any very great value. I will put in cotton cloth enough for the cane board, and as many rings as you will need unless business should be very brisk." The clerk was bent on making the bill exactly the size of the order, and when the prices had been figured out Teddy had invested just thirty dollars in a stock which must bring in a profit of at least fifty per cent. in order to admit of his paying the debts already contracted. The goods were to be put on the stage by the salesman, and there was nothing further for the boys to do but decide on their manner of traveling to the Run. "After losin' fifteen dollars, I reckon there's only one thing for me to do," Teddy said, as they left the store. "I'm goin'to walk; but you can do as you please." "S'pose'n we both ride? You're bound to make a pile of money before the fair is over, an' can afford---- By jinks! There's that fakir now!" In an instant Sam was off at full speed, crying: "Stop thief!" with the full strength of his lungs, as he pursued a man carrying a bundle covered with green cloth. Such an appeal was well calculated to arouse every idler in the immediate vicinity, and before Teddy fully understood what had happened not less than twenty men and boys were in chase of the stranger, who, strange to say, had not quickened his pace. The thought that it might yet be possible to regain his money lent unusual speed to the would-be fakir's heels, and he was among the foremost when the man suddenly halted, turned squarely around, and asked: "What is the matter with you people? Do you want me?" "I guess we do," a policeman replied, as he seized the stranger by the collar. "Somebody yelled for us to stop the thief, and you must be the man." "Who says I am?" was the angry question. By this time both Teddy and Sam had discovered the latter's mistake. The only point of resemblance between this stranger and the one who stole the money was that both carried packages covered with green cloth; but while the first bundle was bulky and apparently heavy, this was small and readily held under the man's arm. Sam did not wait to explain matters. Fearing lest he might get into serious trouble because of the mistake, he slipped quietly away, leaving Teddy to bear the brunt of the accused's wrath. The latter realized that something must be done at once, for the greater portion of the crowd was looking inquiringly at him, and he said, in a voice which was far from steady: "I didn't do the hollerin'; but a feller who was with me when a man stole my money thought you must be the one." "Where is he?" the stranger asked, advancing threateningly. "I don't know. He ran away when he saw it was a mistake." The crowd immediately began to disperse. The policeman called down quite the reverse of blessings on Sam's head, and then walked away, leaving Teddy and the stranger comparatively alone. "I don't know as it does any harm to have a lot of fools chasing a man," the latter said, "but it might give him a bad name in his work." "I'm very sorry, sir, but you see----" "I'm not blaming you, my boy, since it was the other fellow who did the mischief. Tell me how you lost your stuff." "My what?" "Your stuff--money." "Oh!" and Teddy at once gave the stranger a detailed account of all that had happened, the latter saying, as the story was concluded: "I wouldn't be afraid to bet my head that Long Jim was the duck who played the trick. I know he came here, headed for the fair grounds, and it's jest about his style of working." "Do you think there's any chance I'll get it back?" "He shall give up if I see him. I'll be at the fair myself, working a neat little game, and will see you there." With this remark the stranger walked away, and Teddy went toward the depot once more, feeling quite certain he had made a friend who would aid him in his new venture. CHAPTER IV. _UNCLE NATHAN._ When Teddy reached the depot he was not obliged to hunt very long for Sam, for that young gentleman crept out from behind a pile of baggage on seeing his friend was alone, and asked, in a hoarse whisper: "What did that feller do to you?" "Nothing; but that don't prove we should get out of another scrape so easily, and you must be careful, or we'll be in no end of trouble before the fair is ended." "I was only tryin' to catch your money." "It surely wouldn't have done any harm if you had found out whether that was the man or not before you started the whole crowd after him." "That's right, rub it into a feller when he tries to do you a good turn," Sam said, sarcastically, and then remembering an instant later that he proposed to be this boy's guest, he added, "I was only lookin' out for you, an' so long as there's been no harm done we needn't talk about it. Do you still mean to walk home?" "There's nothing else to be done, if we want to get to the Run to-night, for the stage left while we were chasing that man." This was exactly what he did not want to do; but, under the circumstances, there was no help for it, and the young gentleman who expected to form such a prominent portion of the fair set out by the side of the friend whom he had injured while thinking to do him a favor. At the end of a trifle less than three hours, when both were footsore, hungry, and weary, the boys arrived at Teddy's home, and Mrs. Hargreaves made the stranger welcome despite the inconvenience caused by his coming. Not until after Sam had retired did Teddy tell his mother of the theft, and for several moments the widow was in great mental distress; but finally she viewed the matter in a more cheerful light, and it was resolved that Uncle Nathan should not be told of the mishap. "It would only make him angry," Mrs. Hargreaves said, "and you must pay him before the merchant who was so kind to you gets his money; but I am terribly afraid, Teddy, that the whole scheme will be a failure." The amateur fakir assured her as best he could, and when they retired that night both Teddy and his mother were in a comparatively contented frame of mind. The following day was Sunday, on which not even the all engrossing topic of cane-boards and knives was to be discussed; but before the family had finished breakfast the arrival of a stranger forced them into worldly topics. The newcomer was none other than the man whom Sam had accused of being the thief, and he explained the cause of his visit by saying: "I have reason to believe that Long Jim, the fakir who got away with your son's money, will be over here to-night, because the hotels at Peach Bottom are crowded, and it is possible he may be forced to give up the stuff." Although not exactly understanding what he meant, the widow insisted on his coming into the house, and he laid the details of his plan before Teddy and Sam. "I'll hang around here for him," the stranger said, "and you shall say if he is the man who did you up; after that I'll take a hand in the business, and it'll be queer if between us all we can't make him do the square thing, more especially since the rest of his gang haven't come yet." As might be expected, Teddy was excited by the prospect of recovering the money which he had believed was lost beyond reclaim, and plans were at once laid to trap the dishonest fakir. While this conversation was being carried on Uncle Nathan came in to learn how his nephew had succeeded in town, and the stranger introduced himself as Frank Hazelton, a dealer in jewelry, which was to be on exhibition during the coming week at the fair. The old man was delighted to make the stranger's acquaintance, for he fancied there would be an opportunity for him to take the agency of a valuable line of goods without the outlay of any money, and in a very few moments the two were fast friends. Uncle Nathan not only monopolized nearly all the conversation, but insisted on showing Mr. Hazelton around the village, and actually forced the latter to accompany him, despite the fact that it was Sunday, when an honest merchant is not supposed to so much as think of business. On the following day it would be necessary for those who had purchased the privilege of doing business on the fair grounds to be present, ready to select their different sites for working, and very shortly after the sun sank behind the hills Sam and Teddy retired in order to be ready for an early start next morning, since the first stage left the Run at half-past five. It lacked fully an hour of that time when the boys were called to breakfast by Mrs. Hargreaves, and in less than fifteen minutes they were at the table eating a hearty breakfast, which was interrupted by the appearance of Uncle Nathan, who looked as if he had not been in bed since the evening previous. "I've been robbed!" he cried, passionately, "and this is what comes of trying to help my nephew enter a disreputable line of business. I believe you induced that man to come here, explaining all about my store, simply that he might act the burglar. And it wouldn't take much to make me think you had agreed to divide with him the ill-gotten gains," he added, shaking his fist in the direction of Teddy, who was so astounded by the news as to be literally incapable of movement. "What do you mean, Nathan?" Mrs. Hargreaves cried. "Just what I said! My store was robbed last night, and your precious son knows the thief better than I do!" "You mean the man who came here yesterday?" the widow asked, while Teddy and Sam gazed at the old man in open-mouthed astonishment. "Of course I do; who else could it be? Didn't I take him over there yesterday, and didn't I explain just how difficult it was to deposit money in a bank, because a man would have to pay a dollar to go to Waterville an' back, or trust the stage driver to do the business?" By this time Teddy had recovered something like composure, and he said, gravely: "We have no means of knowing what you said to Mr. Hazelton, but if you told him all your business, that is no concern of ours. You insisted on his going away with you, and we haven't seen him since." "But you lied to me about my money." "In what way?" "You never said a word about its being stolen." "If I never said a word I couldn't have told a lie. He has evidently given the whole story; but what happened in Waterville has nothing to do with the robbery of your store." "Oh, it hasn't, eh? Well, I'm beginning to think it was a job cooked up by all hands to get the best of me." "If it had been," and now Teddy was on his feet, looking the angry old man squarely in the face, "why wouldn't I have said something about it in order to make the story seem straighter? A merchant in Waterville trusted me for the goods I wanted after he heard the money was gone, and I count on paying you before I do him." "Oh, you do, eh? Well, it's mighty doubtful whether you or this precious friend of yours will ever see the fair, for I'm going to get out a warrant for the whole lot before I'm done with this thing." "Would you arrest Teddy when he has been in this house ever since you left here yesterday morning?" Mrs. Hargreaves cried. "I'll have my money back, and the sooner your smart son tells me where it is, the sooner he can go about his business; but he must first pay me back my eighteen dollars." "I only borrowed fifteen, Uncle Nathan, and that you will get before next Wednesday. If you want to arrest me, go ahead; but I promise that you'll be sorry for it." "So you threaten, do you? That's what comes of trying to help an ungrateful boy! I knew he was going to the bad from the first minute he talked about having a cane-board," the old man added, as he turned to the widow, "and I predict that he'll come to no good even if he manages to get out of this scrape." "You thought it was a good idea for me to do as I proposed," Teddy replied, standing his ground bravely, "and was willing to loan me the money, provided I would pay you three dollars for the use of fifteen for one week." "That's right; throw in my teeth what I wanted to do in order to help you along, and call me an old skinflint. I am old enough to expect such things from such as you." "I haven't called you any names, nor do I intend to do so; I only wanted mother to know the truth of the business between us. Do you really believe I had any hand in breaking into your store?" "If you didn't your friends did, and that amounts to the same thing, as you'll soon find out. I'll have a warrant issued for the arrest of the whole crowd, if you don't tell me the truth this very minute." "But I don't know anything, Uncle Nathan." "I'll have the truth out of you before the day is ended," the old man cried, angrily, and without saying or doing anything save to shake his fist in the direction of his nephew and Sam he left the house. As yet none of the little party knew the full extent of what had happened, but before Uncle Nathan was fairly out of the yard a neighbor came around to tell Mrs. Hargreaves that the old man's store had been entered by burglars on the night previous, and a large amount of money, together with the most valuable goods, had been carried away. It is not difficult to imagine the consternation which seized upon the little party after Uncle Nathan's departure. Teddy was so overwhelmed that it was literally impossible for him to say a word, and Sam shook like one in an ague fit at the thought that he might be carried off to jail before it was possible for him to astonish the people by his skill as an oarsman. "You must not think of leaving here until we know what your uncle proposes to do," Mrs. Hargreaves said, as she returned to the dining-room after talking with the neighbor. "Of course I know that neither of you two boys had anything to do with the robbery; but you must not run away." "I've got to leave, no matter what the old fool says," Sam replied. "I don't know how the folks would get along if I didn't show up, an' it won't do to disappoint them." "Are you going?" Teddy asked, and Sam replied in a voice which trembled despite all his efforts to make it sound firm: "Of course I am. You don't allow I'm such an idiot as to stay till he can have me arrested, an' if you're sensible, both of us will go." "I must stay here, an' lose all my chances of making money," Teddy said, gloomily. "All right, then I'm off, an' after I once get on the fair grounds I'll bet that old duffer won't get hold of me." Sam did not propose to lose any time. He had no baggage, and in a very few moments after so deciding he was walking up the road over which the stage would pass, while Teddy, with a heavier heart than he had ever known before, waited for his uncle to send the officers of the law to carry him to prison. CHAPTER V. _THE FAIR._ It seemed to Teddy as if everything pleasant in life had departed from him as he waited for the return of Uncle Nathan accompanied by the officers of the law, and neither he nor his mother had any idea that the visit would be long delayed. The widow had every proof, even if her heart had not told the truth, that her son was innocent of the charge which the angry old man made. She knew both he and Sam remained in the house during the entire day previous to the robbery, and it would have been almost impossible for them to have left during the night without her knowledge; but at the same time it was only reasonable she should be distressed in mind as to the final outcome of the matter. One, two, three hours passed, and yet no arrest had been made. Teddy no longer hoped to play the part of fakir at the fair; but yet he fancied it might be possible to sell his stock, which had already been forwarded by the stage, to some more fortunate fellow, and in order to do this it was necessary he should be on the grounds at the earliest possible hour; but the charge made by his uncle held him a voluntary prisoner. At eight o'clock a neighbor, whose love of gossip was greater than her desire for housework, came to the garden gate to say that she had just heard the justice of the peace refuse to issue a warrant for either of the boys, and she added to this information her belief that it, the burglary, was a judgment upon Uncle Nathan for presuming to talk business on the Sabbath. When this busybody had departed, Mrs. Hargreaves said, as she re-entered the house: "There is no longer any reason, Teddy, why you shouldn't carry out your plans. Every one in this village knows where to find you in case a warrant is granted, which doesn't now seem possible, and it is better to go ahead as you proposed, knowing that your mother is certain you are innocent of any wrongdoing." Teddy's one desire had been to be on the fair grounds, and when this advice was given from "a fellow's best friend," he started at once, saying as he left the house: "I'll come back if there's nothing to do; but there's no reason to worry if you don't see me until Saturday, for I shall stay jest as long as things run smooth." Ten minutes later, while he was trudging along the dusty road with no other idea than that he would be forced to walk the entire distance, a friend in a wagon overtook him, proposed that he ride, and before the fair grounds were reached he had heard all the particulars of the robbery. It appeared that the burglars must have effected an entrance to Uncle Nathan's store after midnight Saturday, and when the proprietor arrived on the following morning there was absolutely no clue to the thieves. "They must have had a wagon to take away all the old man says he has lost," Teddy's informant added, as the story was concluded, "and because of that the justice refused to issue a warrant for the man who slept at the hotel last night. Of course the idea that you knew anything about it was all in that old fool's eye." "Then nobody has been arrested?" Teddy exclaimed, in surprise. "Of course not, an' more than one in town hopes he'll never see hide nor hair of his goods or money; but between you an' me I don't believe he's lost half as much as he tries to make out." To this last assertion Teddy gave but little heed; the all absorbing thought in his mind was as to whether he would actually be arrested for the crime, and this was sufficient to prevent any speculations as to the amount of loss, or his former dreams of the future. Arriving at the fair grounds, he found everything in a state of confusion. Goods were arriving and being put in place; men were quarreling for this or that vantage ground, and carpenters were busy in every direction. As a matter of course, he knew that all this would be changed on the following day when the visitors began to arrive; but, nevertheless, it gave him a homesick feeling which he could not suppress, and, for a time, prevented him from attending to his own interests. "Hello! What are you sittin' there for?" a voice cried, after he had remained inactive near the entrance nearly an hour, debating in his own mind whether or not it would be worth the while to unpack the goods which he knew were awaiting his call somewhere on the grounds. Looking up quickly he saw Sam, self-possessed and jaunty as at the first moment he met him in Waterville, but wearing an air of considerably more importance. "Have you gone to work yet?" he asked, listlessly. "Of course not; there's nothin' for me to do till the folks begin to come in to see how well I can row a boat. What did the old duffer do?" "Do you mean Uncle Nathan?" "Of course." "He hasn't had anybody arrested yet; but there's no knowin' how soon he'll begin." "He'd better not try it on me," Sam said, with an assumption of boldness. "I've found a feller here that's goin' to show off rifles, an' I can borrow as many as I want if he does any funny business." "Would you shoot anybody?" "You jest stay till an old lunatic comes along sayin' I've helped to rob him when your mother knows where I was, an' see what I'll do," Sam replied, in a really bloodthirsty tone as he turned to walk away, and then, as if reconsidering the matter, he stopped long enough to say, "Wait here a minute, an' I'll show you a feller what knows a thing or two." Inasmuch as Teddy had no idea of moving from the position he had taken up near the gate it was not irksome to do as the exhibitor of boats requested, and without troubling his head as to who this very important person might be, he remained at the precise spot until Sam returned with a boy who appeared to be a year or two older than himself. "This is Dan Summers, an' he's here to help show off a dandy rifle made in Chicopee Falls down in Massachusetts, or some such place. He'll help us out of the scrape if anybody can." Dan looked as if this introduction was disagreeable to him rather than otherwise, and after nodding to Teddy, he said, in an explanatory tone: "I'm here to help the man what exhibits goods from the Stevens Arms Company, that's all; but I don't see how I could be of any help if you fellers have got in a fuss." "Neither do I," Teddy replied, and then to show that no one could aid him, he told the whole story, including all that Uncle Nathan had said. "I wouldn't let that worry me," Dan said, philosophically, when the tale was ended. "If you want to make any money out of this fair it is time you was lookin' out for a stand, an' I know of the best place on the grounds. Come with me now, an' you can get it before the crowd of fakirs have a chance to take it up." Teddy, rather liking the appearance of this boy, resolved to follow his advice, and signified the same by slipping down from the stack of exhibits, as he said: "Show it to me an' I'll get right to work, for there's forty-five dollars I've got to pay back, no matter what Uncle Nathan makes up his mind to do." "That's the way to talk," Sam cried, approvingly, and forthwith he proceeded to take charge of his two acquaintances, resolved that lack of energy should not prevent him from sharing in their triumphs, if indeed, they had any. Dan professed to have had considerable experience with fairs, and the manner in which he proceeded to work showed that there had been no boasting on his part. He selected a spot where nearly all of the visitors would be forced to pass in order to see the cattle or the racing, and set about putting up a stand for Teddy in the most approved manner. He ordered Sam here and there to such places as he had seen an accumulation of lumber, and so well did he work, after borrowing an ax and a hatchet from a "candy butcher," that it was not yet noon when Teddy had an inclosure sufficiently large for his purpose; the cloth was in place and the holes cut for the canes, so that it would be but the work of a few moments to make everything ready when business should begin. "You can't do the whole thing yourself if there is anything like the crowd that ought to come," Dan said, "and I advise you to hire a clerk." "Where'll I find one?" Teddy asked, helplessly. "Take some of the fellers from your own village; but be sure they're honest, for after business begins there won't be any chance to watch 'em." Teddy thought he could find the proper party before the following day, and then came the question of where they were to sleep. "I've got that all fixed," Sam said, confidently. "The man what runs the museum in that big tent is a friend of mine, an' he won't say a word if we stay under the canvas to-night." "How long have you known him?" Teddy asked, warned by previous experience that Sam's statements were not always to be depended upon. "I never saw him till this morning; but that don't make no difference so long as he's willin' for us to stay there." "We'll go over an' look around," Dan said, leading the way, and to the surprise of at least one of the party it was found that Master Sam's statement was absolutely correct. The proprietor of the museum was more than willing to allow the boys to sleep under his canvas, for the very good reason that they would act as sentinels in lieu of those he had neglected to hire, and all three went away in search of a place where they could obtain meals during the expected five days of excitement and money-making. This was even a more simple matter than the first. At a boarding-house nearly opposite the main entrance to the grounds they could be accommodated at a reasonable rate, and the preliminaries had been settled. It only remained now to welcome the visitors, and get from them as much money as possible. Teddy almost forgot the terrible fact that his Uncle Nathan might yet have him arrested, and Sam acted as if such a thing had never been possible. It is true all three of the boys discussed the possibility of finding the money which had been stolen from Teddy; but neither thought of connecting the two crimes as the work of one person. During the afternoon Teddy looked around in the hope of seeing the man, unjustly accused of the theft, who had promised to aid him; but as yet he had not put in an appearance, and it seemed as if all the choice places would be taken before he arrived. It was anything rather than sport to wander around the almost deserted grounds, and at an early hour, after partaking of a remarkably poor supper, the three boys sought the seclusion granted by the mildewed canvas of the alleged museum of the "world's wonders." A goat, a wax baby, two or three snakes, an alligator, and a contortionist, who was none other than the proprietor of this magnificent array of "marvels," made up the entire list of curiosities; but the tent would shelter the young fakirs from the wind and dew, and it was possible they might sleep as soundly as at home. CHAPTER VI. _A CLUE._ Sam and Dan, who had worked at many fairs and been forced to sleep in far less desirable places, thought it was a rare piece of good fortune to get such comfortable quarters free; but the prospect of lying on the ground all night was far from pleasing to Teddy. He looked around for some spot softer than another; but there was no choice, and he said to himself: "There's one satisfaction about it, I'm better off on the ground than I would have been if Uncle Nathan had succeeded in having me arrested and put in jail." This thought caused the interior of the tent to seem less disagreeable, and he almost persuaded himself that it would be sport to stay all night in a museum with a real contortionist as host. Dan had thrown himself at full length on the ground where he could watch the proprietor of this "enormous exhibition" cook his supper on an oil-stove, and Sam, anxious about other people's affairs as usual, devoted his entire time to asking questions regarding the business. "How do you count on gettin' along when the crowds get here? You can't sell tickets an' act too." "I've got a barker an' a clown coming to-morrow; it was no use to pay 'em wages for layin' around when there was nothing to be done but put up the tent." "What's a 'barker?'" Sam asked, in surprise. "Why, the man who stands outside an' does the talking, of course." Then, his supper having been cooked and eaten, the host amused himself and his guests by telling of his experience in the show business; relating stories and talking of the different fakirs he had met. "When I started out," he said, "I made up my mind that a fortune could be made in one season. I bought a fine tent; had lots of performers, about twenty animals, and a dozen cases of stuffed birds and other curiosities. We struck hard luck from the sendoff, an' first the woman with an iron jaw gave me the shake because she got tired of waiting for the salary that never came. Two of the bears grew so disgusted with the bad business that they died, and one after another of the people skipped, till I was pretty nigh alone. A sheriff in Harmer seized the cases, another levied on my live stock, and it has only taken two seasons to bring the show down to where you see it." This was not pleasing information for Teddy, who was obliged to make such a large amount of money in order to free himself from debt, and he asked: "Isn't it possible to make money at every fair? I thought the fakirs got rich in a little while." "So did I before I went into the business. A fellow may make a big stake this week and lose it all at the next stand. If you strike bad weather, or a crowd that hasn't got any money, it's up-hill work to pull in the entrance fee. Now, I have to pay a hundred dollars for this privilege, because I've got a big tent, and it wouldn't be any more if I had a show to compare with it in size. It'll take a good many ten-cent pieces to make that up." This plain statement of facts caused Teddy to figure how many nickels he must receive before the capital invested and stolen would be returned, and the result was far from gratifying. "The eighteen dollars which must be given to Uncle Nathan, the thirty I owe in Waterville, and ten I paid for the privilege of running the boards makes eleven hundred and sixty five-cent pieces. I'll never see so many customers as that, and Aunt Sarah was right when she called me a fool for thinking of going into the business," he said to himself, as his companions began to make their preparations for the night. It is useless to "cry over spilled milk," however, and this he realized in time to prevent himself from being plunged into the lowest depths of despondency. It was barely possible business would be exceptionally good, he argued mentally, and if hard work could accomplish the desired result he must be successful. Dan was already lying down with his head toward the side of the tent and his feet near the oil-stove, which had been left burning because of the dampness, and Teddy crawled over by the side of him. Sam had decided to sleep by the side of his host, probably with the idea that he might appear to be on terms of greater intimacy, and all hands gave themselves up to slumber. The excitement of the morning and subsequent labor had so tried Teddy that, despite the hardness of his bed, he fell asleep in a very few moments, and it was not yet nine o'clock when all the inmates of the tent, save the goat, and possibly the alligator and snakes, were wrapped in blissful unconsciousness. Half an hour later a terrific yell from Sam caused the remainder of the party to spring to their feet in alarm. "What's the matter?" Dan cried. "Somebody has got into the tent and been poundin' me with a club! I'm pretty near killed." The faint glow cast by the oil-stove was not sufficient to illumine any portion of the tent, and the host made all haste to light a lantern, after which Dan proceeded to search for the supposed intruder; but before he had taken a dozen steps the proprietor of the museum burst into a hearty laugh. "Funny, ain't it?" Sam cried, angrily. "I s'pose you'd laugh if I'd been killed in your old tent!" This savage remark appeared to excite the man's mirth rather than check it, and while he was thus enjoying himself Teddy and Dan stood gazing at him in surprise. It was several minutes before the man could speak, and then he said, as he pointed to the goat who stood a short distance away calmly munching some potato parings: "That's the fellow who has been beating your friend with a club. I always let him loose at night, and he has walked over our dying boy." Sam insisted that he had been beaten with a club; but on examining his clothing two spots of fresh earth were found, showing where the animal had stepped. A hoof-print on the sleeve and another directly on the breast of his coat comprised the full amount of damage done. The boy who had believed himself so dangerously wounded now grew angry, and, leaping to his feet, declared he would not remain in the tent another minute unless the goat was tied. "There's nothing to prevent your bunking somewhere else," the owner of the animal replied, quite sharply. "Billy always has had the liberty of the tent at night, and I reckon he won't lose it now." Sam started toward the entrance; but before reaching it he realized that he would be punishing no one but himself, and slowly turned back, saying as he approached the stove: "It's too late to hunt for lodgings now, an' I s'pose I'll have to make the best of it." "I guess you will," the host replied, quietly, and the angry Sam lay down on the seat of the baggage wagon, to insure himself against another visit from "Billy." This incident had driven the desire for sleep from the eyelids of Teddy and Dan, and they remained awake some time after the loud breathing of their companions told that the visit from the goat had been temporarily effaced from their minds. Now Teddy discovered what a hard, uncomfortable bed the bare earth was, and after tossing about for half an hour, he whispered to Dan: "Do you suppose it would be any better in the wagon?" "No; you'll get used to it in a little while, and the ground is softer than a board." Teddy was about to reply when the sound of voices from the outside attracted his attention, and then came the crackle as of a match being lighted. Two or more men had halted near the canvas within a few feet of where the boys were lying, evidently that they might be sheltered from the wind while getting their pipes or cigars in working order. A moment later both the listeners heard one of the newcomers say: "I don't think it will be safe for you to show up very much while we stay here." "Why not? If them boys recognize me it will be an easy matter to frighten 'em into holdin' their tongues, and there's goin' to be good pickin's this week." "But what's the use of runnin' any risk? We've made a fairly good haul already, an' it's better to get safe off with that than stick our noses where it'll be hard work to pull them back." Teddy was in the highest possible excitement. In the tone of the second speaker's voice he recognized the man who had stolen his money, and he punched Dan with his elbow to assure himself that the latter was listening. "Keep quiet," Dan whispered, and then the conversation on the outside was continued. "I'll take good care to keep shady, an' you see what can be done to-morrow." [Illustration: The boys crept through the flap of the tent and followed the two men.] "Will you promise not to leave the house till after dark?" "I thought you had more nerve; but so long as you haven't I reckon I'll promise, for this is bound to be a fat thing, and I don't want to lose the whole of it. "When these country jays begin to send their stuff home I'll have ours shipped, an' there's little danger it'll be overhauled, more especially since the old man couldn't get a warrant for the only one he suspects. It's a safe bet that Hazelton has a pretty good idea who did the job, an' if they make trouble for him he'll most likely tell what he thinks." "There's no call to be afraid of him after he has worked a couple of days, for those he ropes in would do all they could to have him arrested." The last portion of this remark was almost indistinguishable, owing to the fact that the men were walking away, and when the sound of their footsteps could no longer be heard Teddy said: "Those are the men who robbed Uncle Nathan's store, an' I'm certain one of them got my money." "Would you know their voices if you heard them again?" "Sure; but why don't we find out where they are going? It wouldn't be a hard job." "Are you willin' to sneak after them?" "Of course I am. Come on!" The boys arose softly and crept through the flap of the tent without awakening the sleepers. The night was dark and cloudy, and it was impossible to see any very great distance in either direction; but Dan had taken especial heed to the course taken by the men, and he started off without hesitation. "We ought to have a club or something to protect ourselves in case they should see us," Teddy whispered. "We won't get near enough to let them do much mischief. Do you see two sparks over there? They are the lighted ends of cigars, an' our men are behind them." Dan quickened his pace; but he had failed to calculate the distance correctly, and was much nearer the game than he had suspected. "Be careful they don't see us," he said, in a low tone, and in another instant the boys were directly in front of the men. Teddy started back in alarm; but he was too late. In an instant the sparks flashed before his eyes, and he fell to the ground unconscious just as Dan succeeded in warding off the blow of a fist which was aimed at him. CHAPTER VII. _THE CLERK._ When Teddy recovered from the vicious blow which had rendered him unconscious he saw Dan lying on the ground beside him, but no one else was near. It was as if they had been fighting with phantoms of the brain, save for the fact that both bore the most indisputable signs of having been assaulted by beings of true flesh and blood. One of Dan's eyes was closed as if by a violent blow, and Teddy bled freely from the ear, the crimson fluid telling eloquently of the exact location of that superior force which had caused so many stars to dance before his mental vision. "We got through with that part of it mighty quick," Dan said, ruefully, as he rose to his feet. "There wasn't anything slow about the way they struck out after we made fools of ourselves by running into them, eh?" "I don't understand how it all happened. It wasn't more than three seconds from the time I first saw them before there was a regular set of fireworks dancing in front of my eyes." "It so happens that they saw us first," Dan replied, as he rubbed his head. "Those men were the thieves, and what I said showed them that we were on the scent." "Where are they now?" "You'll have to ask that question of someone else," Dan said, with a grimace of pain. "The last thing I know was when the tall fellow landed one square on my nose, and before I recovered both were out of sight. We have done harm rather than good, for now they know we overheard the conversation, an' we'll be mighty lucky if this is all we get before the fair comes to an end." "Suppose we tell the police now?" "What can you say to them? We heard those men talking about something which may have had nothing to do with the robbery, and want to have them arrested. On what grounds will we ask for a warrant? Besides, if Nathan Hargreaves was my uncle, I would let him fight his own battles." "But I owe him eighteen dollars." "What of that? He wouldn't take a penny off if you got your head broke while trying to find his money, and after all that has happened I think we have good reason to let him severely alone." "I'm willing to go back to the tent," Teddy said, as he began to feel faint, and Dan aided him during the short walk, both staggering as they came through the flap, meeting their host near the entrance, who asked, sharply: "What has been going on? I counted on helping a party of boys, rather than giving my tent up to a lot of roughs, as you appear to be." In the fewest possible words Dan explained what had happened, and in addition told all the story of Teddy's losing his money, together with the accusation made by Uncle Nathan. "I'm sorry I said a word," and the proprietor of the museum did really appear to be grieved. "It makes no difference whether you got a whipping or not, the guilty parties are here, and you can count on my help in turning them up." "That's what I'm afraid we sha'n't be able to do," Teddy replied; "we tried our best to-night, and got the worst of it." "There is plenty of time between now and Saturday. I'll do all any man can, an' it'll be strange if we don't get some proof before the fair closes." "How did you know we were out?" Dan asked. "I saw you go, and there was no reason why I should kick; but I began to be afraid you were up to something crooked. Now I know the whole story, I'll do my best to help you out of the scrape. Go to sleep, and we'll talk the whole matter over in the morning." This was good advice, but not easily followed. Both the boys began to feel the effects of the blows received from the thieves, and the pain resulting therefrom was not conducive to repose. They did manage to close their eyes in slumber now and then, however, and when the day broke Mr. Sweet, the proprietor of the museum, was standing ready to minister to their necessities. "You haven't got exactly the right kind of faces to bring very big business," he said, cheerily; "but I reckon we can make a change in the general appearance. Use this plentifully as a bath, and before business opens you'll be respectable members of society." It was certainly necessary for them to do something toward improving their appearance. Teddy's ear was swollen to nearly twice its natural size, and Dan had an eye which was rapidly blackening. Thanks to the application provided by the owner of the museum, these evidences of a fight were rapidly reduced, and when Sam awoke they looked little the worse for wear, although he readily discovered that something serious had happened while he was wrapped in slumber. "What has been goin' on?" he asked, suspiciously. "Nothing much," Dan replied, with a forced laugh. "The goat walked over us, and we're kinder used up, that's all. Are you ready to go to breakfast?" It was evident that Sam did not believe this explanation, but since he said nothing more about it, the two actors in the previous night's adventures held their peace; therefore it would not be in his power to betray any secrets. Breakfast was eaten at an early hour, and the young fakirs returned to the grounds in time for Teddy to meet the first visitors. Under Dan's instructions he continued to cry out: "Here's where you can get a cane or a knife for nothing! Three rings for five cents, and every time you throw it over the mark you get what you ring! Three for five, and every cane or knife you ring is yours!" It was yet too early for the exhibits to be opened, therefore Teddy had the assistance of his friends in reclaiming the rings thrown, and after nearly four dollars had been taken in with a loss only of a ten cent cane, the amateur fakir began to understand that it would be necessary for him to have a clerk. "You're bound to do a good business this week," Dan said, at about eight o'clock. "Sam and I must go now to attend to our own work, an' if you see some fellow who can be trusted, I advise you to hire him, or there'll be considerable trade lost, for when these people want to spend their money they won't wait for you to hunt up assistants." "Yes, I reckon there's more'n a thousand who are jest aching to see how I can row in one of them dandy boats," Master Sam added; "but if you get into any kind of a scrape, an' don't know how to get out, come to me. I'll see you through, no matter how good business is." These two friends and advisers had hardly left him when a particular chum from the Run came up, and knowing he could be trusted, Teddy immediately made a trade for his services. Tim Jones accepted the offer of ten cents on each dollar which might be taken in, and straightway engaged himself as Teddy's clerk, promising faithfully to account for every penny he should receive. "I know you are honest," the proprietor of the board said to his friend, "and I want you to help me on the square, so I'm willing to give a fair price, for I may have to be away a good deal of the time." "You mean that Nathan Hargreaves is goin' to have you arrested?" "Why do you say that?" "Because he's tellin' around town at the Run that you know who robbed his store, an' says he'll have a warrant out, if he has to go to Waterville for it." "That is where he's making a great big mistake, Tim; but if he should do anything of the kind I expect you to do your best here," and Teddy spoke very solemnly, for he really believed his uncle would succeed in having him arrested. "I don't know positively who broke into his store; but Dan an' I heard enough last night to make us believe we can find the thieves if we have time to work it out." "I'd let him hustle to get the stuff, if it was my pudding," Tim replied with emphasis, and then as a party of young fellows bent on spending money approached the board he began to cry, as lustily as might have been expected from any old fakir: "Here's where you get 'em, three rings for a nickel, and every cane or knife you ring is yours; all for the small sum of five cents!" Convinced that he had a capable clerk, who was willing to work hard in order to earn an additional percentage, Teddy contented himself with making change for the rush of customers, which continued unabated until nearly ten o'clock and then came a lull, when he was able to watch the other fakirs around him. Up to this point business had continued in the most promising manner, and if it held out as well there would be no difficulty in his paying all the money he owed, even although there might be no very large profit. "I only want to get out square," he said to himself, while nursing his injured ear; but this experience led him to believe it was possible to do very much toward helping his mother, and already had he begun to dream of large returns, despite the fifteen dollars out of which he had been swindled. It was just when his customers had gone to other parts of the ground, and after Teddy had figured up the amount of money taken in, showing that there was nearly eight dollars in the treasury with an offset only of one twenty-cent knife and two ten-cent canes lost, that the young fakir saw Hazelton standing some distance away beckoning to him. "Look out sharp for things, Tim," he cried, as he vaulted over the railing and ran to the side of the man whom he believed to be a friend. "Did anything happen last night?" the latter asked. Teddy told him the whole story, keeping back not one incident. "I heard quite so much in the hotel where I board. It is Long Jim and his partner who have done the job of which both you and I are accused. As for your uncle, he isn't worth a minute's thought; but I'm going to get to work, an' what he says may go against me, so you and I must turn those fellows up if we can." "Ain't your business honest?" Teddy asked, in surprise. "Well, when we come right down to dots, I don't suppose it is. Watch me when I leave here, and you'll have a chance to judge for yourself. I may want to leave my satchel with you for a while, and I reckon you're willing to take care of it?" "Of course I am. I'll do anything you ask." "Better wait and see the game first, but don't forget that we've got to turn up the two men who whipped you and your friend last night, or stand the chance of being hauled up for the robbery ourselves." "Did you say anything to Uncle Nathan to make him think you would break into his store?" "No; I only played him for a jay, as you shall see me do with two or three hundred of these smart fellows here, and he jumped down on me because there was no one else on whom to fasten the crime. I've got to go, now. Don't forget to hurry back to your cane-board when you see I'm getting through with my first stand, for I want to leave my stuff with somebody whom I can trust." CHAPTER VIII. _THE JEWELRY FAKIR._ Teddy's curiosity regarding the kind of business which Hazelton proposed to do was so great that, for the time being, he forgot his own venture in watching this supposed friend. The jewelry fakir disappeared amid the crowd for a few moments, reappearing in a carriage drawn by a fancifully decorated horse, and the gaudy trappings caused the sightseers to stop, believing something interesting or curious was to be seen. Hazelton introduced himself as an agent for a large manufacturing company, and proposed to dispose of "samples" of their goods in a manner which would be satisfactory to all. He began by throwing away great numbers of cheap rings made to imitate gold, and as the boys scrambled for them he complained that the older members of the throng--those people whom he particularly wished should test the merits of his wares--were getting nothing. "I can change that," he said, after hesitating a moment, as if to devise some plan. Then holding up half a dozen pairs of cuff-buttons, he continued: "I am allowed to give away only six of these. What gentleman will advance twenty-five cents for one of these sets, knowing the money will be returned to him? By that means I shall place the goods where they will do the most good." In a short time the necessary number of purchasers was found, each having paid a quarter of a dollar, and then, with great ostentation, the fakir returned to every one the money he had given. A similar performance was gone through with in the case of ten seal rings, and by that time the crowd were in a state of high excitement, for they were getting supposedly valuable goods by simply loaning this agent their money for a short time. The fakir then held up a lot of watch-chains, asking who would give him a dollar for one, but in this instance he made no mention of returning the money. Believing these also were to be given away, every man scrambled to pass up his dollar before the supply should be exhausted, and fully two hundred dollars was taken in by the generous "agent." Then, as the demand ceased, Hazelton produced from his valise what appeared to be a heavy gold watch. Wrapping it in paper, and attaching it to a chain, he cried: "Who wants to take another, and receive as a present what I have fastened to the end of it; but on the condition that this paper shall not be removed until I give permission?" A young fellow standing near Teddy made all possible haste to pass the fakir a dollar and receive the prize. Then the remainder of the crowd clamored for more to be put up in the same manner, and Hazelton disposed of at least a hundred before the clamorous throng could be appeased. While this was being done Teddy saw the young fellow slyly remove the paper and examine his goods. A look of anger and disappointment overspread his face as a cheap, empty locket, fashioned on the outside something like the case of a watch, was revealed to view. Twenty cents would have been an extravagantly high price for what he had paid a dollar; but it was possible the agent would return the money as he had done in the previous cases, and the victimized fellow held his peace. Hazelton was now ready to take a hurried departure. No more dollars were passed up, and quickly seizing the reins, he said: "I have not represented these goods to be gold; but they are a fine imitation, and Mr. Nathan Hargreaves, of Peach Bottom Run, will probably act as my agent for the sale of them. You can get what may be wanted from him if you need any more." The last words were hardly spoken before he drove quickly through the throng, leaving his dupes in a daze, from which they did not recover until he was lost to view. Now Teddy understood what the "Give-Away" game was, and he also knew that it was far from being honest, although Hazelton had really made no promises which he did not fulfill. Some of the victims were angry, and vowed to flog "that feller within an inch of his life" before sunset; others bore their loss philosophically, and turned away with the remark that the fakir was "a cute one," while the majority hastened off lest they should be suspected of being victims. Teddy returned to his cane-board feeling sad because he had been so mistaken in this particular man, and had hardly reached there when Hazelton, on foot, came from the side of the fair grounds opposite where he had disappeared, saying hurriedly, as he handed the boy a black satchel somewhat resembling a sample case: "Look out for this! All my money is in it." Without waiting for an answer the man was gone, and the young fakir was in no slight distress at being the custodian of so much wealth. After considerable discussion with Tim he decided to leave it behind the cane-board where it would be screened from view, and then a crowd of customers suddenly appearing, he was so busy during the next half hour that he hardly had time to think of that which had been intrusted to his keeping. Not until trade grew dull once more did Hazelton appear, looking decidedly well pleased with himself, and, standing where the passers-by could not hear, he asked: "Well, what do you think of the give-away game now?" "It looks to me like a swindle," Teddy replied, bluntly. "The things you sold were not worth half what you got for them." "Six cents apiece for the chains, and five for the lockets is what I pay by the quantity," the fakir said, with a laugh. "But you made the people think they were getting real watches." "I was mighty careful to say nothing of the kind. They thought they saw a watch, and I told them I would make each purchaser a present of what was on the chain. Their idea was to get the best of me, and in that I didn't lose very much. It's a case of setting a thief to catch a thief, and the smartest man comes out ahead." "But why did you leave all the money with me?" "Because it sometimes happens that my customers make a kick, and try to get back their stuff by force, so I don't carry much cash in my pockets while I am on the fair grounds." "Of course you are all through now. You can't expect to do the same thing over again." "That's exactly what I shall do in about an hour, only in a different portion of the inclosure, and you'll see that I can catch just as many suckers as before." Then, in order to be rid of the satchel, for it seemed as if he was really concerned in the swindle so long as it remained in his keeping, Teddy said he wanted to see what Dan and Sam were doing. "Go ahead; I'll stay near by where I can keep an eye on the stuff, so you needn't let that worry you." As a matter of fact, the boy was not eager to leave his place of business; but having said so, it was necessary to go, or let Hazelton understand exactly why the remark had been made. Cautioning Tim to "keep his eyes open for trade," he walked across the grounds to the building where Dan was employed, and found that young gentleman displaying the good qualities of a peculiar-looking weapon. "This is the Model Pocket Rifle," Dan was saying to a party of gentlemen. "The shoulder-rest is detachable, and you can buy an effective weapon for a trifle over fifteen dollars, as---- Hello, Teddy, how's business?" he added, suddenly, on observing his friend, and the two had an opportunity for conversation, while the curious ones were examining the rifle. Teddy gave a brief account of what had already been done, and then asked: "Can't you get off a few minutes and go with me to see what Sam is doing?" It was not difficult for Dan to get a short leave of absence, and the two went directly to the creek where their acquaintance, who proposed to make himself the central figure of the fair, was rowing around in a jaunty looking craft. Sam wore a sailor's shirt, turned away at the throat, and tied with a black silk handkerchief, while on the breast of the garment was worked the name "Davis Boat and Oar Co., Detroit, Mich." The same legend being printed in gold on the band of his straw hat. Sam had evidently been expecting his friends, for he espied them before they reached the shore, and, rowing to the bank, insisted they should take a sail. "Come on, it's all right," he said. "It don't make any difference whether I carry passengers or not so long as the boat is kept goin', an' I want to show you somethin' fine in the way of rowin'." Neither of the boys cared very much about accepting the invitation; but he was so persistent that they finally stepped on board as the easiest manner of settling the matter. "I tell you what it is, fellers," he said, as he pulled out into the stream, "I'm jest makin' things hum around here. These folks have never seen any kind of style put into rowin', an' I'm knockin' their eyes out." "Don't give it to them too strong, or they may want to keep you here as an ornament after the fair closes, and then the rest of the world would suffer," Dan said, with a laugh, and Sam replied: "You fellers can make fun; but what I say is straight," and then he made preparations for giving an exhibition. "Watch me now, an' you'll learn a thing or two about boats." During the next ten minutes he pulled as if in a race, first up and then down the stream, until sheer lack of breath forced him to stop. "I hope you haven't set the keel on fire," Dan said, solicitously. "There's no question but that you made good time, though I'm inclined to think the build of the boat had considerable to do with the speed. This one looks as if she would row herself." "That's all you know about it. If I hadn't been a first-class hand at----" "See there!" Teddy cried, excitedly, as he pointed toward the shore. "That's the man who got my fifteen dollars. Pull in, Sam, an' pull for all you are worth!" The oarsman delayed only long enough to gaze in the direction indicated, where he saw the old fakir whom they had met with such great loss at Waterville, and then he bent himself to the task. "Do you believe it will be safe to tackle him after last night?" Dan asked. "I'm going to, and if he don't get away from me I'll ask some of the crowd to help me have him arrested," Teddy replied, grimly. The little craft was a considerable distance from the shore. Sam was so excited that he only thought of landing in the shortest possible space of time, and instead of keeping a lookout for other boats, rowed vigorously, as if he were the only oarsman on the stream. Teddy and Dan sat motionless, with their eyes fixed on the man, and thus it happened that no one on board saw a double ender, in which were three ladies and two gentlemen, come around a bend in the creek directly in Sam's course. There was a shout from the bank, three shrill screams of terror, and then a crash as the two craft came together with terrific force. The occupants of both boats were thrown into the water as the frail timbers were splintered, and the spectators on the bank acted as if panic-stricken. CHAPTER IX. _A BRAVE RESCUE._ Sam was a fairly good swimmer, and as soon as he found himself in the water he struck out for the shore, paying no attention to any one else until he had assured his own safety. One of the gentlemen in the other craft did the same selfish thing, while the other, unable to help even himself, was trying to keep his head above water by resting his chin on an oar and piece of planking. The women were in imminent danger of being drowned, for there was no other boat near at hand which could be sent to the rescue, and the throng of spectators was in that unreasoning state of fear and excitement which prevents people from being of any service at such a time. When Teddy and Dan came to the surface after having been thrown from their seats, they were within a few feet of each other, and the latter asked: "Can you swim?" "Yes; don't pay any attention to me, but do what you can toward saving those women." "Will you help me?" "Of course; but I can't take care of more than one." Both boats had disappeared, and nothing save a few fragments showed where they had gone down. Teddy thought only of aiding the struggling women, for there was no question that the man with the oar could take care of himself, at least until those on the bank should be sufficiently composed to do something effective, and he swam to the nearest struggling being, clasping her firmly under one arm as he said: "Don't make a row; but keep perfectly quiet, an' I'll take you ashore." Half-unconscious as she was, the woman attempted to grasp him by the neck, and for several seconds he had all he could do to prevent her from choking him to death; but after two or three kicks judiciously administered, he succeeded in making her understand that her life as well as his own depended upon her remaining passive, and from that moment all went well. The employees of the company which had the boats on exhibition flung into the water several life-saving arrangements of cork and canvas, and by dint of much persuading he induced her to trust to one of these while he went to the assistance of Dan, who had been carried beneath the surface more than once by the struggles of the woman whom he was trying to save. By this time a boat was brought up from around the point, and as these two helpless ones were taken on board both the boys swam to the rescue of the last of the party who had sunk beneath the surface for the third time. Teddy, now nearly exhausted by his efforts, was the first to grasp her; but if it had not been for Dan the struggle would have been useless, since his strength was so far spent that he could not have brought her above the water unaided. By their united efforts, however, she was taken on board the boat in a state of unconsciousness, and they made their way to the shore cheered by the shouts of the assembled multitude. Weak, almost exhausted beyond the power to stand upright, they landed a few seconds in advance of the craft, and the reception received was enough to have nerved stronger men to a semblance of strength. It was not until they were in the private apartments allotted to the Davis Company that either fully understood how weak he was, and then willing hands aided them to recuperate. Hot flannels, warm drinks, and dry clothes were contributed by the different exhibitors, until, as Teddy said, they looked like "circus clowns;" but they were in fairly good bodily condition, and it appeared as if the involuntary bath had done them no real injury. Outside the building the people were shouting themselves hoarse in praise of the two boys who had saved three lives, and Sam stood bowing acknowledgments as if he had been the chief actor in the thrilling scene. The difference between the real and the pretended life-savers was readily understood, however, when Dan and Teddy made their appearance, looking decidedly the worse for their struggles, and the cheers which went up would have been ample reward for the most praise-loving person in the world. They looked like anything rather than reputable employees as they appeared in the borrowed garments; but as Teddy said, they couldn't stay in the building until their clothes were dried, and it was absolutely necessary he should attend to his business. Dan's duties necessitated his remaining near the creek; but Teddy was forced to go back to his cane-board, and the crowd which followed him was good evidence of the money he would make. During two hours after he returned from this thrilling adventure the cane-board had more customers than could conveniently be attended to, and it is safe to say that he then handled a larger amount than he had ever before seen. "At this rate it won't take long to square up things, and you shall have a fair portion of the profits, Tim," he said, when there was an opportunity for him to speak with his clerk without being overheard by the customers. "It's a lucky thing for us that them boats were smashed," Tim said, devoutly, as he handed his employer half a dollar to change. "We might have stood here with our tongues hangin' out all day an' never seen a quarter of this money if you hadn't known how to swim." "You are right to a certain extent; but I can't take all the credit of this spurt, because more than half the people are trying to get a cane for nothing." "In the same way they thought to swindle Mr. Hazelton out of a watch," Tim replied, with a smile; "but we won't fight about what brings trade so long as it comes with the cash." Up to this time Teddy had no very definite idea of how much money had been taken in, and he was thinking it would be a good idea to ascertain, when a gruff, familiar voice from the rear asked: "Are the wages of sin as much as they should be?" Turning quickly he saw Uncle Nathan, and replied: "I don't know exactly what they should be; but, perhaps, you do." "Whatever I may know now, I remember that it was not allowed I should insult my elders either by plainly spoken words or insinuations," the old man said, sternly. "Neither would I have done such a thing if you had not given me the provocation; but when I promised to pay three dollars for the use of fifteen one week, you did not seem to think that amount would be the wages of sin." "At the time I had no idea you would conspire with others to rob me of my hard-earned savings." "You know very well, Uncle Nathan, that I haven't done any such thing. On the night your store was robbed I staid in the house, and hadn't left it when you came to tell us the news." "Every person of your class has some such excuse ready in case of an emergency; but that kind of talk will not do with me. If you meant to do the square thing, why was I not told you lost the money I lent you?" "Because I knew you would raise an awful row, thinking possibly it would not be paid back." "Have I yet any assurance that it will be?" the old man asked, in a fury. "Do you need it now?" "I always need my own." "And in this case, if I pay you at once, do you think it right to charge me three dollars for the use of fifteen lent two days ago?" "That was what you promised, and the world gauges a man by the way he keeps his word." "I owe the storekeeper in Waterville thirty dollars; but I told him you must be paid first, and so you shall." "Then give me the money now," Uncle Nathan snarled. "That is exactly what I am willing to do," Teddy replied, calmly; "but if you can't trust me I have reason to be suspicious of you, so give me a receipt for the amount, and the matter can be settled." The old man literally glared at his nephew for an instant, and then, eager to have the cash in his possession, he wrote a receipt, handing it to the young fakir, as he said, angrily: "Now, let me see if you can settle the bill." Since the mishap on the creek, where Teddy had covered himself with glory, business had been so good that he had more than twice that amount, and, emptying the contents of his money bag on a board, he proceeded to select the required sum. Uncle Nathan watched him jealously, his eyes twinkling enviously, and when the money was placed in his hand he counted it twice over before delivering up the written acknowledgment. "Are you certain all this has been honestly earned, Teddy?" he asked, gravely. "How else could I have got it?" "There are many ways. While I would not be willing to take my oath to it, several of these ten-cent pieces look very much like those I lost night before last." "Do you mean to say I had anything to do with robbing your store?" and now that this particular debt had been canceled Teddy felt very brave. "I know that such an amount of money has not been earned honestly, and, what is more, my eyes have been opened to the character of your friends." "If you mean Mr. Hazelton, he is as much your friend as mine, for you were with him all day Sunday." "That is exactly who I do mean," Uncle Nathan replied, with provoking deliberation. "I have seen his method of doing business since I came into this fair, and know he is nothing more than a deliberate swindler." "But one with whom you were perfectly willing to go into partnership," a voice in the rear of Teddy cried sharply, and the jewelry fakir stepped directly in front of Uncle Nathan. "I told you exactly how I worked, and you offered to put up even money with me, growing angry when I said you would be of no use in the business. If it is swindling, you were mighty eager to have a hand in the same business." "I don't want to talk with you," Uncle Nathan said, as he put Teddy's eighteen dollars carefully in his pocket. "Then why do you come around here trying to bully this boy? He had no idea of what I was going to do until he saw me work, while you understood the whole plan. Make any trouble for him, and I will get up here and tell every person who comes along that you wanted to be my partner." "Do it," the old man said, angrily. "After having cheated so many people out of their money, who will believe a word you say?" At the same time, however, Uncle Nathan took good care to leave this particular spot, and Hazelton stepped to the rear of the board where he could talk privately with Teddy. CHAPTER X. _AN ENCOUNTER._ First of all, the jewelry fakir wanted to hear the particulars of the accident on the lake, and Teddy began by telling him the primary cause of the trouble. "I reckon all three of us lost our heads when we saw that man; I know I did and we were so eager to get on shore that we paid no attention to anything else. Have you seen him?" "Who? Long Jim? No; but the boys say he is here somewhere running the swinging ball game." "What is that?" "A wooden ball is swung on two short uprights about eight inches apart, and between them, in the center, stands a small peg. You pay ten cents for the privilege of swinging the ball, and if it hits the peg when it comes back after leaving your hand, you get a dollar." "I should think that would be easy enough to do." "Well, don't try it with such an idea or you'll go broke mighty quick. It looks simple; but it isn't accomplished very often." "Have you done anything since I left here?" "Yes, and scooped in as much as I had any right to expect. I don't want to spoil to-morrow's business, so sha'n't make another pitch, but will spend my time trying to find Jim." "What good can that do?" "I still count on making him give back your fifteen dollars, if nothing more. I reckon your Uncle Nathan won't try again to get a warrant out for us, and so I sha'n't bother my head about learning anything regarding the robbery." "He'll make things just as disagreeable as he can; there's no question about that." "Well, let him, and we'll see who comes out ahead. Trade is beginning to pick up, and you'd better attend to your customers." Hazelton walked away, and from that moment until nearly nightfall Teddy had all the business both he and his clerk could attend to. Nearly every one had something to say about the accident on the creek, and the young fakir was forced to tell the story over and over again, until he really got tired of repeating the details. When nearly all of the visitors had left the grounds Teddy made up his cash account, and the sum total surprised both himself and Tim. Including the amount paid Uncle Nathan he had taken in fifty-five dollars and twenty cents. Ten per cent. of this was paid to the clerk, and he found himself possessed of the magnificent sum of thirty-one dollars and seventy cents. "At this rate we shall be rich before the end of the week," he said, in a tone of satisfaction. "That's a fact; but it don't seem right for me to take so much," Tim replied, as he wrapped the five dollars and a half which had been given him in his handkerchief. "That was the agreement, an' we'll stick to it." "But when you promised ten cents on every dollar neither of us believed trade would be half so good." "You're right; I thought if we got one-third as much business would be booming; but that has nothing to do with our bargain. You've hung right on here, without even stopping for anything to eat, an' are entitled to what you've been paid. Everybody says there'll be a bigger crowd to-morrow, an' so we stand a chance to make considerable more. Are you going home to-night, or do you count on staying here?" "I've got to let the folks know where I am, for when I left it was allowed I'd be back by sunset. To-morrow I'll come prepared to stay the rest of the week." "There'll be plenty of stages running, an' you can afford to ride both ways after this day's work. I want to send some of this money home to mother, for it ain't safe to carry so much around with me." "Am I to take it?" "Yes, an' you can tell her all that has happened. Ask her to come over Thursday, an' see for herself that we're getting rich." Twenty-five dollars was tied in a bundle with many wrappings of paper, and Tim started off, looking almost afraid at being the custodian of so much wealth. It was necessary Teddy should pack up his entire stock until next morning, and this he proceeded to do as soon as he was alone. Mr. Sweet had given him permission to bring his goods into the museum tent, and his only trouble was how everything could be carried without assistance. Before he was ready for departure, however, Sam came up, and the question of transportation was settled. "Well, how do you feel now?" Teddy asked, cheerily, for the knowledge that he had already taken in nearly enough to pay his debts caused him to feel very jolly. "I allers get the worst of everything," Sam replied, disconsolately. "You an' Dan made a big strike when you tumbled into the water, an' I've had a blowin' up; come mighty near losin' my job into the bargain." "Why?" "'Cause the boss says that I was careless an' reckless, an' that I couldn't earn enough in a month to pay for the two boats I've smashed." "Are they lost entirely?" "No, of course not. We pulled 'em out a little while ago, an' it cost so very much to fix both. The folks in the other boat were as much to blame as me." "They certainly were not keeping any better lookout, and, as a matter of fact, I suppose I'm more at fault than any one else, for if I hadn't sung out about the fakir it wouldn't have happened." "That's what I told the boss; but he's chuck full of foolish talk about the bravery he says you an' Dan showed, an' is tryin' to get up what he calls a testimonial for you." "A what?" Teddy cried, in surprise. "I heard him say testimonial; but if you know what that means you can go to the head." "I don't, and I hope it won't amount to anything. I've been paid enough for what was done by the boom it gave my business." "Of course, you an' Dan are bound to have the best end of it." "Why didn't you stop an' do the same thing?" "'Cause I had sense enough to look out for myself first." "But you know how to swim." "What of that? It's mighty risky catchin' hold of people in the water, an' I don't mean to take any chances. How much have you made to-day?" When Teddy told him, the expert in rowing looked decidedly envious. "You've got all that money in one day?" "Yes; but I sent the most of it home to mother." "It's funny what luck some folks have, when them as knows the business twice as well don't much more'n earn their salt," Sam said, as if to himself, and before he could continue Dan arrived. He wore his own clothes, and carried those Teddy had left in the boat-house. "These were dry, so I brought 'em up. You needn't carry back the ones you borrowed till to-morrow, so Sam's boss says." Then Dan asked concerning business, and by the time all three had finished discussing this very important matter the knives and canes were packed ready for removal. Each boy took a load, carried it to the tent where Mr. Sweet was figuring up his receipts for the day, and then went to supper, returning half an hour later so tired that there was no desire on the part of either to do anything other than sleep. The proprietor of the museum was in very good spirits. He had taken in one hundred and six dollars and eighty cents, and said, in a tone of satisfaction: "I reckon this fair will pan out all right. Trade is bound to be better to-morrow, and Thursday is always the biggest of the week. I hear you boys have been distinguishing yourselves. Tell me about it." Dan related the incident of the day very modestly, interrupted now and then by Sam, who was eager to pose as a hero also, and Mr. Sweet expressed himself as being well satisfied with their behavior. "Chasing a thief and getting a whipping in the night, and then saving the lives of three people the next day is record enough for one week, so you'd better not try for any more adventures," he said, with a laugh. Now that the incident of the previous night had been spoken of so openly, it was necessary Sam's curiosity should be satisfied, and Dan was forced to tell the story. While he was doing so, and listening to the oarsman's comments, Teddy had an opportunity to see the "barker" and clown who arrived that morning. Neither was a very prepossessing-looking man. They were lying on the ground some distance from the boys, as if bent on minding their own business, and there was no real reason for an unfavorable opinion concerning them. But little time was spent in conversation on this evening. Every one was thoroughly tired, and each sought for a soft spot on which to pass the night. As before, Sam crawled up on the wagon to be out of harm's way when the goat should be unfastened, while Dan and Teddy lay down in very nearly the same place as before. "I don't fancy we shall hear many secrets between now and morning, no matter how many men come around here to talk," the former said, laughingly. "It won't take me two minutes to fall asleep, and the noise that can awaken me then will have to be very great." Teddy's only reply was a yawn, and in even less time than Dan had mentioned he was wrapped in slumber. Shortly after the proprietor of the exhibition began to make his preparations for retiring, and the clown asked: "How did that row start this afternoon?" "Half a dozen of the village toughs tried to get in without paying, and I had to polish one of 'em off," the barker replied. "You must have done it pretty quick, for when I got out there the thing was over," Mr. Sweet said. "The fellow was more than half-drunk, an' it wasn't a very big job. They threaten to come back and clean the whole show out." "Yes, I've heard such threats made before; but never lost much sleep worrying about it." Ten minutes later all the human occupants of the tent were enjoying a well-earned rest, and the goat had about concluded it would be a profitless job to prospect for anything more to eat, when the sound of footsteps could have been heard from the outside. Had Mr. Sweet been awake he would have decided that these late visitors were trying to find the flap of the tent, for they walked cautiously around the canvas twice, and then a sharp knife was thrust through the fabric. An instant later Sam awoke his companion with a yell that would have done credit to any Indian. Some one had given him such a blow as sent him from the seat to the ground, and the remainder of the party leaped to their feet only to be confronted by a large party of half-drunken toughs who had come to avenge the insult received during the afternoon. CHAPTER XI. _LONG JIM_. Teddy's first thought when he was awakened by Sam's yells was that the officers of the law were coming to arrest him for the robbery committed at Uncle Nathan's store; but in a very few seconds he understood that this was not the case. He and Dan had been sleeping some distance from the remainder of the company; therefore, when the hand-to-hand struggle began they were out of it entirely, and owing to the darkness could not be seen by the assailants; but Sam's cries served to show the mob where he was, and one after another pounded him when they failed to find any of the other occupants. While one might have counted twenty Teddy and Dan stood motionless, undecided as to what should be done, while the din caused by the combatants and the screaming boy were almost deafening, and then the latter said: "We've got to take a hand in this row, Teddy. Mr. Sweet has given us the chance to sleep here, and the least we can do is to help as much as possible, for it appears to me that his men are getting the worst of it." A broken tent-peg was lying on the ground near at hand, and Dan added, as he seized it: "Try to light one of the lanterns so we can see which is an enemy, and then sail in." It seemed to Teddy as if he would never be able to follow these instructions. He had plenty of matches; but in his excitement one after another was extinguished until he fancied half an hour must have elapsed before the wick was ignited. The faint glow of light served to show one of the intruders Teddy's form, and the latter had but just succeeded in hanging the lantern on the center-pole when it became necessary to defend himself. The drunken bully made a lunge at him, which he managed to avoid by jumping aside, and in another instant he had seized the man by the waist, doing his best to throw him. From this moment Teddy knew nothing more of the row than that portion in which he was immediately concerned. He was able to prevent the man from striking by hugging close to his body, and the two swayed here and there in the effort to gain the mastery. Now and then they came in contact with the other combatants, one or both receiving a chance blow, but no especial injury was done to either. Had the man been sober, Teddy must have been overcome in a very short time; but as he was far from being steady on his feet the odds were about even, and the boy succeeded in holding his own until the others had retreated or been so disabled that it was no longer possible for them to continue the assault. Fully thirty minutes had elapsed from the time Sam first sounded the alarm before the occupants of the tent could count themselves as victors, and then Mr. Sweet and the clown pulled Teddy's adversary away, throwing him bodily out of the tent after administering summary punishment. During all this time the other exhibitors who intended to sleep on the grounds had been gathering around the canvas, but no one cared to risk his precious body by entering until it was certain the battle had been ended. Then the tent was filled with sympathizing friends, who endeavored to ascertain the amount of injury done, but were interrupted in the work by the proprietor, who cried, angrily: "Clear out of here, every mother's son! You didn't dare to come in when it would have been possible to help us, and there's no need of you now. We were attacked by a crowd of men from the town, who proposed to clean the show out because we wouldn't let them in free, and that's all there is to it." Not until the last visitor had unwillingly departed did the little party pay any attention to their wounds, and then the result of the engagement was ascertained. The barker had a broken nose, but it would not prevent him from doing a full share of talking on the following day. The clown's eye looked rather bad, and Mr. Sweet's cheek had been cut, but these were only trifling mishaps. Teddy had come out of the affray comparatively uninjured; Dan showed nothing worse than a bruise under the left ear, and while Sam appeared to be unscathed, he declared that he had been pounded until every inch of his body felt like jelly. "You squealed fairly well for a fellow who was so badly done up," Mr. Sweet said, with a laugh, as he proceeded to dress the barker's wounded nose, "and I reckon you'll be all right by morning. Light some of the other lanterns so I can see what I'm about, and during the remainder of the night we'll stand guard, for no one can say how soon those scoundrels may attempt to pay us a second visit, although I think they had a full dose this time." How the assailants had fared no one was able to form a very good opinion. The general belief among the occupants of the tent, however, was that they had received such severe punishment that there would be no further attack on this night, at least. When the wounds had been dressed, Mr. Sweet said, as he took up a position near the flap: "You fellows had better try to go to sleep now. I'll keep awake for a while, and then call some one to relieve me. Dan, can't you borrow one of those queer-looking rifles you are exhibiting, and bring it with you to-morrow night?" "I might get the one I use for shooting at a target; but you wouldn't think of trying to kill a man, would you, Mr. Sweet?" "I could do a good deal toward scaring them, and if a crowd insisted on forcing an entrance, I'd take mighty good care that one would carry away a bullet to remember me by." "I'll bring the rifle," Dan replied, and Teddy whispered: "When I came here to run a cane-board I didn't count on being obliged to do any fighting." "I don't reckon there'll be much more here. The managers of the fair will see to it that those fellows are put where they can't do any additional mischief, for the exhibitors must be protected, and we shall be safe enough, except something else comes up to make a row." Then the sore, tired party lay down in search of slumber once more, and, strange as it may seem after the exciting events, all save the sentinel were soon wrapped again in slumber. Each in turn was aroused to do his share of guard duty before morning came; but no enemy appeared, and at sunrise the three boys went across the grounds to the boarding-house, where, as Dan said: "The price was twice as big as the breakfast." Teddy had his place of business ready for the reception of customers before the first stage-load of visitors arrived, and when Tim came he had already taken in nearly a dollar. "What's the news?" he asked, as the clerk appeared, looking radiant and happy at the thought of earning as much money as on the previous day. "Your mother was pretty nigh wild when I told her what we took in yesterday, an' says she'll be here sure on Thursday. There's no more news of your Uncle Nathan's goods, an' he's still tryin' to have you arrested; but your mother says not to be afraid, 'cause she has talked with a lawyer, an' don't think there'll be any trouble. I told the folks at home that the old skinflint made you pay three dollars interest on the money what was stole, an' everybody in town will know it before night." Tim was forced to stop his story to wait upon a party of young gentlemen who were eager to get dollar canes for five cents, and the booths adjoining Teddy's place of business had not yet been opened when he announced that there were four dollars in the money box. "We're bound to have a big day," Tim said, confidently. "The band from the Run is comin' over this mornin', an' if the city people hear about it you bet they'll jest crowd in to hear the music. There'll be [----] of the boys to see you, but take my advice an' don't let 'em have any rings on credit, for I wouldn't trust the best of the whole lot at fair time. I'm goin' to stay till Friday; do you s'pose that man will let me sleep in his tent with you fellers?" Teddy promised to inquire, and then advised Tim to have a look at the grounds before business began to be rushing, and the clerk was glad to take advantage of the proposition. He started off with the air of one who owned the entire inclosure, and was hardly lost to view amid the fast-gathering throng when Teddy was literally dazed by seeing Long Jim, the very man who had robbed him in Waterville, lounging along toward his stand. Not until the fakir stood directly in front of the boy did he appear to recognize him, and then he would have turned quickly away but for the latter's cry: "Somebody hold that man till I get a constable! He stole my money." Realizing that a flight across the grounds with hundreds of men and boys crying "Stop thief!" in full pursuit would be disastrous, Long Jim turned to face his young accuser. "What do you mean by saying such a thing?" he asked, angrily. "If you wasn't so small I'd make you eat the words." "I was big enough for you to steal from, and I want my money." It was only natural that a crowd should gather after such an accusation, and Long Jim looked around for some means of escape, but, realizing that he could not well get away while so many were near, he stepped close to Teddy, as he whispered: "If you say another word I'll smash your face, you young whelp! Hold your tongue if you want to leave here alive." "I'll say exactly what's true. Give me my money, or I'll find some one to have you arrested!" "The boy is a liar, and, what is more, has just robbed his uncle's store, if what they say over at the Run be true," the fakir said, excitedly, as he turned to face the crowd. "I don't want to hurt him; but I won't be insulted by a thief, so the best thing for me to do is to leave." Saying this, he walked deliberately away, and the curious ones, who a moment previous had been friendly to Teddy, began to sympathize with the man. "Don't let him off!" the boy cried, starting to follow, and then remembering that he would be forced to leave his wares at the mercy of the crowd, turned back, while Long Jim continued straight across the grounds unmolested. "It looks like it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black," an old farmer said, and his immediate circle of friends laughed heartily, while the younger portion of the crowd gazed earnestly at Teddy, believing they saw before them a fullfledged burglar. CHAPTER XII. _A DISCOVERY._ With feelings of mingled anger, vexation and disappointment, Teddy stood silent and motionless for several moments after Long Jim disappeared, striving to keep the tears from his eyes. It seemed hard enough to be swindled out of fifteen dollars, but to be held up as a thief by the very man who had done him the wrong, and to be stared at as a criminal by the curious, was an aggravation of misfortune. Just for one instant he made up his mind to tell the whole story to the bystanders, but before there was time for him to speak he realized that many of them would think he was trying to shield himself by an untruth against just accusations, therefore he remained quiet, not making the slightest effort to influence trade. Fortunately he was soon aroused from this very disagreeable frame of mind by a very pleasing incident. The band from the Run arrived, and to the young fakir's surprise marched directly to his booth, the leader saying, in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by every one in the immediate vicinity as the musicians halted about ten feet away: "We have been hired to play on the grounds to-day, Teddy, and left home half an hour earlier than the specified time for the sole purpose of giving you a serenade to show that, whatever your uncle may say, the folks at the Run are positive there isn't a shadow of truth in his ridiculous story. We know what you are working for, and intend to help you along as much as possible." Then the musicians began to play, while, as a matter of course, every one who came up wanted to know why the band was there instead of on the stand built for its especial accommodation, and there were people enough who had heard the leader's remarks to explain matters to the newcomers. The immediate result was that instead of believing him to be a burglar, the same ones who fancied a few moments previous that he looked guilty, were now quite positive he was a victim. Tim arrived while the serenade was in progress, and when Teddy explained the situation, he exclaimed, gleefully: "Well, by jinks! This jest knocks the spots outer everything! Trade will hum after this, or I'm a duffer." And the clerk's prediction was verified in a very short time. When the musicians had concluded the concert they laid aside their instruments, and during the next ten minutes every man of them threw rings at the canes or knives so rapidly that both Teddy and his assistant had all they could do to wait upon the throng. Then, giving the signal for the march to be resumed, the leader said to the young fakir: "Don't get discouraged, my boy, no matter what happens. If you have any trouble it can't last long, for you've plenty of friends at the Run, and after what happened here yesterday there should be a good many on the grounds." The kind-hearted musicians marched away without giving Teddy an opportunity to thank them, and as if to atone for their previously spoken harsh words the bystanders devoted themselves with unusual zest to the task of winning a cane worth a dollar by an outlay of five cents. It was nearly an hour before trade began to grow dull again, and both the boys were quite willing to rest a few moments. "At this rate we stand a chance of getting rich before the fair closes," Teddy exclaimed, in a tone of satisfaction. "I wonder what Uncle Nathan would have said if he'd been here to hear the leader?" "I'll tell you," a disagreeable but familiar sounding voice replied from the rear of the stand where its owner had been concealed by an adjoining booth, and Nathan Hargreaves stalked into view with a comically tragic air. "Things have come to a pretty pass when a man's own relations, an' them as he has set up in business with his own hard-earned money, try to bring scorn and reproach upon him. You are a snake in the grass, Teddy Hargreaves, an' not content with helpin' rob me, concoct such a disgraceful scene as I have jest witnessed." "What could I have had to do with it?" Teddy cried, in surprise. "I didn't know they were going to give me a lift." "Of course you did; I ain't blind if I am such a fool as to put you in the way of makin' so much money. There wasn't a man in that band who'd have countenanced the speech the leader made if you hadn't been workin' on their sympathies. But your race won't be much longer. Don't think that I've stopped all proceedings, for it may be that you're shoved into jail this very day unless you make a clean breast of the whole thing." "I've got nothing to tell simply because I don't know anything; but I believe the same man who took my fifteen dollars robbed your store. Dan and I heard him and another fellow talking, and in trying to find out something for your benefit got knocked down." "What did they say? Who are they?" the old man asked, eagerly, his bearing toward Teddy changing very suddenly. "Tell me! Tell your poor, old uncle, who'll be mighty near the poor-house, if he don't get his own again." This appeal touched Teddy's heart immediately, but Tim said, half to himself, taking good care Uncle Nathan should hear him, however: "More'n a hundred robberies like that wouldn't make him poor. Why, down at the Run folks say you'd hardly miss what's been taken." "Those who make that kind of talk are only shiftless people with never a dollar of their own, consequently they don't know the value of one," the old man cried, angrily. "It's all very well for a set of loafers who are mad with me because I wouldn't give them credit to say such things. Do you suppose I'd spend my time runnin' around the country huntin' for the thieves if I hadn't lost a power of money?" "You'd be willin' to run pretty far if there was a nickel at the end of the road," Tim retorted, but before he could say anything more Teddy motioned for him to be silent. "Are you goin' to tell me who the robbers are?" Uncle Nathan asked, in a wheedling tone, as he turned once more toward his nephew. "I don't know the men whom I suspect, except by sight, but it's more than possible we may find out enough to warrant their arrest before the fair closes." The old man insisted on knowing at once, and alternately coaxed and threatened, but all to no purpose. Teddy positively refused to make a statement until he had more proof, and recognizing the fact that he might hurt his own cause by insisting, Uncle Nathan said, in a most affectionate tone: "I must go now, Teddy, but I'll see you again before night. If you'll do all you can to help find them scoundrels I'll never say that you had anything to do with the crime." "You'd no business to make any such talk, for you knew it was impossible for me to take any hand in it, even if I'd wanted to be a thief." "There's a good deal of circumstantial evidence," the old man said, solemnly, as he turned to leave, "an' it stands you in hand to do all a boy can to clear your own skirts. I'm goin' to give you a chance, an' promise there won't be any arrest made to-day at all events." "There's a good reason why you promise that," Tim cried, angrily, as Uncle Nathan walked away. "You tried mighty hard, but couldn't get a warrant, an' there ain't a justice of the peace between here an' Waterville as would grant one without any other evidence than what you can say." "Don't make him angry, Tim. He's feeling bad about his money, an' you can't blame him for trying to find out who has got it." "I don't blame him for that, but what I'm kickin' about is that he keeps naggin' at you when there's no reason for it." "Most likely he thinks there is." "He can't; it's only the wretched old skinflint's way of gettin' even with the world, an' so he picks on a feller what he believes can't strike back." "I wish I could find out who the robbers are, and where the goods have been hidden." "Well, I don't. It serves him right to lose 'em, an'---- Hello! here comes that feller what helps exhibit the rifles! I wonder what he wants at this time of day, jest when business is beginnin' to be rushin'." Dan was evidently in a high state of excitement, for he forced his way through the crowds, regardless of possible injury to himself or others, and did not slacken speed until he stood in front of the cane-board, breathless and panting. "What's up?" Teddy asked, in surprise. "The fakir who got your money, an' another man, who I think is the same one we heard talkin' outside the tent, have jest bought a boat from the Davis Company. Sam saw 'em, an' ran over to tell me while the bargain was bein' made. He's watchin' down there till we can get back." "I don't believe it would do any good for me to say another word to Long Jim. He went past here this mornin', an' I only made a bad matter worse by trying to make him give back what he stole." "We ain't countin' on doin' that, but I believe they're gettin' ready to cart away the goods what were stole from your Uncle Nathan. Perhaps we can foller without bein' seen, an' get on to the whole snap. Could you get off for the balance of the day?" And now Teddy was quite as excited as Dan. "Yes, an' so can Sam." "Are you goin' to help find his goods after all that old duffer has threatened?" Tim asked, impatiently. "I'll do what I can," was the decided reply. "Do you think you will be able to get along alone to-day?" "I could do it easy enough by hirin' a boy to pick up the rings, but I hate to see you make a fool of yourself, Teddy." "You'll think different later. Come on, Dan. I'll be back as soon as I can, Tim," and then the young fakir urged his friend in the direction of the creek. "It won't do to go anywhere near the boat-house," Dan said. "Sam is up the bank a long piece where the willows hide him. He's keepin' his eye on the craft they bought, so it can't be taken away without his seein' it." By mingling with the crowd it was possible to make their way to the desired spot without being seen, save by those with whom they came into immediate contact, and in a few moments the watcher was joined by his friends. "Now I want you fellers to let me manage this case," Sam said, pompously. "I know more 'bout detective business than both of you put together, an' if you'd only told me what was up the other night we'd had the whole thing settled." "Have you seen the men?" Dan asked, impatiently. "Lots of times. The old fakir is loafin' around close by the landin', an' the other one must 'a gone off for somethin'. The Davis Company told me I could take any of the boats, an' the minute the thieves start we'll jump right on their trail." CHAPTER XIII. _AMATEUR DETECTIVES._ It was fated that the thrilling work of running down and capturing the thieves should not be begun until after considerable delay. "Now, I wonder what he is up to?" Dan said, when it was no longer possible to see the supposed burglar. "Why is it that you can't let me do this thing?" Sam asked, angrily. "If you keep meddlin' we'll never fix matters." "I don't see that I'm interfering," Dan replied, in surprise. The three boys watched this one particular boat in silence for ten minutes or more, seeing Long Jim now and then, and just as they believed he was about to step on board the man walked toward the exhibition buildings, and was soon lost to view amid the throng of people. "You was gettin' ready, too, I could tell that by your eye." "I'll have to give in that you're the smartest feller in this section of the country, Sam, an' that's a fact." "Of course it is," the amateur detective replied, complacently, thinking Dan's sarcasm was really praise. "If I have my own way I can turn up the biggest thief that ever walked on two legs; but you mustn't bother me, or things may go wrong." If the matter had not been so serious to him Teddy would have laughed long and often at the dignity and superior knowledge assumed by this fellow, who, since he made his acquaintance, had done nothing more difficult than to get himself into trouble; but, under the circumstances, he was so deeply interested in the outcome of the business that there was no room in his mind for mirth. "Dan," he said, "let you and I walk around two or three minutes. We'll stay close by so that Sam can give us the signal in case the men show up, and we may find Hazelton." "Don't tell him what we're doin'," the amateur detective cried, sharply. "Why not?" "'Cause it's likely he'll want to meddle with our business, an' then my work will be spoiled." "I won't say a word to him until after seeing you again," Teddy replied as he led Dan away, and added when they were where it would be impossible for Sam to hear them: "See here, it's foolish for us to think of trying to follow those men if he's to be allowed to make a fool of himself. With him believing he's the greatest detective in the country, something wrong is sure to happen, an' we may never get another chance of finding out about the burglary." "Don't fret about that," Dan replied, confidently. "It won't do any harm to let him swell a little now while he's keeping watch; but when the real work begins it won't take long to sit on him." "Then there will be a row." "I'll attend to his case; but I don't think there'll be anything for us to do yet awhile. The men are evidently in no hurry to leave, and most likely intend to wait till the crowd begins to go." "Then why should all three of us stay on watch?" "We won't. Go back to your cane-board, and I'll tell Sam to come for you when the burglars put in an appearance. He'll have time to do that, an' while he's gettin' a boat ready you can come for me." "Will it be safe to trust him?" "Yes, indeed," Dan replied, with a laugh. "He's havin' an awful good time thinkin' he's the greatest detective in the world, and couldn't be hired to leave that clump of willows so long as the men keep out of sight." Teddy was not so confident, and insisted on going back with Dan while the arrangement was made. When the matter was explained Sam appeared to be perfectly satisfied. "That's all right," he said, readily. "I can see to this thing alone; but I'll let you fellers know the minute anything happens. Don't tell any of the constables what I'm up to, or they'll want to have a finger in the pie." Convinced that he would be informed of any change in the situation, Teddy returned to the cane-board just in time to aid Tim in attending to a rush of customers who were spending their money liberally. "What made you come back?" the clerk asked, in surprise. "I've hired a feller for a quarter to pick up rings, an' am gettin' along first rate." Teddy briefly explained the condition of affairs, and then there was little opportunity for conversation until considerably past noon, when trade dropped off very decidedly for a while. In order that he might have a glimpse of the other fakirs and rest himself at the same time, Tim was sent to see if Sam was yet at his self-selected post of duty, and Teddy took advantage of the opportunity to ascertain the amount of his receipts. To his great surprise he found nearly forty dollars in the money-box, and from this he took thirty with which to pay the merchant in Waterville who had given him credit for his stock. "It has turned out to be a mighty good venture, even if Aunt Sarah was so sure I'd make a fool of myself by tryin' it. All the money I make now will be clear profit, and it looks as if I'd be able to help mother quite a bit." [Illustration: "They're getting ready to start!" he said, breathlessly.] "Well, how is business?" a voice asked, in a cheery tone, and, looking up, Teddy saw his sole remaining creditor. "I'm glad you've come," he cried, bundling the thirty dollars up in a piece of paper. "I'd jest counted this out for you, an' when you take it I'll be free from debt." "But I don't want the money," the merchant replied. "I only came around to see if you were successful." "I've already made more than I reckoned on, an' it'll be a favor if you take this, 'cause I don't like to have so much around." Then Teddy explained the condition of his business affairs, not forgetting to tell of the accusation made against him by his Uncle Nathan, and the merchant said, as he concluded: "I heard the whole story, my boy, and have already talked with Mr. Hargreaves, whom I met a few moments ago. I do not think he can do anything to you, because you have made many friends here. The money I will take, as it is not well to keep it where it might be stolen; but can give you no receipt until I get home." "That'll be all right," Teddy replied, contentedly; "you trusted me with the goods, an' it would be funny if I couldn't wait for a receipted bill. It's through you that I've had the chance to make so much, an' I want you to know I feel grateful." "I believe that, and am more than pleased to have put you in the way of getting a start in the world. Come to see me when the fair closes, and it is possible I may show you an opportunity of learning to be a merchant on a large scale, rather than a fakir whose method of getting a living is very precarious, regardless of the fact that he sometimes makes very great profits." It can be readily understood that Teddy accepted the invitation, and then, trade commencing once more, the gentleman walked away, leaving the proprietor of the cane-board with the pleasing consciousness that he was free from debt, and with quite a large amount of money in his mother's keeping. Tim returned very shortly after the merchant's departure, and reported that Sam was still on duty. "The boat hasn't been moved nor have the men showed up again," he said. "That feller acts as if he thought he was bigger than the President. He told me he could be the greatest detective that ever lived if it wasn't that folks made him show off at rowin' 'cause he had so much style about him. I don't think he's so very wonderful; but, of course, I never saw many out an' out detectives." "And you don't see one when you met him. I'm sure he'll get Dan an' me in trouble before this thing is ended." "Then why don't you let him go off alone? That's what I'd do with such a chump." "I can't, because----" The sentence was not concluded, for at that moment Dan came up at full speed. "They're gettin' ready to start!" he said, breathlessly. "I saw 'em go by the buildin', an' run over to tell Sam that I'd fetch you. Our boat is a long distance up the creek, an' we'll have to hurry, or run the chance of missing their craft." There was no delay on Teddy's part, despite the misgivings he had regarding Sam. One parting injunction to Tim on the subject of business, and then he followed Dan at full speed toward the creek on such a course as would bring them fully a quarter of a mile above the boat-house outside the fair grounds. Sam had made everything ready for the journey by the time they arrived, and was so excited that he could no longer speak of his own wonderful powers as a thief-catcher. "One of you fellers had better row while I steer," he said, seating himself in the stern sheets and taking the tiller-ropes. "If they see the way I handle the oars they'll know exactly who's after them, an' then the game'll be up." "Don't worry yourself about that," Dan replied, calmly. "Neither Teddy nor I knows anything about a boat, except it may be to steer, so you'll have to hump yourself." Sam grumbled considerably about taking so many risks; but he finally moved over to the bow and his companions took their seats aft. "I won't put any style to it, an', perhaps, that'll keep 'em from knowin' I'm on their trail," he said, and immediately began rowing in such a bungling fashion that Dan said, sharply: "Look here, if you're goin' to pull this boat, do it, or we'll go back. At this rate, you'll have everybody at the fair watching to see what kind of chumps have been allowed to risk their lives. We've got no time to spare, either; for we must get on the other side of the creek where it will be possible to watch the men without getting too near." "I'll take care of that part of the business," Sam replied, loftily, and Dan immediately put into operation his plan of "sitting" on the amateur detective. "You do your share, and that will be enough. Teddy and I propose to take a hand in this ourselves." "Then I might as well go back." "You can, if you want to." It so chanced that he had no such desire, and with the air of one whose feelings have been deeply wounded he rowed steadily on, Dan steering, until they were where it was possible to have a full view of a long stretch of the creek. [Illustration: "There they are!" Teddy said.] "There they are!" Teddy said, pointing down stream to where a boat was being pulled close to the left bank. "They have stopped, and it looks as if something was being taken on board!" "It is a portion of the goods they stole!" Dan cried. "Stop rowing, Sam, and if nothing happens we'll soon know where the whole lot is to be hidden." CHAPTER XIV. _THE RENDEZVOUS._ That Dan's surmise was correct could be seen a few moments after, while the boys, partially concealed by the overhanging bank, watched the proceedings with but little danger of being discovered. On the shore were a number of packages in a cart, and these the supposed burglars loaded into the boat with the utmost haste. If this lot comprised all that had been taken from Uncle Nathan his loss must have been greater than he stated, and Teddy said, after watching several moments in silence: "I reckon this is only part of what they took; but I'm puzzled to know how it could have been brought so far. The idea of carting goods over here to find a place in which to hide them is a queer one, when all the thieves had to do was slip down the river in a skiff, an' before morning they'd be beyond reach of the officers." It surely was strange that the men should have done so much useless labor, and the only solution to the apparent mystery was offered by Sam, who said, with an air of superior wisdom: "They've done it to throw me off the scent. That fakir we saw in Waterville must have known who I was." "How does it happen he had the nerve to come here when he knew you counted on showing the people who visited this fair your skill in rowing?" Dan asked, with a laugh. "I reckon he didn't think I was tellin' the truth." It was useless to attempt to make Sam acquainted with himself. He had such a remarkable idea of his own abilities, despite the scrapes he was constantly getting into, that the most eloquent orator would have been unable to convince him he was anything more than a very egotistical boy, with little save his vanity to recommend him to the notice of the general public. In five minutes the boat at the opposite bank had received as much of a cargo as her owners wished to carry, and then the men began to row leisurely down the river. "Now, go slow, Sam, and don't turn around to look, or they may suspect we are following them," Dan said, warningly. "I'll keep you posted about what they are doing, and you can tell us afterward what ought to have been done. Pull moderately, for we don't want to get very near while it is light enough for them to see us." The chase was not a long one. By keeping the boat's head to the bank and moving leisurely as boys who were bent only on pleasure might have done, the pursuers evidently caused no suspicions as to their purpose, and after about a mile had been traversed the burglars turned up a narrow waterway which led to a barn or shed built on the meadows for the storing of marsh hay. There were plenty of ditches near at hand into which the amateur detectives could run their craft unobserved, and as the pursued left the creek Dan steered into one of these. Here their heads hardly came above the bank, and all three could see the men carrying their cargo to the building. "We've got 'em now," said Sam, triumphantly, as the first of the packages was taken on shore, "an' the sooner we nab both the better." "How do you intend to set about such a job?" Teddy asked. "Go right up an' tell 'em we've been on their track." "And in less than two minutes you would get a worse pounding than the toughs gave you last night." Sam appeared to realize the truth of this statement, for he had no further suggestions to offer, and Dan said, after some reflection: "I think the best thing we can do will be to go back to the fair. If those fellows find us here the jig will be up; but it isn't likely they've got the whole of their plunder with them, and intend to come here again. We'll talk with some one and find out a good plan, or keep our eyes peeled to learn what they mean to do with the goods. If they propose simply to hide them until there is a chance to get the lot away safely, we shall have the key to the situation an' can take plenty of time deciding what should be done." Sam did not again propose to make any attempt at intimidating the men, and Teddy thought Dan's scheme a wise one. "They'll come here more than once before the week is ended; you know they spoke of moving the stuff when the exhibitors got ready to leave, an' we'd better go back to the grounds before those fellows have finished their work." Sam pulled out of the water-course into the creek without a murmur; but when they were on the way back, and he felt at liberty to display his true "style," courage returned. "I knew you fellers wasn't any good on detective work," he said, scornfully. "If I'd had charge of the case we should have them men tied hand an' foot in the bottom of this boat." "How would you have got 'em there?" Dan asked. "That's my business. Jest because I've let you into this thing there's no reason why I should give all my secrets away, is there?" "Not a bit of it, an' you keep them locked up in your heart, for if Teddy an' I knew the plans we might get into a bad scrape." "Well, what are you goin' to do now?" "Nothing until after we have talked with those who know more than we do about such things." Sam immediately relapsed into silence. His superior knowledge had been scorned, and he proposed to let his companions understand that he was not pleased with them. By the time the boys reached the bend in the creek they could see the boat in which were Long Jim and his companion, half a mile behind, and Dan said: "Those fellows don't know me. When we land you and Sam had better keep out of sight, while I try to find out where they go after striking the fair ground." "All right. It's time I helped Tim, an' you'll come to the cane-board if there is anything to tell." "So I don't amount to anything, eh?" Sam asked, sulkily. "Of course you do; but it would be foolish to make a show of yourself to Long Jim, who would remember you. Keep rowing around in the boat as if you were at work, and there'll be no chance for suspicion." By this time the little craft was at the landing stage of the boat-house, and two of the party leaped out, leaving the third feeling that he had been unjustly deprived of a very large portion of his rights. "If them fellers think they're goin' to get the best of me they're makin' a big mistake, an' I'll show 'em so before night. They don't know any more about bein' detectives than a cat; but both will be mightily surprised before mornin', or I'm mistaken." Then, instead of rowing around the creek as Dan had suggested, Sam pulled out into the middle of the stream, looking wondrous wise and determined as he awaited the coming of those whose secret he had partially discovered. Meanwhile Teddy and Dan, without the slightest suspicion of what their friend proposed to do, separated at the landing stage, the former making all haste to reach his cane-board, where he found Tim doing a thriving business, and standing near by was Hazelton. "Where have you been?" the jewelry fakir asked, solicitously. "I've come here two or three times without finding you, and had almost begun to believe old Nathan succeeded in getting a warrant." Teddy was undecided as to whether he should tell this acquaintance of all he had seen or not; but, after some deliberation, and in view of the fact that he also had been accused of the burglary, concluded to do so. "We've found out where Long Jim is hiding the stuff he stole from my uncle," he said, and then explained what had been done during the last hour. Hazelton was surprised that so much information had been gained; but he was able to cause Teddy an equal amount of astonishment. "I don't believe the packages you saw came from the old man's store. I heard, about two hours ago, that a store here in town was robbed last night, and it isn't dead sure, after your uncle's accusations, and what I have done on the fair grounds, that I sha'n't be arrested on suspicion. Most likely the goods taken down the creek were stolen here; but I don't understand why those fellows should work so boldly." "Probably they think, as one of them said the other night, while so many articles are being carried to and fro." "Very likely that may be true, and now comes the question of what shall be done regarding the information you have gained. I stand in a mighty delicate position, and, quite naturally, want to save myself, if possible, for even an arrest when there is little or no proof, ain't to be contemplated calmly." "You ought to know better than I how we should go to work. Dan an' I thought there would be plenty of time, for if those fellows were going to skip very soon they wouldn't have taken the trouble to carry the stuff down there, where it could not be gotten away quickly." "I'll think the matter over, Teddy, and come back here in a couple of hours," Hazelton said, after a moment's thought. "Don't tell anyone what you found out until after seeing me again." This conversation had been carried on at the rear of the cane-board, where the customers could not overhear it, and when the jewelry fakir walked toward the exhibition building it was necessary to satisfy Tim's curiosity regarding what had been accomplished. "I don't s'pose it's any of my business," the latter said, when Teddy concluded the story; "but I wouldn't be afraid to bet all I shall earn this week that you'll have trouble with that feller before the scrape is over. He knows so awful much that somethin' tough is bound to happen." Teddy did not think there was any good cause for alarm, more especially since he felt confident Dan would keep an eye on the oarsman, and during the next two hours he thought of nothing save earning money, for customers were plenty, and even with the assistance of the boy Tim had engaged it was all he and his clerk could do to wait upon those who were anxious to win a cane or knife. Now and then some of the other fakirs would visit him; but, as a rule, all were so busy that there was little time for the exchange of compliments, and even the cry of "Three rings for five cents, with the chance to get a dollar cane or knife for nothing!" was not needed to stimulate trade. It was two hours from the time of his return when Dan came up looking decidedly uneasy, and Teddy did not stop to make change for the man who had just patronized him, before he asked, hurriedly: "Now, what's up?" "Sam is missing." "What do you mean? How can that be?" "He was to row around the creek near the landing; but for the last hour no one has seen him, and, what is more, the boat can't be found. Long Jim an' his friend haven't come ashore, as near as I can make out, an' it looks to me as if that foolish Sam has got into trouble through trying to play detective." CHAPTER XV. _SAM'S ADVENTURES._ In order to explain Sam's absence, and one or two other incidents in their regular sequence, it is necessary to go back to the moment when, his friends having landed, the amateur detective was left to his own devices. His first impulse was to report his arrival to the manager of the boat exhibit, and then go about his routine duties, but before this very proper plan could be carried into effect he chanced to see Hazelton on the shore. "Now, what's he layin' around there for?" Sam asked of himself. "I'll bet Dan or Teddy has given the whole snap away, an' he's come to pull in the burglars. It's a mighty mean trick for them to play after I've worked the case so far that there's nothing to do but nab 'em. He'll get all the praise, an' folks won't know the job was managed by me." The longer Sam thought of this apparent ingratitude and treachery on the part of Teddy and Dan the more angry he grew, and it did not require many moments' thought for him to succeed in convincing himself that he had been very shabbily treated. Continuing to talk to himself, or rather at the tiller, on which his eyes were fixed, he added: "Folks have said so much about their savin' them women from drownin', when I mighter done the same thing if I'd been willin' to make a fool of myself, that they want to scoop in everything; but I could stop this little game by jest goin' ahead on my own hook. If I sneaked down the creek an' brought back the stuff them men have been hidin' people would begin to know how much I understand about detective work." This appeared in his mind as the most brilliant scheme he had ever conceived, and in a very few seconds Sam decided that it should be carried into effect. First, and with no very well-defined idea of why such a course was necessary, he rowed cautiously to and fro past the landing stage, scrutinizing closely every face he saw, and mentally hugging himself because of the excitement which would be caused by his return with the stolen property. Then he turned the boat, and began to row down the creek, stopping every few seconds to gaze around in such a mysterious manner that the suspicions of any one who observed him would have been instantly aroused. In this manner, which he believed the only true way for a first-class detective to approach his prey, Sam had rowed less than half a mile when he saw Long Jim and his companion returning. Now the time had come when true cunning was necessary, and the amateur detective began to display it by pulling the boat sharply around, heading her for an indentation on the opposite shore. Here he ran her bow aground, and lying at full length in the bottom, peered out at the men in the most stealthy manner. They had already taken notice of his erratic movements, and now regarded him intently, but, without checking the headway of their own craft, in a few minutes were beyond sight around the bend. "There," Sam said, with a long-drawn breath of relief, as he arose to a sitting posture, "if Teddy an' Dan had been here them fellers would have tumbled to the whole racket, but I've put 'em off the scent, an' will have plenty of time to do my work." He pulled out from the shore once more, gazed long and earnestly up and down the creek, and then, in the same ridiculous manner as before, continued the journey. The trip which should have consumed no more than an hour even with the most indolent oarsman, was not completed until twice that time had elapsed, and then fully fifteen minutes were spent by this very cautious boy in landing. He pulled his boat up high out of the water, and, in order to conceal her, heaped such a pile of dry grass on top of her that it must have attracted the attention of any one passing, more especially those who were familiar with the creek. This done he went toward the barn after the fashion of an old-time stage villain, halting at the slightest sound, and peering in every direction, fancying himself surrounded by foes. Not until he had circled completely around the barn twice did he venture to enter, and then, much to his disappointment, there was nothing to be seen. The building appeared to be absolutely empty, and even his eagle eye failed to discover any traces of recent occupancy. "Well, this is mighty funny," he said, with a sigh of disappointment. "Them fellers surely brought a lot of stuff in here, but they must have carried it out again." Having expended so much labor and time in reaching this place, he did not intend to return until after making a thorough search, however, and to this end he investigated one possible hiding-place after another, pulling up the boards of the rude flooring, and peering into places where nothing larger than a mouse could have been hidden. During this time the burglars were returning with all possible speed. Sam's actions, both as he came down the creek, and also while screening himself from view, were so suspicious that, guilty as the men were, they immediately concluded what was very near the truth. Long Jim recognized the boy as having been with Teddy when the bargain for the imaginary cane-board was made, and instead of returning to the fair grounds the two watched, from a point of vantage on the bank, until Master Sam had landed. His purpose was now evident, and it was necessary the burglars should resort to desperate measures to prevent the loss of their ill-gotten gains as well as to save themselves from imprisonment. When they arrived where it was possible to look into the barn, Sam was on his knees scraping away the dirt which appeared to have been recently disturbed, and they heard him say in a tone of exultation: "I've got to it at last, an' now we'll see what Teddy an' Dan have to say when I flash the whole lot of stuff up with nobody to help me. I reckon----" He did not finish the sentence, for at that moment Long Jim stepped directly in front of him, as he asked: "Did you leave anything here, my son?" "No--I--I--that is--you see----" Sam was so frightened that he could not say another word. It seemed as if his tongue was swollen to twice its natural size, while his throat was parched and dry, and to make bad matters worse, he had entirely neglected to invent a plausible excuse for his presence there in case of an interruption. "I asked if you'd left anything here?" Long Jim repeated, very mildly. "Well--well---- You see I jest come down to--to---- I thought, perhaps, I might find something, but it's time I was gettin' back to the fair, 'cause the folks will be needin' me." As he spoke he attempted to back toward the door, but before taking half a dozen steps a cry of fear burst from his lips, for a heavy hand was laid with no gentle force on his shirt collar, and he staggered forward helplessly. "That's an invitation for you to hold on a bit, an' have a little conversation with two gentlemen who are mighty curious to know why you came here," Long Jim said, grimly. "You're goin' to tell us the whole partic'lars, or there won't be enough left of you to be seen under a microscope." Sam made no reply. He was literally dazed with fear, and just at that moment he thought the life of a detective very disagreeable. "Come, speak up, an' be quick about it," the man cried, fiercely. "We've got no time to waste on sich cubs as you, an' in about two minutes you'll get worse'n we served out the other night." "That wasn't me follerin' you from the museum tent," Sam said, quickly, thinking possibly this fact might work in his favor. "Who was it?" "Teddy an' Dan." "Who is Dan?" "A feller who works for the Stevens Arms Company up at the fair." "Why did they follow us?" "Teddy wanted to get back the money he gave you to buy a cane-board with." "If he knows what's wise for him he'll stop any such rackets, or he may get more'n he bargains for." Then the second man, who still held firmly to Sam's collar, asked, as he shook his prisoner vigorously: "How did you know we had been here?" "Us fellers saw you come down in a boat." "So all three are in the secret, eh?" Sam's only thought was that he might possibly save his own skin, and he replied in the affirmative, although he must have known that by such answer he was destroying his friends' chances of recovering the goods. "Where are the fools now?" Long Jim asked, angrily. "Up at the fair." "What do they intend to do?" "Get somebody to arrest you." "Then we've got to skip mighty lively, Phil," and Long Jim looked up at his companion. "Yes; but if my advice had been follered we wouldn't be in this scrape. You was the only one the cubs knew, an' by keepin' out of sight we mighter finished the work that's been laid out. You're so pig-headed that a yoke of oxen couldn't keep you in hidin'." "There's no use fightin' about it now; for we've got to get a move on us in short order. It won't do to let this boy have a chance to give the alarm." "Of course not. Lash him up somewhere so he can't make a noise, an' his chums will come before he starves to death." "Don't do that!" Sam cried, in an agony of terror. "I won't say a word about your catchin' me here, an' I'll do anything you say." "Oh, you're a nice plum to make promises, ain't you. It didn't take much persuadin' to make you go back on your friends, an' that's enough to show whether you can be trusted. Get the rope out of the boat, Phil, an' then we'll make ready for a long jump." Phil obeyed, grumbling as he went because his partner had refused to take his advice, thus plunging both of them into danger, and Long Jim turned his attention to the prisoner once more. "Before we leave this part of the country for good I'm goin' to give you somethin' to remember us by so's you won't go 'round stickin' your nose into other people's business agin." "What are you goin' to do?" Sam asked, his face growing even paler than before. "Give you the worst floggin' a boy ever had. I'd do it now if there wasn't so much work to be got through." Sam had sufficient sense to know that all his pleadings for mercy would be in vain, and he held his peace until Phil returned with a long coil of rope which had been used as a boat's painter. One of the beams at the end of the barn served as a post to which to lash the prisoner, and here the amateur detective was made fast in such a skillful manner that he could not so much as move his arms. "Shall we gag him now?" Phil asked, and Long Jim replied: "No, there's time enough. "He can't make any one hear if he yells his best, an' I've got a little business to settle before he's trussed up for good." CHAPTER XVI. _MISSING._ When Dan informed Teddy that Sam was missing, and suggested the possibility of the burglars having gotten him in their power, both the boys were decidedly alarmed; but the matter ceased to appear as serious after it had been discussed in all its bearings. "Long Jim wouldn't have dared to spirit him away when there are so many people around," Teddy said, after a long silence, during which he was trying to imagine what Sam might have done. "Besides, what would be the good of taking him if we were left behind?" "Perhaps they count on hauling us in, too." "That isn't to be thought of for a moment. They don't want to burden themselves with a lot of boys when every effort must be made to get the stolen property out of this section of the country before they are discovered." "I'll allow all that sounds reasonable, but where is Sam?" "Of course I don't know. Do you think he would dare to go down the river again after we landed?" "No, indeed; he's too much of a coward for that. If there's been any funny business it was done when the men got back." "Then we have no need to worry, for there are hundreds of people on the bank of the creek all the time, an' Sam would know enough to yell if anybody tried to steal him." The idea that the amateur detective might be stolen seemed so comical to Dan that he gave way to mirth, and what had promised to be a most sorrowful visit speedily became a merry one. "He had permission to remain away from the exhibition building during the rest of the day," Teddy finally said, "an' most likely he's goin' to take advantage of it by roaming around the grounds, exercising his detective faculties. He'll turn up at the museum to-night all right, with a big yarn to tell about his supposed adventures." "I reckon you're right; but I did get a little rattled when his boss asked me where he was. I'll come back this way when it's time to go to supper." "Wait a minute. I'm mighty hungry now, an' business has been so good that I can afford to treat to sandwiches an' lemonade, if you'll go with me over to the grand stand. I'll bring you back something, Tim," he added, as he leaped over the railing. Dan said he could remain away half an hour from the rifle exhibit, and Teddy was now so easy in mind concerning money matters that he resolved to have thirty minutes of sport. The boys first made a tour of that portion of the grounds where the fakirs were congregated, stopping a moment to see the whip dealer lashing a pine stake to show the quality of his goods, and then watching the "Great African Dodger," who thrust his woolly head through an aperture in a canvas screen for all those to throw balls at who were inclined to pay the price. Then they stopped at the "envelope game," where were spread on a stand a large collection of cheap, gaudy goods, each bearing a printed number, every one supposed to correspond with those contained in a box of envelopes, and this fakir was doing a big business, as was shown by the fact that he could afford to hire a barker, who cried continually at the full strength of his lungs: "Come up now, and try your luck! Here's where we have all prizes and no blanks! Ten cents buys an envelope, with the privilege of drawing for yourself, so there can be no job put up against you, and every number calls for some one of the many valuable articles in the layout. Here's a gentleman who spends only ten cents and gets a pair of those beautiful, triple-plated, double-expansion, fine pure metal cuff buttons, worth two dollars at some stores!" "Come on!" Dan said, impatiently. "That fellow is almost as big a snide as Hazelton." "How do you make that out? I can see a lot of things that cost more than a dollar. Look at the silver watch, and the revolver." "That may be all very well; but no one except a fellow who is interested in the business gets any of those articles." "You can select any envelope you choose." "That's right; but the ones with the numbers calling for the big prizes are lying flat in the box where nobody can get them. If you should accuse the man of cheating he would turn the whole thing upside down, and then, of course, they could be found. Here comes a fellow who I know is cappin' for that fakir. Watch how he does it." The apparent stranger approached the stand, and after some talk as to how the game was run, invested ten cents. The man did not open the envelope he drew; but handed it to the fakir, who, pretending to look at the card it contained, shouted: "Number fifty-four. The gentleman has drawn that beautiful solid silver watch worth fifty dollars, and I will give him thirty for his bargain." The stranger showed his prize to the crowd that clustered around him, and business was increased wonderfully, for it had apparently been proven that the game was conducted fairly. "Now watch him," Dan said, as the stranger walked away with his prize ostentatiously displayed, and the two boys followed a short distance off, until they saw him halt behind a booth, where he turned the article won over to a barker who had approached. "That's the way it is done," Dan said, "and when we come back you'll see the same watch on the layout." Teddy was rapidly being initiated in the tricks of the fakirs, and the more he saw the more firmly was he resolved not to follow the business longer than the present week, although he believed his own game to be an honest one. The cheap jewelry dealer; the man who had been selling the remnants of a stock of knives made by a manufacturer who "had bankrupted himself by putting into them too expensive material;" the fakir with the dolls which were to be knocked down by balls thrown from a certain distance, with a prize of one cigar if the customer could tumble two over, and the peanut-candy dealer were visited in turn, and then the boys were attracted by the sound of Hazelton's voice. He was plying his peculiar trade again, and by the appearance of the crowd was meeting with great success. "Let's see how he gets out of it this time," Teddy suggested, and Dan agreed. The fakir had arrived at that point where he was giving away the supposed watches, and the boys listened until they saw his preparations for departure. "What beats me is how he gets clear every time," Dan whispered. "I should think after he had swindled four or five hundred, some of them would lay for a chance to get even with him." "He says they do, an' that's why he left his satchel with me." Hazelton recognized the boys just as he was telling that Nathan Hargreaves might possibly act as his agent after the close of the fair, and nodded pleasantly, as he gathered up the reins; but this was one of the occasions when he was not to be allowed to go scot free. Two stalwart-looking fellows were standing near the head of the horse, and when the fakir would have driven off they seized the bridle, one of them shouting: "Come down with that money! This is the second time I've seen you do us countrymen up to-day, and now you've got to square things." Hazelton swung his whip around, striking the speaker full in the face, and causing the horse to plunge and rear, but yet the fellows kept their hold. The whip was pulled from the fakir's hand, and in an instant it appeared as if a riot had begun. Those who had been content to keep secret the fact of having been swindled now grew bold as they saw there was a leader in the movement, and more than a hundred leaped forward to seize the representative of the alleged jewelry manufacturers. "He'll be killed!" Teddy shouted, and would have attempted to go to the assistance of the man who had been kind to him, despite the fact that he could not have aided him in any way against so many; but for the fact that Dan pulled him back, as he shouted: "Can't you see that it would be fifty to one if you should go in that crowd? We couldn't help him, and what's the use of gettin' a big lickin' for nothing? Besides, what would become of your business if the people here thought you were his partner?" Before Dan ceased speaking Teddy realized how useless would be any effort of his, and he remained passive, trying to get a glimpse of the ill-fated fakir. The numbers who beset him completely hid Hazelton from view. The carriage had been overturned by the first desperate rush of the victims, and the horse was clearing a space around himself by the free use of his heels. "They'll commit murder!" Teddy cried. "I don't believe it'll be quite as bad as that; but he won't be likely to give away any more lockets while this fair lasts." As a matter of fact, Hazelton was not left to fight the battle alone. Like every other fakir engaged in that peculiar business, he had several partners whose duty it was to mingle with the crowd for the purpose of intimidating any who might be disposed to make trouble, and these had closed in upon him, while some of the more timid spectators shouted for the constables. [Illustration: "Run as you never did before, Teddy, for if they get hold of us it'll be a bad job all around!"] Once Teddy caught a glimpse of the unfortunate man; his glossy hat was gone, his clothing torn, and his face covered with blood. "I can see him now!" he cried, "and it looks as if they had about used him up, for----" Before he could finish the sentence a stranger rushed toward him, and showing the familiar black satchel in his hand, said hurriedly: "Get out of here with that. Hazelton will see you some time this evening. Don't stop a minute!" Before the boy could reply the stranger was forcing his way through the struggling, yelling crowd, in order to aid his partner, and Teddy said in dismay: "Now we are in a muss. Here is all his money, an' if anybody sees us with it we'll have a tough time." "You can't throw it away, an' we must sneak off," Dan said, and the expression on his face told how distressed he was that such a responsibility had been thrust upon them. "Shall we go back to the stand?" "No, that would never do, for then they would be sure to vent their anger on you. Go up to the museum; Mr. Sweet knows Hazelton, an' may be willin' to help him by keeping the satchel till the row is over." These words had been spoken as the boys were trying to make their way through the fringe of spectators which had hemmed them in since the fight began, and after some difficulty they succeeded; but at the same moment one of the combatants, who had received more than his share of punishment, emerged close by their side. He saw Hazelton's satchel, and recognized it. "Come here, fellows! two little villains are making off with the money! That's what we want!" He at once started in pursuit, as did several others, and Dan cried, as he helped carry the burden: "Run as you never did before, Teddy, for if they get hold of us it'll be a bad job all around!" CHAPTER XVII. _A TERRIBLE NIGHT._ At just about the same moment when Teddy and Dan were running with Hazelton's money at full speed toward the museum tent, with the chance of escape very much against them, Sam was in a decidedly painful frame of mind. After he had been securely tied the two men conversed in low tones for several minutes, and then, as if having arrived at some definite conclusion, began to make preparations for leaving the place. At the same spot where Sam had been interrupted while scraping away the dirt they proceeded to dig with a shovel which Phil procured from somewhere outside the building, and during this labor the prisoner could hear fragments of the conversation. Once Long Jim ceased his work long enough to say: "When you come to look at the matter quietly it doesn't seem as if we'd got into sich a very bad scrape. You can manage to bring the rest of the stuff down the creek between now an' Friday mornin' and I've got a plan for givin' anybody who may come after us a good clue to the boy's disappearance." Phil made some remark which Sam could not hear, and his companion replied in a louder tone: "It can all be done so's to make folks think we've gone up the creek, an' we've got to lay low for a while, which won't be a hard job while the weather is warm." "But I don't like the idea of totin' that cub with us so long." "I'll take care of him, an' will make him earn his board, or somethin's bound to break." From this time until several packages were unearthed Sam could hear nothing; but what had already been said was sufficient to convince him that he was to have a very unpleasant experience, and for at least the hundredth time he fervently wished he had never so much as heard of detective work. After the goods had been brought to light the earth was replaced in the excavation and pounded down carefully. Then fully half an hour was spent digging in different places, probably for the purpose of misleading any one who might come there in search of plunder, for Phil said in a tone of satisfaction as he ceased the apparently aimless labor: "It'll take at least a day before all of these suspicious looking spots have been investigated, an' in the meanwhile, unless we're chumps, we shall know what's goin' on. I'll take one load to the boat; make sure the coast is clear, an' then the three of us can carry the balance. Have the boy ready for a quick move, an' see to it that he can't give an alarm." "I'll knock his head off if he so much as thinks of such a thing," and as Phil disappeared with a portion of the plunder Long Jim began to unfasten Sam's bonds, saying as he did so: "We've made up our minds to hold you with us a few days 'cause you're sich jolly company. If you obey orders an' keep your mouth shut there's a chance of gettin' outer this scrape mighty easy; but I'd slit your throat in a jiffy if you tried to give us the slip or made any noise." Sam made no reply; but his captor could see very plainly that the boy was nearly paralyzed with fright, and it was safe to infer he would follow the instructions given to the letter. Phil returned in a very short time and reported: "The coast is clear. There's not a craft to be seen on the creek, an' we can leave without danger." The rope had been removed from Sam's limbs, and Long Jim proceeded to load him down with bundles until he staggered under the weight. "Now, see that you walk a chalk line," the burglar said, fiercely. "Foller Phil, an' I'll keep behind to make sure there are no tricks played. Remember what I promised!" The men could carry the remainder of the goods in one load, and the three went out of the barn hurriedly, Sam not daring to so much as lift his eyes from the ground lest Long Jim's threat should be carried into execution. Arriving at the water's edge the boat was loaded, the prisoner ordered to take his place at the oars, and then the final preparations were made. Phil uncovered the boat in which Sam had come, launched and overturned her. Then taking the hat from the unresisting boy's head, threw it far out in the channel, afterward giving the little craft a shove which sent her a long distance from the shore. Next the two oars were sent after the hat, and Phil said with a laugh: "The current ain't very strong; but with the aid of the wind I reckon that stuff will drift up to the fair grounds before dark." Sam's despair was already so great that it did not seem as if it could be increased; but the last vestige of hope fled when he realized that these things had been done in order to make it appear as if he were dead. "Teddy and Dan won't think of huntin' for me after the boat is found," he thought, "an' these men are sure to kill me before this scrape is over!" The two burglars seated themselves comfortably in the stern-sheets, the packages being placed at the bow to trim the craft properly, and Long Jim said, sternly: "You've been showin' off your skill as an oarsman for two or three days, an' we want you to do it now. Put in your best licks, for it'll be tough if we don't get through the water mighty fast." Even Sam's worst enemy would have pitied him at this moment. No galley slave chained to his seat could have been more utterly helpless, and he exerted himself to the utmost in order to please those who professed to be so willing to punish or kill. Every stroke of the oars took them farther away from the fair grounds, and each puff of wind carried the evidences of the prisoner's death nearer the only ones who might take the trouble to search for him. Not until fully an hour had passed did the burglars give any sign of a desire to end the journey, and then Long Jim said: "We must be six miles from the fair grounds by this time, an' that is as far as you'll want to pull to-night, Phil. There should be plenty of good hidin'-places in this bit of woods, an' I think we'd better haul up." "All right. Steer her into that ditch over there, an' we'll look around." Thus far in his experience as a detective this was the only thing Sam had had for which to be thankful. His arms were so tired that it seemed as if he could not have pulled another stroke, and his clothes were literally wet from the perspiration that came from his body. Phil went ashore, leaving his companion to watch the almost exhausted prisoner, and in a few moments the former shouted: "Load that cub up, an' bring him over here. This is a capital place to locate in for a couple of days." Staggering under the heavy burden Long Jim placed on his shoulders the amateur detective was forced on through the underbrush in advance of his captor until the two arrived at a perfect tangle of cedars. Phil returned to the boat for the remainder of the goods, and all the plunder was placed inside the thicket where the foliage was so dense that one might have passed within a few feet of the spot and not had any suspicion men were hidden there. A tiny brook ran past one side of the hiding-place, and Sam took advantage of the opportunity to check his raging thirst while the men were laying plans for the future. "I'll go back soon after sunset," Phil said, as he lighted his pipe and proceeded to make himself comfortable. "We can leave the boy here to look out for the stuff, an' you'd better come with me up to the barn so's to learn if any one visits the place. I shall be back before morning, an' you can let me know if the coast is clear." "Shall you try to finish the job we were talkin' about?" "No; things are so hot jest now that it won't pay to take any more risks than are absolutely necessary. What we want is to get out of this portion of the country as soon as possible." "All right. I'll leave you to manage the rest of the business, an' promise to follow orders." "I think it's about time you said that, Jim. If my plans had been carried out in the first place we wouldn't be in sich a muss; but could be havin' the cream of the pickin's at the fair." "Well, what's the use of harpin' on that all the time? The thing has been done, an' we've got to make the best of it. Do you think it'll be safe to leave this cub here alone while we're away?" "It will be when I get through with him," was the grim reply, and Sam, terrified by the vagueness of this remark, more even than he had been by the plain language previously used, cried, piteously: "Please don't leave me here alone to-night! I'll pull the boat, an' do everything you say, without so much as yippin'." "Them as starts out in the detective business have to take what comes, 'specially when their own foolishness brings it about. You joined our party of your own accord, my son, an' must put up with what we choose to give." Sam said nothing more. He was reaping what he had sowed, and decided that matters could not be much worse even if he was caught trying to escape, therefore he resolved to take desperate chances in an effort to give his captors the slip. There was no opportunity to make the attempt, on this night at least, for when Phil had finished smoking he proceeded in a very methodical manner to secure the prisoner. Sam was ordered to seat himself on the ground, with his back to the trunk of a cedar-tree, and he was fastened skillfully, with his elbows tied back in such a manner that he could not bring his hands together. Both feet were bound, and then, with a sudden movement, Phil forced the boy's mouth open, shoving into it a short piece of pine wood about an inch and a half in diameter. This was secured in such a manner that the prisoner could not free himself from the uncomfortable bridle, neither would it be possible for him to make the slightest outcry. "Now, don't shout for help while we are gone, an' unless the bears eat you up we shall meet again about daybreak," Phil said, with a coarse laugh as he and Jim went out of the thicket toward the creek. Poor Sam had never thought of the possibility that there might be bears in this section of the country until the burglar suggested it, and he was so terrified as not to realize it was impossible there could be any dangerous animals in such a thickly-settled portion of the State. Therefore, in addition to the danger to be apprehended from his captors, he had constantly before his mind this new cause for fear. The rustling of the leaves, the flight of a bird as it sought a perch for the night, or the soughing of the wind among the branches were to him so many proofs that a violent death would be his before morning. If the beginning of the hours of darkness was so terrible it can well be fancied how he suffered before another day dawned. CHAPTER XVIII. _A NARROW ESCAPE._ Neither Teddy nor Dan had any hope of reaching the museum tent before their pursuers could overtake them, and although both knew what might be the result if they were taken with the jewelry fakir's money and goods in their possession, they did not for a moment think of abandoning the property. The cries of those in the rear attracted the attention of the spectators elsewhere on the grounds, and without waiting to learn the cause of the trouble hundreds of men and boys joined in the chase, all shouting at the full strength of their lungs: "Stop thief! Stop thief!" The distance to be traversed was nearly a quarter of a mile; but the many turns the boys were forced to make in order to avoid those who were ready to capture them doubled this, and they were yet very far from the goal when a burly, red-faced man jumped in front of them. It seemed as if capture was inevitable; but Teddy resorted to the last means of defense, and was successful. Letting go his hold of the satchel he lowered his head, leaped forward with full force, striking the officious stranger full in the stomach. The man, not anticipating such an attack at a moment when he almost had his hands upon the supposed thieves, was bowled over like a nine-pin, and, jumping quickly aside, Teddy caught hold of the satchel once more. By this time both the boys were so nearly winded that speech was well nigh impossible; but Dan managed to gasp admiringly: "You're a dandy, old fellow," and then, with one supreme effort, increased his pace a trifle. It was fortunate that there were no spectators in front of Mr. Sweet's tent when the boys came in sight of it. The barker was lounging in a chair outside, and on catching a glimpse of the boys recognized them immediately. The crowd in pursuit would have told a duller man than he professed to be that there had been some serious trouble, and, running to meet the boys as if to intercept them, he cried: "Circle around the canvas, an' crawl underneath, so's that gang won't see where you've gone!" The fugitives understood the scheme at once, and making a short detour as if to avoid him, dashed under the guy-ropes at one end, gaining the interior of the tent before the pursuers arrived. Mr. Sweet had just started toward the flap to ascertain the cause of the commotion when the boys entered, and, thinking himself about to be attacked, leaped quickly back as he seized an ironbound stake. "Oh, it's you, eh?" he said, on recognizing the intruders. "What's up? Are you the thieves they're yellin' for?" Teddy was hardly able to speak; but he held up the satchel, as he panted: "Hazelton's--they're killin' him--he--wants--this--saved." "Yes, I understand it now. Jump into the wagon an' get under the stuff there. I'll take the valise. Them kind of fakirs are bound to come to grief sooner or later, an' honest people get into a muss tryin' to help 'em. I'd like to see the fair where them kinds of games wasn't allowed; but don't s'pose I ever shall, although it's always promised." While Mr. Sweet had been grumbling, and at the same time concealing the satchel under the box containing the snakes, the boys were doing their best to hide themselves beneath the litter of ropes and canvas which had been carelessly thrown into the wagon. In the meantime the pursuers came up, discovered the unpleasant fact that the fugitives were no longer in sight, and began to parley with the barker. "I tried to catch 'em," the boys heard the latter say; "but they got around the tent before I had time to find out what the matter was." "They've gone inside!" one of the crowd shouted. "Don't let's allow swindlers to get the best of us so easy!" "That's the way to talk!" another cried. "We'll have 'em out if the show has to come down!" At this moment Mr. Sweet, looking calm and undisturbed, emerged from the flap. "Bring out them boys, or down comes your tent!" a man yelled. "I reckon the wisest plan for you to pursue is to wait till I find out what all this means," the proprietor of the museum said loudly, at the same time beckoning the barker and the clown to his side. "It looks to me as if this was the same gang who came here last night tryin' to clean us out, an' warrants for their arrest are in the hands of the constables now. I paid one hundred dollars for the privilege of exhibitin' here, an' that means I'm to have all the protection the managers of this fair and the authorities of the town can give me. I've warned you off; but if you still want to finish up the work of last night, an' the constables don't come in time, there are three of us here who are good for twice that number of your gang, an' when a man gets a tap over the head with one of these he's not in it any longer!" Mr. Sweet flourished the heavy stake as he spoke, and his employes showed that they were armed in the same manner. "We didn't come to disturb you," one of the crowd said, in a milder tone, as the greater number fell back before the threats made of invoking the aid of the law. "All we want is a valise two boys brought here, for in it is quite a pile of our money." "How did they get it from you?" the proprietor of the museum asked for the purpose of gaining time in the hope the constables would put in an appearance. "We were swindled by a jewelry agent, an' are goin' to get back our own." "Oh, you are, eh? Well, I haven't got the stuff; but if you allow yourselves to be swindled, will you help matters by turning thieves? You can sue the man who has done you up; but there's a penalty for stealing, as you will find out if you keep on in this way." The less impetuous among the pursuers understood that the showman was speaking only the truth, and, now that they had an opportunity for reflection, began to be ashamed of the part they were playing. One by one walked away without making any further remonstrance, and in a short time only a dozen or so remained in front of the tent. All these were young men, and several had been drinking, therefore the danger was not yet past. "You stand here and brain the first man who attempts to enter," Mr. Sweet said, as he disappeared inside the tent. Then hurrying to where Teddy and Dan were hidden, he whispered: "It may be possible that in order to avoid a row I shall be obliged to let this gang in. There is no one behind the canvas, and you can slip out readily. Go directly back where you belong, an' if anybody accuses you of being the boys who brought away the valise deny it. I'm goin' to make a big bluff about lookin' for constables, an' the minute you hear me talking, move lively." "What about Hazelton's money?" Teddy asked. "He'll find it here when he dares to come for it." An instant later the fugitives heard him say from the outside: "I propose to call for help in case you very respectable young gentleman should take a notion to break in and steal." "All we ask is that you'll turn out them boys," one of the party replied, angrily, "for, whether it's stealing or not, we're bound to have that fakir's money." "That part of it is nothing to me. There are no boys inside, an' if you want to go in one at a time, so there'll be no chance of gettin' the best of me an' destroyin' my property, I don't think there'll be any objection made." "Now's our time before they come?" Dan whispered, as he slipped softly down from the wagon, and Teddy followed. It was but the work of a moment to raise the canvas and step out. There was absolutely no one in sight. The tent had been erected near the edge of the grounds, and there was nothing in the vicinity to attract the sightseers. "We'll get over the fence, an' come in through the main gate. It's better to pay for admission than to let people suspect we were the ones who have been chased." "Go on; I'll stay close at your heels." Five minutes later they were walking along the dusty road looking as innocent as possible, and feeling comparatively safe. "Do you suppose any one will know us?" Teddy asked after they had trudged some distance in silence. "There can't be much danger of that. All the crowd saw were our backs, and, besides, after those fellows cool off they'll be ashamed of themselves. I don't reckon you'll have any trouble; but I may get it hot from the boss because I've been away so long." "I guess there won't be much danger of that; but if anything should happen come to my stand. After what has happened I reckon I can afford to whack up with you on some of the profits, especially since every one says to-morrow is to be such a big day. Where do you suppose Hazelton is?" "He must have had a chance to get off when the men started for us; but I'll bet he don't look as nice as he did this morning." By this time the boys were at the ticket-office, and, paying the price of admission, they walked into the inclosure without attracting the slightest attention. On the way to his place of business Teddy chanced to think of the errand on which they had started out, and he bought a generous supply of sandwiches for Dan, Tim, and himself. When the two arrived at the cane-board business was at its height, and the clerk and his assistant were having quite as much as they could do to attend to the customers. This saved Teddy the necessity of entering into any explanation while strangers were near, and he immediately went to work, not having an idle moment until nearly nightfall, when the greater portion of the visitors had departed. "Where did you and Dan go that you staid away so long?" Tim asked as he and Teddy began to pack up the stock of canes and knives. "Oh, it's a long story; I'll tell you all about it while we are eating supper," Teddy replied, with a significant look in the direction of the assistant. Tim understood that there was some secret regarding the matter, and he at once proceeded to get rid of a possible eavesdropper by saying to the assistant: "Here's the money I promised. There's no need of your stayin' any longer." "Shall I come to work in the morning?" Tim looked toward his employer, and the latter said: "Yes, of course, if it is pleasant weather. Everybody says there'll be a bigger crowd than ever, an' I reckon we shall have work enough for all hands." The boy had but just taken his departure when Dan approached, looking very mournful. "Have you been bounced?" Teddy cried, excitedly. "Not a bit of it; but look here," and Dan held up a straw hat. "That's poor Sam's! His boat has been found bottom up, an' this, with one of the oars, was fished out of the creek a few moments ago. While we were talking rough about him the poor boy was drowning!" CHAPTER XIX. _THE ARREST._ Teddy was dazed by the tidings and apparent proof of Sam's death. Without being able to explain why, it seemed as if the amateur detective was not the sort of a boy who might be expected to depart this life suddenly, and the news saddened him wonderfully. "Just think," he said, "the poor fellow wouldn't try to save the women because of the danger of approaching a drowning person, and in such a short time he himself is at the bottom of the creek." "If he has got any folks some word ought to be sent to them." "I never heard him say whether he had or not. Will any one search for the body?" "The man who represents the Davis Company says he will have men out in the morning, if it is possible to hire any; if not, there will be plenty wanting a job by Saturday, and he can then get all he wants. It's bound to be a long search, for there's no telling where the boat capsized." Nothing save Sam's untimely fate was spoken of during the time they were packing up the goods and carrying them to the tent, and then Mr. Sweet, after having been told the sad news, said, without commenting upon it: "You boys had better go to supper now, an' get back before dark, for there's no knowin' but that some of those fellows who called on me may be waiting to take their revenge out on you." "How did you get rid of them?" Dan asked. "That part of it was as easy as rollin' off a log, after you boys were out of sight. I let 'em in one at a time, an' the chumps never tumbled to the fact that you had gone under the canvas. They came to the conclusion you must have climbed over the fence, an' we didn't take the trouble to show them the mistake. It was a close shave, though. At one time, when I was talkin' so loud about stealing, I thought we'd have the toughest kind of a row." "Is the money all right?" "It's jest where I left it, an' won't be touched till he comes to claim it, unless you boys want to take charge of the property." "Indeed we don't," Teddy replied, quickly. "I've had all I want of such caretaking." "Then go to supper, an' hurry back." The boys waited only long enough to stow their goods in the wagon, and then Mr. Sweet's advice was acted upon. As a matter of course Tim wanted to know what the proprietor of the museum had been talking about, and as they were walking across the grounds Teddy told the whole story, concluding by saying: "It was a little the worst scrape I ever got into; but after the money had been placed in our hands, and the man who left it went off, we couldn't do different from what we did." "That Hazelton had no business to get you into such a row," Tim replied, indignantly. "Why didn't he hang on to the stuff, an' take his lickin' like a man?" "I don't think he knew it was to be given to us. The fellow who did it had seen him leave the satchel with us once, most likely, an' when there was danger of being robbed, believed we could look out for it again. It's the last time such a thing will happen, for I'm going to tell Hazelton that I don't want to be mixed up in his business." At this point Dan changed the subject of conversation by speculating upon the way in which Sam met his death, and this topic was such a mournful one that nothing else was thought of until the party returned to the tent once more. Then came the question of how much money had been taken in during the day, and after figuring up the amount he had spent, Teddy reckoned the cash on hand, announcing the result as follows: "Countin' what I paid out, we've taken sixty-one dollars an' seventy cents since morning. It don't seem reasonable, but a feller has to believe it after seein' the money." "You'll have a much better trade to-morrow, if it is fair, and you're not recognized as one of the boys who helped to get Hazelton's money away," Mr. Sweet said, cheerily. "I predict that the receipts will figure up hard on to a hundred dollars." Teddy gasped like a person who is suddenly submerged in cold water at the thought of earning so much, and he realized that if such should be the case he would be able to assist his mother very materially. "I'll pay you, Tim, before I get so dazzled as to forget it," he said, with a laugh, and the clerk felt almost as rich as his employer when he received six dollars and seventeen cents for a day's labor which came very near being sport. "I only wish the fair held on for six months," he said gleefully. "It seems too bad that there are only two days more, for Saturday never counts." "You can go to the Holtown fair, and try it for yourself. I'll give you what stock we have left on hand." "Then I'll do it," Tim replied, emphatically, and straightway he began to speculate as to the enormous amount of money he would earn. Teddy tied his money in as compact a package as possible, intending to give it to his mother when she should arrive on the morrow, and Mr. Sweet had advised that all hands "turn in" early, when the flap was raised, admitting a man who appeared to be covered with adhesive plaster and bandages. Not until the newcomer had approached within the circle of light cast by the lantern did the occupants of the tent recognize him as the jewelry fakir, and Teddy cried in surprise: "Why, Mr. Hazelton! We didn't expect to see you to-night!" "Did you think I was dead?" "It looked as if you would be killed for a certainty, and you did get pretty well done up." "Yes; as the reports of the prize fights put it, 'I'm badly disfigured, but still in the ring.' Was the money taken away all right?" "Mr. Sweet has hidden it." "And how did you come out of the scrape?" "If it hadn't been for the folks here we should have fared about the same as you did." "I'm sorry, my boy, that you were dragged into the matter, and it wouldn't have happened if I'd understood what Kelly was going to do. He knew you could be trusted, and so turned it over; but it was a mean situation to put you in." "It wasn't pleasant for any of us," Mr. Sweet said; "but you can thank the boys for hanging on to the bag as if it had been their own. Most fellows of their age would have dropped it long before reaching here. How did you get off?" "When the cry was raised that the money had gone the greater portion of the crowd started in pursuit, an' my partners and I managed to hold our own until a couple of constables came up. They took charge of the team, and gave us a chance to slip through the gates." "What are you going to do now? Try it to-morrow?" "With this face? Well, I should say not. There is a fellow here who has bought my right to the privilege, and I shall leave Peach Bottom early in the morning." "That's about the best thing you can do, and I'd advise that you don't spend much time out of doors until then." "I'm not intending to. It was necessary to come here, and, unless you object, I'll stay a while so's they will have time to sober up a bit." "You're welcome to what we've got, even if I don't like your way of doing business." "I want to straighten matters with the boys, and if they----" Hazelton did not finish the sentence, for at that moment the canvas flap was pushed aside and a man entered with an unmistakable air of authority. "Hold on there, friend," Mr. Sweet shouted. "We don't allow visitors at this time of night." "I understand that, but reckon you won't make any very big kick when I tell you that I'm one of the deputy sheriffs of this county, and have come to serve a warrant." "On whom?" "Frank Hazelton, who claims to be an agent for a firm of jewelry manufacturers. I believe you're the man," he added, approaching the disfigured fakir. "You've got that part of it straight enough, but what am I to be arrested for?" "You are suspected of being concerned in the burglary which was committed in this town last night." Hazelton did not express nearly as much surprise as the boys, who were really dazed by the announcement. "So Hargreaves has finally succeeded," the fakir said half to himself, and the officer replied, quickly: "This has nothing to do with old Nathan's affair, although it does look as if the two burglaries were committed by the same person." Hazelton remained silent several seconds, during which time the sheriff waited patiently for him to say he was ready to go, and then he asked: "Can I speak to one of these boys in private. It has nothing to do with the charge, but I want him to aid me in getting a good lawyer." "I am sorry to say I must hear all that is talked about, however trifling it may be." "Well, I don't suppose it can make much difference," and without rising from his seat, Hazelton continued, "Teddy, you believe I had nothing to do with this thing?" "I can tell what I heard those----" "Don't tell anything yet a while; at least, not now. I want you to do this for me: After the fair closes go to that merchant who was so kind to you, and explain to him the whole affair, including your suspicions. Ask him to direct you to the best attorney in the county; get all the money from Mr. Sweet that may be needed, and pay the lawyer's fee. Send him to me as soon afterward as possible. It is nothing more serious than lying in jail a few days, and that won't be such a great hardship, now I've got this face on me." "Shall I----" "There is no need of saying anything more," Hazelton interrupted, fearing the boy was about to speak of the money the proprietor of the museum had hidden. "The merchant will understand and advise if you tell him everything--that is, I think he will; but in case he refuses, talk with some one else whom you can trust." As he finished speaking the fakir arose to his feet, motioned to the officer, and walked directly out of the tent without so much as bidding the others goodby. No one spoke until after he had been absent several minutes, and then Teddy asked, with a long-drawn sigh: "Do you think he will come out all right, Mr. Sweet?" "That's hard to say, for I don't know how much proof they may have against him. It's his business that has done a great deal toward inducing a magistrate to issue the warrant, for once a man shows himself to be a swindler, anything else can readily be believed of him." "But what about his money?" Dan asked. "That is to be handed over to Teddy." "What have I got to do with it?" the boy asked, in amazement. "He told us that as plainly as he dared to talk before the officer, and we'll count it out, after which his stock in trade shall be buried, for I want nothing to do with it." CHAPTER XX. _A PROPOSITION._ Teddy had the most decided objections to taking charge of Hazelton's money, and for several reasons. In the first place he did not want to have the responsibility, and again, the fact of its being in his possession seemed to make him a partner in the business. Mr. Sweet was determined, however. He insisted that Hazelton had stated this as plainly as was possible under the circumstances, and, despite the boy's protests, immediately began the transfer. "It shall be done in such a way that he can't accuse you of having taken any," the proprietor said, as he pulled the satchel from its hiding-place and broke the lock open with a hatchet. "We'll count it in the presence of all hands, and each one shall give Teddy a written statement of how much was found." An exclamation of surprise burst from Tim's lips as the receptacle was spread out on the ground, for it appeared to be literally crammed with money. Mr. Sweet separated the silver from the bank notes, spreading both on the ground where they could be seen by every person present, and then he counted them slowly, taking care that the spectators were following his every movement. "I make it three hundred an' forty-eight dollars," he announced. "If there's anybody here who ain't sure that's right, say so now." Each member of the party had seen the amount counted, and agreed with the result as declared by Mr. Sweet, who forthwith wrote the following: We, the undersigned, have seen a valise belonging to Frank Hazelton broken open, and certify that three hundred and forty-eight dollars, the only money found therein, was handed by Jacob Sweet to Edward Hargreaves in conformance with the orders, as we understood them, from the said Frank Hazelton. "Now I want every one to sign that," Mr. Sweet said, as he handed his lead-pencil first to the barker, "and then Teddy and I will have some proof of the amount." It required quite a while for all to conform with the wishes of the proprietor of the museum, owing to the fact that several of the party were far from being skillful penmen, but the task was finally accomplished, and as the money was handed to Teddy, the latter asked, ruefully: "What shall I do with it? I'm afraid of losing so much." "That's a risk Hazelton is bound to take. Fasten it in your clothes somehow, an' be sure you don't get into any row where it can be stolen." By the aid of many pins, and with the assistance of both Dan and Tim, Teddy finally succeeded in disposing of the money about his person in such a way that it was not an unusual burden, and then Mr. Sweet insisted that all hands should try to get some rest in order to be fresh for the supposedly enormous amount of work to be done on the following day. Teddy lay down on the ground with the others, but it was many hours before his eyes were closed in slumber. Sam's untimely death, the guardianship of so much money, and his own business affairs all served to keep his eyes open until nearly midnight, when he fell into a sleep so troubled by frightful dreams that it was far from being restful. It seemed as if he had but just lost consciousness when Mr. Sweet aroused him with the information that the "big" day of the fair was breaking. "Turn out an' get your breakfast before sunrise, for on this morning the early bird will pick up many a penny while the lazy ones are yet in bed, an' fakirs must make hay when the sun shines." Teddy was on his feet in an instant, and half an hour later, having broken his fast, he was at the booth with his clerk and Dan, the latter volunteering his assistance until the exhibition buildings should be opened. The proprietor of the museum had advised him well; the receipts of the cane and knife boards were nearly five dollars before more than half of the booths were in condition for trade, because the trains were running unusually early in order to accommodate the crowds, and when Dan felt obliged to leave, business was so good that the proprietor, clerk, and assistant were all working industriously. "If I can get off I'll see you about noon," Dan said, as he walked away, and Teddy replied: "Be sure to come, for mother will be here, and I want you to meet her." From that time until nine o'clock the crowd increased in numbers, and as Teddy said during a lull in business, "it seemed as if the grounds were so full that no more could get in." When Mrs. Hargreaves arrived her son could pay little attention to her, but he proposed that she should amuse herself by looking at the different exhibits until nearly noon, when he stated that he would take an hour off, no matter how great a rush of customers might be around his booth. "I earned sixty dollars yesterday, an' before night I'll have a hundred more, so there's little doubt that this week's work as a fakir will enable me to pay all you owe on the house," he whispered, triumphantly, and his mother walked away, hardly daring to believe what Teddy had told her. During the next hour it seemed as if a steady stream of money was flowing into the box, and Teddy was feeling confident that Mr. Sweet's prediction would prove to be correct, when the one especial man he wanted to see came up with a folded paper in his hand. It was the merchant from Waterville, and he said, as he handed the document to the boy: "Here is the receipted bill, and I am more than glad to see you doing so well." "Can I talk with you for five minutes?" Teddy asked, hardly noticing the paper as he put it in his pocket. "As long as you want to. What is the matter? Running out of stock?" "Oh, no, your clerk made such a good selection for me that I've got all I shall need. This is something more important." Then Teddy hurriedly told the merchant how and where he had first met Hazelton; explained fully what the latter's business was; of the accusations made by Uncle Nathan; what he and Dan had heard and seen, and concluded by repeating the request made by the fakir as he was led away to jail. "Are you willing to do anything for him?" the boy asked, as his story was finished. "I can't say it is a matter which appeals very strongly to my sympathies, because of the swindles he perpetrated, but if it is an unjust accusation something should be done to help him. The one lawyer above all others who can be of assistance came over with me this morning. I will see him, and later in the day you shall have a call from us." "Before you go I wish you would take this money," Teddy said, earnestly. "It is too large an amount for me to carry around, and it will be safe with you." The merchant consented to take charge of Hazelton's ill-gotten gains, and Teddy felt decidedly relieved when the cash was in another's keeping, and he had nothing of more value than an acknowledgment of the same to look after. "In this matter I shall recognize no other order than yours," the merchant said when the transaction was concluded, "and if the fakir should succeed in regaining his liberty he must come to you for the necessary document. "I don't care how it is fixed so long as the money is not in my hands," Teddy replied, in a tone of satisfaction, and then he was called upon to attend to another rush of customers, every one of whom was eager to be waited upon first. Another hour passed, and it was more evident than before that Mr. Sweet had been correct when he stated the sum which should be taken in at the cane-board. Teddy, having breakfasted early, was so hungry that he was on the point of going out to buy a supply of sandwiches, when another visitor arrived. This was no less a personage than Uncle Nathan, and he greeted his nephew with the utmost cordiality, as he said: "It looks to me as if you were makin' a power of money here, Teddy. I had no idea these triflin' games would so attract the people." Glad to be on pleasant terms with the old man once more, Teddy stated that they had been at work very hard since the first train arrived, and concluded by saying: "I took over sixty dollars yesterday, and Mr. Sweet says it'll come near to a hundred to-day." "Sixty dollars!" the old man cried. "Are you telling me the truth, Teddy Hargreaves?" "Of course I am, an' I've got the money in my pocket to prove it." "Why, at this rate you'll soon be a rich man, for you don't seem to lose much of the stock." "We buy a good many canes or knives back. When a man puts a ring over one that he don't want we take it in, and give him five more chances. In that way there is very little goes out compared to the amount of money received." Uncle Nathan looked around at the players for a moment, and then in a very confidential tone he whispered: "See here, Teddy, don't you want a partner? I'll pay for the stock you bought, an'----" "I've already done that out of yesterday's receipts," Teddy cried. "All the bills are settled, an' what comes in now is clear profit." "But suppose I stood here an' called up the people I know, don't you think it would make business better?" "And if it should, do you think we could attend to more customers? Every minute I talk with you is so much money lost, for the other fellers can't pick up rings an' make change fast enough." "Does that mean you don't want to go into business with me?" the old man asked, angrily. "No; but it means that there would be no reason for doing such a thing. I've got no debts, an' there are more customers than can be attended to on so small a board. If you'd made the proposition last Monday it would have been different, but now you can't expect me, after taking all the risk, to divide after the work has been done." "Who lent you the money to start, Teddy Hargreaves?" Uncle Nathan cried, his face growing purple with rage. "You did." "And how have you repaid such generosity? How----" "I gave you three dollars for the use of fifteen two days," was the prompt reply. "But how have you repaid me for remaining inactive after my money was stolen?" "That was something which did not concern me, therefore I had nothing to repay." "It has a great deal to do with you, as shall be shown before this day is ended, unless you consent to take me as an equal partner in this enterprise. Your friend in crime has been arrested, and I can swear that he turned over to you his ill-gotten gains. One word from me at this time and you will be in the same prison." The fact of his having been threatened before made Teddy bold, and he said, quietly: "I won't pay you for holding your tongue, Uncle Nathan, so do whatever you choose." "I will inform the authorities of all I have learned this morning, and we shall see what the result will be," the old man cried, in a fury, as he walked away, and despite the bold bearing he had assumed Teddy firmly believed that if the magistrate who issued the warrant for Hazelton's arrest should know he was in possession of the fakir's money, he would be brought before a bar of justice to explain matters. CHAPTER XXI. WITH THE BURGLARS. It is well to look in upon Sam during his enforced vigil of Wednesday night. For at least two hours after the burglars had departed he thought of nothing save that he would soon be killed, and, perhaps, devoured by wild animals. Then the pain in his jaw and limbs became so great, owing to the tightly bound cords and his inability to move, that his sufferings overcame the fear to a certain extent, and he had not even the poor consolation of being able to give vent to an audible groan. Notwithstanding the mental and bodily torture he did sleep occasionally during the night, which appeared to be of twenty-four hours' duration, and never had he heard a sweeter sound than when his captors approached, the hum of their voices reaching him before the noise of their footsteps. The burglars were laden with packages of what appeared to be merchandise, and by the faint light of the coming day Sam could see that they looked heated and tired. "Well, how's our detective?" Long Jim asked, with a laugh, as he threw himself on the ground by the boy's side. "Has he decided to arrest his victims, or will he give them a little show of leaving the country?" As a matter of course Sam could not make any reply; but the expression in his eyes must have told of the suffering which he was forced to endure, for Phil said, as he began to untie the rope holding the gag in place: "There's no need of keepin' him trussed up any longer, an' I reckon it'll be a relief to have a chance to use his tongue once more." Even when he was free the prisoner was unable to do more than roll upon his side. His limbs were so stiff and cramped that he had no power over them, and he could not have risen to his feet just at that moment if his life had depended upon it. Jim seemed to think all this was very comical, for he laughed loudly at the prisoner's helplessness, and suggested that if he intended to follow the business of a detective to practice remaining in one position in order to avoid such a complete collapse when fortune should again be so unkind to him as she had been in this particular case. When the burglar's mirth finally ceased the two men lighted their pipes, and proceeded to enjoy a season of repose after so much fatiguing work, while Sam was left to recover as best he might. Fully half an hour elapsed before he succeeded in crawling to the brook where he quenched his thirst, and then his one desire was for sleep. Stretched out on the ground within a few feet of his captors the blissful unconsciousness of slumber came upon him, and the sun was high in the heavens before he awoke. Long Jim was seated on the turf, his back against a tree, and a quantity of food spread out in front of him; but Phil was not in sight. "Well, it strikes me you've been takin' things mighty comfortable," the man said, with a grunt. "Don't give yourself so far over to a life of pleasure as to forget that I promised to give you the greatest floggin' of your life before we part, for then you won't be so much surprised when it comes." The sight of the food caused Sam to realize how very hungry he was, and, regardless of the subject introduced by Jim, he asked, timidly: "Can't I have somethin' to eat?" "I don't think you can, my son. In the first place you haven't earned it, an' then, again, my partner an' I may need all the grub we've got on hand." Then, as if reconsidering his determination, the man selected two small crackers, tossing them to Sam as he cut a slice of boiled ham for himself. "That's more'n you deserve," he said, as the prisoner began to devour them eagerly; "so don't count on gettin' another bite to-day." Sam literally devoured the food, and then went once more to the brook to wash down the dry repast. It seemed as if the crackers increased rather than satisfied his hunger, and he watched Jim eagerly as the latter finished a generous meal of meat, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs. The burglar lighted his pipe, and paid no attention to the hungry boy, who now had ample time for reflection. He remembered that this was the important day of the fair, and pictured to himself Teddy and Dan at their work enjoying themselves at the same time they were making money. Then he thought of what he might be doing if the detective fever had not taken so firm a hold upon him, and, despite all efforts to prevent it, the tears coursed down his cheeks, plowing wide furrows in the dirt with which his face was encrusted. This painful revery was not prolonged. Shortly before noon Phil came into the hiding-place, his face wearing an expression of entire satisfaction. "I reckon we needn't be afraid any one will be here lookin' for us now our detective has been drowned," he exclaimed. "What's up?" Jim asked. "Hazelton, the fakir, has been arrested for the burglary at Peach Bottom, an' men are draggin' the creek to find the body of the boy who worked for the Davis Boat Company." Sam actually shuddered at the thought that people were looking for his corpse, and it gave him an "uncanny" feeling, this idea that he was numbered with the dead. "When was the arrest made?" Jim asked. "Last night. Old Nathan from the Run says the fakir turned over a lot of money to the boy who was goin' to buy your cane-board, an' it looks very much as if he would be locked up with the man whom people believe is his partner." "Nothin' said about what the cubs saw at the barn?" "Not a word." "Then we can count on havin' the balance of this week in which to leave the country." "As much as that, if not more. Another load will get the stuff together; but I've been thinkin' we'd better bury it here, an' not try to move a thing for a month or two." "In that case we'd be obliged to take that specimen along," and Jim pointed with a contemptuous gesture toward Sam. "It wouldn't do to let go of him while there was a chance of his givin' the game away." "I'll 'tend to that part of it, an' guarantee he won't be in condition to make us much trouble," Phil said so confidently that Sam began to shake as with an ague fit, for it seemed positive to him this burglar had decided upon his murder. "If things were so comfortable like why don't you try to make a dollar, for I reckon there's a big crowd at the fair?" "The grounds are packed; but it ain't exactly safe to do much business," and Phil told of the assault upon Hazelton. "The whole boilin' of 'em now think everybody's tryin' to work some swindle," he added, "an' the consequence is that it would go hard with any feller who should slip up. We've done enough for one week, an' I'd rather not take chances till this stuff is off our hands." "Do you count on goin' back agin to-day?" "What's the use?" "I only asked, for you're managin' this whole thing now." "My idea was to sneak up alone to-night; take on the balance of the stuff, an' then lay low till Saturday evenin', when we'll make the big break." "It's goin' to be mighty dull business sittin' here with nothin' to do," Jim replied, in a tone of complaint. "I don't see how we can fix it much quicker, unless we go to-morrow, while there are so many around." It was evident Jim did not relish the idea of leaving everything to his companion, and the latter so understood the expression on his friend's face, for he said, angrily: "You're cookin' up some foolish scheme now, an' in spite of all I can do to prevent it we'll probably succeed in gettin' nabbed before matters are arranged as they should be." "Oh, you're too smart, that's what ails you. Take all the soft snaps, an' leave me here to suck my thumbs without even the chance of movin' around." "If you think it's sich a snap to row up there an' back, why don't you try your hand." "That's jest what I'm willin' to do. Anything's better'n stayin' here, an' I'd like you to have a taste of it." Sam, who was expecting each moment to see the thieves come to blows, understood at once that this arrangement did not please Phil; but he made no further objection than to say: "If you wasn't so blamed careless I'd like to have you do a share of the hard work; but it's ten to one you'll contrive to let everybody know you are there." "I may not be so all-fired smart as you think you are, but I ain't quite a fool. Why, I've managed bigger things than this when you was around beggin' for something' to eat, 'cause you was too chicken-hearted to do this kind of work." "You'd better not say too much; I've stuck by you when worse men would have a' given you the cold shake, an' don't intend to take any guff, especially since I've had sich hard work to get us out of the scrape you jumped into." "I shall talk, an' if you don't want to listen, there are plenty of places to lay off in outside of this." Then the two thieves glared at each other several moments in silence, and finally Phil said, with a mirthless laugh: "We won't fight till this job is finished. Go an' get the balance of the stuff, an' we'll make a break whenever you are ready; but after one pull up an' back there'll be somebody besides me who'll think it hard work." Then, in order to heal the breach which had opened between them, Phil produced a suspicious looking black bottle from his pocket, and handed it without comment to his partner. "Why didn't you bring this out before, an' then, perhaps, the business would 'a' looked different?" Jim growled, as he drank long and deep; "but it won't make any difference about my goin' up the creek." "That's all right; I'm satisfied." As the two men began to drink a great hope sprang up in Sam's heart that they would become so stupefied by the liquor that he might make his escape. They had not thought it necessary to replace the bonds which had cost him so much suffering, and at the first signs of unconsciousness he resolved to make one dash for liberty, either by taking to the boat, or attempting to make his way toward the fair grounds on that side of the creek. There was no such good fortune in store for the prisoner, however. The men drank themselves into the most friendly humor, and then the supply of liquor was exhausted. After advising Jim not to start until sunset, Phil lay down to sleep, and Sam thought it wise to feign slumber also, lest the wakeful burglar should take it into his head to administer the promised flogging in order to pass the time more agreeably. CHAPTER XXII. _A DISASTER._ Teddy was decidedly uncomfortable in mind after Uncle Nathan departed. By a combination of circumstances which could not well have been avoided, he had been made to appear as a confederate of Hazelton, and if all the facts concerning his relations with the fakir should become known public opinion would he against him. He did not allow these forebodings to interfere with business, however. Customers were plenty; the nickels were coming in as rapidly as he could make change, and Tim had no hesitancy in saying that Mr. Sweet had set their receipts of one day considerably too low. "We've done twice as much as we did yesterday at this time, an' I'm countin' on gettin' twelve or fifteen dollars as my share of this day's work." "It looks as though you wouldn't be disappointed, and that's a fact. I wish I knew where we could get a few more canes, for we've lost quite a good many this morning." "There's no time to go to Waterville; but we can shorten the board by putting the uprights closer together, an' that'll make the layout look all right. Here comes your mother, an' if you want to go off with her I'll promise to keep things goin' here." That was exactly what Teddy did want to do. He felt that it was necessary she should know the true condition of affairs, and he could not talk with her confidentially near the cane-board, therefore when she came up he proposed that they walk toward the grand stand, where the Waterville band was doing its best to put in the shade the performances of the musicians from the Run. "You are looking worried, Teddy," Mrs. Hargreaves said, as they moved away in the proposed direction. "What is the matter? Isn't business as good as you expected?" "It is a great deal better; but Uncle Nathan has been here again, and this time I'm afraid it is in his power to do me some harm." Then Teddy told his mother all that had happened, explaining in detail the suspicions which might be aroused against him, and she was quite as disturbed as he when the recital was finished. "I will talk with him myself," she said, after some thought. "Don't do anything of the kind, for then he will be worse than ever, thinking he can frighten me into giving half of all I have made, and that I won't do, no matter how many warrants he gets out." "But Teddy, don't you think----" Mrs. Hargreaves was interrupted by a cry from a half-intoxicated man who halted directly in front of the young fakir, and shouted to some of his companions in the rear: "Here he is! This is the sneak who helped take that jewelry swindler's money away. I saw him then, an' can swear to his face." As a matter of course the tone as well as the words was sufficient to attract a crowd in this place where the throng was so dense that one could only make his way from one portion of the grounds to the other with the greatest difficulty, and for a moment, while Teddy stood unable to decide what should be said or done, every person looked at him threateningly. "His partner has been arrested, an' we'll serve him in the same way," the man continued, as he advanced toward the boy. "Why do you want to talk to me like that?" Teddy cried, looking around in vain for a friend. "There are plenty of people here who know me, for I live down at the Run, an' never swindled anybody." "That's a lie!" the man replied, fiercely, seizing the boy by the collar. "It's the truth!" Mrs. Hargreaves cried. "I'm his mother, and we have lived at the Run ever since he was born. Deacon Jones is our neighbor, and he can answer for the truth of it." [Illustration: "I tell you to let go of him. He is an acquaintance"] "I'll see whether he can or not," and the bully was about to drag Teddy away, aided by his half-intoxicated friend, when a familiar voice from the outskirts of the crowd cried: "Hold on there! What are you about?" "I've caught the feller what sneaked away the jewelry swindler's money, an' am goin' to put him with his partner." "You are going to take your hand off his collar this instant, or get yourself into trouble," and the merchant from Waterville forced his way through the throng until he stood by Teddy's side. "Is that you, Mr. Reaves?" the bully asked, in surprise. "Well, you don't want to interfere in this business, for the boy is a bad one all the way through. He was deep enough to get the best of us yesterday; but he won't be so lucky now." "I tell you to let go of him. He is an acquaintance of mine whom I would trust a good deal sooner than some whom I see now." "But you are makin' a big mistake, Mr. Reaves, for I saw him makin' off with the valise where our money had been put." It was evident the bully had considerable respect for the merchant, for he released his hold on Teddy; but was determined that the boy's alleged character should be made known to all in the vicinity. "I happen to know all about that affair," Mr. Reaves replied, as he led Teddy and his mother out of the throng, "and if you want the full particulars of the affair come to my store when you are more sober than now." A very large number of those present were acquainted with the merchant, and for the majority his statement was sufficient to absolve Teddy of wrongdoing; but a few, among whom were the intoxicated party and his friends, vowed to sift the matter more thoroughly before the fair came to an end. Mrs. Hargreaves was terribly excited, and at once insisted that Teddy should go home with her immediately, regardless of how much money he was making; but Mr. Reaves said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if such incidents were of everyday occurrence: "It would be foolish for him to do that, more especially since it would be a tacit acknowledgment of guilt, and, besides, his business here is too valuable to be abandoned simply because a drunken rowdy chooses to make trouble. I was on my way to see him; I have found a lawyer who will under-take Hazelton's case, and he can at the same time give Teddy some good advice." Then the merchant introduced Mr. Harvey as the most prominent attorney in the county, and, offering Mrs. Hargreaves his arm, added: "We will go toward the cane-board, and give them an opportunity to talk. "There is a great deal to be said which cannot interest us, and when they are done we shall be readily found." The widow could do no less than comply, and as soon as they were comparatively alone the lawyer said to Teddy: "Now, I want you to begin and tell me the whole story from the time your money was stolen until this minute. Don't omit any particulars because you may chance to think they are not important; but give every detail, and thus I shall be made acquainted with your own case as well as that of Hazelton." Teddy obeyed this command to the letter. He dwelt upon the most minute transaction or trifling movement at sufficient length to give the listener a clear idea of all that had happened, and laid bare his own business affairs, even to the extent of making the lawyer acquainted with the amount of receipts each day. "I don't suppose it makes any difference what I think," he said, in conclusion; "but I am almost certain Mr. Hazelton did not have anything to do with the robbery, and even if I had suspected him, that which Dan and I heard while we were in the museum tent would have convinced me that the men whom we saw on the creek are the thieves." "I believe as you do, my boy, and will send a man to the barn you speak of this very night, although so much time has now elapsed that I have no hope of finding anything criminating. However, regardless of what may happen, I believe we can show that the fakir was not the guilty party, and, to guard against a possible attack by your uncle, it will be necessary to know exactly where we can get bail in case you should be arrested." "Then he can take me to jail?" Teddy asked, with quivering lips. "If he proves what he claims to know there is no question that he will be able to cause your arrest; but whether he can send you to prison is an entirely different matter. I would now like to have a talk with Mr. Reaves, and shall see you before I leave the grounds. Do not be frightened; but continue your business as usual, and in a few moments I will give you full particulars as to what must be done in the event anything happens." Teddy understood this to be an intimation that the interview was at an end, and he started toward the cane-board, the lawyer asking as he followed him: "How shall I find your friend Dan?" "Go down to the exhibit of the J. Stevens Arms and Tool Company in that yellow-roofed building, and you will see him showing model pocket rifles. I will go with you if you think there is any chance of missing him." "I can find him without difficulty. Do not leave your place of business until after I have seen you again." By this time they had arrived at the cane-board, where Mrs. Hargreaves, looking decidedly relieved in mind, was talking with Mr. Reaves. The lawyer invited the merchant to accompany him, and as the two walked away Mrs. Hargreaves said: "After talking with Mr. Reaves I will take back what I proposed regarding taking you home. It is not possible that anything but the right shall conquer in a case like this, and I believe you will come out all right, as a boy should who has always been as obedient and loving as you. It is time for me to be going now; but I will come back again in the morning." "Then take this money with you, for I don't want any more in my pockets than is absolutely necessary," and Teddy counted out the contents of the box which served him as a "safe." There was but little time for any lengthy leave-taking. The customers were plenty; Tim and his assistant had been working several hours without cessation, and Teddy felt that it was his duty to relieve them. "You can trust Mr. Reaves, whatever happens," his mother said, as she kissed him goodby, "and I shall be back to-morrow to learn if you are all right." "Don't worry about me," Teddy replied, cheerily. "Uncle Nathan can't have everything his own way, and he will soon discover that fact." It seemed to Teddy that his mother had but just left him, when a party of young men who had been talking in an apparently friendly manner directly in front of his place of business, suddenly began to quarrel, and before he was aware of what had happened his booth was overturned, and a fierce battle being waged upon the ground which he fancied belonged temporarily to him because of the money paid to the managers of the fair as rent. Canes, knives, rings, and timbers were thrown violently about, and, while trying to save the property, Teddy and his clerk received several severe blows intended for some of the combatants. CHAPTER XXIII. _A SECOND ARREST._ When the fight began Teddy's first thought was that it had been prearranged by some one who wanted to do him an injury without taking the chances of being arrested on a charge of malicious mischief. Tim believed it to be a scheme for robbing the money box, and while the combatants were struggling close around him he emptied the contents into his trousers pockets, regardless of the chance blows received meanwhile. That both were wrong in their conjectures could be told later, as the fight assumed the proportions of a small riot, and the battle ground was soon shifted to an open space in front of the exhibition buildings. It was nothing more than a causeless row such as is often witnessed at fairs where intoxicating beverages are sold, and which start from comparatively nothing, illustrating the proverb: "See what a great fire a little spark can kindle." "This is goin' to knock our hundred dollars in the head," Tim said, ruefully, as he began to gather up the scattered stock when the combatants had surged to and fro until they were some distance from the wrecked cane-board. "It'll take an hour to straighten things out, an' all that time will be the same as lost." "It might be worse," Teddy replied, philosophically, "and, besides, we shouldn't be able to do any business while that row is going on. If you hadn't thought of the money it might have been lost, for there were so many close around me that I couldn't get at the box." "Oh, if you want to pick somethin' good out of the trouble, I'll help. This will give us a chance to shorten the board so the stock won't look quite so small." The young fakirs were ready for business in considerably less time than they had fancied would be the case. Nearly every one on the grounds was attracted by the riot, and among those who came to the scene of the conflict was Dan. Instead of watching the struggling, yelling throng, he helped Teddy and Tim restore the booth to order, and with such aid as the assistant could give the work was done very quickly. Before the spectators had quieted down sufficiently to turn their attention to sport once more everything was ready for business, and when the constables had taken the ringleaders in the fight away, money began once more to roll into Teddy's coffers. Before Dan returned to his own work he heard of all that had occurred since morning, and his comments on Uncle Nathan's behavior were more forcible than polite. "He's an old fool what oughter be rode on a rail till he can't see, an' I'm goin' over to the Run before I start for home jest to give the duffer a piece of my mind." "I don't believe that would do either you or him any good," Teddy replied, laughingly. "I don't know what effect it'll have on him; but I'll feel a mighty sight better. He shows himself to be the worst swindler on the grounds when he tries to scare you into givin' him half you've made, for that's what his talk means." "If he don't do any worse than threaten I won't say a word; but he's so mad there's no knowin' what'll happen." "The lawyer will see that you pull through all right; but if trouble should come, be sure to send for me. I'll manage to get off somehow." With this assurance Dan hurried back to the exhibition buildings, and Teddy was free to assist Tim in waiting upon the customers. During the remainder of the afternoon the young fakirs had quite as much as they could attend to, and then, just as trade had so fallen off that Tim could wait upon the customers alone with the aid of the assistant, Teddy received a call from Mr. Harvey, the lawyer. "Come here behind the booth where we can talk without being overheard," he said, peremptorily, and the boy obeyed at once, asking before the attorney had time to speak: "Do you know if Uncle Nathan is goin' to do anything?" "He is certainly trying very hard, and in case he should succeed in getting a warrant, you will demand of the officer who serves it to be taken directly to Deacon Jones. Mr. Reaves and I have just had a talk with him, and in our absence he will render such assistance as you may require." "That sounds as if you believed Uncle Nathan would be able to do as he threatened." "It is well to be prepared for any emergency, since no man can say exactly what may happen. During the night two constables will go to the barn on the marshes where you saw the burglars carry some of the goods, although I do not think any good is liable to result from the visit, for the men have probably been frightened away by this time. Enough may be found, however, to prove the truth of your story, and that will be sufficient to give the thick-headed authorities an inkling that their judgment as to who the burglars are is not infallible." "Have you seen Mr. Hazelton yet?" "No; but I shall call on him before going home. The best thing which could happen now for all concerned would be the arrest of the man you call Long Jim, and to that end both you and Dan must keep a sharp lookout, for it is barely possible he may be bold enough to come on the grounds again." "But what could we do in case we did see him?" "Follow him quietly until you meet a constable, and then insist that he be arrested for swindling you out of fifteen dollars. There is not sufficient proof to connect him with the robbery here or at the Run; but I will take care that he is held long enough as a common swindler to enable us to sift the other matter. Let me see, you said Dan was with you at the time of the transaction in Waterville?" "No; it was poor Sam, and now that he is dead I'm the only one who saw Long Jim there. Do you know if they have found Sam's body?" "I think not; men have been dragging the creek all day, and the probabilities now are that some time will elapse before it can be recovered. I want you to be very careful during the remainder of to-day and to-night. Go to the tent where you sleep before dark, and do not venture outside under any provocation, no matter what message may be brought." "What do you mean?" Teddy asked, in surprise. "Nothing particular; I am only taking precautions, that is all. I shall be here to-morrow, and will see you then." The lawyer turned to go, and had just passed out from behind the end of the booth when Teddy seized his arm, pulling him back very suddenly. "There's Long Jim now!" he whispered, excitedly. "See! That man over there by the striking machine!" It was indeed the burglar whose partner had warned him against visiting the fair, or even showing himself in the vicinity during the daytime. It could be plainly seen that he was decidedly under the influence of liquor, and he swaggered to and fro as if in his drunken brain was the idea that no one would dare cause him trouble. "Are you certain there is no mistake?" the lawyer asked, as he watched the man. "I'd be able to recognize him anywhere, no matter how he was dressed, an' so would Dan, for Sam an' me pointed him out two or three times." "Then the hardest portion of our work is finished. I shall have him arrested on the charge of swindling you, and can arrange it without the formality of first getting a warrant. It is now more necessary than ever that you should remain where I can find you readily at any hour of the day or night." "Except when I go for supper, I'll be here or in the tent," Teddy replied, and then there was no further opportunity for conversation. Long Jim had started leisurely, and on anything rather than a straight course, toward the grand stand, and Mr. Harvey followed so near that he could have placed his hand on the burglar's shoulder. Teddy watched until the two were lost to view amid the throng, and then said to himself, with a sigh: "I'll bet the lawyer can't find a constable, an' that Long Jim gets clear somehow. But what I don't understand is how he dares to come here." He would have run down to tell Dan of the startling news had it not been for Mr. Harvey's injunction to remain in the places designated, and he was so nervous that only with the greatest difficulty could he wait upon an impatient customer. An hour passed, and nothing had been heard from either the lawyer or the burglar. The visitors remained later on this day than usual; but the tardy ones were departing, and it was with a decided sense of relief that Teddy began to pack up his stock for the night. Dan arrived before the work was finished, and his excitement was great when he learned of what had happened. "Can't we go somewhere to find out if the man was arrested?" he asked, eagerly. "I promised to be on hand in case the lawyer should want me." "Then we'll get the stuff to the tent, go to supper, an' afterward I'll snoop 'round to hear the news." All hands worked rapidly, and in ten minutes the three boys were at the boarding-house, eating as if each moment were of the utmost importance, when they overheard a conversation between two men at the next table which caused them no slight degree of relief and pleasure: "Who was that drunken fellow Constable Ford lugged off this evening?" one of the men asked, and the other replied: "A man who swindled a boy over at Waterville out of fifteen dollars." "I didn't see any boy in the crowd." "He wasn't there. Lawyer Harvey recognized the fellow, and insisted on his arrest, sayin' that the 'Squire already knew about the case." "I thought at first it might be some one who had been robbing the stores around here." "Oh, the burglar has been caught already, an' laid in jail since yesterday." "But he was only arrested on suspicion." "There'll be proof enough to convict him, I reckon, an' if there isn't he ought to be sent to jail for six months because of what he has done on the grounds." Then the conversation was changed to a subject in which the boys had no interest, and Dan whispered to Teddy: "That settles Long Jim, an' now if your lawyer is as smart as he appears to be it won't take long to show that Hazelton didn't have anything to do with the burglar tryin' to get me in jail," Teddy replied, with a sigh. "Of course it will. Things are turning out all right after all, an' if poor Sam hadn't been drowned we'd have a reg'lar celebration to-night." CHAPTER XXIV. _A THIRD ARREST._ When the boys returned to the museum tent from supper they had a long and interesting story to tell Mr. Sweet; but to their surprise, after the recital was concluded, he said calmly: "I knew all of that except about the burglar's arrest." "Why, how did you hear it?" Dan asked. "The lawyer an' the merchant have been over here twice since noon, pumpin' me about Hazelton, an' tryin' to find out how you boys have behaved yourselves." "Why did they want to know anything about us?" Teddy asked, in surprise. "So's to make sure your stories were straight. When men like them take hold of a thing they don't want to run any chances of bein' fooled. What has been done about Sam?" Dan could best answer this question, and he replied: "The body hasn't been found; but I heard the manager of the Davis Boat Company's exhibit say that he should keep men at the work of draggin' the creek till the work was finished. I can't get through my head how he happened to capsize the craft, for she didn't seem to be cranky." "That is something none of us will ever know," Mr. Sweet replied, solemnly, and then, as if to change the mournful subject, he asked: "How did business pan out to-day, Teddy?" "I'll count up. We must have come pretty near to what you predicted; but we would have done a great deal better if it hadn't been for the big row. That made us lose at least an hour, to say nothin' of havin' six canes broken just when we needed every one in order to make a good show." Then Teddy and Tim emptied the contents of their pockets on a piece of canvas, and the other occupants of the tent waited patiently for the result to be announced. "It's ninety-four dollars and forty-five cents," the former said, after counting the money twice as if doubtful of the first result. "That's a big sum of money, but there's no chance of a mistake." "You can figure that the row cost you six dollars," Mr. Sweet replied, puffing vigorously at his pipe. "I haven't been 'tendin' out on fairs these eight years without bein' able to name the amount of such a business as yours." "We'd have had twenty-five more but for that row," Tim said, decidedly. "You're wrong there, my boy," and the proprietor of the museum wore an air of one who "knows it all." "That is about as much as two boys can take in, an' you don't want to kick, for I've seen lots of fakirs come on to a fair ground with a better cane-board than yours an' not get expenses. Be thankful for what you've earned, an' hope that you can pay expenses to-morrow, for there won't be any too much money floatin' around after such a business as we've had to-day." "I'm more than satisfied," Teddy replied, as he set aside the amount due Tim, and the latter appeared to be more than contented with having earned nine dollars and forty-four cents so easily. "You can suck your thumbs from now out," the barker said, philosophically, "for the backbone of trade has been broken, an' the Peach Bottom fair is already numbered with the things of the past." "Don't you think we'll do anything more?" Teddy asked. "Oh, yes, there'll be a little to pick up until to-morrow night, but it won't amount to anything near like what has already been done, although it'll be clear profit." "Since I am more than satisfied, there's no chance of being disappointed," Teddy replied, and at that moment the head of a stranger appeared between the flaps of canvas. "Is there a boy named Teddy here?" the newcomer asked. "Well, what do you want of him?" and Mr. Sweet sprang to his feet as if anticipating trouble. "Nothing more than what Hazelton wanted me to say," was the reply, as the stranger entered, evidently thinking his search was at an end. "And what is that?" the proprietor of the museum asked, motioning Teddy to remain silent. "There's no need of all this secrecy with me, for I'm Hazelton's partner in everything except the give-away game," the stranger said, with a laugh. "It appears a man has been arrested by a party whom this boy Teddy knows, and I'm to say that he is to come to jail very early to-morrow morning." Even now Mr. Sweet's suspicions were not allayed, and he asked, cautiously: "Could you tell me what he's wanted for?" "Lawyer Harvey will be there, and is going to talk with him where Hazelton can hear what is said." "Is that all?" "Everything; and if you see the boy, can I depend on your repeating the message?" "Under the circumstances there can be no harm in taking every precaution," the proprietor of the museum replied, "and if your errand is finished, I may as well say that this is the boy Teddy whom Hazelton sent you to see." "That's all right; there was no need of pointing him out; but since you have done so, I simply want to ask if he can spare the time to do as Hazelton and the lawyer wish?" "Of course I can," and now Teddy spoke for himself. "Say that if nothing happens I'll be there." "Have you heard whether your uncle has succeeded in getting a warrant?" the stranger asked. "No; but Mr. Harvey seemed to think he might be able to do so, and I don't want to make any promises that can't be carried out." "Then I'll count on your being there, but since leaving the jail I've heard enough to warrant my advising you to remain under cover to-night." "Why?" "Those fellows who started the fight when you got away with the money are swearing vengeance. I don't think it's likely they'll attack the tent, for, owing to the representations made by the lawyer, there'll be a big force of constables on duty to-night; but if you should venture outside the grounds it might be impossible to keep any engagement in the future." "I wasn't thinkin' of leaving here," Teddy replied; but the mere fact that he ought not do so made him feel very uncomfortable. "I couldn't be in any worse fix if I had committed some big crime," he said, bitterly, "and it is tough to feel like a criminal when a fellow is only trying to earn honest money." "It isn't the rule that honest people fare the best," the stranger replied, with a laugh; "but I hope you'll come out on the top of the heap. At all events, my business here is finished and I'll go." The folds of canvas dropped behind him, and Mr. Sweet said, musingly: "It beats all how you boys have succeeded in getting yourselves mixed up in this affair. If I didn't know all the circumstances I'd say there must be some fire where there is so much smoke." "The smoke isn't of our makin', an' Teddy's uncle can be blamed for the most of it," Dan said, angrily. "I only wish he was here to know my opinion of him." "Are you talkin' about me?" Uncle Nathan asked, as he pushed aside the canvas and entered without so much as asking permission. "That's exactly what I was doing," Dan replied, without any show of fear, "an' if you've been sneakin' 'round to listen, there's no need of my tellin' over ag'in jest what I think of a man who tries to frighten an honest boy into givin' up half of what he has made." "An honest boy?" the old man repeated, with a sneer, and Teddy whispered to his friend: "Don't say anything to make him angry, for I'll only get the worst of it." "Of course you will," Uncle Nathan replied, having overheard the words. "When an ungrateful wretch like you conspires to rob the hand that has fed him he must expect to get the worst of it." "I never took from you the value of a cent," Teddy said, stoutly, and Dan cried as he sprang to his feet: "If there has been any attempt at robbery, you're the guilty one, for you've tried to steal half the money he made by threatening to have him arrested if he didn't divide his profits." "That was only a business proposition," the old man replied, not in the least abashed, "and he has aided others in stealing from me." "What do you want here?" Mr. Sweet cried, angrily. "This is my tent; I have paid for the privilege of putting it upon these grounds, and have the right to prevent such old hypocrites as you from entering without paying an admission." "Look out that you do not come within reach of the law," Uncle Nathan replied, threateningly, stepping back quickly, as if expecting an attack. "I am here armed with the right to take this boy, and shall exercise it despite all that may be said. Come in, Mr. Officer." In response to this call a constable entered, and Teddy's heart sank within him, for he understood that the long-deferred arrest was about to be made. "There is your prisoner," the old man said, vindictively, as he pointed to the boy, "and the sooner you take him to jail where he belongs the sooner we shall be rid of a viper." [Illustration: As the constable approached him, Teddy said, "I demand to be first taken to Deacon Jones!"] Teddy's grief and fear were so great that he could not speak, and even Dan appeared to have been made dumb by this show of authority; but Mr. Sweet was somewhat accustomed to such scenes, and he demanded: "Show me the warrant. I do not propose to let any one be taken out of my tent by such an old reprobate as that until I am satisfied it is done under the sanction of the law." "Convince yourself," Uncle Nathan replied, as the constable held out a folded document. "That will show under what authority we act." Sweet read it carefully, and handed it to the officer as he said to the old man: "This shows that the constable has the right to take Teddy to prison; but as certain as there will be a sun in the sky to-morrow so certain will I aid him in making you suffer for doing this thing. You know he had nothing to do with the burglary committed at your store, and have only had this issued in the hope of defrauding him of what he has earned honestly." "Talk is cheap," Uncle Nathan said, impatiently. "Officer, take your prisoner away unless you count on stayin' here all night." The short parley between the proprietor of the museum and the accuser gave Teddy time to think of what the lawyer had said, and he added, as the constable approached him: "I demand to be first carried to Deacon Jones'." "Now what kind of a bee have you got in your bonnet?" the old man cried, displaying both surprise and fear. "I say you are to go to jail, an' that settles it." "If he wants to see the deacon I'm bound to take him there," the constable said. "Who's been makin' sich foolish talk to you?" Uncle Nathan screamed. "Lawyer Harvey told me what the law was, an' I don't intend to get into any fuss by deprivin' a prisoner of his rights," was the stolid reply. CHAPTER XXV. ON BAIL. When Uncle Nathan learned that the celebrated lawyer had made preparations for this move on his part he was literally beside himself with rage, and vowed that the warrant should be served and the prisoner taken to jail immediately, or he would see to it that the constable was deprived of his commission without delay. "I've served the warrant," the man said, quietly, "an' now the prisoner is in my custody. You have no more to say what shall be done with him than that goat, so shut your mouth." "I'll shut yours so close it won't be opened again for a month!" the old man screamed. "Do as I tell you, or take the consequences." "And I'm goin' to give you the same advice," Mr. Sweet cried, as he advanced toward Uncle Nathan threateningly. "Now the boy has been arrested, you are an intruder here, an' I'll give you thirty seconds in which to get out; after that we'll make an example of such a reprobate." "I'll go when I get ready, an' not a minute before. Lay a hand on me an' I'll have a warrant for you." "If you can get it, well and good. I now order you out for the last time. In thirty seconds I'll guarantee you won't be in condition to walk." While their employer had been speaking the barker and the clown silently ranged themselves by his side, ready for any commands which might be given, and the infuriated old man had sufficient sense left to let him understand it would be unsafe to linger. "I'll serve you out before this thing is ended," he cried, shaking his fist in impotent rage as he went toward the flap, and Dan, who could control himself no longer, replied: "You'd better begin on me, for I'm goin' to tell this thing to everybody who comes to the fair to-morrow, an' from what I've heard it wouldn't take much coaxin' to get the band from the Run up here, so's I could sing it. You're havin' a good time now; but there'll be a different side to the matter to-morrow." Mr. Sweet had followed Uncle Nathan so closely, literally turning him out, that he could not reply while inside the canvas; but once in the open air, he made threats that would have frightened any one who did not know the motive by which they had been inspired. Meanwhile the constable appeared disposed to take matters in the most comfortable manner. He asked Teddy why he wished to see Deacon Jones, and the boy said: "I don't know; but Mr. Harvey told me that if anything happened to-night I was to see the deacon." "Then we'll go there. Are you ready?" Teddy thought of his money, and, fearing lest it might be taken from him, asked if he could hand something to Mr. Sweet. "I think not," was the undecided reply. "The deacon will know, an' whatever he says I'll stand by." "Don't bother about anything just now," the proprietor of the museum said. "We'll all go with you, an' there'll be plenty of time to make necessary arrangements before you're taken to jail." Although the lawyer had assured him he could be involved in no serious trouble, the mere fact that he was under arrest sufficed to make Teddy wretched, and like one under sentence of death, he prepared to accompany the constable. Dan and Tim intended to join the party, as was shown by their remaining very close to the prisoner, and only the barker and the clown were left to care for the tent. Uncle Nathan was met on the outside, and he immediately began to insist that the boy be taken to jail at once; but the officer paid no attention to his ravings. "If you don't hold your tongue I'll knock the whole top of your head off," Mr. Sweet whispered, brandishing his fists in the most threatening manner, and the old man cried, excitedly: "Mr. Officer, I call upon you to bear witness that this man is threatening my life, and insist that you protect me from insult." "I've nothing to do with you," the constable replied, with a laugh. "The warrant has been served, an' all you've got to do is hold your horses till the case is called up in court." "Wait till I get home once more, an' then we'll see that he's got a good deal to do with the case," Tim cried. "I'll spend every minute from then for a week tellin' the folks that he only did this to make Teddy give up half of what he made, an' it'll be a pretty poor kind of a chump who'll do any more tradin' at his store." Uncle Nathan stepped toward the boy who had spoken so boldly as if he would inflict the direst punishment then and there; but he probably realized that this would prejudice his case, and contented himself by saying: "We'll see whether the people at the Run will believe a couple of boys who have been in league with burglars, for you mustn't forget, Tim Jones, that I have proof you helped Teddy to carry away the burglar's money." "If it'll do you any good I'll own up to the fact now," the boy replied. "It can't be so bad to do that as it is to arrest your own nephew because he won't give you half his money." "Don't say anything more," Teddy whispered to his friend. "It's only makin' matters worse, an' he's got the upper hand of us all jest now." "I don't know whether he has or not," the valiant Tim replied; "but at the same time it'll do him a world of good to let him hear the truth." At this point Uncle Nathan appeared to understand that he was not coming out victor in this battle of tongues, and he wisely held his peace, saying not another word until the little party arrived at the home of Deacon Jones. The manager of the fair was resting after a particularly hard day's work. More than one of the citizens of Peach Bottom had openly said he was responsible for the riot by allowing liquor to be sold on the grounds, and his greeting of the visitors was not calculated to assure the frightened Teddy. "Well, what do you want?" he cried, roughly, as they entered his library. "If it's anything concerning the fair I won't open my mouth. A man can't be driven to death with work and then disturbed at all hours of the night, simply to give the fools in this town a chance to make trouble." "All I know about it is that I arrested this boy, and he insisted on being brought to you, saying it was Lawyer Harvey's advice," the constable began, and the angry deacon immediately began to appear interested. "Is this your nephew, Nathan?" he asked of the old man, who now had a smirk of confidence on his face. "I'm sorry he is, deacon, an' after I set him up in business he goes ag'in me by givin' information to burglars, who rob me." "And you have had him arrested?" "I felt obliged to in the interest of society." "That's a lie," Mr. Sweet interrupted, angrily. "He tried to make the boy pay him half he earned on the fair grounds, and has done this thing only because Teddy refused." "We won't go into the details of the case, because I am not a magistrate," the deacon replied, with a majestic wave of the hand. "Mr. Officer, tell the 'Squire that I am prepared to go bail to any amount, and ask if the business can't be conducted here, for I'm too tired to go out of doors unless it is absolutely necessary." "What?" the old man screamed. "Will you answer for that little villain's appearance at court?" "That's what I said, Nathan. This affair is none of my business other than I have stated; but I must say you are goin' a leetle too far, not only in my opinion, but in that of others, an' it may prove a costly job for somebody before it's finished." The old man was literally speechless. He could not understand why the deacon should have turned against him so suddenly, and the last words made him decidedly uneasy. He was not to be silenced without a struggle, however. After the first surprise had died away he said, with a comical assumption of dignity: "I will see whether I'm to be browbeaten in this manner. The 'Squire does not dare to release the boy on bail, and I shall tell him so." With these words he left the house hurriedly, and the constable said to the deacon: "If you will write a line to the 'Squire, saying that you're ready to go bail, I do not think there will be any necessity of troubling you again to-night." This suggestion was immediately acted upon, and the weary manager of the fair penned the following words: I am ready to enter security to any amount for the appearance at court of Edward Hargreaves, and if you should not consider my bond sufficient, I am empowered to say that John Reaves, of Waterville, will add his name, therefore there can be no good reason for committing him to jail, since we are both responsible for the prisoner until the bond can be executed. A. JONES. Having received this the constable departed with the prisoner and his friends, and once on the outside he said, confidently: "The matter is settled, no matter how much old Nathan may rave. Both Mr. Reaves an' the deacon have got the 'Squire by the nose, and he must dance to their fiddlin'." That this assertion was correct Teddy realized a few moments later when he was ushered into the 'Squire's dining-room, and the latter, without paying the slightest attention to the prisoner, said to the officer: "I have just heard that you served the warrant I issued, and then took the boy to Deacon Jones' house. Is that correct?" "Straight as a string, 'Squire. Lawyer Harvey told him if anything happened to go there, an' I thought he had a right to look up bail before being lugged off to jail. Here's what the deacon's got to say about it." The 'Squire took the paper which the officer held out, and after reading it, said benignly: "You were quite correct in doing what you did, Mr. Constable. This is quite sufficient guarantee that he will be produced when wanted, and you may let him go. Give me the papers, and I will indorse them." After this formality had been gone through with the constable said to Mr. Sweet: "That settles the matter so far as Teddy is concerned, and with such men as the deacon, Mr. Reaves, and Lawyer Harvey to back him, I don't believe old Nathan will make any too much out of this job." "You are free to go where you please," the 'Squire added, and the young fakir with his friends left the house, wondering very much at the amount of influence which, unsolicited, had been exerted in Teddy's behalf. As for the boy himself, he was far from feeling comfortable in mind. Unless the burglary could be brought home to Long Jim it did not seem possible that Hazelton could be set free, and this last was absolutely necessary in order to establish his own innocence. It was a great consolation for him to be with such good friends, however, and each in turn tried to cheer him, but without success until Mr. Sweet said: "There's no question of your getting out of the scrape with flying colors, and to celebrate I'm goin' to give a regular dinner party to every decent fakir on the grounds. Come over, boys, an' help me get ready. Business has been so good to-day that I can afford to indulge in a little extravagance." CHAPTER XXVI. _THE FAKIRS' PARTY._ The idea of a party in the museum tent, where there would be no guests save fakirs, struck Teddy as being very comical, and he laughed heartily despite the fact that he was still virtually a prisoner in the meshes of the law; but at the same time he did not think Mr. Sweet was really in earnest when he made the proposition. It was not many moments, however, before he understood that the party was to be given in the most elaborate manner possible. On arriving at the tent Mr. Sweet sent the bouncer out with invitations to such of the fakirs as remained on the grounds all night, or lived in the immediate vicinity, and at the same time the clown started for the town in order to purchase refreshments. "Now, you boys are to take right hold an' help the best you know how," the proprietor of the museum said as he pulled off his coat and vest preparatory to making ready for the feast. "If them as comes want to sit down it must be on the ground, owing to the lack of chairs, therefore it don't make much difference if the table is a trifle high." [Illustration: "We have only one knife," said Mr. Sweet, to the amusement of the boys, "and it must serve for all hands."] To the surprise of the boys he proceeded to convert the wagon into a "festal board" by first pulling it into the center of the tent, and then removing the sides. Over the floor of this newspapers were spread, and two plates, three forks, one knife, and four tin dippers were placed on the impromptu cloth. "The provisions will be cut ready for eating," Mr. Sweet explained, "so one knife must serve for all hands, and it won't hurt any of the crowd if they're obliged to take turns using the dippers." The clown returned before the guests began to assemble. He brought cold sausage, sliced ham, cold fried potatoes, sweet crackers, cake, pie, and a quantity of lemons and sugar. Contrary to his expectations, Mr. Sweet did not think this assortment sufficient for the kind of a dinner he proposed to give, and the messenger was forced to return in search of cheese, pickled pig's feet, sardines, and milk for the coffee. Matters were in a decided state of confusion when the first of the guests arrived. Mr. Sweet, not troubled by the absence of dishes, had placed the various articles on the wagon-table in the brown paper coverings as they had been received, and it was upon his skill as a maker of coffee that he based his reputation as a host. Therefore everything was neglected for this one important thing, and the proprietor was standing over the oil stove with a look of grave responsibility on his face when the owner of the envelope game and his assistant arrived. "The boys will take care of you," he said, hurriedly, bending over the huge pot to inhale the odor, in order to know exactly how the berries were adapting themselves to the infusion, and, much to his surprise, Teddy found himself the one especial feature of the party. All on the ground had evidently heard of his arrest, for each new arrival asked concerning the events of the evening, and, what was more to the purpose, so far as he was concerned, all seemed to think his troubles were only temporary. "You'll come out of it all right," the manager of the largest sandwich booth said, confidently, as he entered with his hat on one side of his head and a cigar held in his mouth at an angle of forty-five degrees. "I heard of your uncle last year, when he tried to make trouble for a friend of mine in the spittoon game, an' you can bet your bottom dollar that the people here are not going to take much stock in what he says." "It seems they did, so far as to issue a warrant for my arrest," Teddy replied, with a mirthless smile. "But that won't amount to anything. I hear you have got John Reaves as a friend, an' he comes pretty near runnin' things to suit himself in Peach Bottom. He helped my friend out of the scrape your uncle put him into, an' folks say there's no love lost between him an' Nathan Hargreaves." "I want to get out of my trouble simply on the ground that I am not guilty," Teddy replied. "If I am charged with aiding burglars, there's precious little consolation in being set free simply because people do not like the man who made the charge." "Nobody believes you guilty, and for the matter of that I'm certain Hazelton had nothing to do with the job. His game ain't exactly square; but he don't go around breaking into stores." Teddy was on the point of telling that Long Jim had been arrested because of the burglaries committed; but he remembered in time that this fact was as yet a secret, and remained silent. The man who leased the only "Great African Dodger" was the next to arrive, and he also seemed to think it necessary to condole with the young fakir in his troubles, as did the remainder of the guests, and by the time all were assembled Teddy began to think his experience was only such as every other person in the tent had undergone at some time in his career. "You see this is the way the matter stands," the whip man said, confidentially, while Mr. Sweet was bending all his energies to mixing the lemonade. "People think fakirs are the worst class of men in the world, whereas, if the matter was sifted right down, they'd find the class as a whole was honest because they couldn't afford to be otherwise. I'm not talking now about those who run strong games, like Hazelton; but ourselves who do a legitimate business. You've got canes an' knives to sell, while I deal in whips; now all we want is a fair show to dispose of our goods, an' we know everything must be done on the square, or there's bound to be trouble sooner or later, consequently we keep straight, an' take all the abuse which those who have come to swindle the folks deserve. Why, what, I ask you, would the managers of these fairs do if they couldn't get us to come up with our money for privileges? They couldn't pay expenses, an' that's the whole amount of the story. They run after us, an' yet when we come there's the same old howl about swindlers." The man talked until he was literally forced to stop for lack of breath, and Teddy had not so much as spoken; but proved a good listener, which was all his condoler appeared to expect of him. When the clown returned with the last installment of eatables there was nothing to prevent the assembled crowd from partaking of Mr. Sweet's hospitality. The coffee was done to a turn; the lemonade was neither too sour nor too sweet, and the proprietor of the museum summoned his guests to the feast by saying: "Now turn to an' fill yourselves up. It ain't often I do this sort of thing; but somehow or other I've got a reg'lar admiration for our cane-board fakir, an' after comin' out as he has to-night it seems only right we should kinder spread ourselves. There's no liquor in the tent, which is as it should be, for I'm a temperance man, an' them as wants it can make hogs of themselves somewhere else. Take hold hearty, an' remember that this layout is in honor of them as did a good turn to the whole gang by savin' the lives of the women what would likely have drowned if there hadn't been any fakirs in the country." This was an unusually long speech for the proprietor of the museum, and when it was ended he set an example to his guests by attacking the eatables as if he had not indulged in a square meal since the fair was opened. Each person present imitated him, and Tim whispered to Teddy, when his mouth was so full of cake that it was only with the greatest difficulty his words could be understood: "This is what I call a great snap, an' when I've been fakin' at the fairs long enough to get some money ahead I'll give fellers like us a good chance to fill up, the same as Mr. Sweet has done." Dan was equally enthusiastic. In all his experience, which extended over two years at the very least, he declared that he had never seen so much done for a boy, and concluded by saying: "There's no question, Teddy, but that you're a big gun here, an' I'll advise you to keep right on in this business." "I've had enough of it," was the reply. "Such times as these are very nice; but think of what may happen when I'm brought up for trial. Who knows but Uncle Nathan can succeed in makin' folks think I'm guilty of helpin' the burglars, an' then what'll be the consequences?" "I know he can't do anything of the kind, an' that's enough," was the confident reply; but yet it failed to satisfy the boy who had been bound over to appear at court. The entire party appeared to be having the jolliest kind of a jolly time; but ever before Teddy's mental vision came the picture of himself in prison, and even the fact that Long Jim had been arrested failed to render him confident as to the final result. Again and again was he called upon to reply as one after another wished him good luck in the case, and the amount of lemonade which was consumed on each occasion caused the clown to make a third visit to the town in order to purchase the wherewithal to satisfy the demands of the guests. It was nearly midnight when the last of the revelers departed and the boys were called upon to help set the interior of the tent to rights. "It hasn't been sich a bad time after all," Mr. Sweet said, musingly, as Teddy and Dan aided him in wheeling the wagon into place. "A man can remember an evening like this with pleasure, when liquor has been kept out of the bill of fare, an' who shall say that we're not better off than if our legs were so tangled as to make walking an impossibility?" The barker's red nose was slightly elevated, much as if its owner could explain why spirits were superior to lemon-juice and water; but Mr. Sweet's question remained unanswered, and the party set about making the final preparations for the night. "Poor Sam ain't here to be troubled by the goat, so we can set him loose," the proprietor of the museum said as he unfastened the rope from the neck of his pet. "He'll have a great time pickin' up odds an' ends between now an' daylight, an' then feel so lazy that it'll be hard work to make him do his tricks." "Do you suppose Uncle Nathan will be around in the morning?" Teddy asked as he lay down by the side of Dan and Tim. "Not a bit of it; he got sich a dose to-night that I don't count on seem' him ag'in till this fair is ended, an' then I'm going to take a trip over to the Run for the express purpose of givin' him a piece of my mind." "But suppose he should come, what shall I say?" "Pay no attention to the old fool, an' above all, don't let him trap you into talking. Mr. Harvey will be here to-morrow, an' he can post you better than ever I could." "Don't fuss about the thing at all," Dan replied, philosophically. "There's plenty here who know you hadn't anything to do with the burglaries, an' he won't have as much as a friend by the time the trial is ended." "Dan comes pretty nigh being right," Mr. Sweet added, "an' now I want all hands to go to sleep, for there's one more day of this fair, an' we need to be somewhere near fresh, because to-morrow the dollars won't tumble without a good deal of coaxing. Good-night." CHAPTER XXVII. _IN HIDING._ That the incidents may be related as nearly as possible in the order of their occurrence it is time to return to the spot where the burglars are in hiding. It will be remembered that we last saw Sam after Phil had fallen asleep, and he was feigning unconsciousness lest Long Jim, having nothing else to do, should take it into his ugly head to administer the promised flogging. Although Sam's eyes were apparently closed, he took good care to keep strict watch on the burglar; but for what seemed a very long time he saw nothing to cause any apprehensions, and was just on the point of going to sleep in reality when Jim asked, as he gave the boy a vicious kick on the side: "Where's the grub?" "I don't know. You put it away after finishing your dinner." "Oh, I remember now," and the burglar, still considerably more than half stupefied by the amount of liquor he had drunk, arose to his feet so unsteadily that it seemed as if only the lightest touch would be necessary to send him headlong. After a short search the man found that which he wanted, and proceeded to make a hearty meal, regardless of the hungry glances which the boy bestowed upon him. "Don't think I'm goin' to give you any," he said, with a leer, as he concluded the repast, "You're lucky to be alive, an' that's enough for sich a duffer. I'll put this stuff back, an' you'll have every bone in your body broken if you so much as smell of it." Sam made no reply. He had already learned that there are very many times when silence is indeed "golden." "I've made up my mind to see what can be done at the fair," Jim said, as he lighted his pipe with great deliberation. "Phil thinks he's the only smart man in the world, an' it's time to show him what a mistake he's been makin' all his life. Why don't you say something?" he cried, angrily, as Sam continued silent. "I don't know what you want me to say. If you're goin' that settles it; I sha'n't be any better off." "You can stake your life on that, for while I'm a gentleman an' behave myself as such, Phil is a reg'lar brute, an' will make things mighty uncomfortable for a sneak like you." Sam thought, but was very careful not to say, that it was hardly possible for a boy to have a worse master than the alleged gentleman in front of him, and the burglar continued, as he arose to his feet: "I want to leave without wakin' Phil, but you must do it as soon as I push off from the shore, for we don't intend to give you a chance of slipping away. I shall watch mighty close, an' if he isn't on his feet before I'm a dozen yards out into the creek you'll get a reminder from this," and the man ostentatiously displayed a revolver. "I don't count on runnin' off," Sam, replied, thoroughly frightened by the threat. "I can stay here till you get ready to let me go, because I've got to, an' I'm not sich a fool as to git into any worse scrape." "Now you're talkin' somethin' like sense, an' if you keep on in this way I'll see to it that you don't have any harder time than a detective oughter expect; Phil will be on his ear when he knows I've gone, an' you must tell me all he says. Remember that if he isn't on his feet before I've got beyond range, I'll use your head for a target." With this threat the burglar staggered out of the thicket, and Sam began to speculate as to whether he should make one supreme effort to escape before his other captor awakened. A second glance at the weapon decided him in the negative, however, and he meekly stepped to the edge of the woods in order to obey the instructions given. Despite Jim's apparent intoxication he watched the boy closely, still holding the revolver ready for use, and after pushing the boat into the stream he cried: "Now go ahead, an' let me see him in about two minutes, or I'll fill you full of bullets." If Sam had been a brave boy he would have made a dash for liberty at this moment; but he was in nearly every sense of the word a coward, and obeyed the order literally. "Who's there?" Phil asked, angrily, as the boy shook him vigorously. "Jim told me to make you get up, or he'd shoot," Sam replied, meekly. "Make me get up? What time is it?" "I don't know; but it doesn't seem to be more than three o'clock." "Where's Jim?" "Jest startin' for the fair grounds, an' if you don't show yourself pretty soon he's sure to shoot me." "There wouldn't be any particular harm in that, for you deserve it; but it can't be possible the fool is goin' to show himself in daylight when more than one is lookin' for him." "That's what he said," and Sam, fearing lest the half-drunken burglar would begin his pistol practice, seated himself behind the largest tree that might protect him from the bullets. Now that Phil was awake, he did not lose any further time in talking, but ran out to where he could command a view of the creek, and once more Sam had an opportunity for escape which he did not dare to embrace. "Come back here, an' don't make a fool of yourself," Jim's partner cried, angrily, as he saw the man pulling leisurely from the bank. "What's crawlin' on you? Don't I know my business?" "Not if you count on goin' up there before dark." "That's jest what I intend to do, so don't screech so much." "Come back, I tell you, or it'll be all up for both of us!" "I've been in this business long enough to know it," was the reply, as Jim continued to row, increasing each instant the distance between himself and the shore. "Now, don't spoil a good thing," Phil said, pleadingly, and, understanding that this conversation might be continued for a short time, Sam plucked up sufficient courage to make an attack upon the provisions. He took from the general store a large piece of cheese, some crackers and as much meat as he believed would suffice to make a hearty meal, after which he hid the lot near the tree behind which he was hiding. Then he crept back to his former position, and listened to the conversation between his captors. Phil alternately coaxed and threatened his partner; but all to no purpose, as could be told by the tones of the latter's voice while he pulled up stream, and the baffled burglar returned to the camping place absolutely furious with rage. "This comes of my bein' so foolish as to bring that fool liquor," he said half to himself. "It's mighty lucky he didn't know I had more than one bottle." Then he took from one of his pockets a second flask, refreshing himself with a portion of the contents before asking: "What did he say to you?" "Nothin' except that he was goin' up to the fair," Sam replied, timidly. "But what made him tell you to waken me?" "I s'pose that was so I couldn't have a chance to run away." "What else did he say?" "That I was to tell him jest how you took his leavin'." "Well, if he's lucky enough to get back, tell him I said he was the biggest fool that ever walked on two legs. Them chums of your'n are sure to spot him, an' it's ten to one he's pinched before sunset." Sam did not understand what the man meant by the term "pinched," but under the circumstances he hardly thought it safe to inquire, and the angry burglar continued: "We'll make ready to get out of this if he isn't back by daylight, an' while there's nothin' else to do you'd better put that stuff under ground, for there's no knowin' now when we'll be able to take it away." The spade was near at hand ready for use, and while Phil alternately smoked and drank from the bottle, Sam set about burying the plunder. This man was quite as hard a taskmaster as the one who had just departed, and the boy was forced to work as he had probably never done before, until sufficient of an excavation had been made to conceal the goods. Under the direction of the burglar Sam covered the different packages with earth; did his best to hide all traces of his work, and when it was so dark that he could no longer see to move about was allowed to rest. During this time Phil had been drinking and smoking, with the result that he could hardly speak plainly when the task was accomplished, and so intoxicated did he appear to be that Sam thought it safe to eat the food he had concealed. "Keep on talkin' so's I'll know where you are, or on goes the ropes an' gag again," Phil cried, and the boy obeyed, repeating over and over the same words in order to satisfy his suspicious captor. After eating a hearty meal, Sam succeeded in mustering sufficient courage to admit of his thinking about attempting to escape. From the manner in which the burglar spoke he knew it could not be very much longer before the man would be so completely under the influence of liquor as to render him helpless, and he said to himself: "If I could get the rope around his hands an' legs I'd soon be out of this place." "What's that you are saying?" Phil cried, angrily. "Nothin'; I was only doin' as you told me, talkin' so's you'd know where I was." "I'll save all that trouble," and the man lurched to his feet as he picked up the rope. "Please don't tie me ag'in," Sam pleaded. "I won't try to git away." "I'll go bail that you don't after I'm through with you. Put out your hands." Phil was yet capable of mischief, even though his brain was clouded, and Sam did not dare to disobey. He suffered himself to be tied without making any remonstrance, and as the burglar staggered to his former resting place, the boy tested the bonds. Previously he had been lashed in such a manner that it was impossible to move hand or foot, but now he soon realized that he could do both, and the happy thought came that he might free himself with but little difficulty if a favorable opportunity for escape should present itself. "Now you're fixed," Phil said, half to himself, "an' I may as well take things comfortable till we're certain that that fool of a Jim is settled." "Are you goin' to leave here to-night?" Sam asked, more for the purpose of learning how far the man was on the road to intoxication than for information. "If he ain't here by twelve o'clock we'll know the jig is up, an' skip so's to be out of the way before any one can come sneakin' around for the stuff." "Then if Jim isn't back by that time, an' he keeps on drinkin', I'll take all the chances," Sam said to himself, and from that instant he strained every nerve to learn how nearly the burglar had succeeded in making a worse brute of himself than nature intended. CHAPTER XXVIII. _A FAILURE._ Tired though Teddy was, a long time elapsed after the conclusion of the fakirs' feast before he could close his eyes in slumber. Now that the excitement of the party had died away, the fact that he was a prisoner, suffered to remain outside the prison only because men of wealth were willing to guarantee he would respond to the call of the court, came into his mind even more vividly than at the time of the arrest, and despite all the words of cheer which had been spoken he really began to believe Uncle Nathan could show plausible proof of his guilt. Under almost any other circumstances he would have speculated upon what should be done with the large amount of money he had already earned, and rejoiced at the thought that he could supply his mother with what she might need for the present, at all events. The profits of the cane and knife boards were hardly thought of on this night while the one painful fact stood before him so prominently and menacingly. His companions had been asleep many hours before slumber visited his eyelids, and so heavy was his heart even while in dreamland that he awoke with the first dawn of day, and aroused the others to the last day's work they would be called upon to do at the Peach Bottom fair during the present season. "Why is it that you have turned out so early?" Mr. Sweet asked, in a sleepy tone, rising to his feet as the only effectual method of driving the drowsiness from his eyelids. "I sha'n't feel much like sleeping till I know how the case is coming out," Teddy replied, sadly. "There is no need to worry with such friends as you have got. Put it right out of your mind until business closes to-night, for there's a big pile of work to be done if you expect to make much money." "I wish I could," Teddy said, with a long-drawn sigh as he aroused Tim and Dan. Half an hour later the three boys were eating what it was believed would be their last meal in the very unsatisfactory boarding-house, and Teddy's place of business was the first opened on that morning. There were no more early visitors; but the fakirs who had been present at the feast on the evening previous gathered around, all appearing very eager to spend money, and trade was as lively as it had been on any other morning. The crowd bought rings and threw them recklessly until each man had spent considerably more than a dollar, when Teddy suddenly realized that this sudden passion for canes only arose from a desire to aid him. Then he said, decidedly: "There's no need of you fellows doin' this. I know you want to see me out of the scrape; but I've made a lot of money already, an' don't want to take yours." "You can't have too much, my boy," one of them said with a laugh, "and we want to see you go away with a pile. Trade has been boomin' for all hands, an' it would be kinder rough if we couldn't have a little fun now the fair is the same as over." This did not satisfy Teddy, and he continued to expostulate against the generosity; but all to no purpose. The fakirs played until a sufficient number of visitors had arrived to warrant their opening the other booths, and then Tim and Teddy were left alone, Dan having started for the exhibition building some time previous. Until ten o'clock there was no more than work enough to keep one boy moderately busy, and Teddy experienced a deep sense of relief as Mr. Harvey came up to the stand with a cheery "good morning." "I hear that your Uncle Nathan succeeded in carrying out his threat," the visitor said, as if speaking about what was a very trifling matter. "Yes, sir; an' do you think he can send me to prison?" "Not a bit of it. You are under bail, and I venture to predict that he will not carry it to court, for he has sufficient sense to know it may prove a very expensive job. We sent our men to the barn on the marshes last night." "What did you find?" Teddy asked, eagerly. "More than I expected. There were no goods in the building, but some have evidently been buried there, and this fact, together with the evidence that boats have been drawn up on the shore recently, proves your story as to what was seen when you boys followed the two men to be correct." "The other fellow has run away, I suppose." "I think he is yet in the immediate vicinity, otherwise Jim would be willing to talk." "Have you seen him since he was arrested?" "I have just come from the jail. I told him of the evidence we already had to connect him with the burglary, and that we should push him hard in the interest of you and Hazelton. He understands that there is an opportunity to turn State's witness, but he absolutely refuses to speak on any subject. Therefore I fancy his partner has not yet got away." "Then there has been no good done in arresting him," Teddy said, mournfully. "That is where you are making a mistake. I have prepared an affidavit for you and Dan to swear to, and shall endeavor to have a warrant issued at once charging him with burglary, so he can't give us the slip in case he gets clear in the matter of swindling." "Do you want Dan an' I now?" "Yes; go after him. I will only keep you ten or fifteen minutes." Teddy turned to go toward the exhibition buildings, but halted an instant to ask: "Have you seen my uncle this morning?" "No, but I shall do so later in the day, and after we have a little conversation I do not think he will be so eager to see you in prison." The lawyer's confident manner had very much to do with taking the load of sorrow from Teddy's mind, and he looked almost cheerful as he asked of the manager of the Stevens exhibit that Dan be allowed to accompany him, explaining the reason for making the request. "Of course he can go," the gentleman replied, readily. "Trade won't be so good to-day but that he can be spared as well as not, and even if it was rushing, he should have permission to leave." When the boys were at the cane-board once more Mr. Harvey hurried them away to the magistrate's office, and there a long document was read, which described in detail all they had seen on the day when Sam first gave an exhibition of his skill as a detective. They marveled not a little that the lawyer should have remembered so well every trifling incident. Nothing, however apparently unimportant, had escaped him, and, as Dan said: "It is written down better than if he had really been with us." This document was sworn to and signed by both, after which Mr. Harvey told them that they might return to work, adding as he turned to Teddy: "The man who has been arrested on your complaint will have a hearing to-morrow, and it is absolutely necessary you should be at this office as early as nine o'clock. I don't know whether Dan will be allowed to tell what he has heard Sam say regarding the matter, but he had better come with you." "I'll be on hand," the young fakir replied. "Do you know when I'm to be tried?" "That case won't come up for some time in view of the evidence your lawyer is collecting," the 'Squire said. "Don't worry about it, for I think the real burglars will soon be caught." "An' does Mr. Hazelton have to stay in jail all the time?" "There is no other way out of it, since he hasn't got friends who can go bail for him." Teddy wanted very much to ask permission to see the prisoner, but inasmuch as he was accused of being equally guilty with the fakir it hardly seemed just the proper thing to make the request, and he left the office, followed by Dan, who said, as they gained the open air: "You ain't goin' to have half so much trouble as you think, Teddy. Anybody can see that even the 'Squire is on your side, although he did issue the warrant, an' the proof must be mighty strong to make any of 'em believe you did anything against the old miser. But this keeps us here on the grounds another day, doesn't it?" "Yes, an' if Mr. Sweet packs up his tent to-night, we'll have to hunt for a place to sleep in the village." "That don't worry me very much. I've made a good week's work out of the fair, an' can afford to spend a little money." "I shall pay all the bills, of course," Teddy replied, quickly. "It wouldn't be any more'n right because you are goin' to stay to help me." Dan was quite positive he would pay his own bills, and his companion equally certain he should not; but there was little chance for discussion, since they had arrived opposite the grand stand by this time, and were hailed by Deacon Jones, who looked as if he considered himself the one important personage on the grounds as he said: "I want both of you boys to be here at exactly two o'clock. Don't fail to come, no matter how much business you may have on hand." "What's the matter?" Teddy asked, immediately thinking some new trouble threatened him. "There will be plenty of time for explanation after you get here," was the mysterious reply, and then the deacon signified that the interview was at an end by turning to speak with some gentlemen who had been watching the boys closely. "What do you suppose is up now?" Teddy asked with a sigh, and Dan replied, mournfully: "I'm sure I don't know," but in his own mind he was convinced that the deacon intended to surrender the boy whose surety he had appeared willing to become on the evening previous. Teddy was so disturbed by dismal forebodings that Dan was very careful to hide his suspicions, since it could do only harm to discuss them, and the two parted, feeling as if Uncle Nathan had outwitted Mr. Harvey. On retuning to his place of business Teddy did not have the heart to wait upon the customers, and after telling Tim what had been said to him, he added: "I can't work; it's no use to try. There must have been something new come up, an' I won't be able to show that I'm innocent of robbing the store." Dan could give him no consolation, for he also felt that matters were approaching a dangerous crisis, and he simply said: "Loaf around, old fellow, an' I'll look out for the work here. Try to put it out of your mind, for things won't be made better by worryin' over 'em." Just at this moment Teddy's mother arrived. She had heard all the particulars concerning the arrest and subsequent release, therefore began at once to sympathize with her son. "Then you know what the deacon is goin' to do?" Teddy asked. This was something of which Mrs. Hargreaves was ignorant, but upon being told, appeared even more distressed than her son, thus increasing instead of lightening his troubles. CHAPTER XXIX. _THE TESTIMONIAL._ It was impossible for Teddy to follow Tim's advice to "loaf around." His heart was so full of sorrow that his greatest desire was to go where those who might believe he had been a partner of the burglars could not see him; but since that was impossible, if he intended to obey the deacon's injunctions and present himself at the grand stand at the specified time, the next best thing was to remain behind the booth where his mother tried her best to cheer him. "It can't be possible that anything to your disadvantage has occurred, Teddy," she said as she held his hand for mutual sympathy. "Mr. Reaves would have sent me word at once if that had happened." "Perhaps he doesn't know about it. Uncle Nathan may have been talking with the deacon again, an' turned him against me." "I don't believe it would be possible for him to do such a thing. His reputation is not so good that people could put faith in all he says, more especially in regard to this case." "Then if he didn't do it some one else has, an' that makes it all the worse," Teddy replied, as he tried to force back the tears. At this moment the sorrowing ones were startled by hearing the voice of the man whom they had every reason to call their enemy, and an instant later Uncle Nathan stood before them. "Well," he said in what sounded more like a snarl than anything else, "you see the old skinflint did jest what he promised, an' he'll see to it that the deacon don't stay on your bail very long unless I get my rights." "What do you mean by your rights?" Mrs. Hargreaves asked. "I lent this ungrateful boy the money to start him in a business where he's made more in a week than I ever could in a year. Then he helped people to rob me, an' after all that I made what any man must call a fair offer. See how much I've lost by him, an' then think of my offerin' to straighten everything out by goin' in as his partner." "Why didn't you do this before the fair opened?" "I couldn't tell how it would turn out," the old man began, and then realizing that he was admitting something to his discredit, he added, quickly, "I mean I hadn't lost my money then, an' never suspected how he would wrong me." It seemed as if these last words drove Teddy to desperation, and he no longer-remembered the respect due to age. "Look here," he cried, angrily, rising, and standing directly in front of Uncle Nathan, "if you believe I'm a burglar, you can't want to be my partner. It was only after the fact of my having made considerable money was known that you offered any trade. If the venture had been a losing one you are the last person who would have taken hold of it. Now I'm under arrest on a charge made by you, who know I am innocent, an' we'll put an end to all this talk. Don't come where my mother and I am; do the very worst you can, an' some day I'll have my innings." "You threaten, eh?" "That's exactly what I'm doing. I have leased this piece of ground until to-morrow, and warn you that it'll be mighty uncomfortable if you show your nose here again. Go now an' go quick!" "That's right, Teddy," Tim shouted in a tone of delight from the opposite side of the booth. "Give it to him hot, an' I'll do my share. If you don't want to tackle the job till after the trial, say the word an' I'll sail in, for it gives me a pain to see him around." Teddy made no reply to this generous offer; but Uncle Nathan stepped back very quickly as if fearing an immediate attack. "You won't be so bold to-morrow," he snarled, shaking his fist in impotent rage, and then he disappeared from view amid the crowd that had begun to gather. Both Teddy and his clerk thought it very singular that business should be so good on this day, when the majority of the other fakirs were comparatively idle, and also in view of what had been said against the proprietor of the cane-board. Yet the people gathered around by scores, all intent on patronizing the boys, and at the same time embracing every opportunity to display their good will. Teddy and his mother remained partially screened from the gaze of the curious until nearly two o'clock, when Dan, looking decidedly troubled, arrived. "I suppose we've got to go to the grand stand an' find out what the deacon wants," he said, mournfully. "My boss told me that we must be there on time, an' we might as well start." "I want to have it over as soon as possible," Teddy replied. "Nothin' that comes can be any worse than waitin' here thinkin' of what may happen." The two boys walked either side of Mrs. Hargreaves as they went to meet the deacon, and it seemed very much as if the majority of the people present knew what was about to occur, for the sad-visaged party was followed by crowds of the visitors as they walked steadily onward. It was exactly two o'clock when they arrived at the stairway leading to the grand stand, and there they were met by the leader of the band from the Run, who said with a mysterious manner as he opened a gate leading to the track in front of the judges' stand: "You are to come this way." "Where's the deacon?" Teddy asked. "Waiting for you." Without further explanation the musician led the three to a spot where all could see them, and to the intense surprise of the sorrowful-looking party, the throng assembled on the benches greeted them with the most hearty applause. "You are to come with me, Mrs. Hargreaves," the conductor said, as he escorted her to one of the front seats, and Teddy and Dan stood as if stupefied, gazing in dismay at the sea of faces in front of them. Before the boys had sufficiently recovered from their bewilderment to be able to speculate upon what was to happen Deacon Jones came down the steps until he reached a place where all could see him and there began a speech which caused at least two of that assemblage to gaze at him in open-mouthed astonishment. The manager of the fair did not intend to neglect any opportunity of making himself conspicuous, and he delivered an eloquent address, looking first at the boys and then at the audience, which cannot be given here because of lack of space. He first explained to the spectators that Teddy had taken upon himself the business of fakir simply that he might aid his widowed mother. Then he detailed the loss of the fifteen dollars, and finally broached the one important matter, that of the scene on the creek, when the three women were rescued from drowning. By this time the cheeks of Teddy and Dan were flaming red, and if he had been charging them with the most atrocious crimes they could not have looked more guilty or uncomfortable. "As you all know," he said, in conclusion, "we have met here to see bravery and a spirit of self-sacrifice rewarded. On behalf of the ladies whose lives were saved by these little heroes I am about to present Edward Hargreaves and Daniel Summers with one hundred dollars each. In addition to that amount the managers of the fair and several gentlemen who do not care to have their names made public, have made up a purse of one hundred and eighty dollars to be divided equally between them. It is most gratifying to me that I have been selected as the instrument through whom this testimonial is presented, and in behalf of my brother officers as well as myself I will state that these brave boys have the freedom of the grounds whenever the Peach Bottom fair is open." As he concluded, the deacon walked with a majestic bearing down to the bewildered boys, presented each with a well-filled pocketbook and then waved his hand as a signal for the band, every member of which did his best to make the music heard above the rounds of applause intended for the blushing fakirs. In the meantime the people came down from the benches to congratulate the life-savers, and for fully an hour the two were forced to remain there listening to words of praise which they felt were not warranted by their exploit on the creek. Among the most welcome of these enthusiastic visitors was Jacob Sweet, and he said, heartily: "I heard of this little performance jest in time to get here before that long-winded speech was begun; but what pleases me the most is that I was ahead of the whole gang, an' started our little blow-out when it wasn't known you had so many friends. I'll see you to-night, of course, an' I must go now, for the bouncer has been around tellin' that you've been sleepin' in my tent, an' I count on a good payin' crowd this afternoon." It was considerably past three o'clock when the boys and Mrs. Hargreaves returned to the cane-board, looking very much different than when they left it, and Tim cried as they came up: "I've heard all about it, an' what I want to know is, where was old Nathan while that speechifyin' was goin' on?" "I saw him when we first arrived," Mrs. Hargreaves replied, "but he left a few moments later, although I have no doubt that he remained where he could hear all that was said without being seen." "That's where he was wise. It wouldn't be very pleasant for him to show himself now, 'cause everybody is down on him after what the deacon said." Dan was obliged to return to his duties, and he whispered to Teddy before leaving: "I tell you what it is, old feller, this has been a reg'lar puddin' for us, an' I'd give a good deal to see another jest like it." "You're all right, but I expect after this Uncle Nathan will be so mad he'll make me a pile of trouble." "Don't worry about that; his claws are cut now. I'll be back in time to go to supper." When he departed Teddy had an opportunity to say a few words to his mother before she returned home on the stage, which was advertised to leave at four o'clock, and while he did this all thought of being under arrest was put far from his mind because of the joy at what he was now able to perform. "Never mind what happens to me," he whispered. "I've now got nearly money enough to pay off all we owe, an' it has been earned honestly, too, although I believe they paid a big price for what Dan an' I did on the creek." "I'm thinking more of the praise you earned than the money, Teddy. It was very sweet to hear the deacon say so much to you before all those people." "Then both of us will be awfully jolly to-night, an' to-morrow I'll be home, an' bring Dan with me." "Invite him to stay just as long as he wishes, and I will have a nice supper ready when the last stage arrives." Teddy gave his mother nearly all the money he had, including the "testimonial," and as she walked away he said to Tim: "I'm willin' to be arrested, an' put into jail a good many days for the sake of being able to help her as I can do now." CHAPTER XXX. _THE TRIAL._ It was only natural that both Teddy and Dan should feel highly elated after this public expression of admiration which culminated in the presentation of the purse, but they immediately returned to attend to their several duties when the ceremonies were finished. Dan went back to the exhibition as if he had done nothing worth remembering, and in less than half an hour from the time the deacon concluded his flowery speech it would have required a very ardent student of humanity to discover that anything out of the natural course of events had taken place. At the cane-board Teddy waited upon his customers as before, and without the slightest sign of having been honored by the magnates of the fair, while Dan fired at the target as if he had been a boy with no other claim upon the public's attention than his ability to hit a mark. Yet it must be confessed that both experienced a very pleasing sense of having satisfied the public, and each, in his own peculiar way, knew he had risen a little above the average boy. There can be no question that any one placed in the same position must have felt gratified by the many expressions of friendship and good-will with which these two were literally overwhelmed, and it would have been more than could be expected of human nature had they remained unmoved under the extravagant flattery which was showered upon them immediately after the close of Deacon Jones' speech. Although there was not quite as much money flowing into the box as on the day previous, Teddy was more than pleased with the receipts, because every penny seemed to express just such an amount of good-will. Until nearly nightfall he remained at the booth, answering questions upon the same subject till it seemed to have been worn threadbare, and then, however great his desire to earn money, he felt a positive sense of relief that his connection with the Peach Bottom fair had finally come to an end. "This is the last time you an' I will pack up the stuff," he said to Tim as they put into condition for removal the cane and knife boards. "I promised to give you all that was left, and you're more than welcome to it." "But you surely don't mean to give me the whole lot," Tim cried in surprise. "That's exactly what I'm going to do, and I sincerely hope when you make a stand you'll meet with the same good friends I have here." "I can't take these things unless you'll allow me to pay something toward what they cost." "Look here, Tim," Teddy said, earnestly, "you have shown yourself to be a friend of mine, an' every cent that has come in here you've accounted for. Now, whatever may happen, I'm through bein' a fakir; but if you want to follow the business, I can only hope you'll come out all right. We'll carry this to Mr. Sweet's tent, an' I'll only be so much the better pleased, and in case you don't, I'm bound to help you in every way. Besides, I promised to pay a certain percentage on the profits; that is yet to be settled." "It never will be," Tim replied in the most decided tone. "If I take these goods I've got more than a fair share, an' won't listen to anything else." "Very well, we'll leave it that way. You now own everything, an' I owe you lots of good-will." On this basis the remnants of the two boards were packed up for removal, and when they were about to take the goods to Mr. Sweet's tent Dan arrived. "How much business did you do to-day?" he asked. Teddy delayed sufficiently long to count the receipts, and then replied: "Forty-one dollars and fifteen cents. That gives Tim four-eleven, an' I get more than would have been the case but for the testimonial this afternoon. The folks crowded around to see me, rather than to get the canes, an' so business has picked up better than any one expected." "It don't make any difference how the money came in so long as you have got it," Dan replied, philosophically, "an' now the question is what are we to do for supper, since we paid our bill at the boarding-house this afternoon?" "Have you got any idea?" "Of course, or else I wouldn't have asked the question. Let's invite Mr. Sweet, the bouncer, and the clown to some restaurant down town, an' try to give them as good a time as we had last night." This proposition met with Teddy's approval, and the party was made up as he suggested, the cost being divided between the two boys who had been the recipients of the public testimonial. Not until a late hour in the evening did these festivities come to an end, and then the party retired to the museum tent, where they remained undisturbed until the present season of the Peach Bottom fair had come to an end. It was an unusually late hour for fakirs to arise when Mr. Sweet awakened the boys as he said: "Turn out now, lads, an' get your stuff ready for removal. I'm sorry to part company, but we can't stay here forever, an' the museum must be forty miles the other side of Waterville by Monday morning." Dan had completed and been paid for his work with the Stevens Company, therefore he had nothing to do; Teddy no longer claimed any interest in the canes and knives left over from the week's work; consequently he was free to go where he pleased, and Tim had his goods in such a condition that they could be removed at any moment, which prevented him from feeling any anxiety regarding the future. Thus it was that all three of the boys were at liberty to assist the proprietor of the museum, and this they did with a will until the arrival of Lawyer Harvey caused them to think of what had almost been forgotten in the bustle and confusion of breaking camp. "We are due at the 'Squire's office at nine o'clock, and it is time you boys were getting over that way," he said, briskly; "our case won't come up to-day, but it has been decided to give Hazelton a hearing, and I am very much afraid he's going to get the worst of it." "What do you mean?" Teddy asked, anxiously. "Well, you see I have not been able to get any information in addition to what you boys furnished, and there seems little doubt that the 'Squire must perforce bind him over for trial. The fact that he has deliberately swindled so many people will work against him, and we can do very little to save him." "What will be the result of his being bound over?" Teddy asked. "He must remain in jail, unless he can get bail, until next fall." "But that in itself will be a terrible punishment." "True; yet it cannot be avoided. If he had worked honestly the case would be different; but now he will be fortunate even to get out in the fall." "Yet Uncle Nathan says I am equally guilty." "We can easily show you had nothing to do with the robbery, and that is our only care this morning." "What about Long Jim?" "He remains silent, refusing to answer the simplest questions, and unless he speaks Hazelton must be bound over; the 'Squire can pursue no other course." Believing as they did that Hazelton was innocent of the charge upon which he had been arrested, both Teddy and Dan felt it was a great hardship for the fakir to remain so long in prison; but since it was beyond their power to give him any relief, neither expressed an opinion other than has been recorded. Mr. Harvey had come for them to accompany him to the Squire's office, and since there was nothing to detain them they set out, after first bidding Mr. Sweet a cordial 'goodby, for he had announced his intention of leaving Peach Bottom on the noon train. "I shall see one or both of you at some time in the future," he said, with considerable feeling, "an' there'll be no complaint to make if I never fall in with worse boys." The bouncer and the clown also had something to say in the form of an adieu, and when the boys left the proprietor of the alleged wonderful museum it was like parting with an old friend, for he had shown himself to be a "very present help in time of trouble." Tim did not propose to start for the Run until his companions had concluded their business; his goods were packed ready for removal, and there was nothing better for him to do than accompany them to the court-room where it seemed as if all they might say would result only in a long term of imprisonment for Hazelton before he could be tried on the baseless charge brought against him, simply because of the disreputable business in which he was engaged. Mr. Harvey had little or nothing to say during the walk to the 'Squire's office, and arriving there the jewelry fakir was seen looking thoroughly despondent. "Can I speak with him?" Teddy asked the lawyer. "What do you want to say?" "Nothing in particular, except to tell him how bad I feel because we could do nothing to clear him." "Very well; but do not talk long, for it may prejudice your own case. The people whom he has swindled are here to see that some form of punishment is meted out to him, and it can do you no good to be seen acting as a consoler." This possibility troubled Teddy very little since he was confident of his own innocence, and he approached the prisoner as he said: "I wish I could do something, Mr. Hazelton, to prove you as innocent as I believe you to be." "There's no need of that, my boy. I've put you in a hole already, and you've done more for me than some others who call themselves friends." "I know it was Long Jim who committed the burglary; but how can it be proven now?" "There was only one way, and that was to catch the real thieves with their plunder. Mr. Harvey tells me his attempt was a failure, an' it wouldn't surprise me if I was not only remanded for trial, but received a sentence for something of which I am absolutely innocent. I don't profess to be very good, my boy, as you may understand after seeing me work on the fair grounds; but I never yet descended to do such things as I am charged with now." "I am certain of that," and Teddy pressed the prisoner's hand in token of friendship, "and only wish it was possible to aid you." "You have already done more than my partners did," was the grateful reply, and then further conversation was prevented as the 'Squire called the assembly to order. It was not a regular court of law; but one would have thought it the most dignified judicial body in the country had he seen the air with which the 'Squire took his seat at the head of the long table as he called the case. "That settles Hazelton," Dan whispered as Teddy left the prisoner and rejoined his friends. "Somebody has got to suffer in order to make the law come out square, an' he's the feller what'll have to stand the brunt of everything." CHAPTER XXXI. _AN ARRIVAL._ Lawyer Harvey did not neglect anything which might work to the advantage of his client; but in the face of the evidence his efforts appeared to be in vain. Uncle Nathan, who arrived just as the case was called, swore to the fact that Hazelton had been in his store on the Sunday afternoon prior to the robbery, and that he had told the prisoner of his keeping large amounts of money in the building, because of the difficulty and expense of sending the cash to the Waterville bank. He also testified that Hazelton seemed unusually interested in everything pertaining to the store, and asked many questions relative to his (the witness') habits, such as the time when business usually began, how late he remained in the building at night, as well as several other things which now seemed as if the information had been sought simply for the purpose of knowing when would be the safest time to commit the crime. "How much did you lose?" Mr. Harvey asked. "I don't know for certain; but I stand willin' to give fifty dollars if the goods can be recovered, an' if my nephew would tell all he knows----" "That will do, Mr. Hargreaves," the lawyer said, sharply. "Teddy is not under examination, and until he is we do not care to hear your opinion concerning him." "I reckon I can tell what I want to, can't I, 'Squire?" "You must confine yourself to this particular case. As to whether there is sufficient evidence to bind the prisoner over does not concern the charge against your nephew, at least not to the extent of your telling what you think." "I thought, perhaps, if he heard me say I'd give fifty dollars to know where the goods were, an' knew I'd swear to it, he might confess, for he has shown himself to be powerful fond of a dollar." "That appears to be a peculiarity of some of his relatives," Mr. Harvey said, dryly, and at this remark the spectators laughed heartily, while the old man growled: "I didn't come here to be told that I was a miser; but it seems even men who call themselves gentlemen think sich things are all right." "If you have no other evidence to give we will not detain you," the lawyer said, sharply; and as Uncle Nathan returned to his chair near the door the proprietor of the hotel at the Run was called upon to testify. What he said was in favor of the prisoner rather than otherwise. He swore to the fact that the prisoner spent the night on which the burglary was committed at his house; that he pretended to retire at an early hour, and started for Peach Bottom on the first stage. Under Mr. Harvey's skillful cross-examination the landlord admitted that unless a man got out of the window he could not have left the house without the knowledge of the watchman, who kept the keys and remained in the office all night. It was also shown that Hazelton brought and carried away with him, so far as was known at the hotel, nothing but a small traveling satchel. Then several people from the Run were called to prove that the fakir was really in the town on this particular Sunday, and the driver of the stage testified that the prisoner rode with him the entire distance to Peach Bottom. The landlord of the hotel where Hazelton boarded during the fair week, or so much of it as he was at liberty, swore to the fact that the prisoner had never brought any quantity of baggage to his house, and appeared to be very regular in his habits. So far as he (the landlord) knew, the fakir remained in his room nearly all the time, except while on the exhibition grounds. This ended the testimony, and Mr. Harvey argued that there was really no evidence to connect the prisoner with the crime. "That he conducted a game which could hardly be called honest is admitted," he said; "but it has nothing to do with the case. Prejudice should not be allowed to take the place of facts, and I insist that my client be released." "I reckon there's sufficient ground for suspicion," the 'Squire replied, "an' I don't see any other way out of it. A jury must decide, an' I shall hold him in the sum of three thousand----" At this moment the dignity of the court received a severe shock, as a most unseemly disturbance suddenly occurred at the door, and the 'Squire paused to learn who was so bold as to disturb the representative of the law at the very instant when he was delivering an opinion. "It's nobody but a boy," Uncle Nathan replied as he held the door firmly closed, while the would-be visitor kicked so vigorously as to threaten the destruction of the panels. "Bring him in here, an' we'll see whether such a row can be kicked up in a court of law with impunity." "Better let me throw him into the street," Uncle Nathan snarled. "Mr. Constable, bring that boy before me," the 'Squire said, sternly, and an instant later, to the consternation of all those who had seen him, the boy who was supposed to have been drowned two days before entered, looking decidedly the worse for having existed so long without water and soap. "Why, it's Sam, an' he ain't dead!" Teddy cried as he rose to his feet. "Of course I ain't; but it wouldn't been many days before I turned into a corpse if I hadn't got away from them thieves," the amateur detective replied. "Who are you, an' what do you want here?" the 'Squire asked, sternly, as he rapped on the table for the spectators to remain silent. "Why, I'm Sam Balderston, the feller who come to the fair to work for the Davis Boat an' Oar Company of Detroit, an' if what Long Jim told me was true, folks have been tryin' to find me in the creek." "This is the boy who was reported to have been drowned on the day when those lads," here the lawyer pointed to Teddy and Dan, "claim to have seen two men carrying goods into an old barn on the marshes. I fancy he can give us information relative to the true burglars." "You bet I can," and now that he was the central figure in the scene, all Sam's old assurance returned. "If you mean the fellers what broke into Teddy's uncle's store, I can flash one of them up. The other come to the fair an' didn't get back, so Phil thought he was arrested." "Who do you mean by the other fellow?" Mr. Harvey asked. "Why, Long Jim, the same man what swindled Teddy out of his fifteen dollars at Waterville." "Have you been with him since your disappearance?" "Most of the time he hung around, an' then ag'in Phil was there." "Who is Phil?" "Long Jim's partner. They've got a slat of stuff what has been stole 'round here, an' I know where all of it is." "Tell the 'Squire the whole story." This was Sam's opportunity, and, in order to cover himself with glory, he slaughtered the truth in the most shocking manner. "Well," he said, in a consequential way, "when Dan an' me an' Teddy saw the thieves carryin' stuff down to that old barn I wanted to rush in an' arrest both; but the other fellows was scared an' come ashore to talk with Hazelton so's he'd tell 'em what to do. Then I jes' made up my mind to carry on the job myself, an' went back." "Where?" the 'Squire asked. "To the barn to get the stuff. While I was diggin' it up the men come back, an' the minute they saw who was on their trail they got frightened." "And who was on their trail?" the 'Squire interrupted. "Why, me, of course. They rushed in, an' I had the awfullest row; but it was two to one, an' so I got the worst of it. They had to work mighty hard before gettin' me tired, an' then all the stuff was dug up an' put in the boat. My craft was upset an' sent adrift, so's to make it look as if I was dead, an' we went down the creek six or seven miles, where we hid in the woods. Phil came back here after more goods what had been stolen, an' they was goin' to skip the country, when there was a big row, an' Long Jim allowed he'd come to the fair once more. Phil was mad, an' got pretty drunk, an' after that I had my innings. I turned to an' lashed him up same's I'd been; but we had an' awful fight. It takes more'n one man to git away with me." "Where is this fellow now?" the 'Squire interrupted again. "Down the creek, tied up so's he can't hardly breathe, an' he must be pretty near sober by this time." "If he was very drunk I do not understand how he could have fought so hard." "Well, he did; but I got the best of him, an' what's more, I know where all the stuff that's been stolen is hid." "Mr. Constable, bring into court the prisoner who is charged with swindling, and let us see if this extraordinary boy can identify him," the 'Squire said, with an unusual amount of dignity. "If it's Long Jim, you bet I can," Sam said, as he turned toward the spectators that they might have a good opportunity of seeing such a wonderful detective as he claimed to be. Teddy and Dan could hardly control their impatience to speak privately with Sam. As a matter of course, they understood that he was embellishing the story, and both were eager to make him tell the exact truth. Just at that moment, however, Sam had no time to spend on ordinary boys. He had come out of a bad scrape with apparently flying colors, and intended to enjoy his triumph to the utmost before sinking back to his rightful plane. The jail was near at hand, and Sam had not exhibited himself as much as he desired when Long Jim was brought in. On seeing the boy the burglar gave a start of surprise, and allowed the incriminating question to escape his lips: "Has Phil been pinched, too?" "I took care of that business, an' we'll bring him in some time to-day. Say, what about that awful lickin' you was goin' to give me?" "I'll cut your throat before this job is finished," was the angry reply, and there was no longer any necessity of asking Sam if he recognized the prisoner. "You say you can show us the stolen goods, and the other burglar is where the officers can get him?" Mr. Harvey asked. "That's just what I can do," Sam replied, proudly. "Then you will have earned fifty dollars, for Mr. Hargreaves has promised, even sworn, that he will pay that amount for the return of his property," Mr. Harvey continued. "He might as well give me the money now, for I'm ready to turn the stuff up, an' when there's more big detective work to be done, come to me." "I don't know about payin' any reward till I'm certain the little villain isn't one of the thieves himself, an' is doin' this to swindle me," Uncle Nathan cried, quickly. "He shall have the reward if the story is true," the 'Squire replied. "You can't go back on what you've sworn to, an' must pay up. Mr. Constable, get two or three men an' go with this boy. Don't lose sight of him for a minute until he has given all the information in his power." CHAPTER XXXII. _IN CONCLUSION._ Sam was led away before either Teddy or Dan could speak privately with him; but they went at once to congratulate Hazelton on his apparently happy escape, and, in response to Mr. Harvey's request, the 'Squire said: "The prisoner can remain here, or in your custody, until the party returns. If the boy has told the truth there is nothing for me to do but discharge him, and I am really glad that he has come out so fortunately." "Don't think I'll ever forget what you've done for me," Hazelton whispered to Teddy. "But it isn't me at all. Sam seems to have fixed everything." "I've got an idea that I know pretty near the truth of the whole story, never mind how he tells it. At all events, we've no reason to complain, for if the goods and the other burglar are found, we are out of our trouble. Your uncle's charges can't hold after that." It was, as Teddy now realized for the first time, a happy conclusion to the troubles of both, and his heart was lighter than it had been at any time since the accusation was made. There was no question that those who had gone with Sam would be absent several hours, and the little party in the court-room had more time at their disposal than could well be occupied by the discussion of their affairs. After the different phases of the case had been gone over in detail, Hazelton asked Teddy: "How did you come out at the fair?" "I haven't figured up; but I know I've made a good deal, an' it must be almost enough, countin' the money Deacon Jones gave us, to pay the debt on the place." Until this moment Teddy had had so much on his mind that the principal cause of his turning fakir was absent from his mind; but now, with nothing better to do, he began to count up the week's work, announcing the result a few moments later by saying: "I took in two hundred an' fifty-two dollars an' fifty cents during the week. Out of that must come the money I lost at Waterville, what I paid Uncle Nathan, the privilege, the money I paid Mr. Reaves for the stock, Tim's wages, an' my board. That leaves one hundred an' forty-five dollars an' ninety-eight cents. With what came in from the testimonial I'll have enough to pay off the debt on the house, an' pretty near eight dollars for myself, which is what I call a big week's work." "I'm glad you have made it," Hazelton replied, heartily. "There is a little matter between you an' I which yet remains to be settled, and when that has been done you should be considerably better off." "I don't want you to do a thing," Teddy said, quickly. "So many people have helped me since the fair opened that it seems as if I was nothing more or less than a beggar." "You come very far from deserving that title," the fakir replied, and then the entrance of Mr. Reaves interrupted the conversation. After talking with the lawyer, the merchant said to Teddy: "I am more than pleased to learn that you will be freed from all your troubles in a short time. Next week I shall be in need of a clerk, and if you wish to take the situation it shall be left open until you are ready to go to work. The wages are six dollars a week for the first year, with an increase as soon as you can earn it, and I will really be pleased to have you in my employ." "I'd like to come," Teddy replied; "but it don't seem just right to leave mother." "There is no necessity of doing so. You can ride back and forth on the stage, unless your mother should decide, as I think she will eventually, to make her home in Waterville." "If she approves of the plan I'll come to work next week." "Make it two weeks, so that there'll be plenty of time to arrange matters, and I will expect you," the merchant replied in a tone which showed that he was more than satisfied with the arrangement. "I only came over to see if you needed any assistance; but Mr. Harvey says you'll soon be free from the charge your uncle made, therefore I will go back at once." About an hour after the merchant departed Sam and the constables returned with Phil and the stolen goods. The amateur detective was in the best possible spirits, and now that the burglar had been apprehended through his assistance the boy felt absolutely certain he was the greatest detective in the country. As a matter of course, there was nothing the 'Squire could do save discharge Hazelton from custody, and after Mr. Harvey had given his word that he would take care Sam should appear when wanted as a witness, the boy rejoined his friends, saying as he did so: "If you fellers had done as I wanted you'd be way up now, the same as I am. Of course, I don't blame you for being afraid; but when you go out on such work the only way is to hold on." "I wonder how long you'd have held on if the men hadn't made you stay with them?" Dan asked. "Who told you that?" Sam said. "If I staid, it was because I knowed it wouldn't be long until I got the upper hand of the gang, an I've done it." Before the party separated, and while Uncle Nathan was identifying the goods which had been stolen from him, Mr. Harvey insisted that the reward should be paid, and although it was very much like drawing a tooth, the old man was finally induced to make his word good. "It's a pile of money, but I earned it," Sam said, as he tucked Uncle Nathan's grudgingly bestowed cash in his trousers pocket. "There ain't many 'round this part of the country who could have done what I did, an' it's only right detectives should be well paid." Then, with many protestations of friendship, the lawyer started for home, after returning to Hazelton the money which Teddy had given Mr. Reaves for safekeeping, and the fakir said as he walked out of the court-room with the four boys: "Now, I want you to come with me, until my business is settled, and then I'll shake the dust of Peach Bottom from my feet in the shortest possible time." Not understanding what he meant, the boys accompanied him to the nearest jewelry store, and there he bought two silver watches, which he presented to Teddy and Dan, as he said: "These are only to remind you that I am grateful for what has been done. It isn't much of a present; but it will suffice to show I'm not ungrateful. Some time in the future I may meet you again, and then the full debt shall be paid if I'm solid enough to do it." He was gone almost before the astonished boys could thank him, and with his departure this story should properly be concluded, since Teddy has made his last appearance as a fakir. A few more words, and "the end" shall be written. Sam, still believing himself especially designed for a detective, is yet displaying his "style" as an oarsman in the employ of the Davis Boat and Oar Company, and he believes he has guessed the weight of the yacht which is so soon to be given away. Dan accepted an offer from Mr. Reaves last week, and he and Teddy are learning the same business, both looking forward to the time when they shall own a store equally as large. Uncle Nathan is still at the Run, but his trade has decreased very materially, and Hazelton has not been seen since the day he left Peach Bottom; but it is quite possible that when the fair opens this season all the fakirs may again meet the country boy who made such a successful venture at the country fair. [THE END.] [Illustration: 53 STATE ST. 19 KILBY ST.] CHARLES E. BROWN & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS, BOSTON. RIDPATH'S UNITED STATES. Cloth 3.75 Sheep 5.00 Half Morocco 6.00 Size of Volumes 7-1/2 � 10-1/4 Inches. [Illustration: THE UNITED STATES A HISTORY JOHN CLARK RIDPATH L.L.D.] _Fac-simile Volume Reduced._ FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS OR SENT UPON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY THE PUBLISHERS. CHARLES E. BROWN & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS BOSTON. HALL'S IRELAND, 3 VOLS. IN 1. Cloth 3.75 Sheep 5.00 Half Morocco 6.00 Size of Volumes 7 1/2 � 10 1/4 Inches. [Illustration: IRELAND ITS HISTORY SCENERY AND PEOPLE] _Fac-simile Volume Reduced._ FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS OR SENT UPON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY THE PUBLISHERS. CHARLES E. BROWN & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS, BOSTON. MISS PARLOA'S COOK BOOK. Cloth, silver and black Side and Back 1.25 Size of Volumes 5-1/4 � 7-3/4 Inches. [Illustration: MISS PARLOA'S COOK BOOK] _Fac-simile Volume Reduced._ FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS OR SENT UPON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY THE PUBLISHERS. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: [----] denotes a word missing in the original text. 
62633	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 62633-h.htm or 62633-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62633/62633-h/62633-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62633/62633-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/catalpaexpeditio00peas [Illustration: CAPT. GEORGE S. ANTHONY Commander of the Catalpa] THE CATALPA EXPEDITION by Z. W. PEASE With Illustrations [Illustration] New Bedford, Mass. George S. Anthony 1897 Copyright, 1897, by George S. Anthony. All rights reserved. INTRODUCTION One hundred years after the Declaration of Independence, an American whaling captain, George S. Anthony, commemorated the event by enforcing another declaration of independence which set free the Irish political prisoners who were sentenced to a lifetime of servitude in the English penal colony in Australia. The story of the rescue of these prisoners in 1876 is a brave incident of history which has hitherto been told too briefly. When Captain Anthony, commanding the bark Catalpa, landed the men for whose relief the expedition was planned, at New York, public interest in the romantic voyage was very intense. The boldness of the raid upon the English colony and the remarkable features of the conspiracy, excited universal curiosity concerning the details of the affair. At that time international complications seemed certain, and there were many reasons why those concerned in the rescue furnished only meagre information of the inception of the plan and its progress during the two years which were spent in bringing it to a successful consummation. Brief newspaper accounts appeared at the time, and this material has been worked over into magazine sketches. The frequency with which the original newspaper story has been revived during the years which have elapsed suggested that the interest was still alive and led to the writing of the story which follows. The facts were contributed by Captain Anthony, who placed his log-book and personal records at the disposition of the writer, and the present version is authorized by the man who was most prominent in it. Some of the incidents of history which led up to the Fenian conspiracy in 1867 are compiled from familiar sources. The records of the court-martial are from transcripts of the proceedings made in Dublin expressly for this book, and have never previously been published. No attempt has been made to embellish the narrative. It has been the effort of the writer to tell it simply, as he knows the gallant commander would best like to have it told. New Bedford, Mass., 1897. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Sailing of the Catalpa 1 II. Fenian History 4 III. The Irish Political Prisoners 9 IV. The Court-Martial 16 V. The Court-Martial continued 35 VI. Banishment to Australia 51 VII. O'Reilly's Escape 54 VIII. Other Escapes and Rescues 58 IX. Appeals from Australia 66 X. The Plot 70 XI. The Vessel and the Start 75 XII. Whaling 82 XIII. A Hurried Departure 91 XIV. An Awkward Meeting 96 XV. A Strange Episode 103 XVI. Arrival at Australia 107 XVII. The Land End of the Conspiracy 110 XVIII. Meeting of Anthony and Breslin 116 XIX. Arranging the Details 122 XX. A Critical Situation 127 XXI. Leaving the Ship 132 XXII. The Escape 135 XXIII. In The Open Boat 142 XXIV. An Awful Night 148 XXV. A Race with the Guard-Boat 152 XXVI. Overhauled by the Georgette 157 XXVII. Bound Home 162 XXVIII. A Cordial Reception 167 XXIX. Settlement of the Voyage 183 Appendix 186 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Portrait of Capt. George S. Anthony _Frontispiece_ Portrait of John Devoy 24 The Jail at Freemantle where the Prisoners were confined 52 The Catalpa Outward Bound 80 Portrait of Samuel P. Smith 94 Portrait of John J. Breslin 112 The Town of Freemantle, Australia 124 The Rescued Prisoners 138 The Race for the Catalpa 154 The Catalpa Homeward Bound 164 Portrait of James Reynolds 184 A Cartoon from the Irish World 202 THE CATALPA EXPEDITION CHAPTER I SAILING OF THE CATALPA On an April morning in 1875, the whaleship Catalpa lay at anchor in the harbor at New Bedford, ready for sea. Although the whaling industry was waning on the ebb tide, there were yet over a hundred whaleships sailing out of the port of New Bedford, and the departure seemed to call for no unusual notice. It was a pretty spectacle, to be sure. The still waters, the green pastures running down to the shore of the lower harbor, and the ship, trim and taut. For, while a whaleship suggests to many a greasy, clumsy hulk, the outgoing whaler is actually as ship-shape and clean as a man-of-war. The yellow sun shone on the yellow hull of the Catalpa. Her rigging was aglow with fresh tar, and her gaudy colors and signal flags gave her a holiday appearance alow and aloft. Presently the sailors are on the yards, shaking out the sails. The captain, with his papers under his arm, the very picture of a captain, by the way, strong and athletic in figure, with ruddy cheeks and life and fire in his bright eyes, goes aboard with the agent and a few friends, who are to accompany him down the bay. The pilot instructs the mate to get under way, the anchors are soon on the bow and the chains stowed. The vessel sails out of the harbor, for in these days tugs are a luxury which the sailor despises, and soon the Catalpa is sailing briskly under fore and main topsail, main topgallant-sail, spanker, gafftopsail and staysail and flying jib. Late in the afternoon the captain says good-by to his friends. The wind is blowing freshly from the southwest. "Stand on the port tack two hours longer, then tack out and you will be clear of land," said the pilot, and, with the prosaic wishes of "good luck," departs. Later the wind hauls to the southward. Before midnight the captain has the vessel under short sail and is working off shore. And this seemingly commonplace commencement of a whaling voyage is, in truth, the story of the departure of one of the most boldly conceived and audacious expeditions against the English government which was ever planned,--the only important Fenian conspiracy which was ever entirely successful. * * * * * Standing upon one of the wharves on the waterfront, a man in a dark frieze ulster watched the incidents of the morning with absorbing interest. His eyes said a fond good-by to the captain as he rowed out to the vessel, for he dared not risk an appearance in the group which had assembled about the captain for a handshake. He was one of the few men who knew that greater perils than those which usually await the men who go down to the sea in ships must be met by the captain if he was true to a great trust, and that the vessel was going out in response to the cry of men who were outcast and in chains because they loved their country. CHAPTER II FENIAN HISTORY "This is serious business now," said a clever English literary man when he heard of the Fenian organization. "The Irish have got hold of a good name this time; the Fenians will last." The Fenians were the ancient Irish militia organized in the third century by Fionn or Finn, who is said to be the Fingal of Ossian. In Scott's "Antiquary," Hector M'Intyre, jealous for the honor and the genuineness of Ossian's songs of Selma, recites a part of one in which Ossian asks St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, whether he ventures to compare his psalms "to the tales of the bare-armed Fenians." "There can be no doubt," writes Justin McCarthy, "that the tales of the bare-armed Fenians were passed from mouth to mouth of the Celts in Ireland and the highlands of Scotland, from a time long before that at which any soothsayer or second-sighted sage could have dreamed of the landing of Strong-bow and the perfidy of the wife of Breffni. There was an air of Celtic antiquity and of mystery about the name of Fenian which merited the artistic approval given to it." The Fenian agitation commenced in 1858, following the Phoenix clubs in the sequence of the secret associations which have been so prominent in Irish history. Had it not been for the American civil war, it is quite likely that it would have lacked the fame which it subsequently won, but the strained relations between England and America inspired the hope that war between the two great nations might follow, and that this would afford an auspicious opportunity for the uprising for Ireland's independence, which has ever been uppermost in the minds of the Irish patriots. Then the war had created the Irish-American soldiers, who were inclined to consecrate their energies to a new purpose in behalf of their native land. The movement was more promising than any which had preceded it. In the first place, as Mr. McCarthy points out, "It arose and grew into strength without the patronage or the help of any of those who might be called the natural leaders of the people. In 1798 and in 1848, the rebellion bore unmistakably what may be called the 'follow-my-leader character.' Some men of great ability, or strength of purpose, or high position, or all attributes combined, made themselves leaders, and the others followed. But Fenianism seemed to have sprung out of the very soil of Ireland itself. Its leaders were not men of high position, or distinguished name, or proved ability. They were not of aristocratic birth; they were not orators; they were not powerful writers. It was ingeniously arranged on a system by which all authority converged towards one centre, and those farthest away from the seat of direction knew proportionately less and less about the nature of the plans. They had to obey instructions only, and it was hoped that by this means weak or doubtful men would not have it in their power prematurely to reveal, to betray, or to thwart the purposes of their leaders." The organization flourished in America, where the provisional government was established, and it soon had its ramifications all over Great Britain as well as Ireland. England's secret agents began to report the visitation of mysterious strangers to Ireland, strangers with Celtic features but with the bearing of American soldiers. This did not fail to attract the attention of the English government and the English newspapers. In "Saunders' News" I find an impolite reference to "the imitation Yankee rowdies who infest the streets of Dublin." The spy system flourished, and when James Stephens, the head centre of Fenianism, arrived in Ireland, he was arrested in company with James Kickham, the poet. Stephens was committed to Richmond Prison, Dublin, early in 1865, but before he had been many days in confinement he was released. Of the man who accomplished the liberation of Stephens there will be much said in ensuing chapters. The escape produced a prodigious sensation and had the effect of convincing the Irish peasantry that Stephens was the type of leader who would be adequate to the great task which had been aspired to,--the raising of the flag of an Irish republic. Meanwhile the Fenians in America were divided on the policy of invading Canada, which was urged by some, while others pressed for operations in Ireland. A small body of men finally crossed the Niagara River on the night of May 31, 1866, and drove back the Canadian volunteers, but the United States government enforced the neutrality of the frontier line, unexpectedly to the Fenians, arresting several of the leaders on the American side. The Canadians hurried up reinforcements. Several Fenians were captured and shot, and the ill-advised invasion scheme resulted in a miserable fiasco. Once more Stephens, who had returned to New York, declared his purpose of resuming operations in Ireland, and many Irish-Americans went across the Atlantic to await his appearance at the head of an army of insurgents. It was their presence alone which led to the poor attempt at rebellion which was finally made, for not only were the peasantry unarmed and unprepared for a war, but most of the people of the country were opposed to the wild scheme, and the Catholic clergymen were everywhere attempting to avert the certain disaster by discouraging the secret organization and the proposed insurrection. Stephens, who was looked for to lead the men who sought deliverance from the English government, never appeared. Those who were true desperately resolved to give some sign of their sincerity. There were many wild plots, a few conflicts with the police. The government was informed of them in advance, and none were successful. The habeas corpus act was suspended, and this action was promptly followed up by arrests, court-martials, imprisonments, and banishments to the penal colony at Australia. "In March, 1867," writes McCarthy, "an attempt at a general rising was made in Ireland. It was a total failure; the one thing on which the country had to be congratulated was that it failed so completely and so quickly as to cause little bloodshed. Every influence combined to minimize the waste of life. The snow fell that spring as it had scarcely ever fallen before in the soft, mild climate of Ireland. Silently, unceasingly it came down all day long and all night long; it covered the roads and fields; it made the gorges of the mountains untenable, and the gorges of the mountains were to be the encampments and the retreats of the Fenian insurgents. The snow fell for many days and nights, and when it ceased falling the insurrectionary movement was over. The insurrection was literally buried in that unlooked-for snow." CHAPTER III THE IRISH POLITICAL PRISONERS The man who watched the ship to the line where the sea and the sky met was John Devoy. Some time before there had come to him a voice, crying from the prisons of Western Australia, the land of slaves and bondmen, the penal colony of Great Britain. In the penal gangs were six of the comrades of John Boyle O'Reilly. Forlorn but not quite forgotten, they worked on the roads, "the weary work that has no wages, no promotion, no incitement, no variation for good or bad, except stripes for the laggard." O'Reilly had escaped from it, but he remembered the men who still toiled in the convict's garb on the government road. "They were cutting their patient way into a forest only traversed before by the aborigine and the absconder," quoting from O'Reilly's "Moondyne." "Before them in the bush, as in their lives, all was dark and unknown,--tangled underbrush, gloomy shadows, and noxious things. Behind them, clear and open, lay the straight road they had made--leading to and from the prison." These men had been soldiers like O'Reilly, and like him had joined the Fenian conspiracy of 1866 and 1867, when revolution was plotted in Ireland. Devoy had been the indefatigable agent of the revolutionary party, having been appointed chief organizer for the British army by James Stephens, who had been selected as chief executive of the new republic which was the dream of the Irish in 1865, as it is to-day. In a few months Devoy, quoting his own words, "laid up sufficient evidence to procure himself a sentence of fifteen years' penal servitude." Among the men were Thomas Darragh, Martin J. Hogan, James Wilson, Thomas Hassett, Michael Harrington, and Robert Cranston. They were brave, reckless fellows who were readily converted to the doctrine of Fenianism. They attended the gatherings at the public houses, joined in the singing of Moore's melodies in the congenial company at Hoey's, and made the chorus of "We'll drive the Sassenach from our soil" inspiring to hear. Then came the arrests and the convictions for mutiny in her Majesty's forces in Ireland. Mr. Darragh was born in 1834 in Broomhall, County Wicklow, his father being a farmer there. He was a Protestant and when he entered the army was an Orangeman, but he was subsequently converted through Fenian agencies to the national faith. He enlisted in the 2d Queen's and saw active service in China and Africa, receiving the distinction medal for gallantry displayed. Mr. Darragh had attained the rank of sergeant-major and was on the list for promotion. He became a member of the Brotherhood early in its organization and was arrested for mutiny in September, 1865, at the School of Musketry, Fleetwood, England. He was taken to Cork, where he was tried and sentenced to be shot. The sentence was afterwards commuted to imprisonment for life. He was described in the prison "Hue and Cry" as being stout, five feet six and one half inches in height, with red hair, gray eyes, round visage, and a fresh complexion. Mr. Hogan was born in Limerick in 1839, and was a carriage painter by trade. He enlisted in the English artillery, but his discharge therefrom was secured and in 1857 he joined the 5th Dragoon Guards. He was sworn into the organization in 1864 and deserted the army early in 1865, in order to be ready to take part in the contemplated rising. He was soon after arrested, tried, and sentenced to life imprisonment. He was a finely-built man, with "the gait and appearance of a cavalry soldier," according to the official prison description. James Wilson had lived an eventful life. His real name was McNally, but it was a common thing for Irishmen to enlist in the British army under assumed names. He was born in Newry, County Down, in 1836. He served for seven years in the Bombay, India, artillery, which he left at the time of the white mutiny, when the East India Company was abolished. He had lived in Syria and America. In 1860 or 1861 he enlisted in the 5th Dragoon Guards and was sworn into the Fenian organization in 1864. He was continually propagating Fenianism, and in 1865 deserted with Hogan. The fact that they remained in Dublin awaiting the uprising, although gazetted as deserters, is a fine tribute to their devotion. They worked under the direction of John Devoy until they were arrested in 1866. They were asleep in bed when the police came upon them, or a desperate resistance might have been looked for. Wilson is described at this time as of medium stoutness, five feet eight and one fourth inches in height, with a fresh complexion, brown hair, gray eyes, and oval visage. Thomas Hassett was born in Cork in 1846, and was a carpenter by trade. He joined the Phoenix organization in 1859 and afterwards went out with the Papal Brigade to Italy, serving through the brief campaign. In 1861 he enlisted in the 24th Foot, and in 1864 was sworn into the Fenian Brotherhood. He, in turn, swore in 270 members of his regiment. It was his suggestion that the contemplated fight begin in Dublin by seizing the Pigeon House, which contained twenty-five thousand stand of arms. When it was considered to be in danger a guard of ninety men was placed upon it, of which number sixty were Fenians. Hassett proposed a plan of capture to his superiors in the organization, but it was rejected on the ground that they were not ready for a general fight. In January, 1865, Mr. Hassett was informed while on sentry that he would be arrested for Fenianism as soon as he came from his post. He concluded to leave at once, and, marching into the Fenian rendezvous in full uniform with his gun on his shoulder, presented himself to John Devoy. "Most of the fellows who desert for Ireland's sake," said he, "come to you empty-handed, but here am I, ready for work." O'Reilly presents a dramatic picture of Hassett's appearance at the meeting of organizers, whither he marched from the sentry post. He says,-- "Private Hassett walked off his post and, shouldering his rifle, proceeded confidently through the streets of Dublin, in which a soldier with arms is never questioned. It was ten o'clock at night, and it so happened that Hassett knew of a certain meeting of organizers, and other 'boys on their keepin',' which was being held that evening. Thither he bent his steps, reached the house, and, knowing how it was done, gained admission. The rebels sat in council upstairs; faces grew dark, teeth were set close, and revolvers grasped when they heard the steady stamp on the stairs and the 'ground arms' at their door." "A moment after, the door opened and the man in scarlet walked into the room; all there knew him well. With full equipments, knapsack, rifle and bayonet, and sixty rounds of ammunition, Hassett had deserted from his post and walked straight into the ranks of rebellion. He was quickly divested of his military accoutrements; scouts went out to a neighboring clothing-store, and soon returned with every requisite for a full-fledged civilian. The red coat was voted to the fire, and the belt and arms were stored away with a religious hope in the coming fight for an Irish republic. "The next evening one more was added to the group of strangely dressed men who smoked and drank their pots-o'-porter in a certain house in Thames Street. The newcomer was closely shaven and had the appearance of a muscular Methodist minister. The men were all deserters, and the last arrival was Hassett. Vainly watching for the coming fight, the poor fellows lived in a mysterious misery for several weeks. It is hard to realize here now the feeling that was rife in Dublin then. At last one of the deserters was recognized in the streets by the military informer,--Private Foley, of the 5th Dragoons,--tracked to the rendezvous, surrounded by the police, and every one captured." In 1873 he escaped from prison in Western Australia, and lived on an Irish farm for a time; but it was a bad season and he could not get together an outfit. After two months he made a dash for the coast and stowed himself away on an outgoing vessel, but he was captured by the water police and brought back to the convict establishment. For two years afterward he was kept in irons with the chain gang. Michael Harrington was forty-eight years old at this time. He was born in Cork, where his father was a merchant, and he was given the advantage of a liberal education. His tastes were for the army, and in 1844 he enlisted in the 61st Foot. He served through the Punjab war, and also through the Sikh war under Sir Hugh Gough, who made the now famous exclamation, "Magnificent Tipperary!" Mr. Harrington also took part in the Sepoy war, and then returned home with his regiment. He joined the Fenian organization in 1864 and was very active in enlarging its membership. In January, 1866, being in danger of arrest and desirous of freedom to take a more active part in the projected uprising, he deserted. Yet he remained in Dublin, was arrested on suspicion after the suspension of the habeas corpus act, identified as a deserter, tried and sentenced for life. He was described on the prison records as fairly stout, with brown hair, gray eyes, and a sallow complexion. Robert Cranston was born in Stewartstown, County Tyrone, in March, 1844, and assisted his father on the farm previous to enlisting in the 61st Foot at the age of twenty. He joined his fortunes with the Fenian conspiracy and industriously assisted in "propagating the faith." Of his regiment at least six hundred were sworn members of the Fenian organization. CHAPTER IV THE COURT-MARTIAL The court-martials of the men with whom this story deals are of interest in so far as they exhibit the extraordinary efforts which were made to convict the conspirators. This is particularly striking in the case of Sergeant Darragh, who was court-martialed at Cork, February 21, 1866. In this case an informer went so far as to receive the sacrament of the Roman Catholic Church in carrying out a deception which was to result in the betrayal of those who accepted him as a friend. The notorious informer, Talbot, testified in all, or nearly all, of the cases, of the existence of the conspiracy. The court-martial of Darragh throws light upon the details of the conspiracy as well as the methods of the spies of the English government, and inasmuch as it is an episode which has never been printed, liberal extracts from the proceedings will be given. The charges against Darragh were:-- First: "For mutinous conduct at Cork on or about the month of April, 1865, in that coming to the knowledge of an intended mutiny in her Majesty's forces quartered in Cork barracks, he did not give information thereof to his commanding officer." Second charge: "For conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in having at Cork, on or about the month of April, 1865, joined a treasonable and seditious society, called the Fenian Brotherhood, having for its object the levying of war against the Queen, and the subverting of the government of the country." When the prisoner was brought forward he handed to the President (Colonel Shute) a memorandum, stating that he had failed in procuring the means of employing counsel for his defense, and praying the Court to permit his solicitor, M.J. Collins, to aid him in the conduct of the case. The President said that the Court granted the application. Colonel Addison was then examined, and swore that the prisoner had never at any time informed him of any intended meeting of soldiers in Cork barracks. John Warner, the informer, was then produced, and, in answer to questions put through the deputy judge-advocate (Colonel Nugent), deposed: I was discharged from her Majesty's service in 1857, after coming from the Crimea. Did you receive a pension?--Yes, sixpence a day, for the period of eighteen months. Were you wounded at the Crimea?--Yes, in front of Sebastopol, in the month of August, 1855. Did you join the Fenian Society?--Yes. When did you first become acquainted with J.J. Geary?--In 1864, in the latter end of 1864, after being discharged from the militia in Kinsale--the City of Cork Artillery. Are you aware whether he had any connection with the Fenian conspiracy? If so, what was that connection?--He was connected with the Fenian Society as a centre, which means a colonel of it. After you were enrolled as a Fenian, did Geary give you any particular instructions for your guidance after you were enrolled?--Yes. State what they were. _Prisoner._ I object to that. _The Prosecutor_ (Col. Lane Fox) contended that the instructions the witness received for the carrying out of the conspiracy were not hearsay, and quoted an authority in support of that view. _Deputy Judge-Advocate._ This is a statement of a third party in the absence of the prisoner. _Prisoner._ I object to any instructions given by Geary. The witness can state what he did in consequence of any such instructions; but any instructions given behind my back, without my knowledge, I object to. The court was cleared, and on being reopened it was announced the question was not to be put. Examination by the prosecutor. You say you received particular instructions for your guidance from Geary. State what you did in consequence.--I got instructions from Geary regarding the oath. I was warned three weeks before I came up to the barracks to enroll men. I was called before the meeting for not going up to the barracks. _President._ State what you did. _Witness._ I came up to the barracks and met Darragh outside the gate. I asked him to go down to the North Main Street with me. He went with me to the North Main Street, to Geary's. We had some drink in the inside tap-room, and during the time there I asked would he become a member of the Fenian Society, and he said yes. Then we both went out in the back yard, and I repeated the oath to him, and he did so after me. I then gave him a Catholic prayer-book. He swore on that book to be a member of the Fenian Society. Then we came in and I introduced him to Geary as a member of the society. Geary shook hands with him. He said he was very glad to have one like him enrolled. That was all at that time. Repeat as nearly as you can the oath which you administered to Darragh?--"I (John or James, whichever the case may be), do swear allegiance to the present republic now virtually established in Ireland; that I will maintain its independence and integrity at every risk, and I will obey the command of my superior officers. I take this oath in the true spirit of an Irish soldier at liberty to free my country. So help me God." Did you know Darragh before that?--I did, in the regiment of the depot of the 2d Queen's. Were you ever in the 2d Regiment?--I was. I volunteered from them. Had you any facilities for enrolling men in the barracks?--Yes. I was told off for that special purpose, and a good many of the men knew me and would not stop me going in and out of the gate. Were Geary and the prisoner previously acquainted when you introduced them?--I could not say they were. Did they shake hands as if they knew each other?--They shook hands as a member should be introduced, in a manner. Did you hear Geary give any instructions to the prisoner for his guidance?--Yes. He gave Darragh instructions in my presence to go about the barracks, and find out any men that would join the society and bring men down to Geary's house, but not to deliver the oath,--to bring them to me or to himself. If I was not there he would swear him in. Accordingly he did, and the first man he brought was Butler to Geary's house. How long was that after you swore Darragh in?--To the best of my belief from a fortnight to three weeks. Did the prisoner say anything about any particular corps that he would work in?--Yes, he said he would wish to work in no other regiment but his own. Did the prisoner bring any other soldier to you or to Geary to be sworn?--He took none to me but Butler. I cannot speak as to Geary. Did you hear Geary give Darragh any instructions relative to taking the barracks?--Darragh told him the different parts, in my presence, which were weakest and the easiest to get in. He said if there were one or two men in every passage--enrolled men--they would be sufficient with a thousand outside to take it. I heard him say that much in my presence to Geary. Did you hear Geary say anything about what was to be done to the commanders when the signal for a rising was given? _Prisoner._ I object to that. _Prosecutor._ When a conspiracy is proved, the act of any one applies to the whole. I am asking the witness now what was the intention of the Fenian Society. We have already received documents which do not relate exactly to the prisoner, but to the aims and objects of the society. I withdraw the question for the present. _Prosecutor_ (to witness). Did you hear Geary, as a member of the Fenian Society, say anything about what was to be done to the commanders when the signal for a rising was given?--The commanders, he said, were to be destroyed if they did not take the oath of allegiance to the society. Every man that did not take the oath of allegiance would be destroyed. I heard Geary say that. Who was it said to?--It was said to Darragh, and to different other members in my presence. Did you keep a list of the members enrolled?--Yes, sir. (A book was produced, which the witness identified as that in which he had the names of new members enrolled.) The court adjourned. Cork, Thursday, February 22d. The president (Colonel Shute) and the other officers of the court took their seats at eleven o'clock, when the trial of Sergeant Darrah, of the 2d (Queen's Own) Regiment, was resumed. John Warner, the informer, who was under examination at the rising of the court yesterday, was again produced and gave the following further testimony:-- Are you certain that the prisoner was present when Geary said that the commanding officers were to be destroyed?--He was. Are you quite certain?--I am. When he said the commanders were to be killed, and all in the barracks who did not take the oath, are you quite certain that he said all the commanders who did not take the oath? The prisoner objected to the question. _Prosecutor._ Was it that the commanders especially were to be destroyed that did not take the oath of allegiance, or that every one was to be destroyed, the commanders included?--Every one, the commanders included, who did not take the oath of allegiance to the Fenian Brotherhood. Are you able to read and write?--I can read and write a little. I can write my name. _President._ Can you read print and writing?--I can read print, but not writing. _Prosecutor._ Have you ever seen the prisoner at Geary's since he was sworn in, and if so, how often?--About three or four times. Where did he generally go to when in Geary's?--Upstairs in a front room over the shop. Is there a small room at the end of the shop on the ground floor?--There's a small room on the left hand side before you go into the shop, and two inside that. Did you see the prisoner go into either of these rooms, and if so, how often?--Once he went to the inside one with me, before he was sworn, the inside tap-room. Were you ever in the prisoner's room in the barracks?--I was. How often?--Three or four times. I took tea with him there one evening. Who was present on those occasions besides the prisoner and yourself?--Two color sergeants of the 2d Queen's and their wives. Their names?--I don't know their names. Did you speak of the Fenian Society in the presence of these sergeants, and of the prisoner?--No, not in the room. _President._ Did you do so in the presence of those other sergeants?--No, not at all. _Prosecutor._ Can you state, of your own knowledge, what rank the prisoner held in the Fenian Society?--Geary told him he would be a B, which was a captain. Do you know if Geary and the prisoner are relations?--I could not say. Were you acquainted with Bryan Dillon?--I was. Had he any connection with the Fenian Society, and if so, what was his rank?--He was a centre or an A, which means colonel in the Fenian Society. Have you seen him in the company of the prisoner?--I never did. Do you know if Bryan Dillon was tried at the Commission for being a member of the Fenian Society?--Yes. The prosecutor then handed in a certificate of the conviction of Bryan Dillon, at the special commission, held in Cork, when he was sentenced to ten years penal servitude. Examination continued. Do you know a man named Thompson?--Yes. What was his Christian name?--I can't say, but he lodged at Geary's. Was he connected with the Fenian Society, and what was his connection?--He was a B in the society, which made him a captain. Did you ever see him in company with the prisoner?--Once in Geary's, in the front room over the shop. Give a description of what took place at Geary's house?--A man named Donovan, from Dublin, lectured on the rifle, showing how to make cartridges, and military and field engineering. Did you see a rifle raffled for there?--Yes. Was it the headquarters of the Fenian Society in Cork?--It was the principal part of the city for the Fenian Society to meet in. [Illustration: JOHN DEVOY Organizer of the Rescue Expedition] Do you recognize this book (book produced), and if so, state what you used it for?--This is the book on which I swore in Darragh and different other members besides. Did you make any communication to Sub-Inspector Hamilton as to how your being in the barracks could be proved? _Prisoner._ I object to that question. Prosecutor contended that the question was legal. The court was cleared. When it reopened, the deputy judge-advocate announced that the Court ruled the question might be recorded, but not answered. Examination resumed. Had you any communication with Mr. Hamilton in reference to your being in the barracks with the prisoner?--Yes. Did the members of the Fenian Society carry on drill in the neighborhood of the barracks?--In a place called the Lawneys, about a mile from the barracks. _Prosecutor._ I close. Cross-examined by the prisoner. Did you know I was in Cork until the time you say you met me outside the barrack gate?--No, I did not know you were there until then. Did you swear, in answer to the prosecutor, that you came up to the barracks for me, which is true?--I did not come up for you in particular. Were you in the habit of coming to the Cork barracks previous to the day you say you met me at the gate? If so, for how long?--No, I was not. Did you come to the barracks before, and if so, how often?--I have come in before, when doing Sir John Arnott's business,--conducting it. Were you in barracks when the last detachment of the 2d (Queen's) Regiment arrived here from England?--I could not tell; I was not aware what time they came, or what place they came from. Did you see Corporal McKillop with me marching into Cork barracks?--I did not. Do you know McKillop?--I do not. The first time I spoke to you since I left the depot was outside the gate. Did you not speak to me when I marched in with my detachment?--No. Did you not go to the canteen to drink with me?--Not when you marched in, but I came in one evening to the barrack and had drink with you. _Prisoner._ I wish to have Corporal McKillop produced for identification. _President._ Was the meeting in the canteen before the time you spoke to him at the barrack gate?--It was a week or two after I met him outside the gate that we drank in the canteen. _Deputy Judge-Advocate._ McKillop is on furlough in England. _President._ You say McKillop is in the barracks; how do you know? _Prisoner._ I can't know, for I have been in close custody for six months. _President._ If he be a material witness, he shall be recalled by telegram. Cross-examined. Was that the first time you drank with me at the canteen?--It was not. Geary and Butler and two more drank with us at the canteen. Geary paid for the drink. When was the first time; how soon after you swore me in?--In some time after. Why did you not mention that before, in answer to the Court?--I did not think of it. It is hard to think of everything at once. You say you swore in Butler, and did you swear in any other soldier between the time you swore in Darragh and Butler?--I am not sure whether I swore in Farrell between them or not. Butler brought me a corporal and a private. I think their names are in the book. Did you swear any and how many soldiers between swearing in Darragh and Butler?--I do not think I swore any between you and Butler except Farrell; but I don't know whether he was or not. What was the time between swearing me in and swearing in Butler?--It may be a fortnight or three weeks. During that time did you swear in civilians?--Yes. State the number?--It may be two or three. Did you swear in any soldier previous to the time you say you swore me in?--Not a regular soldier; there were militia. You say I directly went to Geary and took a treasonable oath without the smallest reluctance. What month was that in?--It may be in the latter end of March or beginning of April. When you joined the Fenian Society did you do so for the purpose of betraying them?--I took the oath for the purpose of betraying them, and I could not get their intentions without taking the oath. When did you join the society?--In December, 1864. When did you first give information?--In July, 1865. I tried before to go to Captain Tooker but was followed. Captain Tooker is a magistrate of the city of Cork. Did you go of your own free will to give him information?--I did. Were you from May, 1864, to September, 1865, most actively engaged in endeavoring to induce parties to become members of the Fenian Society--swearing them in and enrolling them?--I was. I should do so by orders of Geary. How many members did you enroll?--I can't be exact; they are in the book; but about fifty altogether. The prosecutor said that the witness was not bound to answer any question affecting his credibility. The president said the main point was credibility. _Prisoner._ It was the prosecutor who first asked the question. The Court decided the question could be put. Cross-examination continued. Did you not know all the secrets of the society immediately after you were admitted?--I did not until January, 1865, when I was introduced to Geary. Did you swear information against the members of the Fenian Society in September, 1865?--Yes. Did you mention one word about me in that?--No, I did not, but I told it to Sub-Inspector Hamilton. _Prisoner._ I object to that answer. At two o'clock the court adjourned for an hour. On the reassembling of the court, at three P.M., the president (Colonel Shute) said that the Court had decided that the witness on cross-examination had a right to explain his answer. _The Deputy Judge-Advocate._ The question was, Did you make any mention of the prisoner in your information? _Witness_ (_Warner_). I did not. On account of mentioning it to Sub-Inspector Hamilton I did not think that there was any occasion to state it in the informations. _Prisoner._ Do you know that I am a Protestant and an Orangeman and a member of an Orange lodge at Delgany?--No. Are you a Protestant and did you state to me that you were an Orangeman?--I am a Protestant and on my oath I don't think I told you anything about my being an Orangeman, because the society would come on me if I spoke of anything of the sort at all. Were you always a Protestant, or did you cease to be one? If so, when did you cease to be one?--I was always a Protestant, but I went to Mass a few times, as I thought I would get into their graces by being a Roman Catholic and get some of their secrets. Was the going to Mass the only thing you did about becoming a Roman Catholic?--That is all. Did you not go to a Roman Catholic clergyman in Cork and state to him that you wished to become a Roman Catholic?--I did. One of the Fenians came with me and said I wished to become a Roman Catholic. Did you not receive some religious books and religious instructions?--I did. He went with me to the monk, and he (the monk) gave me some religious books to read. Did you go afterwards by yourself to the clergyman or the monk?--I went afterwards by myself to receive some instructions from the monk according to the order I received from him. Then your answer is not true that your going to Mass is the only thing you did towards being a Roman Catholic?--There was not time, for it requires an explanation. The answer could not be given well at once. Were you sincere in your intention of becoming a Roman Catholic, or were you only deceiving the clergyman or monk?--I was deceiving him for the purpose of getting the information I wanted to get from the society. When you were in the depot at Templemore did you know Sergeant-Major McKinmon?--I did. Did you desert from the depot there?--I did. He gave me money to desert, but I think it would be dishonorable to speak of that here, as he is a captain now. _Prisoner._ I wish Captain McKinmon to be brought here. _President._ You can summon any witness you wish, and the sooner you do so the better. Cross-examination continued. Were you tried by court-martial for that desertion?--I was tried for being absent without leave, but not for desertion. Were you punished for it?--Yes, I got forty-two days for it by regimental court-martial. When were you discharged from the 42d Regiment?--Some time in 1857. Was not the portion of the discharge which generally contains the character cut off?--No, it was not. The books of the garrison can state it. I drew my pension in this garrison. Where is your discharge?--I lost it; but you can refer for the form to the local garrison. What character did you get in your discharge?--The character was very good. Were you examined at the special commission at Cork, on the trial of Colonel O'Reardon, who was charged with being a member of the Fenian Society?--Yes. Did you not swear that he was a member of the Fenian Society?--I did. And that he came to Ireland to inspect the forces?--He gave instructions according as he got them from John O'Mahony. And that you put the men through their drill before him?--One night for him; but generally for a man named Captain Kelly. Did you not further swear that he was four or five months here, and gave instructions to the Fenians in rifle practice?--I swear I saw him on several occasions in Geary's giving instructions to Fenians. Did not the jury disbelieve you, and was he not acquitted?--He was acquitted at all events. I could not swear whether I was believed or not. At what time did your son write the names in the book produced?--Always when I enrolled the men my little boy would put them down as I would tell him. The witness was then examined at some length by prisoner and prosecutor as to the entering of the names. _Prosecutor._ How long is it since you saw the book?--Not since I gave it to Mr. Hamilton in September last, until to-day. _Prisoner._ You have stated that all you have stated is true?--I have forgotten a great many things; but all I have stated is true. The court adjourned at four o'clock. John Warner was recalled and questioned by the prisoner. _Prisoner._ Did you at any time meet in Cork the man whom you say swore you in?--I did. How soon after he swore you in?--I could not be exact as to the time; it was in 1865, at any rate, in Mr. O'Connor's timber yard. How soon did you come to Cork after you were sworn in?--After the regiment was disembodied in Kinsale in June, 1864. When were you sworn in?--In May, 1864. Did you bring the letter from Crowley with you in June when you came to Cork?--I did not. Did you see Crowley from the time you left Kinsale until you saw him in 1865 in Cork?--No. When did you get the letter from Crowley, and where?--I did not get it at all. Were you acting for the Fenian Society in Cork in 1864?--Yes. At the latter end of 1864 I attended a meeting at Geary's, the first meeting I did attend. That was in the latter part of December. Was Geary at that meeting?--He was; I was speaking to him. Was that the first time you spoke to him?--I don't think it was. About a week before he sent Mr. Bryan to me, and Geary then told me to attend a meeting on that night week. I was speaking to Geary in the beginning of December, or at the end of November, 1864. Did you not swear yesterday that you never saw Geary till 1865,--which is true?--I don't think I swore that on yesterday. _Prisoner._ I would ask to have the witness's evidence of yesterday read. _President._ This particular portion. The evidence of the witness on this point was referred to, and it appeared from it that Warner had stated that he did not see Geary in 1864 for the first time. The prisoner then said he had no other question to ask Warner. The following letter was then put in by the prosecutor and read by the president:-- My dear James,--Please add to the list of contributors to the Keane Fund the following inclosed names, for J.J., Cork. Of course you think it awkward to have the names instead of the cash, but the following reason, which is not fit for publicity, will be enough for you. Since Keane's imprisonment, on 7th Dec., I have paid for his grub about £4 10s., so instead of having anything on hand, I'm only waiting for the balance, which I hope will soon come to hand. It is so very long since I heard from you that I don't know whether you are dead or alive. Will you let me have some news, and say how is Mr. Johnson. Yours faithfully, J.J. Geary. The court-martial of Darragh did not conclude until March 2. The testimony against Darragh was mainly that of soldiers who testified that the prisoner introduced them to Warner, who administered the oath of the Fenians to them. Private Michael Harrington was convicted on the evidence of a private to whom he confessed he was a Fenian, drinking to the health of the "'M.C.'s' or the 'M.B.'s,' or something like that." There was evidence that Harrington solicited men to take the Fenian oath. Another private testified to meeting Harrington at Fenian meetings when "Erin my country" and "My heart beats for thee" were sung. CHAPTER V THE COURT-MARTIAL CONTINUED An incident in the trial of Private Martin Hogan is not without interest, illustrating the arbitrary manner of the Court toward the prisoners. Private Foley was under examination, and testified to meeting Hogan at various public houses in Dublin, where the prisoner's conversation was of a treasonable and seditious character. At one meeting an American guerrilla officer, who had served under Confederate General Morgan, discussed plans with them for mounting the men on colts, arming them with rifles, and as to the best means of carrying off their horses out of the barracks. Plans of action for the Fenian soldiers were also discussed, the prisoner being present and occasionally taking part in them. Mr. McMechan cross-examined the witness, and the examination was proceeding, when the counsel requested that the witness be required to speak in a louder and more distinct tone, and placed nearer to the prisoner in order that his remarks might be taken down. The president ordered the witness to move to within two or three yards of the table at which counsel and prisoner were sitting, and to speak as loud as he could. This was done, but with no more satisfactory result to counsel for the prisoner, and a request to move nearer and speak louder was repeated. The president said the witness had spoken loud enough for any man with even ordinary faculties to hear, and if these were not possessed by counsel, some one who possessed them ought to be procured. Counsel then handed in a statement to the effect that he did not hear the witness, nor had he heard anything distinctly that day. He was not deaf, and was possessed of ordinary faculties. He had no wish to obstruct or delay the Court, and, that he might not do so, he had asked that the witness be directed to stand nearer. The observations made by the president tended to unfit him for the discharge of his duties, and he requested that they would be withdrawn. Subsequently Mr. McMechan sent in the following and stood waiting a reply. "Sir,--Having remonstrated with you for what you said, and you not noticing it, I now beg to withdraw." The president read the first communication and said, "I am sorry that my remarks should tend to unfit counsel from attending to his duty, but I refuse to withdraw them." Mr. McMechan immediately left the court. The president directed Mr. Lawless, the prisoner's solicitor, to be sent for. On Mr. Lawless entering the court, the president said that Mr. McMechan had withdrawn from the case, and he wished to tell him that he would give half an hour, or any reasonable time, to provide another counsel if he thought proper. Mr. Lawless said he was very sorry for what had occurred between Mr. McMechan and the Court, but as he was senior counsel in all the court-martial cases, he could not, according to the etiquette of the profession, withdraw the case from him, nor was he at all inclined to do so, as he had full confidence in whatever course he (Mr. McMechan) thought right to adopt. _The President._ Have you any application to make on behalf of the prisoner? Mr. Lawless said he had no application to make. _The President._ Under these circumstances the trial must proceed without counsel. Colonel, the Hon. S.J.G. Calthorpe, 5th Dragoon Guards, was examined to prove that the prisoner had not given him notice of an intended mutiny in her Majesty's forces in Ireland. Sergeant Alsopp and Sergeant Miller of the 5th Dragoon Guards were examined to prove the desertion of the prisoner, and the making away with regimental necessaries. The prisoner was placed on his defense, and stated that his counsel having left him, he did not know what to do; he could get no other counsel now, and felt inclined to throw himself on the mercy of the Court. The president said he would receive his defense in the morning, and adjourned the further hearing of the case in order to give the prisoner time to prepare it. The trial of Martin Hogan was resumed. Mr. Lawless was present, and handed in a written statement to the president. _The President._ Before reading this, I am anxious to say, that I most emphatically disclaim any intention whatever of having said anything disrespectful, or that I intended annoying the prisoner's counsel; and I wish to say that if I should at any time-- _Mr. Lawless._ The prisoner's counsel is outside sir. Will you allow him to be present? _President._ Certainly. Mr. McMechan then entered the room, when the president said, "I will repeat the words I have just said, which were these: That I desire most emphatically to disclaim any intention whatever of saying anything disrespectful to the prisoner's counsel, or any other person engaged in this court. If at any time I imagined I did so, I should be very sorry for it. I would be the last to offend any one." _Mr. McMechan._ I am perfectly satisfied, sir. _Mr. Lawless._ We will withdraw that statement, sir. The statement was handed back, and Mr. McMechan, instructed by Mr. Lawless, remained to defend the prisoner. The prosecution was then closed. The trial of Private Robert Cranston was one of the longest. It was held in the Victoria Library, Colonel Brett presiding. Cranston was arraigned on the following charges, First: For mutinous conduct in having at Dublin, on the 18th February, 1866, come to the knowledge of an intended mutiny in her Majesty's troops then quartered in Richmond barracks, Dublin, and not giving information of the said intended mutiny to his commanding officer. Second charge: For conduct to the prejudice of good order and discipline in the following instances,--First instance: For having at Dublin, in the month of December, 1865, endeavored to induce Private Foley, 64th Regiment, to join the illegal society called the Fenian Brotherhood, having for its object the overthrow by force and violence of her Majesty's government in Ireland. Second instance: For having at Dublin, in the month of January, 1866, endeavored to induce Private Thomas Morrison, 61st, to join an illegal society called the Fenian Brotherhood, having for its object the overthrow by force and violence of her Majesty's government in Ireland. Third instance: For having at Dublin, on the 17th February, 1866, used the following language to Private Abraham, 61st Regiment: "An outbreak will take place in a few days. I am to get a sworn member of the Fenian Society in each of the barrack rooms in Richmond barracks to put a bit of sponge into the nipples of all the rifles belonging to the men who are not Fenians, and thereby render them useless. When the regiment is called out to meet the Fenians, the Fenians will advance close up to it; the men of the 61st who belong to the Fenians will not fire on them, and the others who are loyal will not be able; and the Fenians amongst the 61st will then go over to their party and at once fire on those who refuse to join the society." Third charge: For having in December, 1865, and in January and February, 1866, at Dublin, knowingly received and entertained Thomas Chambers, 61st Regiment, a deserter from the said regiment, and not giving notice to his commanding officer. The assistant adjutant-general, the Hon. Col. Fielding, prosecuted, assisted by Dr. Townsend. Mr. McMechan, with Mr. Lawless as attorney, appeared for the prisoner. _Deputy Judge-Advocate._ Have you any objection to be tried by the president, or by any other member of this court? _Prisoner._ None, sir. The charges having been read by the deputy judge-advocate, the prisoner pleaded not guilty. The prosecutor having stated the case for the prosecution, witnesses were called and examined. Head Constable Talbot was examined, and deposed that he was present at Fenian meetings in December, 1865, and January and February, 1866. Did the soldiers take part in the proceedings of those meetings? Prisoner objected. _Deputy Judge-Advocate._ The particular part taken by soldiers cannot be specified; only the fact that they took part, if they did so. Were they present when the objects were discussed?--Yes. Private James Meara examined by the prosecutor: I have belonged to the 1st Battalion of the King's Regiment (8th) for five years. I have known the prisoner since August 1865; in December, after Christmas, I met him in Hoey's public house in Bridgefoot Street. On that occasion there were also present several civilians, Fenian centres, and some soldiers. I was a member of the Fenian Society. There was to have been a rising of the Irish Fenians in the army. I was at several Fenian meetings in the month of December, 1865, at Hoey's; and in January, 1866, at Barclay's public house in James's Street; and in March, 1866, at Shaughnessy's public house at Newbridge, and also at Tunny's public house, Barrack Street, in August, 1865. At Tunny's, in August, 1865, I met William Francis Roantree, the prisoner Cranston, and several others, Baines and Rynd. At Shaughnessy's I met Baines, Doyle of the 61st, and some of the 4th Dragoon Guards. At Hoey's I met Chambers of the 61st, Wilson, Hogan, and Keatinge of the 5th Dragoons, a few of the 87th, Devoy, Williams, Rynd, and Baines. At the meeting in Hoey's in December, a rising in the army was discussed. Several men of the 61st were brought down to be sworn by Devoy and Chambers, and I saw the prisoner take an active part in the meeting. I was never arrested on a charge of being connected with the Fenian Society. Cross-examined by the prisoner. I was last examined as a witness at Green Street. I don't know whether I was believed or not. Kearney was not tried for firing a shot at me. He was not acquitted. I was sworn a Fenian by Thomas Baines. The oath I took, as I remember, was as follows: "I, in the presence of the Almighty God, do solemnly swear allegiance to defend the Irish republic, now virtually established, to take up arms in its defense at a moment's warning, to defend its integrity and independence; and further to exterminate the Saxon out of the land, to keep all secrets and truths commended to me, and to obey my superior officers and those placed over me." I swore to defend the Queen against all enemies. Did you swear to fight against her?--I decline to answer that question. The deputy judge-advocate told the witness that unless he apprehended that what he should say in reply would subject him to a criminal prosecution he should answer the question. _Witness._ I understand you, sir. According to the Fenian oath I was sworn to fight against her, although in the heart I did not mean it. After swearing to defend her, and afterwards swearing to fight against her, say candidly whether anything you swear is deserving of credit or belief? _Deputy Judge-Advocate._ I think that is for the Court to infer. _Witness._ I decline to answer the question. The prisoner having pressed for a reply, the court was cleared, and, on reopening, the deputy judge-advocate announced the opinion of the Court to be that the question was as to a matter of inference, and not to be answered by the witness. Cross-examination continued. I was at the Curragh in March. I was sworn a Fenian in March, 1865. When did you first give information of an intended mutiny to your commanding officer?--I decline to answer that question. _Deputy Judge-Advocate._ You must answer it. _Prosecutor._ Answer the question. _Witness._ I gave information in March or April, I am not sure which, this year. Cross-examination continued. I decline for the safety of the officers to say to whom I first gave information. State under what circumstances, without mentioning names.--For the purpose of injuring the Fenians, and the leaders, and so forth, to the utmost of my power, I came forward from the motives of loyalty and love of justice. Reëxamined by the prosecutor. I was, in fact, fired at, as I stated in my cross-examination. By the Court. The intentions to mutiny existed in the months of January and March, 1866, and the prisoner was aware of them. I was fired at and wounded, and the persons who did it were Fenians. Private John Abraham examined by the prosecutor. The witness being a little deaf, the questions were, by direction of the Court, read out near to him by Major Gordon. He deposed that he had been twenty-three years in the 61st Regiment. Some time since the 17th or 18th of January he met the prisoner, whom he had known close upon two years, at Hoey's public house. On that occasion there were present Private Harrington, Foley, Kenny, Priestly, Cranston, the prisoner, and Chambers, the deserter, all of the 61st, and a lot of cavalry of the 5th Dragoon Guards, and a good number of civilians, including one that he had enlisted in the 60th Rifles. Chambers shook witness by the hand and asked him how he was getting on, and he said very well, and asked Chambers how was he getting on, and he said very well, that he had drawn £10 6s. to-day, which was better pay than he had had when he was in the 61st. The prisoner and Chambers went out to the top of the stairs, and witness did not hear what passed between them. Had you ever any conversation on the parade-ground at Richmond barracks with the prisoner in February last.--Yes, I was on the parade-ground when the prisoner, Cranston, came up to me and said, "How are you getting on, countryman?" "Very well," said I: "Cranston, how are you getting on?" "First-rate," he said. I said, "I think things are very slow, or rather dull, this weather." "No," he said, "they are not; I think things are getting on very well, for there is going to be an outbreak in the course of two or three days, and I can destroy every rifle that is in the regiment." "Oh," said I, "that is easily enough done." Said he, "I will have a sworn Fenian to go into each room and to stuff the chambers of the nipples of the arms belonging to the soldiers who are not Fenians with fine sponge." He said that when we should be called out, we should get the word to load and the soldiers who were Fenians would fire over the heads of the civilian Fenians, and that the arms belonging to the soldiers not Fenians would then be all stopped. Of course he thought I was a Fenian at the time. At that time the sergeant-major gave the word to take up the covering, and interrupted the conversation. No other person was present at it, which to the best of my recollection took place about the 17th February. On the same evening I saw and spoke to Sergeant-Major Young of the 61st. A few other questions having been asked the witness, the court was adjourned to this morning at half past ten o'clock. The trial of Private Cranston was resumed yesterday morning by the court-martial sitting in the Victoria Library, shortly before eleven o'clock. Private Abraham cross-examined by the prisoner. The last time I saw Doyle was this morning in the square of this barrack. There were five or six men present. I was enlisted in Lisburn. Were you in the habit of going to houses frequented by Fenians?--I was after Cranston spoke to me; I don't remember when I first went to any such house. I might have been in such houses before Christmas last, but I knew nothing of their character. I saw you at the Curragh, but I can't state in whose company, as I did not look after you to see in whose company you were. It was after the depot joined headquarters. I might have conversed and drank with you there, but I don't remember if I did. I have drank with hundreds, and I don't remember every man I drank with. To the best of my belief the conversation in the canteen at the Curragh took place more than a year ago. I understood that in case of a rising the Fenians of the 61st were to fight against the Queen, when Cranston told me so. I did not when in the canteen at the Curragh understand that the object of the Fenians was to put down the Queen's government and establish a republic. What did you then understand its object to be?--Well, I did not take any notice what it was to be then or understand anything about it. I used to hear several talking about Fenianism. I did not take any notice of it then. I was asked to become a Fenian and refused. Why?--Why, because I thought they were no good. I thought there was harm in them. When asked to join, I had no curiosity to learn their objects. After the conversation in the canteen at the Curragh, I thought they were not loyal subjects; but when they were all talking about Fenianism, and I did not know that it might not be a humbug, I think I gave information about the conversation in the canteen at the Curragh, but I cannot answer when. My commanding officer was Colonel Redmond, and I gave him information of everything that I knew, after Cranston spoke to me about the outbreak. I reported to him in Richmond barracks, and Cranston was there then. I think that was in January. I never made any report while I was at the Currag myself. I had always plenty of conversation that I forgot. I reported all that I remembered. Will you swear that you ever mentioned to your commanding officer anything whatever about the conversation in the canteen at the Curragh?--No, I will not. I can swear that I reported to some officer. I cannot say whether it was the commanding officer or not. Do not you know you never did?--No, I do not. I think I made a statement to Captain Whelan. I made no statement in writing, because I can neither read nor write. The remainder of the testimony was largely by informers whom Cranston had induced to take the Fenian oath, and charged him with treasonable language. Private Meara, 8th Regiment, was the principal witness against Private James Wilson, whose court-martial came in August. Meara was one of the witnesses who betrayed O'Reilly. He testified in the case of Wilson that he was a sworn member of the Fenian Brotherhood, and attended meetings at various places. He knew the prisoner and met him about Christmas, 1865, at Hoey's public house, in Bridgefoot Street; also met a man named Williams there. The prisoner went up to Williams and said there was a body of deserters in Dublin who were kicking up a row for their pay, and Williams told him that he had paid them. Williams said that he had told the deserters to kick up a row. Corporal Chambers of the 61st was present, and Devoy. Williams and Devoy were Fenian agents, the former being occupied swearing in soldiers. He was an officer of the Fenians besides. Devoy held the same rank as Williams, and higher if anything. He heard the prisoner on one occasion speak to a man in his regiment about making prisoners of Sir Hugh Rose and the Lord Lieutenant. Civilians were present at the time. The prisoner said that Sir Hugh Rose was a more important man to make a prisoner of than the Lord Lieutenant, and that it would be easily done. A man named Hogan was there, and was dressed in civilian's clothes. Corporal Chambers was also dressed in civilian's clothes. At another public house in the month of January witness said to prisoner that his regiment would soon leave Dublin, and the latter replied that it would not leave until the green flag would be flying. I have seen a man named Barrett of the 5th Dragoon Guards, at Hoey's, and other men, whose names I don't know. Private Goggins, 5th Dragoon Guards, deposed that he was quartered in Dublin on the 17th of January, 1866. He was in a public house in Clare Lane, kept by a man named Cullen. The prisoner was there, and a man named Devoy, and another civilian who was represented as the man who was to command the Fenian cavalry when it broke out. He asked the men how they could get their horses and accoutrements out of barracks, and Wilson said by making a dash at the gate. The man said he was in command of cavalry guerrillas under General Morgan. He said that the men he commanded used to dismount and fight on foot when their swords were broken, and he asked the men in the public house if they could do so, too. Witness was in a public house in Longford, kept by a man named Hughes, in April or May, 1865. Went into the house with, the prisoner; prisoner handed witness a book, and asked him "to swear to take up arms when called upon." Witness took the oath, thinking there was no harm in it. "It's all right, now," he said, "you are a Fenian, and for your own sake, as well as mine, keep it." Witness said: "Jim, you know I have prize money to draw, and you should not have taken me in that way." In November, 1865, the prisoner told him to meet him at Hoey's public house in Bridgefoot Street. There were two civilians in the room who spoke of expected arrivals of Americans. There was plenty of beer there, but witness paid for none of it, and saw no soldiers pay for it. The prisoner was dressed in civilian's clothes in the public house in Clare Lane. To the Court. I did not consider myself a sworn Fenian after taking the oath I have mentioned. Patrick Foley, late 5th Dragoon Guards, deposed that he was in Hoey's public house on the 17th of January last, and met the prisoner there. He was a deserter from the regiment. The American captain asked how many Fenians there were in the 5th Dragoon Guards, and Devoy said about one hundred. Hogan, who was a deserter, said he could give a list of the names. The American spoke of getting horses out of the barracks, and how they should manoeuvre in cavalry fighting. Wilson declined to offer any defense. As for Private Thomas Hassett, he defiantly pleaded guilty to treason. All the men were sentenced to death, but the penalty was subsequently commuted to life imprisonment, and was finally further commuted to penal servitude. CHAPTER VI BANISHMENT TO AUSTRALIA After being convicted of mutiny in her Majesty's forces in Ireland, the men spent weary months in hideous English prisons. One day the keys rattled in the dungeon doors; they were marched out in double irons, chained together with a bright, strong chain. They were taken aboard the convict ship Hougoumont, where the chains were knocked off and they were ordered below. There were sixty-three political prisoners on the Hougoumont, and they were the first sent out to Australia since the Irish uprising in 1848. They were likewise the last ever sent to the colony. Of these prisoners fifteen had been soldiers, and they were placed with the criminals in the fore part of the ship at night, although they were permitted to spend the days with the political prisoners. Of the horrors of a convict ship experience it is unnecessary to say more than to quote O'Reilly, who was one of the unfortunate company on the Hougoumont. "Only those who have stood within the bars," says he, "and heard the din of devils and the appalling sounds of despair, blended in a diapason that made every hatch-mouth a vent of hell, can imagine the horrors of the hold of a convict ship." Strapped to the foremast was the black gaff with its horrid apparatus for tricing unruly men up for flogging, and above, tied around the foremast, ever before their eyes, was a new hempen halter, "which swung mutineers and murderers out over the hissing sea to eternity." Every night the exiles, Catholic and Protestant, joined in a prayer which ran as follows:-- "O God, who art the arbiter of the destiny of nations and who rulest the world in thy great wisdom, look down, we beseech thee, from thy holy place on the sufferings of our poor country. Scatter her enemies, O Lord, and confound their evil projects. Hear us, O God, hear the earnest cry of our people, and give them strength and fortitude to dare and suffer in their holy cause. Send her help, O Lord, from thy holy place. And from Zion protect her. Amen." The Hougoumont reached Freemantle, after a dreary voyage, at three o'clock on the morning of January 10, 1868. "Her passengers could see," writes James Jeffrey Roche in his "Life of O'Reilly," "high above the little town and the woodland about it, the great white stone prison which represents Freemantle's reason for existence. It was 'The Establishment;' that is to say the government; that is to say, the advanced guard of Christian civilization in the wild bush. The native beauty of the place is marred by the straggling irregularity of the town, as it is blighted by the sight and defiled by the touch of the great criminal establishment." [Illustration: THE JAIL AT FREEMANTLE, WHERE THE PRISONERS WERE CONFINED] Then the convicts heard the appalling code of rules, with the penalty for violation, which was usually death; and then they were assigned to the road parties, and from daylight to dark, in the heat which made the cockatoos in the trees motionless and the parrots silent, they blazed their way through the Australian bush and forest. The present was made horrid by the companionship of desperate and degraded men, "the poison flower of civilization's corruption," and the future seemed hopeless. Meanwhile James Wilson sent out an appeal for rescue. He sent it to John Devoy in America. CHAPTER VII O'REILLY'S ESCAPE The men to whom reference has been made in the preceding chapter were not the only Irish political prisoners. In 1876 there were seventeen still in prison for the attempted revolution of 1866 and 1867. The leaders had been pardoned, but this fact only emphasized the injustice to the men who had been swayed by love for Ireland to follow, and who were still paying the penalty of their devotion. Some of them, and the number included Michael Davitt, were in prison in England. Some had been pardoned, some had been released by death. John Boyle O'Reilly had escaped. He had been in the convict settlement rather more than a year, and had been granted a few poor privileges on account of his ability and good conduct. He assisted one of the officers in his clerical work, and was appointed a "constable," with the duty of carrying dispatches from station to station and conducting refractory convicts in the road-gang to the prison. But there was no promise of escape in this liberty, for there were but two avenues open, the trackless bush and the ocean. Suicide was better than flight to the bush; for if the convict could hide from the trained "trackers," natives with a keener intelligence and skill in tracking men than the blood-hounds of the South, the only alternative was death from hunger and thirst. Yet O'Reilly reached a point of desperation where death seemed almost preferable to the awful associations and weary routine which made the life a horror to the poet. But when he told his plans to Rev. Father McCabe, whose parish was the bush country, and whose life work among the prisoners is a precious memory of good influence, the thoughtful man said, "It is an excellent way to commit suicide. Don't think of that again. Let me think out a plan for you." After dreary months the good priest sent a man named Maguire, who promised to arrange with one of the New Bedford whaling captains who were expected with their vessels at Bunbury in February--it was then December--to secrete him aboard. Two months went by, and O'Reilly had now become so impatient that, hearing that three whaleships had put into Bunbury, he had determined to venture alone. That day Maguire came to him again with the information that Captain Baker of the whaling bark Vigilant of New Bedford had agreed to take him on board if he fell in with him outside Australian waters. On an evening in February O'Reilly started for a hiding-place in the woods, and lay down beneath a great gum-tree at the woodside to await Maguire and another friend. At about midnight he heard "St. Patrick's Day" whistled. It was the sweetest music he ever heard, for it was the signal of the men who had come to release him from a horrid captivity. They rode for hours until they reached a dry swamp near the sea. Then they waited until a boat was brought. At daylight sturdy oarsmen had carried him almost out of sight of land, and in the afternoon they had reached the farther shore of Geographe Bay, near the place where they had arranged to await the Vigilant. They had no water, and suffered horribly from thirst. Through the hot day which followed, O'Reilly lay on the sand, tortured with blistering pains and hunger. Maguire brought him food and water at last, and that night he slept on the boughs. In the afternoon the white sails of the whaleships were seen and the company put out, but to their amazement the Vigilant sailed away, never heeding their signals. O'Reilly's heart was bitter. The men returned to the shore and resolved to leave O'Reilly in hiding while they returned home and arranged for his escape by one of the other whaleships. They left him in the secluded sand valley, promising to return in a week. But O'Reilly could not wait. The next morning he put to sea alone in a dory, and at night he was on an unknown sea. The next noon he sighted the Vigilant again, and once more she sailed away. It should be said that Captain Baker did not see his boat on either of these occasions. O'Reilly rowed all night, and in the morning reached the sand hills on the headland of Geographe Bay once more. Exhausted with fatigue and anxiety, he cared for nothing but sleep, and this he could have without stint in the secluded valley. Five days later his friends returned, having arranged with Captain Gifford of the whaling bark Gazelle of New Bedford to pick him up. In order to insure the fulfillment of this agreement, good Father McCabe had paid the captain ten pounds. The next morning O'Reilly and his friends once more rowed out toward the headland. He was leaving Australia forever. Toward noon he was picked up by bark Clarice and subsequently was transferred aboard the Gazelle. This is only the chief incident, briefly told, of the escape of O'Reilly. It suggested some years later a means to a more brilliant accomplishment, for the bravery and ingenuity of the officers of the New Bedford whaleship in a subsequent event, when an attempt to secure possession of the escaping prisoner at Roderique made a strong impression upon O'Reilly. CHAPTER VIII OTHER ESCAPES AND RESCUES The rescue of the young Irish revolutionist, John Mitchell, was the first of the series of escapes participated in by Irish patriots. Mitchell was a talented and brave young man, whose life and history have been an inspiration to the devotees of Irish freedom. He was originally a writer upon the "Nation," but its policy was too conservative for his tastes, and in 1847 he founded a new journal called "The United Irishman." Mitchell belonged to that section of "young Ireland" which advocated immediate war with England. He believed the time was now ripe, and he set about making his paper as obnoxious to the English government as possible. He was a brilliant writer and an enthusiast for the revolution. His plan was to force the hand, first of the English government, then of the Irish people. He deliberately challenged the government to arrest the leaders of his party. Then he calculated that the Irish people would rise to defend or rescue their heroes, and rebellion would be effected. For three years he continued his taunting tactics. He wrote in a strain of fiery sedition, urging the people to prepare for warlike effort, while he described how to make pikes and use them; how to cast bullets; and how to make the streets as dangerous for cavalry horses as Bruce made the field of Bannockburn. Some of the agencies which were suggested for the use of the people, when they should take up arms, were almost devilish in their ferocity, such as the employment of vitriol. At length the government was forced to recognize the violence of young Mitchell's newspaper attacks, and a measure was framed by the government to meet the case, enabling it to suppress newspapers like "United Irishman" and imprison the publishers. Mitchell was defiant still, and he was arrested. Greatly to his chagrin, no attempt was made to rescue him. "Had there been another Mitchell out of doors, as fearless and reckless as the Mitchell in the prison," writes a historian, "a sanguinary outbreak would probably have taken place." He was sentenced to expatriation for fourteen years, and was deported first to Bermuda and then to Australia. Smith O'Brien, Meagher, and other of the confederate leaders were likewise sent there. In 1853 P.J. Smyth, who was known as "Nicaragua," a correspondent of the "New York Tribune," was commissioned by the Irish Directory of New York to proceed to Australia and procure the escape of Mitchell and his political associates. Mitchell was under parole, and his sense of honor would not permit him to leave without surrendering it. On June 8, 1853, in company with Smyth, he presented himself to the police magistrate in Bothwell and surrendered his parole. "You see the purport of that note, sir," said he. "It is short and plain. It resigns the thing called 'ticket of leave' and revokes my promise, which bound me so long as I held the thing." Then they left the magistrate, who was either stupid or afraid to make an attempt to detain them, and, mounting horses, rode through the Australian woods until Hobart Town was reached, when they sailed on the passenger brig Emma to Sydney, and in due time reached the United States. Meagher soon followed. O'Brien declined to have anything to do with any plot for escape while he was on parole, and his honorable conduct was rewarded by a pardon. After reaching this country, Mitchell founded a paper advocating slavery, and championing the Southern cause in the Rebellion. One of his last acts here was a lecture, the proceeds of which went to swell the fund which was being raised for the Catalpa expedition. Later he returned to Ireland, where, owing to some defect in the criminal law, he could not be arrested, his time of penal servitude having expired, although he had not served it. He was elected to Parliament for Tipperary, was disqualified for a seat, and then reëlected. Some turmoil was expected, when Mitchell was withdrawn from the controversy by death. "Weep for him, Ireland, mother lonely; Weep for the son who died for thee. Wayward he was, but he loved thee only, Loyal and fearless as son could be. Weep for him, Ireland, sorrowing nation, Faithful to all who are true to thee; Never a son in thy desolation Had holier love for thy cause than he." The rescue of Kelly and Deasy at Manchester was daring and successful, but it was only accomplished by the killing of one man, and three were subsequently hanged for complicity in the affair. Colonel Kelly and Captain Deasy, Fenian agents in England, were captured by the Manchester police on September 11, 1867, and a week afterward were arraigned at the Manchester police office. Being identified as Fenian leaders, they were again remanded and placed in the prison van to be conveyed to the borough jail. They were in charge of Police Sergeant Charles Brett. When half way to the prison, and just as the van passed under the railway arch over Hyde Road at Bellevue, a man jumped into the middle of the road, pointed a pistol at the head of the van-driver and ordered him to stop. Immediately thirty armed men swarmed over the wall which lined the road. A shot was fired, and the driver was so frightened that he fell from his seat. One horse was shot, and the gallant police escorts scattered and ran for their lives. An endeavor was then made to break in the door of the van. It was locked on the inside, and the key was in the possession of a police officer named Brett, who sat within. A shot was fired at the key-hole to blow off the lock, and the unfortunate police officer received a wound from which he died soon after. The doors were then opened, a woman prisoner in the van handing out the keys, which she found in the pocket of the officer. "Kelly, I'll die for you," said one of the Fenian rescuers. He kept his word. The prisoners were freed, and were seen to enter a cottage near the Hyde Road. They left it unfettered, and were never seen after by English officials. Several men were put on trial for the murder of Brett, and five were found guilty,--Allen, Larkin, O'Brien, Condon or Shore, and Maguire. The defense was that the prisoners only meditated a rescue, and that the death of the policeman was an accident. The five were sentenced to death, but the newspaper reporters were so certain that Maguire was not concerned in the affair that they joined in a memorial to the government, expressing their conviction that the verdict was a mistake. The government made an investigation, and found that he was not near the spot on the day of the rescue,--that he was a loyal private in the Marines, and not a Fenian. He was pardoned, but not unnaturally the circumstances caused a grave doubt with relation to the soundness of the verdict in the other cases. Strenuous attempts were made to secure a commutation of the sentence. Mr. Bright was foremost with his exertions, and Mr. Swinburne, the poet, wrote an appeal for mercy, from which a few verses are quoted:-- "Art thou indeed among these, Thou of the tyrannous crew, The kingdoms fed upon blood, O queen from of old of the seas, England, art thou of them, too, That drink of the poisonous flood, That hide under poisonous trees? "Nay, thy name from of old, Mother, was pure, or we dreamed; Purer we held thee than this, Purer fain would we hold; So goodly a glory it seemed, A fame so bounteous of bliss, So more precious than gold. * * * * * "Strangers came gladly to thee, Exiles, chosen of men, Safe for thy sake in thy shade, Sat down at thy feet and were free. So men spake of thee then; Now shall their speaking be stayed? Ah, so let it not be! "Not for revenge or affright, Pride or a tyrannous lust, Cast from thee the crown of thy praise. Mercy was thine in thy might, Strong when thou wert, thou wert just; Now, in the wrong-doing days, Cleave thou, thou at least, to the right. * * * * * "Freeman he is not, but slave, Whoso in fear for the State Cries for surety of blood, Help of gibbet and grave; Neither is any land great Whom, in her fear-stricken mood, These things only can save. "Lo, how fair from afar, Taintless of tyranny, stands Thy mighty daughter, for years Who trod the winepress of war; Shines with immaculate hands; Slays not a foe, neither fears; Stains not peace with a scar! "Be not as tyrant or slave, England; be not as these, Thou that wert other than they. Stretch out thine hand, but to save; Put forth thy strength, and release; Lest there arise, if thou slay, Thy shame as a ghost from the grave." The government refused to listen to the appeals, and Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien were hanged at Manchester on November 23, 1867, meeting death with courage and composure, we are told. Shore escaped, since he was proven to be an American citizen, and the English spared him lest the protection of the American government might have been invoked in his behalf. One more incident may be added to the chapter of Fenian rescues. This was the attempt to blow up the House of Detention at Clerkenwell in December, 1867, where two Fenian prisoners were confined. This affair was farcical in conception, but its results were cruelly tragic. "At the very time that this horrible crime and blunder was perpetrated," writes a historian, "one of the London theatres was nightly crowded by spectators eager to see an Irish melodrama, among the incidents of which was the discussion of a plan for the rescue of a prisoner from a castle cell. The audience was immensely amused by the proposal of one confederate to blow up the castle altogether, and the manner in which it occurred to the simple plotters, just in time, that if they carried out this plan, they must send the prisoner himself flying into the air. The Clerkenwell conspirators had either not seen the popular drama or had missed the point of its broadest joke." A barrel of gunpowder was exploded close to the wall. Sixty yards of the prison wall were blown in, and many small dwellings in the vicinity were shattered. A dozen persons were killed, one hundred and twenty were wounded, and there were other serious consequences. Had the prisoners been near the wall, they would have been killed. Five men and a woman were put on trial for the crime, but only one man was convicted. He was found guilty on the evidence of an informer and executed. It was agreed that the persons who were concerned in this plot were "of that irresponsible crew who hang on to the skirts of all secret political associations, and whose adhesion is only one other reason for regarding such associations as deplorable and baneful. Such men are of the class who bring a curse, who bring many curses, on even the best cause that strives to work in secret. They prowl after the heels of organized conspiracy, and what it will not do they are ready in some fatal moment to attempt." And this brings us back to the last and most important of Irish national rescue projects. CHAPTER IX APPEALS FROM AUSTRALIA In 1870 the British government had granted conditional pardon to such political convicts in Australia as had been civilians at the time of their offense, but the military prisoners were exempted. Still the latter were not without hope, as the letter of one of them to O'Reilly, who had amnestied himself, shows. "It is my birthday as I write this," ran the letter, "and I know I am turning it to the best account by writing to such a dear old friend. Who knows? perhaps I may be able to spend the next one with you. If not, then we will hope for the following one. At all events, we must not despair." The men were not always so calmly hopeful. Sometimes-- "There spake in their hearts a hidden voice Of the blinding joy of a freeman's burst Through the great dim woods. Then the toil accurst, The scorching days and the nights in tears, The riveted rings for years and years, They weighed them all--they looked before At the one and other, and spoke them o'er, And they saw what the heart of man must see, That the uttermost blessing is liberty." And so it happened that Hassett, who was a man of remarkable daring, "with his eyes on the doom and danger," made his escape from the road party in April, 1869. He penetrated the bush to the sea, like O'Reilly; and after eleven months of privation he took refuge on board a ship at Bunbury. But he had "grasped the flower but to clutch the sting." As he reached the threshold of freedom he was snatched back. Discovered and recaptured, he was sentenced to three years of hard labor in the chain gang at Swan River, with six months' solitary confinement. The first part of the sentence is not without humor, since Hassett was serving a life sentence at hard labor when he made his escape, and there was no terror in the additional three years of servitude. Upon the occasion of the Queen's accession to the title of Empress of India, one hundred and forty members of Parliament, including Mr. Bright, Mr. Plimsoll, Mr. Mundella, Mr. Fawcett, and many others of the ablest men of the House, presented a petition for the pardon of the political prisoners, but it was rejected. And so perished the last hope of the friends of the prisoners of clemency from the government. "Delayed, but nothing altered, more straining on for plucking back," the friends of the prisoners, with an audacity which must be admired, determined then that they should be freed in spite of the government. From time to time appeals had been sent forth from the prisoners in Australia to their friends at home and in America. Martin Hogan had written to Peter Curran in 1872, having seen Curran's name in a letter written by O'Donovan Rossa to the Dublin "Irishman." A copy of this paper had been smuggled into the prison, and suggested the appeal to America. Then James Wilson wrote to John Devoy in New York, sketching a plan of action, and his appeal stirred the devoted man to a final gigantic effort. Devoy sent back the cheering response that steps were being taken for the execution of the plan. After a conference with John Kenneally and James McCarthy Finnell, prisoners who had been released, Mr. Devoy presented the matter to the Clan-na-Gael convention at Baltimore in 1874, and John Devoy and John W. Goff, the latter of whom is now the recorder of the New York courts, James Reynolds of New Haven, and Patrick Mahon and John C. Talbot were appointed a committee to carry out the project. Devoy, Reynolds, and Goff were the most active, and, without definitely revealing their plans, such was the confidence of the Irish people in them that they were not long in securing a fund of $20,000. This was not accomplished, however, without the sacrifice of business, health, and money, on the part of the men most active. Sympathizing miners in New Zealand were stirred by John King, an ex-prisoner, to contribute $4,000, and two agents of the revolutionary party in Ireland, Denis F. McCarthy of Cork and John Walsh of Durham, England, brought $5,000 and their personal aid. John J. Breslin, a brave man who assisted James Stephens, the head centre of the Fenian movement, to escape from the jaws of death in 1865, and of whom I shall have much more to say presently, was assigned the dangerous rôle of active agent, with Thomas Desmond of San Francisco as an associate. They were to go to Australia and place themselves in communication with the prisoners. Finally a vessel was to be fitted out for Australia, manned by men fearless of consequences, to rescue the life prisoners from their captivity. It was here that Mr. O'Reilly made a valuable suggestion to Devoy, that a whaling vessel should be sent. Such a vessel might sail on an ostensible whaling voyage and avert the suspicion with which another ship cruising in the waters of Western Australia might be received. The suggestion was at once accepted as an inspiration. CHAPTER X THE PLOT While the fact that O'Reilly was rescued by a whaleship was the direct cause of the determination to send a vessel representative of New Bedford's victorious industry, there were other reasons which commended the selection. Men who engaged in this perilous mode of hardy enterprise must necessarily be persevering and brave. Perhaps the originators of the enterprise remembered that it was a whaleship bearing the name of Bedford which was the first vessel to display the flag of the United States in British waters, and that in 1783, when the countries were at war. Barnard's "History of England," a rare book, recites that "the ship Bedford, Captain Moores, belonging to the Massachusetts, arrived in the Downs on the 3rd of February, passed Gravesend on the 3rd, and was reported at the Custom House on the 6th instant. She was not allowed regular entry until some consultation had taken place between the commissioners of the customs and the lords of council, on account of the many acts of parliament in force against the rebels of America. She is loaded with 487 butts of whale oil, is American built, manned wholly by American seamen, and wears the rebel colors. This is the first vessel which has displayed the thirteen rebellious stripes of America in any British port. The vessel is at Horseledour, a little below the Tower, and is intended to return immediately to New England." The New Bedford whaleman has ever been a type of enterprise and daring, but the commission which these Irish patriots proposed, of challenging the British navy with a whaleship and snatching a half dozen men from the jaws of the British lion, was a supreme test of pluck. When it was decided to fit out a whaleship, O'Reilly directed Devoy and his friends to consult with Captain Henry C. Hathaway in New Bedford. At the time of his rescue, Captain Hathaway was the third mate of the Gazelle, and O'Reilly occupied a stateroom with him. A strong attachment had grown up between them, which was strengthened when Hathaway saved O'Reilly from drowning during a fight with an ugly whale, in which O'Reilly's love of excitement had led him to participate. Captain Hathaway was at this time captain of the night police force in New Bedford. He entered into the plans with interest, and told Devoy that the commander whom he needed to carry the expedition to success was Captain George S. Anthony. John T. Richardson, the father-in-law of Captain Anthony, was a whaling agent, and the proposition was first broached to him, and he agreed to arrange an interview for the Clan-na-Gael committee with Anthony. Captain Anthony was a New Bedford boy, and pledged his life to the sea at the age of fifteen. He had been a successful whaleman, and his faithfulness had been demonstrated in a service of ten years in one ship, of which Jonathan Bourne was the agent. But the captain had recently married, and had concluded to abandon the longboat forever. He was given a position at the Morse Twist Drill Works, where he was employed in February, 1875, when Devoy and his friends first went to New Bedford. But a sailor is never long contented ashore, and Anthony was growing restless. Mr. Bourne was inclined to make light of his resolution to become a mechanic, and constantly dropped in upon him at the shop with tempting offers to return to his service, until the foreman suggested to Mr. Bourne that he should "let Anthony alone." Then Mr. Bourne slapped the stout sailor on the back and said, "Well, Anthony, I'll let you alone. But remember and let me know when you are ready to go whaling again." Mr. Bourne's experience had taught him something. He had detected the restlessness of Anthony, who acknowledged that he was out of place in a machine-shop, and he knew that one day he would come to his office, prepared to sign shipping papers. A few days later Anthony met Mr. Richardson and said to him: "I'm tired of this. Go down and see Mr. Bourne and ask him if he will let me have a ship." "Wait a few days; I have something better for you," said Mr. Richardson. Two days before he had met Devoy and his comrades, and he was then carrying their secret about with him. The next morning Mr. Richardson again met the captain: "Come to the store this evening," said he; "there will be two or three men there whom I wish you to meet." At about eight o'clock Anthony presented himself at Richardson's. The store of the latter was at 18 South Water Street. It was an outfitters' establishment, with a stock of such clothing as is to be found in the slop chest of the sailor in the front of the store, while there was an open space at the rear filled with chairs. About a big stove sat a number of men, several of whom were strangers to Anthony. He remembered that he had seen them about Richardson's place for several days, and had once been on the point of inquiring who they were. Captain Hathaway was one of the men in the group whom he knew, and it may be said that Mr. Devoy, Mr. Goff, and Mr. Reynolds were also present. "It's just as well to sit in the dark," said one, and the lights were at once put out, which seemed to Anthony a rather singular proceeding. Then he was introduced to the men, but their names were unfamiliar to him at that time. Captain Anthony was less a stranger to the men whom he met. They had made a study of him for several days before they decided to intrust him with the secret and the enterprise which was nearest their hearts, and they had now decided that he would do. The man who stood in the lamplight for a minute before the flame was extinguished was of athletic build, with black hair, and eyes which were so black, bright, and alert that they were the conspicuous feature of the face. The brilliant color in the captain's cheek indicated vigorous good health. Then John Devoy, whom Captain Anthony had carelessly noticed was a short man with full black whiskers, unfolded the plan of the proposed rescue of the Fenian prisoners to the astonished captain. CHAPTER XI THE VESSEL AND THE START It was an ideal conspiracy, you see, the plans being made under the cover of darkness. Mr. Devoy was a brilliant talker, and he knew his subject well. He hurried over the story of the revolution in which the men were engaged, making prominent the fact that his friends who had been transported to Western Australia were not criminals. Then he sketched the plan of rescue. In his enthusiasm it probably seemed the easy task to Devoy which he represented it to be. His friends would provide a whaleship, fitted for sea. Captain Anthony was to sail as soon as possible, and beyond keeping up a pretense of whaling, his part would merely be to show his vessel off the coast of Australia on a certain date. There he would be hailed by a company of men in a boat. He would take them aboard and sail for home. The shore end of the escape would be managed by others. Captain Anthony asked for time in which to consider the proposition, and he was given one day. Meanwhile he was pledged never to speak of the plan, not even to Mrs. Anthony, whether or not he accepted the commission. The captain did some hard thinking that night, and the next evening, when he again met the committee at Richardson's, he told them he would go. They expressed their gratification, gave authority to Mr. Richardson and Captain Anthony to select a suitable vessel, and left the city, well satisfied with their selection of a commander. I have always suspected that Devoy and his friends must have aroused the sympathy of Captain Anthony and awakened within him a personal interest in the men whose zeal for patriotism had placed them in an unfortunate position. A promise that he would be well paid was certainly inadequate to the weary voyage, the risk, and the sacrifice he must make in leaving his family. Captain Anthony had been married but a year, and there was a baby daughter but a few months old. His mother was ill, and had not the spirit which dominated Devoy appealed to him, there can be no satisfactory explanation of his assumption of the trust. Mr. Richardson and Captain Anthony now commenced their search for a vessel. They looked at the Jeannette, a New Bedford whaler, the Sea Gull, a Boston clipper and fast, but in need of expensive repairs, and the Addison, formerly a whaleship, but at that time a packet running on the route between Boston and Fayal. None were regarded as entirely suitable. At last they heard of the Catalpa. She was formerly a whaleship sailing out of New Bedford, but had been placed in the merchant service. She had just returned with a cargo of logwood from the West Indies and was for sale. Captain Anthony and Mr. Richardson went to East Boston, where she lay. They were satisfied with her, and, finding she could be bought cheaply, communicated with the committee, which authorized her purchase. She was bought on March 13, 1875, and the price paid was $5,500. The Catalpa was a vessel of 202.05 tons net, 90 feet in length, 25 feet in breadth, with a depth of 12.2 feet. She was rigged as a merchant bark, with double topsails, a poop deck, and cabin half above decks. Her main deck was roomy and she had an open hold, there being nothing between decks excepting her beams. The house and galley were on deck, merchant fashion; altogether she seemed a stanch vessel. The bark was brought around to New Bedford and the fitting commenced at City Wharf under Captain Anthony's direction. Davits and whaleboat gear were rigged, a forecastle was built for the sailors, a half deck put in, sail and rigging pens built on one side and a steerage on the other. Then it was discovered that the riding keelson was rotten, and John W. Howland, who was in charge of the repairs, performed a mechanical feat never before attempted. The foot of the mainmast rests upon this part of the vessel, yet a new piece was put in with such skill that the rigging did not settle throughout the voyage. The bark was provided with a forward and after cabin. Two rooms on the starboard side were knocked into one for the use of the captain, the mate's room was on the port side, opposite, and the second and third mates were furnished accommodations in the forward cabin. The vessel was fitted ostensibly for a whaling voyage of eighteen months or two years in the North and South Atlantic. Captain Anthony was given supreme authority in the arrangement of the vessel and in securing the fittings, and gave his personal attention to the stowing of the ship. On the day of sailing, the vessel and outfit had cost the Clan-na-Gael committee $18,000. The vessel stood in the name of James Reynolds of New Haven, a fact which aroused considerable curiosity among the New Bedford whaling agents, since he was a newcomer in the field which they had regarded as a monopoly. The conspirators made but one request with relation to the crew. They wished to have one of their number accompany the vessel, and Dennis Duggan was selected. He was shipped as carpenter. Otherwise the responsibility was placed with Captain Anthony, and it was a difficult task, requiring no little discretion and knowledge of the character of men. He made a wise choice, it will be seen later, in the selection of Samuel P. Smith of Edgartown as first mate. The crew was purposely made up largely of Kanakas, Malays, and Africans, since they were likely to be less suspicious than other sailors and could better endure the climate of the southern seas. The shipping articles described the crew as finally made up as follows. The names of some of the men were invented and bestowed upon them by the shipping agents. ------------------+--------------------+--------------+----------------+ | | Place of |Of what Country | Name. | Place of Birth. | Residence. | Citizen, or | | | | Subject. | ------------------+--------------------+--------------+----------------+ Samuel P. Smith. | Edgartown. | Edgartown. | United States. | Antone Farnham. | Brava. | New Bedford. | Brava. | George H. Bolles. | New Bedford. | New Bedford. | United States. | Caleb Cushing. | Harwich. | New Bedford. | United States. | Mopsy Roso. | Malay. | New Bedford. | Malay. | John Roso. | Malay. | New Bedford. | Malay. | Walter E. Sanford.| N. Bridgewater. | Raynham. | United States. | Cyrus S. Hill. | N. Woodstock, N.H.| Exeter, N.H. | United States. | Antone Ferris. | Cape de Verde Is. | New Bedford. | Cape de Verde. | Henry D. Paine. | Woodstock, Vt. | Woodstock. | United States. | John Coeking. | New Britain, Conn.| New Britain. | United States. | Edmund F. Gleason.| Candia. | | United States. | Robert Kanaka. | Hope Island. | New Bedford. | Hope Island. | Mike Malay. | Malay. | New Bedford. | Malay. | Zempa Malay. | Malay. | New Bedford. | Malay. | Lumbard Malay. | Malay. | New Bedford. | Malay. | Gingy Malay. | Malay. | New Bedford. | Malay. | Henry Parrott. | St. Helena. | New Bedford. | St. Helena. | Thomas F. Knipe. | St. Helena. | New Bedford. | St. Helena. | Thomas Kanaka. | Hope Island. | New Bedford. | Hope Island. | Robert Ceil. | St. Helena. | New Bedford. | St. Helena. | Joseph Rosmond. | St. Lucia, W.I. | New Bedford. | St. Lucia. | Dennis Duggan. | New York. | | | ------------------+--------------------+--------------+----------------+ ------------------+-----+--------+------------+-------+-------+ | | | | | | Name. | Age.| Height.| Complexion.| Hair. | Eyes. | | | | | | | ------------------+-----+--------+------------+-------+-------+ Samuel P. Smith. | 29 | 5.11 | Sandy. | Brown.| Gray. | Antone Farnham. | 43 | 5.11 | Dark. | Black.| Black.| George H. Bolles. | 24 | 5.6 | Sandy. | Brown.| Black.| Caleb Cushing. | 23 | 5.1 | Sandy. | Brown.| Black.| Mopsy Roso. | 21 | 5.5 | Dark. | Black.| Black.| John Roso. | 30 | 5.4 | Dark. | Black.| Black.| Walter E. Sanford.| 19 | 6 | Light. | Light.| Blue. | Cyrus S. Hill. | 21 | 5.10 | Dark. | Black.| Brown.| Antone Ferris. | 50 | 5.8 | Dark. | Gray. | Black.| Henry D. Paine. | 17 | 5.9 | Light. | Light.| Blue. | John Coeking. | 27 | 5.3 | Light. | Light.| Blue. | Edmund F. Gleason.| 30 | 5.2 | Dark. | Black.| Black.| Robert Kanaka. | 22 | 5.7 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Mike Malay. | 21 | 5.3 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Zempa Malay. | 21 | 5.2 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Lumbard Malay. | 21 | 5.3 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Gingy Malay. | 21 | 5.4 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Henry Parrott. | 22 | 5.6 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Thomas F. Knipe. | 22 | 5.9 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Thomas Kanaka. | 28 | 5.7 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Robert Ceil. | 18 | 5.6 | Dark. | Black.| Gray. | Joseph Rosmond. | 21 | 5.8 | Black. | Black.| Black.| Dennis Duggan. | 30 | 5.9 | Light. | Light.| Blue. | ------------------+-----+--------+------------+-------+-------+ New Bedford, April 29, 1875. Although the suspicions of nobody had been aroused in any quarter which would lead to anxiety, the shipping agents were very persistent in their inquiries about the destination of the ship. "Captain Anthony is going where he has a mind and will stay as long as he pleases," was Mr. Richardson's invariable reply to those who questioned him. The bark was now ready for sea, and Devoy, who was at this time night editor of the "New York Herald," went to New Bedford to give Captain Anthony his final instructions. "You will cruise until fall, about six months, in the North Atlantic," were Devoy's orders. "Then you are to put in at Fayal, ship home any oil which you may have taken, and sail at once for Australia, where we expect you to arrive early in the spring of 1876. You are to go to Bunbury, on the west coast, and there communications will be opened up with you from our Australian agent." The serious illness of Captain Anthony's mother delayed his departure for two days. Devoy remained over, and at nine o'clock on Thursday morning, April 29, 1875, he waved his handkerchief in farewell to Captain Anthony as he rowed away from the dock to board the Catalpa. Although a large company of his friends had made up a party to accompany the captain down the bay, he could not trust himself to bring his wife. He had said good-by to his wife and baby at home. [Illustration: THE CATALPA OUTWARD BOUND] This was the first anniversary of Captain Anthony's wedding, and among those who were on the bark was Rev. O.A. Roberts, the clergyman who had officiated at the marriage. Mr. Roberts was curious to see a chronometer, and after the vessel was under way he examined it and asked about its winding. Captain Anthony's attention thus being called to it, he learned that he was bound to sea without a key for his chronometer. Fortunately a mechanic named Arnett was on the vessel, and he bored and filed an old clock key to fit the chronometer, and it was wound. This was only the commencement of trouble with the chronometer, which continued throughout the voyage. Late in the afternoon, off Cuttyhunk, the friends on shore left the Catalpa. During the remainder of that day Captain Anthony was in the depths of despondency. While in the companionship of Devoy and the conspirators he had imbibed the enthusiasm and spirit of the affair. But now he was alone with the responsibility. There was not an officer with whom he could share his secret. With a hulk of a whaleship he was defying the mightiest naval power on earth. In the evening half a gale was blowing and the bark was plunging drearily in heavy seas, under short sail. The captain thought of his wife, his child, and his mother sick at home, and he thought of the task he had assumed to accomplish in the convict land of Australia. There was gloom within the little cabin that evening, as well as without. CHAPTER XII WHALING But the heart-heaviness did not last long. If Captain Anthony had not been a man of exceptional pluck, he would not have been bound to Australia in the Catalpa. The first days of a voyage are busy. The crew is called aft, watches are told off, and boats' crews selected. The regulations to be observed on shipboard are read, and the master gives general instructions to be obeyed during the voyage. Then, if the weather permits, the boats are lowered and the green hands are taught their places and the handling of their oars. Perhaps the reader will be interested in the first entry in the log-book of the voyage which was to become famous. It is prosaic enough:-- Remarks on Board Bark Catalpa, Captain Anthony, Outward Bound, Thursday, Apr. 29th, 1875. This day commences with light breezes from the S.E. and clear weather. At 9 A.M. took our anchors and stood to sea. At 11.30 the captain came on board with officers. Crew all on board. For several days thereafter all hands were busily employed in getting the vessel ready for whaling. Captain Anthony did not enter into the preparations with the spirit which might have been expected under different circumstances, possibly, but the work afforded relief from the routine. The chronometer once more intruded itself upon the captain's troubled mind. After taking a number of sights and making a computation by it, the result showed the vessel to be in the interior of New York State. The hammering and pounding which the instrument had undergone in the process of fitting the key had changed the rate. The captain and the mate corrected it, but when three days out a German bark was signaled and it was found that there was a difference of forty miles in longitude between the navigators. The chronometer was never reliable thereafter, and the captain was never certain of his position. Violent, rugged weather was now encountered. The first whale was raised on the afternoon of May 3, but it was going quickly to windward and there was no chance to lower the boats. The next day at five P.M., when on the southern edge of the Gulf, a school of whales was sighted and the vessel was luffed to the wind; but again the whales were going so fast that it was useless to lower. On May 5 another school of whales was sighted on the lee quarter and the captain wore ship to head them off. A heavy squall arose, with rain, and under two lower topsails the bark dashed along, but the whales were elusive. All the next day the chase continued, and one small whale was taken. The whale was taken alongside. At 5.30 the work of cutting commenced and it was finished at eight in the evening. The great pieces of blubber are hauled over the main hatch and minced into fine pieces, called "horse pieces." Then the boiling commences. Water is turned into caboose pens, or jogs along the deck, to prevent the woodwork catching fire from the try works. The casks containing provisions, towlines, and sails are emptied, cleansed, and swabbed clean. The hot oil is then poured in and the casks are lashed to the rail on the ship's side to cool before being stored below. This whale was a very small one and made but about twenty barrels of oil. It may not be uninteresting to give the reader some idea of the size of the right whale, which is the largest of whales. Captain Davis, a veteran whaleman, has made a comparison of the various parts with familiar objects, which is here quoted: "The blubber, or blanket, of a large right whale would carpet a room twenty-two yards long and nine yards wide, averaging half a yard in thickness. Set up a saw-log two feet in diameter and twenty feet in length for the ridgepole of the room we propose to build; then raise it in the air fifteen feet, and support it with pieces of timber seventeen feet long, spread, say, nine feet. This will make a room nine feet wide at the bottom, two feet wide at the peak, and twenty feet long, and will convey an idea of the upper jaw, the saw-log and slanting supports representing the bone. These walls of bone are clasped by the white blubbery lips, which at the bottom are four feet thick, tapering to a blunt edge, where they fit into a rebate sunk in the upper jaw. The throat is four feet, and is mainly blubber, interpenetrated by fibrous, muscular flesh. The lips and throat of a two-hundred-and-fifty-barrel whale should yield sixty barrels of oil, and, with the supporting jaw-bones, will weigh as much as twenty-five oxen of one thousand pounds each. Attached to the throat by a broad base is the enormous tongue, the size of which can be better conceived by the fact that twenty-five barrels of oil have been taken from one. Such a tongue would equal in weight ten oxen. The tail of such a whale is about twenty-five feet broad and six feet deep, and is considerably more forked than that of the spermaceti. The point of juncture with the body is about four feet in diameter, the vertebra about fifteen inches, the remainder of the small being packed with rope-like tendons from the size of a finger to that of a man's leg. The great rounded joint at the base of the skull gleams like an ivory sphere, nearly as large round as a carriage wheel. Through the greatest blood-vessels, more than a foot in diameter, surges, at each pulsation of a heart as large as a hogshead, a torrent of barrels of blood heated to one hundred and four degrees. The respiratory canal is over twelve inches in diameter, through which the rush of air is as noisy as the exhaust-pipe of a thousand-horse-power steam engine; and when the fatal wound is given, torrents of clotted blood are spattered into the air over the nauseated hunters. In conclusion, the right whale has an eye scarcely larger than a cow's, and an ear that would scarcely admit a knitting-needle." On May 12 the Catalpa had reached the "Western Ground," and two whales were killed. It was nearly midnight before they were taken alongside. On May 30, in lat. 37° 3´ north, long. 57° 50´ west, a brig in distress was raised to leeward, dismasted and flying signals. She proved to be the brig Florence Annapolis, forty-nine days from Liverpool, bound to Nova Scotia with a cargo of salt. Water and provisions were gone and the crew was on the verge of starvation. When the mast went by the board, one of the crew had his leg broken and two others were injured. Captain Anthony supplied the vessel with water and small stores, and his crew assisted in rigging up two sails, with which the brig ultimately reached port in safety. Late on the afternoon of June 13 the first whale seen for a month was sighted. It was a smoky day, with a fresh breeze from the south. Mr. Smith, the mate, was in charge of one of the boats, which was lowered. The boatsteerer had thrown the iron, and Mr. Smith had taken his position at the head of the boat with the lance for the fatal stroke, when he was knocked overboard by the whale and severely cut about the head. He was pulled in by the crew, and crawled on his hands and knees to the head of the boat once more, where he killed the whale and fell back in a faint. Smith was brought aboard the bark, badly injured, and the whale was alongside at one A.M. The next morning Mr. Smith insisted upon attending to his duties and assisted in directing the cutting-in, although he was very weak from the loss of blood from the cuts on his head and neck. This little incident indicated to Captain Anthony that he had made no mistake in selecting Mr. Smith, and he felt sure that when the supreme test came he would have at least one man behind him upon whom he could rely to the uttermost. From that date until August nothing of particular interest occurred. Icebergs were seen in July, and the Kanaka boatsteerer died and was buried at sea, the service being read by Captain Anthony. Late in August the Catalpa fell in with the bark General Scott, Captain Bobbins, and "gammed," with her. The word "gammed" is the whaling vernacular for keeping company. On the morning of the 27th a flat calm prevailed, when a large sperm whale was raised close to the ship. Three boats were lowered and this attracted the attention of the captain of the General Scott, who ordered his men to the boats. The fact that the whale spouted seventy times each time it came up indicated that it was of good size. Then the whale sounded and was down forty minutes. The boats from both ships were now in ardent chase, but when the whale came up he was nearer the Scott's boats. So the officers shouted and agreed to "mate," or divide the whale. Mr. Smith of the Catalpa struck the whale, and all joined in the killing. Then, as the General Scott was so much larger than the Catalpa, the whale was taken alongside that vessel for boiling. It is a rule among whalemen that when two ships are mated, if either takes a whale before the first has been boiled, the ships again divide. So while the General Scott was trying out, the Catalpa cruised away, captured another whale, and at six o'clock the same night had it alongside. This latter whale was small, making about forty-five barrels, which was divided. The larger whale "stowed down" 130 barrels. On September 5 the Catalpa gammed with the bark Draco, Captain Peakes. Captain Anthony had sailed in the Draco for ten years of his life, and Captain Peakes was an old friend. On the 19th the Catalpa raised sperm whales and secured two. On October 14 Flores was sighted, and the captain now learned that through the fault of his chronometer he was 120 miles out of his "reckoning." Captain Peakes suggested to Captain Anthony that before going in he should catch up a deckload of albicores, which abounded, and as they are a choice edible he could trade them off in the town for potatoes. The albicores follow ships in this locality, and were all about the vessel, breaching for flying-fish and squid. So with white rag for bait, the crew caught half a hundred fish weighing forty or fifty pounds each. Captain Anthony landed in his small boat and was at once placed under arrest by the custom-house authorities for smuggling. The fish, it seems, were regarded as a product of the American fisheries, and could not be landed without paying a duty. Moreover, Captain Anthony was informed that they were worthless. So he gave them away to a man on the dock, but this made no difference to the customs authorities, who insisted that they must be returned to the vessel or pay the duty. The captain ordered a native to take them back to the ship or do anything he liked with the fish. He rowed around a point and landed the fish, but the island officials, having demonstrated their authority, released Captain Anthony from arrest. The potatoes were placed aboard the vessel, when a heavy gale sprang up. Captain Anthony was ready to sail, but he had left his bill of health ashore, and he was forced to lay off and on in terrible weather before he could get back once more. On October 20 the Catalpa left the island for Fayal, and several days later, in a gale of wind, the vessel was worked up between Pico and Fayal and anchored off the town. The vessel had 210 barrels of sperm oil aboard, and for several days the crew was employed in breaking out the cargo and landing it to be shipped home. Then the casks of bread and flour were recoopered and the watches were given liberty on shore. Here the captain was rejoiced at getting letters from, his family and a photograph of his daughter. Most of the crew, including third mate Bolles, one of the boatsteerers, and nearly all of the foremast hands, deserted, and three sailors who were sick were discharged. A runner agreed to furnish men, but it was necessary for them to be smuggled aboard the ship, since they had no passports. They were picked up by the Catalpa's boats under shadow of the fort, and, although hailed by the guard-boat, they were successful in reaching the vessel. One or two of the men who ran away were captured, and a crew was once more patched up. The chronometer again claimed attention. Although the captain had had it adjusted at Flores, in the short run to Fayal he found himself sixty miles out of the way in his reckoning. Here he met Captain Crapo of the bark Ospray, who had three chronometers, including one which had been in the bark Cornelia, condemned on the Pacific coast. Captain Anthony bought this for $110 and experienced much satisfaction in the belief that he now had an instrument which he could trust. These were busy days for the captain, for aside from the trouble with the crew, the fierce weather on the Western Ground had used up rigging and canvas, and he was compelled to buy a new outfit. On the sixth of November Captain Anthony made a hurried departure from Fayal. CHAPTER XIII A HURRIED DEPARTURE The cause of the haste in leaving the island was a letter which Dennis Duggan, the ship's carpenter, received from Thomas Brennan. Duggan, it will be remembered, was the only Irishman on the Catalpa, since the leaders had agreed that the presence of a number might arouse the suspicion of the British authorities when Australia was reached. Brennan had been very urgent in his appeals to accompany the expedition when it left America, but permission was refused. He declined to accept the rebuff, however, and he determined to stow away on the vessel before she sailed, but arrived at New Bedford a day too late. Nothing daunted, he shipped on a little schooner sailing for St. Michael's, planning to join the Catalpa at Fayal. The letter which Duggan received announced that Brennan had taken passage on a steamer from St. Michael's which was due to arrive the following day. Captain Anthony and Duggan had agreed never to converse on the subject, lest the suspicions of the officers might be excited; but the carpenter promptly carried the letter to the captain. "I think we have all the crew we need at present," remarked Captain Anthony. "Mr. Brennan may get left." He hastened to the custom-house, cleared his vessel for Teneriffe in the Canary Islands, and at 5.30 o'clock in the afternoon, in a drizzle of rain and a fresh breeze from the southwest, the moorings were slipped and the Catalpa was working out to windward between Pico and Fayal. As the vessel was heading out through the islands the next morning, the steamer on which Brennan was a passenger was seen at a distance, going in to Fayal and the captain bestowed a grim smile upon Duggan. Brennan saw the ship likewise, but it will be seen that he did not falter in his purpose to join the Catalpa. And now a crisis had come in the affairs of the expedition. Captain Anthony knew that the deception could not be kept much longer from his chief mate, Mr. Smith, and had planned for many months to make a confidant of him on the voyage from Fayal to Teneriffe. Thus far the vessel had proceeded according to the plans announced before starting. During the period which had elapsed, the Catalpa had pursued whaling with good success, but, as the reader knows, this avocation was only a cloak to the true purpose of the voyage. During the hard labor of the months which had passed, Captain Anthony had never forgotten for an instant the desperate work which was before him. He thought of it by day and dreamed of it by night, yet he must continually be on the guard to keep his plans from his comrades in the cabin. He had explained as a reason for going to Teneriffe, that he contemplated whaling about the river Platte, and proposed to stop there for water. The water at Fayal was taken from wells near the shore and was brackish, while that at Teneriffe is much sought after by whalers. So far there was nothing to arouse a question upon the part of the chief officer. But after Teneriffe there was to be the long and dreary voyage around the Cape of Good Hope and across the Indian Ocean, with no pretense of whaling. The officer must be admitted into the secret before Teneriffe was reached. If he refused to assist the enterprise he must be landed there. He might very properly be indignant at being inveigled into such a voyage and give away the plan. Captain Anthony had decided that of all men Smith the mate was an officer among a thousand for such work. He was bold and adventure-loving. But his very impetuosity was dreaded by the captain in the interview which was to come; for whereas he might accept a part in the programme with enthusiasm, he was perhaps as likely to be enraged at the deception practiced upon him. It was therefore with many misgivings that Captain Anthony asked him into the cabin one pleasant evening, when the vessel was a few days out from Fayal. Mr. Smith seemed to be in exceptionally good spirits, and it was an opportunity which the captain had awaited for some time. The doors were closed, and at Anthony's invitation Smith sat down. It is not the fashion of sailors to make long stories, and Captain Anthony was as blunt and brief as if he were instructing his mate to put more sail on the ship. "Mr. Smith, you shipped to go whaling," commenced the captain. "I want to say to you now, before we get to Teneriffe, that the Catalpa has done about all the whaling she will do this fall. We're bound to the western coast of Australia to try and liberate six Fenian prisoners who are serving a life sentence in Great Britain's penal colony. This ship was bought for that purpose and fitted for that purpose, and you have been utterly deceived in the object of this voyage. You have a right to be indignant and leave the vessel at Teneriffe. You will have the opportunity when we arrive there, and if you go I can't blame you. "But this ship is going to Australia, if I live, and I hope you will stay by me and go with me. God knows I need you, and I give you my word I will stand by you as never one man stood by another, if you will say you will remain in the ship and assist me in carrying out the plans." [Illustration: SAMUEL P. SMITH First Mate of the Catalpa] Mr. Smith's face, at this announcement, was a picture of surprise which the captain will never forget. After a moment, the mate asked a few questions about the prisoners to be rescued, the plan, and the men behind it, and Captain Anthony assured him that if any trouble came he would exonerate him completely from the conspiracy and would proclaim that he shipped to go whaling. Then Mr. Smith sat silent for a few minutes. The reply which came is not the polite language of the parlor, but it was very satisfactory to Captain Anthony, and was couched in language which could not have been made more expressive of Mr. Smith's purpose. He arose and took the captain by the hand. "Captain Anthony," said he, "I'll stick by you in this ship if she goes to hell and burns off her jibboom." This undoubtedly struck the captain at that moment as the quintessence of eloquence, and you may be sure the hand of Mr. Smith, which was placed in his, was shaken with a heartiness which told the story of his joy. The two men talked long together. Smith had wondered at the interest of the strange men, Devoy and Reynolds, who had visited the ship during her fitting, and he never had been able to understand how it was expected the vessel could go to the River Platte and return in eighteen months; but otherwise his curiosity had never led him to suspect that he was not in the entire confidence of the captain. Captain Anthony was in a happier frame of mind when he went to his stateroom than he had experienced for many months. CHAPTER XIV AN AWKWARD MEETING The peak of Teneriffe, 12,182 feet high, can be seen ninety miles on a clear day. Captain Anthony had seen it as far by accurate observation. Trusting in the correctness of his new chronometer, he expected to raise the land dead ahead. He was therefore surprised, one afternoon, when he raised the peak sixty or seventy miles on his weather quarter. Captain Anthony ordered the vessel hauled sharp by the wind, and by a fortunate change was able to head up so that he arrived off the port the following evening, November 20. The new chronometer was no longer to be implicitly trusted. The bark was at once boarded by the custom-house officials, who wished to see the bill of health. Captain Anthony passed out the health papers certified to by the Spanish consul. There had been so many changes in the crew at Fayal and the start was made so hurriedly that the number of men was erroneously given as twenty-five. The officials ordered the captain to call all hands to the rail, which was done, and only twenty-two men were mustered. Then the captain was asked to account for the other three men, but was unable to do so, and he was asked if he had not made way with them, which he, of course, strenuously denied. Then the officer demanded the log-book, ship's papers, crew lists, and certificates of discharges and desertions, and, failing to find any accounting for the three men, announced that he should detain the vessel until an explanation was forthcoming. But after profuse apologies and explanations on the part of the captain, the officer finally agreed to permit the vessel to enter. Captain Anthony went ashore, saw the consul, and made arrangements for taking water aboard. He dared not give the crew shore liberty, lest they might run away. The consul advised him to ship the men taken aboard at Fayal regularly, but as the men might refuse to return if they landed at Teneriffe, on the ground that they did not belong to the vessel, he consented to go aboard the Catalpa, and the men were accordingly shipped aboard the bark. An American schooner from New Haven was in port, and Captain Anthony took his chronometer aboard. For three days he was engaged in taking sights and fixing the rate, which had been given incorrectly, he found. Captain Anthony was now bound across the Indian Ocean, and as he knew that this was the last land he would see for many weeks or months, he was very particular about the work. A quantity of lumber, boards and joist, were taken aboard here, to build quarters for the guests whom the captain expected to take aboard at Australia. The explanation was vouchsafed to the crew that the big spruce boards and joist were for mending the boats; but notwithstanding the absurdity, it was perfectly satisfactory to the men. The captain had drawn $1,000 on the owners at Fayal for refitting, and he spent $300 additional at Teneriffe. On November 25 the Catalpa sailed from Teneriffe, clearing for "River La Platte and other places." The vessel was now in ship-shape order, and was bound for Australia as straight as she could be sent. Still the deception of whaling must be kept up with the crew, and a man was always kept on the lookout at masthead. For several weeks light breezes prevailed, and nothing occurred to break the monotony. On December 19 three small whales were taken, making about forty barrels of oil. Then there was a short season of baffling winds and squally weather, but about the 24th the trade winds struck on. The Catalpa crossed the equator in longitude 27° on Christmas night. The prevailing winds had been to the southward, and the vessel had sailed on the port tack for so long a time that she must have been close in upon Cape St. Rourke. No land was sighted, however, and it must have been passed in the night. Then for a period of two months the voyage was monotonous enough. Light breezes prevailed and considerable of the time was spent in repairing sails. Finback whales were sighted and occasionally the boats were lowered, but the pursuit was without success. On the night of Friday, February 11, the vessel was in lat. 41° 11´, long. 17° 58´, when a heavy gale from the S.S.W. commenced. At daylight the bark was under two lower topsails and foresail, steering S.E. by E. The cross sea on this occasion was the most treacherous and menacing which Captain Anthony had ever experienced. The combers, coming in opposite directions, came together with reports like a clap of thunder, and the danger of a sea striking the deck was looked upon with no little apprehension. As the gale and sea increased the Catalpa hove to under the two lower topsails and mizzen staysail. Suddenly, to Captain Anthony's consternation, the lower foretopsail split and tore in shreds. Now, before leaving port the captain had been warned never to take in the topsails in heavy weather lest the vessel should thrash herself in pieces. The vessel was flat-bottomed and shallow and required sail to prevent her from rolling to windward and shipping seas, which might be her destruction, he was told, and in corroboration of this he knew that when the topsails were taken in in a hurricane off Cape Horn, on a previous voyage, a sea boarded the Catalpa, sweeping everything from the deck, breaking the mate's leg, and doing serious damage to the vessel. "Now look out for trouble!" shouted Captain Anthony to Mr. Smith, as the very catastrophe which was dreaded happened. But to the captain's surprise the Catalpa came up into the wind and sea and lay like a duck, rising and settling in the surges with a graceful, buoyant swell. At three o'clock on the afternoon of the storm a vessel was sighted on the other tack with nothing set but the main spencer and foretopmast staysail. She rolled until her keel was almost in sight, and Captain Anthony not only recognized her as a whaleship, but from the brightness of the copper on the vessel's bottom, which was exposed as she reeled in the great seas, he knew that she had left home but recently. But Captain Anthony realized that his presence in this locality would be difficult to explain to a whaling captain who knew that he had sailed ostensibly on a short voyage in the Atlantic, and he heroically determined to forego his inclination to hear the latest news from home. The little bark wore around and came on the same tack with the Catalpa, but she was soon left far astern. At midnight, however, the wind died out, and the next day the little bark was in sight. The weather was genial, the sun glowing, and to all appearances there never blew a gale over so placid a sea. Captain Anthony decided to speak the vessel. So he hauled aback, and when the stranger came up, lowered a boat and boarded her. She proved to be the Platina of New Bedford. Captain Walter Howland, who commanded her, was an intimate friend, but Captain Anthony was not so well pleased at the meeting as he might have been under other circumstances. The Platina was four months out from home and had fifty barrels of oil. "What under heavens are you doing here, Anthony," said Captain Howland. "You're the last man I expected to see out here. I thought you intended to make a short voyage in the North Atlantic." Captain Anthony said he had concluded to go farther, and inquired of Captain Howland where he proposed to go. The latter said he was bound for the Seychelles Islands and through the Mozambique Channel. Captain Anthony evinced much interest in this plan, and the Platina's master got out his charts and gave the captain considerable information about the locality, Captain Anthony taking copious notes the while. Captain Anthony told Captain Howland that he might bring up on the whaling ground which was his destination. Then Captain Howland gave his old friend the news from home, but it was quite evident that he was suspicious of Captain Anthony's presence in this part of the world, for several times he stopped short, and repeated, "Say now, honest, what are you doing here?" "Where are you going to refit?" he asked at another time. Captain Anthony evaded answering this question by asking Captain Howland where he proposed to refit, and entered the information he received in his notebook. Meanwhile Mr. Farnham, the second mate, and the boat's crew from the Catalpa were mingling with the Platina's crew, and learned for the first time that the vessel was not off the coast of Patagonia, bound for the River La Platte, but nearer the Cape of Good Hope and headed for the Indian Ocean. "I tot we long time getting that River Platte," Captain Anthony heard the Portuguese mate saying to the men. "I tink maybe old man go to New Zealand catch whales. I there once. I tink nice place." Late in the day Captain Anthony said good-by to Captain Howland and returned to the Catalpa. The wind breezed up, main royals were set, and onward the vessel bowled. The Platina was in sight for three days, when she disappeared from the Catalpa's horizon. CHAPTER XV A STRANGE EPISODE Nothing stranger ever happened on land or sea than the circumstance whereby Captain Anthony came into possession of the charts used on the convict ship Hougoumont, which were subsequently employed to frustrate the plans of the government which first provided them. A large English bark was signalized on the 16th of February in lat. 39° 46´ S., long. 31° 54´ E. It was a beautiful morning, and Captain Anthony concluded to board her and see if he could procure a detailed chart of the Australian coast, which he was now rapidly approaching. The vessel proved to be the Ocean Beauty, seventy days from Liverpool and bound for New Zealand. The captain was a big, convivial Englishman, full of jolly stories which he loved to tell. Captain Anthony spent a pleasant hour in his cabin and finally asked him if he had made many voyages in this direction. "Been making them out here all my life," he said. "Why, I was master of a convict ship, the Hougoumont, and carried a shipful of prisoners to Australia in 1868." The name "Hougoumont" seemed familiar to Captain Anthony. Suddenly it flashed upon his mind that this was the vessel which Devoy had named as taking the Fenian prisoners whom he was bound to rescue out to the colony. The meeting at this time, and the reminder, unnerved the captain for a moment and if the Englishman had been observant he might have suspected from his conduct that the mention of the name of the vessel created an unexpected sensation. But the suggestion started the captain of the Ocean Beauty to relate reminiscences of life on the convict ship. He told Captain Anthony of John Boyle O'Reilly. "You may have heard of him," he said, "for he escaped in one of your whaleships." He recalled the publication of a paper by O'Reilly on the Hougoumont called "The Wild Goose," so named because the soldiers of Sarsfield, who entered the service in foreign armies upon the failure of their effort for liberty, were called "The Wild Geese." It was published weekly, Father Delaney, the ship's chaplain, furnishing O'Reilly with the paper and writing materials. John Flood, Dennis B. Cashman, and J. Edward O'Kelly were editors, with O'Reilly, and Cashman wrote an ornamental heading entwined with shamrocks, and the sub-heads as well. It was published on Saturdays, and O'Reilly read it to the company between decks on Sundays. In this publication his narrative poem "The Flying Dutchman," written off the Cape of Good Hope, first appeared. "We published seven weekly numbers of it," O'Reilly has written. "Amid the dim glare of the lamp the men, at night, would group strangely on extemporized seats, the yellow light full on the pale faces of the men as they listened with blazing eyes to Davis's 'Fontenoy,' or the 'Clansmen's Wild Address to Shane's Head!' Ah, that is another of the grand picture memories that come only to those who deal with life's stern realities!" The Englishman's reference to Australia opened the way for Captain Anthony to inquire the possibilities of the place for refitting and taking aboard fresh provisions. The Englishman advised it, saying that it was a cheap place to recruit ship. "Have you a sheet chart of the coast you could spare me?" asked Captain Anthony finally. "Lots of them. Here's the roll I used when I was master of the Hougoumont. Help yourself. You're welcome to any you want." The Englishman handed out a bulky roll, and Captain Anthony selected a chart of the western coast of Australia on a large scale, showing the survey about Swan River, Freemantle, Bunbury, Rottnest Island and lighthouse. Then, as the wind was strengthening, Captain Anthony arose to go. The Englishman bid him "God speed," and the men parted. Upon reaching the Catalpa, Captain Anthony went down into the cabin, chuckling in great glee. "What's happened?" asked Mr. Smith. "Why," said the captain, "would you believe it? I've just been given the very chart which was used by the captain of the Hougoumont to land the prisoners we're after, at Freemantle. The captain little thought it was to be used in taking a ship there to rescue the same men." The hilarity over this circumstance kept the two men in good humor for a long time. CHAPTER XVI ARRIVAL AT AUSTRALIA For eleven days, from February 29 to March 10, the vessel lay to most of the time under lower topsails and staysails, in a heavy and prolonged gale from the S.S.E., dead ahead. It rained, and the days were anxious and dreary to the captain. When an observation was finally taken it was found that in this period the vessel had made only 60 miles progress south and 120 miles east. Such a storm from the east is very unusual in this latitude. But at last strong, fair winds from the west and southwest set in and the Catalpa sailed like a racehorse. On March 15 the island of St. Paul in lat. 38° 25´ S. and long. 78° 28´ E. was raised. Whalemen always like to stop at St. Paul for the fishing. Captain Anthony had been there a number of times, and with a crude apparatus had often taken a boatload of crawfish in a few hours. A large iron hoop is used, interwoven with spun yarn, and baited. Other varieties of fish can be caught with hook, line, and pork bait. Sail was shortened and lines were prepared for fishing. Small boats were lowered and, upon rowing in near the shore, the kelp, which abounded, was hauled over the bow of the boat and served as an anchor. The Catalpa ran around under the lee of the island, which by the way has a peak 820 feet in height, when a westerly gale came on, commencing with heavy squalls. The sea was ugly and the fishing expedition was abandoned. With all sail set, the Catalpa made fine progress that day. Great seas struck her stern and followed over the leading boards, but the vessel was already due at Australia and Captain Anthony determined to crowd her henceforth. After leaving St. Paul the crew was satisfied that the bark was going to New Zealand, and of course they were not enlightened. Fair wind in plenty favored the vessel and she was driven hard, some days making 200 miles, until on March 27 the high land of Cape Naturaliste on the Australian coast was sighted. The crew was now certain that this was New Zealand, and Mr. Farnham, the second mate, said he recognized the promontory. The chains were soon bent on the anchors, and at night the vessel was anchored in the shoal water of Geographe Bay. At five o'clock the next morning the Catalpa was once more under way, and at ten o'clock reached anchorage off Bunbury harbor, at the head of the bay. So after nearly a year at sea, a year of worry and hard work, the rendezvous was reached. It brought little exaltation to Captain Anthony, for he knew that the crisis was at hand which would be the supreme test of his courage. During these closing days he had said but little to his only confidant, Mr. Smith, but his mind had been busy with disconcerting thoughts. Whom would he meet? Might not the conspirators have failed in carrying out the land end of the plot? Possibly the plan had been discovered and the authorities were awaiting his arrival on shore to take him in custody and seize the vessel. The long delay had been a long torture for a man of Captain Anthony's activity, and he welcomed the developments which awaited him on shore. CHAPTER XVII THE LAND END OF THE CONSPIRACY For many weary months the reader has followed the fortunes of the expedition by sea. It was at this point that Captain Anthony's solicitude concerning the success of the conspiracy on land became intense; so here seems a proper place to commence the recitation of another part of the story. And here we meet a man of whom it has been said that there is no more romantic figure in the stormy history of modern Ireland. John J. Breslin was selected to go to Australia and manage the land end of the rescue. Mr. Breslin was already a famous hero, and his burning love of country, his chivalry and his bravery, were written in the hearts of Erin's sons and daughters. He is described by one writer as "a tall, courtly man, whose classical features, flowing white beard, and military bearing, made him a striking personage wherever he went. "His history reads like a chapter from the days of good King Arthur. His name will, in time to come, start wonderful echoes among the thousand hills of Ireland." His bold and adroit rescue of James Stephens, the head centre of the Fenian movement in Ireland, while the government was gloating over his capture, startled the nations in 1865. Mr. Breslin was born in Drogheda in 1835. His father was a County Tyrone man and subsequently removed to Leinster. John received a good national school education and was always studious and an undefatigable reader. Although he ever upheld the views of the Nationalists, he had no connection with any organization until 1865, when Stephens's reply to the magistrates after his arrest confirmed him in the national faith. Stephens had been engaged with the Irish patriots, Smith and O'Brien, in 1848, and escaped to Paris after the miserable failure of the insurrection at Ballingarry. For five years he plotted by correspondence, and then the little coterie of exiles drew lots to see which should return to Ireland to organize the new conspiracy. Stephens was selected, and he made a house-to-house canvass of the Emerald Isle, walking over 3,500 miles, reconnoitring the strongholds of Ireland, sometimes disguised as a priest, sometimes as a beggar, and associating with the people in their cabins and farmhouses. Meanwhile tireless and faithful friends of Ireland in America were working with similar purpose, and the result was the organization known as "The Irish Republican Brotherhood," or "Fenians." More than a million Irishmen in America, and half that number in Ireland, were enrolled. At the head of the vast conspiracy was James Stephens. The aim of the Fenian organization was the formation of an army to cope with the army of England. When the organization grew formidable, England determined to suppress the brotherhood in Ireland, and through treachery and the employment of spies the British government at length learned that Stephens was the "head centre;" but so manifold were his disguises that the police were baffled for a long time. During his wanderings Stephens had married a beautiful Tipperary girl. She was identified as Mrs. Stephens while at the head of the household of a gentleman living in the suburbs of Dublin, whose name was presumed to be Herbert. The house was surrounded one night and "Herbert," who proved to be Stephens, was captured as he slept. There was much rejoicing in England at the capture, and Stephens was consigned to the Richmond bridewell, one of the strongest prisons in Ireland. The ponderous iron door of his cell was secured with bars, and it was on a corridor which was guarded by a second iron door, double locked. There he was shut in and extraordinary precautions taken to prevent his escape. Mr. Breslin was at that time superintendent of the prison hospital. One night he opened the door of Stephens's cell with a false key, placed a loaded revolver in the fallen leader's hand, and led him forth to freedom. Guards, heavily armed, were everywhere, but they were eluded, and Stephens once more escaped to France. [Illustration: JOHN J. BRESLIN Who managed the land end of the Rescue] The escape amazed England. It was long before suspicion fastened upon Breslin. Then he came to America, and was for a while a railway freight agent in Boston. Here he worked for a time, making few acquaintances. "Few knew him," said O'Reilly, "and to few were shown the culture and refinement behind the modest exterior. In thought and appearance eminently a gentleman; in demeanor dignified and reserved; in observance, rather distrustful, as if disappointed in his ideal man; somewhat cynical, perhaps, and often stubbornly prejudiced and unjust; a lover of and a successful worker in literature,--such is an outline of a character that may indeed be called extraordinary." In America Mr. Breslin soon became a powerful spirit in the Clan-na-Gael, and the proposed expedition to rescue the political prisoners in Australia was work for which his bold spirit hungered and thirsted. His selection as the manager of the land end of the rescue was equally as fortunate as that of his co-worker, Captain Anthony. His associate was Captain Thomas Desmond, a Nationalist from the time he could stand alone. Captain Desmond was born in Queenstown, but came to this country in early childhood and was living in Los Angeles, California, at this time. Messrs. Breslin and Desmond sailed from San Francisco for Australia in September, 1875. There they were to meet John King, a Dublin man, who had lived in New South Wales for several years, and who had collected about $3,500 for the rescue project. Upon their arrival at Freemantle, Australia, in November, the men separated and became ostensible strangers. Mr. Breslin assumed the name of J. Collins, and posed as a man of wealth seeking investments. His dignity and grace of manner enabled him to carry out the rôle with success, and it was not long before he became a universal favorite. The governor was attracted by the charm of his manner, and frequently entertained him. After visiting Perth, Mr. Breslin concluded that he would make Freemantle his headquarters, and established himself at the Emerald Isle Hotel. Desmond went on to Perth and found employment at his trade of carriage-making. Presently Mr. Breslin made the acquaintance of William Foley, a Fenian who had once been a prisoner, and through him notified James Wilson of his arrival and arranged for further communications. On one occasion Mr. Breslin was invited to inspect the prison, "The Establishment," as they call it in the colony, and he was conducted through it by the superintendent, Mr. Donan. The Fenian prisoners were working on the roads by day, and after much difficulty Mr. Breslin succeeded in talking over his plans with Wilson. Then, inasmuch as the Catalpa was not expected before the last of January, to avoid suspicion he took a trip inland, visiting Perth, Guildford, York, Northam, Newcastle, and various smaller villages. Then followed dull weeks of anxious waiting. About $4,000 in money was brought by King, who passed as a gold miner, contributed by New Zealand sympathizers, which proved timely at this crisis. Two other agents of the revolutionary organization in Ireland, Denis F. McCarthy of Cork, and John Durham, also appeared on the scene and volunteered their assistance. They assumed the duty of cutting the telegraph wires after the escape should be effected. The prisoners were frequently shifted around, communication with them was often difficult, and Mr. Breslin was as nearly distracted as a cool-headed man could be. In March, the whaling bark Canton was reported at Bunbury, and Mr. Breslin telegraphed the master to know if he had any news of the Catalpa of New Bedford. He replied that he knew nothing of her. Mr. Breslin determined to go to Bunbury, and on the 6th of March left for the town. There was no news, and he returned to Freemantle in a small coasting vessel called the May. At length, on the 29th of March, at 6.30 in the morning, there was posted on the bulletin board at the telegraph office at Freemantle the announcement of the arrival of the Catalpa at Bunbury. CHAPTER XVIII MEETING OF ANTHONY AND BRESLIN The morning after the arrival of the Catalpa at Bunbury was bright and beautiful. Captain Anthony ordered a crew of picked men into one of the boats, for he dared not trust some of his sailors ashore, fearing they would desert the ship, and landed on the jetty. Then the boat returned, and the captain walked toward the town. He was on the alert for recognition, and wandered about the old town all day, momentarily expecting and hoping that some fellow-conspirator would reveal himself. He returned to the ship at night, disappointed and anxious. Captain Anthony and Mr. Smith had a serious consultation, and agreed that there was nothing to do but to wait. The next morning Captain Anthony again went ashore. At the head of the jetty a boy approached and asked if he was Captain Anthony. Upon receiving an affirmative reply, the lad handed the captain a telegram. It read as follows:-- Electric Telegraph, Western Australia, Bunbury, 29th March, 1876. Time, 10.40 A.M. By B.W. The following telegram received here from Freemantle Station. Subject to the regulations and conditions printed on the other side:-- To Captain Anthony:-- Have you any news from New Bedford? When can you come to Freemantle? J. Collins. The captain was straightway relieved of a ton of care. Now he knew that there were friends in this remote land who were to share the great responsibility. He went to the telegraph office and wired to Collins:-- No news from New Bedford. Shall not come to Freemantle. G.S. Anthony. Captain Anthony engaged rooms at the local hotel and prepared to await developments. He had bought fresh meat for the ship of a marketman named David Hay, who told him much of an American gentleman of great wealth who was prospecting in the locality. Suspecting he might be the confederate who was to meet him, Captain Anthony looked up Hay, who presently alluded once more to the American, declaring he was the finest man he ever met. "What is his name?" asked Anthony. "Mr. Collins," replied Hay. At four o'clock the next afternoon, when the mail-coach from Freemantle rolled into Bunbury, Captain Anthony was at Hay's store. "Why, there's the very man I was telling you about!" ejaculated Hay, as he looked up. "Come up to Spencer's Hotel and I'll introduce you." The men walked up to the hotel and asked for Collins. He came down from his room in a few minutes, and the introduction followed. The meeting had taken place in the most natural manner possible, and without giving cause for suspicion that the men were meeting by appointment. Collins wore a light suit. He was a magnificent fellow, and he charmed Captain Anthony, as he charmed all men with whom he came in contact. The captain remained to supper with his new friend, but not a word of the rescue was uttered at this time. After supper, Collins ordered cigars and invited Captain Anthony to take a walk. It was now after sundown, and the men walked out on the jetty in the darkness. The jetty was a long pile wharf, with a sentry house at the head, where an officer is constantly on guard to prevent smuggling. When they had walked a safe distance down the jetty, Breslin turned, grasped the captain's hands with a hearty "How are you?" Then he told the captain of his fears, consequent upon the tardiness of the vessel in arriving, and then quickly outlined the plan. The prisoners, he said, were working on the road under a strong guard all day, and were locked in prison cells at night. Plans were to be devised by which the men were to escape and reach the coast at a place called Rockingham, about twenty miles south of Freemantle. There Captain Anthony was to meet them with a whaleboat and take them aboard his ship, which was to lie a dozen miles off the coast, where it would attract no attention. In order that Captain Anthony might become thoroughly acquainted with the locality, Breslin proposed that he should return to Freemantle with him on the colonial mail steamer Georgette, which was to leave Bunbury the next day, April 1. Then the captain might study the coast and see the spot where the men were to be embarked, if the plans worked well. The rescue was to be attempted on Thursday, April 6. Then the men walked back to the hotel and retired. The following morning Captain Anthony took Mr. Breslin aboard the Catalpa and introduced him to Mr. Smith. Then they went ashore to go aboard the Georgette. As they walked up the jetty their surprise was overwhelming when they saw Thomas Brennan coming toward them. Brennan's indefatigable determination to join the expedition had at length succeeded. When he arrived at St. Michael's as the Catalpa sailed out, he was by no means disconcerted. He then resolved to go to London and take a steamer for Australia. Brennan offered the captain of the Selbourne, a fruit steamer, fifty pounds to take him to Liverpool; but the proposition was rejected, and he stowed himself away with several other men. When the ship was at sea, the men presented themselves to the captain, who made them prisoners, believing they were criminals fleeing from punishment for crimes committed on the island. He declared he would deliver them to the Liverpool authorities. This was serious for Brennan. He had a large sum of money about him which would render him liable to suspicion, and he could not afford to be delayed. When Liverpool was reached the captain signaled for the police, whereupon Brennan jumped overboard and started for the shore. When nearly exhausted he was picked up by a rowboat and landed. Then he proceeded to London and took a steamer for Australia. Ill-luck pursued him, for when the steamer reached King George's Sound she was quarantined on account of smallpox, which was raging. And the next day the Georgette was to sail for Bunbury, where he suspected the Catalpa might be. If he missed her, he would be detained another month. He made his escape and secured passage on the Georgette. It must be admitted that neither Breslin nor Anthony were overjoyed at the meeting. They already had all the assistance they needed, and each addition to the party only increased the chances of arousing suspicion. But Brennan was here, and there was nothing to do but take him along to Freemantle. It was agreed that Captain Anthony was to be introduced as the guest of "Mr. Collins" on the steamer. Brennan was to be a stranger. Captain Anthony at once commenced to cultivate the friendship of Captain O'Grady of the Georgette. The latter had sailed out of New York and was interested in the American. Captain Anthony was with him in the pilot-house throughout the trip, and secured an acquaintance with the coast, the courses, and bearings. He gave particular attention to the coast outside Rockingham and the positions of Rottnest and Garden islands. At noon the next day Freemantle was reached. High over the town the stone prison in which the prisoners were confined at night stood like a sentinel, and reminded Captain Anthony that his task was no trifling one. But there was a suggestion more grim in the discovery of one of Her Britannic Majesty's gunboats, the Conflict, anchored in the harbor. She was a schooner-rigged vessel, carrying two guns and thirty men, and the captain saw by her lines that she must be a fast sailer. The appearance of the gunboat was unexpected, and Captain Anthony and Mr. Breslin exchanged significant glances as they saw her. It was Sunday morning when they landed, and they went to the Emerald Isle Hotel, where Captain Anthony was introduced to his fellow-conspirators, John King and Captain Desmond. The latter was working as a wheelwright at Perth and posed as a Yankee. He kept up his assumed identity by a liberal use of the vernacular of the Vermont farmer. From the latter it was learned that the gunboat had come to Freemantle on an annual visit, and might remain for a week or ten days, then proceeding to Adelaide and Sidney; also, that another gunboat was expected to call at Freemantle and take Governor Robinson to visit the northwest coast. CHAPTER XIX ARRANGING THE DETAILS In the afternoon Mr. Breslin brought around a trap to drive over the road to Rockingham, where the men were to embark in the whaleboat for the ship, if the escape was successful. For ten miles the drive was over the hard macadamized road built by the prisoners and called the Fenian road. With a pair of horses and four men in the trap, this distance was accomplished in forty minutes, and the test was very satisfactory. Then a sandy, heavy road was encountered for a distance of seven miles, which merged into a mere track winding through the "black boys," as the trees are called, the bush, and the sand to Rockingham Hotel. The latter stretch was about four miles, and the total distance was made in two hours and twenty minutes. Here a hard, sandy beach was discovered. Garden Island, a long, low stretch of land covered with tall grass and bush, makes out from a point and extends nearly to Freemantle, forming Cockburn's Sound, a sheltered inlet. At the north end of the island is a narrow passage between the island and Cape Peron, a point on the mainland. Here the men alighted. "Now, this is the place," said Mr. Breslin, "where we propose to bring the men, and where we expect you to meet us with a boat." Captain Anthony stuck up an old piece of joist or rail in the sand above high-water mark. "Let it be understood that this is the place where I will meet you with my boat if God spares my life," said the captain. The four men then drove back to the hotel at Rockingham, where they rested, for the day had been intensely hot, and men and horses were thoroughly fatigued. That evening they arranged a code of cipher for telegraphing. Breslin was to notify Captain Anthony at Bunbury when the gunboat left Freemantle, and the captain was to telegraph back the hour of sailing. Forty-eight hours from the time when the telegram was sent, Captain Anthony was to have the Catalpa off the coast at Rockingham and his boat on the beach. This was leaving much to chance, of course. Rockingham was a hundred miles from Bunbury, and head winds, bad weather, or calms might prevent the Catalpa from covering the distance within that time. But it was indeed a desperate undertaking; the men had resolved to take desperate chances and trust the luck which had thus far attended the expedition. The telegraphic code was arranged as follows: When the gunboat sailed, Breslin was to send the message, "Your friend (N. or S. meaning north or south) has gone home. When do you sail?" This meant, "The gunboat has sailed north or south. All right. Start from Bunbury." In case the gunboat arrived to take the governor to the northwest coast, Breslin was to wire "Jones is going overland to Champion Bay. When do you clear out of Bunbury?" And when the coast was again clear, "Jones has gone to Champion Bay; did not receive a letter from you," meaning, "All right again." [Illustration: THE TOWN OF FREEMANTLE, AUSTRALIA] On Monday, Captain Anthony was invited to go with his friends and a party of merchants in the colony to Perth, the residence of the governor. The company assembled at one of the hotels, and previous to the dinner were entertained by the songs of a Western Australian shepherd. A copy of the verses of one of the selections, describing one of the unique sports of the colony, was given the captain at his request. These are the lines:-- "I'm an odd thinking man, And will get on if I can,-- I'm only a shepherd, 'tis true; I find sport with my gun Whilst out on the run, In hunting the kangaroo! "Some folks talk of the fox, Ride through heather and box, Hounds, steeds, and their hunting crew; That is all very well, But no sport can excel The chase of the kangaroo. "If I put up a doe, Oft her offspring she'll throw From the pouch in her breast, 'tis true; And now for the fun,-- For I don't use my gun,-- But run down the young kangaroo. "Whilst my dogs on the scent Of killing intent, Swiftly o'er the plain they flew: They ne'er lose a trail, Nor to kill ever fail, Or show the dead kangaroo. "When a booma's at bay You've the devil to pay, He'll fight like a boxer,'tis true: He's a terrible foe, As the dogs often know, In encounters with kangaroo. "I've kept you too long, So an end to my song; I hope 'twill amuse not a few. When we meet again We'll go out on the plain, For a hunt of the kangaroo." When the gentlemen were about to be seated at the dinner-table, Captain Anthony was filled with consternation as a government official placed his hand on his arm and said, "Excuse me, sir, but what is your name and business, and what are you doing here?" Captain Anthony naturally thought the plot had been betrayed, when Breslin stepped up to explain that this was a custom of the country. The captain received such a shock that he failed to thoroughly enjoy the dinner. He found another illustration of the suspicion which is always abroad in the penal colony, later in the day. Going into the hydrographic office to buy a chart of the coast, he was compelled to reply to a long series of questions before he was permitted to purchase it. On Thursday, April 6, Captain Anthony started back to the ship in the Bunbury mail coach, carrying $250 in gold which Mr. Breslin had given him to square up his bills. This was a thirty-two hours' journey over sandy roads, and as the weather was hot and Captain Anthony was the only passenger, he was utterly wearied when he arrived at Bunbury at four P.M. the following day. CHAPTER XX A CRITICAL SITUATION And now followed a period of waiting, and the captain was worn with anxiety. The possible suspicion of the people ashore at the delay in departure must be anticipated, and the captain busied himself in getting potatoes and onions, wood and water aboard, and opened up negotiations for a quantity of kangaroo skins. The crew had become uneasy at the long delay, and were almost mutinous at their restricted shore liberty, for Captain Anthony did not dare to trust them with shore leave, excepting in charge of an officer. Their own theory of the proceeding was that the vessel was fitting for a cruise to New Zealand. They were humored in this belief, and were kept busy in painting and refitting. One forenoon, when the captain was ashore with Mr. Smith, they noticed the colors at half-mast, and saw that four of the crew had stolen a boat and were rowing ashore, with another boat's crew in pursuit. The runaways reached shore and started for the beach. The police were notified, and soon overtook and captured them. The ringleader, Joseph McCarty, struck an officer and was detained. The other three were delivered aboard the vessel and were placed in irons in the steerage. The man who was arrested was a desperate fellow, and Captain Anthony was glad to have him go. He was sentenced for seven days for the assault. The captain hoped to get to sea before he was released, but the man served his time and went down on the jetty and sought to go aboard the ship. Captain Anthony did not dare to trust the man, in view of his delicate mission, and refused to receive him. He was one of the men who was shipped at Teneriffe, and had a bad record. Two days had passed since the captain's return to the vessel, and no word had been received from Breslin. Meanwhile, the vessel was in readiness for a prompt departure. At noon, on Tuesday, April 11, a telegram was delivered to Captain Anthony, which read as follows:-- Your friend S. has gone home. When do you sail? J. Collins. Captain Anthony at once cleared his vessel at the custom-house, and later in the day, as he was about to telegraph that he would start, word was brought to him at the hotel that the Catalpa had been seized by the custom-house officials and that an officer was in charge. The distracted captain hastened to the custom-house, and found his offense had been a violation of the law in landing a barrel of pork after he had cleared. After a long consultation the officers released the vessel, but it was then too late to sail. On Wednesday, Captain Anthony telegraphed:-- I'll sail to-day. Good-by. Answer, if received. G.S. Anthony. Back came the reply:-- Your telegram received. Friday being Good Friday, I shall remain in Freemantle, and leave for York on Saturday morning. I wish you may strike oil. Answer, if received. J. Collins. Freemantle. Captain Anthony at once appreciated the situation. He knew that the prisoners were detained in their cells on Sundays and holidays, and that his plan would have placed him at Rockingham on Friday. He replied to Breslin's telegram:-- Yours received. Did not leave to-day. Wind ahead and raining. Sail in the morning. Good-by. G.S. Anthony. That evening the captain discovered that his crew had been doing a rescue on its own account, and had stowed a ticket-of-leave man in the mizzen-topmast staysail. While he pitied the fellow, he was fearful that the authorities might discover the man hidden on his vessel, and make trouble which would interfere with the great object ahead. So he notified the police, and they came aboard and took the man ashore. Still misfortune crowded in upon the conspirators. A heavy storm came on, extra anchors were necessary; but with the whole length of chain out the Catalpa dragged, and destruction on the bar was threatened. It was impossible to sail, and Captain Anthony knew that Breslin's plans must be upset once more. He went to the telegraph office to send a message, and found it closed on account of the holiday. He hunted up the operator, a woman. She declined to go to the office, saying it would be useless, since the Freemantle office was closed. The captain pleaded, for he knew that everything depended upon it. At length the woman opened the office and sat down to the instrument. She called for several minutes. There was no reply. "I told you it would be of no use," she replied. Just then came an answering click. The operator sat down at the instrument once more. After a moment, she said:-- "They are taking the message. An operator happened in." Captain Anthony nearly shouted with joy. This is the message which he sent:-- J. Collins, Esq.:-- It has blown heavy. Ship dragged both anchors. Can you advance money, if needed? Will telegraph again in the morning. G.S. Anthony. Once more the element of good luck had manifested itself, this time at a most critical point. On Saturday morning, April 15, Captain Anthony finally telegraphed:-- "I shall certainly sail to-day. Suppose you will leave for York Sunday morning. Good-by." Straightway the answer came back:-- Your telegram received. All right. Glad you got off without damage. Au revoir. J. Collins. Captain Anthony reported at the custom-house that he was ready for sea, and the officers came off and prodded the hold and every dark space with spears, according to custom, to see if any prisoners were stowed away. At two o'clock in the afternoon a moderate favoring breeze from the S.S.W. was blowing. Anchor was hoisted, and with all sail set the Catalpa slipped up the coast bound for Rockingham. CHAPTER XXI LEAVING THE SHIP At sundown the vessel was well outside the harbor and sail was shortened. In the evening the captain went below for a nap, telling the officers in charge of the deck not to go over three miles an hour, to keep the land well in sight, and call him at midnight if all was well, but sooner if there was any change in the weather. At twelve o'clock Captain Anthony was on deck again. The weather continued favorable, for which he was exceedingly grateful. The inverted season corresponded to fall at home, and it was the time when storms were looked for. A delay now would certainly be disastrous, and the weather was a source of the most constant anxiety. The captain remained on deck throughout the night. At noon on Sunday the vessel had proceeded up the coast until it was about twenty miles south of Rottnest lighthouse, off Freemantle harbor. Now he called Mr. Smith into the cabin, spread out the chart, and explained to him that the lighthouse was twelve miles offshore from the Freemantle jetty and one hundred and ninety-seven feet above the level of the sea, with a signal station on top from which the approach of vessels was signaled to the town. He cautioned the mate to keep the ship out of near range, and told Mr. Smith that the crisis had come and he was about to start in the small boat. He was to lay off and on the land and keep a sharp lookout for his return. "If I do not come back," he said, "you must use your best judgment. Go whaling or go home, as you like." Then the men clasped hands, and Captain Anthony once more thanked fortune that he could leave his vessel in the hands of a brave man who could be trusted, whatever the emergency. The captain then went on deck, threw a coat into one of the whaleboats, stowed away a bag of hard-bread, two kegs of water, and half a boiled ham, and ordered the boat lowered. A crew which the captain had selected after much thought was then stationed at the oars: Mr. Sylvia the third mate, Tobey the boatsteerer, Lewis a Portuguese, and Mopsy and Lombard, two Malays. Each man was told to take his coat, and the proceeding doubtless caused amazement among the men; but good sailors obey orders in silence and no word was spoken among them. It was one o'clock in the afternoon when the boat left the ship. Captain Anthony was due at Rockingham at noon the next day. A small sail was put on the boat, and she made good progress. Just before dark, when the boat was well in under Garden Island, the sail was taken in and oars were shipped, for the captain did not wish to make a landing before nightfall. When the boat was off the south end of the island the captain was startled at a roaring like thunder, and an instant later saw blind breakers, ten feet in height, making directly for the boat. He shouted orders to the men to look out for their oars and trim the boat. They let the oars come alongside and succeeded in keeping the little craft steady. She was lifted high in air on three of the rollers. Then all was quiet, for the boat had reached the smooth waters of Cockburn Sound. Oars were shipped once more, and the boat jogged on in the darkness. The captain knew by the ranges he had taken as he came through the passage that he must be near the spot selected as a meeting place. A landing was made on the beach. Captain Anthony stepped ashore and had not walked more than three hundred feet when his foot struck the stake which had been set up as a mark on his previous visit. It was now about 8.30 o'clock in the evening. The boat was hauled up on the beach and the men were told to lie down in the grass and sleep. It was clear and warm, and, unquestioning, they did as the captain told them. Captain Anthony walked the beach all the night through, filled with disquieting thoughts and longing for the day. CHAPTER XXII THE ESCAPE Meanwhile, how had it fared with Breslin, whom we have seen must have been forced to change his plans several times at brief notice? Mr. Breslin had arranged a signal with Wilson which meant, "Get ready; we start to-morrow morning," but he could not give it on Friday. He succeeded, however, in sending a letter of instructions, concluding: "We have money, arms, and clothes; let no man's heart fail him, for this chance can never occur again." Desmond went from Perth to Freemantle and joined Breslin, with a pair of fine horses and a four-wheeled wagon. He reached there Friday evening. Mr. Breslin had a similar conveyance and the best pair of horses he could get in Freemantle engaged for Friday and Saturday. On Friday afternoon he took the horses out for a trial trip, to see that they went well together and were in good condition. Everything was in readiness for the attempt, when Mr. Breslin received Captain Anthony's telegram announcing that the Catalpa could not start on account of the storm. By a fortunate chance Cranston had been sent from the prison into the town that evening, and he was informed of the change in the programme. Mr. Breslin thought that inasmuch as the vessel had dragged both anchors, she must have gone on the bar, and that a delay of weeks might follow before she was again ready for sea. So Desmond returned to Perth and prepared for another wait. But on Saturday came the telegram from Captain Anthony announcing that he would sail that day. The escape must therefore be accomplished on Monday. Mr. Breslin engaged the same horses for Sunday and sent King to Perth on horseback to notify Desmond to return to Freemantle with his horses on Sunday evening. Saturday evening he walked to the jetty and gave to Wilson the signal which meant, "We start to-morrow morning." Fortunately he noticed Wilson's puzzled look, for an escape on Sunday, when the men were locked in the prison, was, of course, impossible. Then he realized the error. Walking leisurely across, he said to Wilson as he passed, "Monday morning," without being observed by the warden or the other prisoners. Desmond arrived in Freemantle at about two o'clock Sunday afternoon with an inferior pair of horses, and when Mr. Breslin went to get the horses he had engaged, he found that Albert, the owner, had given the best horse to Mr. Stone, the superintendent of the water police, to go to Perth, his brother-in-law, the sheriff, having been injured by being thrown from his horse. Moreover, Albert told him he could not have the other horse, since he had promised it to a man to go to the Perth regatta on Easter Monday. So he engaged another pair, but the expedition was much more poorly equipped in this respect than on the date first selected. And now came Monday. There were many anxious hearts in Australia that night, and Captain Anthony, who paced the lonely beach, was not alone in his sleepless vigil. At 5.30 o'clock in the morning Breslin had the hostler called. Brennan started at six for Rockingham with arms and luggage. At seven Mr. Breslin went to Albert's stable and found his horses harnessed to a light trap, waiting for him. He told the hostler to let them stand a few minutes and then found Desmond and directed him to have his horses harnessed and ready to leave in half an hour. It was arranged that Desmond should leave by a side street which, after a few turns, took him up on the Rockingham Road, while Breslin was to drive up High Street, as if he were going to Perth, then turn around by the prison and on to the same road. King, who was well mounted, was to remain for a reasonable time after the start, then follow with information whether the alarm had been given. At half past seven Breslin drove slowly up the principal street, turned to the right, walked his horses slowly by the warden's quarters and pensioners' barracks. The men were beginning to assemble for parade. He had arranged with the prisoners that he would have the traps waiting at the road at a quarter before eight, the nearest to be stationed about five minutes' run from the prison, and that they would remain until nine o'clock. Being ahead of time, Breslin drove slowly along the Rockingham Road, met Desmond, and they stopped under a tree and divided the hats and coats they had brought to cover the convict garb, each taking three long linen coats and three hats. Then Breslin drove back toward Freemantle, Desmond following. Time, 7.55 o'clock. A few minutes later, three men in prison dress were seen coming down the Rockingham Road. They proved to be Wilson, Cranston, and Harrington. Breslin told them to pass on and get into Desmond's trap, which they did. Desmond wheeled his horses around and they were seated and ready to start when the other three came in sight. Breslin drove toward them and found they were Darragh, Hogan, and Hassett. One carried a spade and another a large kerosene can. When the men recognized their rescuers, the man with the spade threw it with exultant vigor into the bush and the prisoner with the can bestowed a kick upon it in good football fashion. At this critical juncture, Breslin's horses rebelled and refused to wheel around. Darragh caught one by the head, but he plunged so that Breslin was afraid the animal would break the harness, and shouted to Darragh to let go. He did so and the horses started fairly well together. Driving to a wider part of the road, they wheeled nicely. Breslin picked up his men, and the horses were off at dashing speed. Desmond, meanwhile, was out of sight, and King had come up, reporting everything quiet when he left. [Illustration: THE RESCUED PRISONERS (_From the Irish World, September 2, 1876_)] It must here be explained how the prisoners were able to get away so successfully. Their good conduct and length of imprisonment had entitled them to the rank of constable, which afforded the opportunity for communication with each other. Wilson and Harrington worked in the same party at the construction of harbor works in Freemantle. Hogan was a painter by trade, and on this morning was employed in painting the house of Mr. Fauntleroy, outside the prison walls. Cranston was employed in the stores, and as messenger occasionally. Darragh was clerk and attendant to the Church of England chaplain, and enjoyed facilities for communication with the other prisoners. This morning he took Hassett with him to plant potatoes in the garden of Mr. Broomhole, clerk of works in the convict department. It fortunately happened that on the morning of April 17 all the political prisoners were at work outside the prison wall. Cranston walked out as if going to deliver a message. He overtook the working party and told the warden he had been sent to take Wilson and Harrington to move some furniture in the governor's house, which was the nearest point to the meeting place. He exhibited a key, and the warden directed the two men to go with Cranston. Darragh and Hassett started as if for work in the same direction, and Hogan made an excuse to the warden to leave his work for a moment, and joined them. "There was one incident of this daring enterprise which completed its dramatic intensity," writes James Jeffrey Roche. "The soldier convicts in Freemantle numbered one more than those who were rescued. That one was purposely left behind because of an act of treachery which he had attempted against his fellows ten long years before. He was tried with the others, by court-martial, and found guilty of treason; but before his sentence received the approval of the commander-in-chief he had offered to divulge the names of certain of his comrades not yet arrested, though implicated in the Fenian conspiracy. His offer was not accepted. The government punished him for his treason, and his comrades, half a score of years afterward, punished him more cruelly for the treason which he had contemplated against them." The two traps, followed by King, made a quick journey to Rockingham. Mr. Somers, the proprietor of the hotel, stood in the door as the traps passed, but suspected nothing, inasmuch as he knew Breslin and Desmond, and the prison garb of the other men was concealed by their long coats. As the men drove up, he shouted:-- "What time will the Georgette be at the timber jetty?" "Is the Georgette coming here?" shouted Breslin. "Yes. She's due now." Here was alarming news. The presence of the Georgette would ruin all. The horses were driven to a gallop. At half past ten the party approached the beach and saw Brennan making signals to them to hasten. CHAPTER XXIII IN THE OPEN BOAT Captain Anthony walked up and down the beach throughout the long night, while his crew slept in the warm sand. He knew that the fate of the expedition, disastrous or successful, depended upon the developments of the ensuing day, and he was impatient to know the fate which awaited him. Twice during the night he roused the men to haul the boat farther up the beach, as the tide was rising. They responded sleepily and then dropped asleep again in careless sailor fashion. As daylight approached, the captain was surprised and alarmed to find he was near a timber station. It had been unnoticed on the previous visit. Soon after sunrise, a gang of men put in an appearance and commenced carting lumber to a jetty not more than half a mile away. He knew his presence must be discovered, and it was not long before one of the men from the jetty was seen approaching. "What's going on?" asked the man, as he came up. Captain Anthony told him he was bound to Freemantle for an anchor, to replace one which was lost. The man grinned at this. "Lad," said he, "you've hooked it (ran away) from some ship, and I advise you to get out. This is no place to lay." Then Anthony told him he was master of a ship, but the man was not to be convinced. "I believe you're after Kenneth Brown," he said. Brown was a man who was at that time under arrest for the murder of his wife. Captain Anthony concluded it was useless to attempt a further explanation, and asked the man if he would tell him the best way to get out with his boat. "I'm an ex-prisoner myself," said the man, "and I knew you were after somebody." He seemed disposed to assist the captain, to the relief of the latter, for if he had started to join his companions, Anthony would have been alarmed to an extent which might have made it necessary to resort to desperate means for his detention. The visitor then told the captain that he must be very sure and keep close to Garden Island. There was a dangerous reef farther out, and it would be sure destruction to the boat to attempt to go out that way. "But that's the way I came," said the captain. As he looked out, he saw the breakers making white water on the coral reef. He must have been carried completely over it by the blind rollers the previous night. He now realized that his escape had been providential. Then the man said, in reply to questions, that he was getting a cargo of timber ready for the Georgette. "When is the Georgette coming?" asked the captain with eagerness. "Why, she's coming now," he replied. "You can see her smoke." There in the offing the captain saw the smoke of the steamer, and he began to realize that the situation was growing critically perilous. At this moment there was a rattle of wheels, and Captain Anthony saw a two-wheeled trap, drawn by a horse on the gallop, coming up the beach toward him. Brennan was driving, and he had the luggage of the party. He had lost his way, and had led his horse through the brush until he reached the beach. There he saw the men and the boat and drove his horse on the run toward them. "Who is that man?" asked Brennan, as he came up and saw the stranger. "He's a prisoner here and working on that jetty," replied the captain. "We must shoot him," said Brennan. "There will be no shooting yet," said the captain. "Where are the others?" "Close behind," said Brennan, and he commenced unloading valises and bags belonging to Breslin, King, and Desmond. Next King came up on horseback. The situation was explained to him, and he rode back to urge his comrades on. Meanwhile the boat's crew sat huddled in the sand, apprehensive at the proceedings. The captain ordered them to push the boat into the water, each man to stand by the side of the boat, abreast his thwart. When he gave the order, he instructed them to shove the boat off as quickly as possible, to take the oars and pull. He cautioned them not to be afraid, whatever happened, at which the poor fellows looked at each other in consternation. After an interval of fifteen minutes, which seemed much longer, a rattling of wheels and clatter of hoofs was heard, and Desmond and Breslin drove up with the prisoners, their horses quite exhausted. As the prisoners jumped from the traps, their long linen coats blew open, showing their convict suits, with the unusual accompaniments of English belts, each containing two six-shooters. They seized rifles from the carriages, and with their arms full of cartridges made a rush for the boat. At this the crew stood paralyzed, for they thought they were about to be attacked. One Malay drew a sheath knife and the others seized buckets, raised oars, and prepared to resist the men who were closing in upon them. This move was so unexpected that it was fortunate that an attack was averted, but a loud order from the captain in various languages at his command quieted the men. It was subsequently learned that the theory of the crew was that Captain Anthony had been smuggling and that the arrivals were government officials. The crew had determined to fight if necessary, to prevent the arrest of the captain. At length the boat was afloat. The prisoners had been ordered to stow themselves as closely as possible in the bottom of the boat. Breslin, King, and Desmond sat in the stern and Captain Anthony took a position on top of the stern sheet, with the steering oar. After some splashing the men began to pull with enthusiasm to the accompaniment of a running stream of rallying cries from the captain of "Pull as if you were pulling for a whale," "Come down, Mopsy," "Pull, Tobey, pull," "Come down, you big Lewis," "Pull, Tobey, pull," "Give them the stroke, Mr. Sylvia," "What do you say, men," "Come down altogether," "Pull away, my men, pull away." Now the wind was beginning to breeze up from the west, blowing straight on shore. On the beach stood the timber-worker from the jetty, dumfounded at the spectacle, with the six horses, wandering about the shore. The boat was no more than a half mile from the beach when a squad of eight mounted policemen drove up. The flight had been discovered. With the police were a number of "trackers," aboriginal bushmen who play the rôle of human blood-hounds. They wore short bokas, or cloaks of kangaroo skin, with belts of twisted fur around their naked bodies. These natives are attached to the prisons to follow the trail of absconding convicts, and they are wonderfully adept in running down a prisoner. The police were armed with carbines and might have shot some of the men in the boat, but fortunately they did not fire. They watched the boat a while and then took the horses and led them toward the timber station. Breslin had prepared a note to the governor which he fastened to a float and posted by the ocean mail. As the wind and tide were setting ashore, it undoubtedly reached its destination. The letter was as follows-- Rockingham, April 17, 1876. To His Excellency the British Governor of Western Australia. This is to certify that I have this day released from the clemency of Her Most Gracious Majesty Victoria, Queen of Great Britain, etc., etc., six Irishmen, condemned to imprisonment for life by the enlightened and magnanimous government of Great Britain for having been guilty of the atrocious and unpardonable crimes known to the unenlightened portion of mankind as "love of country" and "hatred of tyranny;" for this act of "Irish assurance" my birth and blood being my full and sufficient warrant. Allow me to add that In taking my leave now, I've only to say A few cells I've emptied (a sell in its way); I've the honor and pleasure to bid you good-day, From all future acquaintance, excuse me, I pray. In the service of my country, John J. Breslin. CHAPTER XXIV AN AWFUL NIGHT It was five o'clock in the afternoon when the rowboat went through the passage, and as Captain Anthony saw the menacing reef upon which the water was foaming and breaking, it seemed impossible that he had gone over it the night before. Now the little boat was riding on lengthened seas which were rolling in from the ocean with increasing violence. The wind was blasty, but hauled a little in the boat's favor, so that Captain Anthony ordered the little sail set and told his companions if he could head in the way he was now going, the ship should be raised in an hour. The fury of the wind and sea now poured upon the boat, and darkness was coming on, when the Catalpa was raised ahead. Captain Anthony knew that the little boat would not be visible to the ship and that the latter would stand off shore as soon as it became thick. The sky grew blacker and the sea grew steadily heavier. The boat began to jump and jar until it seemed that she might lose her spar or mast step. The seas commenced to comb and break across the stern, or, running the length of the boat, would tumble in, soaking the men and threatening to swamp the little craft. Captain Anthony felt that his salvation lay in reaching the ship that night. The sixteen men were directed to take a place on the weather gunwale, and the man in charge of the sheet was ordered to take a turn about the thwart and not to slacken an inch. A crisis had arrived, and any risk was preferable to a night on the ocean in such a storm as was imminent. The boat leaped forward at a spanking rate, and the spray flew like feathers; and the water rose in mimic mountains, crowned with white foam which the wind blew in mist from summit to summit. Miles away the Catalpa was seen, barely discernible at moments when she rose on the crest of a larger wave than common, thrusting her bows into the air, surrounded by foam, and apparently ready to take flight from the sea. Then, with a crash, the mast went over the side, breaking close to the thwart. The boat nearly capsized to windward, but the captain threw her head to the wind and the magnificent efforts of the crew kept her afloat. Monstrous seas now rolled into her, threatening to overwhelm the craft. She was almost water-logged, and shipped water over bow and stern alternately, as she rose and fell. The crew bailed vehemently and desperately. The rescued men were very sick, and lay in the bottom of the boat, a wretched heap of miserable humanity. The boat was relieved of some of the water, and the wreck hauled in. Oars were shipped, but rowing accomplished nothing more than holding the boat on her course, and almost in despair the men saw the Catalpa tack offshore. The gale increased in violence as night wore on, and the men were completely worn out. The seas dashed over them, and their strength was taxed to exhaustion in bailing quickly lest the next sea might tumble in and wreck the boat. After the mast went, Captain Anthony took the midship oar, lashed on the jib, and stuck it up. The sheet was hauled aft, and the centreboard lowered, which steadied the boat and kept steerageway on her. The phosphorescence afforded a spectacle which Captain Anthony had never witnessed in equal degree, but it only made the wild scene more terrifying and awful. For hours the seas continued to hurl themselves across the boat, while the men cast out the sea with bailers improvised from water kegs, the heads of which were knocked out. Little was said, but occasionally one of the rescued men would ask "Captain, do you think we will float through the night?" The captain would cheerily reply, "Oh, yes, I've been out on many a worse night;" but he has since confessed that he would not have given a cent for the lives of the entire company. Under other circumstances the danger would have been much less. But the boat was overloaded, the gunwales being within two inches of the water, and she was nearly unmanageable. To run back to Garden Island meant capture. The crew had eaten nothing but a little dry hard-bread since the noon of the day previous, and were painfully athirst. The provisions and water in the boat had been washed overboard. Captain Anthony was on his knees on top of the stern sheets steering, and often the seas rose to his armpits. The men were groaning, and it was so dark that the captain could not see his crew. No word was spoken excepting repeated orders to bail. Late in the night, when the captain had decided that the boat must swamp before long, the gale subsided somewhat. Daylight was welcome after the awful night. The sea had now gone down, and there was prospect of a fair day. The seas came aboard less frequently, and courage and hope returned. At sunrise every one was overjoyed to see the ship standing in toward the land. Oars were once more shipped, and with the sail drawing good progress was made. CHAPTER XXV A RACE WITH THE GUARD-BOAT About an hour after sunrise the Georgette was seen coming out of Freemantle. The men knew she was searching for them, and she seemed to be heading directly for the little boat. The sail was taken down, oars shipped, and the men lay down, one on top of the other, so that nothing showed above the rail. The steamer passed within a half mile of the boat and Captain Anthony could plainly see an officer on the bridge with glasses, scanning the shore. The boat must have appeared like a log and been mistaken for a piece of floating timber, if it was seen by the men on the Georgette, for she steamed by and went out to the Catalpa. The anxious men in the boat feared she would remain by the Catalpa and prevent them from going aboard, but the Georgette steamed up the coast after a while and swung in toward Garden Island, passing the whaleboat once more, but at a safe distance. Oars were once more manned. Mr. Smith on the Catalpa had not sighted the boat yet, for the background of high land interfered. The men pulled for two hours, when it was seen that there was a lighter alongside the ship, and it was at first surmised that it was a fishing vessel. Captain Desmond looked intently and then exclaimed:-- "My God! There's the guard-boat, filled with police. Pass out those rifles." The guard-boat was large, with two mutton-leg sails, and there were thirty or forty men aboard. Affairs in the whaleboat assumed a belligerent aspect. Rifles were distributed, wet cartridges drawn from revolvers and replaced with fresh, and the prisoners swore they would fight until the last man was killed. At Desmond's cry the appearance of exhaustion vanished. Every man was alert. The crew put new vigor into the stroke of the oars. When about two and a half miles from the Catalpa, the lookout at the masthead evidently raised the whaleboat, for the Catalpa suddenly bore down with all sail set. The police evidently suspected something, for the officers ran up the sail-hoops on the mast and started after the ship, with three or four men at the sweeps to hasten her progress. Now it was a question whether the guard-boat would intercept the small boat before the ship was reached. If this was done, there would be a fatal conflict. The rescued men tried to help at the oars, but their efforts were a detriment, and they were ordered to lie in the bottom of the boat, that they might not hamper the crew. There they lay, and hugged their rifles grimly. There were moments of suspense, but at length it was seen that the whaleboat would reach the Catalpa. As soon as he was within hailing distance Captain Anthony shouted to Mr. Smith:-- "Hoist the ensign!" The ensign was already bent, and one of the men jumped to the halyards and ran it to the peak. Mr. Smith had men at the braces and managed the vessel superbly. As the boat slammed alongside, everything was thrown hard aback. The men grabbed the boat tackle and swung the forward tackle to Mr. Sylvia and the after to Captain Anthony. The captain secured it, and, turning to order the men aboard ship, found he was alone in the boat. The prisoners had gone up the sideboards by the grip rope, with rifles and revolvers in their hands. The boat was hoisted on the davits, and as the captain stepped over the rail the guard-boat swept across the bow. The rescued men knew the officers, and they crowded to the rail in great glee, waving their rifles and shouting salutations and farewells, calling the officers by name. The guard knew that it was useless for them to attempt to board the vessel. The officer in command accepted the result gracefully, and, giving a military salute, said "Good-morning, captain." "Good-morning," replied Captain Anthony, and the guard-boat kept off toward the shore. [Illustration: The guard-boat The whaleboat with escaping prisoners The Georgette THE RACE FOR THE CATALPA] There were wild scenes on board the whaleship in the next hour. The rescued men were in a state of exaltation, and cheered the captain, the crew, and everybody connected with the enterprise. If Captain Anthony, Mr. Breslin, and the others had been reprieved from a death sentence they would have felt no greater joy and contentment. Captain Anthony and Breslin complimented Mate Smith, and the former called the steward. "Get up the best dinner the ship can afford," he said. "We're hungry." The steward succeeded admirably. There were canned chickens and lobsters, boiled potatoes, canned fruits, tea and coffee, and it was the most memorable dinner in the lifetime of the men who assembled. Messrs. Breslin, Desmond, and King dined with the captain, and the rescued men ate in the steerage. Mr. Smith related that when the Georgette came alongside that morning, the captain of the English steamer asked where the boat was which was missing from the cranes. The mate replied that the captain had gone ashore. "What for?" was asked. "I don't know anything about it," said Mr. Smith. "Can I come aboard?" asked the officer. "Not by a damned sight," was Mr. Smith's reply. It was the theory of the Georgette's officers that the gale had been so violent that the small boat must have returned to land, so, leaving the guard-boat alongside, she ran in under the shore to cut off the whaleboat if possible. After dinner Captain Anthony directed Mr. Smith to let the boat's crew go below and stay as long as the men wished. That night the wind died out, and the topsails hung supinely from the yards, the air which breathed occasionally from the land being unable to shake the heavy canvas. The captain gave up his room to Mr. Breslin, and Desmond and King were assigned to rooms in the forward cabin. Captain Anthony lay down on a four-foot lounge, instructing Mr. Smith to work off shore if possible, but the ship did not move her own length during the entire night. CHAPTER XXVI OVERHAULED BY THE GEORGETTE At daybreak Captain Anthony was called by Mr. Smith, who announced that the Georgette was approaching. Breslin was summoned, and the men hastened on deck. As the steamer came nearer, it was seen that she had a regiment of soldiers aboard. The Georgette was a four hundred ton vessel, twice as big as the Catalpa. On her upper deck a big gun was mounted, and the soldiery were assembled on the main deck, a forest of bayonets glistening in the morning sun. It was a show which was calculated to intimidate the men on the little whaleship, but no one on the Catalpa faltered. The captain ordered the ensign hoisted to the masthead, and mounted the poop deck. It was seen that Colonel Harvest, heavy laden in the gorgeous trappings of a British army officer, was in charge of the deck. At one moment, when the colonel's attention was elsewhere, Captain O'Grady waved his hat at his whilom companion on a recent trip, and Captain Anthony waved his hand in response. The next salutation was a solid shot fired across the bow of the Catalpa. As it ricocheted along, the water flew as high as the masthead. Meanwhile the ship was rolling helplessly, for there was no wind. As the yards bowed to meet the water, her sails flapped and yards creaked. But now a faint breeze filled the sails, and the Catalpa began to make some headway. When she was abeam the Georgette, Colonel Harvest shouted:-- "Heave to!" "What for?" screamed Captain Anthony in reply. "You have escaped prisoners aboard that ship." "You're mistaken," said Captain Anthony. "There are no prisoners aboard this ship. They're all free men." The Georgette had a whaleboat on the davits, and the men on the whaleship assumed it was for boarding purposes. Breslin collected the rescued men together, and they determined to resist. While the above colloquy was in progress, Mr. Smith had fitted out the company with cutting spades, whaling guns, and heavy pieces of iron and logs of wood with which to sink the boat if it came alongside. "I see the men aboard the ship now," yelled Colonel Harvest. "You're mistaken, sir," returned Captain Anthony. "Get up, men, and show yourselves." The men walked to the rail. "You can see for yourself they are my crew," said the captain. "I have telegraphed the American government, and have orders to seize you," was the colonel's next announcement. Captain Anthony knew this was impossible and made no reply. "Are you going to heave to?" asked the colonel. "No, sir," replied Captain Anthony firmly. The Georgette was on the lee of the Catalpa. The wind was freshening and the Georgette was steaming to keep up. "Don't you know you have violated the colonial laws?" asked Colonel Harvest. "No, sir," answered Captain Anthony; at which the colonel seemed greatly enraged. "I'll give you fifteen minutes in which to heave to," said he, "and I'll blow your masts out unless you do so. I have the means to do it." He pointed to the gun, which the soldiers were swabbing, preparatory to reloading. "This ship is sailing under the American flag and she is on the high seas. If you fire on me, I warn you that you are firing on the American flag." This was Captain Anthony's reply. The vessels were now about eighteen miles offshore. On the tack upon which she was sailing the Catalpa was running inshore. Captain Anthony feared it was the trick to decoy him into Australian waters, and decided to go about on the other tack. He consulted with Mr. Smith whether it was advisable to tack or wear ship, his fear of the former course being that the vessel might get "in irons" and lose her headway, and in the confusion the Georgette might shoot alongside. So it was decided to wear. When the Catalpa's crew hauled up the clews of the mainsail, hauled down the head of the spanker, and let the gafftopsail run down, the officers on the Georgette evidently thought the Catalpa proposed to haul back, and the steamer was stopped. Then Captain Anthony put the wheel up, and the vessel swung off quickly and headed straight for the Georgette, going before the wind. The captain of the steamer construed this as an attempt to run him down. He rang the jingle-bell and went ahead at full speed, but when the Catalpa swung by him, her flying jibboom just cleared the steamer's rigging. The ship's sails filled on the other tack and the Catalpa headed offshore. The Georgette again steamed under the bark's lee. Colonel Harvest once more asked the captain if he proposed to "heave to," and the captain once more replied that he did not. The steamer followed for an hour, Colonel Harvest walking the bridge. Then the Georgette stopped. It was now four o'clock in the afternoon. The wind was fair and fresh, and constantly increasing. When the Catalpa was some distance away, Captain Anthony called to the rescued men, "Boys, take a good look at her. Probably you'll never see her again." When the vessels were a few miles apart, the Georgette steamed back towards Freemantle, leaving a grateful and thankful party behind. "When the English commander gave the order to his stokers to slack down the fires, a veritable _feu d'enfer_, the battle ended," said the "Kilkenny Journal," in describing the incident. "But it was a terrible affray, and while the firing lasted there was a tremendous expenditure of coals. Every credit is due the Georgette. She steered off in magnificent style. As it turned a stern lookout upon its foe, the banner of Britain displayed its folds, and the blazoned lion, shimmering in the sun, seemed to make a gesture of defiance with his tail, by curving it between his heels." And the Catalpa sailed serenely on, and the star-spangled banner floated bravely in the breeze. CHAPTER XXVII BOUND HOME That night the Catalpa took a squall from the eastward which developed into a gale, and the bark ran before it under two lower topsails and a foresail. In forty-eight hours the vessel was four hundred miles off the coast. This led the leaders of the rescue to appreciate their extreme good fortune, for if the gale had arisen the night the Catalpa left Bunbury, Captain Anthony and his crew would not have been waiting on the beach at Rockingham to receive the fleeing prisoners. The police, closely following, would have rearrested the men, Breslin and his followers would have been arrested, and disaster would have been the result of the year of anxiety and the expenditure of a fortune contributed largely by men who gave at considerable sacrifice. England would have been exultant at having captured the man who released Stephens, and the Clan-na-Gael would have suffered bitterly from the ignominy. The day after the storm, April 19, Captain Anthony had two casks of clothing hoisted on deck. They were the best "slops" (the whaleman's vernacular for clothes and supplies) ever put aboard a whaling vessel. The casks' heads were taken out, and Captain Anthony said to the men, "Go in and help yourselves. Take all you care for, and you'll need the thickest, for you'll see some cold weather before you reach America." Each man selected at least two suits of clothing, as well as a large supply of underclothes. The rigging-pen between decks was knocked down and two tiers of berths were built, one for each of the rescued men, from the lumber bought at Teneriffe. They were amply supplied with bedding, seats and tables were built, and a boy from the forecastle was assigned to attend the men. The vessel was kept well to the northward, to take advantage of the southeast trade-winds, which were taken in lat. 24°. Then fresh and fair winds wafted the vessel across the Indian Ocean. At times the old Catalpa logged two hundred miles a day, although she was not regarded as a fast sailor. The men were given the freedom of the ship and thoroughly enjoyed the liberty which had been restored to them. Mr. Breslin wrote a song which the men were wont to sing as they lay on the decks on warm evenings. These were the words:-- "Right across the Indian Ocean, while the trade-wind follows fast, Speeds our ship with gentle motion; fear and chains behind us cast. Rolling home! rolling home! rolling home across the sea; Rolling home to bright Columbia; home to friends and liberty. "Through the waters blue and bright, through dark wave and hissing foam, Ever onward, with delight, we are sailing still for home. O'er our pathway, in the sunshine, flies the wide-winged albatross, O'er our topmast, in the moonlight, hangs the starry Southern Cross. "By the stormy cape now flying, with a full and flowing sail, See the daylight round us dying on the black breast of the gale! See the lightning flash above us and the dark surge roll below! Here's a health to those who love us! Here's defiance to the foe! "Now the wide Atlantic clearing with our good ship speeding free, The dull 'Cape of Storms' we're leaving far to eastward on our lee. And as homeward through the waters the old Catalpa goes, Ho! you fellows at the masthead, let us hear once more, "She blows." "Next by lonely St. Helena, with a steady wind we glide By the rock-built, sea-girt prison, where the gallant Frenchman died, With the flying fish and porpoise sporting 'round us in the wave, With the starry flag of freedom floating o'er us bright and brave. "Past 'The Line,' and now the dipper hangs glittering in the sky. Onward still! In the blue water, see, the gulf weed passing by. Homeward! Homeward to Columbia, blow you, steady breezes, blow, 'Till we hear it, from the masthead, the joyful cry, "Land ho!" Mr. Farnham, the second mate, died suddenly of heart disease on the 8th of May, and was buried at sea the following day. He had been a faithful man, and there was sincere sorrow throughout the ship's company. [Illustration: THE CATALPA HOMEWARD BOUND Running before a Gale] Captain Anthony made his course for the south end of Madagascar, and stood well inshore in rounding the cape, across the Agulhas Banks, to receive the advantage of the current which sets into the Atlantic Ocean. Here severe winter weather was encountered. Then the "trades" were welcomed once more, and the Catalpa sailed on with a fleet of twenty-one merchant vessels, all following the same course. Naturally the bark gave St. Helena a wide berth, since the neighborhood of a British possession was to be avoided. Subsequently it was learned that an English warship awaited the Catalpa at this point. There is an English naval station at Ascension, and Captain Anthony was likewise shy of a near approach to the island. On July 10 the Catalpa crossed the equator into the North Atlantic on long. 31° west. "You're almost American citizens now," remarked the captain to the men on this day. Sperm whales were seen occasionally, and the boats were twice lowered, but the men were impatient to proceed, and little loitering was indulged. After running out of the northeast trades, Captain Anthony proposed to Mr. Breslin that the vessel should make a business of cruising for whale for a while. "Now is just the season," said he, "for whaling on the Western Grounds. We are well enough fitted, excepting that we lack small stores, and we have plenty of money to buy from other vessels. I know the whaling grounds, and by hauling up to the northward we are almost certain to pick up a few hundred barrels of oil, and the voyage can be made as successful financially as it has been in other respects." Mr. Breslin agreed to this, and the course was made north by east. The men noticed the change in direction, and pleaded that they might be put ashore without any delay, and after a day or two it was decided to yield to their wishes; orders were given to keep her off, and the bark was once more homeward bound. In the height of a savage gale the Catalpa passed Bermuda, and a few days later the lead showed that the vessel was approaching the coast. Then a pilot came aboard, and he was greatly surprised to find the destination to be New York, inasmuch as the vessel was a whaleship. But Captain Anthony and Mr. Breslin had agreed that this was the best place to land the men. Sandy Hook was eighty miles away. At six P.M. an ocean tug was spoken, which offered to tow the vessel into New York harbor for $250, but after considerable dickering the price was reduced to $90, and it was accepted. CHAPTER XXVIII A CORDIAL RECEPTION Meanwhile the story of the rescue had been telegraphed to New York, and reporters swarmed aboard at quarantine, which was reached at midnight. Captain Anthony did not know what the situation might be or how much it would be wise for him to tell, and the reception of the newspaper men was one of the most arduous experiences of the voyage. But their editions were waiting, and they could not delay long. At two o'clock on the morning of August 19, 1876, the Catalpa anchored off Castle Garden. Captain Anthony and Mr. Breslin went ashore at sunrise in one of the boats and first went to the hotel of O'Donovan Rossa, which was a headquarters for men affiliating with the Clan-na-Gael. The first person whom they met in the office, singularly enough, was a man who was a prisoner in Australia at the time of the rescue, but who was subsequently released and arrived in this country by steamer. He received the rescuers with enthusiasm. Various leaders were summoned, and the captain and Mr. Breslin were warmly welcomed. Later in the morning Captain Anthony went to the barge office and secured a permit to land his passengers. When he returned to the Catalpa she was surrounded by small boats, for the morning newspapers had told of her presence in port, and there was much curiosity to see her. "Men," said Captain Anthony, as he stepped on the deck, "I have a permit for you to go ashore, and you are at liberty to go when you please." "God bless you, captain, you've saved our lives," said Darragh, and in a few minutes the company left in the shore boat, in high spirits. Meanwhile Captain Anthony had communicated with Mr. Richardson, and he was instructed to leave the vessel in New York and return home, for his friends were anxious to see him. The local branch of the Clan-na-Gael, with representatives of other Irish societies, had been meeting nightly, arranging a reception to the gallant rescuer, and he was received at the train by thousands of people on the Sunday morning of his return. They were shocked at the changed appearance of the captain. When he left New Bedford, sixteen months before, he weighed 160 pounds and his hair was black as coal. The months of worry and intense excitement had worn upon him to such an extent that his weight was now reduced to 123 pounds and his hair was sprinkled with gray. A few days after Captain Anthony arrived home, the following circular reached the office of the chief of police in New Bedford:-- POLICE DEPARTMENT. Chief Office, Perth, Western Australia, April 18, 1876. James Darragh, 9707, life sentence, 2d March, 1866, aged 42, Fenian, absconded from Freemantle, 8.30 A.M., April 17, 1876. Martin Hogan, 9767, sentence, life, August 21, 1866, aged 37, Fenian, absconded as above. Michael Harrington, 9757, life sentence, July 7, 1866, 48 years, Fenian, absconded as above. Thomas Hassett, 9758, life sentence, June 26, 1866, Fenian, absconded, etc. Robert Cranston, 9702, life sentence, June 26, 1866, Fenian, absconded, etc. James Wilson, 9915, life sentence, Aug. 20, 1866, age 40, absconded, etc. N.B.--Martin Hogan's marks include the letter D on his left side; so do those of Michael Harrington, Thomas Hassett, and James Wilson. Sir,--I beg to inform you that on the 17th instant the imperial convicts named in the margin absconded from the convict settlement at Freemantle, in this colony, and escaped from the colony in the American whaling bark Catalpa, G. Anthony master. This bark is from New Bedford, Massachusetts, U.S.A. The convicts were taken from the shore in a whaleboat belonging to the Catalpa, manned by Captain Anthony and six of the crew. The abettors were Collins, Jones, and Johnson. I attach the description of each of the absconders, and have to request that you will be good enough to furnish me with any particulars you may be able to gather concerning them. I have the honor to be, sir, Your obedient servant, M.A. Smith, _Supt. of Police_. To the Officer in charge of the Police Department, } New Bedford, Massachusetts, U.S.A. } It was addressed to "The Officer in charge of Police Department, New Bedford, Massachusetts, United States, America." Now Captain Henry C. Hathaway was at this time chief of police, and in view of the fact that he had been rather intimately connected with the enterprise, it may be believed that he was not unduly zealous in assisting the Australian authorities. The Catalpa, in charge of a pilot, sailed to New Bedford. The scene on her return was very different from that at her departure. She arrived at the old whaling port on the afternoon of August 24th. She was sighted as she came into the bay, and the news of her approach attracted thousands of people to the wharves. A salute of seventy guns was fired as the bark sailed up the river, and when she was made fast to the dock, men and women swarmed aboard and carried away everything which was not too large for souvenirs. On the following evening a reception was tendered Captain Anthony at Liberty Hall, and the auditorium was crowded with cheering, enthusiastic people. The stage was decorated with the American flag and the flag of Ireland. John McCullough called the meeting to order, and the officers were as follows:-- _President._--Dr. Stephen W. Hayes. _Vice-Presidents._--John McCullough, Michael F. Kennedy, Hugh J. McDonald, Neil Gallagher, John F. Edgerton, James Carroll, Jeremiah Donohue, Michael Murphy, John Sweeney, William Morrissey, Edmund Fogarty, James Clary, Michael F. McCullough, Antone L. Sylvia, Patrick Cannavan, James Sherry, John Agnew, John Welch. _Secretaries._--Patrick Haley, Peter O'Connell, and John Green. John Boyle O'Reilly was present, and Captain Anthony was the guest of honor. Mr. Smith, the Catalpa's mate, and Thomas Hassett, one of the rescued men, were also present. Dr. Hayes expressed his gratitude that the political prisoners were now in the land of the free, where the flag which protected them on the Catalpa would continue to protect them as long as it waved. O'Reilly's address on this occasion was one of his most eloquent efforts, and it is to be regretted that it is not preserved in its entirety. The summaries which were printed in the newspapers do him very inadequate justice. He said that it was with no ordinary feelings that he had come. He owed to New Bedford no ordinary debt, and he would gladly have come a thousand miles to do honor to New Bedford whalemen. Seven years of liberty, wife, children, and a happy home in a free country were his debt of gratitude, and when the close of his sentence came, in 1886, his debt to New Bedford might be grown too heavy to bear. They were there, he said, to do honor to Captain Anthony, to show their gratitude to the man who had done a brave and wonderful deed. The self-sacrifice and unfailing devotion of him who had taken his life in his hand and beached his whaleboat on the penal colony, defying its fearful laws, defying the gallows and the chain-gang, in order to keep faith with the men who had placed their trust in him,--this is almost beyond belief in our selfish and commonplace time. There were sides to this question worth looking at, he continued. To Irishmen it was significant in manifold ways, one of which was that these men, being soldiers, could not be left in prison without demoralizing the Irishmen in the English army, who would not forget that their comrades had been forsaken and left to die in confinement, when the civilian leaders of the movement had been set free. But the spirit that prompted their release was larger and nobler than this, and its beauty could be appreciated by all men, partaking as it did of the universal instinct of humanity to love their race and their native land. England said that the rescue was a lawless and disgraceful filibustering raid. Not so, said Mr. O'Reilly. If these men were criminals, the rescue would be criminal. But they were political offenders against England, not against law, or order, or religion. They had lain in prison for ten years, with millions of their countrymen asking their release, imploring England, against their will to beg, to set these men at liberty. Had England done so it would have partially disarmed Ireland. A generous act by England would be reciprocated instantly by millions of the warmest hearts in the world. But she was blind, as of old; blind and arrogant and cruel. She would not release the men; she scorned to give Ireland an answer. She called the prisoners cowardly criminals, not political offenders. After the ship sailed and there was a long time when no tidings came, O'Reilly said that doubts and fears came, as they were sure to do; but Captain Hathaway said once and always of Captain Anthony: "The man who engaged to do this will keep that engagement, or he won't come out of the penal colony." After describing some of his own experiences in Australia, Mr. O'Reilly pointed to the bronzed and worn face of Mr. Hassett, one of the rescued prisoners, and said: "Look at that man sitting there. Six years ago he escaped from his prison in the penal colony and fled into the bush, living there like a wild beast for a whole year, hunted from district to district, in a blind but manful attempt to win his liberty. When England said the rescue was illegal, America could answer, as the anti-slavery men answered when they attacked the Constitution, as England herself answered in the cause of Poland: 'We have acted from a higher law than your written constitution and treatise,--the law of God and humanity.' It was in obedience to this supreme law that Captain Anthony rescued the prisoners, and pointed his finger at the Stars and Stripes, when the English commander threatened to fire on his ship. "The Irishman," concluded Mr. O'Reilly, "who could forget what the Stars and Stripes have done for his countrymen deserves that in time of need that flag shall forget him." Then Mr. Hassett described the bravery of Captain Anthony, and pictured him as he held the steering oar on the night of the gale, risking his life for the men. He could never amply express his gratitude to Captain Anthony, he said, and he was sure that New Bedford never produced a braver sailor. Meanwhile there were similar demonstrations throughout the country. At San Francisco a mass meeting of Irish citizens passed resolutions of sympathy for the prisoners and took steps for increasing the relief fund which had been started. The Robert Emmet Association of Troy, N.Y., fired a salute in honor of the safe arrival of the Catalpan six. At Woonsocket the wildest enthusiasm prevailed; meetings were held and salutes fired. The Emmet Skirmishing Club of Sillery Cove, Quebec, held a congratulatory meeting, and the Shamrock Benevolent Society of St. Louis, one of the largest Irish Catholic societies in the West, adopted resolutions of honor to Captain Anthony. The news of the rescue had been slow in reaching England, and as late as May 22 a debate was in progress in Parliament on the release of the political prisoners in Australia. Disraeli was the first lord of the Treasury, and he had been asked to advise her Majesty to extend her royal mercy to the prisoners who were suffering punishment from offenses in breach of their allegiance. In a speech Disraeli said the men sent to Australia were "at this moment enjoying a state of existence which their friends in this house are quite prepared to accept." The Irish members shouted "No." But Mr. Disraeli was right and the Irish members were wrong, for the men were on the deck of an American vessel as he spoke, free from English authority. On the morning after Disraeli's speech Boucicault wrote a letter to the "London Telegraph" which was read with much interest. He wrote:-- The reply made by Mr. Disraeli last night to the 134 members who pleaded for the amnesty of the Irish prisoners should not be regarded as wholly unsatisfactory. His speech was in the gentle spirit of an apology, formed of excuses for the delay of the Government in acceding to the wishes of the people of Ireland. But the manner of this fluent and eloquent speaker was exceedingly hopeful. He hesitated, wandered, halted, lost his way, and turned about in distress. A leading member observed in my hearing that he had never seen him so confused. He said there were only fifteen prisoners; that two of them could not be regarded as political offenders, because in the act of rebellion they had shed blood, and therefore were ordinary murderers. (He did not add they were no more entitled to consideration than Oliver Cromwell, whose statue graces the House.) Then turning to the thirteen prisoners--of these six were imprisoned in England and seven in Western Australia--these men, he assured the House, were so comfortable where they were, so happy, so well off, that really their liberation would be a misfortune to them, rather than a boon. It is a rule in literary composition that, when a substantive expresses vigorously the full scope and meaning of an idea, we weaken its effect by the addition of an adjective. So would any remark, or even a note of admiration detract from the rule of this astounding proposition. It should be left alone in a space of silence. The lameness and impotency of the speaker made an eloquent impression on the House, for the lameness seemed that of one who declined to trample on the prostrate, and the impotency was that of a kind and just man who could not find words to frame a cruel sentence. Your obedient servant, Dion Boucicault. London, May 23. The rescue was the subject of very savage comment in the English newspapers, and some of the editorials are reprinted in the Appendix. Invitations to attend various functions in honor of the rescue poured in upon Captain Anthony, and he found himself a hero with the Irish people throughout the world, a position in which he stands to-day, for the debt has never been forgotten. That the valiant deed still lives in the memory, it may be said that ten thousand people in Philadelphia greeted the captain last summer, on the occasion of the presentation to the Clan-na-Gael societies of the flag which flew over the Catalpa on the day when the British were defied. Here is the story printed in the "Philadelphia Times" on the date of August 6, 1895:-- The green flag of Ireland, entwined with the Stars and Stripes, floated proudly over the main entrance to the Rising Sun Park yesterday and gave greeting to ten thousand people who joined in the annual Clan-na-Gael celebration. The multitude came from all sections of the city, and all the suburban towns and the adjoining counties sent large contingents of Clan-na-Gael sympathizers. The management made every possible provision for the entertainment of those present, and spared neither expense nor time in making the celebration a success, giving big prizes to the field and track athletes from many sections of the Union and from Canada who took part in the sporting events. The grounds were decorated possibly on a more elaborate scale than on any former occasion. Exclusive of what the track and field provided in the way of amusement, there were pastimes for the younger and older folks, such as tenpin alleys, merry-go-rounds, baseball, and swings. There were several bands of music, one for those who occupied seats on the pavilion from which the track and field sports could be seen, and two others on the dancing platform. The great feature of the day's exercises, and that which attracted the most attention, were the introduction of Captain George S. Anthony and the presentation by him to the Clan-na-Gaels of the flag which floated from the masthead of the whaling bark Catalpa, which had on board the political prisoners rescued from the penal settlement of Western Australia, when it was overtaken by a British gunboat. Captain Anthony presented the flag from a temporary platform erected on the tracks, and after it had been accepted in behalf of the Clan-na-Gael the scene was one of great enthusiasm. Luke Dillon, president of the Irish American Club, introduced Captain Anthony, and almost simultaneously the old Stars and Stripes were unfurled to the breeze and the band seated on the grand stand played the "Star-Spangled Banner." About four thousand people joined in singing the anthem, and the Clan-na-Gael Guards fired two volleys as a salute. On the platform were seated State Senator James C. Vaughn, of Scranton; Michael J. Breslin, a brother of John J. Breslin, who had charge of the land part of the Catalpa expedition; Martin Hogan, of New York, Thomas Darragh, and Robert Cranston, three of the rescued prisoners; Dr. William Carroll, William Francis Roantree, John Devoy, J.J. Thompson, Major Fitzpatrick, of Trenton, N.J.; Michael Gribbel, of Jersey City; Bernard Masterson, Eugene Buckley, and Michael J. Gribble, of Pittsburgh. Captain Anthony, in presenting the flag, said:-- "Twenty years ago you came to me with a request to aid you in restoring to freedom some soldiers of liberty confined in England's penal colony of Western Australia. Your story of their sufferings touched my heart, and I pledged my word as an American sailor to aid in the good work to the best of my ability. "You intrusted me with the command of the bark Catalpa. I took her to the West Australia coast, and when the gallant Breslin and his trusty men had effected the rescue of their friends I brought the party safely in the ship's boat to the Catalpa and placed them on board under the shelter of the American flag. When on the high seas the commander of an armed British steamer fired a solid shot across the Catalpa's bows, demanded the surrender of the rescued men, and threatened to blow out the masts of my vessel, if I failed to comply with his demands, I refused, and told the British commander that if he fired on the American flag on the high seas he must take the consequences. He then withdrew, and I took your friends to New York, where I landed them in safety. "The flag which floated over the Catalpa on that April day in 1876--the Stars and Stripes which protected the liberated men and their rescuers--I have preserved and cherished for twenty years as a sacred relic. I would fain keep it and hand it down to my children as a family heirloom, but I am confident it will be safe in the keeping of those who were associated with me in an enterprise of which we have all reason to be proud. Your countrymen have ever been loyal to the flag of the United States and ever ready to shed their blood in its defense. I, therefore, present you with this flag of the Catalpa as a memento of our common share in a good work well done and a token of the sympathy of all true Americans with the cause of liberty in Ireland. I know you will cherish it as I do, and that if the interests of that flag should ever again demand it your countrymen will be among the first to rally to its defense?" When Captain Anthony finished his address he was the recipient of many beautiful bouquets. John Devoy, who had been delegated by the Clan-na-Gael to accept the colors, was unable to do so because of sickness, and Michael J. Ryan, who acted in his place, read the speech which Mr. Devoy had prepared:-- "Captain Anthony, old friend and comrade, I accept this flag on behalf of the organization which fitted out the Catalpa, selected you as her commander, and which shared with you the credit for the work of humanity which she was the chief instrument in accomplishing. I accept it with pride as a memento of a noble deed, and I promise you it shall be cherished by us while life is left us, and handed down to future generations, who will love and cherish it as well. It is the flag of our adopted country, under which Irishmen have fought side by side with native Americans on every battlefield where the interests and the honor of that flag were at stake, from Bunker Hill to Appomattox. It is the flag which symbolizes the highest development of human liberty on this earth, and in the future, as in the past, the race to which we, to whom you present this flag, belong, will stand shoulder to shoulder with yours in its defense and in the maintenance of its proud and glorious record. "You recall to our minds to-day memories of events in which native Americans and Irishmen were closely associated; in which Irish enthusiasm and Yankee coolness, grit, and skill in seamanship effected a combination that won a decisive victory for humanity over the forces of oppression. The battle of human freedom has not yet been won, and the combination of which you formed such an important part may serve as an example worthy of imitation and enlargement in the future. "Your part in that work was noble and disinterested throughout. I went to New Bedford twenty years ago, knowing not a soul in the city, bearing a letter of introduction from John Boyle O'Reilly to Henry C. Hathaway, who has done noble work in aiding the poet-patriot to escape from the Western Australian prison to the land of the free. He entered heartily into the project with which the Clan-na-Gael had intrusted me, and introduced me to you and your father-in-law, Mr. Richardson. Without any promise of reward for your services, or compensation for the risks you would run, you undertook to carry out the work of liberation. You sailed away to the southern seas, you carried out the work you pledged yourself to accomplish, you incurred new risks which had not been asked of you, you defied the British commander who threatened to fire on the Stars and Stripes, and brought the six Irishmen rescued from a British prison in safety to America. In all this you bore yourself proudly and gallantly, like a true American sailor, and you placed the Irish people under heavy obligations to you. "Our chief regret to-day is that the man most closely associated with you in the rescue, John J. Breslin, the man who commanded the land force of the expedition, and to whose skill and courage its success was wholly due, is not here to receive this flag from your hands. As he has gone to his last account, the honor of taking his place has been assigned to me, although I was only concerned in the management of the American end of the enterprise. Many of those who took part in the rescue and two of the men to whom you helped to give liberty are here to do you honor and to thank you in the name of the Irish race for the gallant feat you accomplished nineteen years ago and for your generous gift of this historic flag. Others still are in their graves, while some live too far away to participate in this day's proceedings, which recall an event of which we are all proud. "Captain Anthony, in the name of the Clan-na-Gael, I thank you for the Catalpa's flag, and wish you a long and happy life." CHAPTER XXIX SETTLEMENT OF THE VOYAGE In February, 1877, Mr. Devoy, with James Reynolds, went to New Bedford and made a liberal settlement with the crew. An average was taken of the catch of oil by the vessels which sailed the same season with the Catalpa, several of which had made "big cuts." The settlement with the men was on this basis. The Catalpa was presented to Captain Anthony, Mr. Richardson, and Henry C. Hathaway, but her value was not great. She was eventually sold and altered into a coal barge, coming to an ignominious end at Belize, British Honduras, where she was condemned. Captain Anthony's occupation was now gone, since it would be unsafe for him to enter an English port. He was for a while an officer of the New Bedford police force, but was appointed an inspector in the New Bedford custom-house in President Cleveland's first term, a position which he has since held. Gallant John Breslin died in New York on November 18, 1888, with the name of his country upon his lips. To the last he believed that revolution was the only remedy for Ireland's wrongs. The announcement of his death drew tears from Irish eyes the world over, for his burning love of country, his chivalry and unparalleled bravery had touched the hearts of Erin's sons and daughters. Clan-na-Gael societies telegraphed their sorrow, and John Devoy and all the Catalpan leaders hastened to New York to be present at the funeral exercises. "Out of all the incidents of the so-called 'Fenian movement,'" said the "Pilot," "the most brilliantly daring have been two rescues of prisoners, namely, that of the chief organizer, James Stephens, from Richmond Prison, Dublin, in 1865, and of the six military prisoners from Western Australia last April. These two rescues are in many ways remarkable. Unlike almost every other enterprise of Fenianism, they have been completely successful; and when completed have been commented on in the same way, as 'well done.' Every other attempt or proposal has fallen through or ended with loss. The rescue of Kelley and Deasy from the police van in Manchester was successful so far as the release of the prisoners went; but it was bought with the lives of Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien, and the nine years' misery of Condon. The proposed attack on Chester Castle was discovered and prevented by the English government. The seizure of Pigeon House Fort, with its armory, at Dublin, never emerged from the stage of dreamland. The attempt to blow up Clerkenwell Prison, London, to release Richard Burke, was a disastrous failure, by which nothing was accomplished, by which many suffered, the lives of several poor working people were sacrificed, and the wretched lodging-house homes of others destroyed. [Illustration: JAMES REYNOLDS Treasurer of the Rescue Committee] "But the rescue of James Stephens, even while the government was gloating over his capture, was as unexpected and thorough as if the man had vanished in smoke. No one suffered from it,--at least from English law,--no one was arrested; neither the government nor the public ever knew how or by whom it was accomplished. The man or men who did the work claimed no recompense either of money or notoriety. Two thousand pounds reward failed to elicit the slightest clew. The thing was cleverly, cleanly, bravely done, and those who knew of it knew how to keep the secret. "The rescue of the six military prisoners from the penal colony of West Australia was performed in a similar manner as to daring, silence, and complete success. Looking back on it, no one can say that aught was forgotten or left to chance. With admirable deliberation every inch of the train was laid, every sporadic interest was attended to, and the eventful rescue was carried out to the prearranged letter with scientific precision. As in the escape of Stephens, no trail remained; no one left in the trap; no price paid in human life or suffering. It was a clean thing from beginning to end; it was 'well done.'" The total expense of the expedition was about $30,000, and a fund was raised in addition to give the rescued men a start in the new life which had been vouchsafed to them. APPENDIX [_London Telegraph._] Closely following upon the recent debate in the House of Commons on the Fenian prisoners, still held most justly in durance, come particulars from Western Australia of the escape of the half dozen jail-birds who, while they were in captivity, excited so much sympathy among Irish rebels and their abettors. Every Englishman knew that this sympathy was misplaced, and, as a matter of fact, it turns out that it was the very mildness of the captivity of the Hibernians in an Australian penal settlement which made their escape so easy. [After telling how the rescue was effected, the "Telegraph" continued:] So the English cruiser had to return to Freemantle as empty as it left, and the skipper of the Catalpa, who was evidently, like most Yankee mariners, an accomplished sea lawyer, sailed off in triumph, laughing at our scrupulous obedience to international law. This is a humiliating result, and it is not easy to see who most deserves blame,--the sleepy warder who allowed all the men to give him the slip and sounded no alarm in time to overtake them on their long carriage drive, or the authorities at Rockingham, who permitted the Catalpa to get outside the territorial limit before stopping her. Nor is it clear what is the next step to be taken. If the American vessel took on board the convicts in Australia, that is in British waters, we presume that we can insist on their rendition and on redress in some shape for a violation of our sovereignty. We can readily conceive what would have happened if an English vessel in the harbor of say Norfolk, Va., had received Confederate prisoners on board, and had sailed off, daring pursuit or arrest. Thus our government may be excused for being firm and peremptory in calling attention to whatever violation of law the Yankee whaler may have committed. On the other hand, there is the consideration that the enterprising skipper of the Catalpa has, without meaning it, done us a good turn; he has rid us of an expensive nuisance. The United States are welcome to any number of disloyal, turbulent, plotting conspirators, to all their silly machinations. If these are transferred to British soil, we shall know how to deal with them,--as we have shown already. [_Melbourne Argus._] The news from Western Australia confirms the suspicion that a grave international outrage was committed in the escape of the Fenian prisoners from Freemantle. They were actually taken away while wearing the convict garb by the master of an American ship, who dispatched a boat ashore for that purpose. It is impossible to suppose that a man did not know very well what he was doing, and his proceedings are precisely as if a French boat were to run to the hill of Portland and take away as many convicts from there as could crowd into her. The imperial authorities are bound to take cognizance of the episode, and to demand a substantial redress. We shall be told, no doubt, that the escaped convicts are political refugees, and attention may be called to the fact that Communist convicts frequently arrive in Australia without the permission of their gaolers. But the attempt at a parallel will deceive no one. The Communists arrive here without any aid on our part. They build boats and take their chance, and if the Fenians had found their way to America, their case would be very different from what it is. Rochefort and his companions came over, it is true, in a British bark; but, though the complicity of the captain was suspected, it was never proved. But with the Catalpa there is evidence of a plot; there is testimony that the American master took his boat to an unsuspected spot, and that he made special exertions to ship the men. The ship was on the high seas, it is true, and outside of British jurisdiction, but the master and his boat went to the shore, and for a felonious purpose, and that constitutes the breach of the law of nations. The offense is too serious, too glaring, to be overlooked, and we presume that important communications will speedily pass between the governments of Westminster and Washington. [_Melbourne Advocate._] The correspondence will be voluminous, but very courteous on both sides, and, after being long drawn out, it will terminate in friendly assurances; for it would never do that first cousins, bound together by common interests, and in whose hands the great destinies of the English-speaking race rest, should seriously quarrel over the fate of a half dozen unfortunate Irishmen. The Slidell and Mason business was a little more serious, and there was no quarrel over it. The cabinet of Westminster will have a strong case for Washington in this Fenian business, but Washington is not without a case against Westminster; for its demand for the unconditional extradition of an American criminal has been refused by the English government. Washington, besides, will be apt to say that these escaped Fenians were political prisoners, and though Great Britain may maintain the contrary, European opinion will be decidedly against her view of the case. Something will also be said about Communist convicts being sheltered on British soil, and after all that can be urged on each side has been said, the whole affair will taper down to an indivisible and invisible point, or, to use a more homely phrase, it will end in smoke. THE RESCUED PRISONERS On the 12th inst., William Foley, one of the Irish political prisoners recently confined in Western Australia, arrived in New York from Queenstown, on the steamship Wisconsin. When the news of the escape of the prisoners came last week, it was thought that Foley was among the number, but it now appears that his sentence expired last January, and he sailed from Perth, Western Australia, on the 16th of that month for London. From London he proceeded to Dublin, and after spending a fortnight there went to his home in Tipperary, but finding none of his friends there except one uncle, a very old man, he went to Cork, where he remained about ten days, when he started for New York. The following is the substance of Foley's story, given to a "New York Herald" reporter by the gentleman who received it:-- Toward the end of last November two gentlemen arrived in Western Australia, and, knowing the means, at once placed themselves in communication with the prisoners, and commenced to thoroughly survey the ground on which they were to work. Foley, being on ticket-of-leave at the time, and having just got out of the hospital, where he had been suffering from heart disease, was introduced to one of them by a friend, and on the stranger giving certain information which showed what his mission was, an understanding was arrived at. A great deal of delicate work had to be done, and every precaution taken to avoid attracting the attention of the authorities, but up to the last moment of Foley's stay in the colony not the least suspicion was aroused. The two agents each followed a legitimate occupation, and acted in every way as if going to make their home in Western Australia, or bent solely on making lasting business connections with the colony, and so discreet were their movements and conduct that no one dreamed that they were anything but what they appeared to be. "I asked no questions," said Foley, "and they told me nothing which I had not a right to know." Toward the close of the spring of last year all the prisoners not on ticket-of-leave, and two of the men who had tickets-of-leave, were sent in from the various gangs in which they had been working through the bush and lodged in the principal convict station at Freemantle. Their names were James Wilson, Martin Hogan, Thomas Hassett, Thomas Darragh, Michael Harrington, Robert Cranston, and James Kelley, life-sentenced men, and Thomas Delaney and James McCoy, whose tickets-of-leave were revoked. These were all, with the exception of Wilson, engaged in constructing a reservoir within the prison of Freemantle, which is situated on the hill, intended to supply water to the shipping in the harbor. Wilson was training a horse for the doctor of the prison, and this employment enabled him to go out of the prison several times each day, and gave him many facilities for perfecting the plan of escape. Many disappointments occurred, however, owing to unforeseen accidents, and one golden opportunity was lost through failing to connect with a certain ship. The ability of the agents was tested to the utmost and the patience of the expectant prisoners was sorely tried. Still nothing occurred to arouse the suspicion of the prison officials and no one connected with the attempt lost heart. Two days before Foley took his departure he had an interview with Wilson, and on the former asking him how he should correspond with him, Wilson said, "Don't write to us any more; I am confident we shall all follow you soon." When taking his leave two days later neither could speak, but could only exchange a silent but hearty shake of the hand. This was on January 16. Foley took his passage on a sailing vessel for London, and after a voyage of ninety-four days arrived in that city. Though he could not feel sure that all had escaped, Foley expressed the greatest confidence in the safety of those who had got on board the American ship. The Georgette, which was sent in pursuit of the Catalpa, according to the statements of the Sydney papers, telegraphed here from San Francisco, is only a small screw steamer, built on the Clyde, about two hundred tons burthen, which is employed in carrying the mails from Champion Bay, the most northern settlement in West Australia, to King George's Sound, which is the most southerly point at which vessels call in the same colony, and she is manned by only ten men at the most,--ordinary sailors who never saw any service. In Perth and Freemantle there are not more than thirty policemen at any time, and if all of these went on board the Georgette the released soldiers and their friends could make short work of them in a hand-to-hand fight. The only artillery in the colony is in Perth--four old nine-pounders belonging to a company of volunteers, the members of which live scattered through the surrounding country and could not be got together at a short notice. There are about forty retired soldiers living in the neighborhood of Perth, but they are all old men, and could not be collected at any shorter notice than the volunteers. It would take some time to unlimber the guns, get the Georgette ready and prepare for a pursuit, and the point on the coast selected for a rendezvous, according to arrangements made previous to Foley's departure, is about twenty-five miles from Freemantle. Everything considered, it would take several days to enable the Georgette to start in pursuit, and by that time the Catalpa, or any other vessel on which they might be, would be beyond her reach. Then the Georgette could not be provisioned for a long cruise, nor could the police force nor the pensioners be spared from the colony for any length of time, and there was no ship of war at all in the neighborhood. Altogether the chances of the recapture of the prisoners by the Georgette appear to be very remote, even if she would risk boarding an American ship on the high seas. Boats had been already secured when Foley left, to accommodate all the prisoners and convey them out to sea so that they might not get on board any ship in British waters. "The news," said Foley, "seems too good to be true; it is so short a time since I saw them within the prison walls, and all I can say is, God speed them on their way, and may God bless the Yankee captain who took them aboard." Foley is thirty-eight years of age, and enlisted in 1853 in the Bombay Horse Artillery, under the East India Company, and served all through the Sepoy rebellion. In 1859 he returned to England, and soon after reënlisted in the Fifth Dragoon Guards, in which regiment he remained until his arrest for Fenianism in February, 1866. He is a simple, quiet man, but known by his comrades to be a man of indomitable courage. Before his imprisonment he was a man of magnificent physique, being six feet in height and splendidly proportioned. At present he is reduced considerably, through the terrible ordeal through which he has passed, and very little of that soldier's strut so characteristic of British cavalrymen can be noticed in him.--_Pilot_, June 24, 1876. CAPTAIN ANTHONY OF THE CATALPA The remarkable story printed in this week's "Pilot," from the pen of the chief agent in the rescue of the prisoners, makes it clear that the captain of the whaling bark Catalpa is a man of extraordinary nerve and integrity. Captain George S. Anthony is a young man, scarcely thirty years of age; a silent, unassuming sailor. There is nothing in his appearance, except, perhaps, the steadiness of the deeply-sunken dark eye, to tell that in a moment of pending danger that would frighten brave men this one would take his life in his hand, and, with his usual quiet air, steer into the very jaws of destruction. When the Catalpa lay off the coast of the penal colony, at the appointed place for the rescue, Captain Anthony did not, as he might have done, send one of his officers in command of the boat that was to land on the dangerous coast. With a picked crew of his whalemen, the captain took the steering-oar himself. When he had reached the shore, a man who had been watching the incoming boat informed him that he had passed over a terrible danger; that right in the line he had crossed lay a fatal reef, over which no boat had ever before sailed in safety. Had this information not been given, it is almost certain that the entire boat's crew, with the rescued prisoners, would have been lost, for Captain Anthony would certainly have sailed out as he had entered, and in that event the bones of the brave fellows would now be whitening on the ledges of the reef. When the escaped prisoners arrived, and the frail boat again put to sea, the firm hand of the captain still held the steering-oar. The night came down, the wind rose, and the water lashed over the deep-laden boat. They could not see the ship's lights, but steered blindly into the darkness. There was no choice of roads. Behind them was the chain-gang for the rescuers and the gallows for the absconders. The morning came, and the drenched and weary men, instead of a bark, saw a gunboat in pursuit. They were grateful then for the rising waves, in the troughs of which their little boat escaped the watchful eyes of the pursuit. The trained skill of the seaman was here invaluable. He knew that a boat might escape being seen from the deck of a ship, though only a short distance away. He lowered his sail, and got into the wake of the gunboat, the point where they would be least likely to look. And when the gunboat steamed away, and the smaller police-cutter hove in sight and bore straight down on the whaleboat, trying to cut them off from the ship, Captain Anthony shouted encouragement to his tired men, calling them by name, using all the whaleman's arts to urge his hands in the last spurt before the whale is struck--till he saw that they had distanced the cutter by a few terrible yards, and were safe alongside the Catalpa. For thirty hours Captain Anthony had held the steering-oar of his whaleboat. It is a splendid story of endurance and devotion to duty. The brave man had undertaken to rescue these prisoners, and he held to his engagement with a manly faith that neither danger nor death could appall. To the rescued he was not bound by ties of race or nationality; but he knew they were political prisoners, cruelly held in bondage; and the seaman's heart, made generous by intercourse with foreign lands, felt deeply the bond of humanity, regardless of Celtic or Anglo-Saxon promptings. It must not be forgotten that by this achievement Captain Anthony has destroyed his career as a whaleman. He has placed himself beyond the pale of every British harbor in the world. He can no more follow his profession in the South Sea or in the Indian Ocean, for nearly every port at which the whaleships get supplies are possessions of the British Crown. By this one act, done for Irishmen, Captain Anthony has literally thrown away the years and experience that have made him one of the best whalemen in New Bedford. The Irish people of America should not forget this, nor allow such a debt to remain against their name. CAPTAIN ANTHONY SHOULD GET SUCH A TESTIMONIAL AS WILL PUT HIM BEYOND THE NECESSITY OF EVER GOING TO SEA AGAIN. Unless this be done, the brave man has ruined his future in the interests of a selfish and ungrateful people. If the masses of our people would contribute each a mite--ten cents apiece--enough would be done. At the meetings of Irish societies throughout the country, subscriptions of this kind might be raised; and local treasurers could be appointed to receive contributions. All subscriptions sent to "The Pilot" will be acknowledged. There is not an Irish man or woman in America who could not give something, no matter how small, to such an object; and we trust that no time will be lost in setting the movement in practical operation.--_Pilot_, September 2, 1876. ESCAPE OF THE IRISH PRISONERS ... Business was almost entirely suspended, and the imposing Masonic ceremony of laying the foundation stone of the new Freemasons' Hall, which was to take place at four o'clock, was almost forgotten, and attracted but little if any attention. In the course of the afternoon, His Excellency, accompanied by the Colonial Secretary, drove down, and after consultation with the Superintendent of Water Police, the Comptroller-General, and other officials, and the agent for the Georgette, it was decided to dispatch the Georgette again to the Catalpa, with a view to intercept the boat, or to demand the surrender of the prisoners from the captain, if they were on board. The pensioners and police were again embarked, a twelve-pounder field-piece was shipped and fixed in the gangway; provisions were put on board, and a fatigue-party of pensioners were engaged in coaling--thirty tons being put on board in a short time. By eleven o'clock arrangements were completed, and the Georgette steamed away from the jetty. Not a few, both on board and on shore, but gave way to gloomy forebodings as to the result of this second visit to the ship. Certainly, the arrangements made by the authorities warranted those who were not acquainted with international law, or aware of his excellency's instructions, in concluding that the governor had determined upon resorting to force, if necessary, to capture the fugitives. By early morning the Georgette was outside of Rottnest, and at daylight sighted the ship bearing S.S.E. under full sail. The Georgette hereupon hoisted her pennant and the ensign, and all hands were put under arms. As the Georgette did not gain upon the ship, and the wind was freshening, a gun was fired under the vessel's stern,--and she then run up the American flag. She took no further notice of the signal, and the Georgette, under full steam and all sail, gave chase. As the ship did not attempt to shorten sail or take any notice of the signal, when the Georgette had steamed to within a quarter of a mile of her a gun was fired across her bow, and the captain of the ship then got into the quarter-boat.... WHAT THE AUSTRALIAN PRESS SAYS The comments of the Western Australian papers will be interesting to the readers of "The Pilot." "The Perth Inquirer" of the 26th of April says: "It seems humiliating that a Yankee with a half dozen colored men should be able to come into our waters and carry off six of the most determined of the Fenian convicts,--all of them military prisoners,--and then to laugh at us for allowing them to be taken away without an effort to secure them. But international law must be observed, and, doubtless, the Home Government will seek and obtain redress for this outrage. It is evident that Collins came to this colony with ample means as the agent of the American Fenian Brotherhood, and that Jones, Johnson, and Taylor were co-workers in furthering the escape of the prisoners. Immediately the Catalpa arrived in Bunbury, Collins proceeded there, and doubtless interviewed Captain Anthony, who shortly afterwards came to Freemantle under the plea of securing fresh charts, but in reality to reconnoitre the coast. The Catalpa appears to have cleared out of Bunbury on the 28th of March, when a ticket-of-leave man named Smith was found stowed away and taken by the police. She must have returned to Bunbury, and again cleared out finally on the 15th instant. It would appear that there was a desire to obtain correct legal information on international law, for about the time of Captain Anthony's visit to Freemantle, Johnson called upon Mr. Howell, the solicitor in Perth, and asked several questions as to the limit of neutral waters, from which we infer that the captain knew what he was about when he told Mr. Stone that his flag protected him where he then was." TOO BAD TO BE LAUGHED AT BY THE YANKEES The "Freemantle Herald," of April 22, said:-- "The early return of the steamer gave rise to every kind of conjecture, and as her approach was watched from the shore, wagers were freely made as to the cause of her early return. Many declared that the Catalpa, warned of the steps the governor was taking by the previous visit of the Georgette, had attacked her and beaten her off. Others laid bets that, overawed by the determination of force on board the Georgette, the captain of the Catalpa had quietly surrendered the runaways. As is usual in such cases, the sequel showed that neither was right. When the true condition of affairs became known, there were some manifestations of indignation at the colony having been fooled by a Yankee skipper. The pensioners and police felt that they had been taking part in a very silly farce, and had been laughed at by the Yankees at sea and the public on shore, and sincerely hoped that instructions would be given to go out again and take the prisoners by force. The governor, however, who throughout had acted with most commendable energy and prudence, was not to be led into committing a breach of international law to gratify a feeling of resentment at the cool effrontery of the Yankee, directed that the armed parties on board the Georgette should be dismissed, and the vessel returned to the agent, with his excellency's thanks for the readiness with which the vessel had been placed at his disposal, and for the hearty manner in which both the agent, Mr. McCleery, the captain, Mr. M. O'Grady, and all concerned, had coöperated with him in the matter; at the same time expressing his approbation of the conduct of Mr. Stone. These instructions were carried out, and in a short time the crowds dispersed, and the town elapsed into its normal condition of quietude, having suffered three days of the most intense excitement ever experienced in its history."--_Pilot_, August 12, 1876. HOW THE IRISH PRISONERS ESCAPED The following letter has been received by Mrs. O'Reilly, John Street, Kilkenny, from her son, Rev. John O'Reilly, who is at present in Freemantle, Western Australia. Father O'Reilly, following in the footsteps of many ardent young missionaries, left home and friends to pursue his sacred calling in the region of the Southern Cross. We can easily understand what his feelings were when the mail steamer returned to her moorings after her fruitless pursuit of the whaler bearing away the escaped prisoners:-- Freemantle, W.A., April 18, 1876. My dear Mother,--You owe to the accidental detention of the mail steamer the letter which I am now writing. The cause of the delay is an event which will probably excite so much attention in the Old Country and America, that it will form the principal if not the sole topic of my note. You are aware before now that Western Australia is a convict colony. Hither were sent some seven or eight years ago a number of the prisoners sentenced to penal servitude on the occasion of the Fenian disturbances a little before that date. These were gradually released, and at the beginning of the present month only eight remained in confinement in Western Australia. All eight had been soldiers. The prisoners of the establishment work in various gangs throughout the town, and the Fenians were distributed at different points with the rest. Amongst the prisoners some are chosen to fill offices of trust in connection with the prison arrangements, and are called constables. One of the Fenians was a constable, and by delivering pretended orders to the warders in charge of the working parties, he was enabled to get six of the Fenians together when occasion required. The occasion came yesterday. At nine o'clock he withdrew these whom he required from under the warders in charge. The six prisoners assembled at a spot just outside Freemantle. Two carriages, with two horses each, were in readiness. They got in, and away they go. I must retrace my steps a little. Towards the end of last year a gentleman represented as from one of the neighboring colonies arrived here. He put up at the best hotel at the port, and has since mixed with the best society. He went by the name of Mr. Collins. His business here was always an enigma to the residents, but it was supposed by some that he had come here with a view of seeing his way to the opening of some business. Another person lately arrived here too, named Jones, a Yankee; but as he worked at a trade no one noticed him. Now it appears these two persons were the chief actors in the plot. They arranged the details of the flight, and awaited the fugitives with carriages at the place of rendezvous yesterday. The party drove to a spot sixteen miles or so from Freemantle, where they were seen to enter a boat evidently belonging to a whaler in the offing. Yesterday, port and metropolis were in a state of intense excitement. The government chartered an only steamer, a peaceful mail boat, put on board a guard of pensioners and police,--we have no soldiers in the colony,--and sent it in pursuit. A little before the steamer an open boat manned with water police had started on the trail of the runaways. To-day, at four, the steamer returned. A crowd had assembled on the jetty to see her come in; I was amongst the number; she did not bring the prisoners; she reported having been alongside the whaler. The captain and one boat's crew were absent. The authorities in the steamer requested to go on board, but were refused permission. As the vessel lay in neutral waters, they could not use force to attain their desires. The water police boat is still in chase of the missing ship's boat, but I doubt if they will come up with her. Under cover of the darkness of the night--and it threatens to be dark indeed--the absent crew, with the fugitives, will make the ship; and even if the police crew found them, and there was a fight, as there would be pretty sure to be, if a forced capture were attempted, it is very doubtful who would be the victors. Against the fifteen water police, there would be the six prisoners, their two accomplices, and the boat's crew. The whistle is sounding its warning, and my letter must hurry to the post. With kindest love to all, believe me, Your affectionate son, J. O'Reilly. --_Pilot_, June 24, 1876. THE ESCAPE OF THE POLITICAL PRISONERS "There was a torchlight procession in Dublin on Saturday night, June 10, in celebration of the escape of the political convicts from West Australia, and Disraeli was burned in effigy." So runs the latest telegram from Ireland, and the news is fully significant. Ireland knows the meaning of the escape, and will act on it. It was planned and carried out by her sons in America; and this fact will intensify the national spirit of the Old Country, and make her feel that she is beginning to reap the harvest of her motherhood. The first news of the escape of the Irish prisoners appeared last week in the following dispatch:-- "London, June 6. A dispatch from Melbourne, Australia, states that all the political prisoners confined in Western Australia have escaped on the American whaleship Catalpa." About the same time the SS. Colima from Sydney, Australia, reached San Francisco with news to the same effect, but adding that the ocean cable from Australia to Java had been cut on April 27, immediately before the escape. Two weeks ago the English Prime Minister scornfully refused to release those prisoners at the earnest request of Ireland. It was in his hands then to render this escape meaningless, and to make Irishmen believe that they had better wait for the slow course of English justice. But the old spirit of domineering insolence was too strong in the British House of Commons. To show mercy to Ireland would be a confession of weakness; they determined to refuse the Irish petition, and at their own haughty will select the time to release the prisoners. But Ireland has had satisfaction this time. At the moment that Disraeli was jauntily telling the House that he would not release the prisoners, they were on board a Yankee ship, free as air, thousands of miles from an English chain or an English dungeon. Ireland laughs at England at home; and all America joins in our jeer across the Atlantic. It is the beginning of a new order of things in Irish national movements. Heretofore England could buy informers and perpetuate the distrust of each other which has been the curse of Irishmen. The reins of agitation have been too often given into inferior hands, and inferior intelligence has too long dominated Irish councils. The escape of the prisoners from Western Australia is the best proof that Irishmen can manage the most dangerous and difficult enterprises, and keep their own counsel in a way unknown almost to any other nation. The plan of this escape was completed nearly two years ago. Every portion of the gigantic scheme was worked out in the United States. The machinery was set in motion here, eighteen months ago, which recently struck such an alarming note in the penal colony. When the freed men are landed safe in America or some other country, the plan of the escape may be published. Until then we shall only say that nothing was left to chance, that no expense was spared, and that brave men were ready to risk liberty and life itself to make the attempt a success. To one devoted man, more than to any other, the whole affair is creditable. He it was who, with the pitiful letters received from the prisoners in his hand, excited the sympathy of Irish conventions and individual men. He neglected his business in New York to attend to the prisoners. He told those who helped the object that they would have to trust him, that the secret must not be generally known. They did trust him, for they had reason to know his purity as a patriot. The event proves the truth and devotedness of the man. We have asked him for permission to publish his name; but he will not allow us till the men are absolutely safe. To another man, an American friend, the gratitude of the Irish people is also due. These outlines are not imaginative, but real. We have been acquainted with the plan since its inception; and of late have been anxiously watching for the good news. [Illustration: A CARTOON FROM THE IRISH WORLD, SEPTEMBER 2, 1876] There was never an enterprise so large and so terribly dangerous carried out more admirably. It will be remembered of Irish patriots that they never forget their suffering brothers. The prisoners who have escaped are humble men, most of them private soldiers. But the PRINCIPLE was at stake--and for this they have been released. England will now begin to realize that she has made a mistake that will follow her to her death-bed, in making Ireland so implacable and daring an enemy. This is only an earnest of what will come when the clouds of war are over her. The men who sent the Catalpa to Australia are just the men to send out a hundred Catalpas to wipe British commerce from the face of the sea.--_Pilot_, June 17, 1876. LESSONS FROM THE PRISONERS' ESCAPE The well-planned and boldly executed rescue of the Irish political prisoners from the penal colony of Western Australia contains lessons worth noting by those who desire to perpetuate Irish nationality. A nation that cultivates the evil weed of Distrust will never become strong or great. Cohesion is the principle of power, and the people that cannot stand by each other for a common cause, under common leaders, are no stronger than a ball of sand, to be scattered at a touch. Heretofore the curse of Ireland has been the impossibility of union. Party hated party; class distrusted class. Rich men were called traitors because they, having something to lose, refused to enter on every wild plan of revolution without considering the probabilities. Poor men were too easily led by demagogues. The man who spake loudest, who boasted most, became the idol of the hour. When the opportunity offered, he sold the people he had so easily deceived, and scorned them for their credulity. There are plenty of "successful men" of this class--such as Judge Keogh, who a few years ago called God to witness that he would never desert the People's Cause, but who, when made a judge, was the first to lay a ruthless hand and an insulting tongue on the religion and nationality of his country. With such an experience Irishmen have grown distrustful to such a degree that the danger from their doubt is greater than from their deception. Better a thousand times to be deceived than to lose faith in your brother's honesty and patriotism. The CURE of this national disease is coming--for the CAUSE of it is plain. Distrust has grown from disappointment; and this has been the result of a bad selection of men. Ireland has hitherto trusted the TALKERS rather than the DOERS. She has given her vote to the noisy demagogues who tickled her ear, and has turned from the men who appealed to her common-sense. For twenty-five years past--with the exception of the abortive Fenian movement--the Irish people have acted as if green flags, denunciation of England, and poetic sun-burstry were enough to establish Ireland's claim to national independence. We trust and believe that a change for the better is coming. Ireland is beginning to see that the men who are able to do something for themselves, the men of judgment and prevision in their own affairs, are likely to bring the best intelligence into national deliberations. Hereafter it will not be a recommendation for an Irish politician that he has failed to make a decent living at everything else. The rescue of the political prisoners proves that the Irishmen who talk least can do most. It proves also that distrust is not chronic in the Irish people--that they can stake great issues on the faith of single men--when they have selected them for their capacity and intelligence instead of their braggadocio. Another and most valuable lesson from the rescue has a bearing on the English army. The thousands of Irishmen in the ranks knew that those men were kept in prison BECAUSE THEY HAD BEEN SOLDIERS. It seemed, too, for two or three years past, that those men had been forgotten. The leaders of the movement were free; and no one seemed to care for the poor fellows whose very names were unknown. The soldiers in the army knew that of all the Irish prisoners of '66 and '67, there were none who risked more or who would have been more valuable than a trained dragoon, the indispensable artilleryman, and the steady linesman. To see their comrades forgotten and left to rot in their dungeons was enough to make the Irishmen of the army abjure their nationality and accept the English dominion in Ireland. This has been averted by the rescue. The soldiers in the English army will read the news with a deeper thrill than any other Irishmen. It has a larger meaning to them than to others. "Now," they will say, "now, at last, we are a part of the Irish people. Our red coats do not separate us from our countrymen; and if we suffer for their cause they will be true as steel to us in the day of trial." It is full time that Irish nationality should take intelligent position. All shades of Irish politics can agree in mutual respect; they are all shades of green. One party may desire more than another, and believe it possible of attainment. But they should not hate the others that think differently. The Home Rulers are as honest as the Fenians, and as intelligent. One should say to the other: "We travel the same road; but when you stop, we go farther. If we succeed, you can join us; if we fail, we shall return to you for support." This is true nationality; and when this spirit grows among the Irish people, there cannot be a doubt of the result.--_Pilot_, June 24, 1876. THE RESCUED PRISONERS GRAND RECEPTION IN BOSTON On the 1st inst., a grand entertainment was given in Music Hall for the benefit of the released prisoners, who were present. The immense hall was crowded; nearly every seat on floor and galleries was filled. The stage was fitted up with a handsome proscenium, the Sheil Literary Institute playing the patriotic drama of Robert Emmet. The greatest credit is due to the management committee. Polite ushers were in attendance, and not the least hitch occurred in the whole evening's entertainment. The address was delivered by John E. Fitzgerald, Esq., who was greeted with thundering applause. He pictured in graphic words the condition of Ireland for centuries; while Poland and other struggling nationalities had been wiped from the map, the intense individualism of the Irish as a nation had preserved them. The movement for which these gallant fellows had suffered was the embodiment of the national idea. (Applause.) The more pacific and undefinable agitation known as the Home Rule movement was by no means final--as England well knew. It was a step toward something fuller,--toward the only consummation that will ever satisfy Irishmen,--complete separation. (Great applause.) The sentiment of Henry Grattan was still vivid,--that no one but the Irish people had a right to legislate for Ireland. Mr. Fitzgerald dwelt eloquently on the devotion of the Nationalists to their imprisoned brethren. He spoke in the highest praise of the efforts of those by whom this last brilliant exploit was accomplished with so much wisdom and secrecy. He said that the sum of $30,000 had been contributed in this country in its aid, and though the object of the contribution was so widely known, the secrecy was maintained until its accomplishment. He hoped that a generous and substantial testimonial would be presented to Captain Anthony, the brave man who had risked and accomplished so much in their behalf. Mr. A. O'Dowd recited Meagher's "Sword Speech" in impressive style. A song, "Cead Mille Failthe," by Mr. E. Fitzwilliam, was sung by the composer, and pleased the audience so well that an encore was given, in response to which Mr. Fitzwilliam sang another of his compositions, entitled, "The Irishman's Version of One Hundred Years Ago," which was also generously applauded. Miss Annie Irish, a well-known vocalist, sang two songs in acceptable style; and Mr. Sheehan, who was warmly received, received an encore, to which he responded in his usual excellent manner. The drama by the Sheil Literary Institute was, as usual with that body, well played, and gave great pleasure to the immense and patriotic audience. Before its performance there were loud requests for "Captain Anthony" to come forward, but that brave fellow, who sat in the audience with Captain Hathaway, of New Bedford, was too modest to make his appearance. At the close of the drama the demand for the appearance of the rescued prisoners was imperious, and had to be gratified, though it was intended by the committee that the men should not be paraded. But the call was so strong and kindly that the bronzed men appeared on the stage, and were introduced by Mr. Fitzgerald. The greeting they received will never be forgotten. It was plain how deep a chord their suffering and escape has struck in the Irish heart. They numbered six, though Mr. Wilson, one of the rescued men, was not present; his place was filled by Mr. William Foley, the ex-prisoner who arrived in this country about two months ago. The entertainment was a complete success; and, besides its value as a patriotic safety-valve, it will add a considerable sum to the testimonial to be presented to the ex-prisoners, to enable them to begin life in this new country under fair circumstances.--_Pilot_, September 9, 1876. THE RESCUED PRISONERS RECEPTION TO JOHN J. BRESLIN A large audience assembled in Boston Theatre on the evening of Sunday, the 24th inst., to tender a public reception to Mr. John J. Breslin, the chief agent in the rescue of the Fenian prisoners from Australia. The reception was under the management of the United Irish Brotherhood, and the committee of arrangements deserves the greatest credit. Charles F. Donnelly, Esq., presided on the occasion, and among others on the platform were Captain Anthony, City Marshal Hathaway, of New Bedford, Alderman O'Brien, Thomas Riley, Esq., and a large number of prominent and respectable citizens. Mr. Donnelly, in an eloquent address, reminded his audience that the turmoil of a political campaign did not prevent them from assembling to do honor to brave men. Could they say that the spirit of the knights and saints of old was dead? Did it not survive in the act of the brave men there present? A year ago, and the escape of the political prisoners would have been deemed an impossibility; it had been undertaken and executed by Mr. Breslin, who set out to rescue from bondage, ten thousand miles away, men whom he had never seen, men whose only crime was loving their country, perhaps not wisely, but too well,--if an Irishman could love his country too well. But the age of chivalry had been revived even in this hard, practical age by a generous Yankee captain. (Loud applause.) Many morals might be drawn from this event, but he would select one,--it was this: that when an Irishman and a Yankee combine to carry out an undertaking, they can do it in spite of the whole power of the British Empire. Mr. Donnelly then stated that he had received a letter from Wendell Phillips regretting his inability to attend, and expressing sympathy with the objects of the meeting. A telegram of similar import was read from General Butler, which concluded thus: "A prominent Massachusetts politician says that Fenianism should be crowded out of politics. Fenianism is the love of one's native land. I hope it may never be crushed out of the heart of any citizen of this country." Alderman O'Brien, the next speaker, said that when coming there he had no intention of making a speech. He came there in common with his fellow-citizens to extend to these brave men a cordial welcome, and to show them that he felt as he spoke, he would shake hands with them all. He was followed by Thomas Riley, Esq., who began by likening the cause of Ireland to that patriotic society whose birth antedated that of George III., and which still lived on. The spirit of Irish liberty was not dead, as was proved by their presence there that night to do honor to a man and an act. The achievement of Mr. Breslin was worthy of the annals of an earlier era. Ireland's history was one of oppression. An Englishman had once charged that the Irish were "an unpolished nation;" to which a native of Ireland replied, "It ought not to be so, for we have received hard rubs enough to be polished long ago." It was acts like Mr. Breslin's that kept alive the spirit of liberty. Plantagenet and Tudor, and Stuart and Cromwell, all had dealt Ireland crushing blows, all had waded through seas of Irish gore; yet all their dynasties had perished off the face of the earth, and the spirit of Irish liberty still survived. The worst of the Roman Emperors was Julian, yet he sent no Christian to the cross or the wild beasts, he merely banned and barred Christian education, for he well knew that without education a nation relapsed into the depths of barbarism. England had done the same; in her savage, barbarous penal code she had proscribed education and educators, but Ireland still clung to the light of liberty. She listened to the sound of the battle of freedom in the West, and her sons caught the flame, and Flood, and Grattan, and the Volunteers raised her to nationhood, and crowned her with the star of freedom. She had lost that eminence, but the spirit burned again in the immortal O'Connell; it still survived the golden-mouthed Father Burke. The speaker paid a touching tribute to the memory of John Mitchel, and denounced England as championing the iniquity of the age, of upholding dead and rotten Turkey and her butcheries, and that the hour of retribution had arrived, if Russia would only advance. If England lost her temper in the threatened European complication, Ireland would be her "beetle of mortality." During his eloquent address Mr. Riley was frequently applauded. Captain Hathaway, who succeeded him, said he was not an Irishman, but that was not his fault. He detailed the facts already published as to the inception of the plan of escape, how Mr. Devoy had approached him with a letter from his (Mr. H.'s) friend, Mr. John Boyle O'Reilly, and the consequent chartering of the Catalpa. Captain Anthony, who divided attention with Mr. Breslin as the lion of the night, succeeded, and was greeted with a storm of applause, to which that man of deeds, not words, responded by two modest bows. Mr. John J. Breslin, who was enthusiastically received, then addressed the audience. He said that parliamentary action, prayers, and petitions had all failed to move the bowels of compassion of the British government in behalf of the prisoners, for the reason said government had no bowels. Mr. John Devoy, well and honorably known in '65, in 1873 began to actively agitate the plan of escape, and had, in the fall of 1874, raised funds sufficient to warrant him to make the attempt. The funds were raised in various ways; one of John Mitchel's last lectures was given for the purpose. Mr. Devoy placed himself in communication with a gentleman whose high literary abilities and rare poetic talents had raised him to a prominent position among the journalists of the day; by whom he (Mr. Devoy) was introduced to Captain Hathaway, of New Bedford, through whom the Catalpa was obtained. Mr. Breslin gave a clear, concise, and detailed account of his proceeding from first to last in carrying out the details of the escape. Most of this has already appeared in our columns. His description of the face of the country, cities, geology, and flora of Western Australia was particularly good, and show both scholarship and observation on his part. Alluding to the sandy nature of the soil, he related the following anecdote: An inhabitant meeting a "new chum," told him it was a fine country. "It is," said the latter, "so mighty fine that most of it would pass through a sieve." At the close of Mr. Breslin's address, the chairman announced the meeting adjourned. Before and after the proceedings, Mr. Breslin, who is of commanding presence and courteous demeanor, was surrounded by groups of enthusiastic countrymen, each eager to express admiration and sympathy.--_Pilot_, September 30, 1876. WHY DON'T ENGLAND DEMAND THE PRISONERS? Mr. Gladstone is an able man, watchful and jealous of the honor of England. He has written a pamphlet of great power on the Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria, in which he says that Turkey should be excluded from Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Bulgaria, as a power unfit to rule civilized and Christian people. He says that the English government should lead in accomplishing this result,--"to redeem by these measures the honor of the British name, which in the deplorable events of the year has been more generally compromised than I have known it in any former period." That is true; the past two or three years have torn away more of England's prestige than all her previous history. She has fallen into decay so fast that she has not made a single effort to reassert herself as a Great Power. When Russia broke the Black Sea Treaty, England growled, but backed down. She sees the Czar laying railways to Northern Asia, and she hears the tramp of his legions already on the border of Hindostan; but she fears to stir a finger. When her Prime Minister, Disraeli, last year made an assertion that irritated Prussia, and that iron empire frowned, the fearful minister hastened to eat his words before the face of Bismarck. When the Fenian prisoners--men whom she persisted in calling "criminals"--were taken from her in defiance of all her laws, she dare not demand them from the United States. Why? Because the root of her greatness is split--the germ of her strength is rotten. Beside her heart she has the disease that will sooner or later strike her down. She has maltreated, misgoverned, scorned, derided the island and the people of Ireland, until oppression has generated in their hearts the terrible political mania of national hatred. God forbid that we should exult in such a feeling; but no one who knows Ireland and Irishmen can deny its existence. England, to save herself, to possess the land, has driven the Irish people over the world; but wherever they went they carried with them the bitter memory of their wrongs and hates. She has strengthened the world against herself. She is powerless and contemptible; if she were to-day to demand the return of the Fenian prisoners, the people of all nations would shout in derision, and the United States would answer with a particular sneer. It is well for Mr. Gladstone to say that her honor is waning. But he has only seen the beginning of the end. The haughty and truculent country must eat the leek till its heart is sick.--_Pilot_, September 16, 1876. JAMES REYNOLDS, THE TREASURER James Reynolds, of New Haven, Conn., familiarly known as "Catalpa Jim," was born in County Cavan, Ireland, on October 20, 1831. His ancestry dates back over fourteen hundred years to the noble sept MacRaghnaill, which the Irish historians tell us was a branch of the tribe called Conmaie, whose founder was Conmacrie, third son of Fergus MacRoigh, by Meive, the celebrated queen of Connaught, in the first century of the Christian era. He was but sixteen years of age when, during the memorable famine that peopled the cemeteries of Ireland, he bade adieu to his native heath and sailed away to the distant shores of America, bearing with him a freight of precious memories that were to bear fruit in after years of patriotic endeavor. On his arrival in this country he at once apprenticed himself to learn the brass-founding trade, and in 1850 he settled in Connecticut, where he has since made his home. For twenty-eight years he has been a resident of New Haven, where he has received repeated political honors at the hands of his fellow citizens. For several years he has been at the head of the town government as town agent; the only Irishman who has ever been elevated to this position in a city where Puritanic influences and prejudices have not yet wholly passed away. In addition to his municipal duties, Mr. Reynolds has for years conducted a lucrative and somewhat extensive business as a brass-founder. He early espoused the cause of his country and brought to its service all the energies of an active and impulsive nature. When, in the years following the rebellion, Irish patriotism was directed in a movement against England through her colonies in America, we find him foremost among those whose financial resources flowed freely into the common treasury. Not when his practical mind told him that not here lay the channel to Irish freedom did he close his purse-strings; not even when a prudent judgment convinced him that here lay a waste of Irish blood and human treasures did he say nay to the appeal for funds. It was enough for him to know that even one blow was struck at England, one thrust was made in the great cause of Irish freedom. James Reynolds never believed that the liberation of Ireland was to be effected through the conquest of Canada. His strong native sense and sagacious foresight taught him the folly of such a hope, yet, when the movement was inaugurated, he entered into it heart and soul, with all the enthusiasm of his noble nature, hopeful that even one blow might be struck at the shackles that bound his country. But it was in the Catalpa movement that his great patriotism found its highest opportunity, and the name of James Reynolds gained the imperishable splendor of immortal fame. The history of that memorable expedition is still fresh in the memory of Irishmen; how the little bark with its gallant crew sailed into Australian waters and bore away its precious freight, bringing to freedom and glory those patriots who were expiating in exile their efforts for Ireland; bidding bold defiance to the British man-of-war who gave her chase, and riding safely into the harbor of New York,--all these details are still green in the Irish memory. And while the fame of this daring rescue shall last; while the name of Catalpa shall wake and fan the fires of Irish enthusiasm, so long will the name of James Reynolds be held in fond and loving remembrance. For it was he who mortgaged his home, who placed a chattel upon his household goods, who beggared himself for the time, that the sinews might be forthcoming to inaugurate and sustain the expedition. Other choice spirits lent him their counsels and their fortunes, but James Reynolds gave his all that the Catalpa rescue might be consummated. True, the success of the expedition recompensed him in a measure for his financial sacrifices; it brought back some of the little fortune he freely gave in the cause, but his chief reward, the glory of his great heart and the pride of his noble life, is the memory which he treasures, which his children and his children's children will carry in their hearts, that his sacrifices were not in vain,--that they brought humiliation to England, liberty and happiness to the rescued patriots, and eternal fame and glory to Ireland. When the Land League movement was inaugurated, he at once actively interested himself, and was one of the leading delegates at its first national convention. He has been a member of the succeeding ones, and has acted a number of times on the committee on resolutions. He was for several years a member of the executive council, the committee of seven, and was state delegate of the League for Connecticut. He enthused much of his own enthusiasm into the movement, and during his administration the League in the Nutmeg State was to the front in point of numbers and the character and influence of its work. James Reynolds is a pure, unselfish patriot; around his name breathes a lustre undimmed by a single thought of personal ambition, the faintest breath of self-interest or individual aggrandizement. Other men have given greater intellectual gifts to the service of Ireland; others have told her wrongs with a sublimer magic of eloquence, and waked the sympathies of men in the sweep of their mighty oratory; and still others, perhaps, have braved a larger measure of personal danger; but none has devoted his whole energies, his entire worldly fortune, with a loftier patriotism, a more generous spirit of sacrifice, than James Reynolds has for the little isle that gave him birth. Personally he is a man of genial temperament, frank, guileless, and companionable, unaffected in manner and speech, open-handed and generous; a man whose friendships are firm and lasting; a citizen whose activities are always beneficial.--_The Irish-American Weekly_, Lincoln, Neb., March 20, 1892. The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, U.S.A. ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY H.O. HOUGHTON AND CO.